#hessian sisters

[queenalexandraofdenmark]

[krasivaa]

Princess Ella of Hesse and by Rhine (Grand Duchess Elisabeth Feodorovna of Russia), Princess Alix of Hesse and by Rhine (Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna of Russia, with their nephew Prince Waldemar of Prussia, son of Princess Irene.

[foreverinthepagesofhistory]

Who is most underrated Hessian sister and most underrated otma girl in your opinion?

FINALLY WE ARE ADDRESSING THIS!

Definitely the most underrated Hessian sister is 100% Irene. She was the third child and third daughter to Grand Duke Louis IV of Hesse and Princess Alice of Great Britain and Ireland. She was probably underrated for many reasons. The first is because she had other siblings that outranked/outshined her (Elisabeth Feodorovna + Alexandra Feodorovna). The second being that she didn’t really have a bad life. This is good because well for one thing she didn’t have a bad life (minus the death of her child Heinrich), and that usually bad things attract a lot of attention. Also Irene was introverted and I don’t think she minded attention or a lack of attention and just wanted to live her life.

I honestly think that all of OTMA get a lot of attention because of their tragic fate, but I think that the most underrated is definitely Olga. For one thing, she is underrated because her sisters all have something that makes the, like 10 times more favorited than her. Tatiana has her “angelic beauty”, Maria has her beauty + her kindness, Anastasia has her funniness, but what does Olga have? Olga actually had a lot that people don’t usually see because she is overshadowed by her siblings. Some people who are very uneducated about OTMA say that she was ugly and too emotional. I say that that is just BS. Olga was beautiful and extremely smart and had a lot of musical and academic talents! She was kind and sweet and was a true trooper. If only people could take a second to focus on the good parts of her and see that being emotional isn’t a bad thing.

Thank you for asking bestie!

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Crying over how the Three Sister not only have their Mates but also got a big brother out of the deal: Feyre - Cassian, Nesta - Azriel, and Elain -Rhys. They each got a soulmate and a friend who understands them and their trauma/ trauma responses so deeply. Like 🥹🥹 that’s so beautiful

[the-californicationist]

The Devil's Summer

Konig/Reader TW: Rape, sexual assault, corpses, murder, violence

I am not being playful when I say that if you find any of these tags disturbing that you should skip this fic. Reading this story is not worth making yourself feel uncomfortable or causing yourself pain. Please take care of yourself first and foremost.

MDNI/18+ NO EXCEPTIONS

AO3 Link

A tall, foreign stranger comes to town with his masked crew of bandits. They rob the train station and the bank, but the big one… he has his sights set on a different sort of prize: you.

The summer had been like an open mouth, unbreathing, unmoving, but warm and wet and still in its bearing. The bayou lay like a lolling tongue over the swampland, and the sweetness of the azaleas could not make up for the stench of its lazy, murky flow. Bald cypress trees lined the river like rotten teeth, their graying, dull bark holding evidence of the cavities of selfish men, black bullet holes from selfish gunfire. The rope burn on the tall, gnarled bows left scars as if they were old wounds, and they were. Your brother’s innocent body had been the cause for one, and you were glad he wasn’t here to witness them today.  

The Devil didn’t know how hot it could get, but you did. You could barely move in the high noon of the day, and as the cicadas screamed, so you wanted to as well. The air lay on you like an awful hand, pressing you flat with its damp, punishing palm. It kept you from sleep, and it threatened you with steady, unrelenting torment. Your skin grew pink and tight from the ruby-colored sun, gleaming and immutable as it sagged in the cloudless firmament. Like the tangle of Spanish moss that hung in the trees outside, swaying back and forth like strange fruit, your hair clung to your neck, vampiric. 

Your father was dead, much good may it do him, as were most of the other people in your town. Since the early hours of the morning, you’d sat on your aching knees in the wet bank of Bayou Têche, providing sustenance for the mosquitos who feasted on your unguarded flesh. Your hands were bound with wire twine, and it cut into your wrists hard enough for them to bleed. The flies swarmed you, and you’d long since given up trying to fight them off. The man who had come to deliver this day to you and the other few inhabitants of your town was watching your future unfurl before you, as patient as the summer sun. 

He hadn’t shown his face, but you knew he was a white man. Those pale, ice-blue eyes couldn’t have been borne from Creole blood. If you were honest with yourself, something in your chest told you that those eyes weren’t even human. They were situated behind a black, heavy hangman’s hood that covered him from head to neck, and it was stained with blood and all manner of other liquids. The humidity made it cling to his nose and jaw, and you saw the aquiline shape disturb the smoothness of the fabric. 

The hangman wore a large-brimmed cowboy hat on his head constructed of fine, black felt. It was very much out-of-season, meant for a cool dry winter. Despite your suffering, you could imagine and empathize that his head and neck must be near boiling. 

His body was immense. He looked like he was seven feet high, and he was as broad as a door. His heavy musculature moved slowly, teasingly, but you had watched him strike like a water moccasin, deadly accurate and blindingly fast. Atop his demonic draft horse, he looked like he was one of the Hessians that Sister Campbell had described to you in school, when you’d been allowed to go.

The Hessian was a fine shot. He’d killed most of the men in town by his own hand, picking them off like he was elbow-deep in a blackberry bush, choosing the biggest ones first to stain his hands in their sweet juices. Your father had been near the end, no longer a threat in his old age. The white hair of his beard was painted with red stripes, coughed up in those final moments of futility, and the dark skin of his cheek made the colors that much more vibrant. You wished his eyes were closed. You didn’t want him to see what may happen to you now. 

He’d been staring at you for quite some time. Although he hadn’t been the one to tie you up, it was what he wanted. The will of his men and of your small town folded under his brutal control, and now that everyone was dead, he dominated the silence with comfortable ease. 

You watched him swing a long, thick leg over the saddle, lowering himself to the wet ground with a thud. His boots were worn and filthy, not intended for walking through the black bayou waters and shores, and his spurs were sharpened into curled spikes. Each step was a promise. The gun in his hand would be your reward, you were certain of it. 

Imagining all of your hopes and dreams seemed disgusting to you now. The shine of the gun was nothing like the glittering gold ring you’d wanted to wear to your wedding, if you had one. You’d wanted children, a whole litter of them, and you wanted to cook jambalaya for them and dress them in matching flour sacks, all lined up in a row. You wanted to braid their hair in the way your mother had braided yours, secreting away little prayers between each bite, locking them in place with an extra twist. 

You would have none of that. The only thing for you now was this demon. Whatever he wanted had replaced your own desires. You waited for his wanting to find its end. 

The dirty barrel of the gun pressed under your chin, its soot gritty and black against your skin, and your jaw turned up to the blinding sky to look into the coolness of his gaze. He looked like he was smiling at you, which was worse than his fury, and you held back the bile rising in your throat, burning you as hot as a brand. 

“Fils putain,” you snarled without raising your voice, spitting on the gloved hand that had the gun to your neck. 

You watched the spit bubble white across the black leather, his thumb as wide as a root, and you heard it drip into the mud at your knees when it ran in thick rivulets across his knuckles.

He smiled again with his eyes, removed the gun from you to lift his hand to his face. As he did so, he lifted the hood so that you could watch his mouth as he licked your spit from the glove, tasting the sour sting of your bile and vitriol. You saw his pale, ghostly lips, scarred and maligned, peel away from sharp incisors as he laved his tongue across the back of his hand, clad in shining silver like two daggers. The rest of his teeth were bright and straight and ready.

The pain you felt from the butt of his gun was sudden and shattering. The crack of your cheekbone exploded in your face like a collapsing star, white hot and dying. You felt like you were dying. You landed, face down in the mud, vomiting and coughing and crying. There was nothing more meaningful than your sobbing, and your body prioritized it over everything else. 

Your assailant knelt in the muddy bank of the bayou with you, letting his boots dip into the shallow waters where minnows hoped to feed on the larvae that lay sprinkled across the surface like salt in a stock. He had removed his gloves and was cupping your face, gently soothing the wound that he had caused. That pale, bloodless mouth was kissing you, leaving a trail of little, soft contacts over the ruined skin on your face, and the blood from his cut was staining him crimson. He replaced the hood and picked you up off of the ground. 

At first, you couldn’t walk, and all the blood that had been pressed out of your lower extremities was now flooding back in, making your bones ache from the inside out. You stumbled next to him, and he carried you like you were as light as his sidearm. One of his men approached you and spoke to your tall devil in his language, foreign and loud. 

They’d robbed the small train station, killing Mr. Fusilier, and they blew up the track, stopping the sheriff from being able to send for help. Sheriff Guidry was dead, laying in the small graveyard next to the church, and you found it odd that he’d died laid over a headstone. You were sure there was poetry there, but you weren’t smart enough to know what kind. 

Your captor handed you off to one of his men, a thin, wiry man with a large mustache. He smelled like sulfur and tobacco. His grip was weaker than the hangman’s, and there was a coldness to his touch that made you uncomfortable. 

He was taking you back up to your house. You didn’t know whether or not it was worth it to fight him off. He was smaller than the other one, but your cheek still throbbed, fresh and mean. He sat you down at your own kitchen table like it wasn’t yours, like you hadn’t cleaned its worn oak slats every morning since you were old enough to hold a rag. 

Yanking out a chair beside you, he sat, rolling a long cigarette, and leaving the twisted matchstick on the tabletop, marring the grain. You wanted to rail against him, to wail and scream that he was ruining it, that your mother had set all of her meals down in that very spot — crawfish etouffee, filé gumbo, rice and beans — and that you missed her laugh and the way she smelled like white pepper and rosemary oil. 

The cheek that had been hit couldn’t have throbbed any harder, and something twisted within you wished that the large man was still there, wiping away the hurt. 

The one with the mustache spoke in a slow, Texan drawl,

“What’s your name?”

You rolled your eyes up to meet his, hoping that the hate you felt was loaded in them like the bullets in his gun, 

“Eve.”

“Like the Bible?”

You didn’t reply. He grabbed you around your knee and pulled you towards him, your chair screeching across the floor,

“Bitch, I’m talkin’ to you. You think you’re too good for me, huh? Fuckin’ whore.”

You were on the table then, spread out and plated like a red fish, all meat and bones and sauce. He was going to eat you alive, and what could you do about it? Your bound hands bit into each other like the fangs of a snake. You kicked out, hard, but he caught you. 

Then, you felt his hands ripping away the fabric of your cotton dress. There wasn’t much left of it to ruin. You wondered if the button you mended last week on the collar was still intact. You were never as good as buttons as your mother was. 

Dirty fingers dug around between your legs, finding what they wanted to, shoving aside your bloomers and wetting themselves one by one, dipping into you brutally, soaking the pads over and over like a candle was dipped in wax, like a pen into a font of ink, and you hoped it stained him. 

You screamed until he stopped you, planting a smelly hand across your mouth. You bit it, taking his bitter flesh with you. 

“Ah, fuck! Son of a bitch!”

Clutching his wound, he backed away from you. Then, when he raised his eyes, he looked behind you at a horror you could not see. Then, he died on your kitchen floor. The bullet sliced through his dark brown eye and splattered his brain and face all over your kitchen counter. There were two big, flaky biscuits left over from your breakfast that morning, and they looked like someone had slathered them in a rich, fruity compote. 

You wanted to see who had saved you, but you knew already. His huge boots made the table rattle beneath your burning wrists, and you could hear his enraged breathing, dampened by the mask. It was your Hessian.

He stood over you for a moment, looking disturbed by your appearance. You had disappointed him somehow. You were crying, but you didn’t stop for his benefit. It wouldn’t matter anyway, you figured. Might as well give in to the feeling. 

Your body was being lifted, carefully, and carried to your father’s bedroom. It was the nearest to the kitchen, just off of the first hallway. A cross-stitch goose you’d made when you were twelve hung neatly on the wall below the lantern. You remembered the way the threads used to sound when they ran to and fro through the linen. The goose wore a little blue bow, and her beak was the most beautiful goldenrod yellow. 

The giant man lay you on your bed, the blood from your wrists surely ruining your duvet. Was it still your duvet? Did you actually own anything anymore?

The mattress sagged under your weight, and it groaned deeper as it sagged under his. 

He unbound your wrists and took a careful look at them. Then, he peeled away the ripped edge of your dress, shaking his head sadly,

“I am sorry, Liebling. My men should know better than to touch what is mine.”

You let tears and snot run freely down your face. 

“What is your name?”

The same question. And why did it matter? Who gave a shit what your goddamn name was? It wasn’t going to help you. 

“...E-Eve…”

“Eve...” He dragged out the vowels like he had dragged you into the house, slowly and against your will.

“I have been called many names,” he leaned down to your neck to smell your skin, whispering into it, “But, you may call me Kӧnig.” 

When his hands ran up under your dress, they did not fumble, they were not brutal, and yet the pain of them hurt you anyway. He didn’t force you to open, but your body yielded to him nonetheless, wilting for him like a flower in the sun. You became pliant, and your sobs went from desperate to something laden with strife. You had not consented to his touch, and yet your body welcomed him in with open arms, eager to host the traitor at the gate.

He knelt. As he began to lick you between your legs, he smelled your scent, lifting his hood and letting it pool along your belly, cold as his hot mouth made wet contact with your skin. The way he suckled from you reminded you of the calves in the spring, pumping their mouths onto their mothers’ teats and filling their throats with her warm cream, selfish and relentless. His nose tickled the dark curls above your folds, and you wondered if he was being teased by them, if his nostrils could smell your fear and if they misunderstood it as desire. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, pleased, “You are so sweet, my little Eve. So eager for me, hm?”

A growling sob escaped from your throat, and all at once you felt like you would vomit again. He caught your face in his hands before you did, lowering you to the floor and holding your jaw up to face him. Knocking off his hat, he pulled the hood from his face and you saw the gruesomeness there. It wasn’t as bad as you’d feared. Your mother had always told you that the promises of the darkness never amounted to much in the light. You wondered how true that was now. 

“I will show you how eager you make me, Liebling.”

He pulled off the button fly of his cotton britches, and his heavy cock tumbled out of them, rolling into the center of his body, pounding with blood and want. He placed the tip at your lips, and although he could have ignored your volition, he begged you instead, providing you with the illusion of choice. 

“Kiss it for me, Eve. Be a good girl for your Kӧnig, ja?”

You did not comply. You were your mother’s daughter after all. 

He shoved your face onto his length with a calm sort of precision. You didn’t bother to make it easy on him, letting your teeth drag against the velveteen slip of skin, nor did you bite down. You were already dead, and you had decided to act like it. 

“Are you not pleased, Liebe? I will give you what you want then,” he laughed quietly to himself, the curl of his smile broken into shards by his scarring, “Silly me. Playing my little games. I am such a tease.”

He pushed you to the ground, shoving your face into the floorboards, letting you look under your own bed. You saw small piles of dirt and a glittering ornament, lost from the last Christmas you’d had. You felt him preparing you from behind. Although you had not married him, you and an old beau had gotten this far. But, this was something else. The way he stretched you was like an intrusion. Your hip bones ached under his drooling rod, and you could feel the sharp tear of your thin skin. 

“Oh, Scheiße! So tight for me. I want to come in you already, my darling.”

You let him fill you, and you tried to ignore the electric pleasure that he crafted in you, spinning a spell over you and forcing your orgasms with his cock and hand, one after the other, making you tremble beneath him, laughing all the time,

“So pretty. Coming for me just like a dream. Such a good girl, Eve.”

You were out of tears. 

After he was finished with you, he carried you to his horse and put you in the saddle, climbing up behind you and taking the reins. You felt his come and your blood dripping out of you and onto the black leather, wetting you between your thighs, making you slide across the seat, back and forth. 

The hot wind blew in your face as he rode you out of town, and you saw the smoke from all of the burning buildings floating high, high into heaven. And you wondered if God could smell the mesquite bark as it smoldered.

[marinerainbow]

Oooh, adding on to @wheezystan 's (excellent!) question- would your F/O's be dressing up for Halloween? ^^

Ohhhh I love this!

It's hard to say, honestly. They all could go as themselves, honestly! Except maybe Jerry since he's the most normal looking out of them all, unless he gets in a frenzy. I can definitely see Tiffany getting dressed up, and doing Halloween things with the twins ^^ though before they were involved she'd probably go out to a bar, or with Chucky. And after the twins moved out, Tiffany maybe threw halloween parties as Jennifer Tilly? But she's still at home. And maybe sometimes she'd prefer a quiet night at home. And Audrey... Well, they can't really go anywhere as a giant plant. Neither can Scroop, not that he wants to go anywhere XD so Tiffany, Scroop, and Audrey can be the 'at home celebrators' of my F/O's. (Just like how I like to celebrate XD)

Russ and Jerry are definitely the ones that want to go out to clubs. They both can better blend in with the spooky atmosphere! I can see Russ absolutely taking over the stage just like the Sanderson Sisters did in Hocus Pocus, while Jerry is scoping for his/their new victim. Maybe they can convince Harper to come along and really make it a party? (The only party I want to be in the middle of. Ok bye-)

The Hessian is not with either group though. He's stalking the whole city, enjoying the night air with his horse ^^ and if he's missing his head, he'd still blend in with the crowd! Though hopefully nobody tries to bother him while he's out. (ohhhhh another great way to celebrate Halloween... Even if I'm kinda scared of horses 😅 hopefully he won't mind me being skittish?)

I'm sorry, I know this was an ask about whether or not they'd wear costumes 😅 I can see Tiffany, Russ, and maaaaybe Jerry and Audrey dressing up? (Jerry dresses up in charming costumes, though). The others? They'd probably be mistaken for costumes themselves XD though they probably wouldn't dress up.

Thank you for this ask! How do your F/O's celebrate Halloween? Do they dress up? (Well, i guess except Otis. We all know what he does- we don't need to be traumatized again 😅)

[royal-confessions]

“I still hope they make an accurate drama series on Princess Alice of Battenberg. Given how dramatic and fascinating her life was, there's no real need to fabricate or embellish. Same with the lives of the Hessian sisters. There's a lot of potential.” - Submitted by Anonymous

[graceofromanovs]

GODPARENTS OF EMPEROR ALEXANDER III

Emperor Alexander III (then Grand Duke) was born as the second son of Emperor Alexander II (then Tsesarevich) on 10 March 1845, during the reign of his grandfather Emperor Nicholas I. He was christened a week later at 10 am in the Winter Palace Church, St. Petersburg, by the Confessor of Their Imperial Highnesses. He had six listed godparents:

NICHOLAS I, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA - his paternal grandfather was one of his godparents present at his christening. Mainly remembered in history as a reactionary whose controversial reign was marked by geographical expansion, centralisation of administrative policies and repression of dissent. He died in 1855, when the Alexander was only 9 years-old, just a week shy from his 10th birthday.

LOUIS II, GRAND DUKE OF HESSE AND BY RHINE - his maternal grandfather was another of his godparents, but was absent at the christening. The hessian grand duke, like his paternal grandfather, was also considered a reactionary leader, he was in conflict with parliament almost his entire reign. The German revolution in 1848-49 proved his inability to govern. On March 5, 1848 he named his son Louis III as co-regent, and a year later he died.

GRAND DUCHESS ELENA PAVLOVNA OF RUSSIA - his great-aunt, the wife of Grand Duke Michael Pavlovich, stood as one of his godparents. Born as Princess Charlotte of Württemberg, she became a close friend of Alexander's mother the Empress Maria Alexandrovna, and was known as an intellectual. She was also considered the most exceptional woman in the imperial family since Catherine the Great.

GRAND DUCHESS OLGA NIKOLAEVNA OF RUSSIA, QUEEN CONSORT OF WÜRTTEMBERG - his aunt was one of his godparents present at the christening. She was the younger sister of his father. Attractive, cultured and intelligent, she was considered to be one of the most eligible princesses in Europe. Just three years after her nephew was born, in 1846, she married Crown Prince Karl of Württemberg. Alexander's older brother the heir apparent Nicholas died just two months before their aunt Queen consort of Württemberg. With his death, he became the next heir apparent, the 'Tsesarevich'.

GRAND DUCHESS MARIA PAVLOVNA OF RUSSIA, GRAND DUCHESS CONSORT OF SAXE-WEIMAR-EISENACH - his great-aunt was another of his godparents. One of the daughters of Emperor Paul I, the grand duchess married a German prince Karl Friedrich, Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach in 1804. She was an intellect, interested in both arts and sciences. German poet and novelist Johann Wolfgang von Goethe hailed her as one of the worthiest women of his time. She was the great-grandmother of Wilhelm II, German Emperor and Queen Victoria of Sweden.

PRINCESS MATHILDE CAROLINE OF BAVARIA, GRAND DUCHESS OF HESSE AND BY RHINE - his aunt, the wife of his uncle Louis III, Grand Duke of Hesse and by Rhine, was listed as one of the future emperor's godparents. She was the eldest daughter of King Ludwig I of Bavaria. Her marriage to Louis III was childless. She died of cancer in 1862 at the age of 48.

Source

[stupidgirl2003]

The Old Mausoleum and Princess Elisabeth.

In the Grand Ducal Hessian family, the name Elisabeth evokes melancholic feelings; as the lives of the beholders of this beautiful name, which means 'God-given', the princesses Elisabeth, later Grand Duchess Elizaveta Feodorovna (1864-1918) and Elisabeth, Elizaveta Feodorovna's niece (1895-1903), were princesses whose lives and destinies were intermingled with happiness, devotion, service, and sadness. Today, remembering the beholders of this name, we can remember another Hessian princess named Elisabeth who, like Grand Duke Ernst Ludwig's daughter, also died in childhood. Being so young when she passed away, information about her is scarce. She was the fourth child and first daughter of the Hereditary Princely couple of Darmstadt, Ludwig and Wilhelmine, but the fact is that Elisabeth's parents had been leading separated lives for a while and, the age gap with her older brothers, Princes Ludwig and Karl, was of more than a decade. Therefore, that her biological father was not the Hereditary Prince does not come as a surprise, being the most probable biological father August von Senarclens-Grancy, a Swiss noble in service to the court. He was also the possible biological father of her younger siblings, Alexander and Marie, but, like her, they were also recognized by Ludwig. Wilhelmine's pregnancy with Elisabeth is mentioned in a letter from her sister, Russian Empress Elizaveta Alexeievna to her mother, Amalie of Hesse-Darmstadt: '...I am very sorry for my poor aunt in Darmstadt [Luise, Grand Duchess of Hesse and by the Rhine, mother-in-law of Wilhelmine], whose eyes are in such a bad state. Is she happy with Mimi's [Wilhelmine's nickname] pregnancy ? Dear mother, I don't think I have been secretive with you, but when Mimi told me that I was the first person she had spoken to about her pregnancy, I thought it was not for me to be the first to speak of it, but for her in every way. I still don't know how far along she is, she hasn't told me, but I'm sure you do, dear mother...' . Three months after this letter was written, on the 20 of May of 1821, Amalie Elisabeth Luise Caroline Friederike was born. Although not directly mentioned, she was possibly named in honor of her maternal grandmother and maternal aunts and her official paternal grandmother. She, as a child, possibly spent the majority of her time with nannies that took care of her, and with her mother Wilhelmine. Elisabeth has been referred to as her mother's favorite daughter. Her mother, who loved to travel to Switzerland and had visited it several times before, decided to take all her children in a travel there, but what was to be a happy event, was marked by tragedy, as Elisabeth, in the outward journey, contracted scarlet fever and died on May 27, 1826, in Lausanne, a week after her fifth birthday.

Little Elisabeth was laid to rest first in the Darmstadt City Church for some time until 1831, when the mausoleum her mother had asked court architect Georg Moller to erect in the Rosehöhe, a most loved place for her, was finished. This mausoleum with time became an important burial place for the Hessian Grand Ducal family.

As for Wilhelmine, with the death of Elisabeth, her love for Switzerland, traveling, and life in general decayed. She said some years later 'the old wanderlust is no longer to be found in me'.

Wilhelmine died in 1836, and asked her husband, now Grand Duke Ludwig II, to have a simple funeral and to be laid to rest with her beloved Elisabeth.

Sources: L'impératrice Élisabeth, épouse d'Alexandre 1er by Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich, podcast 'Treffpunkt Heilingenberg' #3 'Eine Affäre in der Schweiz', Die Hessin auf dem Zarenthron: Maria, Kaiserin von Russland, http://www.park-rosenhoehe.info/Park_Geschichte.html and https://freunde-des-schlossmuseum-darmstadt.de/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/flyer_palais.pdf

Thanks to @abigaaal for her feedback on this!

[thehessiansisters]

Series of photographs of the Hessian sisters, 1900-1905.

[queenalexandraofdenmark]

My 2 favourite Hesse sisters

Alix + Ella 💜

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Turn Week Day 4: History Nerdery

I'm a bit late to this year's Turn Week, but here are my thoughts on today's prompt:

Funnily for me, my interest in this particular historical context started with the series, and, coming from a related background, I quickly started to develop quite an interest in the events that were dramatised in the series.

My favourite pet peeve and Turn-related thing to nerd on about is doubtlessly the misrepresentation of John Graves Simcoe (feel free to ask me anything, I'm down to the level where I know the name of some of his pets, his schoolboy misdeeds, and his hobbies...) as a central villain; however, the more you read, the more I picked up on some of the other, non-Simcoe-related details, too:

The Hessians aren't very convincing, given they don't even speak German properly.

Sally being made into the name of an imaginary pet dog, rather than the sister of Robert Townsend (the one who historically may or may not have been in love with John Graves Simcoe), annoyed me to no end.

In general, the entire Townsend family dynamic was a lot more interesting than the narrative that Robert was effectively a reclusive loner with an overbearing father.

The 'romance' between Colonel Cooke and Philomena Cheer is half based on the alleged affair between General Howe and Elizabeth Loring, and half on General Clinton's, very happy, it has to be said, relationship with Mary Baddeley, whom he did indeed bring back to England, and who remained his partner until his death.

Speaking of Cooke, I'm pretty sure his character was modelled on the way Britsh officers (excluding Sir John Copeland, maybe) were represented in the 1925 Broadway musical Dearest Enemy.

John André's terrible braid is based on a case of mistaken identity; indeed, a similar braid appears in a portrait of a British officer labelled as John André, yet, as the British flag in the background suggests, this portrait was created post-1801. Furthermore, the regimentals do not match 'the' John André's service record.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Part 9 8 (sorry, I can't count) - Finally meeting mama (who is basically lifted from AU ACOSF because everybody loved her)

‘I’m so nervous. I think I might vomit.’

Nesta had packed her belongings. Unpacked. Re-packed. Tipped it all out again. Panicked. Threw herself face first onto the bed and refused to move with all of her clothes strewn around the bed. Then Azriel had flopped down beside her and rested his head on her shoulder blades until they’d both fallen asleep.

Eventually, she had managed to pack once more, choosing simple dresses that she was comfortable in rather than the ones she had originally packed. They were pretty, dainty things to impress that Elain might wear. She looked lovely in them, but they weren’t her. They’d had her tugging at the sleeves and smoothing the flowing skirts when she had tried them on. Nesta had to be herself, no matter how jagged and thorny that was. Nesta had given herself a stern talking to in the mirror of the bathroom that Azriel was with her for who she was.

In Velaris that morning, she had found a florist that kept flowers alive in the winter through her magic and selected a large bouquet of flowers for Azriel’s mother. The florist had bundled them with hessian. It was the first time in a long time that Nesta wished Elain was there. Nesta could recognise the flowers from listening to her sister prattle on about flowers: sunflowers interspersed with red roses and bunches of white asters. The whole collection was pretty and colourful, a welcome sight in winter. However, Nesta worried that the flowers might have a hidden meaning as some flowers did – what if these were flowers for mourning in Illyria?

She’d even found a baker’s and purchased a tray of sticky pastries despite Azriel proclaiming it was unnecessary, that his mother would simply be happy with their arrival. Then she panicked whether his mother might think Nesta didn’t trust her cooking or was flaunting her money.

Never before had Nesta fretted so much over such tiny details. Everything had to be perfect – she had to be perfect.

They stood in the living room, readying themselves to winnow to Illyria. Azriel did not understand mortal customs; did not know that bringing a female to meet his mother had Nesta’s heart pounding so painfully she thought it was cracking her ribs. A male’s mother was always considered a formidable opponent. If Nesta was not worthy of her son, there would be no going back. Her own mother and grandmother had trained her meticulously for this moment. There wasn’t a lord or duke in the mortal lands that Nesta hadn’t learnt the name of; she’d studied family crests, lineage, histories. And none of it mattered here. All of the lessons that she had undertaken in mathematics, literature and music had all been wasted.

Azriel did not sweep away her worries or tell her they had no foundation. It wouldn’t have helped. He’d said plenty of times that his mother would like her, but those feelings still had taken root. They’d burrowed down deep, anchoring her with doubts. Nobody had ever taken to Nesta. Nobody would ever want her to be the female their son brought home.

‘In ten minutes, you will be wondering why you ever let yourself worry over this.’ Azriel pressed a kiss to her brow, holding her face between his warm hands. ‘She will love you as I love you.’

Whether he meant to say it or not, Nesta didn’t know.

They were suddenly sucked away by shadows, pulling them through the coldest spots of darkness.

Colour was in his tan cheeks when they emerged from a sphere of swirling, sable shadows.

A pretty house of cream stone had been built in the foothills of a tall mountain range. Their peaks were capped with snow and the heavy clouds swirling about them suggested another snowfall was likely.

Around the front doors was a lattice with vines snaking through it. Nesta recognised it as honeysuckle that would bloom in the warmer months. The thatched roof was stuffed like a swollen pillow and Nesta was glad to see smoke billowing from the chimney. The air was much colder here, likely from the mountains or they were far more to the north than she had been before. Perhaps both.

At her shiver, Azriel led them on through the winding path flanked by bare trees and bushes that would come alive in fairer weather. Nesta clutched the bouquet of flowers to her body as if it were a shield. The arm that stayed around her shoulders was sturdy, a comforting weight to stop her worries from tugging her into despair.

‘Az?’

A voice called out to them as they removed their snowy shoes on the covered porch. Azriel had bent down and taken off Nesta’s for her. She was too nervous to manage it otherwise. Her hands trembled causing a couple of petals to drift to the wooden floor.

They heard the shuffle of steps across the floorboards. Nesta spied slippers then managed to raise her head. A female turned the corner, eyes widening in surprise when she realised that her son had brought a guest home.

She was as tall as Nesta. Glossy, black hair had been drawn into a braid that fell to her waist. Her black dress was rolled up at the sleeves and a flour-dusted apron had been tied around her narrow waist. Unlike Azriel, her eyes were a honey brown that seemed to shine as she smiled. And she was far younger than Nesta was expecting.

‘You must have smelt that I’d started dinner,’ she said.

‘This is Nesta,’ Azriel said, giving her a small, encouraging push into the hallway. ‘My mother, Rovena.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Nesta replied. Her body was rigid. She didn’t know what to do with her hands as they clutched the bouquet. The attempt at a smile was likely more of a grimace.

His mother smiled again, the warmth running over Nesta like the first day of spring after a long winter. Gently, she moved the bouquet to the side to bring Nesta into an embrace. It was not a hurried thing. A hand splayed out across Nesta’s back, rubbing in a circle then Rovena stepped back slightly to examine Nesta’s face. For once, she did not feel scrutinised or the need to build a defence. His mother had seen who she was and that was enough.

There was no difference in the way she embraced her son either. She swept him into the same tight hug, rubbing his back above his wings. Goodness seemed to seep from her, gentle and comforting.

‘I’m so glad you’re both here,’ she said finally, appraising them once more as if they hadn't just turned up unannounced.

Azriel moved slightly to put an arm around Nesta. His mother watched, her smile growing brighter.

‘Oh! Sorry,’ Nesta spluttered. ‘These are for you. And these.’

Rovena accepted the flowers with a shocked expression - then a pleased one at the box of pastries. ‘You didn’t need to do this.’

‘I told her that about six times,’ Azriel said, grinning slightly.

It almost felt sinful to be sharing a bed in his mother’s house, but Azriel had snorted when Nesta had voiced her concerns. He was half a millennium old, she supposed. She hadn’t worked up the courage to tell him that in the mortal lands, they ought to be married to be behaving this way. However, being the first – and only – female that he had ever introduced to his mother made Nesta’s heart flutter. Every time she recalled that fact, butterflies tickled her stomach.

The bedroom was tidy with few of his belongings within. The walls had been painted a cornflower blue with a thick, sheepskin rug near the empty hearth. Azriel admitted that he only ever stayed at Rosehall around Solstice, but did visit during the year.

His admission about his father had lingered in Nesta’s mind. His mother had a scar running from her forehead across her eyebrow and then her cheek, narrowly missing her eye. Her wings had been mottled with scars. She wondered if he had inflicted them. If she hadn't known, Nesta would never have put her as Azriel’s mother; she seemed closer to a sister in age.

‘How old is she?’

He stilled from unpacking their belongings in the oak wardrobe for a moment. Nesta knew little about her; only that she had been a seamstress and once known Rhysand’s mother. Feyre had said once that he was the bastard child of a camp lord. From his own words, she knew that Azriel had only ever had mere minutes with his mother each week before being cast out to Windhaven, unable to fly.

‘She was seventeen when she had me,’ he said, voice low.

Rovena had remained in the kitchen, kneading bread for dinner, chirping happily that her son and Nesta were staying to a fat, grey cat that sat on the windowsill while they had settled themselves in upstairs.

‘Not by choice.’

There was nothing Nesta could say to soothe that hurt. Life for females was difficult – all females. Azriel had not had a choice in his conception either. And he couldn’t be blamed for it.

She clutched his hand, squeezing it once. Again, she repeated, ‘You are not your father.’

He shook the thought away. ‘Are you settled now? If you’re not comfortable, we can leave.’

There was not a chance that Nesta was leaving now. She’d climbed to the peak of her worries so could finally enjoy the view from the top. They were at their beginning – her and Azriel. There was no turning back now.

Their dinner was enjoyable. As Azriel had predicted, Nesta did not know why she worried. The flowers had been put into a vase in the centre of the table, but they clustered at one end together eating with an informality that she adored. Her male's manners had shined; Azriel tucked both her and his mother into the table, serving them before himself. There was already an ease amongst the three of them as if Rovena’s presence settled them both.

The home was a home. Nesta couldn’t explain it any other way. Objects hadn’t been put away – there was a basket of wool at the other end of the table with knitting needles poking from it, dishes from cooking were in the sink. A candle had dribbled wax down its metal holder on the shelf behind them. Two more cats had arrived, swirling beneath the table to rub against their legs as if they were Azriel’s shadows.  

Rovena spoke gently, her voice never loud, sharing stories of Azriel and of Illyria that made them laugh then she asked Nesta about her life or her son about his. If Rovena knew who Nesta was – the high lady’s sister and Cauldron Made – she never brought up the topic. The conversation swirled easily and time dribbled away. Even Azriel had loosened. The tension that his body seemed to carry melted away in his mother’s presence. Each time that her brown eyes flickered to her son, Nesta didn’t see the revulsion or wariness that Azriel had prepared her for; no, Rovena looked at her son with pride and love and joy. If only he could see it. He seemed unable to look at his mother for more than a few moments before he turned his face away or a shadow came up to obscure him.

Only once they broke into the box of sweet pastries over a cup of tea for dessert, did she mention their relationship. Rovena clasped her hands together, resting her chin on top.

‘Well, you made me wait five hundred years before you brought a female to meet your mother – but Nesta was worth the wait.’

Azriel tucked himself close to Nesta at the table, kissing her on the lips in front of his mother so that Nesta’s cheeks reddened with shock at his boldness.

'She was.’

‘May you have a lifetime of happiness.’

There were baskets hanging from the ceiling near the window where reedy plants hung out of like a sailor in a hammock. Row upon row of spices were gathered in glass jars by the stove. One of the cats, a wiry ginger thing had sprawled out across the slanted rug by the fire. It was a home that Nesta had never known. Not extravagant, not sterile, but filled with warmth and love. She wasn’t sure if she’d want to leave by the end of it.

***

The two females had bundled up beside each other on the couch. Azriel had been forgotten. He remained at the kitchen table, catching up on reports from spies posted around the Continent, combing through every detail like searching grains of sand for any whisper of Koschei or Briallyn. He’d become militant with this mission. Any threat to Nesta needed to be eliminated swiftly before it could grow.  

Occasionally, he rocked back in his chair to peer into the living room. His mother had lifted Nesta’s feet up and tucked them on the couch with a blanket so she felt more at home and they sat close to each other talking quietly. Elta had already made a home on Nesta’s lap; the black cat had curled its tail beneath its chin and was likely purring as Nesta’s hands moved across her fur. Whatever topic his mother had engrossed them in, Nesta looked entirely at ease. That rare smile had made an appearance, crinkling the corner of her eyes, at whatever his mother had said.  

Tonight, they could still have their bliss. Their little piece of paradise would be safe for one more night then all hell would break loose tomorrow.

Azriel had already set the pieces into position. Cassian would meet him on the outskirts of Windhaven, far away from any civilians in the morning. He’d agreed to a meeting there, naively not even asking why Azriel would summon him. Likely because this would never have crossed his mind. That for months, Azriel had been bedding Nesta, falling more in love with her each day.

He’d asked the same of Rhys, asking him to arrive earlier so that he could inform him to stay well away but be ready to spring into action the moment the truth hit.

Azriel wasn’t sure what Cassian would do. But he had to tell him one on one, away from everybody else. He owed it to him. Not that Nesta was his or anything to do with him. In his heart, Azriel knew Rhys would need to be near for whatever eruption came from either of them. Rhys would need to intervene. If anything was said about Nesta, Azriel’s restraint would snap. And with Rhys’ power, he’d be able to pass on the warning to Feyre and Mor.

There were two advantages at least: the first was that Cassian couldn’t winnow so he’d only be able to leave Windhaven by foot or by wings; the second was that Nesta was in Rosehall, safe. There was no place safer.

He spent that night with Nesta curled up in his arms running through every possible outcome. The best would be for his brother to clap him on the back and say he was happy for them; that didn’t seem likely. A brawl would happen. What Cassian and Nesta had shared during the war seemed to give his brother a belief that there was a future for them. Maybe there had been once. Maybe if he’d been better to her, made her a priority or wanted to know Nesta rather than trying to change her into the female he wanted her to be. Cassian would see it as a betrayal. His brother felt too much, wore it too openly. Azriel just hoped he was strong enough to weather his brother’s hurt.

Nesta groaned softly, fighting her eyes open in the dark room. ‘You’re not sleeping.’

‘Sorry.’

She burrowed into him, hands reaching around his body. ‘Did you mean what you said in my home?’

Yes. And he wished he hadn’t panicked and winnowed them to his mother’s front door without another word. Her eyes had widened at his admission. Her mouth had fallen open. Those words had never passed his lips before. To anybody. Then again, no female had ever been introduced to his mother or seen the ruin that was inside of him and not fled.

‘I only tell you the truth.’

‘In that we’re equals,’ she said pressing a kiss to his scarred hand.

The dawn brought churning, grey clouds and flurries of hail that lashed the skin. Nesta had been unable to eat a bite of the food his mother had made at breakfast, her face as bleached of colour as the landscape. Azriel hadn’t eaten either.

He’d took his mother by the elbow to the living room, speaking in rapid Illyrian about what he was going to do even if he hated to speak his native tongue. The story of the Cauldron-Cursed Archeron and the Lord of Bloodshed facing death at the hands of the King had gained wings even in Illyria. Of course, she had known who Nesta Archeron was and had been subtle enough not to act surprised that she had arrived as his girl rather than Cassian’s.

‘A rift has already grown between us. Today, I fear it will become an abyss.’

His mother had stroked a hand down his face, pursing her lips. ‘Remember what you have to gain, not what you could lose. I’ve never seen you so content. Happy. My boy.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll keep Nesta occupied today.’

Nesta had tried to talk him out of it, begged him not to go and they could remain as a secret a little longer. He was tired of hiding her, tired of keeping secrets from his family. He was being torn in two over it. If they loved him then they would be happy for them just as his mother was.

Obliging Nesta, Azriel took no weapons, not even Truth-Teller. He wasn’t going there to fight. But if it came to it, he would.

@theleafpile @wannawriteyouabook @mis-lil-red

[foreverinthepagesofhistory]

Which of the Romanov sisters and Hesse sisters would you say you are most like ?

Ooh this is a fun one! Let’s get into it

I would say out of OTMA i am the most like Tatiana Olga and Maria combined. I have the responsibility of Tatiana, the empathy of Maria and the sadness of Olga. Anastasia is a bit too silly to be like me so i don’t think i am that much like her. But if i had to pick anyone out of the eldest 3 sisters, i would pick Maria or Tatiana (i can’t decide!)

I would say that out of the Hessian Sisters i would say i am mostly like Victoria. We both share the same traits as being very responsible, being very funny, have the same oldest sister vibes lol, and being very caring and empathetic.

Thank you for asking me questions!

[apersonwholikeslotus]

my little sister decided I’m making too much noise in my room and texted me asking If I’m “preparing to fight the Hessians” like girl u don’t even know where Hesse is

[blood-red-ocean]

no no no, no need to apologize for Russian in your story cause it was perfect! the person who helped u out with it did a great job. for a moment there I thought you know Russian. there was only one time where i would've rephrased the sentence in Russian(probably only for me anyway) but it's not sticking out that much so all is good, honestly!

now just imagine being on another Trial hunted down by Anna and the huntress learning that reader knows Russian just before she escapes. the shock Anna would feel. hunting down reader literally.

listen listen listen, the sisters getting wind of everything and joining in on the fun! poor maiden wouldn't stand a chance with not one but now four women proudly showing off their hunting skills!

If you remember which chapter and sentence it was, I'd love to know! I love different languages and I always want to do them justice. And yessss the reader yelling at Anna in Russian and Anna just stops and blinks and spends the next Trials searching for the reader. Trying to find this perplexing little rabbit who can speak her tongue.

Okay now I MUST headcanon these. So:

- Alcina hears you call her your Huntress and she stops and blinks for a second. She feels something stir inside her, akin to her normal hunting instincts but also so much more intense. She spends the whole night stalking in the shadows, searching for the perfect gift for her love. This time the hunt is more rewarding than ever, especially when she sees the surprised grin on your face and she gets kisses as a reward.

- Daniela is the next one to deposit a fresh hunt at your feet. Smaller, nonhuman, but the gesture is just as sweet. She does it as a gesture of kindness, and as a way to become closer with you and spend more time with you. She's had some trouble breaking the ice with you being her Mother's partner, and so she follows in her Mother's footsteps.

- Bela follows suit, dragging in her catch wrapped in a bloodsoaked hessian cloth, placing it at your feet and nodding before walking away. Bela, as closed off as she is, does it as a gesture of goodwill and acknowledgement, and considers it a necessary social obligation - if her Mother is, she will too.

- Cassandra is just happy to hunt. She sees your reaction to her Mother and sisters' gifts, and though she is annoyed that she wasn't the first to do this, she was determined to be the best. She drags in her hunt, skin torn and mangled from her hands and teeth in her ferocity, leaving a trail of quickly drying blood behind her as she drags it to you. She places it at your feet and grins, wanting for nothing but your praise - you give it to her, patting her head as Alcina stands behind you, pinching the bridge of her nose.

- You're surrounded by the spoils of hunts, flustered and confused all at once. Daniela, Bela and Cassandra make this a regular thing of bringing you their hunts and you just smile and thank them, wondering what in the name of Miranda you're going to do with all of these.