#shelley-byron circle

[burningvelvet]

Part 3 of PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE ROMANTICS, A TUMBLR HISTORY EXHIBIT: photos i've collected of people related to the english writers of the romantic period and/or who were part of the byron-shelley circle.

Edward John Trelawny (above: a photo of him as an elder compared to a portrait of him as a young man). A key member of the circle, celebrity/adventurer/writer, friend and biographer of Byron and Shelley. Outlived everyone. Proposed to both Mary Shelley and Claire Clairmont and remained in touch with them their whole lives. Really interesting person but also a chronic liar, making it difficult to tell which parts of his life stories are fact or fiction. He is buried next to Shelley (who is buried next to Keats); Trelawny bought the cemetery plot when Shelley died decades prior and later offered it to Mary Shelley who declined it. The last two portraits below were done by Joseph Severn, the artist who was friends with Keats, did most of his portraits, & took care of him as he was dying in Rome. I don't think Trelawny ever met Keats.

Jane Williams Hogg (née Cleveland). She was married to an abusive man named John Edward Johnson who she left for Edward Ellecker Williams, who was the father of her first two children and a friend of Percy Bysshe Shelley's cousin Thomas Medwin. The family then lived in the same household with the Shelley family (Mary, Percy, and their children) in Italy. Percy dedicated some of his last poems to Jane. After Percy and Edward died together in a boating accident she lived with Mary before partnering with Shelley's best friend from college Thomas Jefferson Hogg who she had two children with.

I think the similarity between her younger portrait (1822, age 24) & her photograph (date unknown, but she died in 1884 & seems like she could be in her 80s in the photo) are very striking; you can clearly see the nose, eyes, hair, and mouth are exactly the same, only older.

She also knew George Eliot and William Michael Rossetti; I mentioned the Rossettis in my last post. I wonder if she ever discussed Shelley's connection to John Polidori with them; I don't believe she ever met John Polidori, but maybe the Shelleys would have mentioned him to her.

Thomas Medwin, another key player of the Shelley-Byron circle in Italy. Cousin of Percy Bysshe Shelley and friend/biographer of Shelley and Byron.

Wilhelm Charles Gaulis Clairmont, the nephew of Clara Mary Jane Clairmont aka Claire Clairmont. Wilhelm was the son of her half-brother Charles Gaulis Clairmont.

[krscblw]

ghoul perfume associations pt. 2 (halloween edition)!

halloween ghouls! a little bit murderous, a little bit monstrous. is the slight scent of blood from the perfume or did the ghouls just get back from a hunt? who knows.

(i thought it would be fun to make a Halloween/fall edition of the ghoul perfume list I made before, so here it is! for most of these the first scent is a little bit out there, and the second is more wearable/lighthearted.)

cw: themes of death and injury, a lot of talk about blood and murder

Aeon

Notes: clean linen, lavender, marshmallows, blood. Aeon smells clean and gentle, but that cleanliness is tinged red and metallic on the edges. 

Perfumes:

Plutonian -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Soapy cleanliness sullied by blood and ashes.”

Sleepy Ghost -- Poesie Perfume

“Haunted by insomnia? Let this friendly ghost lull you to sleep with the blissful combination of marshmallow and lavender. You’ll be dreaming in no time!”

marshmallow pillows sprinkled with natural lavender essential oil and absolute for sweet dreams

Aether

Notes: amber, wood, blood. Aether smells warm and golden, resinous and a little bit spicy, like the ideal fall day spent lounging in front of the fireplace. But every so often you catch the edge of something that smells suspiciously like blood… 

Perfumes:

Blood Amber -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Slivers of warm, pulsating blood forever crystallized in golden amber resin.”

The Dead Rise -- Poesie Perfume 

“I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika. — Jonathan Harker’s journal”

dark roasted coffee beans spiked with fresh cardamom pods, cubes of brown sugar, ambroxan, cedar

Alpha

Notes: leather, smoke, spices, rot. Alpha smells aggressive and dangerous – and he is. Of all of the ghouls, Alpha is the most likely to admit to his hobby of hunting unsuspecting Abbey visitors for sport. 

Perfumes:

Eau de Ghoul -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Dessicated skin coated in blackened ginger, cinnamon, and mold-flecked dirt, with cumin, bitter clove, leather, and dried blood.”

Hellfire -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“A scent celebrating Sir Francis Dashwood’s Order of the Knights of St. Francis of Wycombe, also known as the Hellfire Club. A swirl of pipe tobacco, hot leather, ambergris, dark musk and the lingering incense smoke from their Black Mass.”

Cirrus

Notes: dark fruits, musk, metal. Cirrus smells alluring enough that you can almost ignore the way her nails are a little too sharp, her smile a little too wild. Her idea of flirting is offering to help you hide a body, and you’re not sure she’s joking.

Perfumes:

The Enterprise of the Night -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Inspired by the opening pages of Circle of Blood. The scent of vice and darkness: flashing neon, oil-tinged petrichor, fading perfume, smeared lipstick, and the faintest touch of gunpowder residue.”

The Witch Queen -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Wild plum, red musk, tuberose, calla lily, heliotrope, pimento, ylang ylang and beeswax beneath a dark haze of sinister purple-hued incense smoke.”

Cumulus

Notes: florals, sugar, poisonous chemicals. Cumulus smells sweet, sugary in a way that gets stuck to your gums and makes your teeth ache. She has the face – and scent – of an angel, but something about the way her eyes follow you makes you uneasy. 

Perfumes:

Shelley, Byron, and Keats -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Uncompromising idealism, haunted romanticism, fatal ennui, and a heady amount of scandal and vice: red roses and pale carnation with a draught of laudanum, smears of opium tar, a hint of absinthe, and mercury ointment.”

Tiny Phantom -- Poesie Perfume

“You see it there in the glass, a tiny phantom - a glimpse of white in an otherwise dark room. But there’s no need to scream, and there’s no need to faint -- the thing in the darkness is you.”

innocent pink roses, marshmallow buttercream, pale white musk, antique mahogany

Dewdrop

Notes: dark fruits, smoke, ash. Dew smells like the remnants of a house fire that may or may not have been set on purpose. He smells like if you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t let him out of your sight. 

Perfumes:

Djinn -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Myths surrounding the Djinn paint them as many things: benevolent champions of mankind and slaves to mad sorcerers, malicious incubi / succubi and energy vampires, or malevolent harbingers of madness and disease.” 

The scent of black smoke, of crackling flames, and smoldering ashes.

Silent Hill -- Spirit and Venom

“The combination of foggy air, deep fire smoke, dark pomegranate, and hints of overturned dirt and honey. Welcome to Silent Hill!” 

Ifrit

Notes: black tea, brimstone, incense. Ifrit smells dark and clinging, slinky in a way that sets you on edge. He smells like going to sleep and knowing you won’t wake up. 

Perfumes:

The Chapel -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“In the center of the room, a groveling figure is crouched before a woman draped in purple-black clerical robes. The woman’s eyes are filled with righteous hellfire, and she extends a hand in benediction to the man who has fallen prostrate at her feet. He murmurs, “Libera Te Ex Caelum”, and she gestures for him to rise. As he gets to his knees he winces in pain and moans in a strange expression of ecstasy, and you see small horns growing from his skull.”

Black incense, bitter wine, brimstone, bile, and blood.

Darkness -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Bottled gloom; the essence of oblivion. Blackest opium and narcissus deepened by myrrh.”

Mist

Notes: water, herbs, blood. Mist smells herbal and cold, like the transition of fall into winter. She smells a little bit sweet, a little bit metallic, a little bit dangerous. Her scent reminds you of rain so heavy and cold you can barely take a breath. 

Perfumes:

Frostbite with Polar Bear Attack -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Slashes of sleet punctured by a coppery gout of blood.”

Villa Diodati -- Poesie Perfume

“A stately house on the edge of Lake Geneva, ringed by Swiss Alps so picturesque they look painted on the sky, in 1816 Villa Diodati hosted a group of travellers whose time there would forever be marked in history. As storms raged outside, in its candlelit rooms Mary Shelley conceived of her mad scientist and his iconic monster. Down the hall, poor Doctor Polidori (who was hopelessly in love with Mary and possibly Byron), was penning a little story that would inspire another little story. Bram Stoker’s Dracula. You may have heard of it.”

pungent wild rosemary and fresh balsam pine, crystal clear lakewater, dry, dark vanilla

Mountain

Notes: greenery, earth, poisonous mushrooms. Mountain smells like crushed leaves, like little brown mushrooms, like the change in the air when the calender hits October. He smells earthy and damp, as if he spent the day digging holes… for plants, of course. Right?

Perfumes:

Sinister Groundskeeper -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“A menacing figure in grassy overalls and mud-flecked boots, with a wheelbarrow full of sharp yet rust-stained implements. At least, it looks like rust…”

Clods of moist soil, crushed dandelions, and the coppery clove-tang of dried blood.

Death Cap -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“A lethal poison bundled up in a dainty, innocent little package that was oft times found in ancient witches’ flying ointments and astral projection balms. A warm, soft, ruddy scent, earthy and mild.”

Nimbus*

Notes: peach, rose, blood. Nimbus smells sweet – slightly earthy, slightly metallic – but overwhelmingly like peaches that are so ripe they fall apart in your hands. She smells like the thorn bushes that shrikes impale their prey on – but there aren’t any corpses in her garden. Probably.  

Perfumes:

Sentence First, Verdict Afterwards -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Off with her head: white roses, tea roses, climbing roses, blood red roses, and a cluster of thorns, blood-spattered and sword-sharp, with clove bud and tobacco flower.”

Astaroth -- Fantome

“Ripe peaches, pumpkin flesh over a bed of red musk, honey cakes drizzled with white chocolate, & roasted pistachios.”

*i headcanon nimbus as a earth/air multi

Omega

Notes: wood, amber, ink. Omega smells like the ghost of a once-warm sitting room. He smells like amber, like polished wood, like seeing something out of the corner of your eye and feeling watched for hours afterward. 

Perfumes:

Quintessence of Dust -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“The passing: beeswax and smoke, yellowed paper and well-worn leather books, droplets of spilled ink, faded incense, blood-tinged salty tears, and the metal of the knife that skewers that illiterate zombie philistine’s portrait.”

Parlour -- Fantome

“Parlour is an atmospheric fragrance that is inspired by a 19th century Parlour at the height of the Spiritualism movement. Conjuring the dimly-lit rooms filled with dusty spirt boards, sweet wood, and magic.”

A darkly polished mahogany rapping table, spirit boards, sweet rosewood chests, burning incense, and a hint of vetiver

(i have this one and i love it sm, it's the best woody scent in my collection)

Rain

Notes: seawater, ozone. Rain smells like the ocean right before a storm: murky, almost-sweet, hair-raising. He smells like swimming in deep water and feeling something grab your ankle a little bit too tight for you to believe that it was just kelp. But it had to be, surely there isn’t anything else down there… 

Perfumes:

Cthulhu -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“A creeping, wet, slithering scent, dripping with seaweed, oceanic plants and dark, unfathomable waters.”

Circe Individiosa -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Salt-spray dotting an azure cove, its waters swirling with noxious poisons and venom drawn from dreadful roots: a cascade of blackcurrant and crystalline blue-green waters infused with theriac accord, bruised henbane accord, white gardenia, pear, cedarwood, emerald mosses, tuberose, and bitter almond.”

Sunshine/Stratus**

Notes: summer fruits, spices, smoke. Sunny smells like the end of summer, right as it turns into fall. She smells like roasting marshmallows, like sticky heat, like biting into a late-summer strawberry and finding it rotten inside. 

Perfumes:

Tongue Wall -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Fleshy and fruity: guava musk, slick strawberry lip gloss, and blood-tainted digestive juices.”

Zombie -- Possets 

“You really need a big dose of toasted marshmallow and oude, a bit of burnt stick, and the unmistakable fragrance of the crisp autumn air. The obvious combination, wouldn't you say? Resinous and foody at the same time. Smoky, sticky fun.”

**i headcanon sunny as a fire/air multi

Swiss***

Notes: smoke, musk, patchouli, blood. Swiss smells like darkness so thick that there could be something right in front of you and you would have no idea – or maybe right behind you. He smells like earthy resin, wine the color of blood, and curling smoke. Something about his scent leaves a metallic tang in the back of your throat.

Perfumes:

Dead for Filth -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Raw Patchouli, opoponax, and a coppery dry blood exhale.”

Nosferatu -- Black Baccara

“A rustling of leaves appears before the footfalls as a group of pale vampires emerge from the autumn darkness. They bring with them the aroma of archaic earth, deep red wine, tobacco smoke, and red roses.”

dark patchouli, deep red roses, aged red wine, dirt, tobacco smoke, and fireplace embers

***i headcanon swiss as a fire/water multi

Zephyr

Notes: dust, ozone, dry rot. Zephyr smells like a house long abandoned: dusty, faintly sweet, a little bit like rotting floorboards. It’s a scent that draws you in as much as it pushes you away – like a haunted house that has become so lonely, it will do anything to make you stay. 

Perfumes:

Yorick -- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

“Grave dirt, bone, decay, angel’s trumpet, and moldering scraps of shroud: the essence of finality.”

Attic Ghosts - Paranormal Perfumes

“Attic Ghosts is an antique, timeless Victorian mansion. The house on the hill. Flickering lights in the hallways, shadows in the windows. Footsteps. Apparitions. A locked door to the attic.”

dusty wood, chestnut, smoke whisps, vanilla absolute, orange blossom, rose petals, jasmine, vetiver

if you got this far, thank you for reading! this one was SO fun to make, i hope y'all like it too. (and as always i would love to talk more about this/hear other people's thoughts!!)

[cadaverousdecay]

the shelleys and byrons social group has NOTHING on my mutuals circle. the most gothic romantic scandalous artistic fags around

[analogskullerosis]

Thoughts on the Doom Patrol Finale

"It's okay. I made it home."

I thought the finale was wonderful. It was a perfect send off for the show and I think all the main characters got a good conclusion to their stories, even if I think some had bigger flaws than others. I think the show came full circle and did exactly what it wanted to do. While I would've liked to have seen a fifth season, I'm satisfied with what's here. I would say the theme for the final episode of Doom Patrol revolved around "breaking the cycle" and realizing that the only way things get better is by embracing change and to stop running around in circles. Let go of your worries and just be what you're meant to be.

Vic's ending was simple but sweet. The entire show he's been struggling to find his purpose and how he can help people in a way that isn't joining the Justice League or being a comic book superhero like Batman or Superman. Becoming a teacher with Derrick for the next generation of students pave the way and teach them valuable skills via robotics and prosthetics work (which Vic's Cyborg parts basically are) felt like the best ending for him. He wanted to be a hero and he is, it's just in the more subtle, usually unspoken/unthanked way that teachers can be viewed as "heroes".

Rita's death was sad, but necessary in order to help the rest of the team move on to their final destinies. It's often said that mothers (or grandmothers, in Old!Rita's case) are what keep families together. With her death, the Doom Patrol also died with her. She died beloved and with her family by her side... although she was embarrassed that her family only seemed to think of her by bringing her favorite alcohol... and her body blobbed up and popped like a slime balloon afterwards... But being reunited with Malcolm in the afterlife was a lovely conclusion for her. Being reunited with her lost love in a garden felt like something out of an old movie. Perfect for Miss. Rita Farr. The rest of the team paying tribute to her and watching her movie Secret Rendezvous was a lovely way to remember her. Their Lovely Rita died a star.

Speaking of dying as a star, Larry! Larry went nuclear!! Him flying into the sun during the Bad!Future at the beginning of the season was wild, his future with Rama here at the end was beautiful and it was the ending Larry deserved. He broke the cycle by not having Rama be the same "What If?" that John Bowers had been. He freed himself and was able to truly love without fear or hesitation again. Turning into a bright star in space was perfect for Larry because the entire show he had been introverted and shy and reserved. He made it a point to hide for as long as he could and never let anybody see him. His journey was all about a man embracing the things that make him who he is and to let the world see him in his glory, no matter what they think. Joining with Rama in space and becoming a star (which is how I interpreted their joining to signify) means that for the next couple thousand years, Larry can be seen shining bright in the night sky, whether people like it or not.

Jane becoming Kay again (or simplty, K., as Vic suggested) was the ultimate win. The underground was destroyed and K. found her peace. Her going to space with someone who she could find comfort in and explore with was a lovely ending for her. She wanted to leave Doom Manor and explore the world, now she can. Admittedly, I wish her relationship with Casey Brinke would've had more time devoted to it, but it's not a pairing I mind. As much as I wish she could've found her way back to Shelley Byron, I suppose I treat Shelley as an unreachable fantasy (she is fog, after all) whose role was not so much to be an endgame romantic partner to her, but to be a guiding hand and help Jane/K. begin to become comfortable in her body and sexuality again and ultimately help her reach her ending. Her conclusion had flaws, but her journey was still very very satisfying and I can be happy with her having Casey Brinke, her painting, a ship with a view, and a nice cat (so long as Casey doesn't... you know.) Her ending felt like it answered the ending Grant Morrison gave her after their run of the comics. "There is another world. There is a better world. Well... there must be." The show's answer is, "Yes, there is. She found it."

Laura's ending was my second least favorite (next to Dorothy, who just flat out fucking disappeared!!!) and I wish she had gotten a little more, but I got to see Michelle Gomez wield a flamethrower and smile bigger than a child on Christmas Day, so I can't be too mad about it. If you believe in fire as a thing that cleanses things and allows people to start over, Laura's ending worked for her character. The place that really and truly broke her is about to be violently burned down. A woman like her needed violence to heal her and I think burning down the Ant Farm was just that.

Cliff's ending was the one that got me the most. "I thought I came home to live, but I think I came home just to die." The gift that Isabel/Immortus gave him was a sweet gift. He gets to see the cycle be broken right before his very eyes. He gets to see Rory's whole life play out and while you fear he's repeating his grandfather's actions, those fears are quickly put to bed when you see that he's perfectly fine and everything works out. He doesn't become RJ Steele, he doesn't fall into the same traps and vices that hurt Cliff Steele, he becomes a different man. Rory Steele is there for Clara Steele and he gets to meet his own grandson as a flawed, but supportive and good man. When Cliff powers down and it hangs on that shot of Cliff's robot face, I broke. The journey is completed. Cliff was in an accident and spent the whole series trying to get home. He did just that. It was the most beautiful way Cliff Steele's story could've ended. I loved every minute of it.

I was happy that the Immortus plot and the Butts plot was wrapped up in about five minutes with no explanation. It didn't need one. This show was never about them. It was a show about a bunch of misfit-assholes-turned-superpowered-weirdos who had to learn to care for one another, helping each other guide through trauma and pain and become better people at the end of it. They did just that. Larry was right: every single threat the team dealt with was created by them in some way. If there's no Doom Patrol, then the world is safe for another day. The only way this all ends is by the Doom Patrol disbanding for good. If you view Doom Manor as one giant therapy/rehabilitation retreat, then all of the members of the manor were stamped and cleared to leave. They left and they all found their own happiness, happiness that would be strange and weird and nonsensical if it was any show other than Doom Patrol. In the end, the cycle was broken and the characters became free to explore the world beyond the manor. No more chaos, no more fear, only peace.

The only cycle that never seems to break is the one where the Doom Patrol dies at the end of almost every iteration of the comics... until some weirdo (Grant Morrison, Rachel Pollack, Gerard Way, etc.) comes along and resurrects them, brings them back to life. I suspect the Doom Patrol will go through that cycle again. They will die, the team will be disbanded and gone for a while, then some weirdo will lovingly make up some way to get them all together again. It doesn't have to make perfect sense, just so long as they're all together again somehow.

There's so much more to say, but I'll leave it with this for now: Doom Patrol has become one of my favorite shows of all time. It's hilariously ridiculous, wonderfully weird, delightfully strange, and the most beautifully human show about superpowered misfits coming together and helping each other find brighter days after experiencing nothing but the darkest ones. They're my new go-to example of what a found family should be and I think the finale was satisfying. I think the show wrapped up the best way that it could've and I think every person that had the pleasure of working on it should be proud of what they've unleashed onto the world.

Long live the Doom Patrol.

[citylifeorg]

Byron: A Life in Motion to Open at the New York Public Library

“Greek postage stamps, commemorating the centenary of Byron’s death, and depicting his 1824 reception in Greece (London: Bradbury Wilkinson & Co. Ltd., [1924]).” Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle, New York Public Library. New exhibition showcases the complexity of cultural and literary icon Byron On September 7, 2024, Byron: A Life in Motion will open its doors to the…

[esonetwork]

Timestamp #300: The Haunting of Villa Diodati

New Post has been published on http://esonetwork.com/timestamp-300-the-haunting-of-villa-diodati/

Timestamp #300: The Haunting of Villa Diodati

Doctor Who: The Haunting of Villa Diodati (1 episode, s12e08, 2020)

Enter Frankenstein’s monster.

The place and time are Lake Geneva, June 1816. As a thunderstorm crashes down upon the Swiss countryside, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (the future Mary Shelley, the mother of science fiction), Lord George Gordon Byron, Doctor John Polidori, and Claire Clairmont bemoan the abnormal summer weather and enjoy a horror story. As Lord Byron reaches the climax of his tale, the crowd jumps at a knocking on the door.

When the tense crowd opens the door, they find the Doctor, Graham, Yaz, and Ryan. Everyone screams!

The Doctor flounders with the soaked psychic paper and Graham stumbles with modern vernacular, so Ryan simply asks to come in. They are excited to see the creative minds at work, but instead, dance with them and are treated to gossip about Mary not being married despite taking the Shelley surname and Byron separating from his wife to elope with Mary’s stepsister Claire.

Graham ventures off to find a bathroom, the Doctor tries to convince Mary to write a horror story, and the maid Elise is haunted by flying vases and disembodied hands. Graham ends up walking in circles through the house as mysterious figures appear and disappear around him.

Yaz finds Claire trying to break into Byron’s room to find letters about his feelings for her. Yaz consoles her before spotting one of the mysterious figures. Meanwhile, Byron chats up “Mrs. Doctor” while deflecting questions about Shelley. They also talk about Byron’s daughter Ada and the “unrelentingly evil” vibe surrounding the house. While chatting with Ryan, Mary laments her poor writing talent.

Graham returns to the drawing room as Polidori challenges Ryan to a duel for a perceived offense. The conflict is interrupted by the disembodied hand. It chokes Ryan and is shot into dust by the butler Fletcher. The Doctor tastes the dust and places it around the fifteenth century. Byron shows the collected party his odd collection, including the remains of a fifteenth-century soldier.

The soldier is missing two hands.

Mary explains that when the weather got worse, Shelley started having visions of a figure floating over a lake. Yaz plans to visit Shelley in his chalet while Graham sees the mysterious woman and girl but dismisses them as Polidori snoozes.

Everyone finds themselves circling throughout the house. Mary attempts to find her son, but the house won’t let her. Elise finds baby William and spots lightning on the lake. Meanwhile, Polidori awakens and sleepwalks through a wall. The Doctor discounts a haunting because ghosts don’t exist, and she eventually deduces that a perception filter is at work. As everyone in the house slowly gathers together again, Mary finds a skull and a skeletal hand in William’s cot.

The group traps the animated skull and hand and then shares their findings. The Doctor finally realizes that 1816 was “the year without a summer” due to volcanic activity. She spots the glowing figure on the lake and determines it is a time traveler. The figure materializes in the hallway, and the Doctor immediately recognizes it as a lone cyberman. The Doctor warns everyone to stay put lest they be assimilated as Cybermen, then goes alone to confront it. She doesn’t want to lose anyone else to the mechanical menace.

The Cyberman kills Fletcher and tracks Elise due to William’s cries. The Cyberman seeks a “Guardian” and does not kill the baby. The Doctor finds it and questions the incomplete form, but the Cyberman cannot attack her due to depleted power cells. The Cyberman allows itself to be struck by lightning to recharge. It speaks of a Cyberium that has selected another host.

The rest of the group finds a supposedly vacant room, but it is covered in Shelley’s writing. In the cellar, Claire finds a man who mutters about keeping a Cyberman out. This man, Percy Bysshe Shelley, is the Guardian. The Doctor meets up with this group, finds baby William, and visits with Shelley. The Cyberman teleports to Shelly in search of the Cyberium, but Shelley somehow sends it away.

Through a psychic connection, the Doctor realizes that Shelley found a shimmering silver by the lake. It hid inside his body, cloaking his movements and altering everyone else’s perceptions. His mind is full of images, symbols, and numbers, and no amount of writing will remove them. The Doctor realizes that the Cyberium contains all future knowledge of the Cybermen and was sent back in time to change the future. It will burn Shelley’s mind if he keeps it.

Despite Jack’s warning, the Doctor convinces Shelley to stop fighting the Cyberman’s influence. Unfortunately, if she saves Shelley, the Cyberman will be able to raise an unstoppable army and kill billions. There is no right answer, and the Doctor is furious with the choice forced upon her.

The Cyberman arrives and demands that the Cyberium release Shelley. Mary confronts it and learns that it was a father once, a man named Ashad who was transformed in death (and killed his own children for joining the resistance against him). Using that story as inspiration, the Doctor shows Shelly a vision of his own death and forces the Cyberium from him.

Everyone is teleported back to the drawing room as the Cyberium chooses the Doctor. Ashad calls upon his ship and threatens to destroy the world, so the Doctor releases the Cyberium to Ashad’s control. The lone Cyberman vanishes and the thunderstorm disappears. The Doctor decides to travel into the future with Shelley’s scribblings to fight Ashad before he can destroy everything.

The next day, Claire berates Byron over his poor treatment of her and breaks up with him. Team TARDIS convinces Mary to keep writing and apologizes for giving Shelley a sneak peek of his death. Graham is confused by the ghosts (who weren’t ghosts) and the Doctor offers to send her companions home as she faces the Cybermen.

The companions refuse, and over a reading of Byron’s Darkness, the team sets course for destiny.

In a good suspense story featuring a possible inspiration for Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, we get a prelude for the most divisive story in modern Doctor Who history. The premise was sound with our traveling heroes on a quest to see the origins of Mary Shelley’s masterpiece, and it evolved into a fantastic mystery thriller that brought us back to basics with historical and problem-solving elements.

The centerpiece – the lone Cyberman from Jack’s warning – is itself an amalgam of modern Doctor Who history. The body is mostly from Nightmare in Silver with lower legs from Rise of the Cybermen and arms from World Enough and Time. The helmet is a new arrangement but is inspired by a design by assistant Matthew Savage. (A 2016 three-dimensional update was showcased on his Instagram profile last year.)

The drama of this episode, with a chance to permanently defeat a menacing enemy at the cost of the greater good, was tense. This is when Doctor Who‘s social messaging is on target, with subtle pokes that make the audience feel the choice rather than experiencing a bludgeon to the head.

And, as mentioned before, this is the last prologue before the Doctor Who universe changes once again. To call what’s coming divisive is an understatement.

Rating: 4/5 – “Would you care for a jelly baby?”

UP NEXT – Doctor Who: Ascension of the Cybermen and Doctor Who: The Timeless Children

The Timestamps Project is an adventure through the televised universe of Doctor Who, story by story, from the beginning of the franchise. For more reviews like this one, please visit the project’s page at Creative Criticality.

[beckylower]

Searching for Claire Clairmont by Marty Ambrose

Searching for Claire Clairmont by Marty Ambrose

Claire Claire Clairmont.  Stepsister of Mary Shelley. Mistress of Lord Byron. Shadow figure in the Byron/Shelley circle.  I had always been mildly interested in her from a scholarly perspective but, also, somewhat influenced by Byron’s offhand comment in a letter about Claire as “that odd-headed girl”; and Mary Shelley’s thinly-disguised annoyance with her stepsister’s constant presence in her…

[werewolfetone]

Someone ask me questions about the Romantics I feel like talking about them

[artemisiarosalind]

Me to every Romantic scholar: *waving arms around* Can we please leave Mary Shelley alone

[burningvelvet]

Locks of hair from Percy Shelley, Mary Shelley, and Lord Byron, next to their portraits:

[aminiatureworld]

Ikemen Vampire Headcanons I

Characters: Napoleon, Mozart, Leonardo ft. gn!reader and the rest of the mansion

Premise: I'm sick so I wrote some random headcanons

Word Count: 1,914

Warnings:Various series spoilers

Napoleon Bonaparte

Monsieur Bonaparte is a closeted Romantic. He has read as a great deal of Percy Shelley, Frankenstein, Wuthering Heights, The Sorrow of Young Werther Lord Byron’s works, etc. He’s also a closeted romantic. He definitely read Cyrano, and then locked himself in his room for two days after finishing it. He sees an appreciation for Romantic (and romantic) literature as part of the well-rounded nature of a gentleman. If he were a medievalist he’d be a passionate supporter of Courtly Love.

That being said Napoleon’s attempt at romance novel writing is very much a moot point. The only thing he writes now is entries in his diary and, somewhat endless, letters to you.

In a similar vein, Napoleon is surprisingly well put together in terms of clothing. He sees it once more as the mark of a gentleman. He’s also somewhat still chased by the view of him as an upstart or person of base origin. Fashion is one of the easiest ways to make people see you as ‘respectable’ and Napoleon uses this to the fullest when he goes out into the City.

Napoleon’s one capitulation to his past is a series of portraits he commissioned Leonardo to paint depicting his mother, father, sisters, brothers, wife Josephine, and son Napoleon II. He keeps them in a box in his dresser and only takes them out every once in a while, less so since you entered the mansion. Still, when he’s experiencing a particular pang of nostalgia or regret he likes to take them out and look at them. In particular he’ll sometimes talk to the painting of Pauline – his sister. He wishes that she were still with him so she could listen to her witticisms.

In a different capitulation to his past, Napoleon became a bit obsessed with Great Britain after being revived. He is after all still a military man in some ways, even if he can’t serve in the French army for, somewhat obvious reasons. He wants to know what exactly made Great Britain impossible to defeat, why the French Army had no chance of getting past the Royal Navy’s blockade, and why Trafalgar was such a blow for his army. He’d end up pestering Arthur with a lot of questions about British society, most of which wouldn’t get properly answered.

That being said he’d scoff at the idea of Britain being innately better than any other country or kingdom. I think if you told him France wasn’t as good as Britain he’d get genuinely offended. Might challenge you to a duel depending on the day (he wouldn’t actually kill you or anything but like, he’d probably nick you). He definitely fits the stereotype of the proud French man.

Napoleon’s obsession with empire kind of died with his original self. I don’t think he’d feel comfortable with royalist circles, not just because Napoleon was very much looked down upon by the upper classes and the aristocracy. He’s accepted by now that France is a republic and that’s the end of that. Any attempt to discuss the possibility of a French Empire like in his old life he’d brush off. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He secretly thinks Napoleon III is a buffoon, though out of some sense of familial loyalty he doesn’t let others know about his opinion.

Being a family man as he was and still is, Napoleon would still like children, though it’s something he’d be willing to talk to you about. Not everyone wants kids after all, adopted or not. Even if you didn’t want children Napoleon wouldn’t be too torn up about it. How many brothers does he have now? Too many. (At least he’s not trying to put them all on European thrones that’s right I’m calling you out dumbas-).

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Mozart has a love hate relationship with listening to other composers. He knows on a cognitive level that, having been surrounded by musicians and composers in his past, his style isn’t going to be affected by what he hears. Yet there’s still a part of his mind that worries that other styles, especially newer ones, will somehow rub off on him and contaminate his artistic vision.

So, though Saint-Germain offers often enough, Mozart only goes to concerts occasionally, usually for his birthday and then sometime during the holiday season.

He enjoys going to concerts of his own works and silently critiquing the artistic interpretation of the conductors. Honestly, you’d think these people couldn’t tell staccato from marcato. Plebians.

Though Mozart finds a lot of Romantic Era music too long and bombastic – how does Wagner not see that he disgraced the balance of the orchestra with his string section, how many violins does the bastard need – he enjoys Rossini well enough, as well as Paganini and some of Schubert’s Lieder. That being said, never take this man to a Mahler symphony. He won’t last the first movement.

Do not try making music jokes, it’s a lost cause. One viola joke later and he’s writing on a chalkboard about how the viola is central to orchestral balance, and how a violin and a cello couldn’t replace it, and how dare you assume that a violinist requires better technique to play, have you seen some of the viola parts? Violinists don’t have to read multiple clefs! Honestly the presumption, the ingratitu-

At some point everyone has left the room. Professor Mozart isn’t something anyone can handle.

Like the madman he is, Mozart quite enjoys writing piano trios. He does it to blow off steam, as it’s a challenging enough thing to do. He has composed at least one piano trio for every member of the mansion, two for Dazai and Arthur. He plays them when they’re being particularly annoying, it’s an inside joke for him.

Yet, though Mozart would vehemently deny it, he’s also written a variation on the favorite piece of every member of the mansion, it’s usually one of the first things he does upon meeting a new member. It’s a way for him to get a feel of their character, and also an interesting challenge to see all the different ways music can be composed. Dazai’s was especially interesting, though he also quite enjoyed composing Leonardo’s.

Though some have suggested it, Mozart refuses to go back and finish some of the pieces that were incomplete upon his death. He is a different man now, and cannot recollect the emotions and thoughts that would be required to properly finish up the pieces. He feels understanding when one must move on from compositions is vital to continuing to compose.

No one else can clean Mozart’s piano, and only Leonardo is allowed to tune. Everyone else must simply admire from afar. Except for you. Mozart will sometimes let you sit on his lap or next to him, gently placing his hands over yours as he guides your fingers in a semi-awkward dance.

If you play an instrument, no matter the instrument, he’d love to play a duet with you. You’ll have to be the one to bring it up though, he won’t do it himself.

Leonardo da Vinci

Leonardo secretly wishes to sketch every single moment of importance in human history. He sees is as a monument to humanity, a tapestry to show how people are capable of great things, whether good or evil.

He also enjoys sketching the every day things. His favorite collection of sketches recently was that of a woman threshing wheat. It was just a very beautiful and intimate moment. The small miracles of humanity, or so he thinks when he allows himself to feel sentimental. In a way, isn’t his art a contribution to those small little moments? He may be a vampire, but there’s no guarantee his art will stand the test of time as he has. As such he sees art as a way to connect with the ethereal nature of humanity. Yes, perhaps his art may not last a hundred years, but it was still worth creating, was it not?

Leonardo was the one who insisted that the mansion have such a large library, in truth he’s already planned a second one in one of the less used wings of the house. What can he say? His love of art is rivaled only by his need for knowledge. He needs to have the capacity to learn about anything at the tips of his hands, and if that requires using most of his money to buy books, so be it.

Non fiction is definitely Leonardo’s area, he’s not a huge fan of the novel. However he enjoys epics and plays and poetry. And who could resist The Divine Comedy or Chaucer?

He also has a shelf in his room dedicated to his notebooks where he writes down anything new he’s studied or learned about. If you want to see crazy tanks or flying machines, that’s where you check.

Leonardo has always had a sort of fascination with anatomy and with the way that bodies move and work. He’d love sketching dancers, athletes, or laborers in general. He also loves seeing the ways that people differ, and the beauty in such differences. The human form is shrouded in divinity, no matter the form. After all, are humans not the divine light of a vampire’s shadow?

Architecture is also something Leonardo enjoys. Throughout his tours of Europe and the rest of the world one of the things that have struck him most is the different architecture of every nation, and how it reflects the people who live in different countries. He also enjoys studying clothing for similar purposes, although he himself does not keep up with the latest fashions, opting instead for worn in jackets and the smock of an artist or artisan – which is what he sees himself as first and foremost.

Saint-Germain and Leonardo have had a romantic relationship at some point in time, and even when they choose not to be lovers they have a bond that is both inexplicable and deeper beyond what anyone can interfere with. They are platonic soulmates, and often romantic too. Leonardo secretly sees himself as the more grounded of the two. He’s correct in his assumption.

Of all the eras that Leonardo has lived through, he still has a soft spot for the 15th century Italian peninsula. What can he say, roots run very deep. There is a fear inside of him that he might someday forget himself, where he came from, how he passed his youth. As such he’s developed a very strong sense of nostalgia for his past, though he also enjoys seeing the way the world has moved and shifted, particularly the ways that technology has changed.

Though it’s in the future, Saint-Germain has told Leonardo a little bit about aeroplanes. The day that the Kitty Hawk flight happens is something that Leonardo is very much excited to see, even if he won’t actually be there.

Leonardo is very very domestic. There’s a reason that he’s the second father of the house after all. The moment he sees a baby or a child he wants to play with them or make them laugh or smile. Indeed Leonardo’s become slightly famous on the outskirts of Paris for bringing children all sorts of strange gifts, from wood carvings to music boxes. It’s something he takes pride in, and he hope that he might have a family someday, either as a father or as a very cool uncle.

[theetonatheist]

I see people say that Victor and his Creature were gay on this site or some other platform. But I recommend looking up The Man Who Wrote Frankenstein (Pagan Press) by John Lauritsen, who argues that Percy Shelley wrote Frankenstein and that the theme of the novel was male love, this (terrible) book is what Charles E. Robinson (amazing scholar on Frankenstein, RIP) was reacting to when making The Original Frankenstein (Vintage Classics, 2007?). Lauristen also wrote The Shelley-Byron Men: Lost Angels of a Ruined Paradise, which argues that the Pisan Circle (Shelley, Byron, Williams, Trelawny, etc.) likely had gay feelings towards each other through the lens of reconstruction.

Thank you! Sharing this publicly for everyone else. ❣️

I've also seen other essays which claim Shelley was a repressed homosexual who was deeply unhappy with Mary and she was a tyrannical force in his life, etc etc. My blood pressure can't take it.

[wychelm]

On Byron, Keats, Thorne, and Fawcett

This is kind of a boring and nerdy thought so I apologise in advance but I've been thinking about how Thomas might see Julian as a bit of a Byronic figure in the house, which is why he clashes with him so much. And, for the Fawthorne and Bythorne (I just made that one up but I'm quite proud of it) fans among us, might also add more depth to their relationship/s romantically.

Under a read more because it's quite long, slightly spoilery, also touches here and there on nsfw stuff.

BYRON

Despite a frankly miserable childhood, Byron inherited a Barony age 10 and went to Harrow, then Cambridge, and was notoriously obnoxious, arrogant, prideful, hedonistic, bisexual, political, and prone to affairs and perversity. He died when his only legitimate daughter was nine (he did have other children out of wedlock), having had no relationship with her due to his separation from his wife (in turn due his alcoholism and affair with his half-sister). Most of his passions were short-lived and much of his life was coloured by clashes, disagreements, and his own temperamental nature. He loved satire & took aim at a lot of his contemporaries.

Sound like any fictional assholes you know?

Before I talk about the similarities with Julian, I want to think about how we could build Thomas and Byron's potential relationship by piecing together some existing relationships that Byron really had & what we could infer his relationship with Thomas might have been like (with apologies to the academic whose work I'm using to be weird about fictional characters online).

BYRON & THOMAS AS RIVALS

The main (and most "canonical", I suppose) possibility is to do with Thomas' aesthetic sensibilities, the quality of his poetry, and Byron's snobbishness. I've always thought that of all the Romantic poets, Thomas is the most like Keats (with a bit of Shelley): a sweet, sickly poet who was preoccupied with beauty, nature, and love, though Thomas is definitely more privileged and less successful than Keats. Bryon's attitude toward Keats was cruel and scornful (albeit quite funny, sorry Keats):

From the (albeit limited) canonical sources we have on Thomas' poetry, "a sort of mental masturbation" is exactly what I would expect someone (read: Julian) to call it. I don't know whether Byron hates Keats, but he certainly doesn't think he's worth his time. He's dismissive of Keats, belittles his poetry, pretends not to know his name because he considers him beneath him. There's certainly an element of classism here: Keats was far poorer than Byron and an outsider to the world of literature, with no formal literary education and little success. But most critics also looked down on him, Byron included, for being a bit of a radical as far as his poetic style was concerned, having been inspired by the old vanguard of Romantic poets (Wordsworth, Coleridge, etc.) who disliked the Augustan classicism of the 18th century (such as Pope). Byron was a big fan of Pope & co. and despised equally Wordsworth's "namby-pamby" concern with ordinariness and Keats' preoccupation with imagination and dreams.

I think this clash in style & aesthetic would almost certainly be true of Thomas and Byron, too. In a letter to his brother in 1819, Keats wrote:

‘You speak of Lord Byron and me – There is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees – I describe what I imagine – Mine is the hardest task.’

Sight/experience vs. imagination/dreaming is crucial here -- of the two I think it's fair to say Thomas is more inclined toward the latter. His poetry tends toward fictitious scenarios and daydreaming about love because he has so little experience of the real thing. I think it's also because he's very sheltered more generally. Thomas never wanted for anything; in the therapy circle he tells everyone his mother introduced him to publishers, adored his work, supported him. Thomas never really had to struggle in terms of basic needs.

(Ironically, the moment in the show where Thomas veers toward saying something poignant is when he describes the sunrise in season three, but this isn't Romantic poetry so much as a nice thought he has, so it's hard to judge it, really. I think it's a bit Wordsworthian in its dealing with the ordinariness of life, so I think Byron would dislike it even if Thomas were to forge it into a real poem).

Putting all this together, we have a well off but wildly (and probably deservedly) unsuccessful poet who writes about imaginary love and occasionally veers into mundanity & the ordinary. I think Byron would dislike Thomas' poetry even more than Keats', because I think, on some level (pure conjecture here), Byron probably did respect Keats as a poet and as someone who struggled. Despite Byron genuinely being a massive snob, I think it's overstated sometimes, and it's objectively true that a) he did take pieces of Wordsworth's poetry into his own after Shelley urged him to reread his work, and b) he was very concerned with social issues & oppression. His stances in the House of Lords were often unpopular and always radically liberal.

I don't think he would have felt any warmth or sympathy at all toward Thomas, and Thomas certainly wouldn't have been immune to Byron's scorn due to some kind of Rich Boys United mentality, especially when Thomas is a) a bad poet (sorry) and b) at odds with Byron's poetic sensibilities in the first place. I think he probably would have despised Thomas' solipsism and self-pity. Thomas, for his part, would have been intensely jealous of Byron's success and fame, and I think this jealous rivalry is exactly what we see in the show, though for Thomas to have been known by Byron at all would probably have been a feat in itself. Maybe the real bitterness came from Byron not knowing who he was; a one-sided rivalry that Thomas perhaps hyperbolised in his head because it made him feel important.

BYRON & THOMAS AS LOVERS

To think about Thomas' potential romantic relationship with Byron, I want to start with one of my favourite anecdotes of all time about Caroline Lamb, one of Byron's lovers:

I mean, the levels of melodrama!

Byron seemed to inspire this mad affection in some people; it wouldn't surprise me if it inspired something similar in our obsessive, melodramatic, and hyperbolic Thomas, leading to a relationship that got "too public and intense". Thomas seems to develop intense fixations on people (as we can see in his dedication to Alison and Lucy in particular), especially people who are utterly unattainable to him for one reason or another. He's prone to borderline stalker behaviour (as Lamb is), and I can imagine him projecting similar notions of love and romance onto Byron. If they did have an affair, it likely would have been intense but short-lived, and probably something that Thomas "Why Must I Always Be Spurned" Thorne would have carried round bitterly for a very long time.

I can't imagine Byron loving Thomas like he loved John Edleston, for example, given the aforementioned distaste he would have had for his poetry. I think it would have been purely sexual, and perhaps initiated by Byron's interest in Thomas' innocence. All of Byron's relationships with men were with men younger than him (whether significantly or by a few years). If we're going by Mat's age, Thomas would be older than Byron, but I think feasibly we could place Thomas in his early 30s when he died, making him younger. Add this to his more general lack of worldly experience and a potential idolisation of Byron, and he might fit the bill for piquing Byron's mercurial interest.

Obviously with it being a homosexual relationship in regency England, it would probably would have been short-lived anyway in case rumours grew. The stakes would have been high and the anxiety very acute. Byron probably could have taken it in his stride (as he'd had other affairs with men), but for Thomas, it probably would have been a bigger deal, especially if it was his first gay tryst with a poet he greatly admired -- it would have been a huge deal to him! He wouldn't have been able to write about it openly, either, which wouldn't have suited Thomas at all, who I think would have wanted to tell everyone and write about it.

A doomed passion, ultimately, and the kind I can really see Thomas fixating on/mourning, one he'd have very complicated feelings on, but also the kind that might inspire him, poetically speaking.

JULIAN AS BYRONIC

FINALLY, onto Julian.

There's some very clear similarities to be drawn between Byron and Julian's licentious lives here. Harrow, tick; Cambridge, tick; obnoxious, arrogant, prideful, TICK; hedonism, politics, affairs, perversity, absent father, tick tick tick tick tick. As for Julian's sexuality, I guess the jury's out. Canonically he's surely (intended to be) straight, but there are a few moments that can be read against this.

Firstly, when he wishes he'd seen the gay threesome between George Button & co. (if I'm honest, I think he was referring to seeing Fanny being pushed out a window, but as gay!Julian weirdo I will take what I can get). Secondly, when he mentions his first threesome at university being his "own moon landing": I mean, come ON. Obviously you can have straight anal sex but there were three of them involved & this episode is so close to the George/butler/gardener revelation that it's kind of where my mind instinctively goes. It's poor evidence, but regardless I don't think it would be out of character for Julian to have had at least a few homosexual experiences.

Byron also valued personal freedom very highly. He wanted to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. This selfishness is the same as Julian's, I think, as is his sociability: that larger than life, commanding presence in a room, which usually always comes with a mocking jibe and pompous attitude. Julian clashes with most members of the house at some point and seems to put people down whenever he needs to hide his own insecurities. Even in terms of Byron's aesthetic interests, (ie. his focus on real events, real relationships, and sight over imagination, fantasy, and dreaming), Julian is comparable. Not via poetry, sure, but in terms of his actual perspective. His vast experience and his background in politics means he's interested in reality and tangible things (like *Ian Dury voice* sex and drugs and legislation) and these are what he more often than not elects to talk about when he gets the chance. For comparison, Thomas very rarely opens up about the reality of his past: it took an entire episode to get the truth about Isabelle out of him. He lives in his head; Julian, in theory, lives in the so-called real world of sensation and actuality, as Byron supposedly did.

JULIAN & THOMAS

It's already well-documented in the show that Julian and Thomas are at odds with one another. In many ways, this rivalry resembles the rivalry between Keats and Byron and the (potential) rivalry between Thomas and Byron. It's not based on poetry, obviously, but Julian is probably quite a skilled orator. He would have to be, to work in politics. The Julian we see in the show is perpetually drunk so his intelligence is certainly dulled, but he's got a first from Cambridge so he's got academic smarts for sure, and, most importantly, probably knows how to write persuasively. So on this level, Julian has had experience with writing than he can compare with Thomas': I'm sure it contributes to why he thinks so little of Thomas' poetry.

More broadly, Julian is scornful, dismissive, and belittling toward Thomas. He has very little respect not only for his poetry, but also for his effeminacy, his whimsy, and his extremely privileged background (see: "GET A JOB!"). Julian dislikes Thomas' lack of work ethic; from this we can assume that despite being well off, Julian believes that he works far harder as a politician than Thomas did as a poet, and is therefore more deserving of his obscene wealth.

Moving beyond pure rivalry, a sexual relationship between Thomas and Julian might also resemble the possible relationship between Thomas and Byron, which is so say, it might be short-lived and to do with innocence vs. experience (Thomas is definitely younger than Julian, imo), but ultimately Julian might not consider Thomas enough of an equal to be worthy of a legitimate relationship. Thomas would be obsessive and single-minded which would scare the life out of Julian "No Strings Attached" Fawcett in the first place. They might have even had this sort of relationship before we join them with Alison in 2019, which might also explain why they're particularly antagonistic toward one another when we meet them.

On the flip side, I think there are differences between Julian and Byron that would lead to Julian being fonder of Thomas than Byron might have been.

For one, Julian does have a bit of a Rich Boys Unite mentality. Same boys, after all. What's more, Julian very much does not have the liberal sensibilities Byron has. I doubt Julian is offended by Thomas' wealth so much as what he perceives as laziness & a weak, pitiful nature. They have more in common than Byron and Thomas might (both rich and happy to rest on their laurels in their privileged position, both ultimately family-oriented, both seem to have issues with intimacy and flightiness), so there's more to be mined between them beyond this. With the poet/poet dynamic removed, too, Julian probably has less interest in being snobby about the specifics of Thomas' poetry, and pairing them opens up the possibility of Julian confronting his own aversion to romance/closeness & Thomas confronting his obsessive nature, rather than allowing these things to perpetuate themselves.

As obvious as it sounds, Thomas and Julian also have death in common. While they might not have liked one another when they were alive, they have a shared trauma and tragedy that unites them. While Byron was scornful of Keats even in death ("I am very sorry for it - though I think he took the wrong line as a poet"), and probably would have felt similarly towards Thomas' death (if he could've; Thomas outlived him by 7 months), Julian is not! Julian is canonically moved to tears by Thomas' recollection of his death, meaning that Julian has an empathy for Thomas in death that he rarely seems to have exhibited toward anyone in life (see also: the toaster moment).

Ultimately I think Julian is very reminiscent of Byron, and I think the way he treats Thomas as beneath him/not worth his time would probably remind Thomas of his relationship with the poet. Moving beyond this rivalry, they could definitely work as ghosts with benefits, just as Byron and Thomas might have been poets with benefits. But there are enough differences for Thomas to have a more healthy and reciprocal relationship with Julian than he would've had with Byron, and for them both to work on their own internalised shit together in the afterlife.

Disclaimer: I am not a Romantic scholar by any stretch of the imagination and while some of this is fact, the extrapolation is very much fiction and opinion. I don't know what Byron would have thought of Thomas, I'm just guessing. I might be completely off the mark with some of the class discourse, too; so aside from the biographical content, do take this all with a pinch of salt :^)

[themousefromfantasyland]

The Vampyre

By John William Polidori. Originally published on April 1st, 1819, in the New Monthly Magazine as "A Tale by Lord Byron", which is ironic, considering Lord Byron was the inspiration for Lord Ruthven

The work that introduced the world to the sexy vampire, fruit of the same contest between names like Lord Byron and Percy and Mary Shelley that would also give us Frankenstein.

I ship Lord Ruthven and Aubrey so much!

IT happened that in the midst of the dissipation attendant upon a London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it, and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned.

Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose, some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object's face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass.

His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention. In spite of the deadly hue of his face, which never gained a warmer tint, either from the blush of modesty, or from the strong emotion of passion, though its form and outline were beautiful, many of the female hunters after notoriety attempted to win his attentions, and gain, at least, some marks of what they might term affection: Lady Mercer, who had been the mockery of every monster shewn in drawing-rooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a mountebank, to attract his notice:—though in vain:—when she stood before him, though his eyes were apparently fixed upon hers, still it seemed as if they were unperceived;—even her unappalled impudence was baffled, and she left the field.

But though the common adulteress could not influence even the guidance of his eyes, it was not that the female sex was indifferent to him: yet such was the apparent caution with which he spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent daughter, that few knew he ever addressed himself to females. He had, however, the reputation of a winning tongue; and whether it was that it even overcame the dread of his singular character, or that they were moved by his apparent hatred of vice, he was as often among those females who form the boast of their sex from their domestic virtues, as among those who sully it by their vices.

About the same time, there came to London a young gentleman of the name of Aubrey: he was an orphan left with an only sister in the possession of great wealth, by parents who died while he was yet in childhood. Left also to himself by guardians, who thought it their duty merely to take care of his fortune, while they relinquished the more important charge of his mind to the care of mercenary subalterns, he cultivated more his imagination than his judgment. He had, hence, that high romantic feeling of honor and candor, which daily ruins so many milliners' apprentices.

He believed all to sympathize with virtue and thought that vice was thrown in by Providence merely for the picturesque effect of the scene, as we see in romances: he thought that the misery of a cottage merely consisted in the vesting of clothes, which were as warm, but which were better adapted to the painter's eye by their irregular folds and various colored patches. He thought, in fine, that the dreams of poets were the realities of life.

He was handsome, frank, and rich: for these reasons, upon his entering into the gay circles, many mothers surrounded him, striving which should describe with least truth their languishing or romping favorites: the daughters at the same time, by their brightening countenances when he approached, and by their sparkling eyes, when he opened his lips, soon led him into false notions of his talents and his merit.

Attached as he was to the romance of his solitary hours, he was startled at finding, that, except in the tallow and wax candles that flickered, not from the presence of a ghost, but from want of snuffing, there was no foundation in real life for any of that congeries of pleasing pictures and descriptions contained in those volumes, from which he had formed his study. Finding, however, some compensation in his gratified vanity, he was about to relinquish his dreams, when the extraordinary being we have above described, crossed him in his career.

He watched him; and the very impossibility of forming an idea of the character of a man entirely absorbed in himself, who gave few other signs of his observation of external objects, than the tacit assent to their existence, implied by the avoidance of their contact: allowing his imagination to picture everything that flattered its propensity to extravagant ideas, he soon formed this object into the hero of a romance, and determined to observe the offspring of his fancy, rather than the person before him. He became acquainted with him, paid him attention, and so far, advanced upon his notice, that his presence was always recognized. He gradually learnt that Lord Ruthven's affairs were embarrassed, and soon found, from the notes of preparation in —— Street, that he was about to travel.

Desirous of gaining some information respecting this singular character, who, till now, had only whetted his curiosity, he hinted to his guardians, that it was time for him to perform the tour, which for many generations has been thought necessary to enable the young to take some rapid steps in the career of vice towards putting themselves upon an equality with the aged, and not allowing them to appear as if fallen from the skies, whenever scandalous intrigues are mentioned as the subjects of pleasantry or of praise, according to the degree of skill shewn in carrying them on. They consented: and Aubrey immediately mentioning his intentions to Lord Ruthven, was surprised to receive from him a proposal to join him. Flattered by such a mark of esteem from him, who, apparently, had nothing in common with other men, he gladly accepted it, and in a few days, they had passed the circling waters.

Hitherto, Aubrey had had no opportunity of studying Lord Ruthven's character, and now he found, that, though many more of his actions were exposed to his view, the results offered different conclusions from the apparent motives to his conduct. His companion was profuse in his liberality; —the idle, the vagabond, and the beggar, received from his hand more than enough to relieve their immediate wants. But Aubrey could not avoid remarking, that it was not upon the virtuous, reduced to indigence by the misfortune’s attendant even upon virtue, that he bestowed his alms; —these were sent from the door with hardly suppressed sneers; but when the profligate came to ask something, not to relieve his wants, but to allow him to wallow in his lust, or to sink him still deeper in his iniquity, he was sent away with rich charity. This was, however, attributed by him to the greater importunity of the vicious, which generally prevails over the retiring bashfulness of the virtuous indigent. There was one circumstance about the charity of his Lordship, which was still more impressed upon his mind: all those upon whom it was bestowed, inevitably found that there was a curse upon it, for they were all either led to the scaffold, or sunk to the lowest and the most abject misery.

At Brussels and other towns through which they passed, Aubrey was surprised at the apparent eagerness with which his companion sought for the centers of all fashionable vice; there he entered into all the spirit of the faro table: he betted, and always gambled with success, except where the known sharper was his antagonist, and then he lost even more than he gained; but it was always with the same unchanging face, with which he generally watched the society around: it was not, however, so when he encountered the rash youthful novice, or the luckless father of a numerous family; then his very wish seemed fortune's law—this apparent abstractedness of mind was laid aside, and his eyes sparkled with more fire than that of the cat whilst dallying with the half-dead mouse.

In every town, he left the formerly affluent youth, torn from the circle he adorned, cursing, in the solitude of a dungeon, the fate that had drawn him within the reach of this fiend; whilst many a father sat frantic, amidst the speaking looks of mute hungry children, without a single farthing of his late immense wealth, wherewith to buy even sufficient to satisfy their present craving. Yet he took no money from the gambling table; but immediately lost to the ruin of many, the last gilder he had just snatched from the convulsive grasp of the innocent: this might but be the result of a certain degree of knowledge, which was not, however, capable of combating the cunning of the more experienced.

Aubrey often wished to represent this to his friend and beg him to resign that charity and pleasure which proved the ruin of all and did not tend to his own profit; —but he delayed it—for each day he hoped his friend would give him some opportunity of speaking frankly and openly to him; however, this never occurred.

Lord Ruthven in his carriage, and amidst the various wild and rich scenes of nature, was always the same: his eye spoke less than his lip; and though Aubrey was near the object of his curiosity, he obtained no greater gratification from it than the constant excitement of vainly wishing to break that mystery, which to his exalted imagination began to assume the appearance of something supernatural.

They soon arrived at Rome, and Aubrey for a time lost sight of his companion; he left him in daily attendance upon the morning circle of an Italian countess, whilst he went in search of the memorials of another almost deserted city. Whilst he was thus engaged, letters arrived from England, which he opened with eager impatience; the first was from his sister, breathing nothing but affection; the others were from his guardians, the latter astonished him; if it had before entered into his imagination that there was an evil power resident in his companion, these seemed to give him most sufficient reason for the belief.

His guardians insisted upon his immediately leaving his friend, and urged, that his character was dreadfully vicious, for that the possession of irresistible powers of seduction, rendered his licentious habits more dangerous to society. It had been discovered, that his contempt for the adulteress had not originated in hatred of her character; but that he had required, to enhance his gratification, that his victim, the partner of his guilt, should be hurled from the pinnacle of unsullied virtue, down to the lowest abyss of infamy and degradation: in fine, that all those females whom he had sought, apparently on account of their virtue, had, since his departure, thrown even the mask aside, and had not scrupled to expose the whole deformity of their vices to the public gaze.

Aubrey determined upon leaving one, whose character had not yet shown a single bright point on which to rest the eye. He resolved to invent some plausible pretext for abandoning him altogether, purposing, in the meanwhile, to watch him more closely, and to let no slight circumstances pass by unnoticed. He entered into the same circle, and soon perceived, that his Lordship was endeavoring to work upon the inexperience of the daughter of the lady whose house he chiefly frequented.

In Italy, it is seldom that an unmarried female is met with in society; he was therefore obliged to carry on his plans in secret; but Aubrey's eye followed him in all his windings, and soon discovered that an assignation had been appointed, which would most likely end in the ruin of an innocent, though thoughtless girl. Losing no time, he entered the apartment of Lord Ruthven, and abruptly asked him his intentions with respect to the lady, informing him at the same time that he was aware of his being about to meet her that very night.

Lord Ruthven answered that his intentions were such as he supposed all would have upon such an occasion; and upon being pressed whether he intended to marry her, merely laughed.

Aubrey retired; and, immediately writing a note, to say, that from that moment he must decline accompanying his Lordship in the remainder of their proposed tour, he ordered his servant to seek other apartments, and calling upon the mother of the lady, informed her of all he knew, not only with regard to her daughter, but also concerning the character of his Lordship. The assignation was prevented.

Lord Ruthven next day merely sent his servant to notify his complete assent to a separation; but did not hint any suspicion of his plans having been foiled by Aubrey's interposition.

Having left Rome, Aubrey directed his steps towards Greece, and crossing the Peninsula, soon found himself at Athens. He then fixed his residence in the house of a Greek; and soon occupied himself in tracing the faded records of ancient glory upon monuments that apparently, ashamed of chronicling the deeds of freemen only before slaves, had hidden themselves beneath the sheltering soil or many-colored lichen.

Under the same roof as himself, existed a being, so beautiful and delicate, that she might have formed the model for a painter, wishing to portray on canvass the promised hope of the faithful in Mahomet's paradise, save that her eyes spoke too much mind for anyone to think she could belong to those who had no souls. As she danced upon the plain, or tripped along the mountain's side, one would have thought the gazelle a poor type of her beauties; for who would have exchanged her eye, apparently the eye of animated nature, for that sleepy luxurious look of the animal suited but to the taste of an epicure. The light step of Ianthe often accompanied Aubrey in his search after antiquities, and often would the unconscious girl, engaged in the pursuit of a Kashmere butterfly, show the whole beauty of her form, floating as it were upon the wind, to the eager gaze of him, who forgot the letters he had just deciphered upon an almost effaced tablet, in the contemplation of her sylph-like figure.

Often would her tresses falling, as she flitted around, exhibit in the sun's ray such delicately brilliant and swiftly fading hues, as might well excuse the forgetfulness of the antiquary, who let escape from his mind the very object he had before thought of vital importance to the proper interpretation of a passage in Pausanias. But why attempt to describe charms which all feel, but none can appreciate? —It was innocence, youth, and beauty, unaffected by crowded drawing-rooms and stifling balls.

Whilst he drew those remains of which he wished to preserve a memorial for his future hours, she would stand by, and watch the magic effects of his pencil, in tracing the scenes of her native place; she would then describe to him the circling dance upon the open plain, would paint to him in all the glowing colors of youthful memory, the marriage pomp she remembered viewing in her infancy; and then, turning to subjects that had evidently made a greater impression upon her mind, would tell him all the supernatural tales of her nurse.

Her earnestness and apparent belief of what she narrated, excited the interest even of Aubrey; and often as she told him the tale of the living ouat, who had passed years amidst his friends, and dearest ties, forced every year, by feeding upon the life of a lovely female to prolong his existence for the ensuing months, his blood would run cold, whilst he attempted to laugh her out of such idle and horrible fantasies; but Ianthe cited to him the names of old men, who had at last detected one living among themselves, after several of their near relatives and children had been found marked with the stamp of the fiend's appetite; and when she found him so incredulous, she begged of him to believe her, for it had been remarked, that those who had dared to question their existence, always had some proof given, which obliged them, with grief and heartbreaking, to confess it was true.

She detailed to him the traditional appearance of these monsters, and his horror was increased, by hearing a pretty accurate description of Lord Ruthven; he, however, still persisted in persuading her, that there could be no truth in her fears, though at the same time he wondered at the many coincidences which had all tended to excite a belief in the supernatural power of Lord Ruthven.

Aubrey began to attach himself more and more to Ianthe; her innocence, so contrasted with all the affected virtues of the women among whom he had sought for his vision of romance, won his heart; and while he ridiculed the idea of a young man of English habits, marrying an uneducated Greek girl, still he found himself more and more attached to the almost fairy form before him.

He would tear himself at times from her, and, forming a plan for some antiquarian research, he would depart, determined not to return until his object was attained; but he always found it impossible to fix his attention upon the ruins around him, whilst in his mind he retained an image that seemed alone the rightful possessor of his thoughts. Ianthe was unconscious of his love and was ever the same frank infantile being he had first known.

She always seemed to part from him with reluctance; but it was because she had no longer any one with whom she could visit her favorite haunts, whilst her guardian was occupied in sketching or uncovering some fragment which had yet escaped the destructive hand of time. She had appealed to her parents on the subject of Vampyres, and they both, with several present, affirmed their existence, pale with horror at the very name.

Soon after, Aubrey determined to proceed upon one of his excursions, which was to detain him for a few hours; when they heard the name of the place, they all at once begged of him not to return at night, as he must necessarily pass through some wood, where no Greek would ever remain, after the day had closed, upon any consideration. They described it as the resort of the vampyres in their nocturnal orgies and denounced the heaviest evils as impending upon him who dared to cross their path. Aubrey made light of their representations and tried to laugh them out of the idea; but when he saw them shudder at his daring thus to mock a superior, infernal power, the very name of which apparently made their blood freeze, he was silent.

Next morning Aubrey set off upon his excursion unattended; he was surprised to observe the melancholy face of his host, and was concerned to find that his words, mocking the belief of those horrible fiends, had inspired them with such terror. When he was about to depart, Ianthe came to the side of his horse, and earnestly begged of him to return, ere night allowed the power of these beings to be put in action; —he promised. He was, however, so occupied in his research, that he did not perceive that daylight would soon end, and that in the horizon there was one of those specks which, in the warmer climates, so rapidly gather into a tremendous mass, and pour all their rage upon the devoted country. —He at last, however, mounted his horse, determined to make up by speed for his delay: but it was too late.

Twilight, in these southern climates, is almost unknown; immediately the sun sets, night begins and ere he had advanced far, the power of the storm was above—its echoing thunders had scarcely an interval of rest—its thick heavy rain forced its way through the canopying foliage, whilst the blue forked lightning seemed to fall and radiate at his very feet.

Suddenly his horse took fright, and he was carried with dreadful rapidity through the entangled forest. The animal at last, through fatigue, stopped, and he found, by the glare of lightning, that he was in the neighborhood of a hovel that hardly lifted itself up from the masses of dead leaves and brushwood which surrounded it.

Dismounting, he approached, hoping to find someone to guide him to the town, or at least trusting to obtain shelter from the pelting of the storm. As he approached, the thunders, for a moment silent, allowed him to hear the dreadful shrieks of a woman mingling with the stifled, exultant mockery of a laugh, continued in one almost unbroken sound; —he was startled: but, roused by the thunder which again rolled over his head, he, with a sudden effort, forced open the door of the hut. He found himself in utter darkness: the sound, however, guided him. He was apparently unperceived; for, though he called, still the sounds continued, and no notice was taken of him.

He found himself in contact with someone, whom he immediately seized; when a voice cried, "Again baffled!" to which a loud laugh succeeded; and he felt himself grappled by one whose strength seemed superhuman: determined to sell his life as dearly as he could, he struggled; but it was in vain: he was lifted from his feet and hurled with enormous force against the ground:—his enemy threw himself upon him, and kneeling upon his breast, had placed his hands upon his throat—when the glare of many torches penetrating through the hole that gave light in the day, disturbed him;—he instantly rose, and, leaving his prey, rushed through the door, and in a moment the crashing of the branches, as he broke through the wood, was no longer heard.

The storm was now still; and Aubrey, incapable of moving, was soon heard by those without. They entered; the light of their torches fell upon the mud walls, and the thatch loaded on every individual straw with heavy flakes of soot. At the desire of Aubrey, they searched for her who had attracted him by her cries; he was again left in darkness; but what was his horror, when the light of the torches once more burst upon him, to perceive the airy form of his fair conductress brought in a lifeless corpse. He shut his eyes, hoping that it was but a vision arising from his disturbed imagination; but he again saw the same form, when he unclosed them, stretched by his side. There was no color upon her cheek, not even upon her lip; yet there was a stillness about her face that seemed almost as attaching as the life that once dwelt there: —upon her neck and breast was blood, and upon her throat were the marks of teeth having opened the vein: —to this the men pointed, crying, simultaneously struck with horror, "A Vampyre! a Vampyre!"

A litter was quickly formed; and Aubrey was laid by the side of her who had lately been to him the object of so many bright and fairy visions, now fallen with the flower of life that had died within her. He knew not what his thoughts were—his mind was benumbed and seemed to shun reflection and take refuge in vacancy—he held almost unconsciously in his hand a naked dagger of a particular construction, which had been found in the hut.

They were soon met by different parties who had been engaged in the search of her whom a mother had missed. Their lamentable cries, as they approached the city, forewarned the parents of some dreadful catastrophe. —To describe their grief would be impossible; but when they ascertained the cause of their child's death, they looked at Aubrey, and pointed to the course. They were inconsolable; both died broken-hearted.

Aubrey being put to bed was seized with a most violent fever and was often delirious; in these intervals he would call upon Lord Ruthven and upon Ianthe—by some unaccountable combination he seemed to beg of his former companion to spare the being he loved. At other times he would imprecate maledictions upon his head and curse him as her destroyer. Lord Ruthven chanced at this time to arrive at Athens, and, from whatever motive, upon hearing of the state of Aubrey, immediately placed himself in the same house, and became his constant attendant.

When the latter recovered from his delirium, he was horrified and startled at the sight of him whose image he had now combined with that of a Vampyre; but Lord Ruthven, by his kind words, implying almost repentance for the fault that had caused their separation, and still more by the attention, anxiety, and care which he showed, soon reconciled him to his presence.

His lordship seemed quite changed; he no longer appeared that apathetic being who had so astonished Aubrey; but as soon as his convalescence began to be rapid, he again gradually retired into the same state of mind, and Aubrey perceived no difference from the former man, except that at times he was surprised to meet his gaze fixed intently upon him, with a smile of malicious exultation playing upon his lips: he knew not why, but this smile haunted him. During the last stage of the invalid's recovery, Lord Ruthven was apparently engaged in watching the tideless waves raised by the cooling breeze, or in marking the progress of those orbs, circling, like our world, the moveless sun; —indeed, he appeared to wish to avoid the eyes of all.

Aubrey's mind, by this shock, was much weakened, and that elasticity of spirit which had once so distinguished him now seemed to have fled forever. He was now as much a lover of solitude and silence as Lord Ruthven; but much as he wished for solitude, his mind could not find it in the neighborhood of Athens; if he sought it amidst the ruins he had formerly frequented, Ianthe's form stood by his side—if he sought it in the woods, her light step would appear wandering amidst the underwood, in quest of the modest violet; then suddenly turning round, would show, to his wild imagination, her pale face and wounded throat, with a meek smile upon her lips.

He determined to fly scenes, every feature of which created such bitter associations in his mind. He proposed to Lord Ruthven, to whom he held himself bound by the tender care he had taken of him during his illness, that they should visit those parts of Greece neither had yet seen. They travelled in every direction and sought every spot to which a recollection could be attached: but though they thus hastened from place to place, yet they seemed not to heed what they gazed upon.

They heard much of robbers, but they gradually began to slight these reports, which they imagined were only the invention of individuals, whose interest it was to excite the generosity of those whom they defended from pretended dangers. In consequence of thus neglecting the advice of the inhabitants, on one occasion they travelled with only a few guards, more to serve as guides than as a defense.

Upon entering, however, a narrow defile, at the bottom of which was the bed of a torrent, with large masses of rock brought down from the neighboring precipices, they had reason to repent their negligence; for scarcely were the whole of the party engaged in the narrow pass, when they were startled by the whistling of bullets close to their heads, and by the echoed report of several guns.

In an instant their guards had left them, and, placing themselves behind rocks, had begun to fire in the direction whence the report came. Lord Ruthven and Aubrey, imitating their example, retired for a moment behind the sheltering turn of the defile: but ashamed of being thus detained by a foe, who with insulting shouts bade them advance, and being exposed to unresisting slaughter, if any of the robbers should climb above and take them in the rear, they determined at once to rush forward in search of the enemy.

Hardly had they lost the shelter of the rock, when Lord Ruthven received a shot in the shoulder, which brought him to the ground. Aubrey hastened to his assistance; and, no longer heeding the contest or his own peril, was soon surprised by seeing the robbers' faces around him—his guards having, upon Lord Ruthven's being wounded, immediately thrown up their arms and surrendered.

By promises of great reward, Aubrey soon induced them to convey his wounded friend to a neighboring cabin; and having agreed upon a ransom, he was no more disturbed by their presence—they are being content merely to guard the entrance till their comrade should return with the promised sum, for which he had an order.

Lord Ruthven's strength rapidly decreased; in two days mortification ensued, and death seemed advancing with hasty steps. His conduct and appearance had not changed; he seemed as unconscious of pain as he had been of the objects about him: but towards the close of the last evening, his mind became apparently uneasy, and his eye often fixed upon Aubrey, who was induced to offer his assistance with more than usual earnestness.

"Assist me! you may save me—you may do more than that—I mean not my life, I heed the death of my existence as little as that of the passing day; but you may save my honor, your friend's honor.”

"How? tell me how? I would do anything," replied Aubrey.

"I need but little—my life ebbs apace—I cannot explain the whole—but if you would conceal all you know of me, my honor were free from stain in the world's mouth—and if my death were unknown for some time in England—I—I—but life."

"It shall not be known."

"Swear!" cried the dying man, raising himself with exultant violence, "Swear by all your soul reveres, by all your nature fears, swear that for a year and a day you will not impart your knowledge of my crimes or death to any living being in any way, whatever may happen, or whatever you may see."

His eyes seemed bursting from their sockets.

"I swear!" said Aubrey; he sunk laughing upon his pillow and breathed no more.

Aubrey retired to rest but did not sleep; the many circumstances attending his acquaintance with this man rose upon his mind, and he knew not why; when he remembered his oath a cold shivering came over him, as if from the presentiment of something horrible awaiting him.

Rising early in the morning, he was about to enter the hovel in which he had left the corpse, when a robber met him, and informed him that it was no longer there, having been conveyed by himself and comrades, upon his retiring, to the pinnacle of a neighboring mount, according to a promise they had given his lordship, that it should be exposed to the first cold ray of the moon that rose after his death. Aubrey astonished, and taking several of the men, determined to go and bury it upon the spot where it lay. But, when he had mounted to the summit, he found no trace of either the corpse or the clothes, though the robbers swore they pointed out the identical rock on which they had laid the body. For a time, his mind was bewildered in conjectures, but he at last returned, convinced that they had buried the corpse for the sake of the clothes.

Weary of a country in which he had met with such terrible misfortunes, and in which all apparently conspired to heighten that superstitious melancholy that had seized upon his mind, he resolved to leave it, and soon arrived at Smyrna.

While waiting for a vessel to convey him to Otranto, or to Naples, he occupied himself in arranging those effects he had with him belonging to Lord Ruthven. Amongst other things there was a case containing several weapons of offence, more or less adapted to ensure the death of the victim. There were several daggers and ataghans.

Whilst turning them over, and examining their curious forms, what was his surprise at finding a sheath apparently ornamented in the same style as the dagger discovered in the fatal hut—he shuddered—hastening to gain further proof, he found the weapon, and his horror may be imagined when he discovered that it fitted, though peculiarly shaped, the sheath he held in his hand. His eyes seemed to need no further certainty—they seemed gazing to be bound to the dagger; yet still he wished to disbelieve; but the particular form, the same varying tints upon the haft and sheath were alike in splendor on both and left no room for doubt; there were also drops of blood on each.

He left Smyrna, and on his way home, at Rome, his first inquiries were concerning the lady he had attempted to snatch from Lord Ruthven's seductive arts. Her parents were in distress, their fortune ruined, and she had not been heard of since the departure of his lordship. Aubrey's mind became almost broken under so many repeated horrors; he was afraid that this lady had fallen a victim to the destroyer of Ianthe. He became morose and silent; and his only occupation consisted in urging the speed of the postilions, as if he were going to save the life of someone, he held dear.

He arrived at Calais; a breeze, which seemed obedient to his will, soon wafted him to the English shores; and he hastened to the mansion of his fathers, and there, for a moment, appeared to lose, in the embraces and caresses of his sister, all memory of the past. If she before, by her infantine caresses, had gained his affection, now that the woman began to appear, she was still more attaching as a companion.

Miss Aubrey had not that winning grace which gains the gaze and applause of the drawing-room assemblies. There was none of that light brilliancy which only exists in the heated atmosphere of a crowded apartment. Her blue eye was never lit up by the levity of the mind beneath. There was a melancholy charm about it which did not seem to arise from misfortune, but from some feeling within, that appeared to indicate a soul conscious of a brighter realm. Her step was not that light footing, which strays where’re a butterfly or a color may attract—it was sedate and pensive. When alone, her face was never brightened by the smile of joy; but when her brother breathed to her his affection, and would in her presence forget those griefs she knew destroyed his rest, who would have exchanged her smile for that of the voluptuary? It seemed as if those eyes, —that face were then playing in the light of their own native sphere.

She was yet only eighteen, and had not been presented to the world, it is having been thought by her guardians more fit that her presentation should be delayed until her brother's return from the continent, when he might be her protector. It was now, therefore, resolved that the next drawing-room, which was fast approaching, should be the epoch of her entry into the "busy scene." Aubrey would rather have remained in the mansion of his fathers and fed upon the melancholy which overpowered him. He could not feel interest about the frivolities of fashionable strangers, when his mind had been so torn by the events he had witnessed; but he determined to sacrifice his own comfort to the protection of his sister. They soon arrived in town, and prepared for the next day, which had been announced as a drawing-room.

The crowd was excessive—a drawing-room had not been held for a long time, and all who were anxious to bask in the smile of royalty, hastened thither. Aubrey was there with his sister. While he was standing in a corner by himself, heedless of all around him, engaged in the remembrance that the first time he had seen Lord Ruthven was in that very place—he felt himself suddenly seized by the arm, and a voice he recognized too well, sounded in his ear—"Remember your oath."

He had hardly courage to turn, fearful of seeing a specter that would blast him, when he perceived, at a little distance, the same figure which had attracted his notice on this spot upon his first entry into society.

He gazed till his limbs almost refusing to bear their weight, he was obliged to take the arm of a friend, and forcing a passage through the crowd, he threw himself into his carriage, and was driven home.

He paced the room with hurried steps, and fixed his hands upon his head, as if he were afraid his thoughts were bursting from his brain. Lord Ruthven again before him—circumstances started up in dreadful array—the dagger—his oath. —He roused himself, he could not believe it possible—the dead rise again! —He thought his imagination had conjured up the image his mind was resting upon. It was impossible that it could be real—he determined, therefore, to go again into society; for though he attempted to ask concerning Lord Ruthven, the name hung upon his lips, and he could not succeed in gaining information.

He went a few nights after with his sister to the assembly of a near relation. Leaving her under the protection of a matron, he retired into a recess, and there gave himself up to his own devouring thoughts. Perceiving, at last, that many were leaving, he roused himself, and entering another room, found his sister surrounded by several, apparently in earnest conversation; he attempted to pass and get near her, when one, whom he requested to move, turned round, and revealed to him those features he most abhorred. He sprang forward, seized his sister's arm, and, with hurried step, forced her towards the street: at the door he found himself impeded by the crowd of servants who were waiting for their lords; and while he was engaged in passing them, he again heard that voice whisper close to him—"Remember your oath!"—He did not dare to turn, but, hurrying his sister, soon reached home.

Aubrey became almost distracted. If before his mind had been absorbed by one subject, how much more completely was it engrossed now that the certainty of the monster's living again pressed upon his thoughts. His sister's attentions were now unheeded, and it was in vain that she intreated him to explain to her what had caused his abrupt conduct. He only uttered a few words, and those terrified her. The more he thought, the more he was bewildered. His oath startled him; —was he then to allow this monster to roam, bearing ruin upon his breath, amidst all he held dear, and not avert its progress? His very sister might have been touched by him. But even if he were to break his oath, and disclose his suspicions, who would believe him?

He thought of employing his own hand to free the world from such a wretch; but death, he remembered, had been already mocked. For days he remained in this state; shut up in his room, he saw no one, and eat only when his sister came, who, with eyes streaming with tears, besought him, for her sake, to support nature.

At last, no longer capable of bearing stillness and solitude, he left his house, roamed from street to street, anxious to fly that image which haunted him. His dress became neglected, and he wandered, as often exposed to the noon-day sun as to the midnight damps. He was no longer to be recognized; at first, he returned with the evening to the house; but at last, he laid him down to rest wherever fatigue overtook him. His sister, anxious for his safety, employed people to follow him; but they were soon distanced by him who fled from a pursuer swifter than any—from thought. His conduct, however, suddenly changed.

Struck with the idea that he left by his absence the whole of his friends, with a fiend amongst them, of whose presence they were unconscious, he determined to enter again into society, and watch him closely, anxious to forewarn, in spite of his oath, all whom Lord Ruthven approached with intimacy. But when he entered into a room, his haggard and suspicious looks were so striking, his inward shuddering so visible, that his sister was at last obliged to beg of him to abstain from seeking, for her sake, a society which affected him so strongly. When, however, remonstrance proved unavailing, the guardians thought proper to interpose, and, fearing that his mind was becoming alienated, they thought it high time to resume again that trust which had been before imposed upon them by Aubrey's parents.

Desirous of saving him from the injuries and sufferings he had daily encountered in his wanderings, and of preventing him from exposing to the general eye those marks of what they considered folly, they engaged a physician to reside in the house, and take constant care of him.

He hardly appeared to notice it, so completely was his mind absorbed by one terrible subject. His incoherence became at last so great, that he was confined to his chamber. There he would often lie for days, incapable of being roused. He had become emaciated, his eyes had attained a glassy luster; —the only sign of affection and recollection remaining displayed itself upon the entry of his sister; then he would sometimes start, and, seizing her hands, with looks that severely afflicted her, he would desire her not to touch him. "Oh, do not touch him—if your love for me is aught, do not go near him!"

When, however, she inquired to whom he referred, his only answer was, "True! true!” and again he sank into a state, whence not even she could rouse him. This lasted many months: gradually, however, as the year was passing, his incoherencies became less frequent, and his mind threw off a portion of its gloom, whilst his guardians observed, that several times in the day he would count upon his fingers a definite number, and then smile.

The time had nearly elapsed, when, upon the last day of the year, one of his guardians entering his room, began to converse with his physician upon the melancholy circumstance of Aubrey's being in so awful a situation, when his sister was going next day to be married.

Instantly Aubrey's attention was attracted; he asked anxiously to whom. Glad of this mark of returning intellect, of which they feared he had been deprived, they mentioned the name of the Earl of Marsden, Thinking this was a young Earl whom he had met with in society, Aubrey seemed pleased, and astonished them still more by his expressing his intention to be present at the nuptials, and desiring to see his sister. They answered not, but in a few minutes his sister was with him. He was apparently again capable of being affected by the influence of her lovely smile; for he pressed her to his breast, and kissed her cheek, wet with tears, flowing at the thought of her brother's being once more alive to the feelings of affection.

He began to speak with all his wonted warmth, and to congratulate her upon her marriage with a person so distinguished for rank and every accomplishment; when he suddenly perceived a locket upon her breast; opening it, what was his surprise at beholding the features of the monster who had so long influenced his life He seized the portrait in a paroxysm of rage and trampled it under foot.

Upon her asking him why he thus destroyed the resemblance of her future husband, he looked as if he did not understand her—then seizing her hands and gazing on her with a frantic expression of countenance, he bade her swear that she would never wed this monster, for he––But he could not advance—it seemed as if that voice again bade him remember his oath—he turned suddenly round, thinking Lord Ruthven was near him but saw no one. In the meantime, the guardians and physician, who had heard the whole, and thought this was but a return of his disorder, entered, and forcing him from Miss Aubrey, desired her to leave him. He fell upon his knees to them, he implored, he begged of them to delay but for one day. They, attributing this to the insanity they imagined had taken possession of his mind, endeavored to pacify him, and retired.

Lord Ruthven had called the morning after the drawing-room and had been refused with everyone else. When he heard of Aubrey's ill health, he readily understood himself to be the cause of it; but when he learned that he was deemed insane, his exultation and pleasure could hardly be concealed from those among whom he had gained this information. He hastened to the house of his former companion, and, by constant attendance, and the pretense of great affection for the brother and interest in his fate, he gradually won the ear of Miss Aubrey.

Who could resist his power? His tongue had dangers and toils to recount—could speak of himself as of an individual having no sympathy with any being on the crowded earth, save with her to whom he addressed himself;—could tell how, since he knew her, his existence had begun to seem worthy of preservation, if it were merely that he might listen to her soothing accents;—in fine, he knew so well how to use the serpent's art, or such was the will of fate, that he gained her affections. The title of the elder branch falling at length to him, he obtained an important embassy, which served as an excuse for hastening the marriage, (in spite of her brother's deranged state,) which was to take place the very day before his departure for the continent.

Aubrey, when he was left by the physician and his guardians, attempted to bribe the servants, but in vain. He asked for pen and paper; it was given him; he wrote a letter to his sister, conjuring her, as she valued her own happiness, her own honor, and the honor of those now in the grave, who once held her in their arms as their hope and the hope of their house, to delay but for a few hours that marriage, on which he denounced the heaviest curses. The servants promised they would deliver it; but giving it to the physician, he thought it better not to harass any more the mind of Miss Aubrey by, what he considered, the ravings of a maniac. Night passed on without rest to the busy inmates of the house; and Aubrey heard, with a horror that may more easily be conceived than described, the notes of busy preparation.

Morning came, and the sound of carriages broke upon his ear. Aubrey grew almost frantic. The curiosity of the servants at last overcame their vigilance, they gradually stole away, leaving him in the custody of a helpless old woman.

He seized the opportunity, with one bound was out of the room, and in a moment found himself in the apartment where all were nearly assembled. Lord Ruthven was the first to perceive him: he immediately approached, and, taking his arm by force, hurried him from the room, speechless with rage. When on the staircase, Lord Ruthven whispered in his ear—"Remember your oath, and know, if not my bride today, your sister is dishonored. Women are frail!"

So, saying, he pushed him towards his attendants, who, roused by the old woman, had come in search of him. Aubrey could no longer support himself; his rage not finding vent, had broken a blood-vessel, and he was conveyed to bed. This was not mentioned to his sister, who was not present when he entered, as the physician was afraid of agitating her. The marriage was solemnized, and the bride and bridegroom left London.

Aubrey's weakness increased; the effusion of blood produced symptoms of the near approach of death. He desired his sister's guardians might be called, and when the midnight hour had struck, he related composedly what the reader has perused—he died immediately after.

The guardians hastened to protect Miss Aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too late. Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey's sister had glutted the thirst of a Vampyre!

[exosentient]

Spoilers for Doctor Who - Once, Upon Time

Theory on who the elderly woman at the end is who tells the Doctor the end of this universe is meant to happen, and not to interfere?

Her name is credited as Awsok. From what she says, she has full knowledge and seems to be implying she either personally has full control of the situation or is amongst the ranks of those who do. She is not of this universe.

Eternals are a Doctor Who thing

I think it’s highly probable Awsok is an Eternal or one of the other equivalent god-like beings from another dimension / universe we’ve seen in the classic series, overseeing events and interfering in the affairs of lesser species.

Was she... was she WEAVING? It did look like it to me. A kind of craft. Goes with her homespun aesthetic. Lots of strands and things spinning, even if it was more high tech.

If so I can think of two ideas. One is something to do with looooooms which is an extended universe Doctor Who thing about Time Lord DNA being woven rather than sexually created (Lungbarrow). I don’t get that vibe here at all though. The other is ATROPOS, the Greek name for one of the triple goddesses (such as the Mouri / Moirai) across many Indo-European cultures connected to fate/destiny/life and death, and often associated with spinning and weaving the strands of fate - and Atropos cuts them when someone or something’s time is up. (Doctor Who often draws upon mythological elements, like many genre stories.) This would fit with what Awsok is saying (transcript below).

“You think you can navigate all those time streams without anyone noticing? You’re fighting a lost cause. You need to stop. There’ll be no glory awaiting you on this one.

“I’m telling you, the damage to time is already done. As intended. The Flux event was spatial, but it was possible it wouldn’t be enough. The Ravagers, Swarm and Azure, are rare and useful creatures. Now they have been reintroduced.” *smiles* “Think of them... as a temporal poison or contagion.

“Always the wrong questions. This universe is over, Doctor. Hmm? Everything has its time. Nothing’s forever. Nothing is certain. Not you, and not this universe you seem to love so much.

“Don’t lecture me, Doctor. Not when you should look to yourself. The Flux wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a naturally occurring event. It was made. It was placed. Because of you. All is ending. And don’t come looking for this. You can go.” *dismissive flick*

She was the Universe...

So... the Flux was placed to bring this universe to an end, and because that wasn’t enough, the Ravagers were brought in to seal the deal. The reason the universe is deliberately being destroyed is because of the Doctor (?!!), who is angrily championing this universe in response.

This brings me to mind again of “She was the Universe...” - Byron’s poem Darkness about chaos and war and corruption and two foes battling it out in the ashes of a ruined city, and stars consumed in the ending of the universe (Maxine Alderton is an expert on the Byron-Shelley circle, and has been involved in writing for S12 and Flux and hashing out ideas with Chris Chibnall).

The Doctor as trickster

...what did the Doctor do that made Awsok think this universe should be over? How much is it related to who they are; where they came from, their inherent relationship to time, or their inadvertent role in creating a whole race of powerful time sensitive beings? And what moral responsibility does the Doctor carry from their past that Awsok is alluding to, and how much does it relate to why they ran from the Division? (Surely for storytelling reasons it’s related in some way.) Was it from making a hard decision where there was no good way out, lonely on the mountain? Was it making a decision they didn’t have the right to make, either through using too much power to control, or through stepping on the toes of the more powerful beings?

Certainly Awsok deems the Doctor worthy of an audience, no matter how dismissive she may seem. I feel there is some wish for fair play here - but also a warning to back off, because Awsok knows the Doctor’s fate strand does not obey the usual orderly rules - the Doctor is unpredictable and has luck / fate / glory on their side, in many ways representing a trickster figure.

[vampiresuns]

The Main 6 as Poetry + Other Bits of Literature That Reminds Me Of Them

[link meme voice] This is my post and I get to choose the poems

Asra

“Will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other for as long as we live?” — Walt Whitman, Song Of The Open Road

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I’ll write in waves. In skies. In my heart. You’ll never see, but you will know. I’ll be all the poets, I’ll kill them all and take each one’s place in turn, and every time love’s written in all the strands it will be to you.

But never again like this” — Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone, This Is How You Lose The Time War

“Friendship is more tragic than love. It lasts longer” — Oscar Wilde

“The centre of every poem is this: I have loved you. I have had to deal with that” — Salma Deera, Letters to Medea

“If someday the moon calls you by your name don’t be surprised, Because every night I tell her about you” — Shahrazad al-Khalij

Nadia

“All palaces are temporary palaces” — Robert Montgomery

“You know, they straightened out the Mississippi river in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. “Floods” is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding: it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.” — Toni Morrison.

“We’re each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?” — Ursula K. Le Guin, “Nine Lives”

“The first desire is to feel that one is Desired, not just wanted but preferred” — J. D. McClatchy, The Dialogue of Desire and Guilt

“If I can’t have love, if I can’t find peace, give me bitter glory” — Anna Akhmatova, Rosary

“I send my soul through time and space to greet you. You will understand” —  James Elroy Flecker, To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence

Julian

"Time for you and time for me, and time yet for hundred indecisions” — T. S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

“I over came myself, the sufferer; I carried my own ashes to the mountains; I invented a brighter flame for myself” — F. Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

“To have been on earth just once — that’s irrevocable. And so we keep on going and try to realise it, try to hold it in our simple hands, in our overcrowded eyes, and in our speechless heart” — Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies; The Ninth Elegy (tr. A. Poulin, Jr.)

(have I been walking in circles again?) — Margaret Atwood, Journey To The Interior

“Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt–marvellous error!– that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures” — Antonio Machado, Last night as I was sleeping

Muriel

“I am a very boring and unpleasant man, drowned in literature... but I do love you” — Vladmir Nabokov in a letter to his wife Vera, written in 1924

“Rejoice! Our times are intolerable” — Jenny Holzer

“We disappear as stars do, soundless, without a trace” — Charles Wright, Drone And Ostinato

“You don’t want to hear the story of my life, and anyway I don’t want to tell it, I want to listen” — dogfish, mary oliver

“—the way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.” — Mary Oliver, We Should Be Well Prepared

“History is a man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of. I know history. There are many names in history but none of them are ours” — Richard Siken, Little Beast

“The consistency of hurt is what makes it so comforting” — William Nu’utupu Giles, “what do you want? it’s not that simple”

Portia

“I exist as I am, that is enough“ — Walt Whitman, Song Of Myself

“I will plant myself in the garden / I will grow I know I know I know” — Forough Farrokhzad, Another Birth

“When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?” — Ocean Vuong, On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous

“I am doing my best to not become a museum of myself. I am doing my best to breathe in and out.I am begging: Let me be lonely but not invisible“ — Natalie Diaz, American Arithmetic

  Here, we worship      the hot pot; stuff our bellies             with blessings. My auntie says—

If we’re gonna suffer,      we gotta do it over good food.

— ode to enclaves by Chrysanthemum tran (she/they)

Lucio

“Abuse of power comes as no surprise” — Jenny Holzer, Truisms

“You spit on them because the taste left of on your teeth excites. You showed hope all over your face for years and then killed them” — Jenny Holzer

“And on a pedestal, these words appear: ‘I am Ozymandias, King of Kings; look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remain” — Percy Shelley, Ozymandias

“Lucifer: It may be thou shalt be as we.

Cain: And ye?

Lucifer: Are everlasting.

Cain: Are ye happy?

Lucifer: We are mighty.

Cain: Are thou happy?

Lucifer: No. Art thou?” — Lord Byron, Cain

“Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens” — Robert Montgomery