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gwynsplainer · 3 years

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On The Grinning Man and the De-Politicization of L'Homme Qui Rit (a Spontaneous Essay)

Since I watched The Grinning Man I’ve been meaning to write a post comparing it to The Man Who Laughs but I have a lot of opinions and analysis I wanted to do so I have been putting it off for ages. So here goes! If I were to make a post where I explain everything the musical changes it would definitely go over the word limit, so I’ll mostly stick to the thematic. Let me know if that’s a post you’d like to see, though!

Ultimately, The Grinning Man isn’t really an adaptation of the Man Who Laughs. It keeps some of the major plot beats (a disfigured young man with a mysterious past raised by a man and his wolf to perform to make a living alongside the blind girl he rescued from the snow, restored to his aristocratic past by chance after their show is seen by Lord David and Duchess Josiana, and the interference of the scheming Barkilphedro…. well, that’s just about it). The problem I had with the show, however, wasn’t the plot points not syncing up, it was the thematic inconsistency with the book. By replacing the book’s antagonistic act—the existence of a privileged ruling class—with the actions of one or two individuals from the lower class, transforming the societal tragedy into a revenge plot, and reducing the pain of dehumanization and abuse to the pain of a physical wound, The Grinning Man is a sanitized, thematically weak failure to adapt The Man Who Laughs.

I think the main change is related to the reason I posit the book never made it in the English-speaking world. The musical was made in England, the setting of the book which was so critical of its monarchy, it’s aristocracy, and the failings of its society in ways that really haven’t been remedied so far. It might be a bit of a jump to assume this is connected, but I have evidence. They refer to it as a place somewhat like our own, but change King James to King Clarence, and Queen Anne to Angelica. Obviously, the events of the book are fictional, and it was a weird move for Hugo to implicate real historical figures as responsible for the torture of a child, but it clearly served a purpose in his political criticism that the creative team made a choice to erase. They didn’t just change the names, though, they replaced the responsibility completely. In the book, Gwynplaine’s disfigurement—I will be referring to him as Gwynplaine because I think the musical calling him Grinpayne was an incredibly stupid and cruel choice—was done to him very deliberately, with malice aforethought, at the order of the king. The king represents the oppression of the privileged, and having the fault be all Barkilphédro loses a lot thematically. The antagonism of the rich is replaced by the cruelty of an upwardly mobile poor man (Barkilphédro), and the complicity of another poor man.

The other “villain” of the original story is the way that Gwynplaine is treated. I think for 1869, this was a very ahead-of-its-time approach to disability, which almost resembles the contemporary understanding of the Social Model of disability. (Sidenote: I can’t argue on Déa’s behalf. Hugo really dropped the ball with her. I’m going to take a moment to shout out the musical for the strength and agency they gave Déa.) The way the public treats Gwynplaine was kind of absent from the show. I thought it was a very interesting and potentially good choice to have the audience enter the role of Gwynplaine’s audience (the first they see of him is onstage, performing as the Grinning Man) rather than the role of the reader (where we first see him as a child, fleeing a storm). If done right, this could have explored the story’s theme of our tendency to place our empathy on hold in order to be distracted and feel good, eventually returning to critique the audience’s complicity in Gwynplaine’s treatment. However, since Grinpayne’s suffering is primarily based in the angst caused by his missing past and the physical pain of his wound (long-healed into a network of scars in the book) [a quick side-note: I think it was refreshing to see chronic pain appear in media, you almost never see that, but I wish it wasn’t in place of the depth of the original story], the audience does not have to confront their role in his pain. They hardly play one. Instead, it is Barkilphédro, the singular villain, who is responsible for Grinpayne’s suffering. Absolving the audience and the systems of power which put us comfortably in our seats to watch the show of pain and misery by relegating responsibility to one character, the audience gets to go home feeling good.

If you want to stretch, the villain of the Grinning Man could be two people and not one. It doesn’t really matter, since it still comes back to individual fault, not even the individual fault of a person of high status, but one or two poor people. Musical!Ursus is an infinitely shittier person than his literary counterpart. In the book, Gwynplaine is still forced to perform spectacles that show off his appearance, but they’re a lot less personal and a lot less retraumatizing. In the musical, they randomly decided that not only would the role of the rich in the suffering of the poor be minimized, but also it would be poor people that hurt Grinpayne the most. Musical!Ursus idly allows a boy to be mutilated and then takes him in and forces him to perform a sanitized version of his own trauma while trying to convince him that he just needs to move on. In the book, he is much kinder. Their show, Chaos Vanquished, also allows him to show off as an acrobat and a singer, along with Déa, whose blindness isn’t exploited for the show at all. He performs because he needs to for them all to survive. He lives a complex life like real people do, of misery and joy. He’s not obsessed with “descanting on his own deformity” (dark shoutout to William Shakespeare for that little…infuriating line from Richard III), but rather thoughtfully aware of what it means. He deeply feels the reality of how he is seen and treated. Gwynplaine understands that he was hurt by the people who discarded him for looking different and for being poor, and he fucking goes off about it in the Parliament Confrontation scene (more to come on this). It is not a lesson he has to learn but a lesson he has to teach.

Grinpayne, on the other hand, spends his days in agony over his inability to recall who disfigured him, and his burning need to seek revenge. To me, this feels more than a little reminiscent of the trope of the Search for a Cure which is so pervasive in media portrayals of disability, in which disabled characters are able to think of nothing but how terribly wrong their lives went upon becoming disabled and plan out how they might rectify this. Grinpayne wants to avenge his mutilation. Gwynplaine wants to fix society. Sure, he decides to take the high road and not do this, and his learning is a valuable part of the musical’s story, but I think there’s something so awesome about how the book shows a disabled man who understands his life better than any abled mentor-philosophers who try to tell him how to feel. Nor is Gwynplaine fixed by Déa or vice versa, they merely find solace and strength in each other’s company and solidarity. The musical uses a lot of language about love making their bodies whole which feels off-base to me.

I must also note how deeply subversive the book was for making him actually happy: despite the pain he feels, he is able to enjoy his life in the company and solidarity he finds with Déa and takes pride in his ability to provide for her. The assumption that he should want to change his lot in life is not only directly addressed, but also stated outright as a failure of the audience: “You may think that had the offer been made to him to remove his deformity he would have grasped at it. Yet he would have refused it emphatically…Without his rictus… Déa would perhaps not have had bread every day”

He has a found family that he loves and that loves him. I thought having him come from a loving ~Noble~ family that meant more to him than Ursus did rather than having Ursus, a poor old man, be the most he had of a family in all his memory and having Déa end up being Ursus’ biological daughter really undercut the found family aspect of the book in a disappointing way.

Most important to me was the fundamental change that came from the removal of the Parliament Confrontation scene, on both the themes of the show and the character of Gwynplaine. When Gwyn’s heritage is revealed and his peerage is restored to him, he gets the opportunity to confront society’s problems in the House of Parliament. When Gwynplaine arrives in the House of Parliament, the Peers of England are voting on what inordinate sum to allow as income to the husband of the Queen. The Peers expect any patriotic member of their ranks to blithely agree to this vote: in essence, it is a courtesy. Having grown up in extreme poverty, Gwynplaine is outraged by the pettiness of this vote and votes no. The Peers, shocked by this transgression, allow him to take the stand and explain himself. In this scene, Gwynplaine brilliantly and profoundly confronts the evils of society. He shows the Peers their own shame, recounting how in his darkest times a “pauper nourished him” while a “king mutilated him.” Even though he says nothing remotely funny, he is received with howling laughter. This scene does a really good job framing disability as a problem of a corrupt, compassionless society rather than something wrong with the disabled individual (again, see the Social Model of disability, which is obviously flawed, but does a good job recognizing society that denies access, understanding and compassion—the kind not built on pity—as a central problem faced by disabled communities). It is the central moment of Hugo’s story thematically, which calls out the injustices in a system and forces the reader to reckon with it.

It is so radical and interesting and full that Gwynplaine is as brilliant and aware as he is. He sees himself as a part of a system of cruelty and seeks justice for it. He is an empathic, sharp-minded person who seeks to make things better not just for himself and his family, but for all who suffer as he did at the hands of Kings. Grinpayne’s rallying cry is “I will find and kill the man who crucified my face.” He later gets wise to the nature of life and abandons this, but in that he never actually gets to control his own relationship to his life. When I took a class about disability in the media one of the things that seemed to stand out to me most is that disabled people should be treated as the experts on their own experiences, which Gwynplaine is. Again, for a book written in 1869 that is radical. Grinpayne is soothed into understanding by the memory of his (rich) mother’s kindness.

I’ll give one more point of credit. I loved that there was a happy ending. But maybe that’s just me. The cast was stellar, and the puppetry was magnificent. I wanted to like the show so badly, but I just couldn’t get behind what it did to the story I loved.

#the grinning man #the man who laughs #tgm musical #l'homme qui rit #victor hugo #gwynplaine's parliament rambles #long post /

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occasionaltirades · 3 years

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Ok, so I've been seeing an unfortunate number of people repeating media driven narratives about the withdrawal from the Middle East, and I have a lot of questions for them. So let's go:

Why do the last thirty days and thirteen lives matter more than the roughly 6,294 (2,448 service members and 3,846 contractors) lost in this conflict? Why do they matter more than the 65,000+ dead Afghan military and police that we trained to protect the Afghan government that we created? Why do they matter more than the 47,000 civilian deaths (that we know of)? Understand that I too believe that every life lost is a tragedy, and that I wish as much as anyone that these last few could have been avoided. But ask yourself: had we spent however many more years engaged, would we not have reached that grim toll?

Now, on to cost, why is it ok that we debt-financed no fewer than 2 TRILLION dollars, costing upwards of 8-10 trillion dollars after interest on a war that the United States Congress never voted to wage? And since I know that it's hard to comprehend that kind of number, I want you to understand what a trillion dollars is. A million dollars is a lot of money, yes? A trillion dollars is 1,000,000². SQUARED. Now multiply that by eight to ten to comprehend the financial burden of a war that was never voted upon. Consider what that has cost us in potential good that could have been done at home. And let us not forget the enormous number of veterans created by these conflicts, for whom we provide inadequate care and who suffer extremely high rates of suicide and homelessness despite the continued hundreds of billions we dump into our "defense" spending EVERY. SINGLE. YEAR. I personally believe that we should not create veterans when we are unwilling to care for the ones we have.

And what was it all for? To enter Afghanistan, kill Bin-Laden, and cut the head off of Al-Qaeda? Bin-Laden was killed in 2011. Why did it not end then? Why did we invade Iraq? If the important thing was defeating the Taliban, why was it the 2001 attacks that created the war rather than their 1996 takeover? Why is it important to us that Afghanistan has a democratically elected secular government when we not only abide, but support nations like Saudi Arabia and sell them weapons with which they wage their own inhumane wars where civilians pay the greatest price? If you cannot see the irony, you are willfully blind.

Stop pretending that this withdrawal somehow hurt the dignity of the United States or our service members. The fact that we spent twenty years fighting wars whose primary benefactors were ALWAYS corporations is our shame. We were warned of the potential power of a military-industrial complex decades ago by Eisenhower. We did not listen, and we paid the price in blood, money, and dignity. Pulling out later would have only cost more, and it's shameful how many people are unwilling to admit that. Mind who you listen to, and look for lobbying and sponsorship by companies like Raytheon, Lockheed Martin, and Boeing. You'll find the stink of their money all over those who act like somehow these last 30 days mean that you shouldn't remember the last 7,300.

#middle east #us withdrawal from afghanistan #taliban #afghanistan #military industrial complex

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linklethehistorian · 4 years

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Randou and the Sins of Season 3's Fifteen Adaption (Part 34/???)

Bones' Biggest Changes & Greatest Failures — The Tragedy of Arthur Rimbaud (13/?)

Without either including a monologue from a third party narrator of some variety or showing the inner thoughts and reflections of at least one of the main three characters involved — be it Arthur, Chuuya, or Dazai — there is no reasonable method of expressing Dazai’s callousness in this moment explicitly without it being very easily dismissed as precisely what we explored and ruled out above; unlike the book, which can give us the context in words as to what Dazai is reacting to and why, if the anime were to just show him smiling incredibly sinisterly and laughing at a trembling, huddled up Randou telling of his experience before demanding more information, the vast majority of the audience would most likely only chalk it up to being a supposed hint that Dazai had deduced the identity of the criminal even then and was trying to ensnare him, rather than being willing to face the idea that the suicidal fifteen-year-old could just be having fun tormenting someone who had done nothing to earn his cruelty. It would not even be possible to fully convey the true extent of Randou’s terror, or how he had never been seen in even half so bad of a state before as far as that boy was concerned, without adding dialogue from said teen which never existed and, as a result, likely lending a much more falsely sympathetic and caring air to the scene than would have been suitable; visuals or ordinary dialogue alone can’t provide this information, and therefore, at least in this case, I do feel it was reasonable for the studio to not even want to bother with it all that much.

With regard to most of the other side information that we could have learned about Rimbaud — his constant abuse and mistreatment at the hands of the old boss, which highlights even further his reasons for gratitude towards and appreciation of Mori as a leader, and his statements of not being willing to place any ultimate blame nor label of good or evil on Sheep, the Mafia, or any other less than legal organization like them as a whole, which further demonstrates his fairness to all people and ability to see all members of each as individuals rather than just “the enemy” or “an ally” based upon company allegiance, and thus his uniqueness from nearly all of his other colleagues in his thought processes — the vast majority of them can simply be attributed to a limit on time and a subsequent need to choose only that which is most essential to the plot, even if, as with many of these things, it was a terrible shame to see them fall by the wayside.

There are, however, two other details lost to this section which were not just innocently misplaced or cut simply due to time constraints, but rather, were either removed or altered with purpose — in both cases, to attain a certain specific goal.

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purplepaintedporcelain · 5 years

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qin su time travel fix it

When Qin Su brings the knife to her stomach, it is because living another moment in this rotten world seems unfathomable. Despite the ringing in her ears and her heartbeat’s echo throughout her bones, she can see her husband smiling as he plays with the dagger. He is always smiling. Instinct, rather than conscious thought, has her reaching for the blade in his hands and turning it back towards herself, struck by the knowledge that he’d never truly cared for her or their baby as much as he loved his power. With the strength born of total despair, she buries the dagger deep, wishing to never wake again.

Qin Su awakens. She keeps her eyes firmly shut, unwilling to acknowledge the failure of her attempt. She wonders what new lies her husband will have spun, how he will have exploited her tragedy to garner sympathy for himself. Tears spill uncontrollably from beneath her tightly shut eyelids, spreading over her cheeks. She begins to hiccup, unable to completely suppress her grief. If her crying alerts someone though- the thought of having to see the monster who has called himself her husband all these years sends a spike of rage through her that quickly overtakes her mourning. If she is still alive- if she has to live with everything that has been done to her- she will ensure that he will also regret it. The thought of causing her husband to publicly bear even a little of the humiliation that has been haunting her gives Qin Su the first sense of satisfaction she has felt since she first opened that terrible letter.

Resolve renewed, Qin Su opens her eyes, and realises for the first time that she is not in her rooms at Koi Tower, as she had assumed, but in a room she hadn’t seen for many years, indeed, one that had not looked this way for many years. She turns, taking in the impossibility of her childhood bedroom, with all the furniture and decorations that had existed before her marriage. She had taken a few with her to her married home, and others had been repurposed in the family home. Yet, unbelievably, here it all is. Screens, arranged exactly the way she liked them to block the worst of the morning sun. A patch of embroidery on the table over there, needle still upright in the middle of a row of stitches. Her outer robe, folded carefully to lie within her reach. Is she dreaming? A vision her mind conjured as she lay dying? She is startled from her musings by a knock at the door.

“Maiden Qin”, a voice calls.

Who would this be? Not one of her family, as evidenced by the address, but Qin Su has not lived with her maiden family for a decade and a half, and no longer entirely remembers all the staff and sect members that had dwelt here.

“Maiden Qin!” the voice calls again.

Dream or not, this summons evidently cannot go unignored.

“Here”, she croaks out, her voice unsteady from the earlier surge of emotion. “What is it?”

The door opens halfway, and a young girl stands there, dressed in a maid’s uniform.

“Maiden Qin”, she says, “your mother requests your company in the gardens this morning.”

One of the serving girls then. She hadn’t had a personal maid until after her marriage, as her father believed that a cultivator should neither be spoiled nor helpless, but the younger girls assisted her when necessary, or when her parents sent them on errands. As was evidently the case now.

“Please inform my mother I will be with her shortly”, Qin Su answers, managing to keep her voice mostly steady.

The girl nods and closes the door, light footsteps sounding briskly into the distance.

Qin Su hurriedly washes her face and dresses herself, taking a cup of fresh water to soothe her ragged throat. She feels less and less certain that this is a dream, believing that she could not have conjured a room or people she had not seen in fifteen years. But what else could this be? It is almost as if she is reliving a moment from her earlier life when things had been simple and innocent.

But things weren’t truly innocent, even then. Even from birth she was- and her mother had kept everything from her! Her mother. Who was expecting her. Qin Su is no longer entirely sure how she feels about her mother. She had missed her desperately, when she had passed away so soon after Qin Su’s marriage. But her mother had known all this time- and had let her marry without telling her who she was marrying, indeed, if Bicao’s account had been correct, had told her future husband while keeping her in the dark! Did her mother not respect her? Did she think Qin Su was too fragile to know such things?

Qin Su continues to ruminate as she moves through the halls of her home, her feet following the familiar path to her mother’s garden. She stops, blinking through the sunlight. Madam Qin is ahead of her, sitting on a blanket, intently watching the little birds that have come to one of the many bird feeders she had set up. Bicao stands behind her, wondering whether her mistress is warm enough in the early Spring air.

Tears spring unbidden to Qin Su’s eyes. No matter what this woman had or hadn’t told her, she is still the one who raised her all these years, cared for her and loved her, regardless of her origins. Unthinkingly, Qin Su is already running towards her, calling out.

“Mother!” she shouts, tears in her eyes but a smile spreading over her face.

Madam Qin looks up.

“A-Su!” she gasps. “A-Su, whatever is the matter? Is something wrong? You were fine when I saw you last night.”

Qin Su drops to the ground next to her mother, and entwines their hands. She takes a deep breath, and swallows back the tears.

“I am fine, mother. Simply uneasy dreams.” she turns to the woman and smiles again. “And you, mother? Are you unwell? Forgive me, but you seem rather pale and upset.”

“It is nothing, A-Su. I have merely been very busy. It is, of course, less than a month until your m-marriage.” Madam Qin’s voice slips on the last word.

Without knowing what she does now, Qin Su may not have noticed the tremor in her voice, as she surely did not on this day so long in the past. Her mind races at the implications of what her mother has just said. Less than a month! That would mean that A-Song was already-

Her hand drops to her flat stomach at the realisation of the faint flutter of life dwelling therein. A week before the wedding, she had missed her period, and realised what it meant. Jin Guangyao, still unaware of their relation, had soothed her fears, and promised her that no one would know if their child was born ‘premature’. By the birth, of course, he had known the truth about them, and he had never seemed to love A-Song as much as she had wished he would.

“A-Su?” Her mother’s voice startles her from her thoughts.

“Forgive me mother. I believe I am feeling unwell after all.” She gets up to leave and turns, bowing briefly to her mother.

She hurries back to her room, nodding quickly at her mother’s startled call of well-wishes. Her mind churns as she considers what she knows. She is currently pregnant with her baby, A-Song. Jin Guangyao had murdered her baby, and used his death for political gain. Whether this was still a dream or not, she could not bear to witness that again, would not tolerate such an action against her child. If she called off the marriage, her mother would still know who the father of her child was. And her father-

Qin Su thinks of her father, always so cheery and kind. He couldn’t have known the truth, or he would have saved her from the Jins. She wonders if he even knew she was the child of another. Had he known and loved her anyway, or would he find out and reject her as another’s bastard? If she told her father she no longer wanted to marry, he would want to know why, especially since she had begged him so long for this marriage in the first place. The truth would come out once she began to show, and she had no way of knowing how he would react. No, neither her family nor her fiance could be relied upon.

So what to do? Who would take her in, a runaway bride and pregnant? She thinks of her friends, her peers, who had fantasised about marriage with her as children, who had so sweetly congratulated her when she had fallen in love with and become betrothed to such a venerated war-hero. She cannot imagine any of those proper young maidens, who spoke so sweetly yet gossiped when no one was looking, being willing to aid her. Likely she would be their next topic of gossip, soon enough.

Qin Su lies on her bed, gazing up at the ceiling in frustration. She was not lying to her mother before, early pregnancy had been difficult for her in her memories, and she truly felt unwell. But her physical ailments were barely noticeable compared to the fear and helplessness in her heart. Jin Guangyao had murdered their baby for being the shameful product of incest. So long as he was a respected member of his clan, he might always harbour ill-will towards their child. She would have to keep him away from the Jin clan, which meant keeping him away from the cultivation world...

Qin Su suddenly realises that she has only been thinking so far in terms of the cultivation world. But there are other places she could travel, places outside of where the cultivation clans move. The people outside of the cultivation world may even appreciate a cultivator, even a mediocre one, to assist with their spiritual problems. A rogue cultivator, even a woman, should not attract too much attention, while she determines how to deal with Jin Guangyao.

Her hands rub gently over her belly again, imagining that she can feel the spark taking shape beneath them.

“I’ll protect you this time, A-Song” she whispers, making an unbreakable vow from mother to her child.

The next morning, chaos erupts in the Qin compound as all within frantically search for their young maiden Qin. The search continues in the next days, as the Qin, and now the Jin sect cultivators search for the young woman that must surely have been kidnapped to extract a high ransom from the two sects. As they search further and further by sword, none of them notice the young woman, disheveled and dressed in coarse clothing, slowly making her way towards freedom.

#mdzs #mxtx #mdzs fic #qin su #mo dao zu shi #fleece piece #haven't written for a very long time #but qin su just deserved so much better #the inherent embarassment of writing fanfic #not very edited but posting now meh

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galattea · 4 years

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‘Til it Gets to Me

Ingrid Brandl Galatea; a character analysis or - the things to cross her mind as the world goes dark

Primary Pairing; Ingrid/Sylvain Words: 3,029 Ao3

I suppose "character analysis" is a bit of a loose term. I had initially intended to be much more direct about the deeper intricacies to Ingrid's personality and feelings, but it ended up becoming a lot more plot driven. I haven't written much (if anything at all) for FE3H and I haven't publicly posted a work in what is almost two years now, so forgive any formatting errors along the way.

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Broken voices compete with the sounds of metal tearing into metal. They harmonize in a way that makes Ingrid’s spine grow rigid. She’s high above it all, hot wind nipping at her knuckles as she loops her stallion’s reins over them once more. She raises her left arm and then levels it horizontally. A cacophony of battle cries and beating pegasus wings is the response as her fleet scatters to their assigned directions before she herself leans forward and feels the weight of her mount follow her. In one practiced movement, Ingrid draws Lúin from her back and shifts her grip.

They’re nearing the ground now — Ingrid can feel her hair slick itself back against the wind as she raises her lance toward the group of archers she’s taken to targeting. She catches one through the shoulder before her pegasus has even met the ground, and is directing her full momentum towards the smaller one a few feet away when she feels the air around her spark with electricity.

Fuck.

Of course she had expected defensive measures to be put in place the first time she’d lead her fleet to pick off the empire’s ranged soldiers while those on the true battlefield dealt with their familiar swords and spears. But they’d caught her off guard by waiting.

Ingrid tugs her reins sharply to the left and meets eyes with a mage twice her size. She knows better than to try and take him out alone with two bowmen still standing behind her, and before she can fling herself into more danger than necessary she presses her heel to the base of her mount’s wing and is airborne before the crack of lightning hits where she had just been. She prays to the goddess that she didn’t just kill off the rest of her air support by overusing a strategy and watches the ground beneath her grow smaller.

She scans the battlefield as quickly as she can before deciding her next move. Deciding it best to continue her attacks behind enemy lines, Ingrid targets her next dive toward a more isolated corner of the fight.

Her heart thrums in her chest, emerald eyes locked on the dark head of hair she is heading straight towards. She can feel the determination to right her errors by pulling as much weight as she possibly can bubble up in her throat as a battle cry.

But it fizzles out in the air as the wind is knocked directly from her.

The shrill cry of her pegasus brings her eyes to its neck. Three arrows are buried there, blood staining the silver coat in which they found their mark. Ingrid is acutely aware now that she is falling backwards, the beating of her mount’s wings stilled. She knows exactly what this means for her.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Ingrid had never been ashamed of her home in Galatea. It was a noble house, after all, and it had been maintained as well as possible since her county’s golden days. That didn’t change the fact that it was fairly small, or the way that its age was ever present in the now lackluster walls and furnishings.

That was, until she had begun spending time in the homes of her friends.

She knew she was a much lower name on the list of Faerghus’ nobles, but as a child what that really meant had never quite crossed her mind. It was on her first visit with her father to Fraldarius that she realized just how quaint her lifestyle truly was.

But it was in there that she felt the most comfortable - where most of her childhood leisure was spent. It was in Fraldarius that she fell face first in love for the first time.

(She would later realize that love wasn’t the word for what she had felt for Glenn, but rather a naive childhood admiration.)

The elder Fraldarius had made a brash first impression on Ingrid when she was freshly eight. She had seen him train many times from afar by then, but never had they spoken. It wasn’t until she all but slammed face first into him as she chased Felix through the long hallways that Ingrid heard his voice for the first time.

“A knight is worth nothing with his head in his arse.”

Ingrid knew not why he spoke such a phrase to her, but something about the annoyed look on his face made her recoil back in shame.

After that Ingrid found herself enraptured by Glenn. She spent the next year lingering longer than she ever had in front of the training area in which he spent his time. He was so young and so gifted -- his body flowing effortlessly with each swing of his sword and the concentration on his face never faltering. She was awestruck. She wanted to watch him forever.

Ingrid’s designation soon changed from her “Glenn’s betrothed” to “underpaid babysitter.” With her fiancé’s training becoming more and more serious, her ability to spectate became less and less frequent. Instead, she found herself chasing the bright red hair of Sylvain Gautier through the courtyard of Dimitri’s summer home in Fhirdiad, an enraged Felix at her side. Sylvain’s laughter had rang through the well manicured trees like a bell. -- And then Ingrid is thirteen and her whole world comes crashing down. The news of the tragedy reaches her bedroom in Galatea well into the night and she finds her mouth agape and heartbeat stopped. She feels a pang she had never known could exist in anything but books. It is in the same hour that she swears her life upon becoming a knight.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The monastery fills Ingrid with dread, but her attitude changes the moment her gaze passes the stables. It is there that her passion for riding is sparked. Of course she had spent years alongside noble horses, but never before a creature so magnificent as those that were housed at Garreg Mach. Her spare time is quickly invested in offering her aid in whatever way possible. Between her studies and time caring for the pegasi, Ingrid finds herself enjoying the company of new friends in a way she had not expected. Ashe is quick to grow on her; he is soft and kind and lingers around the stables some evenings to watch her work and discuss old stories of knights. Annette and Mercedes take much more time to acquire her fondness -- she never dislikes them, only struggles to warm up to their constant begging for her to indulge them and their games of dress up. It is through them that Ingrid realizes she has a much repressed fondness for skirts, and she finds herself looking forward to their interactions more and more. Her childhood friends, however, offer a much different company. She spends many lunches conversing with Felix and Dimitri over their studies and many more evenings sparring with Felix as he aids in her swordsmanship. It is Sylvain that she finds the most troublesome. Since they were little he had always been a man after any woman’s heart, but with the introduction of freedom he had become quite the serial flirt. She knows deep down that he is doing it to rebel against the version of himself that his father projects upon him, that he harbors no true malintent towards the hearts he breaks, and it is for that reason that she continues to clean up after him despite her complaints. She does not acknowledge the strange twist she feels in her gut every time he leaves the room early to go entertain some maiden. -- Luin’s arrival to the monastery is something Ingrid does not expect. Her father was never a fan of the way his daughter had turned from a princess with her hand belonging to a fine noble into a knight with no care for romance alongside his sons, and she takes the offering of House Galatea’s relic as acknowledgment and approval of her choices. She feels honored.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

A soft knock upon her door startles Ingrid awake and she hoists herself from her bed. It’s well after midnight, she notes, lighting the oil lamp beside her bed and opening the door. On the other side she sees the back of Sylvain’s head as he turns down the hall. She clears her throat and he halts, a sheepish look on his face as he turns back to face her. There’s a cut on his upper lip, and dried blood caked in his hair. She blanches. “Where in hell-” She is already scolding as she ushers the taller boy into her room, “How? Sylvain, what in the name of Seiros are you doing here instead of an infirmary.” “If you wanted me in an infirmary so bad you wouldn’t have just brought me into your room,” he points out. It takes everything in her not to slap him. He perches on the edge of her bed as Ingrid digs furiously through the drawers of her vanity meant to store powders and makeup. Instead, she withdraws a glass bottle and a cloth. Her footsteps are silent as she pads back towards her bed and seats herself on her knees beside him. There is something about seeing Sylvain hurt that twists her stomach. She watches her hand intently as she raises the now damp piece of fabric to the side of his head, pretending not to notice the way he leans into her touch. There is no grimace or complaint as she gently rubs the alcohol over what appears to be an impact wound, presumably from another man’s armor. “You’re not seeing double, are you?” “No ma’am,” Sylvain responds, and Ingrid is once again overcome with the urge to backhand him. The cut takes a good moment to clean, with delicate fingers struggling to part bloodied hair without causing any unnecessary pain. When it is nothing more than a bright pink and angry line in his scalp, Ingrid sits back on her haunches. She folds the cloth, spending far too much time finding a clean spot before gently raising it to the bottle of alcohol again. She sets the glass back upon her bedside table before placing her hand on Sylvain’s cheek. Butterflies erupt in her stomach as their eyes meet. She can’t fight the urges -- can’t stop herself from leaning forward. He watches her, confusion written in his expression. They flicker to her lips. She closes her eyes. His lips are soft, terribly so, she notes as they meld together. Ingrid swears they stay like that for hours, lips moving softly against one another, before she realizes what she’s doing and draws back. Sylvain’s eyes are wide, but he hadn’t stopped her. He had even returned the kiss. “Ing-” “Out of my room,” she feels the harshness in her voice and the blood rushing to her cheeks but she refuses to look at him. He stalls for a moment, gaze boring holes into every inch of her skin, and then retreats. Ingrid is left in candlelit silence. Tears stream down her face as the alcohol from the cloth soaks into her clenched fist. She doesn’t meet his gaze again for a week.

There is some sort of silent agreement in place as Ingrid sets her books down on the table and seats herself right beside Felix. Her head falls to his shoulder and he doesn’t flinch or tense or shove her away. Instead, he rests his cheek on her forehead. A vigil is held in the cathedral, in which candles are lit and silence hangs heavy over students who never knew the fallen. To Ingrid it feels wrong and disgusting to put her grief on display in front of her peers. She assumes Felix feels much the same. There are no words for how they feel. The past four years they had spent in a wordless pact to protect one another where they couldn’t protect Glenn. Ingrid laces her fingers through his and feels warmth trickle down her face. There is no ceremony that can aid the ache she feels. So they sit in their own silence, pressed against each other as though the world depends on it.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

In all of her years spent there, Ingrid had never recalled Galatea being so suffocating. She doesn’t know how to feel. In one beat she wishes to be fighting in defense of her prince like she had always sworn herself to, but in the next she feels herself seethe at the mere idea of enabling Dimitri’s rampage. It feels like she’s fighting an uphill battle with her own ideals. But it is her father that brings her to a decision. Count Galatea had never truly enjoyed his daughter’s sudden desire to fight on the frontlines. Ingrid knew this much, and saw it evidenced in the way she found herself followed by suitors at least once a week. She tries to remind herself that it is because he cares about her. “It’s nice to have you home,” he is seated behind his desk, arms folded on the heavy oak. “It is nice to be home,” Ingrid smiles. “I’m glad to finally have my daughter off the battlefield.” Ingrid’s smile falters. She says nothing as she leaves his office. Her fingers wind through her hair and suddenly it is far too long for her taste. Without a second thought, she pulls an old pair of scissors from her desk. That night, she leaves for Garreg Mach.

She doesn’t miss the expression on Felix’s face as her mount trots toward the courtyard. Sylvain is poised at his side, a grin plastered upon his face. They both look so much different, although she supposes the same could be said for herself. “You’re late,” Sylvain calls. Something in Ingrid’s chest reacts to his voice. “Goddess forbid,” she laughs, swinging off her stallion as she reaches the two of them. “Nice hair,” Felix’s expression doesn’t change as he speaks, but she supposes she’ll take it as a compliment. Her old dorm is exactly as it had been left. Ingrid doesn’t let her mind linger on that for too long as she unclasps her breastplate and places the heavy armor on her old bed. Sylvain clears his throat from the doorway and she jumps. “So what made Galatea change its mind?” She shrugs at him, not meeting his eyes as she works to take off the rest of her armor. She can feel him roll his eyes. “Did you finally get sick of your father?” “Possibly.” He laughs at this, closing the door behind him and seating himself in her old desk chair. He looks a mess now that she sees him up close; the circles under his eyes are deep and his voice is hoarse. “He's still trying to send you off?” “Trying to keep me off the battlefield, more like,” Ingrid smooths out her blouse. “Not many suitors to be called upon when the majority are out here.” “I suppose,” he agrees, and she hopes she isn’t imagining the relief that flickers across his face. “And yourself?” the question leaves her mouth before she can think twice about it. “No ma’am,” he chuckles, leaning against the back of his chair. She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Ingrid’s fingers search frantically for leverage in the thin linen of Sylvain’s shirt as he kisses her. It isn’t the same as it was when she had kissed him all those years ago. It’s hot and it’s fast and there’s the weight of their own lives on their shoulders that presses them closer together. The mat on the floor of the makeshift tent isn’t the most comfortable thing Ingrid has ever been kissed on, but she doesn’t object as calloused hands lay her down. The fire outside is dim now, but its light pokes through the fabric that covers them and bounces off of Sylvain’s features like artwork. His eyes are heavy and his breathing is ragged as he strains against the bandage wrapped taut around his shoulder to lean over her. In the middle of this war, Ingrid is in heaven. They fall into each other, desperate to communicate words they don’t have time for in heated touches until they’re holding each other as though they’ll never see each other again once they’ve let go. It is there that Ingrid decides it. She is in love with Sylvain. She has been, since they were teenagers. It feels like a shot to the chest as she acknowledges this -- allowing herself to admit love for someone who was not Glenn after so many years. She doesn’t say it, but Sylvain knows. There is no way he doesn’t. He doesn’t return it, though, that much she is aware of. He holds her to his chest and breathes in her hair, and Ingrid allows herself to believe that, just for that moment, he is hers. That night she falls asleep to the sound of his breathing. —

Someone is screaming her name from a distance but she doesn’t turn to investigate. Her right is crushed under the weight of her long dead pegasus and her head is swimming.

“Ingrid -” she can make out a dark head of hair approaching her, can feel arms pulling her from beneath the horse. The aching has long stopped alongside the thudding of hooves and cries of soldiers. The battle is over.

She’s slung over someone’s back and he smells so familiar.

“We did it,” he’s saying in a voice she recognizes but with a strain she doesn’t. “We won, Ing. You did it.”

She coughs, something wet dripping from her lips.

“Glenn,” her voice is hardly a whisper. The person holding her stills. “I did it, Glenn.”

“You did,” the voice breaks.

“Don’t cry,” she’s smiling but she doesn’t register it, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Ing,” he replies, followed by a choked sob.

Her eyes are suddenly too heavy to bear. Her breathing stalls.

It is to the sound of Felix’s cries to a goddess that won’t answer that lull her to rest.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #sylvain jose gautier #sylvgrid #ingrid brandl galatea #fanfiction #im really sorry #she loves him and it sucks

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riviae · 4 years

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what if geralt catches regis looking in the mirror, tells him to close his eyes, and starts softly touching different parts of his face and describing them to him. or he has someone paint a portrait for him to look at instead ;_; im sorry your post made me sappy

It became an odd habit of sorts–checking his nonexistent reflection in the mirror–Regis realizes as he brushes off specks of dust from his jerkin. The standing-length mirror situated in the corner of his crypt had been a bit of an inside joke at first–he was already a vampire living in a cemetery, after all; what was stopping him from indulging in a few more lighthearted jokes? He already felt a secret pleasure at the garlands of garlic and collection of silver utensils he kept in his makeshift abode, so it was only in due time that he picked up an antique mirror from one of the stalls in the Beauclair marketplace, careful to keep the glass wrapped in a heavy, dark green fabric until it safely passed the threshold of his home.

And so the mirror remained, half-hidden in a dusty corner of the mausoleum, a few stray candles on a nearby table offering only a meager flicker of light. Not that Regis needed the candles either, but candles were a very human invention and one the vampire knew made humans feel just a little bit safer. Even if his only human visitor nowadays was Geralt, a witcher who could see perfectly fine in the dark, he had grown accustomed to the warm orange glow, the way the tiny beacons of light reminded him of his time spent amongst humans, learning and growing into the person he was today.

Just as Regis moves to adjust the cuffs of his shirt, he hears it: a familiarly slow heartbeat and with it, the faintest whiff of blood. Not Geralt’s, thankfully, but as the witcher grew closer, Regis could tell that he had recently bathed and cleaned his armor–it was his swords that carried the scent of old blood–both monster and human–a scent that could never be washed out completely. The swords had spilled so much blood despite Geralt’s best attempts at pacifism. He was a kind-hearted man by nature, but he knew when his only option was to kill.

“Hey,” the witcher greets, an easy grin upon his face. He meets his own gaze in the mirror before his eyes dart to the vampire. “Hmm… thought you hated mirrors.”

Regis turns away from the mirror, giving the witcher a fond look. “I hate that I have to avoid them. It’s the same with dogs, sorcerers, and telepaths–I have no hatred for them, I just dislike that I must go out of my way to avoid them.”

“I remember us having this conversation before. Think that was the first time I saw you really smile.”

“Is that so?” Regis begins, “Your memory is impeccable as always.”

“Only for certain things. Certain people,” Geralt replies, giving a tired shrug of his shoulders.

The admission, no matter how casual, sends a pleasant thrum of warmth through the vampire. For a man allegedly devoid of emotions, Geralt had quite a way of expressing them. Regis didn’t bother hiding his teeth as he smiled, lips pulling into a wide, happy grin.

“Careful with those fangs. Someone’s bound to notice,” Geralt teases.

“The only prying eyes here are the dead so I don’t think I have much to worry about.” With a lighthearted roll of his eyes, Regis turns back to the mirror, fiddling with his cuffs yet again.

Geralt’s voice suddenly sounds distant–but perhaps that isn’t the right word. Regis knows what grief sounds likes, the hollowness of it, the way it echoes in the emptiness of what was lost; the witcher’s voice sounds bereaved, but there’s an underlying fondness to it. It’s reminiscent; hopeful, even. “Remember when we first got to Beauclair? How everyone crowded into your room to get ready for the banquet?”

Regis huffs out a laugh. “How could I forget? Angouleme came in brandishing a pair of garden shears and asked me to cut her hair.”

“You even humored everyone with your floating scissors routine.”

Regis grew silent, unable to stop the flurry of memories that Geralt’s words had conjured up.

There was Milva begrudgingly slinking into the chair in front of the mirror to let Regis trim her bangs, expression softening as the rhythmic motions of having her hair cut lulled her into a light doze. When she stirred, she gave Regis a serious look and thanked him for his services. Whether she knew that the vampire had noticed her slipping out into the stables near the palace to cry at night, had noticed the tired bags under her eyes, and had helped her fall asleep peacefully for the first time in weeks, Regis wasn’t sure, but he did know that it wasn’t long until Milva began saving him a seat beside her during breakfast.

There was Cahir, usually silent and pensive, who suddenly showed a polite interest in all things related to Regis’ culture as a higher vampire. It was a unique parallel that they shared, both being sojourners in lands they did not belong to. Beauclair was as close to home as Cahir had been since Ciri–and then Geralt–had spared his life despite his connections to the Nilfgaardian Empire. Perhaps he had simply been feeling homesick as he sat in front of Regis’ mirror, invisible hands carefully trimming the are of his head where an axe nearly severed his scalp from his skull.

Even Dandelion had stopped by his room at some point, waxing poetic about the Duchess while Regis ran a brush through the musician’s long, blond curls. Their conversation drifted easily from topic to topic, spanning the arts and politics until undoubtedly returning to news about their company. Dandelion had always shown a near selfless interest in Geralt’s safety, that much was obvious to Regis, and only solidified that, despite appearances, the man was a genuinely good friend to have.

Then, his mind drifted to Angouleme. Perhaps the greatest tragedy of Stygga–he preferred to think of happier times, of happier memories, of the lopsided grins and loud laughter that she brought every day to the breakfast table while they wintered in Beauclair. And, of course, her endearing antics, which only increased in creativity when she realized that Regis had no reflection.

When he finally spoke aloud, his lips twist into a wistful smile. “Ah, that was quite funny, wasn’t it? That was the first time anyone–human, vampire, or otherwise–saw my lack of reflection as interesting, as something to be explored and, dare I say, something endearing about me. I enjoyed having dear Angouleme on my shoulders… even if she did kick me a few times by mistake during her theatrical performance.” Regis pauses, his hands reaching on reflex for the leather strap of his satchel that wasn’t there. Instead, his hands found purchase in the fabric of his jerkin, fingernails scraping harmlessly against the surface. “You know, I would do it all again. Even knowing what I do now, knowing how this all eventually ends, I wouldn’t trade my time with our little rag-tag group for the world.”

“Neither would I,” Geralt affirms, reaching over to squeeze Regis’ shoulder. The vampire was acutely aware of how his touch lingered there, the warmth and weight that radiated from the man’s simple comforting gesture.

The reflection in the mirror shows only the witcher, one hand stretched out into the dark, grasp loose and empty.

“It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?” Regis says. “It’s like I’m not even here. Without a reflection, it almost looks as if you’re talking to a ghost. It was difficult after Stygga to piece my body back together. Even with Dettlaff’s help… I was, well, I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I was convinced for some time that I was truly dead. There was nothing left of me aside from my consciousness. And once I did grow strong enough to begin the arduous process of becoming flesh and blood again, I had no real memory of myself to work with. I could only build back my appearance based on how I’ve heard other people describe me, of how Dettlaff described me when I was naught but a bloody smear in a dish.”

“Well, I think you did a good job,” Geralt replies, watching his own reflection as he–almost as if driven by instinct, some vestigial trait from the few vampire genes that were added to his mutated genome–reached up to gently cup the right side of Regis’ face. He knew exactly where Regis was, knew him well enough to reach out while his gaze remained fixed on the mirror, as if he was actually there beside him in the glass. It was only when he spoke again that he met Regis’ eyes, voice barely above a rumble. “You look a bit older, a bit more world-weary, but I recognized you immediately.”

Regis immediately leaned into the touch. Here, in the privacy of the crypt, he allowed himself a brief respite. He had spent so long trying to hide parts of himself, to hide the parts of himself that had realized long ago that he had fallen for the witcher. But now, after all the weighty events they had lived through, Regis was tired–and this, the warm hand on his face, the feeling of a sword-callused thumb rubbing absentmindedly at the high point of his cheekbone… it threatened to undo him entirely. He knew Geralt would never so much as point his sword at him now, unable to even think about harming him despite his relative immortality–and yet, the steady, consistent thrum of affection he felt for the witcher? It sometimes felt like it was cutting him to pieces, reshaping him into something that would rather turn into a pillar of ash than never see Geralt again–but it also felt a lot like love. Adoration. A warmth in his chest at the sight of the white-haired witcher, gold eyes lidded in contentment whenever his gaze wandered over to Regis.

“It’s really a shame you can’t see yourself,” Geralt says, hand drifting into Regis’ hair, gently combing a few dark grey locks behind his ear. “But I can help… if you’d let me.”

Regis inhaled sharply, unable to do anything but give a shaky nod of his head, mind spinning. He feared what he might say, what tightly-held secrets he’d divulge for Geralt alone, his thoughts centering upon a simple mantra: I’m not alone in these feelings–I can’t be…

Geralt’s thumb traces the edge of the vampire’s brow almost reverently and Regis can’t help but shiver at the touch. “You’ve got dark, thick eyebrows mixed with a bit of grey and silver. It suits you. You didn’t always have as much grey in your hair as you do now… but I like it. Feels right, somehow.”

The witcher’s hand drifts to the corner of the vampire’s left eye, index finger curled underneath a few black lashes of his bottom eyelid. “Your eyes are dark–almost as black as your eyelashes. It isn’t easy to see the separation between your iris and pupil. It makes it difficult to tell what’s going on in that head of yours sometimes, but I like that. Sometimes it’s too easy to read people. Ah, and you’ve always had a very obvious set of crow’s feet in the corner of your eyes. It just means you’ve smiled plenty. That you’ve been happy, and that even subconsciously, you were aware of the happiness you felt, that you let it show on your face after regenerating.”

He continued, stepping away for only a moment, as if he were trying to put Regis’ entire visage to memory. As if this would be the only time he would get to see him like this again: unguarded, open, hopeful, a vulnerable side that clashed so obviously with his near immortality as a higher vampire. Geralt smiled, drawing closer yet again. “Hmm… your features all together make you look aristocratic. Like I’d see a painting of you in a castle. You’ve got an impressively crooked nose and a sharp jaw. Your cheekbones are high too and you’ve got a few wrinkles on your forehead that make you look distinguished. You’re stunning–you’ve always been stunning. ”

“Geralt…” Regis breathes, tone bordering desperation. “Please…”

Wordlessly, Geralt closed the gap between them with a kiss, hands cupping Regis’ face. The vampire encircled his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, closing his eyes as he felt the tension in his body disappear. There was only the touch of Geralt’s lips against his own, the warmth of his hands against his cheeks, and the heart-tugging realization that he was truly home. It didn’t matter where he was, so long as Geralt was with him. Because Geralt knew him, knew all of him–the dark, the ugly, the cowardly, the parts of himself that kept him teetering on the edge of relapse–and still loved him.

It had always been Geralt who saw him–the one person he trusted to be his mirror, to help him see the parts of himself that were worth loving. And it had made all the difference.

#geralt of rivia #emiel regis #geralt x regis #so sorry this took so long ;v; idk how but the drabble got away from me #love the idea of geralt being regis' own moral mirror so to speak #as well as just pointing out all the physical features he loves #anyway i'll probably edit this more later & upload it to ao3 when i get the chance!! hope y'all enjoy it~#[frantically cleans out drafts]

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leaderoftheduckresistance · 4 years

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The Many Long Reasons I Hate Riverdale Season 5 Episode 7

1) Military Propaganda

What the ever living hell is up with the military in this show? Who signed off on this? Is the US Military sponsoring these episodes? We have no idea what the hell The War™ is about. We have no clear understanding of what war Archie is fighting in, nor who they are fighting against; however, we are told to assume that the US army is the good guys because military=good. Every single character from the military this season is treated this way, as if the military is some holy organization capable of doing no wrong. And Archie rising to become a Sergeant in the army is some noble goal that we should be happy about for him. Someone is assumed to be a good person simply for being a veteran; they are described as an “us” to counter some supposed “them.” There is a massive delineation between who is considered “good” and who is considered “bad,” and it is purely based on which side of the war you are on. However, and I will repeat this, we do not know who the US is fighting against. This framing of the military is pure propaganda meant to illicit a positive view towards an organization that has not shown any sign of deserving that praise.

2) Riverdollars

WHAT THE EVER LIVING HELL IS THE DEAL WITH RIVERDOLLARS? I really need every single person reading this to understand that I hated every single moment of this plotline from beginning to end. They are creating a company town. In essence, a company town is a place where currency is controlled by a central body - ie. instead of using the traditional currency of the country, they have created a new currency that only applies to that one town. And instead of getting paychecks in legal tender, you get paid in the company’s private currency. It is a horribly exploitative business practice that essentially traps people within the town. Because if your paycheck is not legal tender, then when you leave, you are broke. You have absolutely zero usable money outside of that city. And within that town, you must buy from company stores, pay rent for your house to the company, get healthcare from your company, etc etc. You get the point. It is a system in which workers are subservient and dependent on the company for their very survival. Many historians have written about company towns as a modernization of slavery. They are awful. They are disgusting.

Unless you are in Riverdale. Then they are amazing. I have no idea why they chose this direction, but they have glorified company towns. They have framed it as Riverdale’s salvation. That is. disgusting. How dare you transform something that has exploited labor and workers for over a century (because company towns still exist) and making it into a happy little plotline about taking on the big guy. No. F*** you. Veronica has created a system in which she is the sole person in control of the economy; she has created a system in which people are dependent upon her currency. This is not an act of good faith. This is much worse than most things Hiram Lodge has done in this show. And to exploit your students, children, into becoming the main catalysts for this system only makes it worse. This is not a positive topic; you disgust me.

3) Education

Okay there is some legitimate educational theorists that argue that schools should teach students to be active members of their community. Scholars like James Beane and Michael Apple have written entire books arguing for the benefits of engaging students in the democratic process, and many of their examples involve lobbying and working with local governments to achieve desired results. There is legitimate educational theory that Riverdale could have delved into for their plotline here. BUT INSTEAD THEY DIDN’T. Every single democratic educator I have read (which by no means is the opinion of everyone) has agreed that the initiatives that students work towards must originate from their own views and desire to enact social change. In Riverdale, though, that is not how this class is being taught. Veronica came up with the initiative and the method by which they were going to accomplish their goal. Then they had the audacity to frame the students as bad people for participating in the initiative THAT VERONICA TOLD THEM TO TAKE PART IN. I feel like I need to stress this point: Veronica did not use them printing more money to teach them about economics. Instead, she shamed them and forced them to do PHYSICAL LABOR to atone for their sins of having independent thought. It is almost the direct opposite of any beneficial educational theory that exists; Riverdale is shaming students for displaying initiative and critical thought while reinforcing that the job is to just do what the teacher says. That is not education. That is recruiting a bunch of underage worker drones to fight in your war with your father. I will stress this again: Veronica is not helping Riverdale; she is simply instating herself as the new dictator. She is the bad guy in this plotline. And the concept that the show portrays this as good teaching brings me physical pain. I will repeat: This is not education. This is abusing your students. Don’t glorify this.

However, in Riverdale’s defense, this style of teaching does line up with the general teaching methods of poor, inner city, schools. Scholar Jean Anyon has written an essay about how inner-city schools teach children to respect authority and follow steps rather than critically think. That lines up with how Veronica is teaching her class. Do I think that was intended? No, but it is right.

Ya know what isn’t right? The racial demographics of Riverdale High. The US schooling system is intensely segregated (if you’re interested, Jonathan Kozol’s “The Shame of the Nation” covers the topic very well in my opinion), and if you were to have two cities right next to each other, one that is wealthy and affluent and another that is intensely poor, you would see a racial bent where, on average, at least 90% of students at Riverdale High would be Black or Hispanic. This has been a problem in Riverdale for years - most likely, Southside High should also have been predominately minorities - but coming after their multiple statements about a commitment to having POC in their show, it is absolutely shameful. How the HELL do you write a season about institutional poverty and education while perpetuating the myth that somehow white people are most affected. It is ignoring and silencing the very real social problem surrounding education in poor neighborhoods, and I would not be so upset about this IF IT WERE NOT THE CENTRAL THESIS TO THIS ENTIRE SEASON. It is awful. It is destructive.

4) Little Concluding Bit

I have more I could talk about here, like how the writers don’t seem to have any care for actual economic theory and how printing 10,000 more Riverdollars would not cause inflation. Or how running into a burning building in front of your students does not teach the right message. Or how firefighting training started with workout drills instead of, ya know, how to put out a fire. Or how the Serpents being minorities and still having the arc of “you think they’re bad but actually they’re good people” could actually have been an interesting commentary on how society views (primarily minority) students that become parts of gangs. But I have to stop somewhere.

So let me conclude with this thought: this episode was my single least favorite episode of Riverdale ever. It is probably not their worst; that title probably goes to how poorly they handled trans people in Hedwig. But this one struck me personally. This episode glorifies exploitation of labor/workers, the US military, and provably destructive teaching practices while sweeping under the rug full histories of racial, social, and global inequality/tragedy. I want to look every single writer that touched this episode what the ever living f*** they thought they were doing here because what they actually did is intensely destructive. Sometimes you just perpetuate dangerous societal beliefs; oopsie daisy.

#riverdale #riverdale 5x07 #sorry i'm upset #do better #god this is bad #0/10 would not recommend

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kingedwardvi · 4 years

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Calendar of State Papers Foreign: Edward VI 1547-1553

1551

June 6. Florence. Francis Peyto to the Earl of Warwick. With his last of the 23d May, had sent to his Lordship the plot of Dragut's escape, and divers occurrents of these parts. Since then nothing is heard but the daily increasement of Parma's matters. Don Ferrante Gonzaga is ordered to Castello Guelfo, eight miles from the city, there to attend and waste the country.

The Pope wages many soldiers and commands them all to Bologna. The Duke here gave licence for 3,000 of his subjects, who have already departed, and it is said he will forthwith despatch 2,000 foot and 200 horse under the conduct of Signor Radulpho Baglione, one of his chiefest captains.

No man passes through his dominions unsearched of letters and whither he repairs. He is a Prince who wisely governs himself in all occasions. Good store of ammunition is sent to Bologna. Hard shift has been made of the Pope to have money; besides good surety, he gives two per cent., and so he takes one half-year at this interest; nevertheless he should be but simple furnished, were not the Emperor more his aid.

Yesterday arrived some Frenchmen from Rome, who say that M. de Thermes looks for his licence daily, and goes to Parma, and Cardinal Tournon to Venice. The French in Rome are but homely welcome. Dondego [Don Diego], the Emperor's Ambassador, singularly serves his master with the Pope. M. de Monluc, who is sent to the Pope from the French King, passed this way two days ago.

The Spanish Prince is daily expected in Italy, and to embark at Lerizzi [Lerice], not trusting to come to Genoa for the business that has been lately in these parts. A plot to give the town into the Emperor's hands had been discovered there, and Spinola, one of the chief actors therein, taken and imprisoned. It is reported that Dragut has taken two galleys off Sicily, and that for fear of the Turk's navy many soldiers are sent to the river of Apulia. Sends herewith the news from Rome, whereby his Lordship will see whether they be truly advertised.

If Stafford comes this way his Lordship shall have knowledge. Returns thanks for his reward, the receipt of which he had acknowledged in his last letter. [One page and a half.] Annexed,

370. I. "From Rome of the 23d of May." Latest news from Flanders bear that betwixt the noblemen of the realm (of England) is like to be great sedition, especially in the north, by reason of changes among the wardens; that the Marquis of Dorset with a great company is sent thitherward, and to be immediately followed by the Earl of Warwick with all his power.

The Earl of Shrewsbury is put out of his office; and the Earl of Derby commanded to renounce his title of the Isle of Man to the King, which he has plainly denied, and prepares himself. All men out of wages are taken up, but whereunto it is not known. 500 or 600 men waited on the Mayor and Aldermen of London, complaining of the late influx of strangers, and that by reason of the great dearth theg cannot live for these strangers, whom they were determined to kill up through the realm, if they found no remedy.

To pacify them the Mayor and Aldermen caused an esteame to be made of all strangers in London, which showed an amount of 40,000, besides women and children, for the most part heretics fled out of other countries. Details of precautionary and restrictive orders issued by the municipal authorities accordingly.

The war proceeds against Ireland. The Scots molest England on the north. A ship laden by the English at Antwerp with harness, weapons, and much gold, had been arrested for the Emperor: they are likely to lose all and many of their men be imprisoned. They play bankrupt many of them in Flanders.

There is chopping and changing of them of the Council. The gentry are obliged to fortify themselves in their houses, except those who are obliged to go to the wars, and the common people die for hunger. The Emperor has sent to the King and Council that he would have his nephew (sic) Lady Mary to marry with the King of Polonia, whose wife died lately: the answer thereto not yet known.

The French take their time, but as yet they keep peace with them. There be of their knot Lord Shrewsbury, Lord Dacre, the Constables, Mr. Bowes, knight, and all their retinue, and the Earl of Derby. The end of this heavy tragedy of that realm, with the ruin of the King, will be shortly seen, as it was never other like with this Government.

Morysine has left the Emperor's Court with great rebuke and shame, and is replaced by Dr. Wotton. As they fear sore the Emperor in this travail within the realm, it is thought they will consent to the sending of the Lady Mary. The fourth of September shall be the first sitting of the Council.

370. II. "In letters of the 29th of May." News concerning Parma are clean contrary to what he formerly wrote. The Pope and French King are at utter defiance. Don Ferrante Gonzaga has already wasted Campania with 800 horse and 6,000 foot.

The Emperor has lent the Pope 3,000,000 crowns, and says he shall lack neither men nor money to defend the Church. The Pope is marvellously offended with the message brought by his nephew Sig. Ascanio della Cornia from the French King, that he swears he will lay his triple crown with all the rest to pledge, but he will have Parma.

Imminent danger of great wars. The Emperor and his son the King of Spain reported to be very sick. News from France of the embassy for marriage of the King of England with the French King's daughter, and of the exchange of the Orders of the Garter and St. Michael. If the marriage goes forward, it is thought the Pope will excommunicate both. Two days ago here was taken and put in prison Sig. Aurelio Fregoso, a Genoese, a great captain of the French party, who came privily from Duke Octavio.

Note on back: "Mr. Thomas Stafford, my Lord's nephew, will pass by you shortly, and perchance move you for a certain Partito, wherein take heed what you do, nor in nowise disclose to him of the matter I wrote you of the hospital. And as for all other things you may talk at large, he hath good fancy towards you." [Three pages.]

---- June 6. Angers. Sir John Masone to the Council. In consequence of the receipt of their letter of the 25th May, he had a conference with the Constable relative to the conduct of Senarpont at Sandingfeld, and was assured by him that the King had so written his mind to the former that they should hear no more of it, and that the ground had not been given to Senarpont, or was by any means so meant. M. de Chastillon moreover was shortly to go to these frontiers, and if he found anything there out of square, should have commission to see a full redress therein.

This evening M. de Chastillon came to him on part of the King to notify the election of King Edward into the Order of St. Michael on the preceding day, and that M. de St. André was to repair forthwith to England for the purpose of investing his Majesty. Chastillon goes to Picardy shortly.

The affair of Parma still hangs upon the answer looked for from the Bishop of Rome; but it is thought the end thereof shall not be so unquiet as it was feared. The Scottish Queen makes as though she would gladly be in Scotland, but he believes she will make no such haste, being desirous of bringing all the forts in Scotland into the hands of the French, which as yet has not been obtained, and were the Scottish noblemen at home again, she knows there would be no possibility in the matter.

The Scot that should have poisoned the (young) Scottish Queen arrived here yesterday. The King left for Chateaubriand to-day. About Thursday or Friday next the Marquis of Northampton will be at Nantes, and if no alteration is made in the plan will come from thence to Chateaubriand. By this time he is probably within a day's journey from Orleans. [Four pages. Indorsed by Cecil.]

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June 8. Orleans. The Marquis of Northampton to Sir John Masone. Thanks him for his letters of the 4th and 6th inst., and proposes that instead of Masone going to Nantes, they shall meet at his last loading between this and Nantes, called Engrand, where he intends to be on Sunday or Monday night at farthest, considering that coming down the water they shall be in more quiet and have better time for conference. Refers to the discretion of Masone his reply to the Constable's wish for Marshal St. André's tarrying, but he should be reminded of the mutual understanding that there was to be no delays in the reciprocal departure of the Ambassadors. Sends list of those who compose the embassy with the number of their servants, as follows:— Marquis of Northampton, with 62 servants. The Bishop of Ely " 21 " Sir Philip Hoby " 30 " Sir William Pickering " 30 " Sir Thomas Smith " 7 " Dr. Oliver " 4 " William Thomas, Secretary " 2 " The Earl of Worcester " 8 " The Earl of Rutland " 9 " The Earl of Ormond " 3 " Lord Fitzwalter " 4 " Lord Lisle " 8 " Lord Abergavenny " 7 " Lord Braye " 3 " Lord Rivers " 4 " Mr. Throgmorton " 4 " Mr. Sydney " 4 " Sir William Cobham " 2 " Sir Joseph Cutts " 2 " Sir John Perrott " 4 " Sir Anthony Guidotti " 3 " Sir Gilbert Dethick, Garter King of Arms " 4 " Mr. Fitzwilliams " 3 " Mr. Cary " 4 " Mr. Knolles " 1 " Mr. Edmund Vernay " 2 " Mr. Francis Vernay " 2 " Mr. Young " 4 " Mr. Nicholas Alexander " 2 " Chester Herald at Arms, [William Flower] " 2 " Rouge Dragon poursuivant [Martin Maroffe] " 1 " Lucas Fringer " 1 " [Two pages and a half. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.] ---

June 16. The Council to the Marquis of Northampton. Had received his letter of the 6th. On Sunday last the French Ambassador notified to his Majesty his election into the Order of St. Michael, and yesterday requested audience again that he might receive an official acceptation thereof in order to certify the King his master of the same; wherein, as they can conjecture, he is a very precise and circumspect man, intending to write even the same words that he should receive. Desire him to explain to the French King the high gratification of their master, which was perhaps not so apparent to the Ambassador. "The King's Majesty's young nature being of such modesty that in his most gladness hath not much outward show thereof, and besides that his Majesty's French speech being not natural to him, cannot so abundantly express the joy of his heart as if he should have answered in his natural speech as the French King did in his." Are informed that the English Commissioners and the Scots have agreed upon a treaty, the particulars of which in writing they expect to receive by Sir Thomas Chaloner in four days, and request him to notify this to the French King. [Three pages. Draft.]

--- June 26. Chateaubriand. The Marquis of Northampton and the other Ambassadors to the Council. On Wednesday last, after dinner, they had another conference with the French Commissioners respecting the amount of dowry to be settled on the Princess Elizabeth in the event of her marriage with his Majesty, the particulars of which are minutely detailed. After long discussion they reduced their original demand of 1,500,000 crowns to 800,000; and the French raised their offer of 100,000 to 200,000 crowns.

Desire to have farther instructions, and that they may be sent speedily by the bearer, William Thomas, as the King leaves for Nantes on Monday next, minding to tarry on the way, and there not above eight or ten days, intending to conduct the Queen where she shall be brought to bed. Such removings greatly add to their charges, and they have already troubled the country so much with the furniture of their numerous horses, that if they have to wait till the King's removing from Nantes, they believe it shall not be possible for them to be supplied, the train of the Court being so great as it is.

"Garter's reward was a chain weighing 200 crowns and somewhat more, and the gown which the King wore that morning, which was of damask, set with agletts esteemed between 20 and 30 pounds." Have received the reply of the French Commissioners in writing, and send it herewith. [Six pages.]

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(....)

Mr. Nicholas Wotton, Ambassador with the Emperor at Augsburg, had audience of him, and having declared his instructions unto the Emperor, his answers were:— "1. That my Lady Mary's matter concerning mass was of importance, and therefore he said he would think of it and speak with D'Arras, of whom he should know his answer in it.

"2. That as for the request for the King's Highness' Ambassador to have the communion secretly, &c., he knowing in his conscience that the communion, used as it is in England, is not good, but contrary to the order used by all the Church so many hundred years, he should offend God if he permitted it, and that therefore he may not and would not do it.

"3. That as for the arrests made in the Low Countries, the Emperor made strong at it, and said he knew nothing of it. 'Marry,' quoth he, 'the French at Dieppe had staid some of my subjects' ships, whereupon the French ships were staid again in the Low Countries; and unless there were some of the English merchantmen's goods in their ships, he knew not what it should mean.' He could say no more to it at this time, but he said he would write to the Queen his sister of it, who shall certify and satisfy the English Ambassador there in this point.

"4. That the Emperor did remit Mr. Wotton for an answer for the licence for the powder to Mons. D'Arras, whereupon he was earnest with Mons. D'Arras for it. His excuses were, that the King of England had no need at that time of it; that the Emperor had need of it, and should lack for himself, for now the Turk hath opened the war again."

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June 30. [Greenwich.] King Edward VI. to Sir John Masone, recalling him from his embassy in France. [One page. Draft.]

---- June 30. [Greenwich.] Same to Sir William Pickering, intimating his appointment as resident Ambassador in France. [One page. Draft.]

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June 30. [Greenwich.] Instructions from King Edward VI. to Sir William Pickering, to be observed by him on entering upon his duties as Ambassador after the departure of Sir John Masone. [Five pages. Indorsed by Cecil. Draft.]

---- June 30. Greenwich. Second instructions given by the King and Council to the Marquis of Northampton and his colleagues. They may accept of 600,000 crowns, but no less; shall agree to no relinquishment of his Majesty's titles, rights, or claims to anything in France or Scotland; shall decline any offensive and defensive war treaty; and shall listen to no alterations of religion in England, that "perchance may be moved by the practices of the Romans and their adherents." [Two pages. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

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July 2. Greenwich. Third instructions from King Edward VI. and the Council to the Marquis of Northampton and his colleagues. They shall ask 400,000 crowns, and may agree to take 200,000, with the transportation at charges of the French King, rather than break off the treaty. [Six pages. Draft.] ---

July 3. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to the Council. Details a conversation which he had this evening with the French Ambassador in relation to the ceremony used by the Marquis of Northampton in investing the French King with the Order of the Garter, and the treaty of marriage between King Edward and the Princess Elizabeth, god-child of his father King Henry VIII., now only seven years of age, which is concluded, and the Marquis on the eve of returning.

The Emperor is not expected here for two months, although one of the Council a few days since said that he was to leave Augsburg for this place on the 10th inst. It is reported that the Turk does nothing as yet in Transylvania, and that the inhabitants of that country are treating upon articles to be wholly at the devotion of the King of the Romans.

The Prince of Spain has not yet embarked, and it is now said he will take shipping at Spezzia, beside Leghorn, under the Duke of Florence, for that at Genoa they have but little mind at this time to him and his train. The States of Brabant are here assembled. The Duke of Arschot has been slain by one of his own gentlemen through folly. The Prince of Orange now marries the daughter of Count Buren. Hears that four or five ships of war have left Zealand, said to be for the conducting of the herring fleet. Still great military preparations are being made. [Four pages. Partly in cipher, deciphered.]

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July 17. Nantes. The Marquis of Northampton to Cecil. The inclosed packet is from a Scot in the French Court, who seems to bear good will to the English, and has written to some of his friends to apprize the Marquis from time to time of what happens in Scotland. Requests Cecil to read them, and if he thinks good to forward them to Berwick for delivery. [Half a page.]

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July 19. Angers. Treaty of marriage between King Edward VI. and Elizabeth, daughter of Henry II., King of France.

--- July 20. Beaufort. Henry II., King of France, to King Edward VI. Recredentials of the Marquis of Northampton and his colleagues, and expressive of his Majesty's satisfaction at the conclusion of the treaty. [Countersigned by De l'Aubespine. Broadside. French.]

---- July 20. Beaufort. Same to same. Re-credentials of Sir John Masone, approving of his conduct while Ambassador, and expressive of his Majesty's pleasure at the appointment of Sir William Pickering as successor. [Countersigned by De l'Aubespine. Broadside. French.]

---- July 20. Inventory of silver and gilt plate delivered to Sir William Pickering on entering upon his duties as Ambassador-Resident in France, amounting to 2,697 ounces. [Two pages.] ---

Aug. 29. John Dominic Panizonus, the Emperor's Secretary, to King Edward VI. Informing his Majesty of the death of William Panizonus, and requesting that his sons Constantine and Christopher, whom on his death-bed he had recommended to his Majesty, may be taken into his service. Two of the same family,—Francis, a physician, and John Baptist, a valet (domicellus),—had previously died while serving the Crown of England. [Latin. One page.]

--- Aug. 30. Fontainebleau. Sir Anthony Guidotti to the Earl of Warwick. Last Wednesday the 26th inst., in a private interview, the Duke of Guise suggested that, during the trouble between the French and the Emperor, England should arm by sea for the defence of her coast; whereby the Emperor might be put in some doubt, and yet could have no occasion to be offended. And thus England keeping one side, and the French having a strength on the other, the Emperor would not be too hasty to adventure into the canal between both. If he may offer an opinion, it would be well to do this, even though they should expend 50,000 or 60,000 crowns, as by such a step they would secure for ever the good will of France. The Duke also mooted a marriage between the Duke of Ferrara's son, who is one of the goodliest young men of all Italy, and the Princess Elizabeth. The Duke of Florence's son is 11 years old. If this party were liked, it were an easy matter to be concluded without any excessive dote. [Two pages and a half.] Contemporary translation of the above. [Two pages and a half.]

---- Aug. 31. Hamburg. Colonel William Wallerthum to King Edward VI. Requesting his Majesty's interference towards procuring payment from Henry and John Albert, Princes of Magdeburg, and John Margrave of Brandenburg, for a body of cavalry which he had raised for their service; and begging his Majesty to recommend him to the King of France for employment. [Latin. Three pages.] ---

Sept. 1. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. Is it not possible, that seeing dickers will not be granted, somewhat else, as able to stretch to the payment of his debts as dickers, may be obtained? Still to sue, and never to speed, is a life for hope and not fit for an Ambassador, that must have and not still hope to have. He must else make his men learn to hope for meat, and to miss of it. If they bar the Ambassador of massings, and thereupon the Emperor calls for him home, prays that he may be called for too, or else they may hope to call when he shall be where he cannot hear them. Thought it would have been his turn to come home first, but he must do as he is commanded, because he cannot do as he could have desired. Yet he does think his abode short here, and Cecil by the next shall do him pleasure to give him some light. He might send his wife a piece of the way, while fair weather lasts. [One page.]

--- Sept. 3. Augsburg. The Emperor Charles V. to King Edward VI. Re-credentials of Dr. Wotton. Countersigned by Bavé. [Broadside. Indorsed erroneously 13th.]

--- Sept. 4. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to the Council. It is reported that the Bishop of Rome and the Farneses are in communication will small hope of agreement. What the Turk's army has done at Tripoli is not yet known, but it is believed it will winter at Tolne. News have arrived that the French have captured 17 great hulks going to Spain, richly laden, to the extent of 800,000 ducats; which news hath dashed the talk of Parma, Magdeburg, and all others. Six ships are lately sent out of Holland to waft the herring fleet, it is said. Letters from Rouen state that the French King appoints a parliament at Paris to determine upon the supremacy of the Church within his own realm. The Prince of Spain is reported to have been in Navarre, where they have sworn and done homage to him. [One page.]

--- Sept. 4. Melun. Sir William Pickering to the same. Last Tuesday the 1st instant had received their letters of the 28th July, which thus had been a month on the way. Next day had an interview with the King, and thereafter with the Constable; of which the details, chiefly on-the affairs of the Continent, are minutely narrated. Requests an increase of salary, not having half enough to defray his ordinary expenses, inasmuch as, one day with another, he spends 13 or 14 French crowns, and all that he receives does not amount to seven. [Fourteen pages and a half. Printed by Tytler, Vol. i., p. 408.]

---- Sept. 5. Venice. Peter Vannes to Francis Yaxley. [One page. Torn perpendicularly, like the letter from Vannes to the same party of 25th July 1551, so as to be unintelligible.]

--- Sept. 5. Strasburg. Christopher Mount to the Council. The continuation of the Council summoned for the 1st of September at Trent is deferred by the efforts of the Emperor. The Bishops of Treves and Mentz have arrived there; those of Cologne, Strasburg, Besançon, and Constance are daily expected; and almost all the German Bishops are forced to go to them by Imperial mandate. On the other hand, Duke Maurice and the Elector of Brandenburg and their theologians, with some learned in the law. The theologians of Wittenberg have lately drawn up a confession of faith, which has been received and authorized by a great number of Saxon theologians and preachers. In Upper Germany, Brentzen, with the assent of the divines of Tubingen and Strasburg, has also prepared a confession, which has been signed and approved by the Duke of Wirtemberg and the community of Strasburg, and now theologians on both sides in the dominions of Duke Maurice agree that out of both one confession shall be formed, to be exhibited to the Council and defended to their utmost. The Duke of Wirtemberg, and Strasburg take up the subject warmly, but Nuremberg, Augsburg, and Ulm are very remiss and cool on the matter. De Fresne is said to be sent by the French King to the maritime cities, and Maurice to have interceded for easier conditions of peace to the people of Magdeburg. But the Emperor holds to his first determination. The treaty between England and France will produce much good if persisted in. The question of the Duchy of Wirtemberg is still unknown, but the result, it is feared, will be very grievous to the Duke. [Latin. One page and a half.

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Sept. 22. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. If Cecil has leisure, prays shortly to have some inkling what he shall do; whether he has to tarry any long time, or shortly to come away. Does he think, though dickers do not come, anything else may be sued for? Can Cecil help his friend to nothing? Is sorry if he cannot, knowing his good will. Money is shrunk in this town; those that make the wars will let men of peace enjoy but that they have already bor rowed. Money is now at 25 on the 100 better than himself. Must have his own sent him in season, else it may chance to do him but a little pleasure. Thinks they reckon at home that he has found some treasure, that they think he can live without his diets. Has prayed Cotton to take some pains to solicit; hopes small suit will serve, and yet he that has so long sued, and still must, may fall in error in thinking due easy to be come by. Is sure Cecil might in a month steal one quarter of an hour to write a few lines this way. Are all his desires so great that he is to be barred of them all? Neither dickers, nor diets, nor letters, nor any kind of comfort? He still looks for Francis; if he does not come, prays he may hear somewhat from Cecil. Mr. Cheke, Mr. Wrothe, and everybody has so much to do with themselves, that he can be no man's care but his own. Beseeches he may see that he has some one that thinketh him, for pity's sake, worthy to be comforted. [Two pages.]

---- Sept. 29. Hampton Court.The Council to Sir William Pickering. His Majesty having resolved in compliment to the French King to hold the Feast of St. Michael, had invited the French Ambassador, who came here last night, and has been very well entertained both by the King and the Council. "This day he was present in the chapel at the whole service of the communion, where he saw the King's Majesty reverently with us of his Council communicate the sacrament, wherein as we perceive he seeth and understandeth great difference betwixt our reverence in our religion and the slanders thereof usually spread by evil men." He dined with his Majesty in the privy chamber, and at a Council held thereafter preferred a request from his master touching regulations to be made for the trade in wines between France and England, which would serve to the mutual advantage of these countries. Inform him of the points thereof to enable him to confer with the Constable thereon. [Three pages and a half. Draft.]

--- Oct. 8. Melun. Sir William Pickering to Cecil. Writes to him both in French and English, hoping to induce Cecil to write; if neither of these two languages can purchase two lines from his hand, will think himself little in his grace. Has detained Francis, the courier, three days to no avail, expecting to have had some news of this Cardinal Verallo (fn. 1) Romano, on whom he invokes la Verole Francaise for not having yet arrived. Desires that he may remember the money due for the post, and the passport for John Lord Erskine, with a train of 20 persons, concerning which he had written. Had been honourably entertained by the King and the Constable at the recent feast of St. Michael, which was held at Bois de Vincennes, and "endured for three days, very solemnly celebrated with the presence of many Popish prelates, and consecrated with a company of un comely Cardinals, seeming by their countenances to care more for the custom than for their corpus Domini. At last with divers benedictions and many cumbersome courtesies this pageant was played; and the matter ended with a masking mass of Romish regimen." [One page and a half. The first portion in French. Indorsed by Cecil.]

---- Oct. 9. Brussels. Copy proclamation by the Emperor Charles V. prohibiting commercial intercourse with France and her allies. [French. Nine pages.]

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Oct. 16. Westminster. King Edward VI. to the Senators and Magistrates of Lucca. Credentials in favour of Peter Vannes, native of that city, and Latin Secretary to his Majesty. [Latin. Broadside. Indorsed by Cecil. Copy.]

---- Oct. 16. The Council to Sir Richard Morysine. In consequence of the Emperor persisting to Dr. Wotton, that Lord Paget had promised on behalf of his Majesty that the Lady Mary should hear mass privately, although the same has utterly denied that he ever spoke to the Emperor on the subject, and they are disposed to believe him, they have secluded Lord Paget from the Council and the Court, and committed him to his house, where he has remained these 14 days, prohibited to speak or confer with any but those of his own family. Instruct Morysine to take an opportunity of apprizing the Emperor hereof, that he may see the respect paid to his assertion, and at the same time how far from truth it is that his Majesty and they were ever parties to such alleged promise. [Copy. Two pages.]

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Oct. 25. Memorandum of letter from the Council to Sir William Pickering, informing him that Sir Jacques Granado is to be sent to France to present some geldings from his Majesty to the French King, the Dauphin, the Princess Elizabeth, (fn. 2) and the Constable, and desiring that he will instruct Granado as to the forms of presentation. [Half a page.]

--- Oct. 25. Instructions given by King Edward VI. to Sir Jacques Granado, Knight, one of the Esquires of the stable, sent by appointment of the Earl of Pembroke, master of the King's Majesty's horse, to convey to the French Court certain geldings and hackneys with their apparelling and furniture, presented by his Majesty to the French King and others. [Two pages. Draft.]

--- Oct. 26. Westminster. King Edward VI. to Henry II., King of France, requesting his acceptance of some horses sent by Sir Jacques Granado. [One page. Indorsed by Cecil. Copy.]

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Oct. 27. Paris. Sir William Pickering to the Council. Acknowledges receipt of their letters of 29th September and 16th inst. Between these dates had seen the Constable, who assured him that the objectionable regulations of the Bordeaux merchants relative to the wine trade should instantly be cancelled. On receiving their last letter had instantly set off to Paris, for the purpose of congratulating the French King on the birth of the young Prince, [Duc d'Angoulême, afterwards Henri III.], and notifying the appointment of Lord Clinton, the Lord High Admiral, to act as King Edward's representative in the capacity of godfather at the baptism. His conversations with the King and the Constable on the affair of the Duke of Somerset. [Sixteen pages. Printed by Tytler, except the page relating to the wine trade. Vol. ii., p. 86.]

--- Oct. 27. Paris. Same to Sir William Cecil. Congratulates him on his "good fortune to be found undefiled with the folly of this unfortunate Duke" of Somerset. [One page. Printed by Tytler, Vol. ii., p. 67.]

---- Oct. 30. Castle of Koningsburg. Albert, Marquis of Brandenburg, to King Edward VI. Sends him a present of eight falcons, his Majesty having been gratified with those which he had sent in the preceding year. [Latin. Broadside.]

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Nov. 4. Hamburg. John Brigantyne to the Duke of Northumberland. The like information, and in almost precisely similar words, as transmitted in his previous letter to the Council, except that the cause of offence given to the Emperor by Sarcerius is stated to be "for that he hath newly inveighed against the Papists." [One page.]

---- Nov. 5. The Council to Sir William Pickering. On the 22d ult. the Queen Dowager of Scotland arrived at Portsmouth, being escorted thither by the Baron de la Garde, with 10 ships of war. As soon as her arrival was known, orders were given to Sir Richard Wingfield, the captain there, to wait upon her Majesty and ascertain whether she intended to continue her journey by sea or land.

Presuming she would adopt the latter course, orders were given to Sir Richard Cotton, Mr. Paulett, brother to the Marquis of Winchester, with the county gentlemen, to wait upon her and her retinue. Thereafter she despatched a messenger to the King notifying her coming, to which his Majesty immediately responded by congratulations, and giving directions for her honourable entertainment.

Her progress hither was from Portsmouth to Southwick, a house of one Mr. White, where she remained two days; next to Warblington, the residence of Sir Richard Cotton, where she lodged; next day to dinner at the Earl of Arundel's house, called Stanstead, and to her lodging at Cowdray, Sir Anthony Browne's house; and on the following day to Guildford; to all which places she was conducted by the noblemen and gentlemen of the respective counties in great state.

At Guildford she was met by Lord William Howard, with the nobility and gentry of Surrey, who conducted her to Hampton Court, at a mile from which the Marquis of Northampton, with other nobles, came on part of his Majesty to congratulate her, and at the house she was received by the Marchioness of Northampton and other ladies.

There she abode Allhallow-day, and on the following went by water, accompanied by numerous barges, to London, where she was lodged at the Bishop of London's palace. Next day the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Huntingdon, and others visited her from his Majesty, and on the following, which was yesterday, the 4th inst., her Grace, accompanied by Lady Margaret Douglas, the Duchesses of Northumberland and Suffolk, and others, came to the Court, where, being met by the Lord Chamberlain and other officers of the household, she was most honourably and princely received and welcomed by the King's Majesty in the hall, and led up to her chamber on the Queen's side, where his Majesty dined with her, and in the afternoon departed; she taking her leave of him with most hearty and earnest thanks for the kingly usage of her and hers.

To-day she rests herself, and to-morrow departs northward. His Majesty has written to the Sheriffs of the various counties through which she will pass that due honours may be paid to her, and Mr. Edward Dudley and Mr. Shelley are appointed to attend on her through her whole journey, to see things conveniently and agreeably served.

The French King having by medium of his Ambassador applied for the delivery of a murderer who had escaped to England, the malefactor has been apprehended, and is sent to Calais to be handed over to the proper authorities. The ratifications of the late treaty are to be mutually received during the Lord High Admiral's visit to France, whither he purposes to go shortly, and about the 20th or 22d inst. be in Paris. [Eight pages. Draft.]

---- Nov. 6. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to Sir William Cecil. Thanks him for his continued attention in soliciting his private affairs, and requests him to command reciprocal good offices. [One page.]

---- Nov. 7. Venice. Peter Vannes to the Council. Parma, in the absence of Don Fernando, is well furnished with victuals. They in Mirandola show no manner of fear, and in consequence of the country being low and miry, the Papists' army are not able to do any hurt. As the weather serves they have occasional skirmishes. The Emperor, it is said, intends to take all manner of occasions to bring these towns to his purpose this winter, so that they shall not interfere with his plans next summer; but many suppose that he shall have much to do before he can bring that to pass. They of Mirandola have informed the French King that they want nothing but money. A number of the 4,000 landsknechts, intended for service in Italy, have arrived. Here men of all sorts, as well temporal as spiritual, charge the Bishop of Rome as author of all the mischief, and men judge this to be the time that he shall be scourged with his own rod. Letters to the Seigniory from Constantinople of 26th September mention the arrival there of Mons. de Raimond, Ambassador for the French King, with two galleys. The Turk was going to Adrianople, both for health's sake and to be nearer the occurrents of Hungary. Friar George of Transylvania, although he was confederate with the King of the Romans, has sent an Ambassador to the Turk with such a tribute as yearly he was wont to pay. The Turk has caused a large quantity of timber to be cut for the building of galleys this winter. He has ordered the General of his army to return to Constantinople and bring with him the pirate Dragut, and to have in the island of Prenice a captain of his, named Sala Reis, with 40 galleys. In consequence of this the Seigniory have revoked their General and army, leaving only 35 galleys in their gulf, under the command of their providetor there. The Prior of Capua, as a Knight of that order, was going from the French King's service with his two galleys to Malta, to serve there; but the Grand Master has not accepted his service, on the ground that he did not wish by receiving him to offend such mighty Princes as the Emperor and the French, with whom the Prior is in disfavour. Wherefore it is said that the Prior has set up the sails of his galleys, seeming to become a rover of the sea. The Emperor arrived at Isborroughe [Inspruck] on the 31st of October, and his navy, with the King of Bohemia, and other Spaniards, had already arrived at Villa Franca, not far from Genoa. ----

Nov. 14. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to the Duke of Northumberland. The English merchants here are molested and slenderly regarded in all their suits, which he rather and chiefly imputes to their own insatiable greediness, wilfulness, and disorder than any other. Instances in support of this opinion, that whereas they promised him to stand earnestly in defence of the liberties secured by the treaty, and that no more ships should come till the six already there had sailed and reached home, six others richly laden have arrived, so that neither the one can be permitted to sail or the others to discharge except upon payment of 10s. upon every 100lbs., both of the one and the other. It is reported, that now the Emperor has a wonderful treasure arrived in Spain out of the Indies, and that in Spain they have granted the Prince 1,700,000 ducats a year towards the wars. [Two pages.]

---- Nov. 15. Memorandum of articles delivered to the Lord Clinton, Lord High Admiral of England, to be presented by him as the gift of King Edward VI. at the christening of the French King's son. These were: one pair of pots of gold, fair wrought and enamelled, weighing 165½ ounces. One pair of flagons of gold, wrought according to the said pots, weighing 165¼ ounces. And one bowl of gold, wrought with divers devices of astronomy, and "Phismanyes," weighing 108 ounces. In all 438¾ ounces, which at 60s. the ounce amount in money to 1,316l. 5s. (Sic in Orig.) [One page.]

----

Nov. 16. Instructions given by King Edward VI. to Lord Clinton, the Lord High Admiral of England, and Sir William Pickering, to receive the formal ratification by the French King of the Treaty of marriage between his Majesty and the Princess Elizabeth. [Two pages and a half. Draft.]

--- Nov. 18. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to the Council. Although until he should hear from their Lordships, he had not intended to make any suit to the Regent in the merchants' affairs, yet because contestation was here pretended against certain old French wines that two of them had brought out of England to Dunkirk and Middleburg, he had submitted the cases to the President. The Regent allowed the one who had arrived and sold his wines prior to the publication of the placard to have his money therefor, as reason would; but would not permit the other who had arrived subsequent to the proclamation, either to discharge or sell his wines, but ordered that he should return with them to England. Wherefore, regarding this latter, he had an audience of her Majesty last Friday evening, when she at length consented, not on the ground of the treaty but of personal regard to the King of England, to allow the merchant to sell his wines, though at a price exceeding not 6l. per ton. [Two pages.]

--- Nov. 19. [Westminster.] Reply by King Edward VI. to the Envoy from the Elector Maurice, the Marquis of Brandenburg, and the Duke of Mecklenburg, sent to invite his Majesty to join the confederacy of Protestant Princes. [Latin. Two pages. Draft, autograph of Cecil. Printed by Tytler. Vol. ii., p. 95, and in the Literary Remains of King Edward VI., Vol. ii., p. 366.]

---- Nov. 19. Westminster. Letter from King Edward VI. to the Elector Maurice and the other Princes. [Latin. Draft, autograph of Cecil. One page.]

---- Nov. 24. Westminster. Letter from King Edward VI. to the same Princes. Recredentials of the Envoy. [Latin. One page. Copy.]

----

Nov. 24. Westminster. King Edward VI. to Sigismund-Augustus, King of Poland. Acknowledges his Majesty's urgent recommendation of Albert Bischoff, a nobleman of Dantzic, who had faithfully in arms served the King's father, and now seeks to be employed by himself. Although, after the long absence of Albert, the King has no recollection of his services and claims, yet on his coming to England in spring, attention will be paid to such statement of his losses as he shall set forth. [Latin. Broadside. Countersigned by Sir Thomas Chaloner. Copy.]

---- Nov. 26. Gratz. Copy reply by the Emperor Charles V. to the Envoys of the King of Denmark and other Princes, sent to demand that the Landgrave of Hesse should be set at liberty. His Majesty eludes the application, declaring that he will communicate his resolution thereof to Duke Maurice, on his arrival at Inspruck, where he is shortly expected. Letters from the camp in Transylvania of the 11th inst. state that Castaldo has resolved to dismantle the castle of Lippa. Calderon, the Spanish captain, who brought the news of the capture of that fortress to the King, was presented with a chain of 300 ducats, and then was sent into Italy to bring Spaniards hither, but he will first go to the Emperor to determine the number to be brought. The members of the Diet have resolved to give his Majesty a fourth of their income for a year, and to maintain 600 horse armed for three years; they have not agreed to the tax on wine, for the same reasons as the Austrians, but should his Majesty not be satisfied with a fourth, it is believed that he will obtain the same concession from them as he has from the Austrians. The result of the diet, it is said, will be for three years much more than half a million of florins, and with this subsidy his Majesty will set out for Vienna within two days, after despatching the Commissioners to Carinthia and Carniola. [Latin and Italian. Two pages.]

---- Nov. 26. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to Sir William Cecil. Returns thanks for Cecil's attention to his private affairs, and requests Cecil to be mean for him to Lord Pembroke, that he may enjoy the money of his warrant stayed by his Lordship for the thing of which he is as ignorant as the child to-night born; as he has written to his Lordship long since. [One page.]

---- Nov. 25. Paris. Sir William Pickering to the Duke of Northumberland. Had intended to have despatched Mr. Elrington with these letters, but considering that he would meet Francisco on the way, travelling with the Lord Admiral, and that they are of great importance, has written to the Admiral requesting that he will allow Francisco to carry them with the utmost expedition to the Council. [One page.]

---- Nov. 28. Paris. Same to Sir William Cecil. Requesting that a passport may be sent by the next courier for John Lord Erskine, who stayeth only for the coming thereof, and crieth out upon him. [One page.] ----

Dec. 2. The Council to the Lord High Admiral Clinton. Francisco arrived with his letters on Monday forenoon. Request that, if his health will permit, he will personally present his Majesty's gift to the Princess Elizabeth, now at Blois. Acquaint him with the proceedings of the trial and sentence of the Duke of Somerset. The French Ambassador has this day received from his Majesty the ratification of the treaty. The King sends by the bearer a chain of gold of the value of 300 crowns and upwards, to be presented by the Admiral to Mons. De l'Aubespine, the French King's Secretary, with his Majesty's thanks for the goodwill and diligence always used by Mons. De l'Aubespine towards the affairs of this realm. [Three pages. Draft. Printed, disjointedly, by Tytler, Vol. ii., pp. 63, 97.]

----

Dec. 4. Fontainebleau. Henry II., King of France, to King Edward VI. Thanking his Majesty for the handsome present of horses brought by Sir Jacques Granado. [Countersigned by De l'Aubespine. French. Broadside.]

---- Dec. 4. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to Sir William Cecil. Thanks him for his letter just received, and refers for particulars to his common letters until he has more leisure to reply, meanwhile will not forget the things which he recommended to him. Requests him to be mean unto Lord Pembroke for his money stayed by his Lordship in Mr. Mildmay's hands, for he has great need thereof, and especially now that the Queen doth remove, which will cost him every day 12 shillings in lodgings only, besides carriage. If his Lordship will take his bill to answer the thing claimed at all times, so far as can it be proved he received ought of the same iron mill, and so let him enjoy his money, he would be much bound to his Lordship. [One page.]

--- Dec. 5. Venice. Peter Vannes to the Council. Concerning the loss of the ship Ragazona. [Two pages. This letter is a verbatim copy of that to the Council of 24th November previous.]

---

Dec 15. The Lord High Admiral Clinton to the Council. On Monday se'ennight left the Court, and came to Paris in the hope of recovering his health, but has been compelled to substitute Sir William Pickering for presenting the King's gift to the Princess Elizabeth, and this day takes his journey towards Calais, being evil able to travel, having a double quartan. The gift presented to him by the French King is in value 3,400 crowns, all in gilt plate, saving two small cups of gold, which make up the just sum aforesaid. [Two pages. Printed by Tytler, Vol. ii., p. 100.]

---- Dec. 15. Paris.Sir William Pickering to same. With reference to the contents of their letter of 24th October last, relating to the complaints of certain English merchants in Normandy, the Constable has directed the Baron de la Garde to inquire into the circumstances and give redress. In consequence of his continued illness, the Lord Admiral is obliged to leave Paris this day, and has delivered to Pickering a diamond ring, to be presented by him to the Princess Elizabeth as a token from his Majesty, likewise a chain of the value of 300 crowns for M. De l'Aubespine. It is rumoured that M. de Vendôme has received an overthrow in an enterprise he made upon a town on the frontiers. [Two pages.]

----- Dec. 15. St. Denis. Same to Sir William Cecil. Has presently put to binding for him three books: Euclid with the figures in a small volume, and two discourses, one of Machiavelli, the other of Mons. Long. Does not know of any new works, but of one out of Italy, which is not got abroad, but shall be sent as soon as it comes into his hands. If the logical demonstration whereof Cecil lately wrote were converted into geometrical, he should surely have good cause to praise much that metamorphosis. Seeing he is but a curse craver, and a much worse beggar, reason requireth the plan should be considered; and he thinketh high time, for here all things pass pour l'argent comptant; and though he has hitherto deserved nothing, yet that he sink not before he may deserve, prays Cecil to procure that he may have the one, or that he may shortly be quit of the other. Has just received Cecil's and Hoby's letter touching a Scottish suit, which he shall attend to at convenient season. Requests a passport for Lord Tillebarne [Tullibardine], with 10 servants and their baggage. [One page]

---- Dec. 19. Harburg. Baron Joachim Maltzan to King Edward VI. Had been sent to England as Envoy from the Duke of Mecklenburg, but when about 20 German miles from Harburg had encountered such a storm as drove them back. Being unwilling at this season of the year to expose himself again to the like danger, he has sent his credentials to Master Alasco. [Latin. One page. Indorsed by Cecil.]

---- Dec. 21. Vilna. Sigismund-Augustus, King of Poland, to same. John à Werden, Burgrave and Consul of Dantzic, has complained that the factor of Adrian and Michael Koesler, his sons-in-law, whom they maintained at the public Hanse house of London, called the Schtalhow [Steelyard], had been maliciously accused of having, when alive, traded contrary to the privileges of the Teutonic Hanse, and in derogation of the King of England's customs; wherefore all the goods which they have in the cities of London and Hollen [Hull] had been arrested. Of this they are quite innocent, relying on the integrity of the proceedings, and desire to clear themselves not only by the mandatory whom they have sent for that purpose, but also personally if needs be. His Majesty therefore requires a safe-conduct and audience for them, and if they have in any way through ignorance offended, begs that they may be forgiven. [Latin. One page.]

--- Dec. 24. Strasburg. Christopher Mount to Sir William Petre and Sir William Cecil. It appears that the Emperor will return from the deliberations of the Council to arms in Germany. It is now a year since a similar tragedy seemed to be in preparation for the country of Bremen; but the first actors of that play were engaged to sustain the tragic and heroic characters, the present performers seem to have stronger thews and sinews. The unexpected denouement of this play is, that they who took up arms for the clergy now seem about to oppose the bishops, but it is this change for which they have peremptorily cited the Lutheran fathers to Trent. [Latin. Half a page.]

---- Dec. 25. Paris. Sir William Pickering to Sir William Cecil. The books whereof he wrote in his last are now converted into a New Testament in Greek; l'Horloge de Princes; le Discours de la Guerre de Laugnay, and notes to the Ethics of Aristotle in Italian, which will be conveyed by this merchant courier. Had the bookbinder kept faith, others would have accompanied them, which for lack of leisure could not be finished according to Pickering's mind, as the binder's haste may be perceived by one of those sent being neither ruled nor washed. God give him the quartan! This day he departs by two posts to Blois, to deliver the King's token; this should have been done sooner, if it had not been for lack of a good shift in coming by crowns to convey him thither. Many letters have promised him plenty one day, but qui spe aluntur pendunt non vivunt; neither may such promises bring a man two leagues towards his next bait in this country. If he were where he might sell his land he would not lack; but fac ut revertat, aut ut hic vivere possit, like his man whose he is. Incloses the French King's letter in behalf of the two merchants concerning whom Cecil and Hoby wrote. Also copy of the Constable's letter, whereby he may perceive the speedy dispatch of the English merchants' matters in these quarters. His lean uncle Sir Robert Ughtred returns with the next despatch, both on business of his own and Pickering's. Recommends him strongly to Cecil's attention, as "the King hath many bigger bodies, but a truer heart in my conscience he hath not in his realm, nor a meeter man to serve in any charge he shall be commended to." The bearer hereof is "the merchants' post and a very knave withal. He would by no means carry these books under six crowns, which I have given him. He would have persuaded me that these were only the occasion of his going by the posts; when I knew him to have received his hire of these merchants before, to be in London upon New Year's Even. If he arrive not in time, hang him, according to the bargain made with me. Faustum tibi precor hunc novum annum futurum cum ceteris omnibus." [Two pages.]

---- Dec. 29. Bruges. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to Sir William Cecil. Had received his two letters. Hears that the ships are safely arrived in England. Being of Cecil's opinion that no more wealth can be devised for England than peace and quietness while the King is young, does all in his power to persuade to amity both here and everywhere. Hears that the Queen will now lead him to Antwerp, where he hopes to find the figures Cecil wishes, and which he has been unable to procure either here or at Brussels. Requests that he may have instructions from the Council how to answer some of the English merchants at Calais and London, who desire to have the Queen's safe-conduct to carry herrings and other wares hence to France, which are here prohibited as well to their own subjects as to the English, except by special licence and paying eight in the 120 shillings upon a last besides over and above the ordinary customs. From this by the Intercourse the merchants should be exempt, and have their traffic free. [Three pages.]

---- Dec. 29. Paris. Sir William Pickering to same. Had received with his letter of the 22d that of his Majesty's addressed to the French King, which shall shortly be delivered. The reason of his long absence from the Court may be seen by his letters to the Council, whereby will be understood his just need. Hopes the books sent by a merchant's courier arrived in good time. As for Euclid and Machiavelli, they were so buggerly bound that he burnt them both. The King returns from Blois on the 22d of January. Cecil's friendly letters to Mr. Barnaby [Fitzpatrick] were no less praiseworthy, than a very sign of his good affection towards him. His good and gentle nature, so much inclined to virtue, promises the utter performance of all that the letter requires at his hands. Doubts not a deal but that he will follow to the uttermost point all the good exhortations. [One page and a half.]

---- Dec. 31. Bruges. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to Sir William Cecil. Recommends the bearer, Peter Paule, a mariner of this country, who during the last wars before Boulogne served the King with his ship, conveying things to and fro, for which he does not complain to be unpaid and unsatisfied, but because at one time he chanced to be taken by the French, which has been costly to him diverse ways, would crave either the King's licence to carry out certain beer or otherwise. [One page.] Notes of the several points negotiated by Sir Thomas Chamberlain in Flanders in 1551. (Extracted from the correspondence of Chamberlain between 23d October and 31st December 1551, in comparatively modern writing.) [Three pages.]

"Summaria Relatio Controversiæ inter Cæsarem et Regem Romanorum." Statement of the claims advanced by the King of the Romans in reference to his rights arising out of the succession of his father and mother, and answers thereto on part of the Emperor. [Latin. Nine pages. Copy.]

The names of the colonels and number of cavalry which Albert Marquis of Brandenburg has retained for the service of the King of England, in all 3,900. [German. One page.]

Annexed, The same in French. [One page.] Indorsed, "The names of the men of warr and coronnells of Brandenb."

#Edward VI

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katcadecascade · 4 years

Text

Owl Be Here

Qrow Branwen does bird shenanigans at five in the morning. James and Clover suffer.

Ao3

James was honest when he said it was good to see Qrow again. He missed his oldest friend, missed their banter and how Qrow would be the first to push against his logic, force James to rethink his less than sound plans.

It was nice to have Qrow and his kids in Atlas. He missed having real company who weren’t suits or soldiers.

Although, he could do without the bird fights in four in the morning.

Gods, James hasn’t dealt with this in years and yet it feels utterly normal to be awakening to the noise of what can only be described as a screaming death match. He recognizes the high pitch squalls of Qrow, too loud to forget.

So for the first time in a long while, James leaves his warm bed in search for the source of the commotion. His apartment is located far too close to his office to anyone’s liking so it’s a short walk from here to the apex of the dormitories.

There’s a main lobby and lounge area with access to the outside courtyard where James spies a crow and an owl roaring at each other.

Yep, that’s his closest friend alright.

James spends who knows how long sighing at the open doorway, thinking about closing it just to muffle out the two birds. This is by far the most effective alarm clock, albeit rather annoying but he knows Qrow’s not doing this to annoy him.

It doesn’t change the fact that James is annoyed though. He doubts he’s alone on that since this is the school dorms so he hopes Qrow will finish his argument with his nocturnal enemy.

Mindlessly he wonders which niece of the shapeshifter will snap awake first. He bets it will be Yang who convinces Qrow to stop while Ruby throws something at him.

But his guesses are wrong when it Clover who joins him on this not so quiet night.

“Sir, what,” the captain yawns and trudges over to see the broken symphony of screeches. “What is going on? It’s too early for whatever this is.”

“Tell that to Qrow.”

“Huh?”

“That’s Qrow up there, screaming at that owl.”

It was refreshing to see Clover out of uniform and in sweatpants and an academy standard muscle tank. The fuzzy socks are a nice touch.

According to his wide eyed staring the captain is shocked to catch his general in a similar state. Perhaps his silken robes are a tad surprise. It is practically the only thing James pampers himself with.

Sleepiness falls away from Clover as he processes the situation. The high branches of a courtyard tree are the stage for the opera of a crow and an owl. That may sound whimsical or majestic but trust James when he describes it as the most annoying thing to wake up to.

It’s a real shame that he’s used to this crow shit.

Clover, new to the bird shenanigans, asks the logical question, “Should we stop him?”

The first time James interrupted Qrow’s spiel, he made the impulsive and rude decision to fire his pistol in the air. Whether he spent a minute debating on aiming at either bird is a lapse in judgment James will keep to himself.

That resulted in both birds targeting James in the classic, enemy of my enemy is my friend tactic.

“If you’re eager to get pecked and clawed at, by all means go ahead Captain Ebi.”

It must be the lack of sleep that has Clover disregarding the chain of command to glare the general.

Clover steps passed him and made his way to the base of the tree. He yells up, “Qrow, please stop!”

James scoffs at the pleasantries. Qrow would always takes please as a challenge to further play up his antics. That and Qrow just loves to mess with James by getting a straight-laced man like him arguing with a bird. Glynda thought James as insane before Qrow revealed his magic trick.

Honestly that was more embarrassing than that time when James mistaken a regular bird as Qrow. That memory was more depressing than humiliating since it happened weeks after the Fall of Beacon.

He had really hoped Qrow visited him.

Any amusement left in James mellows out to curiosity as he watches Clover take up the mantle of persuading Qrow and the owl to shut up. Maybe Clover has better ways of words than James since eventually the owl flies off.

Qrow’s still in the tree. He flaps his wings in agitation and caws again.

“Qrow it is four in the morning,” Clover complained.

“Five,” James corrects as he studies the remaining stars above and the phase of the moon fragment.

He continues without missing a beat, “It is five in the morning! Get down here right now, please.”

Another fluttering of wings and then the crow glides down. He ignores Clover’s offered arm to land on his brown hair.

Yep that’s the Qrow James had missed.

“Clover,” James cocked his head a bit, gesturing for him to follow.

Carefully, the man walks with his general all the while balancing a bird on his head. Qrow squirmed around, shaping the strands into a fitting nest as James lead them to the closest communal kitchen. That just happened to be the one linked to the dorm assigned to Teams RWBY and JNOR.

This definitely promises coffee machines.

Almost instinctively, James goes through the motions of preparing three mugs of coffee. The beginning smells of it has Qrow shifting back into his human body, just as James predicted from the countless morning they did this.

And if memory serves, Qrow might not be entirely as human as he appears.

“So,” James politely begins like he always did, setting the mugs at the table, “what happened?”

A series of squawks and trills are the answer, along with Qrow dramatically waving his arms around like he still has wings.

James nods in key moments, letting Qrow rant in a language that, justified, he quite cannot comprehend.

Next to him, Clover is jaw slacken and can’t form a single thought as he bears witness to James and Qrow seemingly having a normal conversation over coffee.

Despite the obvious fact there are no pronounce-able words in the human tongue, of course.

“Wow that owl really said that to you?” James queried, a little dully but Qrow’s not going to call him out.

In fact the shapeshifter takes it as genuine, too caught up in his anger as he recounts the argument with the owl. Probably, James is just guessing but he’s had practice on reading Qrow’s body language.

There’s still that hunch in his spine, straighten up in his fury as more violent squawks leave his vocal chords. James once berated Qrow for such posture but that man never listened. He has to note that there is a difference in his stature since arriving with the kids.

Stress and grief always hung upon Qrow’s shoulders, mirroring James, but lately there has been less tension. This is likely the results of the kids’ influence. James can attest to that, finding relief and comfort in the children’s optimism.

Yet he can’t help but be pleasantly surprised by Qrow’s other source of happiness.

As arrogant as it sounds, James takes credit and pride for setting Clover in Qrow’s path. It’s about time one of his plans goes accordingly.

On a strategic perspective, both huntsmen are skilled fighters with styles that complement each other in the field. That’s proven correct from the success their mission reports.

But on a personal level and as their friend, James had high hopes the two of them would get along.

Both have their own grief and tragedies and struggles regarding the concept of partners, something James himself can also relate to. Qrow’s team was a story of fire constantly dying and reigniting while Clover’s lack of partner is a fable of the ocean’s tides claiming and withdrawing without a second thought.

An empty space of a partner is something they both want to fill back up, whether either would admit that or not. So James took it upon himself to appoint their team set.

Their unique semblances on the other hand are something he cannot speak for. That is private conversation for Qrow and Clover alone, James will not dare to interfere further on that matter.

He’ll just have to trust that whatever bond is growing between Qrow and Clover will be good for the both of them. It can grow from the heat of battle or the chill morning like right now where Qrow is currently far too nuzzled in his bird habits.

He focuses more into the bitter taste of coffee, enjoying its slowness compared to the rapid talk of Qrow’s trills. While he’s goes off about how much of an asshole the owl was, James notices Clover trying to get his attention through painfully confused facial expressions.

James hides a smile with his mug.

Subtly, something that Qrow won’t bother to care about, James shrugs in a way to show that this is pretty normal.

Clover still gives Qrow a concerned and baffled frown as more squawks are uttered.

A sort of cooing noise emits from Qrow’s throat. James flickers his eyes back to the bird man, crossed arm and waiting for his response.

Lying through his teeth, something that will for sure impress or anger Robyn Hill, James speaks with great certainty that he has been paying attention, “Yes, Qrow, I completely agree with you.”

Qrow nods in approval and this sets him off to rattle out more coos and clicks.

Meanwhile Clover stares dubiously at James, takes a long gulp of his coffee, and does a little shake of his head. A small sigh of defeat and resignation leaves the man.

Good, it’s best to accept this all.

Of all the insane things that could happen, having a conversation with a shapeshift still speaking as his namesake is a blessing compared to anything else Ozpin had a hand in.

Still, to Qrow this is a normal conversation so at some point in James turning off his brain to just drown out his mug, Clover is prompted to speak.

“Um,” he blinks owlishly with an uncertain smile, “I think…”

His teal eyes dart around, seeking help but James is ignoring them, closed eyed but the tiniest of amused smiles is there. Clover nearly wants to kick him underneath the table but no Clover can handle this.

Still, having Qrow’s red eyes peer into him expectedly is a bit nerve wracking.

Beautiful and bright, Clover admits but it’s not the time or the place what with only one cup of coffee in his system.

“I think,” he continues, a slight hesitance in his tone, “that um.” Well he could always fall back on one thing, “I think that you’re absolutely amazing. That owl has nothing on you.”

Apparently that is the right thing to say. Clover could kiss his lucky pin when Qrow blushes and does a low coo. Maybe it’s a deflection, Clover has no idea but it doesn’t appear so as Qrow continues his clicks and caws.

Then finally, Qrow takes a sip from his coffee and as if he hasn’t been speaking in chirps and clicks, complains, “That ratty flying piece of roadkill better not show his awful peak here again or I will bring down the full force of Harbinger on that fucker.”

His two companions nod in agreement, James’ was a bit lazier and tired while Clover’s was kind of jerky and surprised.

It’s so nice to have pleasant company in the morning.

#my fic #rwby fic #james ironwood #qrow branwen #clover ebi #bird shenanigans

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myefflorescence18 · 5 years

Text

[knb] - Entry #1

Art by: Shindou Arata

Pairing(s): Akashi Seijuurou/Momoi Satsuki

Warnings: Slightly AU-ish.

Summary: In which she makes him question his own belief.

——————————————————

Akashi Seijuurou does not believe in fate.

What he does believe in, however, is that mankind controls life himself. After all, God has created them to be on top of the food chain, has he not? Those who let fate play them like a pawn on a chessboard is merely not strong enough to take matters into their own hands — in this world of disorders and madness, power is everything. Akashi Seijuurou has no weaknesses, nor will he ever possess them: the weak is below him, and his orders are absolute.

Yet, there are times when he is brutally reminded of the fact that in the end, he is only mortal. And life does not favor all, not even an Akashi. The first time his belief was defied was when his beloved mother passed away.

And then, he swore to never harbor something even as close to the emotion called love, because feelings were a weakness and that was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

No, he did not love basketball. No, he did not love the days he spent playing it underneath the roof of Teikou Junior High.

No, he did not love the team they once were before dubbed as the Generation of Miracles. The name was fitting, but utterly ridiculous and none of them ever truly acknowledged it.

The second time his belief was defied was when Rakuzan lost against Seirin.

It is a century before Rakuzan’s defeat, he had told them with absolute confidence during the match. He hadn’t believed in that then — he had known for a fact that victory would be theirs. It had to be. But the bitter humiliation that followed when he was betrayed by fate even after putting everything on the line to secure said victory was abominable, to say the very least. And although his belief hasn’t exactly been swayed afterwards, he supposes that something inside him has undoubtedly changed since his inner counterpart vanished. It is a loss and a relief at the same time — no longer is he tormented by his inner demon, and his power is more absolute now than ever when their abilities are both combined. Still, there are moments when he has to admit he misses the company. After all, it is only him who can truly understand himself. It‘s not that Akashi Seijuurou doesn’t feel. He simply chooses not to acknowledge those feelings, because they are burdensome and useless in his conquest of absolute victory against fate. He deems those who are so openly sentimental misfortunate souls — that’s why he finds the lethargic Atsushi, the inexpressive Tetsuya, and the prudish Shintarou to be less troublesome than others. Ryouta is too loud, Daiki never bends to the rules (the rules bend around him), and Satsuki feels too much.

He has known from the very moment she announced herself the manager of Teikou’s basketball team that her passion would be her downfall: she is too sensitive, too thoughtful, too vulnerable. The way she pulled restless nights to analyze their opponents and the way she cared about every little detail of their team members never escaped his observant gaze. He had to praise her efforts, of course, but he found it terribly ironic how in the end, Satsuki wept for the tragedy of them all even if she had contributed greatly to it herself — sure, they were prodigies, but would they have been able to climb high enough to fall without her enthusiastic help? It’s a shame, he thinks. Because Momoi Satsuki is the only female figure apart from his deceased mother who comes close to leaving a lasting impact in his life. Although they can’t possibly be more peculiar, in a way, she mirrors his intellect, his wits beautifully so — this much he has realized the first time she illustrated her skills for the team to see. The change in her usual cheerfulness, her glimmering eyes was a fascination to behold: he noticed how her gaze would sharpen, her eyebrows would tighten, and the lively look in those ruby hues would be replaced by sheer intent to crush their opponents. While their abilities are quite similar, the basis of them have been different. His Emperor Eye allows him to predict his enemies’ movements on the court, but dare he say, hers far surpasses that. While he can only see the future based on what has happened and what is happening, on existing data; she fills in the blanks herself, goes beyond simple predictions, and knows which courses of action will be taken before the player even knows himself. For this alone, he deems her worthy of being his partner in crime.

But Momoi Satsuki feels and he does not. So at that time, he pretended to not notice how she was breaking inside, gnawing at herself, wilting like the roses in his vase. He pretended not to hear her heart shattering into pieces when he indulged Daiki and Atsushi’s disobedience, and pretended not to hear his own heart tearing itself apart at the look of despair on her face when he told her she was no longer of use to the team. By then, he was too far gone. She was akin to some sort of substances that glued them together, or at the very least, attempted to. But glass was never meant to be fixed that way — once they broke, they stayed broken.

And there are things he can’t possess no matter how powerful he is.

❝It’s time to change members, Momoi,❞ he tells her as the basketball rolls to her feet and she bends down to pick it up. Akashi Seijuurou doesn’t have a weakness, but for a brief moment, he is questioning the authenticity of said fact because her ruby eyes are positively radiant when they shimmer with crystal tears that linger on long lashes, and it prompts him to think that he won’t mind conquering the world for her if only she asks.

❝Everyone is waiting for you.❞

With his affirmation, she runs off to the center of the court in a rush of childlike excitement. He stays behind, watching as she blends in flawlessly with the rest of them, like the final piece to their puzzle — and is reminded that they belong to different worlds after all. His world is too cruel, too chaotic, too evil. It is full of bitter truths and merciless intentions, of immense pressure guaranteed to crush everyone and anyone with a tight fist. Hers is bright and positive and hopeful; she hasn’t given in to the despair that temporarily overtook back in their middle school days, and she doesn’t give up on the boys, ever. She belongs with them, he muses, noticing the way she flushes ever so prettily when Tetsuya compliments her, noticing the way Daiki’s gaze somehow always strays towards her direction even if he’s unaware of it.

He is not selfish enough to tear her away from that happiness, even if it equals to his own.

He doesn’t feel. He shouldn’t feel. ❝Satsuki, I told you already...❞ The rest of Daiki’s sentence falls on his deaf ear as he is suddenly reminded of one particular afternoon they spent in each other’s company.

It took place back in their Teikou days — the happy ones. The rest of the team had gone on to hit the local convenience store that was all too familiar with their alarmingly large expenditure for popsicles and snacks before heading home, but she had offered to stay behind and help him finish planning their strategies for next season’s tournament. The classroom was empty saved for the two of them: they sat beside each other by a window, the only sounds filling the silence were the scribbling of pencil against paper, her gentle voice as she pointed out the data she had analyzed, and him softly humming every now and then to agree with her. There was little need to criticize — she did things with intimidatingly high accuracy, after all. ❝You could’ve joined the rest, Momoi,❞ he told her once they had finished and she was stretching her arms above her head. ❝I wouldn’t have minded handling the data.❞ ❝Nonsense, Akashi-kun,❞ she exclaimed in that bubbly voice of hers and dismissed his statements with a swat of her hand. ❝It’s a manager’s job! You already have a handful dealing with Captain duties as it is.❞ Well, he supposed she was right. Silence dawned upon them afterwards, until she decided to disrupt it with a question that bewildered him. ❝Akashi-kun.❞ ❝Yes?❞ ❝...Why do you never call me by my first name, like you do with everyone else?❞ For a moment, he was at a loss of words. It wasn’t that he hadn’t realized it before, he just never expected her to notice as well. Still, he rather blamed something else for his temporary shock than her actual question. Perhaps, it was the look of childlike wonder on her virtuous face — how those large, doe-like eyes captivated his gaze within’ the confinement of its sparkling hues; or the lightheartedness that escaped her parted lips in soft hums as she then directed her attention elsewhere than his fixated stare, innocently playing with a lock of pink hair that framed her face. Why, she asked. Because she was never meant to be more than a manager, that’s why. Because his heart was never meant to spring alive at the mere sight of her, the mere sound of her voice, the mere idea of being in her company. To call her by her name would brought their proximity to another level, and the vulnerability she would’ve been able to see then frightened him. ❝...You never gave me a nickname like you do the others as well,❞ he pointed out, successfully avoiding the question as she proceeded to flush in embarrassment of being caught. ❝Mou...Akashi-kun is always right,❞ she huffed and pouted, not able to come up with a reason to justify herself. The corner of his mouth lifted up in a prideful grin at her remark. ❝Will it make you happy if I call by that, then? Just this once.❞ She eagerly nodded. ❝...Satsuki.❞ He placed an elbow on the desk and leaned into his hand, captivated as she practically glowered with happiness even at this simple thing, blessing him with a beaming smile that turned her eyes to crescent moons. By then, he understood that he had made a grave mistake when she was no longer Momoi and instead, simply Satsuki — the girl who wore the gold and scarlet of sunset spilling through the window as though they were merely jewelries to accentuate her beauty; who felt fanciful, ethereal, and entirely out of his reach.

❝Akashi-kun!❞ He is startled out of his reminiscence upon the calling of his name. The girl from his trip down the memory lane is there, standing in front of him, only she is present and real and now a young woman rather than the adolescent he once knew: rounded cheeks are refined to soft angles, feminine features more prominent, more defined. Only her eyes remain the same — ever glowing, ever reflective of her optimism and hopefulness.

❝...Thank you,❞ she whispers appreciatively only for him to hear, and the split second in which their fingers barely graze each other’s when she hands him the basketball is a short lived bliss. As her infectious smile prompts him to do the same in return, he finally comes to the conclusion that fragments of her should be locked away for good. Perhaps, in another lifetime, where he is no longer an Akashi... fin

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