#ii. study : arthur

[feysversion]

tag drop pt. 2

ii. study : ada

ii. study : charles

ii. study : crowley

ii. study : arthur

ii. study : cornelius

ii. study : luca

ii. study : astarion

ii. study : constance

ii. study : herakles

ii. study : lucanis

[arthurs-better-half]

Yellow - Acceptance and Alienation

Michael Cunningham, The Hours // Malevolent - Part 21 // Ruth Madievsky, All-Night Pharmacy // Malevolent - Part 21 // @godabhor (Twitter) // Nemakin Aleksandr // Malevolent - Part 23 // Do You? - TroyBoi // Malevolent - Part 22 // Ask Polly // Minotaur Forgiving Knossos - Moonface // Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides // Malevolent - Part 40 "The Order" II // The Fallen Angel (1847) by Alexandre Cabanel // John Selden // @/rhymewithrachel // Malevolent - Part 40 "The Order" II // Stephen Adly Guirgis, The Last Hours of Judas Iscariot // Malevolent - Part 40 "The Order" II

Reblogs appreciated 👍

Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved. Still, there is this horror at being left behind.

ENTITY: What's your name, friend? ARTHUR: Jesus, it's- it's Arthur. ENTITY: Arthur?

Being a person didn't come naturally to me the way it seemed to for others. People who were sure of themselves awed me. I studied them and tried to mimic their ease.

ARTHUR: Now, you're going to play nice and tell me what we see, or so help me, I will send you back to that empty void you came from. Understood? ENTITY (beaten down): Yes. ARTHUR: Good boy. Now, tell me what's in this room.

if only i were a bird, dark winged, in flight.

YELLOW: What made you... friendly? With him? (A light-hearted piano piece starts.) ARTHUR: What do you mean? YELLOW: What made you... like his companionship.

Do you love me? Do you need me? Do you want me? Do you love me? YELLOW: What do you want from me?!

"You can be better than this," my shame whispers in my ear. "You need to try harder. You need to hide the scary things you carry around. You need to act like you've arrived, even though you're so inadequate and broken that you never will."

You'll never know me None of you will ever see my face No matter how much we long to face the unknown And that's okay

WHY DOES TRAGEDY EXIST? BECAUSE YOU ARE FULL OF RAGE. WHY ARE YOU FULL OF RAGE? BECAUSE YOU ARE FULL OF GRIEF.

YELLOW (loathing): Friends! What a waste.

To preach long, loud, and Damnation, is the way to be cried up. We love a man that damns us, and we run after him again to save us.

ARTHUR: That I... That I... (Quieter.) Failed you.

JESUS: I'm right here. JUDAS: I would have never believed that you could have left me. JESUS: I never left you. JUDAS: That you didn't love me. JESUS: I do love you. JUDAS: Why ... didn't you make me good enough ... so that you could've loved me?

YELLOW: I... I... (Quieter.) Why you, John? What did you have to offer? Why does he care about... you?

[lov3lybarista]

ᴄʜ. 1 ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟɪɴɪᴄ.

Wattpad:lov3lybarista Pairing: Thomas Shelby x OC Warnings: addiction, ptsd Word Count: 1.9k+ Masterlist.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Song: Blue Veins by The Raconteurs

March 13th, 1923. Somewhere outside Birmingham, United Kingdom.

It had all finally caught up to him.

The sleepless nights, the whiskey, the cigarettes, the fucking opium he used to treat the sleepless nights. All of it—men he couldn't save, the woman he'd lost—women.

Greta, somewhere lying in a coughing fit, paled and on her death bed. Grace, her blonde hair lit like fire by the sun, standing in front of him after she had just ratted him out like a dog who got caught stealing meat off a cutting board. Betrayal, ghosts, the business, France—fucking all of it.

It was about two weeks ago when he finally felt something give, something break. It was deep in his ribs, like a whisper from death itself, sharp and too stinging to ignore. But he did ignore it, ignored the look Arthur had on his face when he watched him lean against the wall of the Garrison, sweat dripping down his forehead and blood coating his lungs. He ignored it when he woke up dazed on the floor of his study, his glass shattered and staining the carpet a dark brown next to his head on the floor. He ignored it until Polly had smacked him hard enough to bruise his lip, the ringing in his ear coated with her words that he needs to 'see a professional before the illness kills him or she does.'

But a Shelby never gave up in public, not even to a warning from death. What he did do is make a quiet call to someone in Vienna, then another one to Madrid, and soon enough a name had emerged. A woman. A historic breakthrough—not like he fucking cared if it was a genie treating him—all he cared about was no ties. And no ties she had. Discreet, detached from the corruption of the world he knew, the best apparently. A ghost in the world of medicine.

Dr. Dalia Hassan.

Now he was here. Stuck, waiting. Thomas Shelby didn't wait, not for anyone. Yet here he was, sat on a slender leather recliner in a clinic too far away from the madness that surrounded him. The walls were painted a dark green, the kind that would seem black if not for the open windows. Private, clean, expensive. The kind of clinic meant for people like him, people that could afford privacy and quality. A clinic surrounded by pine and a long gated road that led to it. If you ended up here, you were meant to.

Thomas scanned the dark oak thick shelves filled with even thicker books, a bloody drawing room with secrets, he thought. It resembled no where near the places where the sick like him would lay. No harsh lights, no bustling of nurses or coughs that sounded like hell itself were trying to crawl out from thier body.

It was only then did his fingers stop twitching when the faint click of heels approached the door. It clicked open with the softness that matched the figure who entered it.

She walked in like silence grew a pair of long pretty legs and decided it would heal him. No dramatic announcement—just pure, undeniable presence. It was like she wore fabric stitched from the shadows themselves, dressed in all black. The cloth of her wool skirt stopped tight just below the knee, the crisp line of her black blouse tucked perfectly, seamlessly in. There was a whisper of gold against her skin, a stray ring, a thin string against the hollow of her pale throat.

Her skin itself seemed to radiate the life that seeped back into him. It was the color of the inside of a pearl, delicate, unblemished, like the rays of the pale morning sun that he watched rise too many sleepless nights before this very moment. Her hair was as black as oil and it flowed like it remembered the depths of the sea in thick waves past her hips.

And shit—those eyes. A honyed deep brown, wide, impossibly clear, blinking thick long lashes at him as if he wasn't a second from drawing his gun and demanding if she was a phantom coming to haunt him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby," she finally spoke, her voice mellow, serene, words lulled by a faint accent that made his name sound like it was some fancy soap a duchess would purchase. It was like a dream realized it had a voice and decided to speak.

"I'm Dr. Dalia Hassan."

Thomas blinked once, sure that his mind was playing some cruel trick on him, maybe it was death giving him some sick form of mercy by placing her right there.

But she didn't disappear, didn't get replaced by some fat bellied middle aged man with a degree he kept shoved up his ass. This was no ordinary physician. This woman...she was profound.

He exhaled, slow. His heart suddenly began to ache for a reason much different than any drug he had taken in the past.

"Right, get on with it." His own voice sounded different to his ears, scratchy–needy?

Fucking hell mate get a grip. He thought.

She sat without a sound, a smooth and effotless motion as she lowered herself onto a rolling stool just a foot away from him. It was measured, far enough to be respectful of his space, close enough for him to realize how heaven smelled.

She smelled like something sacred, clean, womanly. Not perfume, maybe oil. The sweetness of her own skin. Perhaps it was rose water, or maybe something more rare, more her. All he knew was that it made his fingers twitch against where they sat on his thighs, and that later on when he closed his eyes it would linger against the walls of his mind. It was made to haunt a man privately.

When she spoke again, it was the kind of quiet that forced him to lean forward to latch onto it. "How are you feeling?"

Nothing about her was clinical, not even sympathetic. She was just...composed. Even. Too calm, too serene. The kind of serenity that made the shovels that dug and dug and dug finally—

Stop. Disappear. No more digging in his head.

She watched him, not impatient, not soft, just completely steady. It was her stillness that truly unnerved him.

"Alive," he finally answered, though anything he seemed to say felt like an exaggeration underneath her gaze.

Her lips—full and painted the kind of red that resemebled the petals of a blood-rose—curled, just faintly. A hint of amusement at him.

"Good," she murmured. "Let's keep it that way."

A pause, then:

"May I examine you?" she asked softly, her voice still wrapped in that serene hush. Thomas could only manage a small nod, the kind that gave that men like him weren't used to being asked.

She moved then. Slowly, deliberatly lifting off the stethoscope from around her neck like she was peeling off the silk of a scarf, the tubing sliding gently against the silk of her skin and blouse. He watched, her fingers, the steadiness of them. Then his eyes flicked to the gleam of what rested below the hollow of her throat. A talisman maybe. A thin gold small plate with inscriptions he didn't comprehend. Not for display, not for fashion. Just something older, meaningful. His gaze lingered longer than it should have. She didn't comment, just leaned in that perfect distance that made him question if he's ever truly felt the presence of a woman before her.

"Breathe in," she murmured.

He did, and it pained him but he bit it back and inhaled deeply. Her touch was almost startling, cold at first. But it was familiar in a way that caused the startle. She touched him without hesitance, without fear and he couldn't remember the last time someone had.

"Your shirt, please." she said.

Thomas paused, not out of modesty—he had none left—but out of how surreal this all felt. Everything seemed closer now, dimmer, more intimate. He shed, his vest, then his tie, then one by one the buttons loosed and she didn't look away as the trails of scars were uncovered.

She stepped closer, her fingers touched his back first. It was like she was reading him in braille, scar by scar, breath by breath. The trail of her fingers were gently, a whisper of her touch against his skin but a whisper is enough to kindle a fire when the heat is right. Now in front of him, she placed her finger below his collarbone.

"Here?" she asked.

"No," he said.

Lower her hand moved, she asked again. He shook his head but his breathing had already changed.

"Tell me where it hurts, Thomas," she said, her voice was no louder than a purr, warm enough to make the words seem much more than they were.

And when he looked at her, he wanted to say here.

Not because of the heart murmur, not because of the collapse or the ache in his lungs. But because of her, of the way her touch made him remember that he had a heart that didn't just feel pain or aches.

She was quiet for a long moment after the examination, her eyes now busy scanning his patient files as she wrote, while his eyes haven't left her since she had walked in. Her hair—long and black as midnight—slid down her slender shoulder as she leaned while her pen moved.

"Intermittent pain, fatigue, tightness in the chest," she lists off, her voice staying low, like a thread of silk through a needle, "likely a murmur, could be stress-induced. Maybe something else."

She pauses, glancing up at him, he didn't speak. Just watched.

"I'll start with something mild to not overwhelm your body," she began again, "we'll get some X-rays. Other quiet tests, nothing invasive."

After another quiet pause she adds softly, "you can bring your men if you'd like. I understand how men like you feel in unfamiliar territory."

He runs his tongue over his teeth, his mouth suddenly dry from her offer. She knew, she understood, she saw. She saw him.

"I'll have my assistant send everything to your people," she finally stands, composed, still as always. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I'll call sometime soon to discuss further details."

She turned and left without another word, that was it. No extravegant goodbyes, no scolding on his habits. Just her presence and her quiet understanding and her damning eyes.

Thomas sat there for a long moment, his shirt still not fully buttoned up. He glared at the door like it could bring her back if he stared hard enough, his jaw clenched tight. The heavy weight in his chest hadn't left. But it was no longer the same. Now it was her.

He stood finally, dressed again and made his way out to the birds chirping and nature gnawing at his senses like it was reminding him he didn't belong here in a world of peace.

One of his men was waiting by the car, hat low and stance ready. The usual quiet loyalty in his eyes.

"Drive," he said curtly, "but slowly. I need to think.'

The Bentley smoothed over the clinic grounds, the trees holding the shadows of what reminded him of the black silk of her blouse, the sun hanging low on the horizon as afternoon gave away to evening. He didn't speak for the rest of the day, but the name Dalia turned over and over again in his thoughts.

And that night, alone and disturbed in the study of his estate, he lit a cigarette but didn't smoke it. He watched it burn while he sat with his thoughts echoing that quiet sound she left behind. Her hands, her voice, those eyes.

Thomas Shelby thought he had faced it all. Bullets, grief, beatings, betrayl, war.

But now?

Now he faced someone who saw through him and asked nothing of him but to live. Someone he couldn't stop seeing—even with his eyes closed.

Authors note: sorry for any spelling mistakes lol, let me know if anyone actually reads this and wants to be on a taglist

[juunipupu]

Hi, yes, hello! First of: love your work, hope I can become as good an artist as you are! Secondly (and the actual ask), do you have any specific sources you reference for the symbolism of things and historical wear/weapons/armor?

I saw your mention of Whose Middle Ages? in your latest ramble and got curious if you have any go-to's when it comes to this.

Thank you! :)

So I might be the worst person to be asked about period accurate clothing - I look at stuff and then try to replicate it from memory most of the time, so nothing is correct and periods get mixed together. However, I do have recommendations!! (sorry for a ramble, I'll put in under cut)

The type of medievalist art I'm mostly interested in is from Pre-Raphaelite era (1848->). There was an exhibition here in Finland mixing both true medieval, pre-raphaelite, and symbolism works together into the ultimate medievalist concoction that really had amazing inspiration for both symbolism and clothing. I own the book, which unfortunately is only available in Finnish and Norwegian

2. Unfortunate I cannot find/remember the artists anymore, but over on bluesky there are really great fellow armor enthusiasts sharing links to their drives for reference pictures they have taken from museums etc - these threads pop-up from time to time to combat AI slop on other reference picture platforms (like pinterest).

3. For really good breakdowns on super super accurate armor and arms, look no further than a really great artist mudnblood . Another artist I will always find to be a master of medival armor (and many other things) is John Howe

4. cheesy, but Kingdom Come: Deliverance II has really great armor references, because you can rotate Henry in character screen and take pieces of armor on/off

5. I like to look at HEMA content -There are really great resources on youtube of historical warfare and combat, but these creators will also often make breakdown of their own armor and how they dress everything on, where you can get good understanding of how pieces work together.

6. Medievalist scholars! Another book I've found to be insanely interesting aside from Whose Middle Ages?, is "Handbook of Arthurian Romance : King Arthur's Court in Medieval European Literature" (Tether et al., 2017). I wish I had recommendation, but these two specifically go into masculinity, desire, and queer studies in a way that brings me joy (and other great topics as well)

Lastly, thank you for the amazing ask!

[kerryshifts]

kerry !! i need help with my hogwarts dr. i read your daily prophet post and i luv it, so i was wondering if you have any other ideas for the plot/lore that i can use for my dr.... pretty please....

destiny is a weird thing. isn't it?

hogwarts dr ideas by kerry. raised by wattpad.

one.

𓂅 you come from a small country where magic folks usually don't go to a wizardry and witchcraft school; so, your mother gives you the opportunity to go to england and live with her sister, an aunt you never met because the two of them stopped talking almost 10 years ago. at first you couldn't believe you mama's words. what the hell were you supposed to do in britain? you knew it was your mother's home country, before she moved there to marry your dad, but you just didn't care. but adults are adults, and she made a decision.

poppy pomfrey. that was the name of the aunt you just discovered you had. poppy is your mother's older sister and they were always very close, until despite not having spoken for years due to a fight the two had years ago. your mother knew that poppy wouldn't think it twice about welcoming you in her house, and she still wrote a letter for you to deliver to her.

and just like that, you found yourself in completely unfamiliar territory. it felt like a completely new world! BUT. unbeknownst to those who passed by you (and even yourself), it was as if an old story was repeating itself. as the reincarnation of merlin (not that anyone knew, of course) you are capable of formidable abilities, but you never had never been able to do anything so powerful given the lack of knowledge that you had about magic (so, hogwarts will DEF teach you something!!!!!). unbeknownst to you — and anyone else, really, you are one of the two halves of the same coin who would change history forever. the other half of the coin: the reincarnation of the once king arthur pendragon.

funny, how history was always destined to repeat itself! you and your s/o (if you don’t have it, your platonic soulmate) were destined since centuries to accomplish what in the future would forever be remembered as one of the most important moments in history, a source of stories to tell children and to study in the most prestigious universities (both magical and muggle).

you and the other half of the coin, who would resurrect camelot more powerful and magical than ever. (you can look more in depth about the arthurian legend to expand the lore!!)

some powers you can script: you are a dragonlord (able to talk to dragons and/or you can have a very close relationship with them), astral projection, telekinesis, reality manipulation, the ability to bring anyone back to life, able to cast very ancient spells, immeasurable magical powers, magical perception, telepathy, pyrokinesis, electrokinesis, atmokinesis, can animate inanimate objects, magical shield, high magical resistance, expert swordsman, high intelligence and wisdom.

two.

𓂅 they created you. they sent you to this land. you were created only because apollon had a vision centuries ago. the gods nearly started a war for this decision, but after decades of trying to convince all of them, it happened. child of the sun [apollon] and moon [artemis], a beautiful [aphrodite] danger [poseidon], angry [ares] child filled with loyalty [hera], pitilessness [hades] young person too mature [demeter] for your age, someone who craves the desperation of what craziness will take [dionysus], too smart [athena] to even think clearly due to her quickly [hermes] thoughts, hardworking [hephaestus] person who will never finish what you started because of your aggressive spirit [zeus].

in your [ age ] years of living, you never left france. top of your classes at beauxbatons, youngest sibiling of the infamous most noble and most ancient house of labruyère and favourite student of madame ormesson (teacher of good manners that you knew since always), you knew that your future was already written down on a contract signed by your father, lord of the house.

now, you had to leave france. you knew that the [ pureblood english family of your choice ] were a very important family in the united kingdom, but you didn't understand why they needed to took you that far away. but, the contract said that you and [ your choice ] were meant to be married, and there you are: in britain, not knowing your true divine origins, and about to understand that you going to england wasn't a mere coincidence … more like destiny. the war against voldemort was about to start, and you were the final piece.

three.

"do not trust the zaravians, harry. they would let their own family die if that means having what they wanted." ⸺   albus dumbledore.

    north of italy. wizarding royal family.

( you!) zaravian were the troubled kid of the most noble and most ancient pureblood and royal house. first of all: at first, everyone thought you were the bastard child of helle zaravian, just because the scandalous baby didn't look like all the others zaravian before. it didn't matter how many spells the mediwizards had done to check the legitimacy of the baby, you are a truly member of the house. why because you are different from your parents remained a total mystery.

secondly, but most important, you are a brat ⸺ you couldn't stop the words coming out of your mouth and you didn't care about the consequences: if you don't like a situation, then you would have let anyone near you know it too. this was a major problem since the purebloods would rather be dead then let someone humiliate their own name. it was pointless how many times the parents tried to educate you on good manners, you will forever have the last word.

VENOM AND WRATH: HOUSE MOTTO. your grandfather told you that you have the true zaravian spirit, since your words could be as evil as the venom and that you had the same patience as a dragon trapped in a cage (so, none). the family's motto raised you into the person she are nowadays; this is why lord lycaon zaravian, the granfather who made history when he was in his youth, always told you to never stop having the last word. you were born to be heard. your commands are worthy of those of a leader, but the only one who seemed to believe this it was your grandfather. he made the smart decision to don't get on your bad side: his intuition was never wrong, and he thought that this will save his life in the future. a leader always recognises another leader.

now, a bit of family lore: lycaon zaravian. 1942. at the time he was twenty-four years old and had freshly taken his royal crown by his father, who was in his death bed. the war world ii in the muggle world began and, unfortunately, it had their percussion in the wizarding world because of the muggleborns and halfbloods; a lot of them taken away because of who they were. lycaon had the misfortune to start his empire in the middle of a war, but nothing stopped his ambitious self. even if the purebloods couldn't care less about the muggleborns and halfbloods, lycaon knew better: those where his people, and he was their king. going to war to save his people who were not pureblood made lycaon a legend, kids studied about him in history classes at giubiana and beauxbatons, and the people under his empire people were more united than ever after the war.

imagine his disappointment when his first son, now king, revealed to be a man with no honour: when he decided to send far away the youngest members of the family for a ‘better education’ (you and your younger brother; because they were, his words, not perfect purebloods and way too talkative) lycaon knew that his dear italy was ruined under his hands. and gods forbid that lycaon would let his first grandson (your older brother) who was exactly like your dad, have the crown.

while you and your younger brother were forced to go to hogwarts, under the influence of noble purebloods of the sacred 28 and finally have some discipline, your grandparent was already planning something that would have him arrested for treason. you were more of a great leader and zaravian than your father will ever be: and a good way to let everyone see it too is to go exactly where a war is about to be.

[world-of-wales]

HAPPY 42ND BIRTHDAY TO HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES, WILLIAM ARTHUR PHILIP LOUIS ♡

On 21 June 1982, Prince William was born to Diana and Charles, then known as Prince and Princess of Wales in St Mary's Hospital, London, at at 21:03 BST. He was born during the reign of his paternal grandmother Elizabeth II and was the first child born to a Prince and Princess of Wales since Prince John's birth in July 1905.

The little prince's name was announced on 28 June as William Arthur Philip Louis. Wills was christened in the Music Room of Buckingham Palace by the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie, on 4 August.

William studied at Jane Mynors' nursery school and Wetherby School in London before joining Ludgrove. He was subsequently admitted to Eton College, studying geography, biology, and history at the A-level.

The Prince undertook a gap year taking part in British Army training exercises in Belize, working on English dairy farms, and as part of the Raleigh International programme in southern Chile, William worked for ten weeks on local construction projects and taught English.

In 2001, William enrolled at the University of St Andrews, initially to study Art History but then changed his field of study to Geography with the support of the love of his life Catherine Elizabeth Middleton who he met while at school.

Will and Cat fell in love during their time at uni, and married at Westminster Abbey on 29 April 2011. The couple have three adorable cupcakes Prince George (b.2013), Princess Charlotte (b.2015) and Prince Louis (b.2018). The family of five divide time between their official residence, Kensington Palace and their two private residences - Amner Hall & Adelaide Cottage.

After university, William trained at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. In 2008, he graduated from the Royal Air Force College Cranwell and joined the RAF Search and Rescue Force in early 2009. He transferred to RAF Valley, Anglesey, to receive training on the Sea King search and rescue helicopter, which made him the first member of the British royal family since Henry VII to live in Wales.

During his active career as a Search and Rescue Pilot, William conducted 156 search and rescue operations, which resulted in 149 people being rescued. He then served as a full-time pilot with the East Anglian Air Ambulance starting in July 2015, donating his full salary to the EAAA charity.

Working with all branches of the military, he holds the ranks of Lieutenant Colonel in the Army, Commander in the Navy and Wing Commander in the Air-Force

Upon their wedding, WillCat became HRH The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, The Earl and Countess of Strathearn and Baron and Lady Carrickfergus. He became the heir apparent on 8 September 2022, receiving the titles of the Duke of Cornwall & The Duke of Rothesay. William & Catherine were made The Prince and Princess of Wales by Kimg Charles on 9 September 2022. Additionally, William also became the Prince & High Steward of Scotland, Earl of Chester, Earl of Carrick, Lord of the Isles, and Baron Renfrew.

As well as undertaking royal duties in support of The King, both in the UK and overseas, The Prince devotes his time supporting a number of charitable causes and organisations with some of his key areas of interest being Mental health, Conservation, Homelessness, Sports and Emergency Workers.

He has undertaken several overseas trips representing the monarch, covering a wide array of countries like Australia, Canada, Namibia, Malaysia, South Africa, Tanzania, Pakistan Italy, Jordan, Kuwait, France, India, The Bahamas, Belize, Afghanistan etc ; He is also is also a founder of various initiatives like United For Wildlife, Heads Together, Earthshot and Homewards.

[whencyclopedia]

Christopher Marlowe: Poet, Playwright, Spy

Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593), or Kit Marlowe, was a poet and playwright of the English Renaissance who wrote during the Elizabethan Era (1558-1603). His mastery of the blank verse – unrhymed iambic pentameter – transformed the way plays were written for Elizabethan theatre and influenced many other dramatists, including William Shakespeare (1564-1616). Marlowe's plays were known for their overambitious and morally ambiguous protagonists, realistic portrayals of emotion, and their use of crowd-pleasing violence; his most significant works include Tamburlaine the Great (circa 1587), Doctor Faustus (circa 1592), and Edward II (circa 1592), as well as the narrative poem Hero and Leander. His personal life was as dramatic as his work – an alleged atheist and homosexual man with ties to the queen's secret service, Marlowe was killed in a mysterious tavern brawl in May 1593.

Early Life & Education

Marlowe was born in Canterbury, England, sometime in February 1564, and was baptized there on 26 February, exactly two months before Shakespeare was baptized in Stratford-upon-Avon. His father, John Marlowe, had come to Canterbury in the mid-1550s in search of work. In 1561, John Marlowe married Katherine Arthur, the daughter of a peasant family from Dover. The marriage produced nine children, of whom Christopher was the second – tragically, four of these children would die before reaching adulthood, including the eldest, Mary. To compound the difficulty of these losses, the Marlowes were a poor family who constantly had to rely on welfare assistance from local charities.

At the age of 8, Marlowe entered grammar school – this was an unusual trajectory, since the sons of tradesmen often abandoned their formal educations around that age to begin apprenticeships. He attended King's School in Canterbury, where he studied Latin, classical literature, rhetoric, and oratory, as well as the hexametric verses of the ancient Roman literature by poets Ovid and Virgil. As scholar David Riggs explains, Marlowe "internalized the basic principles of Latin prosody (figures of speech, metrical resolution rules, relative stress) that underlaid his great contributions to the art of English poetry" (Cheney, 27). In 1580, 16-year-old Marlowe won a scholarship to Corpus Christi College at Cambridge – this scholarship was awarded to students of lower-class status who had proven adept at writing in verse, with the expectation that they would go on to become Anglican clergymen. Marlowe arrived on campus in December to find a student body that included a mix of "fee-paying gentlemen" and "baseborn scholars" like himself; the division between these two groups, according to Riggs, would lay "the groundwork for many scenes of social conflict that arise in Marlowe's works" (ibid).

Read More

⇒ Christopher Marlowe: Poet, Playwright, Spy

[mybeingthere]

Norman Ackroyd, RA (1938 - 2024, British)

Ackroyd was born in Leeds, Yorkshire. He attended Leeds College of Art from 1957 to 1961 and the Royal College of Art, London from 1961 to 1964, where he studied under Julian Trevelyan. Subsequently, he lived for several years in the United States. He was elected to the Royal Academy of Art in 1988 and appointed Professor of Etching, University of the Arts, in 1994. He was elected Senior Fellow of the Royal College of Art in 2000, and in 2007 was made CBE for services to Engraving and Printing.

"Having travelled much of it himself he loves the coast of Britain the most, and moody seas, rocky islands and seabirds are often his focus. He enjoys capturing the feelings of wild lands and nature around us.

Lucky to attend Cross Flatts School from the age of three during World War II, Norman passed his 11 Plus exam, went on to Cockburn Grammar School (where Hunslet Moor Primary is now), then studied at Leeds College of Art and the Royal College of Art in the 50s and 60s. He sets a lot of store by the great start in life these local schools gave him. Cockburn’s arts and sports teacher Bob Newton really encouraged him in his art.

His hard work ethic began with early starts in his dad’s butchers shop on Lady Pit Lane. He’d cycle down to Leeds Market early doors with meat orders. The shop and family home was an end terrace house on Northcote Road. His dad Arthur sold meat to Leeds United legend John Charles.

During WWII night bombing raids the German planes often tried to drop bombs on the railway infrastructure from Hunslet to Holbeck’s Copley Hill: one night a bomb dropped outside the shop, blowing tiles off the inside walls. A life begun in the midst of war!" https://southleedslife.com/making-his-marks-norman.../

[the---hermit]

2024 reading wrap up

books I read (rereads in green):

Nature Human Nature And Human Difference by Justin Smith

Resurgir curated by Lorenzo Incarbone

Sandman: Overture by Neil Gaiman

The Pornographer by Restif De La Bretonne

Storie Brutte Sulla Scienza by Barbascura X

Only Dull People Are Brillian At Breakfast by Oscar Wilde

A Day Of Fallen Night by Samantha Shannon

The Ballad Of The Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde

Notes On Camp by Susan Sontag

The Prince And The Dressmaker by Jen Wang

Oh! Il Libro Delle Meraviglie by Leo Ortolani

Dubliners by James Joyce

The Great God Pan by Arthur Machen

Il Grande Ratolik by Leo Ortolani

Emmeline Pankhurst by Mariapaola Pesce and Paola Zanghi

Babel by R.F. Kuang

Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu

Her Body And Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado

The Vampyre by John William Polidori

Passage On The Secret History Of An Irish Countess by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

The Daughtest Of Salem by Thomas Gilbert

Rita Hayworth And The Shawshank Redemption by Stephen King

Gideon The Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

The Mysterious Study Of Doctor Sex by Tamsyn Muir

Apt Pupil by Stepehn King

Harrow The Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Nona The Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Miti E Leggende Dei Celti by Mila Fois

A Psalm For The Wild Built by Becky Chambers

The Southern Book Club's Guide To Slaying Vampires by Grady Hendrix

Quando Muori Resta A Me by Zerocalcare

Storie Di Merda by Barbascura X

Richard II by William Shakespeare

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

Norse Mythology graphic novel volume 1

Norse Mythology graphic novel volume 2

A Prayer For The Crown Shy

short stories by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Something Is Killing The Children volume 7

If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio

Life Isn't Binary by John-Meg Barker and Alex Iantaffi

Dream Hunters by Neil Gaiman

My Best Friend's Exorcism by Grady Hendrix

The Hollow Places by T. Kingfisher

L'Idea di Medioevo by Giuseppe Sergi

Due Racconti di Vampiri - shoet stories by Frederick Cowles

The Twisted Ones by T. Kingfisher

What Moves The Dead by T. Kingfisher

The Fall Of The House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe

The White People by Arthur Machen

The Road - the graphic novel adaptation by Manu Larcenet

The Willows by Algernon Blackwood

A House With Good Bones by T. Kingfisher

What Fiests At Night by T. Kingfisher

The Spirit Bares Its Teeth by Andrew Joseph White

I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison

Interworld by Neil Gaiman and Michael Reaves

L'Importanza di Chiamarsi Oscar Wilde by Licia Cascione and Tommaso Vitiello

Questioni di un Certo Genere by il Post

The Lord Of The Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

Storia Degli Stati Sabaudi by Andrea Merlotti and Paola Bianchi

I Belli Hanno Rotto Il Cazzo by Barbascura X

Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner

This Is How You Lose The Time War by Max Gladstone and Amal El-Mohtar

Re:Dracula

The Adventures of Amina Al Sirafi by Shannon Chkraborty

Genderqueer by Maia Kobabe

The Forbidden Harbor by Stefano Turconi and Teresa Radice

Sacred Bodies by Ver

Seghe Mentali Cosmiche by Barbascura X

Costituzione by Maurizio Floravanti

Bi by Julia Shaw

Governo by Paolo Colombo

Graveyard Shift by M.L. Rio

A Babbo Morto by Zerocalcare

Fortunately, the Milk by Neil Gaiman

A Dog's Heart by Mikhail Bulgakov

the books I have dnf-ed:

The Last Man by Mary Shelly

Venerdì 12 by Leo Ortolani

The Dreamchatcher by Stephen King

Night Man by Leo Ortolani

La Donna Senz'Ombra by Hugo von Hofmannsthal

[bm2ab]

Arrivals & Departures . 01 June 1926 – 04 August 1962 . Norma Jeane Mortenson . Marilyn Monroe

Marilyn Monroe (/ˈmærəlɪn mənˈroʊ/ MARR-ə-lin mən-ROH; born Norma Jeane Mortenson) was an American actress and model. Known for playing comic "blonde bombshell" characters, she became one of the most popular sex symbols of the 1950s and early 1960s, as well as an emblem of the era's sexual revolution. She was a top-billed actress for a decade, and her films grossed $200 million (equivalent to $2 billion in 2024) by her death in 1962.

Born in Los Angeles, Monroe spent most of her childhood in foster homes and an orphanage before marrying James Dougherty at the age of 16. She was working in a factory during World War II when she met a photographer from the First Motion Picture Unit and began a successful pin-up modeling career, which led to short-lived film contracts with 20th Century Fox and Columbia Pictures. After roles as a freelancer, she began a longer contract with Fox in 1951, becoming a popular actress with roles in several comedies, including As Young as You Feel and Monkey Business, and in the dramas Clash by Night and Don't Bother to Knock. Monroe faced a scandal when it was revealed that she had posed for nude photographs prior to fame, but the story resulted in increased interest in her films.

Monroe became one of the most marketable Hollywood stars in 1953. She had leading roles in the film noir Niagara, which overtly relied on her sex appeal, and the comedies Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and How to Marry a Millionaire, which established her star image as a "dumb blonde". The same year, her nude images were used as the centerfold and cover of the first issue of Playboy. Monroe played a significant role in the creation and management of her public image, but felt disappointed when typecast and underpaid by the studio. She was briefly suspended in early 1954 for refusing a film project but returned to star in The Seven Year Itch (1955), one of the biggest box office successes of her career.

When the studio was still reluctant to change Monroe's contract, she founded her own film production company in 1954 with her friend Milton Greene. She dedicated 1955 to building the company and began studying method acting under Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio. Later that year, Fox awarded her a new contract, which gave her more control and a larger salary. Her subsequent roles included a critically acclaimed performance in Bus Stop (1956) and her first independent production in The Prince and the Showgirl (1957), for which she received a BAFTA nomination. She won a Golden Globe for her role in Some Like It Hot (1959), a critical and commercial success. Her last completed film was the drama The Misfits (1961).

Monroe's troubled private life received much attention. Her marriages to retired baseball star Joe DiMaggio and to playwright Arthur Miller were highly publicized; both ended in divorce. On August 4, 1962, Monroe died at age 36 of an overdose of barbiturates at her Los Angeles home. Her death was ruled a probable suicide. Monroe remains a pop culture icon, with the American Film Institute ranking her as the sixth-greatest female screen legend from the Golden Age of Hollywood.

[gawrkin]

The Significance of Knighting

The Knighting of Lancelot (Source: Vulgate Cycle - Lancelot pt. II)

The Knighting of Galahad (Source: Vulgate Cycle - Quest for the Holy Grail)

The Knighting of Arthur the Less (Source: Post-Vulgate Quest for the Holy Grail)

The Knighting of Ysaye, son of Tristan (Source: Ysaye le Triste, An Analysis and the Study of the Dwarf Troncq, by Barrington Francis Beardsmore)

The Knighting of Sir Gareth (Source: Le Morte D'Arthur, by Thomas Malory)

My impression is though that there's a kind of prestige attached to being knighted by a specific person.

I'm curious if there was ever a concept of "Lineage" within the ceremony of Knighting.

[backseatbabyy]

Phoebe Mallard - PJO OC

~ General ~

Full Name: Phoebe Grace Mallard

Nickname(s): Duckie (by her siblings and close friends), Phoebs,

Birthdate: August 3rd, 1994

Species: Demigod

Residence: Ashtown, Oregon | Camp Half-Blood

~ Physical Appearance ~

Hair Colour: Strawberry Blonde

Eye Colour: Mossy green

Skin Tone: Pale

Height: 5’2

Misc: Heavily freckled, bitten down nails, lots of gold earrings, a nose stud, small scratches and scars on her limbs from gardening and exploring the forest

~ Family ~

Father: Dr. Arthur Mallard

Phoebe and her father were always very close. A botanist, Arthur homeschooled his daughter and she came with him on his research trips. He doted on his only daughter and raised her with a love of nature and the outdoors. He always had a suspicion that her mother was something otherworldly, especially when Phoebe started showing signs of some kind of magic. Arthur died when Phoebe was 11. They were attacked by a hellhound while studying the flora of New York state.

Mother: Demeter

Phoebe has always had a rather complicated relationship with her mother. She only saw her mother once. When she was 11, Demeter saved her from the hellhound that killed her father and led her satyr guide to Phoebe.

~ Camp Life ~

Cabin: 4

Counsellor: No

Years at Camp: 5

Quest(s): The Prophecy of Eight (Seven), TBD

Ambrosia (what she tastes): Her dad’s chocolate cake

Nectar (what she tastes): fresh, juicy peaches

Skills: Proficiency with various weapons, hand-to-hand combat, expert dagger-wielding skills

Abilities: Chlorokinesis, self-healing via plants, teleportation through plants

Weaponry: a pair of light, thin daggers with grooves down the center that can hold poison

~ Background ~

Hometown: Ashtown, Oregon

Despite being born in Oregon, Phoebe spent most of her childhood travelling from place to place with her father. As he was a single father and had no family to leave her with, Phoebe came with him on his various research trips and cross-country teaching assignments. Phoebe was homeschooled and spent most of her days exploring the forests, meadows and deserts of the United States.

~ Personality & Traits ~

Personality: Phoebe is a very kind and good-hearted person. She has a tendency for sentimentality and is definitely the kind of person who literally stops and smells the roses. Phoebe is quite forgiving and always tries to see the best in people. She’s trusting and a very optimistic and cheerful individual. Emotionally, she’s very empathetic and can pick up on people’s emotions easily. She often mediates arguments around camp. Phoebe is an introvert and enjoys spending time alone as much as she enjoys time with others. Despite her soft-hearted nature, Phoebe can be incredibly stubborn when she wants to be. When her mind is made up, almost nothing can make her back down. She’s naturally not a very confrontational person and prefers to avoid conflict, but won’t back down if someone tries to start something with her. Phoebe has a hard time making and sticking to boundaries.

Strengths: Caring, comforting, smart, optimistic and persistent

Weaknesses: overly forgiving and trusting, unable to set boundaries, small spaces

Fatal Flaw: Inability to accept change

Likes: The outdoors, training, exploring the forest, her siblings, friendship bracelets, making plant jokes

Dislikes: Small/enclosed spaces, overly strong smells, bugs that eat her plants

Hobbies: Gardening, hiking, making friendship bracelets, birdwatching

Favourite Place: The strawberry fields or the forest, although she’s not technically supposed to go there outside of capture the flag.

~ Relationships ~

Best Friend(s):

Piper McLean

Lila Thompson

Friends:

Jason Grace

Percy Jackson

Annabeth Chase

Frank Zhang

Hazel Lesvesque

Clarisse De La Rue

Nico Di Angelo

Boyfriend: Leo Valdez

Enemies:

Octavian

~Misc & Notes ~

Phoebe’s room on the Argo II has ivy growing on the walls and plants all over.

She’s always wearing hiking boots.

Phoebe gets called “Duckie” by her siblings because of her last name.

Phoebe pretty much knows everyone at camp and is friends with almost everyone.

She unironically loves birdwatching and can recognize a lot of them by sight.

She only drinks herbal tea.

Her handwriting is really messy and sort of a mixed up combination of cursive and printing. She writes her y’s and g’s in a really weird curly way.

When she is stressed, plants grow from her hair and skin.

She’s a vegetarian.

Although she can heal by using the life force of plants, she dislikes doing it as it kills the plants whose life force was drained to heal her. She usually refuses to let it happen.

She has a lot of knowledge of poisonous plants and it’s basically a rule to not touch, or Gods forbid, eat anything in her room because it’s probably got some nasty effects.

Her abilities are stronger during the spring and summer and less powerful in winter.

{had this one in drafts for like a month…. still cooking up some new ocs so share so here’s phoebe! also i just guesstimated on the year it takes place so idk if that’s right or not lol}

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 34: Pilgrim Journey, Part II Next Chapter: Thirty-Five Summary: The journey of the pilgrims continues. What is left of the wreckage, and can Eliza and Arthur salvage what's left of their journey to a new home? Where will they end up? Warnings: Mature themes, language, little bit of spice Word Count: ~7,900

“I think that should do it,” Dr. Craig exhales as he ties the other end of the splint, completing the treatment of your broken arm. “Wherever you’re going, you’ll need to see a doctor every week until it heals, to make sure it sets properly. You’ll also have to be careful not to use it for anything, as not to risk breaking it again."

As he secures the splint, you try to distract yourself from the pain by looking around, haphazardly listening to his instructions. You expected that the journey wouldn’t be easy, but you didn’t think it would turn out like this: stuck in the middle of the high desert, with a broken-down stagecoach and a broken arm. 

You feel useless. 

“Mrs. Morgan?” 

You turn your head to meet the doctor again. “I’m sorry, what?”

You must still be in shock. Dr. Craig gently shakes his head. “Never mind, it’s alright. You just rest now.” He goes to rise to his feet. “I need to check on my wife again.”

Mrs. Craig is in more of a state than you are, though she made it out of this ordeal unscathed. You can only imagine how worse it would be if she had been the one injured instead of you. Would she have jumped? Or would she have stayed in the coach, letting her life come to an untimely end?

The guard lays on the ground next to you, a makeshift bandage around his head, covering his left eye, and a splint on his leg. You overheard the doctor say that it might need to be amputated, and you hope you and the children are not around to see it. The guard hasn’t said a word, keeping any vocalization to grunts and groans. You don’t know it, but it is for shame. He blames himself for this ordeal, encouraging the driver, his journeying companion for these last five years, to keep going despite his concerns about the coach. 

You figure to let him have his peace; after all, you don’t know him that well, and some things are better left alone. 

The morphine that Dr. Craig gave you is finally settling in. You feel light and heavy all at once, nearly dizzying.

It’s almost…pleasant.

You let yourself fall back against the tree behind you, and your breathing slows. You try to fight it, to stay awake, but the exhaustion and pain coalesce into a compelling lull that pulls your eyelids down. Your thoughts drift to the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves, a drowsy symphony that lulls you further into sleep.

As you slip into the edges of consciousness, Arthur's face comes into view, his expression fading in and out of clarity.

“How y— doin’?” you can make out him saying.

You gather that he’s asking you a question and you feel yourself smile. “Mmfffeeeel pretty gooood…” you sigh, and the weightlessness progresses.

Arthur felt uneasy when Dr. Craig offered to give you morphine. Even though he made an attempt to reassure the worried husband that it would only be a small dose, and he’d keep a close eye on you, Arthur’s seen enough of what it can do not to trust it. The reverend was in its clutches up until recently, and usually, one drug leads to another.

Arthur studies your weakening form, his heart softening, his heart aching. He loves you too much to see you in pain, and his protectiveness is at its full capacity after what just happened. It isn’t right that this should happen, just when things were going so well.

“I’mmma gonna lay…” you begin to say, but you don’t even manage to finish your sentence before letting your body carefully go to the ground, falling on your good side. Wordlessly, Arthur removes his jacket, balling it up just so and tucking it under your broken arm to support it as you sleep. 

Arthur takes a seat right next to you, close to your head. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead—a gesture of worry and exhaustion that you’d recognize all too well. The sun is setting now, casting long shadows that dance mockingly on the craggy landscape. With every passing minute, the temperature drops, and darkness will soon follow.

He knows you all won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Not if he just sits here.

He could take Boadicea, ride out to the nearest town, however far that is. He’s been in this land before, though years ago, it was. He could get his bearings, figure out where you all are, and get help. Maybe even a small wagon to transport everyone and what he and Isaac found from the wreckage.

He lets out a puff of air, the sound nearly harmonizing with your soft breaths as you begin to dream. Of what, Arthur doesn’t know, but at least you aren’t in any pain, he can be thankful for that.

The doctor and his wife were heading somewhere, maybe that can give him an idea. The guard is incapacitated and not up for conversation, so there isn’t anyone else to ask. 

But he will give himself a minute more. Just a moment by your side. Watching you peacefully sleep gives him some reassurance, letting the relief continue to fill his chest. As carefully as he can, he lifts his hand and combs through your hair, your plait now frazzled and undone.

“She gonna be okay, Daddy?”

Arthur lifts his head to see Alice standing there, brow pinched and lips pursed, mirroring her mother’s worried expressions so well. She’s clutching a small fox doll, one that you had sewn together for her many moons ago, the fabric now faded but still much loved.

Arthur manages a smile for his daughter, his voice tender as he responds. “Yes, little lady, she’s just restin’ now. You were a big help gettin’ that stuff for the doctor.”

Alice nods her head, her ocean eyes twinkling with a subdued interest. “I kinda looked in his doctor bag. There was all sorts of stuff in there.”

Arthur lets a smirk pass across his lips. “You didn’t take anythin’, did you?”

Alice inhales sharply, hugging her fox doll defensively. “No…!” she hisses, and after a pause, her shoulders relaxed. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

Arthur chuckles. “Thank you for bein’ honest, at least.” Not wanting to carry on talking while you’re sleeping, even though you’re drugged, he motions to rise to his feet. “The doc with his wife still?”

Alice nods. “Uh-huh. You wanna talk to ‘em?”

Arthur brushes off his dust-covered pants. “Yeah. Got some questions.” And he begins to walk further into the trees, past the wrecked carriage. 

“I’ll come with you,” says Alice as she follows close behind. “Mama is sleepin’ anyway. Wanted to show her I found Fatima.”

“Fatima?” Arthur asks with a raised brow. 

“My fox. She was in the stagecoach.”

Arthur nods, understanding now. “I’m glad you found’er, then.”

“Isaac calls her Fatty, but look at ‘er…!” Alice waits till Arthur looks down at her before holding up her doll higher, one of its button eyes missing. “She ain’t fat! She’s skin and bones!” She brings her close to her chest, like she’s holding a newborn babe. “I need to feed her. Some acorns oughta do it.”

Arthur finds her imagination endearing; it’s a sign of a healthy mind. For a child to feel safe enough to create and imagine shows she’s not so caught up in the harsh reality. The stagecoach speeding down the hill seems not to affect her as terribly as he had thought, much to his relief. 

Arthur and Alice reach the doctor and his wife as they have a conversation amongst themselves. Isaac isn’t around, it appears, and Rooster is gone. Arthur knows Isaac wouldn’t be so careless as to take off, but an innocent ride around the shady spot of trees is a reasonable thing to do. Isaac is becoming more like his father, taking time to himself when tension is high.

Arthur pats his daughter gently, slipping past her as he approaches the young couple.

“How’re we going to get there now? We couldn’t possibly walk there…” Mrs. Craig finishes, holding herself tighter as the anxiety of her questions sinks in.

But Dr. Craig is quick to try to comfort his wife, reaching to take her by the arms. “Don’t worry, dearest. We will get there. And they will be happier to see us, then.”

“Where was you headed?”

They both turn quickly to see Arthur standing there, not even noticing he was patiently waiting. “Oh…!” Mrs. Craig gasps softly. “Mr. Morgan! How is your wife?”

Arthur appreciates her concern, but he came over here for another reason. “She’s fine, thank you. Was hearin’ what you were sayin’ about goin’ somewhere. Where was you headed?”

Dr. Craig lowers his hands, clearing his throat. “We was—ahem—were headed to Hawk Mountain. It is the town that we were moving to. The previous doctor there retired, and I was to take his place.” He pauses a moment. “Well, we still aim to get there. But of course, we can only take one day at a time.”

Hawk Mountain. Arthur isn’t familiar with that place. He knows of another place with a similar name, but that was years ago. “It on a map?”

Dr. Craig thinks it over for a minute. “There was a map stored in the stagecoach. The driver showed it to me on one of our stops.” Taking a step away from his wife, he motions for Arthur to follow. “Maybe it’s still there.”

Arthur follows Dr. Craig toward the jumble of splintered wood and torn canvas that used to be the stagecoach. As soon as they reach it, each step crunches underfoot, stirring up dust and memories of the chaotic descent. As they approach the wreckage, Arthur casts a wary eye over the shattered remains, noting how fortuitous their escape had been.

He and Isaac had made some work making piles of the wreckage, but they couldn’t devote the rest of the day to tidy up destroyed splinters and pieces. There remains only a shell of what the stagecoach once was, and Dr. Craig heads for the back of the wagon, toward the storage box.

Arthur furrows his brow. “My son already checked there. We took what weren’t damaged.”

“Humor me,” Dr. Craig replies plainly. “I’m sure in the great scheme of things, a map didn’t seem all that important compared to my medicine bag and any valuables you might have stored back here.”

Dr. Craig begins to lift the lid of the box, the structure of it on its last leg, the boards look as though they might fall apart. But, after a few tense minutes of searching, his hand pauses, hovering over a slightly torn but intact piece of folded paper tucked into an overlooked corner of the box. "Ah, here it is," he says, a tone of relief present in his exhale. 

He takes a step back, allowing Arthur to come around, and he opens the map.

The map shows the western part of the United States, beginning with Deseret, where the journey started. His finger hovers over the map until he stops right on a spot in the lower central part of the state of Utah. “Here. It is south of the large salt lake. I’d say we are just east of there, as we just passed through the canyon.”

Arthur nods his head as he eyes the location on the map. Something seems familiar about it, spot between other towns he’s been through. Jardin City is northeast of that spot, and he had been there before with you years ago. But he doesn’t remember a Hawk Mountain. Regardless, he now has a better idea of where they are, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find Hawk Mountain. “Okay, then.” He points to the map. “Mind if I take this with me?”

Dr. Craig looks at him inquisitively but offers him the map. “You plan to venture out? Alone?”

Taking the map and tucking it into his satchel, Arthur nods again. “You’re needed here. Can’t send out anyone else. Isaac and Alice are big enough to help you with what you need.”

“What shall I tell your wife when she wakes?”

“Tell her I’m gonna get a wagon, or somethin’ to bring you all back. You’ll be settlin’ there anyway, and we can hole up there ‘til we figure out what we’re doin’. We ain’t stayin’ here any longer than we have to.” Arthur's resolve hardens as he adjusts the satchel over his shoulder, feeling the weight of the map inside—a weight that carries more than just paper, but the hope and safety of his family and newfound companions. He takes one last look at you across the way, sleeping under the tree, then turns to Alice. "Look after your mama while I’m gone, you hear?”

Alice nods, her expression serious and older than her years. She hugs her fox doll close, then looks up at Arthur with determined eyes. "I will, Daddy. I'll be good."

Arthur crouches down to her level, his hand gently ruffling her hair. "I know you will, little lady. You just do what the doctor says, and I’ll be back before you know it.” After getting a soft smile from her, he rises to his feet and makes his way to the trees where the stagecoach horses are tied. Loosening one of the ropes, he leads a stallion behind him, making his way to Boadicea.

Cinching the saddle, packing up some of the gathered provisions in the saddle bag, he mounts his mare and secures the stallion’s lead to the saddle horn.

And with that, he gallops off.

***

Despite the speed in which he rode, reaching Hawk Mountain took two days. Two days away from his family. His wife. Left alone to fend for themselves, and it eats at him. He knows he needed to make this journey, as it is the closest town, and he needs to find a way to bring you all to civilization.

He never thought that he would have such a plan. The irony of it all.

But that is not the most bizarre thing of all.

As soon as he connected to the main road leading into Hawk Mountain, he knew exactly where he was.

But it couldn’t be.

It can’t be.

It is supposed to be Dwyer Ridge, not Hawk Mountain. So what happened?

He keeps asking himself this as he rides down the town’s main street, passing by the large bank he once hoped to rob, the building now since finished, and other buildings that weren’t here before. It makes sense, having been years since he had set foot in this town, but it has expanded to a thriving city. 

Arthur slows Boadicea to a trot, the stallion trailing obediently behind her. His eyes scan the unfamiliar yet familiar streets, memories flooding back with each landmark he passes. Somewhere beneath the new coat of paint and bustling commerce, the skeleton of Dwyer Ridge lingers, haunting him with echoes of that rainy night he killed the son of the founding fathers.

Will anyone recognize him?

Maybe it is best not to linger and find out. Maybe once he gets you and everyone here, you can get more provisions and get back on the road again. 

He needs to find a livery stable, or some place where he can rent a wagon. No sense in buying one just yet, not until he knows where you all will be going. At least he has Boadicea and the stallion to pull a rental wagon, which should be enough to get them safely back to where you and the others remain waiting. With a clear goal in mind, Arthur spurs his horses gently, guiding them through the town toward the nearest livery.

The streets are more crowded than he'd ever seen them before, filled with the clatter of carriage wheels and the steady hum of town conversations and advertising. The streets, one muddy and full of tracks from wagon wheels, are now cobbled and laced with wooden boardwalks and street corners marked with street signs. How could it be big enough to have street signs? It isn’t big like Moreno, or even Jardin City, but somehow, it has managed to grow into something resembling a bustling hub of activity. Arthur navigates Boadicea and the stallion through the throngs, his mind still reeling from the transformation, the life teeming around him starkly contrasting with the quiet wilderness he left behind.

He reaches the livery stable, a well-kept establishment with fresh paint and new shingles on the roof. The sign swings gently in the breeze, the words "Hawk Mountain Livery & Boarding" freshly stenciled.

Arthur ties Boadicea and the stallion to a post outside and steps into the cool shadow of the stable. Inside, the smell of hay and manure is confirmation enough that he’s found the right place. 

A farrier, donning thick leather chaps, is knee deep in his work, putting on a shoe on one of the many horses stabled here. Straddling the horse’s right hind leg, he situates the shoe before hammering a nail into the hoof, securing the shoe with expertise. 

Arthur hates to interrupt, but time is of the essence. 

“Ahem, ‘scuse me,” he begins, only waiting long enough for the farrier to lift his head. “You got any wagons for rent? Need one urgently.”

The farrier is almost taken by surprise. The gentle, low voice of this stranger hardly matches his intimidating posture. He looks like he’s been through it, whatever it was, and he’s never seen him before. “We got wagons,” he replies candidly. “How big is you wantin’?”

“Got a few passengers. And a few items. Just for a couple days, long enough to bring ‘em back here.”

The farrier studies Arthur carefully. While it is common for strangers to pass through here, none quite stand out to him much. The gun belt on the stranger’s hip, the worn boots, the scratches on his forearms, he looks like the wilderness made into man. 

“As long as you can pay,” the farrier tests. 

“How much you askin’?”

The farrier lifts his chin, lowering the horse’s hind leg before stepping out of her way. “Five dollars a day, pay extra if I have to repair the wagon.”

Arthur isn’t sure on what the going rate is for a wagon rental, but he’ll agree to any price as long as it gets him back to his family. “It’s a deal.”

Nodding, the farrier motions for Arthur to follow as he walks toward the back of the stables. “We got ‘em back here.” 

Arthur had not realized how big this building is until they reach the end of it. There is a set of double doors, which the farrier opens widely, revealing three parked wagons, each of a different size and style.

“You said you got passengers?”

Arthur nods, eyeing each wagon. “Yeah. Wife and kids, doc and his wife, and an injured feller.”

The farrier turns to look at Arthur, brow raised. “Oh?”

Maybe he shouldn’t’ve said anything. There’s something about the idea of starting over, honest, that seems to take over his decision-making, once being reserved and aloof, about revealing too much to strangers. But here, standing in this reborn town, Arthur finds himself unwilling to revert to old habits of secrecy and shadows.

“Yeah,” Arthur reaffirms with a nod, his gaze not waning. “Need somethin’ sturdy. Can handle a bit of rough terrain without complainin'. Doc says he’s comin’ to live here. You got a doc that’s retired?”

The farrier’s eyes brighten as he begins to nod. “You came with Doctor Craig?”

“Just passin’ through. But thought I’d help the doc after helpin’ out the injured folk.” His thoughts go to you and your broken arm. He then begins to realize that you might not be in the position to travel until you’ve healed. “We’ll see what happens.”

“What happened? Bandits?”

Arthur nearly cringes at the thought. To be on the other side of that feels odd. Though he knows how that would have ended, thieves know other thieves’ tricks. “No. Coach came apart. Only the driver died, but would rather there be none dead.”

The farrier nods his head solemnly. “And you got wife and kids…” He then shakes his head. “Bad business.”

Arthur watches the farrier's expressions closely, searching for a sign of judgment or suspicion, but finds none. Instead, there's a glint of respect in the man's eyes, an unspoken acknowledgment of the hardships Arthur has faced. "Yeah, it was rough. But we're survivin'.” He then clears his throat, gesturing to the second-largest wagon. “So, about that wagon…?”

The farrier, noticing Arthur's choice, nods and walks over to the selected wagon. "This one'll do you fine. She’s sturdy and has been through the rough before. Ain’t no gold chariot, but she’ll carry what you need.”

Arthur lets his hand rest on the wooden side of the wagon, feeling the coarse texture beneath his palm. It has a few scratches and scuffs that usually accompany wear and tear, but definitely not at risk of coming apart in the middle of the journey.

It’ll do.

Without saying a word, Arthur reaches into his satchel and pulls out fifteen dollars. “Here, this should be enough ‘til I get back.”

The farrier counts the money, not due to distrust but out of habit, and after a moment, his face falls. “You know, since you’ve been travelin’ with the doctor…” He offers the money back. “Consider the wagon my welcome to Hawk Moun'n. A town that’s about to get its new doctor here safe and sound should be a cause for celebration. Pay it forward, huh?”

Arthur nods, touched by the farrier’s generosity. “Thank you,” he says, the weight of his journey easing slightly. “But it ain’t nothin’. Anybody woulda done it.”

The farrier shrugs, a smile tugging at his rugged features. "Maybe so, but I get the feelin’ you ain’t just a nobody.” He gestures to the wagon. “Let me get one of my boys to help you hitch the wagon." Then he turns to leave. “Safe travels."

After getting the wagon out and hitching the stallion and Boadicea, Arthur is now ready to make the trip back home. Once everything and everyone is loaded, he’ll hitch the stagecoach horses to the wagon; that’s what they’re trained to do, anyway. 

Because of the length of the wagon, he needs to go back through the town, instead of exiting through the narrow road past the Livery. He flicks the reins gently, and the stallion and Boadicea walk on calmly, working together as though they’ve been doing this for years. 

Citizens watch Arthur go on by, either out of curiosity or for the simple fact of movement going past them. Arthur remains composed, minding his own business. 

And if he hadn’t been here before, he wouldn’t pay it any mind, but even with the new paint and newly-made signs, he can’t help but recognize it. 

Joe’s. The very same restaurant where he met you. Where he met you in the evenings nearly every day and escorted you back to the hotel. Even that building still remains, albeit with a new name, but the trellis and shutters are unmistakable. 

He smiles at the thought. He wonders if he could still climb up to the second floor.

He continues on his way. He’ll have to set aside his curiosity for now. 

Seeing the general store, he decides to pull off to the side. Getting some provisions and tonics might not be a bad idea, considering the wounded and the time it will take to travel back here. 

“Won’t be long,” he grunts as he leaps out of the wagon, patting the stallion as he passes by. Walking up the steps of the general store, he opens the door for a pair of women who also want to enter. 

“Thank you,” one of them says, cheeks burning red. 

He tips his hat to her politely. “Shoah, ain’t nothin’.”

Once they’re inside, he follows behind, closing the door behind him. His eyes adjust to the light in the room, more subdued compared to the brightness outside. 

A man at the counter, who looks on in years, notices Arthur coming in. Now, Mr. Watson has run this general store for nearly fifteen years, so he knows everyone that lives around here. And the usual passersby are dressed to the nines, or are bright-eyed and eager for a future.

But the stranger who just walked into his store is none of those things. And even so, there’s something about him that he recognizes. Something he can’t put his finger on. 

“Howdy!” he greets with a smile. “Welcome to Gamble’s General Store.” The stranger approaches the counter. “How can I be of service?”

“You Mr. Gamble?” Arthur’s ventures. 

Mr. Watson chuckles, shaking his head. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But no, I bought the place from another fella. He lowered the price, on the condition I keep the name. But his name wasn’t Gamble, either…!”

Arthur chortles at this and leans slightly into the counter. “Was hopin’ to buy a few things before I head out.”

Mr. Watson nods. “Figured you were just passin’ through.”

“Well, I plan to be comin’ back. Just need a few things for the road.”

Mr. Watson nods again. “Well, let’s see if we have what you need.” He crouches down behind the counter and brings up a large crate, setting it on the counter. “What do you need to start with?”

Arthur looks at the shelves behind the store owner, spotting a row of tonics. He points to them. “A couple of them Miracle Tonics.”

“Not that it is any of my business, but you plannin’ to buy some land around here?”

It isn’t his business, but Arthur knows it is merely out of curiosity, not to dig information out of him for bad intentions. He shrugs. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

Mr. Watson raises an eyebrow and nods, reaching for the tonics. "Well, we have plenty of land that's lookin' for owners. There’s a fine piece of land a few miles outside of town. An old cherry tree farm, but nobody seems interested.”

Cherry tree farm? It couldn’t be…

“Why not?” Arthur asks.

The store owner shrugs. “Few reasons. It has been sitting there for years. Untouched. Trees dead or overgrown, hardly producing fruit. The house itself has damage from a few hailstorms we’ve had. Plus, folks have been told not to buy it.” His eyes soften, and he avoids Arthur’s gaze, as an image of a nineteen-year-old girl with chestnut hair appears in his mind. “For some reason.” After a moment, he clears his throat. “Need anything else?”

Arthur's mind keeps asking questions, confused at the near providence of these past few days’ events. He remembers the things you shared with him, dreams and hopes. He could make it happen. He could make it all come true.

"A few cans of beans, some jerky, cheese, and those tonics for now," Arthur replies, trying to keep his composure. He pays for the goods, nodding politely as he collects the items.

Stepping back outside, Arthur is struck by a pang of nostalgia mixed with a sense of urgency. He knows he needs to return to you and the others quickly, bring you and the doctor back here.

And once the dust settles, he can work on rebuilding your lives from the ground up.

***

“Dinner will be done soon…!” you call out to your children as you stand in the doorway. Don’t wander too far!”

Isaac and Alice turn back to look at you, eyes bright and all smiles. They’re barefoot and running, but you don’t care. You’re just glad that they’re happy and carefree, two things only recently afforded them. 

“We won’t!” Isaac calls back and, taking his sister by the hand, they run towards the trees, where a tree house waits for them. 

You turn back into the house and make your way to the kitchen. You are familiar with this home. It is yours. You know where everything is and find a large copper pot so quickly, it is as though you grew up in this house. 

Maybe you did. It’s a meld of all the homes you’ve lived in. Bits and pieces of what you liked about each of them. Wood and glass. Shining, wooden countertops. Real lace curtains. A china cabinet in the corner with real porcelain. 

Such frivolous things, but things you never got to have until now. 

You begin to stir the stew that now cooks in the copper pot, the steam hitting your face as you look into it. 

Just then, you hear heavy footfalls behind you. You smile expectantly, knowing exactly who it is.

Large hands slide over your waist, and you feel a firm body press against your back. You feel jittery inside, and it won’t be long before you turn into mush. 

“Smells good, darlin’,” your husband hums into your ear. “I’m starvin’.”

You lean back into him, letting your head fall back to meet his eyes. “You better be careful what you say to me,” you say, your hand reaching up to caress his cheek, belying your warning. “I’m in a very pleasant mood.”

A warm chuckle settles in Arthur’s throat, and you feel the vibration radiating through your body. Removing his right hand from your waist, he takes your wrist as you hold onto the wooden spoon and guides it away from the pot. You set it down on the counter, easily following his promptings as he guides you to back away from the stove. 

“Don’t want you gettin’ burned…” he whispers in your ear. 

Your skin begins to prickle, especially around your neck, just as he places a tender kiss beneath your earlobe. But you still have a sense of awareness, though it has begun to grow dim. “The children could walk in,” you say, but the end of your sentence falls into a soft gasp as he nibbles at your ear.

“They won’t…” he answers. “They’re busy playin’ outside.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a ripple of shivers down your spine. “Trust me.”

You know you should pull away, insist that dinner needs tending, but the depth of his voice and the gentle yet commanding way he holds you stills any protest. Instead, you lean back into him, tilting your neck to expose more skin and give him better access. His lips move down your neck, slow and deliberate, lighting fires along your skin.

“You seem to have forgotten who your children are…” you sigh, as his right palm grazes your breast just enough to make you inhale through your teeth.

He chuckles again and lets his hand glide over your body before stepping away from you. “Fine. Wait here.”

You hear his footfalls as he walks away from you and makes his way to the door. And just as you hear a soft click, you turn around and watch him leave the now locked door and go to the curtains, pulling them closed, casting the kitchen into a dim glow of the late afternoon sun. He turns back to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you can't help but smile at his playfulness.

You meet him halfway, at the kitchen table, and he takes you by the waist once more, pushing you gently against the edge of the table.

“Been thinkin’ of somethin’…” he growls, his hands roaming your body.

“What, the risk of getting caught?” You manage a chuckle, trying not to get distracted by his wandering hands. “That isn’t new.”

He shakes his head, and you spot his dilated pupils and mischievous grin. “Naw, that ain’t it.” And then, without having the chance to react, he lifts you and puts you on the table. “It’s about time we replaced this table...”

You furrow your brow, trying to ignore the way his hand travels down your thigh, pushing your skirts up. “What are you talking about? It isn’t broken.”

His hand finds its way past your drawers, to the soft, sweet warmth between your legs, his fingers brushing lightly. "It is gonna be." Then he applies just the right amount of pleasurable pressure, making you tremble, and your head instinctively falls back. “When I’m done wit’chu.”

And somehow, you don’t doubt it.

***

You stand in the middle of a field. Your legs being tickled by the tall grasses around you. The air smells sweet. Light. Floral. A smell you recognize, but something too far gone into your memory.

The buck lifts his head from grazing and meets your eyes. He sees the curiosity in the deep browns and sparkle of your pooling eyes, and his ears twitch to hear the breeze.

Your fawn dances around your legs. Your two eldest young eating the grass around you, not noticing a thing.

The buck turns, using his nose to point westward, toward the source of the strange but familiar scent.

He wants you to follow.

He hasn’t led you astray before. Always leading you to clover, spring shoots, streams of water.

You suppose that, wherever this new place is, this source is something you’ll find you and your family can rely on.

You take a tentative step forward, the soft earth beneath your hooves providing a gentle reassurance. Another step, and another, until you're moving with a purpose, your fawn prancing excitedly beside you.

And just then, in the breeze, fall small, pink petals, rain.

You lift your head to follow their descent, letting the warm light sweep over you.

And somehow, you see where this is going.

***

You’ve been asleep for days. Either you’re more of a lightweight than you thought or your body has just been that tired. Dr. Craig has been easing you off the morphine slowly, but you’ve been confined to a bed. You only know this when you wake, but it isn’t long before your eyelids feel heavy and you drift back to sleep.

The dreams have been wonderful. So wonderful that you wake up forgetting that your arm is broken. 

You once had an imagination, back when your youth wasn’t so ravaged by realities and death of loved ones. That’s why you’ve always enjoyed reading books. The days when you’d run into the general store, eager to see if Mr. Watson had a new book for you to “borrow” and then return once you finished reading it. It was the perfect setup, since having a library wasn’t a possibility.

As you come out of yet another dream, light from a window gathers your attention, and a figure stands in front of it.

The broad shoulders and back, along with the fawn colored hair, tell you enough before your vision focuses.

“Arthur…” you sigh softly, and you watch as he slowly turns. As your eyes adjust, you see a small smile appear on his face, and he makes his way over to you. You can’t help but feel butterflies, the emotions from your dreams still simmering in your brain. 

“How’re you doin’, darlin’?” He sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand to find your knee and palm it softly.

You yawn, stretching a little. “Good. I’m sleeping less and less.”

He nods his head. “Yeah. Doc said that would happen.”

“We still in that hotel?”

He nods again. “Yeah. The kids are hangin’ out with Doc and his wife. Seems Alice has taken an interest in bein’ a little nurse.”

You lift your brow. “Oh? He isn’t letting her see all those things, is he?”

Arthur chuckles, patting your thigh from atop the covers. “No. She helps with the desk part of it, but I know that ain’t what interests her. Since helpin’ the doc take care of you, I think that sparked somethin’ in her.” Arthur smiles, his eyes lighting up at the thought of Alice finding a passion so young. "I reckon she might just be as tough as her mama," he says with a hint of pride.

You manage a smile, warmed by the idea of your daughter walking a path of healing rather than hardship. "Might be she’s just like her father. Stubborn,” you tease, and as you ease yourself into a sitting position, Arthur hurries to help you, carefully working around your arm as it remains in a sling.

He seems to ignore your comment, solely focusing on taking care of you. His movements are gentle, his hands firm yet tender as he adjusts the pillows to support your back. Once you're settled, he sits back on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. "How's the arm feelin’?"

You flex your fingers slightly, testing the limits of movement within the confines of the sling. It’s been healing faster than you had thought, knowing that breaks take weeks to heal. Maybe it is just the morphine, or all the rest you’ve been getting, but you aren’t about to complain. “Good.” You lift your eyes and see the gentleness in his eyes, and feel warmth flood your body. You love this man. So much. He’s been slaving away, taking care of you, having to postpone your journey by staying here, wherever this is.

Exactly. Where are you? You haven’t had the chance to ask, since you have been near comatose for the past few days.

“Arthur,” you start, swallowing to help your dry throat. “Where is this?”

Arthur needs to remain casual. The thought of surprising you with a revelation has been tempting, but he knows the directness you often appreciate. So, he will give you enough to sate your curiosity, but keep the full surprise until later. "We're in Hawk Mountain now, Eliza."

"Hawk Mountain?" Your voice lilts, your brow pinched. “I don’t remember ever knowing a town called Hawk Mountain.”

“It’s becomin’ a decent city,” he says casually, motioning to rise from the bed. “They got a library, a courthouse, and a nice bank.” He goes back to the window and takes a look outside. He wonders if you’ll recognize the room, but you still haven’t said anything. “Plenty of patients for Dr. Craig. Lots of things to do.” He looks back at you over his shoulder. “Even got a nice school.”

You study him for a moment. Something is off. Suspicious. What is he on about?

“You thinking about living here? You hate cities.”

But Arthur doesn’t answer; instead, he turns to face you again. “Will you go for a ride with me?”

You sit in the bed, sling around your shoulder, and just stare at him. “What?”

He smiles. “C’mon, whaddya say?”

You haven’t been out of this room for days. Hell, you haven’t even had a few minutes alone with Arthur since you’ve begun this journey, what with Dr. Craig checking in on you and your children remaining by your side. While you could think of a couple of other things to do now that you are afforded the time alone, a ride in the fresh air with your beloved doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Besides, if Dr. Craig even caught whiff that you were being excessive, regardless of the activity, you’d be getting an earful.

You sigh, letting a soft smile play on your lips.

“Okay. But you help me get dressed.”

And his grin broadens. “Yes, ma’am.”

***

You’ve missed the sun. But being in and out of sleep for days and never leaving the hotel room has left you blinded and dizzy. When you stepped out into the air, Arthur had to guide you to the wagon as your eyes took forever to adjust. You couldn’t get a good look at the city you’ve been occupying, unfortunately, but after placing his hat on your head, you can finally see the view of trees and mountains in the distance as you sit beside him on the wagon. 

If you didn’t have a good memory, you wouldn’t be bothered, but there’s something about this road that feels familiar to you. The way the air feels. Smells. It’s a sweet smell, a fragrance that fills you with a merriment that you’ve only felt when you were a child.

You close your eyes and see the red glow beneath your eyelids. “I’m glad you’re driving slow,” you hum. “Everything has been moving so fast lately.”

Arthur can’t help but chuckle at that. To him, it feels the exact opposite. From living as an outlaw for twenty years, to getting engaged, then married within a day, to the freak accident with the stagecoach, to ending up in your hometown, it all feels like a tornado in the middle of the day. “I’m drivin’ slow for the sake of your arm,” he excuses, hoping to avoid any hint of his upcoming surprise. “Can’t have you get worse under my watch.”

You turn to look at him and lean into his side, linking your good arm around his. “You’re so good to me.”

Arthur plants a kiss on your temple gently, a silent acknowledgment of your words. The wagon rumbles on, the calm trot of the horses pulling you forward through the landscape that seems to bloom with the early afternoon sun.

And then that feeling in your mind prickles again. That familiarity. What is it? Where is it coming from?

“Arthur…?” you begin to say, your mind calling out the turn just before Arthur takes it.

“Hmmm?”

“Would it be weird to say that it feels like I’ve been here before?”

You don’t see the smile on Arthur’s face, but you feel his arm tighten around you in a comforting squeeze. "Have you, darlin’?," he asks cryptically, his voice low and thoughtful.

As the wagon rolls steadily along the path, Arthur gently reins in the horses, slowing their pace to a leisurely trot. Ahead, you catch tantalizing glimpses of a picturesque avenue lined with cherry trees, their slender branches arching gracefully over the road. Each limb is adorned with a profusion of vibrant pink blossoms, creating a vivid tapestry of color that dances in the soft breeze. The delicate petals flutter down like confetti, carpeting the path with a pastel hue, while the air is filled with the sweet, heady fragrance of spring.

You sit up straight, clutching Arthur’s arm, as the visions of your childhood play out before you like a moving picture. Only, it is real. Right here, right now.

“Somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to share wit’chu, now that you’re awake…” Arthur begins, the smile in his voice evident as you scan the overgrown acres and old fence line. “Turns out this town—I mean—city was once called Dwyer Ridge.” He pauses, turning to look at your bright, doe-like eyes as they become glossy. “Ever heard of it?”

You know he teases. He couldn’t be seriously honest that he wouldn’t know the connection. The shared memory of your time spent in this area together.

But how did he come to find the cherry farm? You never showed it to him.

You see the lack of attention to the trees, the lack of care. You hate to know, but you have to ask.

“Who lives here now?” you inquire with a trembling lip.

Arthur guides the wagon onto the property, passing through the open gate beneath the sturdy wooden arch that frames the entrance. The air is tense with anticipation, and you silently urge him to speak his mind, hoping for an answer, yet he remains silent, taking his time as he slowly drives up the winding path toward the house.

The wheels crunch over the gravel, and the gentle sway of the wagon adds to the suspense. Once Arthur brings the wagon to a complete stop and sets the brake with a firm motion, you turn to him, your heart pounding with expectation. You gently squeeze his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. "Arthur…” you implore, your voice filled with urgency.

He lets the reins slip from his fingers, allowing them to rest against the footboard. After another moment of anguishing silence, his eyes finally meet yours, and he gives a slight nod. “You do.”

***

This has been one of the busiest afternoons in a long while. It makes sense, now that warmer weather is finally here, and folks who live farther out of town are venturing out to do business and resupply after the long winter. Such is the life of living in the west.

So, whenever Bethy needs a little reprieve, she checks the stock in the small stockroom, counting the number of cans of beans and jars of fruits.

“One day I’ll retire,” she groans. “If I can just get Joe to do it with me, that stubborn fool.”

These past eight years married to Joe have been good ones. Of course, they will never be like the years shared with her first husband, but Joe is a good man. He may have that rough exterior and have that gosh-awful habit of smoking Cuban cigars, but he’s as loving and as loyal as they come. She never thought she could love again, but here she is.

And for owning half of the restaurant, that isn’t a bad outcome.

Amidst the unusually hectic day, a persistent tightness gripped her heart, casting a shadow over her every thought. The unsettling news from Mr. Watson had only added to her unease: someone had purchased the old Bloom Cherry Farm. The mere idea of newcomers unsettled her, and learning it was an unfamiliar name– Morgan –in these parts only deepened her discomfort. To her, it was Eliza’s home, a place steeped in cherished memories. No one has lived there since before Eliza's departure, and she had secretly hoped it would remain untouched, a silent tribute to the past. Though years had passed, she still feels the pang of Eliza’s absence and often finds herself wondering where life had taken that spirited girl she once knew.

Just as she gets to the bags of cornmeal, she hears the doorknob turn, and she feels the tightness in her chest grow worse.

“Bethy…?” It’s Francine, their youngest waitress, come to pester her again. “We’ve got a large family, just come in.”

Bethy looks at the young girl over her shoulder. Francine is a sweet girl, has the perfect personality for the job, but falls apart at the slightest hint of stress. “Give her time,” Joe says. “She’ll come around.”

So much for being the tough guy.

Sighing, Bethy wipes her hands on her apron, her mind still swirling with thoughts of Eliza and the sold cherry farm. "Alright, I'm coming," she calls back, a hint of resignation in her voice as she steps out from the stockroom.

The main dining area is bustling, much more than usual for this time of day. Bethy immediately looks past the already seated patrons, towards the door where the newest customers had walked through.

The light behind them makes their bodies silhouettes, until they step away from the door and further into the restaurant. As she regards them, something in her stomach twists, a feeling of familiarity tugging at the edge of her consciousness. The family moves closer, and as they come into clearer view, Bethy's breath catches in her throat.

The man, with his dark leather hat and blue eyes, is unmistakable, even with years gone by. But it is the woman standing next to him, with chestnut hair and brown, doe-like eyes.

And a young boy beside her, who should be about the age in years that have gone by since she has last seen her.

It can't be—but it is.

It's Eliza.

And she’s come home. 

Thank you for reading! What did you think? :)

Tag Requests: @photo1030, @eternalsams

[lov3lybarista]

ᴄʜ. 4 ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ.

Wattpad:lov3lybarista Pairing: Thomas Shelby x OC Warnings: panic attack, light obsession/stalking Word Count: 2.8k+ Masterlist. ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Song: Breathe by Laura Marling

April 6th, 1923, Arrow House, Birmingham, United Kingdom.

It wasn't Friday evening, hell, it wasn't even close.

It was late, the house silent enough that he could hear the ghosts of his past whisper from behind the curtains. He sat alone in his study, his tie frustratedly thrown off, his collar open, and his hair messed up like he had dragged his hands through it too many times. The walls felt too close, the air too heavy. His chest caved in on itself, his lungs almost burning with each breath he took.

Beside him his glass of whiskey had sat tipped over on the side table, the liquid reflecting the fire as it slowly stretched across the dark oak, dripping down the edge. He had dropped it long ago, too panicked with how fast the world was caving in, and for once he had no plan. So, he did the only thing that made sense.

He called her.

She picked up on the second ring—her voice, soft and drowsy, spilling in through the line like the warmth of the fireplace, "Dr. Hassan."

He couldn't speak, not right away. His lungs held his breath captive somewhere between their walls and the ghosts that haunted him.

"Thomas?" she asked, gentle but more alert now. "Are you alright?"

He exhaled shakily, "No—I can't—didn't know what else to..."

"It's alright," she says, with no judgment, just her soft breathing on the static like a lifeline, "you did the right thing."

There was noise in the background—the shuffle of her sheets, the sound of her limbs moving—and he could picture it all a little too clearly.

"Listen to me," she began, her voice smooth like silk, "Sit still, your feet flat on the ground, just focus, Thomas."

He obeyed, obeyed like a child, like a man lost in a seastorm who had finally found a lighthouse in the distance of the darkness.

"Breathe, Thomas," she spoke, her voice drawn out slow and warm, "in and out. Through your nose, out through your mouth."

He focused hard on the rhythm of just her. All of her, and he tried and tried.

And then—her voice had dipped, not speaking, not a song, just a lullaby with a made-up tune.

"Breaathe," she sang, soft and playful, too sweet to be heard by a man like him who held no sweetness at all.

"Breaaathe, Mr. Shelby."

He let out a huff, a soft breath that boarded on a sigh of relief and a laugh of humility. He closed his eyes tightly, letting her gentle voice wash over him. All he knew was that she had pulled him back. And when the panic had finally begun to fade, his hands slowly losing their shake, he whispered:

"Don't hang up."

And she didn't.

April 24th, 1923, somewhere outside Birmingham, United Kingdom.

They'd just left a meeting somewhere uptown, the afternoon sun was lazy, thick golden rays of spring slowly stretching across the blooming life that the change in weather seemed to miraculously bring. Thomas walked with Arthur and John, cutting across the edge of a public park—the kind of place they usually avoided, too peaceful, too open.

Thomas was already elsewhere, one hand in his coat pocket while the other began to drift a cigarette to his mouth despite every warning she had given him to not do that. But he was tired, and something felt off today.

Then he saw her.

Dalia.

Under a weeping willow near the water's edge, petals falling in gentle spirals. She sat on a neatly placed blanket on the grass, her legs folded elegantly beneath her and her hands resting by her side like she had been painted into the scenery. A little boy with soft brown curls was running in circles around her, laughing with childish joy as he tried to catch the falling petals. She watched him with a quiet smile he'd never seen before, fond, serene as always but this time it was touched with something sacred.

She wore green—emerald. Deep and dark and alive, the kind of green that made the honey in her brown eyes glow richer, like the flicker of amber struck by fire. Her long black hair caught gently in the wind, loose and free.

She hadn't noticed him yet, not the way he had gone completely still, his vice dangling off his lip like a smoke signal for help. She hadn't noticed the way Arthur snapped his head in her direction nor did she see the way John leaned in to ask if that was the doctor. And Thomas couldn't move. Just stared.

Because she looked completely and utterly untouched. Not the surgeon who's fought through hell, not the woman who had anchored him when he began to draw to the edge, not the voice that filled his dreams. Just her. Sweet and laughing in sunlight too soft to grace his skin as she caught the little boy who tumbled into her arms with ease.

And it had wrecked him to see her like this. Completely.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't looking at death or a deal of danger. He was looking at what peace might look like. And he knew that he was about to walk over there. Even if he shouldn't.

By the time he began to walk, everything else faded. His brother's voices, the shouts of other children, the wind rustling the trees. All that was left was her, serene and calling.

When she finally saw him, she didn't stand. She just looked up, the sunlight catching the golden pools in her brown eyes as her gaze met his. Her lips had parted slightly, caught mid-thought, and her doe eyes shimmered with something he hadn't seen since before the war—wonder. Not shock, not fear. Just a soft surprise that was so genuine it almost made him turn around and hide away in whatever shadows he carried with him.

The silence when he reached didn't need to be filled. It was too alive, electric in the way that it made his skin tingle with the need to feel her warmth.

Then:

"Auntie! Auntie!" The little boy had come running back, his soft curls bouncing as he darted straight to her and nearly collided with her torso.

His tiny arms had wrapped tightly around her, hiding behind her long hair like he was peeking from under a curtain of black silk to look at the man standing over them. He was dressed like a miniature businessman—tiny vest, crisp shirt, even a little tie to match his black polished shoes that had dewy grass sprinkled over them from playing too much.

Thomas glanced at him, then back to her, to the way her hand had rested against the boy's back, familiar and protective though her own eyes had never left him not once.

"Mr. Shelby," she said like she wasn't sure if the moment was real or she had summoned him by thinking too hard.

"Doctor," he said it like a secret, like the one thing he wanted to keep bottled up to himself was now found directly in plain daylight for everyone else to enjoy.

But then—the little boy had echoed it.

"Mister Shelby!"

It came out softer, seemingly free of the weight and reputation that carried like the blood that stained his hands. Thomas blinked, startled by how disarming it sounded in the boy's voice.

Then he knelt slowly, one knee planted in the grass. He didn't come too close, didn't overcrowd the boy, he just leveled himself so he could meet his large brown eyes.

The boy stared at him, his face round and cheeks flushed with the kind of childish joy that the world hadn't reached yet.

"I'm Adam," he said proudly.

When he spoke, it came out with an unfamiliar softness, almost like he was reliving a memory half-remembered, "Hello Adam."

"You're quite the lucky boy," he added after a long beat, his eyes trailing back to her as that same longing returned in his gaze, "to have an aunt that loves you so much."

Adam had only giggled, bubbling and sudden. Then, with his wide bright eyes, he tilted his head and pointed his finger like he could reach for it and said: "Your hat! I like it! It's very serious."

Thomas let out a soft huff—half surprised, half of a laugh.

"That so?"

Adam nodded happily, his curls bouncing, "I want one like it for important things. A real one."

Thomas reached up to touch the brim of his hat like he had begun to think, to remember something.

"Well," he began, a smile forming on his lips, "I'll lend you this one when you've got your own people to run."

And when the boy gasped and stared at him like he had been promised a kingdom, Thomas had finally gathered the courage to look at her again. She had said nothing—but her eyes still hadn't left him. Soft, unreadable, a thousand thoughts swirled in the chocolate hues that she couldn't say out loud.

And maybe, for a moment, he seemed to forget who he really was. Because now he was just a man kneeling in the grass, speaking to a boy who didn't know that his name was feared, his eyes focused on the woman who had been haunting his dreams ever since he had heard her first breath around him.

And it all felt like something he had been waiting for without realizing it.

The following week, her estate, United Kingdom.

The world had just begun to give away to dusk when he had arrived—uninvited, unannounced, and entirely himself. The maid on his payroll had let him know discreetly that her nephew was visiting again. Adam, the boy with wide brown eyes and that shy smile who had hidden behind her long hair and stared at his hat like it was made of gold.

The grounds and house were beautiful as expected. Tall white walls with podiums that softened with climbing ivy. Large arched windows, some open for the evening air—elegant in her way.

He knocked once, and not like a stranger either.

The sound echoed through the foyer, and then the soft padding of footsteps.

She appeared in front of him like a dream, and in a way, she was his dream. Dalia stood there barefoot in haloed amber light, dressed in a soft powdery blue dress that sprawled out from the synched waist. Her hair, falling over one shoulder like a spill of ink, sat widely free, curlier than he'd ever seen it before.

Her brows furrowed slightly, not in alarm. Just soft confusion.

"Thomas?"

He said nothing for a moment as his eyes dragged over her. The undone hair, the bare collarbones, the way she wore no slippers—and something in his chest had shifted so violently he had to remind himself to breathe.

He then held out the box, wrapped in a silk ribbon, heavy in its weight for its size.

"For the boy," he said, "stared at mine like it was sewn from gold."

She smiled—the kind of smile that made him wish he was some sort of artist so he could capture it and never let it leave his mind.

She opened it like there was something sacred inside. A miniature flat cap sat perfectly in it, the stitching exact to his, herringbone gray wool with a dark satin lining. Boyish, yet elegant.

She stared at it with the same look she reserved for the boy who would wear it.

"He loved yours..." she whispered, "wouldn't stop talking about it after that day."

And then—his small shouts. "Pew! Pew!"

Adam's tiny footsteps tumbled through the marbled hallways, shouting about some bad guys and loose horses and explosions. Thomas smiled just barely—but he said nothing. He just watched her like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She looked up, her wide eyes meeting his, "You knew he'd be here."

"I had a feeling."

That was all he said. No lies, no excuses, no explanation for how he knew her address or how he knew her routine, how he had something made in a London shop that didn't take orders with such short deadlines, that her nephew so happened to be there when he decided to deliver his gift.

Dalia didn't question it. She already understood well enough the kind of man he was. And so she stepped back gently, her palm holding the door open more for him:

"Come in."

And he was just stepping across the threshold, into the light itself, his shadows just beginning to peel back at the door when the sound of another car had shattered the moment of trust.

A sleek black vehicle pulls in just behind his Bentley. Instinct already had his hand hovering just near his coat, his body shifting towards the sound. Then the car door opened.

A man stepped out, clean, purposeful. Dressed in navy. He was tall, and refined, with the posture of someone well-military trained. His hair was dark, clean-shaven with eyes that resembled hers. His cufflinks were gold and his collar was open just enough to suggest comfort but not give away to weakness.

He paused when he saw Thomas. No confusion, just a thorough assessment. Then he walked over, slow and even.

"Yusif," Dalia called out, now stepping out onto the top step, "You're here early."

He had climbed the steps to meet eye-to-eye with Thomas.

"Clearly not enough," his deep, accented voice trailed out. It was warm, eloquent, polished in a way certain men were trained to be, the kind that knew how to handle danger. His eyes—they held the gaze of a watchful father.

"Thomas," she said, gesturing with her hand, "this is my brother. Yusif Hassan, Adam's father."

They shook hands firmly, deliberate in their way with their grip.

"Mr. Shelby."

"Mr. Hassan."

Yusif's eyes trailed between them, straight to the box, "a gift?"

"For Adam," Thomas spoke coolly.

"How thoughtful," Yusif replied, "though one could wonder why it brings you here personally to be delivered to my sister's door."

Thomas smiled, his lips twitching upwards just barely, "I like to see things through."

Yusif stared at him in a way that showed no overt challenge. Just a quiet, sharp yet regal warning of: I see you.

"Thomas was kind enough to stop by," she cut through gently, "Adam will love it."

Yusif only looked at her for a moment, a silent communication played between the siblings before he nodded curtly and stepped through the door past them both.

Inside, Adam spoke again "Baba! Did you bring the chocolate biscuits?"

A soft look of joy passed through Yusif, only momentarily, just enough to show the weight of fatherhood through his posture before his eyes returned to Thomas, and instantly that warmth was gone.

It was replaced by the kind of intelligent, protective stare that said: I know what kind of man you are and I don't give a damn how expensive your gift was.

That's when Thomas was finally pulled back to the reality of where he was, of who he was. Standing there, in a house filled with sweetness and serenity, of trust and family. And he had come bearing something else entirely.

Dalia turned back to him, stepping closer as her hand absentmindedly reached out to touch the edge of his coat, like a small tug to bring him back to her focus.

"Well," she said with a light laugh, "you have met my brother."

He nodded, "Yeah."

She tilted her head up to look more into his eyes, her voice more gentle now, "Come on, I'll make tea."

There was that offer again, that invitation to continue. To continue that pull that seemed to tighten with every phone call, every quiet look, every unspoken word between them.

But behind her, Yusif hadn't gone far. He lingered in the marbled hallway, one hand loosening his cuff, watching with a sort of patience that gave away he was someone who was very familiar with the knowledge of exactly how long a slow fuse could burn before it blew up.

Thomas tore his gaze away, his jaw shifting.

He looked back down at her, at the soft blue of her dress, the strand of hair against her pale flushed cheek, the way she seemed to trust him when he knew it was better off if she didn't.

Then he shook his head gently, "Not tonight."

She raised an eyebrow.

"It's best if some things are left outside for now," he said, offering a faint, and very clearly, restrained smile.

She didn't press, she never did, she just nodded once, understanding far more than he could ever say with his words. And when he took his first step back, he felt that deep ache again beneath his ribs. Not shame, not guilt, not regret.

Obsession, standing right next to the echo of a child's laughter.

And for once, maybe for the first time, he had the decency to walk away from it.

[unkindcorvid]

Ninety One Whiskey WW II Pics

USS Thomas Jefferson

Troops crouch inside a landing craft (LCVP) just before landing on Omaha Beach, Normandy, on D-Day, 6 June 1944

Medics administering plasma on Omaha Beach, Normandy, on D-Day, 6 June 1944

US Army officers and NCOs studying a sand table of Utah Beach before the D-Day landings

US Army in Saint-Lô, 19 July 1944

Ruins of Saint-Lô

Army street fighting in Brest, 1944

Foxhole, Belgium, January 1945

Hedgerow fighting, July 1944

Wall Street, V-E Day

Injured soldier Arthur Moore, New York V-E Day

[catalinadearagonsblog]

Katherine of Aragon & Isabel of Portugal

Holy Roman Empress Isabel of Portugal was interested in the case of the repudiation of her aunt the Queen of England, and she was an advocate of her cause. Katherine of Aragon knew that her nephew, Carlos V, was her only chance to defend her case successfully and that is why she wrote him. Since the death of King Fernando II of Aragon in 1516, her nephew had been her paterfamilias, the head of the Spanish Monarchy, and the most powerful monarch in Europe. Katherine played an active role as ambassadress in the Tudor court, and she was one of his biggest European supporters. Seven months after Katherine’s plead, Carlos sent a letter to his wife Isabel in Spain who was acting as his Governor during his absence. He entrusted her with a mission, to find evidence and witnesses that could help their aunt in her cause to defend her marriage.

The Empress rejoiced that her husband Carlos V was so determined to defend the right of Queen Katherine, which, indeed, it were his duty to do; not only because she was his aunt but also because the case closely concerns the Christian religion itself. Isabel sent several orders to different parts of the Iberian Peninsula to gather evidence. The first was directed to the officers in the Chancillería in Aragon to look for any legal documents related to the marriage negotiations. Another order was sent to elaborate a list of people who were still alive and who had been witnesses in the negotiations concerning Katherine’s marriages. A second group of people were those who had accompanied Katherine to England in 1501. The third order included a questionnaire for these people that directly addressed Katherine’s virginity.

Katherine herself had written to her a full account of the case, of which copies were made to be sent to the Universities of Castile, Aragon, Valencia and Catalonia, with the orders of the Empress that the Universities are to study the case very carefully and send their opinions to her. Originals of the same shall be sent to the Emperor, and copies to Micer Mai in Rome.

In May 1531 a letter was rediscovered in Spain, written by Katherine’s father Fernando to his ambassador in Rome, Francisco de Rojas, which appeared to change everything. Katherine must have been excited to hear that it confirmed that Arthur had not consummated the marriage but that Rojas was to apply for a dispensation anyway in order to satisfy the English.

Empress Isabel was in contact with her ambassadors in Rome, France and London. Dr Pedro Ortiz, an expert in law and Lecturer at the University of Salamanca designated to defend Katherine’s case in the papal court, wrote to the Empress urging her to collect Katherine's letters as the future relics of a holy martyr. In another letter, Ortiz implored the Empress to pray for Katherine and Mary. He believed that they are in great danger.

The death of Katherine of Aragon on 7 January 1536 at Kimbolton Castle, was really sad for the Spanish Royal family. Carlos V was in Naples. By February 1, the Emperor wrote to his wife, who was acting as his regent in Spain, saying that he had heard of Katherine’s death “five or six days” previously. He told her that he and his court had donned mourning and that suitable obsequies had been performed.

Five or six days ago the news of the demise of her most Serene Highness the queen of England arrived, which I felt deeply, as you may imagine. May God receive her in Paradise, which she certainty deserved on account of her extreme goodness and virtue, and the excellent life she led. About her last illness and death the accounts differ. Some say that it was produced by a painful affection of the stomach, which lasted upwards of 10 or 12 days; others that the distemper broke out all of a sudden after taking some draft, and there is a suspicion that there was in it that which in similar cases is administered. I do not choose to make such an affirmation, nor do I wish to have it repeated as coming from me, but nothing can prevent people from judging and commenting upon the event according to their own feelings. Of the Princess, my cousin, I hear only that she is inconsolable at the loss she has sustained, especially when she thinks of her father’s past behaviour towards herself, and of the little favor she can expect for the future. I trust, however, that God will have pity on her, and will not permit the great injustice which has been shewn her to remain with- out some reparation. I have put on mourning, and ordered all the grandees around me, the high officers of this household, as well as the gentlemen of my chamber and table, to do the same, and I myself intend wearing it until I go to Rome. The exequies have been performed here as is customary in such cases; there, where you are, the same ought to be done, as this is but fitting.

Isabel felt Katherine’s death and she was surprised “by what is said of her death”, the rumors about a possible poisoning of her aunt. The Empress also received a letter from Dr Ortiz, enclosing a copy of one from ‘that glorious martyr’ Katherine herself ‘by which the Empress will see the perfection and heroic virtues to which she attained’. Katherine would be a ‘true patroness and advocate of the Empress in Heaven’.

Sources:

Amy Licence, Catherine of Aragon: An Intimate Life of Henry VIII's True Wife

Emma Luisa Cahill Marrón, Article: “Royal Sexualized Bodies at the Tudor Court” : Questioning an Honest Queen: The Scrutiny Around Queen Catherine of Aragon's Virginity

Julia Fox, Sister Queens: The Noble and Tragic Lives of Katherine of Aragon and Juana, Queen of Castile