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tyttetardis · 4 months

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Macbeth Q&A 18th Jan 2024 Part 1

Was lucky enough to get a ticket for the Member's Event at the Donmar Warehouse that took place on the 18th...with the price of the patronages I sure never thought I'd have gotten the chance, but luckily, they also let in some non-members 🥹❤️

The brilliant performance of Macbeth was followed by a very quick cleaning of the stage - thought for sure it would've taken them longer to remove the blood than like 5 minutes - followed by a lovely, little Q&A session.

The Q&A was led by Craig Gilbert (Literary manager) who talked to Annie Grace and Alasdair Macrae (Musicians and part of the acting ensemble) as well as Cush Jumbo and David Tennant.

Anyway, just gonna write down some of the stuff they talked about :) sorry if it's a bit messy! Might be spoilery if haven't seen it yet but is going to!

To begin with Craig remarked that he didn't think he'd ever seen that many people staying behind for a Q&A before (While I was just wondering why some people even left!? Stressful!).

David introduced himself with "My real name is David "Thane of Paisely" Tennant - while Cush introduced herself with "I´m Cush Jumbo - there's only one of me".

First question was Craig asking them what it was that brought them to the Donmar to do Macbeth - to which David pretty much just replied that 1. It's the Donmar! 2. It's Macbeth! One of the greatest plays of all time in an amazingly intimate space - and that the theatre is famous for its quality of work. So he found it quite hard to think of a reason not to do it!

Cush said she'd worked there before and loves the theatre, how it's so intimate but also a great workspace. Followed by her saying she said yes because David asked her. She talked about how important it was for this play to do it together with the right actor playing opposite you.

David says Max Webster asked him about a year ago if he wanted to do the play - he gave him the dates - and since there weren't any obstacles in the way, David didn't have any excuse not to do it.

He then said that he had slightly avoided Macbeth - there sorta being the assumption that if you're Scottish and has done some Shakespeare plays before you have to do Macbeth. Which he joked was a bit odd since it's not like every Italian has to play Romeo. Then he mentioned that Macbeth is probably a bit more of a jock than he is - that it seemed more like a part for big, burly actors.

Max had laid out his initial ideas to David, a lot of which are in the final production, and David thought he seemed lovely, bright and clever and inventive plus it being the Donmar Warehouse! To which joked that he had last worked there 20 years ago - when he was 8 years old! "It's just one of those spaces" - friendly and epic at the same time where it's such a pleasure to be on the stage.

When Craig asked his next question concerning the sound of the play someone asked him to speak louder as she couldn't hear them - to which David joked that they've gotten so used to whispering. But also said sorry, and that they would!

Alasdair explained a bit about the process of the binaural sound - bit I find it a bit difficult to decipher it all correctly, sorry. He did say that a interesting part of it is that it allows them a controlled environment where they can put all the musicians (and even the bagpipes!) behind the soundproof box so "Poor David and Cush" doesn't have to shout over all the racket.

Craig asked David and Cush what their reaction was when they heard about the concept of the binaural soundscape - to which David replied that it didn't quite exist when they first came onboard - Cush joking they were tricked into it. Then she talked about her and David going on a workshop with Max to get a feeling of how it would all work - and get a sense of how it would sound to the audience, as this was one of the few times, they got to hear that side of it. Their experience of the play being completely different to the experience the audience has.

Cush said they can hear some of the sound - like she can hear some of the animal sounds and David can hear some of the stuff from the glass box - but most of their cues and information comes from timing with each other. She said they won't be able to ever hear what the audience hears - to which David joked "We're busy".

It felt like mixing medias - as it all went quite against their natural stagecraft instinct - but Cush found that in the long run it made things very interesting - like they don't have to worry about getting something whispered to each other - as the audience will hear it anyway.

David said the odd thing is that they don't really know what the experience truly is like. He mentioned that to the sides of the stage there's a speaker for them where they will get any cues that they need to hear. Like they can hear the witches - but they can't hear where they are "positioned" - so they have to learn how to place themselves to fit with what the audience hears. They don't hear everything, though. And the audio they hear is quite quiet, so it doesn't disturb what comes through the headphones.

He thinks it's been exciting - that it's a bit like a mix between film and theatre. It's happening live - but it's also like post-production is happening between them and the audience as it's going on. They just have to trust that the audience is hearing what they are supposed to for it all to make sense.

Cush said she thinks in 10 - 20 years, as these technologies has developed, doing theatre like this will feel a lot more normal - not that they will do it ALL the time, but that they will be doing it - whereas now it's still like an experiment. What Cush really like about the concept is that if was done in a much bigger theatre - then people in the cheapest seats would be able to have an experience much more similar to those in the most expensive seats - they'd be a lot more immersed into the action.

David then talks about how it feels extremely counterintuitive to not go on stage and speak loud enough that the people in the back row can also hear you. And usually, if they can't hear you, you aren't doing your job right! But then it felt very liberating. He loves it.

Cush then talked about how it felt odd waiting in the wings for a cue you can't hear - where you traditionally wait backstage and you can hear your cues, you can hear the rythm and know when it's your turn - so it was quite disconcerting to hear silence. So it's basically down to them now knowing the show and each other's timings - like if David is standing at a certain point, she knows how long she has before she needs to say/do something. So you have to watch each other more closely and really focus on what the others are doing.

David asked the musicians if they can hear everything inside the box, to which Annie replied that they get everything except some extra bits in the soundscape. But they can hear the actors on stage. Annie said it's actually a bit of a mystery to all of them what the audience actually experiences - how the big pictures actually look like - they just have to trust that it's there "Is it there?!".

Someone asked if they had had any adverse reactions from audiences to having to wear the headphones. Quite a bit of laughter all around :P then David said "There's the odd person" and something about if someone hadn't gotten the memo before turning up...but not sure how he ended the line. Then once again says that yes, there's the odd person who doesn't like it and that's fair enough.

The same audience member then said he could see the advantage of it in a big theatre where the distance is big, but not in a small place like the Donmar - to which David very quickly, rather passionately replied that it's not about projection, it's about being able to do things you wouldn't normally be able to do live - where they can speak so quietly that they can't even hear each other when standing next to each other. So even in such a small place, people wouldn't be able to hear that. It's about creating a different play - which isn't to everyone's taste and that's fair enough. But for a play that's been done a hundred and seven million times he thinks it's very valid to try and find a new way into the play - even if it's not for everyone.

Part 2

#David Tennant #Macbeth #Donmar warehouse #Cush Jumbo #I messed up this recording sooooo bad #I didn't see people pull out their phones to record it so I didn't dare do that either...#and man did I get a shitty recording out of it :(#and the audio ain't great either...Craig was sitting the furthest from me and didn't have a mic so can be a bit difficult to hear at times #Cush was sitting the closest to me (not that close - I was still in second row!) and David was sitting next to her #while I didn't have a perfect frontal view - the angle I was at did mean that I still got a perfect view of David's adorable smiles <3 #and all his other lovely facial expressions as he often looked to Cush when she was talking and replied to her...#which made it FEEL like he was looking in my direction *sigh*#and he looked so good with his comfy cardigan - skin tight jeans - and his glasses!#You know I have seen David quite a few times by now - but I'm pretty sure this was the first time I saw him wearing his own glasses!#I desperately wish I had managed to capture some pictures or a video---because OMG! He was so lovely <3 #Oh didn't know there was a text limit...or that I had written this much...guess I'm continuing in a part 2

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year

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FUCKING. YES.

What (some of) my ocs put you as in their phone:

Liu/Lucille (butcher/cannibal Yan): "Bambi" or "Belle/Beauty" The latter related to one of their favorite movies as a kind. If she could love her beast, you'll do the same won't you?

C.C/Saffron (Yan incubus): "Bae <3" with a string heart and flower emojis after. Will just as quickly change it to "Lil' bitch" if you ignore him long enough

Amyas (Yan cupid): "Answer immediately"

Baron (Yan demon): "MJNW" He's trying to spell mine, but his fingers are too fucking fat to hit the right keys

Maddox (Yan reaper): "Them"/the gendered variant. Simple, to the point - brings a smile to their face everytime they see it on the screen.

Alasdair (Yan Angel): "My light" Bro lights up a whole room with those eyes, but pop off king

V (incel Yan): "Kitten"

Miller (streamer Yan): "P1"

Erin (Yan Bully): "Pain in my ass" when you first give it to him. "Everything" after he finally let's his heart bleed.

Theodore (Teacher Yan): "Dear" for you, but he asks you put him in your phone as "Teddy"

Devlin (immortal Yan): "Boo (at night I think of you...)" His favorite song from that time period and what he plays outside your window.

Silas (immortal Yan): "THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE DUMBASS" He sends a lot of "prank texts" to people and almost send you a five paragraph long threat when it was meant for your boss.

Selene (Yandere housewife): "Sweetheart, My One/My Only" She gets so embarrassed when you find out.

Orion (Yandere Devil): "Prized Jewel"

Gemini/Gemini (Twin Devils in one body): "Our Missing Piece" They change it constantly, but that's what it's been for the longest

Daina (Yan Final Girl): "Rid3 or Di3"

Dea (Worshiper God): "My Universe." Stuff like that seems so small to them, but it just feels right.

Cherry, Clementine, Lemon (Yandere robots): "Master" Cherry and Lemon put hearts at the end, Clementine puts a sword

Lime (Yan cat hybrid bot): "Owner~" with a tongue emoji at the end

D.kay (Yan Murderbot): "SUNNI" (sunny) or just a long string of those heart eyed emojis

Milk Tea (Yan cow hybrid): Pet

Eggnog (Yan cow hybrid): "Bunny or J.J" The name of the rabbit plush they own as a child. Without it they aren't sure they'd be alive today. The same goes for you.

Root beer Milk (Yan cow hybrid): "Partner in Crime"

Bluebird (Former Darling Yan): "Saving Grace" or your name with a key emoji at the end.

Gus (Clown Yan): "Cutie Pie"

(And that's it for now. If there are any characters you'd like to see just lemme know and I might do a part two)

#yandere oc #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere x you #yandere #yandere blurb #yandere insert #male yandere #female yandere

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tomtenadia · 2 months

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My new fic

Hi all,

So, I am trying to gather all the possible courage and post the Prologue of my Hockey fic. I still don't have many chapters, but I am hoping that posting it for the public will give me the push I need to write more.

So, Rowan is a Pro Hockey player in the THL (Terrasen Hockey League) and Aelin in an ex pro figure skater now working as instructor. Rowan has suffered a serious head injury in a game and has been off for a few months and is now dealing with his healing. Aelin plays tough girl but she is still dealing with the accident that destroyed her career.

A very small part of Rowan's injury and recovery is inspired by "Unsteady" by Peyton Corinne (which I recommend to everyone if you love hockey romance) and also just a smidge of Icebreaker.

Also, Rowan is a single dad to a lovely 5 years old tornado called Maya (yes, I know always the same but I love it.)

The title.... Check my heart.... a play on the concept of cross check. Not the greatest but I am bad at titles.

Anyway, I will leave you to it.

CW: mention of injuries, panic attacks

PROLOGUE

The ice rink was empty and quiet on a Saturday afternoon.

Rowan slowly walked the familiar path that took him from the changing rooms to the ice, the feeling of walking in skates still strange after two months off.

As he finally exited the tunnel, the coolness of the stadium hit his face as he sat down on the home team bench. His team’s bench. Hockey had been a huge part of his life. He had started playing as soon as he had learned to walk. His dad had been a great champion in the Wendlyn Hockey League, leading his team to many championships and countless other major victories. His dad, Alasdair Whitethorn, had been the hero for many kids. Under his guidance, Rowan had learned to skate, and to get better. He trained, he played, he breathed hockey. In high school people had started to call him his father’s heir. He signed up for uni and graduated in aeronautical engineering. Aircrafts being another passion of his. At uni he played in the team and made captain and in his final year the offers from pro teams started to rain.

His first year as a pro in Doranelle he showed the world his skills and lead the team to a cup victory. Rowan thought he was at the top of the world, until the THL, the Terrasen Hockey League, found him and got his first offer. After three years in Doranelle, Rowan was called by Perranth with an offer that was impossible to turn down. Rowan’s career exploded, brought him across different teams in Terrasen until he landed in Orynth as captain for the Hawks. Together they won a cup and other teams kept begging for trades but Rowan always refused saying that he had finally found his team.

His career had been on a trajectory for more success until the last season.

Until the final game in the championship when they battled the Skull’s bay Pirates for the cup.

Until…

A deep breath and he stopped as the usual wave of nausea hit him and the fuzzy memory of that night threatened to surface and break him.

If he closed his eyes he could still hear the sound of his body colliding with violence against the boards. The pain. The terror and then the darkness.

Still on the bench, Rowan shook his head, trying to chase away the memory. His team had won, after Lorcan had led the Hawks to the triumph while seeking revenge for his captain.

Even with his team mates chasing minor penalties to avenge him. Even with Lorcan getting a five minutes major for roughing after he thumped Rolfe, they still had won.

Rowan had been in a hospital bed when they told him. He should have been elated, but all he had felt was emptiness.

He blamed it on the bad concussion. His team had explained him that Rolfe had checked him from the back, pushing violently against the boards. His head had taken a bad hit as he collapsed on the ice.

All Rowan remembered was the sound of Lorcan’s voice calling for a major penalty on Rolfe, the feeling of ice under him and the taste of blood.

Another shake of his head to clear his mind and finally Rowan stood, gripping the edge of the gate. That was progress. He had made it a bit farther than last time. This time, the gate was actually open and his right foot was on the ice. He took a deep breath and the left foot joined his companion on the ice. Gently, he pushed himself away from the boards and stood there. He stared at the Hawk logo painted under the ice and then took a tentative skate towards the middle. But when he paused and took a look at the empty stadium, memories betrayed him and the screams and the noise of a game hit him. His head started pounding and a moment later he found himself sitting at the centre of the rink, his chest tight and his breathing laboured. A panic attack.

“Are you okay?” A voice called behind him.

He heard the distinctive sound of blades scraping the ice but did not turn until he saw a woman kneeling in front of him. Even in his confused state he could not fail to notice that she was the most stunning creature he ever saw. Her hair was blonde and tied in a tight high bun and her eyes. The woman in front of him had deep blue eyes with a ring of gold in them.

Was he dead? Had he actually died on that hockey game and this was finally heaven? Was she an angel?

“Hey, you okay?”

She touched his shoulder and felt real. No. He was still alive.

“You fell?”

He nodded lightly.

“Come on big guy, get up, I need the ice.”

“Oh.”

“I have a class coming and I have the rink booked up.”

Rowan stared at the woman, she had black leggings and a jumper. Her body was definitely the one of an athlete but at the same time he could see elegance in the way she stood on the skates in front of him.

“Come on, off the ice.”

“Hey, I can use the rink too. How much space are you going to need?”

“The whole of it?”

He scoffed “I just need a small part.”

Aelin snorted “The ‘learn to skate’ class is tomorrow morning.”

Rowan stared at her aghast. Did she have no idea who he was?”

“I can skate.”

“You fell and look unsteady. I doubt it, big boy.”

“What, you never fell in your life?”

Something strange passed in her eyes and Rowan had a feeling it was hurt.

“You really have no idea who am I?”

The woman folded her arms at het chest “Should I?”

“Captain Whitethorn of the Hawks.”

She snorted loudly “a hockey barbarian, I should have suspected.” Her tone dripped disgust.

“I assume you don’t follow it.”

“What, watch a game where ten men skate on the ice like brutes and pound each others just for the sake of it?” She protested, not moving from her stance “the only thing I know is that you oafs destroy my ice and it takes the Zamboni a lifetime to repair the mess you make.”

He was about to reply when he heard voices and saw a group of kids entering the ice “Well, princess, your class is here,” he touched his head in salute and in a powerful move he skated to the opposite side of the rink, well far away from the woman.

It was later on when he finally left the venue with a sliver of hope. It had been his first day out on the ice since the accident and he had gone through some basics exercises that coach Gavriel had recommended. It had not been easy and being back on the ice had felt alien all of a sudden. A few times he had stopped to watch the strange woman teach young kids figure skating. He had watched her demonstrate some basic moves and he had been totally enthralled by her.

Now he was finally home and a smile appeared on his face when a little tornado crashed against his legs “dad, you are back.”

Rowan kneeled and kissed the girl who was his clone “I am, muffin, did you have a great time with grampa and nana?”

“Yes, we baked.” She grabbed his hand and dragged her father in the kitchen where on the table lay numerous trays of chocolate biscuits.

“Did you bake for an army?” He asked his mother.

“We are taking some of them for her friends at skating classes.”

Aside from hockey, Rowan had another big love in his life. His daughter Maya. His life. His everything. Maya had been born five years earlier from his first marriage. He had met Lyria still back in Wendlyn. Lyria was a rising star in the world of figure skating. He had fallen hard for her and a year after dating he had asked her to marry him. Not long after they got married he got drafted in the THL and Lyria refused to move due to her busy competition schedule. One of the biggest championship was happening in Wendlyn that year and Lyria wanted the win.

Lyria’s dream got destroyed when she discovered she was pregnant. Rowan had gone back to Wendlyn to watch one of her competitions but Lyria never turned up. She gave birth to a baby girl a month before the world championship.

The day after she had been discharged she had served him the divorce papers and a letter in which she renounced to all her rights as mother. Lyria had left the house the following day. No goodbyes, no last words. Just a a note on the bed reading You ruined my dreams.

Two days later he was back in Terrasen with a newborn baby and a career as pro hockey player. He had tried to find some information on Lyria after he was back. She had moved to a land very far across the ocean and had tried to restart her career but eventually gave up and became a trainer.

“Were you on the ice?” Asked his father sitting at his side on the sofa.

Rowan closed his eyes and nodded.

“How did it feel?”

“Alien,” the answer barely a whisper “I hated being on the ice, dad.”

“It takes time.”

“The team will be back from summer training camp in two weeks and then we need start preparing for the season. We have the first friendly game at the beginning of September against Perranth. I don’t have much time.”

Alasdair placed a gentle hand on his son shoulder “I know, but recovery takes time. Especially after such trauma.”

“I am the captain and I am letting my team down.”

Alasdair was about to reply but Maya came running and screaming for her father’s attention. “Dad, nana says that dinner is ready. Wash your hands.”

The girl was about to run away but Rowan stood in a powerful motion and lifted his daughter upside down on his shoulder. Maya laughed freely and patted his back screaming to be let free.

Rowan deposited his daughter on her chair and inhaled the scent on his mother’s cooking.

Being a famous THL player came with perks. He had signed a very good contract with the Hawks that allowed him to live a very comfortable life. He had bought a beautiful house in the outskirts of Orynth near nature. While all of his team mates had modern luxury mansions in the centre, he had gone for a cottage that he had slowly expanded and fixed up. It was cozy and, most of all, Maya loved it. They had a lake at the back that in summer was used for swimming and in winter they would use to skate together. Most of his money went to make sure his daughter had a good life. When he came back from Wendlyn with an infant, his parents had flown to Terrasen to help him and Rowan would be forever grateful to his parents for the help they had given him especially when he was away for his games.

His mother’s voice woke him from his thoughts “Are you taking Maya to the rink tomorrow morning? It’s her learn to skate class.”

“Yes. I need to go and train anyway.”

“Rowan, you should not push yourself too much.”

He sighed. His mum was a sports doctor and she saw his situation from the point of view of a physician. His hand curled in a fist and took a deep breath, he knew his parents were just looking after him “Mum, I am just getting again familiar with the ice.”

“Nana, can you skate?”

Rowan mentally thanked his daughter for the interruption.

“Yes, my love. Your grampa taught me to skate a long time ago.”

Maya smiled happily.

“Once the lake is once again frozen we can go you and I so you can show me all you have learned.”

The girl’s grin spread and her green eyes brightened in happiness “my teacher said I am good.”

Eiddwen lifted the girl on her legs and stamped a kiss on her cheek “of course baby, you are a Whitethorn.”

The dinner eventually finished and after his parents left, he took his daughter upstairs and helped her get ready for bed.

She climbed in bed and grabbed her soft toy “dad, can you tell me a story of when you won a cup?”

Rowan smiled and sat at her side. Maya had grown surrounded by hockey. Her grampa, although retired, was still an important personality in the hockey federation. He would take Maya to the games if possible and would explain what was happening. She loved listening to some of the stories of his victories from both her dad and her grampa.

“You don’t want a story from the last book we bought?”

Maya shook her head “not tonight.”

Rowan sat properly with his back against the board of the bed and pulled Maya against him “It was the third period of the cup final and we were down by one and down one man….”

taglist

@rowaelinismyotp @swankii-art-teacher @whimsicallyreading @elentiyawhitethorn @aelin-bitch-queen @bruiseonthefaceofhumanity @mis-lil-red @thegreyj @sailorsassley @leiawritesstories @clairec79 @morganofthewildfire @sv0430 @heartless--aromantic @autumnbabylon @rowanaelinn @susumaus98 @gracie-rosee @mybloodrunsblue @tanvee1231 @avenrebekah @whoever-you-choose-to-love @theywillnotsingforme @universallytreepost @black-daisy-water @goddess-aelin @whispers-in-the-darkest-heart @lovely-dove-zee @athena127 @mariaofdoranelle

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin fanfic #aelin x rowan #rowanwhitethorn #throne of glass fanfiction #aelin galathynius

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danjaley · 4 months

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Household book of Alice McCarric, December 31st 1789:

Nothing extraordinary happened this year. Works on the house were finally completed, although Mr Brodie was obliged to accompany his cousin the Baronet on a journey to Italy. He assured us that the workers had clear instructions and nothing could go wrong. I hope he was right, as it is a great relief, no longer to be living in a construction site. Robert and Graham are doing well. Our dear Catherine turned one year old and a new brother or sister is expected next summer. Alasdair started attending school in Glasgow. It was the best that Captain McCarrick could afford and he can still spend the weekends with us.

#mccarric scenes season4 #mcc4 part1 #the first line is from an actual historical diary from 1789

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historia-vitae-magistras · 8 months

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Is it too much to ask Matt has a good time of it for once 😭

It might! The cringe below might finally manage to kill me but I had a rum so enjoy if at all humanly possible I fucking guess lmao. No trigger warnings in this!

Liverpool, 1780s.

Alasdair didn't like Liverpool. Alasdair didn't enjoy anywhere below the borderlands if he was honest. The further south he went, the more English the accents and attitudes got. But his personal accounts and the Scottish economy were all bound up in Arthur's and England's. The city was an important center of commerce and shipping, but Christ was a hellscape to navigate. A massive barrel of what God only knew nearly flattened him as he ducked between burly stevedores carrying rolls of hammered copper and herring casks. Not ten paces later, he was doubling over to avoid decapitation and not by the preferred broad sword, but bolts of silk heaped over someone's shoulder that swung out like a branch a rider wouldn't see in the dark.

Eventually, the long solid jetty ran nearly half a mile with smaller wharves and docks jutting from it like teeth set in the skull of England. Barges, barques and brigantines floated both at their berths and sailed up the mouth of the harbour and down the throat of the River Mersey. The whole bloody circus acting as if it were the opening of Arthur's mouth, goods being swallowed into the belly of Britain.

He steered himself through the mob of elbows and shoulders, shading his eyes with a hand now and then to read the raised, painted letters on various sterns and bows until he found the ship he was looking for. HMS Triton was emblazoned in yellow. Loaded with cod and wheat for the warehouses, Arthur would be making land at any time and would want to know the state of their finances immediately. He would want to be bent over the tables, figures, and ship manifests and reports. He was always in a foul mood when he had to get off the ship and the profitable year would set his ire to rest before it came to blows at least. He found a post jutting up from the water hung with lanterns unused in the daylight and leaned against it, waiting for his ill-tempered brother to make his appearance.

A quarter of an hour later, they were finally lowering the gangplank. It scraped to a halt as two heaving sailors maneuvered into place. The planks were still skittering on the dock as he was assaulted by the smell of unwashed sailor, tar, fish and a knot of sharp elbows and joints that suddenly hung around his neck. Curses rose into his mouth, and then he was aware of the distinctly sweet smell of polar wind and pine wood. The rush of fondness that came was unconscious, automatic and as human as they ever felt.

"Holy Christ," He pinched limbs snaking around his neck and flung them off, gripping the slender creature giving him the world's most gentle, affectionate mauling and holding him at arm's length.

"Matthew?"

"Hello, Uncle Alasdair!" Matthew wriggled and looked overjoyed, stuck in an awkward shrug with all his weight hanging from Alasdair's hands under his armpits. Alasdair stared. Getting taller but still small for his age, he dangled there for a long moment as Alasdair stared. He was lighter than Alasdair could remember. Then, all at once, his brain started up again.

"What in hell d'ye think you're doing here?"

"Father's arranged it!" He said, chipper but increasingly nervous. He twitched in the awkward hold. "Did... Did Father not write and tell you?"

"He didn't!" Alasdair exclaimed, annoyed at his brother. He'd have words when the boy was in bed. Really, could Arthur not inform him of the basics? "Christ, Matthew, but you're a surprise!"

"An unwelcome one?" Matthew said a little sadly, and Alasdair recognized all at once that his hold must have been painful; Matthew had interpreted from Alasdair's tone that his presence was an annoyance as it was so often with Arthur.

Alasdair hugged him drawing his nephew and godson to his chest and shifting his insubstantial weight, so he sat on one arm, all affection for him overriding any annoyance for Arthur. "Not at all, wee one,"

He lost track of time momentarily, the curly-haired sprite hugging his neck taking up all the world. The boy's clothes were stiff with salt, but he was so sweet a sight for sore eyes; Alasdair didn't mind if any of the white chalky residues got on his second-best coat.

"How was your voyage? Your ships three weeks late, I half thought the Nuckelavee had gotten themselves a particularly poor meal of bony Englishmen and snapped a wee tender Canadian up for desert,"

"Oh no, just rough seas," Matthew said, looking back at Alasdair. He was smiling but a stone thinner than Alasdair remembered. "We spent a week off the coast of Ireland to let it pass. And made several stops since we weren't transporting anything important,"

Alasdair snorted. "Except your father I suppose,"

"Oh, did father arrive already?"

"I'm sure he'll be along in a moment," Alasdair said, more focused on shifting the weight to one arm and getting out of the way as cargo was unloaded. Activity was up, sailors busier now that the bottle neck of the gangplanks we're down. Alasdair sighed. Arthur could take a year and a bloody day to disembarque he so preferred being at sea sometimes.

Matthew's head popped up, wide-eyed and overjoyed and Alasdair lifted a hand to the head of salt-stiff hair and nudge him out of the way. But the question still came, vibrating with excitement. "Father came with you? To fetch me? Really?"

Alasdair frowned. "With me? Nay. Isn't he with ya, lad?"

The boy's enthusiasm sagged from him and he buried his face into Alasdair's shoulder. "No, sir,"

Alasdair sighed. Of course, he wouldn't spend that much time in close quarters. Sassenach bampot always preferred his own cabin, if not his own ship. He lifted Matthew's weight to his hands so he could be safely deposited onto his own two feet; he asked, "Where's your governess then?"

"Governess?" Matthew asked as Alasdair set him down.

"Aye,"

"Why would I have a governess?" He asked. His big blue eyes proved Alasdair's point. He was likely young enough in human terms to still have one.

"A tutor then?" The wind was picking up now.

Matthew looked at his feet. Alasdair sighed.

"Well, who minded you on the way over?"

"I suppose that'd be the captain. He never spoke to me but no one said ill of him." Matthew said. "I think Lord Kirkland said I should start learning the ropes without being coddled,"

Alasdair snorted. As if Arthur had ever coddled Matthew. Matthew shrank, narrow shoulders inching around his ears as he interpreted Alasdair's incredulity as criticism.

"I tried to do what I told," Matthew said quietly.

"I’m sure you did." Alasdair replied gently. "It's all right. Do you need to fetch anything?"

"No sir." Matthew responded, but he hesitated.

"What is it?"

"The bosun said he would tell father I've done well. Would you speak to him? And tell father? Please? If it's not a bother."

"Aye, of course," Alasdair said. "I don't think you could do anything less even if you’d tried. Let's get you out of the weather before it turns foul,"

"Shouldn't I help unload?" Matthew glanced back nervously

"No, I think you've done enough work," Alasdair bounced Matthew up so his weight sat comfortably on the flat of his forearm.

After a talk with the first mate and bosun, who reported Matthew's work on glowing terms, they returned to the house. Relatively new, it shared its northern wall with the warehouses but had its own water pump and a big copper tub he set the maids to fill with hot water. Peeling Matthew out of his salt-crusted clothes was an ordeal. The boy seemed to be covered in a salt rash from his narrow shoulders down, and his hands were practically in shreds, rope burns and salt welts everywhere on both sides. His ribs showed under his skin.

"Christ almighty, I'm going to clap your father into a stockade," Alasdair muttered as he gently tried to sponge the raw skin clean of salt. "What was he thinking?"

Matthew shrugged, stifling another wince as the sponge touched was looked like a particularly painful place of angry irritation.

"Sorry," Alasdair said. "We'll get something on these, but the salt—"

"I'm like salt-packed green beans."

Alasdair snorted. "And the beanpole. Honestly, did they forget to feed you?"

"Only sometimes!" Matt said chipperly, blowing at the suds and shaping peaks like merengue out of the bubbles. It was strange, sometimes, that even after a century and a half, children remained like their physical age. "I didn't have a friend to bring me anything when it was my turn on watch duty like the other lads, so I had to wait for breakfast a lot."

Alasdair sighed, filling the pitcher and telling Matthew to close his eyes as he dumped more water over his soapy hair and shoulders.

"What do you want for your first decent meal on land?"

Matthew looked up, a little uncertain. He hated requesting things, even when he was asked. Alasdair combed his fingers through the curls and despaired to find them still salt stiff.

"We can have whatever you like," Alasdair said, trying to reassure.

"I don't mind whatever you were going to have." He said quietly, patting absently at a particularly angry-looking patch of skin on the back of his hand. He looked like he wanted to say more, the slightly sad face that consistently predicted being told no even when he built up the courage for something.

"I'm asking what would you like?"

"Is there any fruit?" He asked, all in a rush, looking a little terrified. "Is that all right? Actually no, sorry. Whatever's being cooked is fantastic, I'm sorry."

"Matthew." Alasdair repositioned himself to the side of the tub instead of the back. The lad was still slight for his age and dwarfed by all the suds in the tub long enough for Alasdair to stretch out. For a bizarre moment, he recalled Arthur, even younger, even smaller, with terrified eyes in the waters at Aqua Sulis when he'd been playing and lost track of their mother. "Grapes or apples? Or there are some plums if you'd like those. Won't do to have you keeling over of scurvy on land."

That got him a surprised look.

"Both?" Alasdair asked.

A shy smile appeared, flickering like a candle before the flame found it's footing on the wick. "Thank you,"

"You're welcome. Now eyes shut, need to give you another rinse."

It took four water changes before he was rinsed as thoroughly as Alasdair wanted, and his short cropped curls were soft again. He ate exactly what Alasdair put in front of him, only took the plums Alasdair put on his plate and didn't ask for more but took them, slice by slice. He was a sweet boy. Alasdair put another sliced apple in front of him until it was plain the lad could barely keep his eyes open, properly fed and clothed.

Matthew, fed and sluggish, hung on for a long moment when given what Alasdair meant as a hug good night before he sent him to bed. Alasdair glanced down.

"Sorry." Matthew dropped his gaze to the floor. "Thank you."

Alasdair scooped him up. It's after sundown; the fire burned low when Matthew rolled over in the trundle they'd pulled out from under the primary bed. He was buried in blankets and three household eiderdowns, bundled snug against the night but not yet asleep. There was something stiff in the way he held himself, Alasdair decided as he rolled onto his back and sighed.

"What's on your mind?"

A long, inefficient pause. Not inefficient, Alasdair thought, but nervous.

"Whatever it is I won't be angry."

"Can I ask something of you?"

"You know you can, a bhobain."

"Would you please warn me if Lord Kirkland wanted to... exchange me?"

Alasdair went cold just thinking about it. Without thinking, he'd leaned towards the trundle and scooped the boy, blankets and all, to cuddle him close. In the light of the mostly banked fire, he was shocked to see Matthew wasn't upset.

"Your father wants you,"

Matthew snuggled in his blankets, wriggling until he was perfectly tight between Alasdair's arms.

"He doesn't mind me now so much. But... you'd warn me, right? Please?"

He thumbed Francis' curls off a sharp face that was too like Arthur's as a boy, with eyes as large as they were clever. It was strange how a child made of so much of the two great sources of disquiet in Alasdair's life could be so endearing.

"Listen to me. You belong to the British Empire. That means I get just as much a say as your sassenach bastard of a father, should he change his mind." He didn't want to test that particular statement anytime soon but it felt true enough, saying it. "And I'll never give you up, do you understand me? It's my name you bear and my name you'll keep, understand?"

He got a very fervent nod against his chest.

"No one will ever give you up if I have a say in it," Alasdair said, closing his eyes against the dampness suddenly there. History had taken his mother and all the sweetness Arthur ever had. He kissed Matthew’s forehead. "I can promise you that. You have my name."

"It's just... I had Lord Bonnefoy's too." Matthew said very quietly. "I was part of New France. Now I'm... Not."

Alasdair exhaled the urge to smash Francis' face into one of mother's standing stones and thumbed Matthew's face.

"I stood as your godfather when you were born. Did you know that?"

Matthew shook his head.

"You were too little to remember." Alasdair held him tighter. "But I am. And François... He's always had the gentler climate. Fair weather. Do you understand what I mean?"

"That I'm too cold." Matthew shivered, and Alasdair rubbed a circle in his back like he had when the lad was tiny, not that he was much larger now.

"No. That he can be a fair weather friend. We Scots are made of sterner stuff. You and I." He thumbed an idle curl, pondering the boy. Matthew glanced up, eyes wide and watery. Alasdair looked him in the eye, in what little light was left and repeated himself for emphasis. "You and I, both."

#the ask box || probis pateo #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #matthew || my country is winter #alasdair || my heart's in the highlands #Alasdair and Matt || is mig amharc le dicheall

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ego-meliorem-esse · 1 year

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Drawing Matt truly calms my soul. Drawing fashionable Matt tho sets my heart on fire. The duality of man...

I've been thinking about Matt's younger years and these are some quick thoughts that I just can't get out of my head:

Matt was born, and for a while lived on Francis' big estate outside of Paris, before being taken to Quebec. Due to not being born on his own land and the uncertain state of New France at the time, Matt was a sickly child with a lot of health issues. Francis of course had no time nor did he have the interest to devote his time to his sickly baby so Matt had quite a few governesses and maids taking care of him. He would hardly see his father most of the time that he was in Paris. The time that they would spend together was short and mostly during social gatherings and parties hosted by the French elite where it was expected of Francis to show up and bring his boy. While not being completely cold towards his son, Francis wasn't the warmest father either. Matt would get whatever he needed in the material sense. He had the best clothes out of the finest fabrics, the best toys, and later on the finest tutors. He rarely received any kind of emotional support that a regular parent would give though. While having all these things, Matt in reality had received very little love from Francis. In the modern day, Matt is afraid and uncomfortable asking for basic needs directly as a result of this.

Because he would spend so much time on his own, Matt picked up the habit of reading long into the night. He has read almost all the books on Francis' shelves during his long stays in Paris. His favourite genres are any type of fiction and all sorts of encyclopedias. If he was alone he would read and try to cure his chronic loneliness with books.

Matt can draw pretty well. It's a skill he believes he got from Francis. He can draw anything from portraits to landscapes. As a child, he drew much more than he does these days.

Matthew would hear less and less from Francis before he was eventually traded for sugar colonies. He would receive fewer and fewer letters from his father. Still, he hoped his father would come and get him after the war was over and the dust had settled. Nothing of the sort happened though. Francis was nowhere to be seen and Matt was completely heartbroken for a very long time. The transition from a French colony to an English one was difficult for Matt. He would sit on his new bed in the English manor and cry until his little heart couldn't take it anymore. Getting to a point of numbness quite early on. The only consolation was his newfound brother. Alfred (for the time being) was godsent. While he was a bit too loud and a bit too excited, he listened to Matt and spent time with the boy. Alfred gave Matt attention which he so desperately needed. Matt finally had a friend.

Arthur was a different story altogether. At first to him, Matt was a small version of Francis. That in itself annoyed Arthur to no extent. What annoyed Arthur as well, was how much the boy looked like his father. At first, Arthur's treatment of Matt was cold and unrelenting. He didn't give the boy much thought and avoided him as much as possible, until finally realizing just how much the boy was in a need of a father and just how different he was from Francis. Being family-oriented, Arthur finally gave in and reluctantly read the boy his first bedtime story.

When Al left, Matt once again found himself surrounded by loneliness. Arthur was bitter and Alfred didn't respond to his letters. The only consolation was his uncle Alasdair who came around every once in a while for official business with Arthur (who for a while, neglected Matt due to his own grief). Though Matt suspected his uncles' visits were more to check up on Matt himself. Matthew hoped for the ladder to be true.

Sometime after 1815, Matt's and Al's relationship became more stable. They traded letters and visited each other more often. It took time but they eventually forgave each other.

I know these are not really written that well it's the thought that counts :))))

Aghhh i missed drawing my good boy so much!

#hws canada #hetalia #the hcs are pretty shit but i had to get it out there #myart #my art #matthew williams #historical hetalia #he look so much like francis in this one augsdhgkdglfdsadflsk #hetalia headcanons #my headcanons

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amongthestackspodcast · 21 days

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Thank you all for your votes! The results of the @audioverseawards finals are out and we’ve won 4 awards!

Congrats to Alasdair Stuart for Best Recurring Voice in a New Production; @reefsharkivist for Best Musical Direction in a New Production;

Congratulations also to @alexyquest for Best Direction in a New Production; and our entire Writing Team: Nigel McKeon, @penofsteele , Spectre, @alexyquest , Jesse Syratt, and @clansocreations for Best Writing in a New Production.

This wouldn’t be possible without your votes so thank you from the bottom of our hearts

So thank you for that! We’d also like to congratulate some of our fellow friends and winners, so congratulations to @re-dracula, @hellofromthehallowoods, @oldgodspod , @ameliapodcast, @ethicstownpod , and @ghostwaxpod !!

Absolutely well deserved

#among the stacks #audio drama #podcast #lgbtq #storytelling #spotify #indie artist #podcast recommendation #audio verse awards #re dracula #hello from the hallowoods #old gods of appalachia #ethics town #ghost wax

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a-luran · 1 month

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please talk about scoteng toño my crops are dying and my tea grows cold

Astro noo ;A; yer tea!!! your crops... I am sorry it has been so long. Please take some historical thoughts with my contrition:

---

After the Battle of Otterburn, 1388 AD

It is worth less than its waning weight in gold; a waxing sun held in the palm of Alasdair's hand.

"Here," he says and means go. Go south, go home.

Arthur does not move to take it, hands lying limp between his thighs, shoulders splintered under the weight of his coat. He is ash-stained and ashen, the beds of his nails torn and packed with dirt. His knuckles are bruised and split, the wheat-gold of his hair lying limp and muddy, weighed down with sweat and another man's blood. Alasdair is not bearing up much better but at least he is on his feet.

The stench of shit and fear is so thick in the air he'll smell it with every step he takes from here to Stirling.

Arthur stands slowly, like it costs him. For a moment Alasdair thinks his left knee might give, bring him low again, but it holds. He forgets, sometimes, how young Arthur is in the eyes of men. He wonders what they might see in him; if it is anything like the child Alasdair knew before the compulsion to the wills of others made them cruel.

Arthur takes a step, finds his footing, and spits blood on the ground between his feet. Alasdair thinks he might have been aiming for his hand but he can't be sure. Arthur's eyes are dim and slow and it might figure that some of the blood dripping down from his temple is his.

He tries to knock past Alasdair and trips over his own feet when their shoulders meet. Alasdair grabs him by the arm to right him and shoves him forward before Arthur can shake him off. Arthur catches himself against a the ruins of a wall and Alasdair does not know what is worse, the tang of iron in the air or the pit in his chest.

Arthur is sick against the stones, shoulders heaving with the effort, and Alasdair fights the surge of pity in his gut. Arthur pants, coughs, spits again. Alasdair waits it out before reaching for him again, fisting Arthur's cloak with one hand thumping the other against his chest.

Arthur's chin drops to his sternum, an unreadable look on his face. Alasdair hates him, and loves him, and wants to see him gone from this place.

"Arthur." His voice is ragged, hoarse, and barely above a whisper. Speaking Arthur's name is the closest he will ever come to pleading.

He will never know what chit he bargains against Arthur's pride that day but finally, awkwardly, Arthur reaches up to brush his fingers against the back of the fist on his sternum.

Alasdair palms him he coin with halting fingers, hands brushing skin-warm and coarse, and only lets go of Arthur's shoulder when he is sure that he's tucked it away safely. Then he steps away.

Arthur goes without a word, heading south and away. Alasdair lingers, looks west, chasing after the sun and away from the embers that still burn to the east.

It is only long after Arthur has gone and he turns north that he thinks he would have liked to hear the sound of his voice.

#hws england #hws scotland #historical hetalia #;;;;;;;;;;;#i thought i posted this way back but i found it in my drafts so i edited it a little bit #I'M SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG #this is from when i was DEEP in historical coinage and was thinking of interning with numismatics #interesting fact the name arthur dates back to the 9th century #if you know a bit about historical coinage you caught that bit at the beginning about the waning coin hehe #scoteng

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see-arcane · 9 months

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AaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA

@re-dracula I cannot BELIEVE that song! And the little end credits bit!! That absolute bastard of a bat!!! Alasdair Stuart’s final lines and Karim Kronfli cackling through the desperate and despondent last words and you seriously Did The Thing with the shanty and and AND—

I’m not going to sleep after this. Thank you thank you thank you for a deliciously insidious episode 🦇⛵️

#giggling and kicking my feet in bed right now #holy shit #re: dracula #dracula daily #dracula #the demeter

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life-is-rutile · 6 months

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Finally catching up on Hi Nay, and it just occurred to me - do you think in order to join Rusty Quill you have to name several characters Michael or one of its manifold variants? And then Peter Lu I mean Alasdair shows up and voices a gay little character and the contract is sealed?

#hi nay #the magnus archives #rusty quill

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scotianostra · 4 months

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On January 20th 1604 Alastair MacGregor of Glenstrae, Chief of the outlawed Clan Gregor was executed at the Old Tolbooth, Edinburgh.

In 1589 John Drummond, the Kings forester, was murdered after hanging some MacGregor’s for poaching. The Chief, Alasdair MacGregor of Glenstrae, gave shelter to the killer. Such was the highland honour to do so, he took responsibility for the act and was condemned by the Privy Council.

King James VI, issued an edict proclaiming the name MacGregor “altogidder abolished,” meaning that those who bore the name must renounce it or suffer death.

This wasn’t helped by probably the most significant event in MacGregor history which was the Battle of Glen Fruin on Feb 7TH 1603. The Proscriptive Acts of Clan Gregor were enacted on the 3rd of April 1603. This draconian ruling authorized the capture of Alasdair MacGregor of Glenstrae and his leading kinsmen.

For almost a year Alistair MacGregor evaded capture but when he was finally captured, he sought protection from the Chief of the Campbells to go to London to beg clemency from James the VI, who had recently claimed the English throne. The Campbells gave him safe passage to the borders, but arranged in advance for soldiers to capture him on the English side, and returned him to Edinburgh to stand trial with eleven of his chieftains.

The jury included many of Alastair’s bitterest enemies. To mark his rank, the Chief was hung higher than his kinsmen.

Today, visitors to Edinburgh will often notice people spitting on the Heart. Although it is now said to be done for good luck, it was originally done as a sign of disdain for the former prison of which the entrance lay directly at the Heart's location. It is then probable, that the spitting custom may have been begun by the accused.

#scotland #scottish #history #execution #MacGregor #Edinburgh

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helianskies · 4 months

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no inbox request other than one to myself, because i needed to write someone different and have a break, and maiva gave me an idea (nothing new there though!) so, here's to fran and ali('s taste in christmas jumpers...) 🎄

Style

Francis glances at the grandfather clock over his shoulder to check the time, before he hurries back to his reflection in the hallway mirror and continues to try and fix that one little chunk of hair that’s more stubborn than his Parisian uncle.

He has just a few minutes before, really, they ought to make a move. Being fashionably late is acceptable, but being late late would be a disgrace that Francis would prefer to not make a habit of committing—especially not in front of the in-laws!

“Come on,” he calls vaguely in the direction of the stairs, as he picks up the perfume he’s brought down with him and sprays himself for the fourth time that afternoon. “We are going to be late, ma moitié! And everyone is going to think it is because of me!”

“Hang on!” his husband calls back, however.

Francis can hear him overhead, rushing from one room to another, before his steps head along the corridor and, at last, begin to clomp down the stairs; glad he’s coming, Francis gives himself a final check in the mirror.

“Sorry,” Alasdair says. “Couldn’t find the other sock, could I!”

Francis gives a soft snort of laughter—how very typical of him—he always tells him, make sure to pair them before you put them away!—and he turns to Alasdair to—

“O-Oh my…”

His face has fallen, and no matter how hard he tries to, he can’t seem to pick it back up. His eyes are fixed on what his dear, sweet, charming husband has decided to wear to the family get-together. In one word: a travesty!

“What?” Alasdair asks him, his hands going straight to the offending item of clothing, which he grabs with both hands and stretches to look at him himself, as if he can’t remember what he’s wearing. His face scrunches up in bewilderment, and he looks back up at Francis, brows still furrowed and lips slightly pursed. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong, my love, is that that,” Francis says, trying not laugh as his arms fold across his chest and a hand attempts to mask his amusement, “is the ugliest jumper I’ve ever seen.”

“What, ever?”

“Ever,” he confirms with a solemn nod.

The jumper in question looks like it must be some vintage number—the sort you buy from a charity shop as a joke for a work Christmas party, not a dress-up dinner! It’s this shade of brown that perhaps once upon a time was rich like chocolate, but that now looks like rotting wood, and right in the middle, big and bold, is an appliqué tree being decorated by one adorable teddy bear, while another is sitting by some lonely presents. Little golden stars have been patched on haphazardly, and the sleeve cuffs—oh!—are adorned with gold embroidered bows and holly wreaths.

It is… a sight.

It isn’t that Francis is worried about embarrassment as such… He just realises that they don’t match in the slightest! There he is in a slim knit cream top and long jacket, pinned with a poinsettia and a red ribbon tying back half of his hair, while Alasdair… well, he’s Francis’ scruffy lover-boy husband, a charmer, rough around the edges yet so… soft and gooey in the middle…

Francis reminds himself right then that it is that quirkiness—that difference—that he adores about the other…

…but he still has to ask:

“Do you have a different jumper you can wear…?”

“‘Fraid not,” Alasdair smiles confidently. He comes all the way down the stairs and wanders over the side table to join Francis, where he pinches a spritz of his perfume (cheeky!) and slips him a quick disarming kiss on the cheek. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, of co— Ah, no! I need to grab the wine!” he realises, tutting at himself and hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen.

“And you thought I was gonna make us late!”

“Shut up!”

Francis can hear the other’s faint laughter as he arrives at the small utility room off the kitchen and finds the bottle of red wine he has been saving for this dinner. He has also made sure to take some chocolates, which are already in the car along with all of the presents they need to take.

He just hopes it all goes down well. He hopes everyone is happy. He hopes that they all have a lovely evening, and that it’s… special. A year to remem—

“Not sneakin’ a bit, are ya?”

He nearly jumps right out of his skin, and the bottle is clutched tight against his chest. It takes a second for Francis to recover—a moment during which Alasdair apologises, and asks if he’s okay.

“I’m fine,” Francis assures him, giving him a smile. “Just thinking.”

“Ahh, dangerous stuff, that,” the other muses. And then he asks: “Is it the jumper?”

Francis once more finds himself having to contain a laugh of incredulity, and does his best to not stare at those dreaded teddy bears. “N-No, no,” he says. “The— The jumper is fine.”

“Really?”

He instantly breaks. “Mmh, well—”

Alasdair, in turn, gasps dramatically. “You said it was fine!”

“You can wear it, I don’t mind! It is fine!” Francis reassures him, hands (and wine) raised.

“And you mean that?” Alasdair presses, hands on hips as he pulls off the best impression of Francis that he’s ever seen, quite frankly. It’s almost scary!

Yet, he smiles all the same, and lifts himself up on his toes to give the other a kiss—a promise. “You make it look like Dior,” he replies, as he feels the other’s arms fall around him and they both settle into an embrace.

“That, chridhe,” Alasdair says, sitting his head on top of Francis’, “means a l—”

“Besides,” Francis adds, making the most of feeling the other’s warmth while he can, “I’m sure Arthur will have found something infinitely worse to wear this year, so not all hope is lost for you yet.”

Alasdair laughs his hearty laugh, his head thrown back, and Francis looks up at him.

He loves this man. He will always love this man. And even if, he reaffirms, his taste in jumpers is truly awful.

His big teddy bear heart makes up for it all.

[ full ficlet collection on ao3! ]

#helia writes #hetalia #hws france #hws scotland #scotfra #starting the year off right >:)#i think it's criminal i haven't written them for a while they're so cute together like how dare i

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