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[customknitfactory]

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[memoriae-lectoris]

A number of people found employment in industries whose products were bought by the wealthy.

The famous glassworks at St. Gobain was seen by Young in October 1787. The works employed some 1,800 men. He described the procedure: when all was prepared for the running of the glass, an official entered and bolted the doors, and a man striking an iron bar on the ground gave the signal for silence. If anyone spoke thereafter, he was fined. The furnace was then opened and the 18-inch pots containing the melted glass were extracted. They were placed on a wheelbarrow and taken to the copper table by two men; a windlass was used to raise the pots and empty them onto the table. A great copper roller was then slowly pushed along over the glass, moving on two iron bars, flattening the glass by its weight. The thickness of the bars determined the thickness of the intended plate glass. The glass sheet was then pushed forward on the table into the oven that was heated to receive it for annealling (gradual cooling to prevent cracking).

Young admired the simplicity and dexterity of the process. The abundance of wood for the fires was the reason the factory was etablished in the great forest owned by the duke of Orleans, from whom the company rented space.

Mirrors were made in Paris on the rue St. Antoine and seem to have delighted many tourists, among whom was Alexander Jardine, who was very impressed with the process and commented on the superiority of the mirrors, whose manufacture employed 800 people.

The cities of Lyon and Nîmes became major centers of the silk manufacture in the eighteen century. John Moore wrote that, after Paris, Lyon was the most magnificient city in France, enlivened by luxuries industries that made it famous. Visitors or locals there could watch the making of gold and silver thread for the lace industry or the intricate making of velvet.

In other places of any size, smaller but numerous commercial enterprises seemed to thrive. Arthur Young mentionned that the town of Montpellier had “narrow, ill-built, crooked streets, but full of people, and apparently alive with business; yet there is no considerable manufacture in the place”.

Products included verdegris (a geen or blue pigment), silk handkerchiefs, blankets, perfumes, and liqueurs. Most small towns had a few artisans, bakers, shoemakers, harness makers, wheelwrights, and blacksmiths, but more important for the local were the rural industries, such as textile manufacture, locked throughout the country, that employed thousands of people, working out of their own homes. Urban entrepreneurs, resorting to rural production to avoid high wages and the continuous labors strife in the cities supplied the materials and yarn to the private weavers, who were paid by the piece. The cloth was then sent back to the city workshops for finishing. Some of the major linen and woolen centers were Lille, Reims, Beuvais, and Amiens.

[…]

On the outskirts of many of of the older cities, cottage industries proliferated. For exemple, in Grenoble, 60 master glovers employed about 6,000 men and women who cut, dressed, and scented hides and then stitched and embroidered the finished product.

[…]

Industry in Rouen had a boost from a few capitalists who imported English equipment and created modern spinning factories. By the end of the old regime, this city with a reputation of being the worst-smelling and most unhealthy town in northern France, was producing woolen hose, hats, porcelain, paper, refined sugar, glass, soap, copper products, and sulfuric acid, among other items.

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[catalanblogger129]

Medieval Catalonia

Carrer dels carders is the street of the wool carders. In medieval times, wool carding was an important step in the process of preparing wool for spinning into yarn. The guilds established standards for the quality of carded wool and set rules for the training and apprenticeship of new carders. They also played an important role in regulating the production and trade of woolen textiles, which were a major source of wealth and commerce in medieval Europe.

Carrer dels Assaonadors is the street of the tanners. Here, medieval tradesman used the skins of animals and combined other ingredients to make leather by hand. Leather was very valuable in this time but, the process of tanning produced many bad odors. For this reason, it was largely delegated to the poor on the outskirts of town. Leather was often used for shoes, harnesses, and boots.

Carrer dels Sombrerers is the street named after the hatters. The hatters of Barcelona were known for their high-quality workmanship and innovative designs in their creation of berets, caps, and fedoras. As was consistent with the other guilds, the hatters guild played an important role in regulating the production and sale of hats. Unfortunately, hatters used mercury in their production process which has since been shown to cause serious long-term health problems.

Above is a drawing of Carrer de la Tapineria, the street of the clog makers. Clogs, although considered uncomfortable by today’s standards, were common shoes worn by men and women in the medieval era. They were typically made out of wood, leather, and canvas. The clog makers of Barcelona thrived during the medieval period, producing a wide range of clogs for different purposes, including everyday wear, work shoes, and shoes for formal occasions.

Carrer del Agullers is the street of the needle makers. Needle makers produced a wide range of needles for sewing, embroidery, and other uses. They used iron, steel, and brass along with special techniques to design needles specific for intricate purposes. Needle makers in medieval times faced competition from lower-priced and lower-quality imported needles.

The guilds in medieval Barcelona were organizations that protected and regulated many industries of craftsmanship and tradesmanship. They were similar to unions in the sense that they regulated the price of products and labor. The guilds set standards for the quality of goods produced, required apprenticeship for entry, and essentially looked after all of the economic dealings associated with their specific trade. There were dozens of guilds, one for each trade, that had their own specific rules and requirements for participation. Although not overtly or officially religious, the guilds had many religious connections, including patron saints for each guild. Additionally, many religious values and morals were incorporated into the structure of the guilds. Through their enormous impact in economic production, the guilds were quite powerful in the political sphere as well. It was common for guild members to hold positions of power within the government. Overall, played a crucial role in the economic and political development of medieval Barcelona.

Casa-tallers were typically designed so that the ground floor was for the workshop. This is where the artisan conducted his business and built his products. Above the ground floor was one or two floors that served as the living quarters for the artisan and his family. Casa-tallers were also typically located within close proximity of one another, allowing for collaboration between the tradesman. The ground floor varied in how it was used, based on the trade of the guild member. However, it was often spacious and open as to allow for the movement of equipment, tools, and raw materials. It was common for there to be work benches and tables as well as storage areas for raw materials and finished goods. The living quarters of casa-tallers varied depending on the size and structure of the building. It was commonplace for there to be a large space for cooking, dining, and entertainment. Moreover, there were smaller rooms for sleeping, sometimes with beds built into the walls. Some of the wealthier tradesmen had outdoor terraces and balconies where they could enjoy the sunlight.

The craftsman work buildings we observed in Barcelona all tended to be much older. Additionally, they all used traditional building materials such as brick, stone, and wood. Buildings of this era were built to last forever, which is why it is no surprise that they are still standing after many centuries. Buildings today do not compare in terms of structural integrity. The industrial buildings were made out of concrete and steel, which are both cheaper materials. This is largely because buildings were designed to be efficient, cheap, and functional. Longevity was not the priority that it was once was in the medieval era. Additionally, medieval era buildings were smaller than the buildings of the industrial period. They were built to be compact and sturdy. This once again, is the opposite of the industrial periods which were built for size.

Santa María del Mar is a basilica built between 1329 and 1383 and is considered one of the finest examples of Catalan Gothic architecture. The basilica has a significant connection with Catalan culture, as it was built by the people of the Ribera district of Barcelona, who were predominantly Catalan-speaking. The basilica was used as a place of worship by the people of the Ribera district, who were known for their Catalan language and traditions. The church was also the site of important historical events, including the coronation of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella in 1493, which marked the end of the Reconquista and the beginning of the Spanish Empire.

El Mercat del Born is a cultural center housed in a former market hall, which was built in the mid-19th century and served as a market until 1971. The building has a significant connection with Catalan culture, as it was one of the first examples of iron architecture in Barcelona and was an important meeting place for the people of the city. The building was designed by the Catalan architect Antoni Rovira i Trias, who was a pioneer of the use of iron in architecture. In the early 21st century, El Mercat del Born was restored and converted into a cultural center.

El Fossà de les Moreres is a small square in the city named after a trench that was dug in the area during the 15th century as a defense against the troops of King Philip IV of France. The trench, which was lined with mulberry trees became a symbol of Catalan resistance against foreign invaders. Today, El Fossà de les Moreres is an important symbol of Catalan identity and culture. The square is often used as a gathering place for political rallies and demonstrations, particularly those that are related to Catalan independence.

La Ciutadella park was designed by the Catalan architect Josep Fontserè, who incorporated elements of Catalan Gothic and Renaissance architecture into the park's design. La Ciutadella Park played an important role in the cultural and political history of Catalonia. In 1888, the park was the site of the Universal Exposition, which was a showcase of Catalan and Spanish culture and industry. The park also played a key role in the development of Catalan nationalism, as it was the site of many political rallies and demonstrations during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

The decrees of Nova Planta abolished Catalonia's political institutions and imposed the Castilian legal system on the region. The Decrees also imposed the use of Castilian Spanish as the official language of the region and prohibited the use of Catalan in official settings. The Decrees of Nova Planta led to a significant decline in Catalan culture and language. The region's political and cultural institutions were dismantled, and Catalan elites lost their traditional roles and privileges. Additionally, the region's economy had been heavily reliant on trade with the rest of Europe, and the Decrees disrupted this trade by imposing new tariffs and trade restrictions. However, Catalan culture still persists today despite the attempts to destroy it. n the 20th century, Catalonia underwent a cultural and political renaissance, with a renewed interest in Catalan language and culture. Catalan language and culture are now officially recognized and protected by the Spanish government.

El Consolate de Mar is a gothic style building that dates back to the 14th century. It was used as a maritime court and as designed by the Catalan architect Guillem Sagrera. Today, the building houses the presidency of the Parliament of Catalonia, and is also used for official ceremonies and events. El Consolat de Mar is an important symbol of Catalonia's maritime heritage and its historic ties to the Mediterranean world. The building also reflects the Catalan contributions to the regions commerce as well as the wealth and prestige of the Catalan elites.

[professorpski]

Can a Pocket Be Luxurious? or Pocket Parity; Vogue 1939 in Red and Black

My aim in winter trousers was to make something warm, easy to wear, and practical, while being attractive, of course. I took a wool blend novelty weave, a dark red and black which creates tiny vertical stripes on one side of the weave. In a previous post, you saw my muslin test, made in a fabric nice enough to make a wearable garment if it turned out well, which it did. This is a Calvin Klein pattern from 1997 with two kinds of pants. One fitted at the hips and one cut as pleated trousers. I wanted the comfort of the trousers. But both would have been worn by working women as by the 1990s the pants suit was fully accepted on women.

I tweaked the fit along the way, waist and hips, including shortening the crotch length a full inch in total, and shortened the inseam an inch too. Apparently, I am stubbier than Vogue Patterns imagines a woman will be. I shifted the side zipper opening to the back and added a rayon lining as well. Which has made for a nice pair of trousers which fit perfectly. But the final touch was lengthening the pocket lining, which were a decent size to begin with, by a full inch.  Now, they feel positively luxurious.

Too often women’s pants in ready-to-wear have no pockets because they are skin-tight and nothing would fit in a pocket, or they have pockets and are still skin-tight and nothing will fit in them which makes you wonder why they put them on in the first place, or they are sad, puny things that won’t fit much of anything as the pocket linings are so short. Men have it better when it comes to pockets. Yes, pocket parity, that is what I sought.

In fact, I stared hard at my husband’s summer shorts one day and realized their side-front pockets were exactly what I wanted. This pattern has side-front pockets and full legs, which I why I chose it, but I wanted pockets big enough for a pair of gloves or a hat. These trousers are part of a country suit to wear while vacationing up north when we will pop in and out of doors as we go.

Yes, there was a time when what one wore in the country was more casual, often made of wool tweeds that showed dirt less, than what one wore in the city. But then suburbia came along and blurred the lines in the 1950s, and then the 1960s came along and the Baby Boomers objected to all dress rules including the practical ones. I like stick to the older rules of place and occasion partly because of the practicality and partly because the clothes reflect my tasks and my mind. When I am relaxing on vacation, one of the pleasures is wearing my vacation clothes. They help free my mind of all thoughts of work.

The fabric was from Fabric Mart which has a wide range of ever-changing offerings. The tiny vertical stripes on one side turn into tiny horizontal stripes on the other. As I will be making a jacket to match, I am already pondering if I will play with the two sides of the fabric. Stay tuned.

You can find Fabric Mart here: https://www.fabricmartfabrics.com/

[lesetoilesfous]

For DADWC: from the Florence + The Machine Prompt List list > "And the heart is hard to translate, it speaks a language of its own". You're my favorite fenders writer 💙, so fenders fic, pretty please!

Aaaaaaaah so I got this twice and I love it SO much so thank you both! @contreparry​ - I really hope you enjoy it!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting​

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: canon-typical graphic depictions of violence, Anders was right, anti-chantry, fluff

Rating: Mature

“And the heart is hard to translate It has a language of it's own It talks in tongues and quiet sighs And prayers and proclamations in the grand days Of great men and the smallest of gestures In short shallow gasps” 

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

It started on a beach in 9:30 Dragon. It was raining, and Fenris, Hawke and the rest of their companions were hot and sticky with blood when the clouds had burst. They’d left a litter of broken slaver bodies in the sand dunes behind them, stumbling down to the grey waves of the Waking Sea beneath a cloudy sky. 

And then it had begun to rain, and the mage: a foolish, willful man utterly ignorant of his own privilege, had yelped and begun to take his clothes off. Fenris can still remember the way the sand had felt between his toes, and hear the buzz of insects in his ears as he’d stared at the tall, blonde man, and the sand between them had grown dark with water. 

Anders had stripped down to his smalls, blood streaked up his forearms in long vivid slashes, and dropped his staff carelessly into the long, stiff silver reeds. Admittedly, it was a cheap thing: clearly scavenged or stolen, and nothing that any self-respecting magister would have been seen dead with. Still. Fenris had never seen a mage just drop their staff like that before. Just to the right of Anders’ chest, half hidden by thick red-blonde hair, was a deep and jagged scar directly above his heart. His belly was almost concave, hip bones jutting in a way that could only be unhealthy. There were more scars, but Fenris barely had a chance to see them before Anders was running at the freezing sea.

From behind, Fenris saw that his long back was latticed with more scars than he had previously imagined. The mage yelped as he got into the waves, feet hopping as if the water were burning hot, not freezing cold. And then he got past the shallows, and dove in beneath the cresting waves. Behind him, somewhere between the beach and the horizon, seabirds leapt squawking into the grey sky. Anders had burst up out of the blue water, laughing, tossing his hair back from his face in a whip of antique gold, tipping his long, crooked nose back and shutting his eyes as he raised his face to the watery grey sunlight.

And then Isabela and Hawke, laughing, had pulled each other’s clothes off and followed him, and Fenris had been left standing uncertainly on the beach, watching them, unable to decipher the ache in his chest as he waited for them to rejoin him on the shore.

*

It started in the Alienage in 9:30 on Wintersend. Anders had just delivered triplets, which was a labour that was exactly as harrowing and arduous as he had worried it would be. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and for weeks after he’d ascribed the events of that night to a waking dream. The elvhen women whose children he’d delivered had attempted to press what silver they had into his hands, and Anders had pressed it back into the mother’s wife’s hands, dizzy with the expenditure of his magic and the sheer weight of fatigue. Then he’d taken his staff, more as a cane than anything, and slowly left the narrow confines of their home.

His knee had been blistering with pain: and he’d known before the first kiss of snow that the weather had changed. His worst scars always warned him before the sky broke. Still, the coat he’d armoured over the years with reinforced leather and what other supplies he could scavenge provided little warmth against the night, so Anders was shivering as his breath fell in white clouds into the dark. Around the Vhenadahl, candles flickered against the wind in a way that only magical fire could, and Anders sent a silent half-hearted prayer to the Maker that the templars would stay inside their barracks tonight, and not make any midnight excursions into Lowtown.

The last person he had expected to see leaving Merrill’s home was Fenris, and he certainly hadn’t expected to see the elf wrapped in a mossy green, knitted woolen scarf. For a second the pair of them stared at each other, caught like apprentices out of bed past curfew. Then Fenris had flushed, ruddy against his dark skin, and marched past him. Anders had expected it to end there, but when Fenris got to the foot of the steps to the alienage he stopped, greatsword strapped like steel lightning to his back.

He turned on the steps, and frowned at Anders. “Are you coming?”

Anders had followed. Fenris said nothing for the whole journey, but he walked Anders to the door of his clinic, and when Anders swayed as he tried to heave open the heavy doors, Fenris had caught his elbow. Anders had stared at him, more startled by the unexpected gesture than he would have been by the Darktown floor, and Fenris jerked his hand back like he’d been burned. In one of the undercity taverns, a chorus of festival goers were singing. Fenris gave him a short, sharp nod. “Good night, mage.”

Anders nodded back, speechless. Through the broken walls of Darktown, snow drifted in silent clouds and disappeared into the blue ink of the Waking Sea. Anders was convinced for years that he imagined it when Fenris stopped again, on the staircase outside the clinic, and spoke in a murmur. “Happy Wintersend.”

*

It started on Sundermount in 9:33 Dragon.  Fenris had fallen, feet slipping in the mud, right calf failing him thanks to a slice to his leg that felt like it had split a ligament. His leg was a screaming burn and the rest of him was little better. The fog on the mountain was thick and white as dragon’s breath, and much colder, seeping through his armour and into his skin, and making the lyrium sewn into his flesh numb the veins around it in a bruising ache. Fenris couldn’t see Hawke, or Isabela, and he did not trust the mage to be anywhere than at Hawke’s side, for all that she had clearly long since promised her heart to Isabela. It was with a grim certainty that Fenris had looked up into the bloody, snarling face of his would-be killer, even as his mind ran through every formal strategy and dirty tricky he could think of. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt for mud to throw into his eyes, but his fingers were weak and stiff with the cold. The slaver’s sword fell.

Which was when six feet two of mage tackled him. Fenris stared as Anders charged at the slaver who would have killed him, throwing him down into the dirt. The mage’s staff was nowhere to be seen, and his hair was almost brown with the rain. His pale face was streaked with blood, and his coat and shirt were torn and scorched in places, exposing his bare, newly healed skin. Fenris stared as Anders tackled the slaver down into the mud and then reared back and punched him, hard, breaking his nose before punching him again, and again, and then taking a dagger from his belt and slitting his throat with brutal efficiency.

When the act was done, Anders dropped the knife into the dirt and scrambled to his feet, long legs skidding in the wet mud like a newborn colt. Fenris almost laughed, but in the absence of mortal peril his injuries were attempting to set his nerve endings on fire. His efforts to sit ended in him collapsing back onto the hill and praying to a Maker he struggled to believe in that Hawke and Isabela had dealt with the rest. And then Anders was there, face covered in blood and mud, hair clinging like kelp to his newly freckled and faintly sunburned cheeks. “Oh no you don’t.”

Magic fell over Fenris’ ruined leg like holy fire, and Fenris’ pain evaporated, washing away from one heartbeat to the next until it was merely a distant, terrible memory. Slowly, stiffly, Fenris managed to sit up, and for the first time in three years, Anders gave him a warm, honest smile. “There you are.” 

Then he’d stood, and Fenris had been dizzily reminded exactly how tall he was. And then there was a long, calloused hand, red with blood, fingers crooked with breaking, thrust into the foggy air between them. Despite himself, Fenris took it.

*

It started on the Wounded Coast in 9:33 Dragon. Aveline was attempting to woo her soon to be husband, Donnic, and Anders was struggling to understand exactly why that required Hawke and her friends to put their lives on the line. But the summer was late and hot, and the days were long, and Marian’s eyes were very blue. So he’d found himself in the shifting, midge-ridden dunes of the Coast, killing slavers and Tal-Vashoth, and only occasionally cringing with second hand embarrassment at Aveline’s attempts at flirtation. 

They’d dispatched most the ne’er-do-wells stupid enough to show their faces between the sand dunes, and were waiting for Aveline and Donnic to catch up in an appropriately concealed spot beneath the hissing reeds. Soon enough, their voices came down the path, not quite smothered by the close crash of the ocean and the whistle of the wind. 

“So I think it’s always best to start with a quick downward slash, and then follow up with a parry. It’s predictable, sure, but I think it’s good to get recruits started on what’s tried and trusted.”

Fenris had laughed, and for a second Anders thought the wind dropped. The elf’s voice was rough and low, and his laugh was too. He’d curled his lyrium-twined fingers at Isabela, and Isabela had rolled her eyes and presses a silver into his waiting palm. Fenris had pocketed it. Then he’d caught Anders staring, and cleared his throat, colour rising to his high cheekbones. Isabela had leaned across him, and Fenris’ flush had risen up the back of his neck and into the tips of his ears. Anders had tried very hard not to stare at it.

“Do you want in? Fenris thinks it won’t be until the third path.”

Anders had spoken, as he so often did, without stopping to think. “I wouldn’t have figured you for the romantic type.”

Fenris had met his eyes, then, and the elf’s were deep and green and beautiful. “There is a great deal that you do not know about me, mage.”

Anders had not been able to think of anything else for the rest of the night.

*

It started in 9:37 Dragon. They were in The Hanged Man, and Fenris was staring at the monster that wore the face of his nightmares. Corff was nowhere to be seen, nor were Maraas or any of the tavern’s other regulars. Fenris was trying to beat back the tide of cynicism in his mind telling him that he should have known they would betray him, all of them. That he should never have trusted anyone but himself. 

His sister stepped back, and his blood roared so loudly in his ears that he barely heard what Hawke said. But he heard his domi - Danarius - talking about his affection and his skills. It took everything Fenris had not to vomit on the tavern floor, and his mind revolted in a dizzy kind of horror as the impulse conflicted with memories of merrier disasters on these same stained floorboards. Then there were demons, and his mouth was thick with sulphur, and Fenris was fighting for his life.

It was like being back in the Provings again. Danarius had found his way onto the wooden staircase of The Hanged Man: the staircase that led up to Varric’s rooms, the staircase on which Fenris had once kissed Isabela and been pleasantly surprised by her response, the staircase where he’d found her kissing Hawke and told them it didn’t matter. Danarius had desecrated this place that despite the best efforts of Fenris’ anxieties had become like a home to him. Danarius had stood there, and watched, and Fenris had heard his friends’ screams as his master’s demons had ripped into their flesh.

Fenris had lost track of time, arms burning with the searing remnants of dismembered spirits, hands slippery with sweat and blood. But at some point the familiar relief of healing had disappeared, and he had belatedly looked up through sweat-stinging eyes to see Anders’ body arched in a translucent prison of blue light. Danarius had been watching the mage with an expression of terrible curiosity that Fenris knew well and feared more. His expression had been almost impassive as the mage shuddered and spasmed, blood oozing from his ears and flowing from his nose and down over his chin. 

Isabela was clutching a gash in her side that was turning her white canvas tunic cherry red, and Hawke was dragging a mangled leg through the broken furniture as she made her way towards her. Fenris stood frozen in the smouldering wreckage, trapped like the butterflies his master liked to collect on pinned boards in his study. Anders had collapsed in a heap at Danarius’ feet, and Danarius had stepped forward. Fenris’ heart lurched. 

But then Anders had surged abruptly to his feet and punched Danarius in the balls. 

Fenris laughed, a shocked bark that was too loud in the tavern following the battle, and Danarius had wheezed, and blood had spun about his fingers, and Anders had grabbed the back of his head with one hand and slammed his knee into Danarius’ nose with a jarring crunch, chest heaving as he panted. 

Then he’d picked up Danarius with all the strength promised by his tall, muscular frame, his training as a Grey Warden and the hearty meals Varric had spent nine years coaxing him into. Anders hurled Danarius down the stairs, where he landed in a heap at Fenris’ feet. Anders had looked at him, beard red with blood, body trembling with fury or pain or both.

“He’s all yours.”

And just like that, Fenris was free.

*

It started in 9:37 Dragon. Hawke and Isabela had fled across the sea, and Anders didn’t blame them. The Chantry was gone, and he was still getting used to the idea that he was meant to survive this. He still wasn’t entirely sure that he should, and Justice had been all too silent on the subject. So he spent his days in a waking dream, trekking for days and then weeks into the Vimmark mountains in the vague direction of Nevarra.

He hadn’t seen another living person for three weeks when an elf emerged from the fog, wreathed in white light like a ghost. Anders had stopped. His body and mind had long since become stretched too thin with hunger, horror and grief. Fenris’ countenance, for all its grim finality, came as an abrupt relief. At least he could stop running, now.

He’d dropped his staff, slowly, and held up his hands. “If you’re here to kill me, I won’t stop you.”

Fenris had not drawn his sword, but he hadn’t let the light die in his lyrium, either. When he stepped closer, he didn’t make sound, and for a moment Anders thought perhaps he really was a ghost, summoned by his imagination and too many nights in a decade spent longing for a man he couldn’t have. 

Around them, birds had sung in the early morning, and not far off a stream made its laughing way down the cliffs. “Why did you run?”

Fenris asked the question as if it held the secret to the restoration of the Golden City itself. Anders laughed, stepping forward and stumbling over his own feet and the thick mass of pain that was his long since ruined knee. Fenris moved toward him through the long, dew-soaked grass, but didn’t quite breach the space between them. Anders swayed into a mostly intentional sitting position on a moss-covered boulder. “Does it matter?”

Fenris had met his eyes, and his own were dark and green and beautiful. “It does.”

Anders shrugged, and shut his eyes, leaning his head back and up into the fog. Water kissed his cheeks, and he thought: it would have been worth it, for this. It would have been worth it, to feel the weather again. 

Something skittered in the bushes, and Anders opened his eyes and watched Fenris turn, bristling, to scan the trees. After a moment Fenris’ shoulders lowered, fractionally, and he turned back to Anders. He’d asked the question again, patiently, persistently. “Why did you run?”

Anders shook his head. “Because I didn’t want to bring you down with me.” Fenris’ eyes had widened a little, and Anders hurried on. “Any of you. I knew what I was doing, but the consequences were mine alone. I wasn’t going to subject you to them.”

Fenris had tilted his head, and the lyrium in his skin had sent shimmering refractions of light dancing iridescently through the fog. “I did not think you bore me so much good will.”

“More like I didn’t bear you so much ill.” Anders had corrected, before sitting forwards, feeling abruptly the weight of too many decades of exhaustion lying heavy on his aching shoulders. “It’s alright. I think killing me is the best decision, too.”

The glass had rustled, then, and Anders thought it must have been deliberate. But then Fenris’ feet were in front of him, stained green with the grass, and the light of his lyrium faded, leaving them both wreathed only in the sunlit fog. Anders looked up at Fenris, and he looked like some ancient king, backlit by the bright sky, skin dark and olive against the shimmering silver of his lyrium. “I’m not going to kill you, mage.”

And then there was a dark, calloused hand, silver with lyrium, fingers slender and elegant, thrust into the misty air between them. Anders stared at Fenris, and Fenris’ poker face cracked as he gave him a small, crooked smile. Despite himself, Anders took his hand, letting Fenris pull him easily to his feet.

“I’m going to help.”

*

It started in 9:40 Dragon, when the Circle of Dairsmuid was annulled, and over five hundred mages between the ages of six and seventy were murdered because they were allowed to see their families.  It started in 9:40 Dragon, with the rebellion of the White Spire.  It started in 9:40 Dragon, when Lord Seeker Lambert declared an end to the Circle of Magi.

It started in a tavern in Nevarra, at a meeting of former slaves and runaway mages. It started with elves, and second-hand weapons, and an apostate with a Fereldan accent who looked like an Ander. It started with an elf from Tevinter with white tattoos that looked like Vallaslin.

It started with rebellion. But that isn’t where it ended.

*

“No, words are a language It doesn't deserve such treatment And all my stumbling phrases Never amounted to anything worth this feeling All this heaven never could describe Such a feeling as I'm healing, words were never so useful So I was screaming out a language That I never knew existed before.”

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

[theoverlyenthusiasticwriter]

4 for the drabbles and could it be newly established nessian please?

I got you. I was originally gonna do this so it was Nesta getting the massage, but I thought that that might be a little over rated, so I went this route instead.

*****

Cassian hissed through his teeth as he found his way home, the snow biting into his skin in a way that reminded him too much of those winters when he was a boy. It had been a long time since he’d spent this long in the mountain, and had avoided the winters for this very reason.

Today had been the first day of formal training for many of the women in the camp. It had taken months and a civil war for Cassian to be able to train them in the open like this, to have dozens waiting for him when he joined them at dawn.

It made his heart ache.

But his heart wasn’t the only thing aching.

They had pushed him— far more than he’d been pushed in a while. He relished it, every question, every hold, every weapon. More than a few had put him on his back in the dirt.

So he stayed long, after everyone had gone, to put in that extra exercise that he knew he’d been neglecting.

And now, he regretted it.

Cold did absolutely nothing to help ease sore muscles.

Gritting his teeth, he thumped his way up the porch steps to the cabin he shared with Nesta, wings tucked tight against the cold. He brushed as much snow off of him as he could before entering, but it was hopeless. Maybe this was what snowmen felt like— instantly stiff and cold.

Cauldron, he was tired.

When he entered, the cabin was quiet and dark, save for a roaring fire in the hearth. He could have collapsed with relief.

“Sweetheart?” he called, trying to stop his chattering teeth. He kicked off his boots, shuffling over to the fire.

Nesta emerged from her bedroom, wrapped in a woolen robe. She was absolutely stunning, as always. Her hair was down tonight, falling in soft waves across her shoulders. 

He didn’t realize he was staring until she cleared her throat awkwardly. Things were still tense between them, sometimes explosive, but they had eased. She let him hold her some nights and ran her hands through his hair in the mornings. With each day that passed, the wall between them crumbled. Some days it was pebbles. Some it was mountains.

“Have you had dinner yet?” Nesta asked, even if they both knew she was a terrible cook.

Cassian shook his head, dislodging a clump of snow that fell with a pathetic thump onto that rug. He looked at it with a sigh. “I’m not hungry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

He didn’t answer that. They both knew. “I’m just gonna go to bed, then. It’s been an exhausting day.”

As he passed her, she allowed him the simple pleasure of pressing a kiss to her forehead, before he moved stiffly down the hall and winced.

“You’re sore,” Nesta said from behind him, stopping him in his tracks.

 “Like I said, it’s been a long day.” He tried to keep the snap from his voice, but he really did just want to go to bed. Maybe a hot bath… well, no. The thought of having to stay awake long enough for the water to heat pained him.

“Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

“What?” He turned, lifting an eyebrow.

Nesta stubbornly looked away. “You heard me. I’m not going to offer again.”

“Well, you were mumbling, so I thought I might have been mistaken.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes or no.”

Fuck, there was no way he could turn that down. “Do you want me to get the oils, or…”

She was instantly in motion, as if glad to have been given a task. “I’ll get them. Lay down in front of the fire.”

He obeyed, shrugging out of his coat stiffly, then his leathers, then his undershirt. His body protested the lack of heat, but the fire was welcome as he sat before it in only his undershorts. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen this much of him, and he prayed wouldn’t be the last. 

“I said lay down,” Nesta barked from behind him.

He glared at the space in front of him, even if she couldn’t see, and lay on his stomach, wings nearly reaching either side of the living room.

A moment later, a weight settled on his ass. He tried to look over her shoulder at her, but she put a hand on the side of his face, pushing it onto the rug. He huffed a laugh, folding his arms beneath his head.

A moment of stillness.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, ruffling the loose fibers of the rug.

“Of course I do,” she snapped, and he believed her. She had worked alongside the nurses during the war— they had to have taught her something. 

And so she began.

The oil dripped across his skin, between his wings, across his shoulders, his lower back. She smoothed it on carefully before beginning on either side of his neck. He rested his brow atop his fingers, turning his head to provide her better access. 

He was surprised, at first, to find that such small hands were so strong. As she kneaded the muscles of his neck with her oiled fingers, he suppressed a groan, biting down on his bottom lip. As she worked, his muscles unlocked slowly under her ministrations, his body relaxing until he drifted off into sleep.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept for, but when he awoke, it was to a curious brush across the base of his wing. He startled, whipping his head around. “What are you doing?”

Nesta’s cheeks were a brilliant scarlet. “I— I wanted to see what they felt like.”

“You can’t touch an Illyrian’s wings, sweetheart.”

“Why not? Are they not like any other body part?”

“They’re very sensitive. You can make an untried male come with just his wings.”

“Oh— oh.” She pulled both hands away, even if she hadn’t been touching them just now. “I’m sorry, then. You had just fallen asleep and I was finished and I didn’t mean to wake you…”

He let out a soft laugh, folding his wings so he could turn over beneath her. It was a maneuver easier said than done, but he managed not to hit her in the face with the arch of his wing.

“What are you doing?” she snapped when he sat up so they were nose to nose, his hands on her hips.

“I’m thanking you,” he said, and leaned in, perhaps to kiss her lips, but at her widened stare, he turned his face and pressed his mouth to her cheek instead. “Thank you.”

“You aren’t welcome.”

*****

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[nervousladytraveler]

@veryflowerobservation asked me for a little story with a very specific plot line. While I doubt this is what they had in mind (apologies in advance) this is what came to me over my morning coffee. Also, I’ve been reading Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, and am indebted to her for the world (and tone) of that novel that I borrowed here.

---

She was already seated at a table in a quiet back corner when Ross entered the restaurant. A sandwich sat in front of her--untouched. How long had she been waiting? Ross hadn’t been late. In fact he was rather pleased with his timing.

He’d only just found her note a mere half hour before he was to meet her. He’d almost missed it--a small piece of folded paper deposited on his desk and no one claimed to have seen the messenger.

Dear Mr. Poldark, it read. Please meet me, if you can, noon today. The Drake. Important item to be discussed. Yours, Miss D. Carne. The ink had smeared a bit revealing an impatient or untidy author.

He remembered Miss Carne. Often, if he were to be honest. He smiled at the physical feelings associated with the memory and was on his feet shuffling for his coat before he’d thought it all through. After a late breakfast, he wasn’t hungry yet his curiosity was piqued by such a veiled message. Then again cryptic was the nature of their business, he supposed.

Ross hadn’t wanted the job but was cajoled, battered--railroaded really. But his gallantry in the previous war and in his off-the-record jaunts in between, not to mention his Good Family (“So many Poldarks already in the high ranks, you know”) were all tallied up. If Ross was trying to slip away from duty unnoticed, it seemed he was his own worst enemy. And if he had a choice, he’d have preferred to return to the army, but his ankle still bore shrapnel from ‘17 and apparently he wasn’t needed in that capacity.

“We need trustworthy men inside, Poldark,” some smart Undersecretary and an older but oh so reputable Colonel had huffed. They nodded in agreement with one another, and without waiting for an answer, had begun making plans for Ross in an unmarked office at the end of a serpentine hall in That Building.

The last thing Ross wanted was to be trusted with someone else’s secrets and yet, there he was--working for the War Time Government, which he soon learned was a very different machine than the one they’d elected in times of peace, the one everyone thought they knew. And once he saw the ways the gears really moved, Ross was certain most would prefer not to know much about this one at all.

Miss Carne, the author of the note and the guardian of the untouched sandwich, was one of the girls in the unmarked office. The department that didn’t really exist on paper needed scores of young women to keep it running.

She was different from the other girls. Not just a typist but clever--she was always solving problems, often before they were discovered, and saving the men who didn’t really exist on paper from very real embarrassment.

Ross hadn’t many dealings with her. Well, not until that one night when he got to know her quite well.

It had been a Thursday and there had been cocktails out--what had been the occasion? War had already been declared so it was quite unusual to have held a work do. Why was she even there?

He remembered the dress she wore--blue satin--and the way it fit her. Like a glove. No, more like water in a stream rippling smoothly over immovable stones. It made him feel at ease to look at her and he knew how the night would end.

In the all the secretarial pools across the city, few girls had their clothes tailored--who had time or money? So when they ventured out after work, they sported those subtle signs of economy--gaping necklines or tight stretches across the middle. Their one good dress hadn’t been replaced in so many years but their bodies had changed with the war. Rationing had left them scrawny or cheap gin had left them bloated.

Oh but those girls tried, didn’t they? They carried on the best they could. With their lips so brightly made up they could violate the black out, they were hell bent on keeping up the spirits of the lads. Wartime made for an interesting and furtive nightlife. Of course the nice girls, the ones with breeding and good dress makers weren’t out much at all these days.

But this one, Miss Carne, with her red hair--real, not from a bottle--and a fitted dress the colour of the sea at twilight, was different. Demelza was her name. It sounded like some yet-undiscovered gem. Rare as hell and essential to keep out of enemy hands. She didn’t seem to belong in either world--not the world of well dressed would-be fiancees nor the seedy boîtes, that were filled after hours when the good girls were tucked up in their bunkers.

The hotel Ross had taken Demelza to after they’d left the party was nice enough. Not the Savoy but it had a toilet ensuite and the sheets were clean. She was not Ross’s first affair so he knew how to be discreet when signing the register. He needn’t have bothered--the concierge clearly hadn't cared.

He remembered the sound of that blue dress as he unfastened it down the back. A crisp zip in an otherwise quiet room. That and her breathing and his heart beating in his chest. The sounds of anticipation. Before the dress slipped from her shoulders and his hands clasped her naked body to him.

Today she wore a stiff woolen frock the colour of filing cabinets. It reminded him of a wall of sandbags, protecting a hidden softness beneath. Still the zipper would sound the same.

“Miss Carne,” he smiled and held out his hand to her. He contemplated kissing hers when it was finally offered but sensing some unspoken chill, he refrained. He sat down opposite and gave his serviette a merry snap.

She twisted her lips when she spied the gold band on his left hand.

“You're married?” she began, raising one perfect brow. Was it naturally arched or was that her own artistry?

He might have wanted to scrutinize her face, to map out what was artifice and what was real, but at that moment he didn’t dare look her in the eye.

“Yes, I am,” he said, just a decibel louder than a mumble. “And yes, I was married when we…” He took a gulp from his water glass.

“And yet there was no ring that night,” she mused. She had no problem with eye contact, her blue eyes remained fixed on his face.

“We...uh...we were in the midst of a separation then but the war has made us rethink things…”

We. Us. There wasn’t really an us. Elizabeth was merely feeling scared and lonely, between lovers, and suddenly liking the idea of a strong husband about. But since then her plans to retreat home to Cornwall, first spoken of as a ‘hypothetical perhaps’, had started to come to fruition. She’d been packing a trunk for some days now and was fretting about whether to take just some of her furs, or all of them. She was clearly planning to stay away. Ross’s response was to arrange a driver.

“Well then,” Demelza said and pushed away her plate. “That will complicate things but doesn’t change reality one bit,” she continued crisply.

It was an office voice. With it she would manage the girls under her with confidence and efficiency. No time for emotion, yet it wasn’t sour. Must keep morale up. They had jobs to do and every memo taken, every letter filed, was a fulfillment of their duty.

It was not the soft, easy voice that laughed in his ear as she lay next to him on the pillow in the blacked out room. The dusky voice that had whispered his name as he crawled up her body like a soldier crawling through mud. On a mission. Towards his target.

“It seems, Mr. Poldark, that I’m to have a baby.”

He held his glass aloft and stared at her.

“What?” he spat. “Well, it can’t be...I didn’t…not in...” Of course he couldn’t utter those words in daylight. Not over a sandwich at lunchtime. One needed a stiff drink before dissecting the mechanics of love. Yet somehow he knew it was possible. He thought he’d been careful not to leave seed in the field. Now it hit him he’d in fact laid a land mine.

“Well it doesn’t really matter what you believe you did not do, because apparently whatever you did, was enough,” she responded coolly.

He didn’t dare ask if there were any others who might stand accused with him in the dock. His gut told him she wasn’t that type. And though she hadn’t confirmed it during their night together--nor had he looked for evidence later--he suspected she’d been intact before he took her to bed. Oh, she’d been a quick learner!

He also sensed that she’d rather be sitting across from just about anyone else than talking to him now, so she certainly wasn’t trying to trap him.

“Are...are you sure? I...I need to think,” he said, aware that he sounded like an old Spitfire whose propeller couldn’t quite get going. So much sputtering.

She lit a cigarette, took one long drag, then ground it out carefully in the ashtray. No doubt she’d revisit that same fag again later, at a time when she was less impatient, when she could enjoy it alone.

“Well, you do that then,” she said, and gathered her handbag, ready to take her leave.

“Wait! Where are you going? How can I reach you?” His words came out in a fast and frantic stream. The engine had started--the sputter became a steady buzz filling the room.

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head lightly. Today her hair was held back with tortoise shell combs on either side. Tidy, discreet, and appropriate for an unmarked office. Or any office.

He recalled his hands getting lost in a sea of those curls, fistfuls he’d grasped in passion. An unexpected lifeline, it had seemed at the time, that prevented him from drowning.

He felt himself going under again.

“Now you want to reach me, Mr. Poldark?” she said archly.

“Hey--you left me! You were the one who waltzed out of that hotel room while I was asleep, without so much as a backwards glance,” he growled. He’d been rankled that she continued to call him Mister Poldark, especially when he could still hear her hiss in his ear--Ross--while her body bucked under his.

“I assure you it wasn’t a waltz,” she said. And that was all she said. At least she didn’t claim she’d been trying to save him the embarrassment of a morning after. “I share a flat with another girl in Kingley Street. We don't have a telephone but you can find me at the office--unless I get reassigned in the next few days. There are changes coming, I’ve been told.”

She rose to her feet and towering over him, nodded.

Ross tried to stand up quickly--to plead with her to stay? To follow her out? He couldn't say what his intentions had been but it mattered little. He was too slow. His legs got twisted under the narrow table, his chair scraped awkwardly, and the remaining lunch things began to tip before he caught them with his broad hands. He narrowly avoided one mess, aware that he had quite another still to be cleared up.

And just like that she was gone. Leaving her entire sandwich and almost-intact cigarette behind afterall.

In a strange flash, Ross was surprised she didn't offer to pay for her own lunch. Of course a gentleman should pick up the bill for a lady no matter the circumstances, but there was something so determined and iron about her now, that he couldn’t imagine her allowing anyone to help her.

And yet help her he must. Somehow.

He felt his pockets frantically for a scrap of paper but only found a stub of a pencil.

Kingley Street, he scrawled on the back of a matchbook. He had no house number, nothing else to go.

Could he ask someone to watch the street? He knew some blokes who would do a job like that--a stake out--for the right price. Or was he better off handling this himself, intercepting her at work? Even if she did get moved to a different sector--one that also did not officially exist--he might have channels to find her.

He sat back in his chair and reached for her cigarette. He imagined it smelled like her but he lit it anyway. It helped him to relax for just a moment while he planned his next move.

Ross knew he had a duty to this woman--to their child if one was to be--and while that was an overwhelming and unforeseen realisation, he was taken aback by a different unexpected sensation.

Desire.

He wanted her. Again. Now.

And he had to find her.

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Revue de la Mode, Gazette de la Famille, dimanche 10 octobre 1886, 15e Année, No. 771

Artist: E. Cheffer; Print maker: A. Chaillot; Printer: P. Faivre; Paris

Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Netherlands

Two women in an interior. Left: 'toilette' in green woolen crepe and lace 'brochée couleur' on a pink 'transparent'. Pink silk underskirt covered with embroidered lace. Right: 'toilette' in gray plain wool and striped fabric, 'sicilianen' and 'peluche'. Top hat with a raised brim and decorated with feathers. According to the caption: 'toilettes' by Pelletier-Vidal. Below is a line of advertising text for various products. Print from the fashion magazine Revue de la Mode (1872-1913). Detailed description of the clothing on pages 323 and 324 "PLANCHE COLORIÉE".