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liviusofpella · 2 years

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part one: champagne problems

Pairing: Tyril x OC (Jude)

Word count: 2790

Warnings: cursing, alcohol usage

A/n: Very self-indulgent fic with the perfect amount of horny and drama. That's all I have to say.

inspo board | playlist (to be updated)

Tag list: honourable mention: @cashweasel (I'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long), @brycesgirl @lazypartridge @watatsumi-island @sophie-summer (though feel free to skip this one if you're not interested :))

The large raindrops pattered loudly against the pavement, ruining the guests’ expensive hairstyles, and the sky responded to their curses with long rumbles. Tyril watched the guests arrive from the kitchen window, reminiscing while sipping a glass of champagne.

The one thing that nobody forced him to do as a child, and he found relaxing now as an adult, was cooking. As a boy, Tyril would spend long hours in the kitchen with Leilana, his family’s cook, who would help him with the homework, allow him to help with dinner and stay past her work hours just to accompany him. Tyril was a lonely child. Until Jude, he didn’t really have a friend, and while both of his parents were always away on a business and his sister too invested in her numerous extracurriculars, Leilana, now an elderly lady, was his only companion. He smiled, remembering how she tried to teach him baking macarons and that while she was not looking he added a lot of flour. Tyril’s macarons were not exactly edible, but they made for great hockey pucks.

His thoughts were interrupted by his mother and sister entering the room, talking loudly.

“What did I do to deserve this,” Vena Starfury pinched the bridge of her nose, having just heard that not only her daughter broke off her engagement but also her husband decided to postpone his retirement by a couple of months. She looked at Tyril, hopefully. “Tell me that at least you have good news.”

“That depends on your definition of good,” Tyril answered calmly before shoving down his throat a spoonful of red caviar. “Jude’s coming.”

Vena covered her forehead with her hand.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Adrina covered her lips with her hand, trying her best not to smile, and when their mother left the room, Tyril winked at her. Mrs Starfury rarely cursed, and when she did it sounded so unnaturally that it always made everyone smile. Tyril also seemed to have an innate talent for irritating his mother without trying.

“Good thing she doesn’t know about you and Julian,” Adrina commented, following her brother out into the main room, where most of the guests were already mingling.

“Depending on whether he took his medication like a good boy today, she might find out.”

“Well then, good luck.”

The soft tones of a classical piece blended with the resonant chatter of the guests, occasional laughter and the clinking of glasses. Swerving right as to dodge the waiter holding an ornamented silver tray with eight champagne flutes, Jude almost collided with Adeline, who watched his rapid actions in horror, fearing that either the champagne will spill onto her dress or Jude will step on it. It was only in the last second when he managed to regain his balance.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, her hand landing on her chest involuntarily. Jude straightened his back, fixed his navy blue blazer and grinned at her.

“Ciao, sugar, how’s it hanging? Thought you didn’t swear, you prude.”

“That’s the effect you have on me, Julian.”

“Why so formal, Adelina?”

“Oh, shut up. Tyril’s waiting in the ballroom,” she instructed, narrowing her eyes slightly but trying not to show too much irritation. She hated being called by her birth name ever since in the eight grade someone told her that it sounds like a hooker name. Not knowing the true reason behind Adeline’s decision to slightly modify her name, Jude silently claimed his victory, flashed one more strained smile at her and turned left, wondering if he remembered the floor plan properly. As soon as he reached the end of the hall, he looked right and smiled, seeing a familiar silhouette within the sea of black suits.

Tyril was wearing a black shirt and trousers, his waist tightly hugged by a belt with a gold buckle, and an ivory blazer on top. Jude whistled once he came closer, drawing Tyril’s attention—he hid his phone into the back pocket of his trousers, and although he fought bravely he failed, and a sheepish smile crept up on his lips.

“Looking good, Starfury. Addie, always lovely to see you,” Jude bowed theatrically, making Adrina chuckle and Tyril roll his eyes. Using the opportunity of a waiter passing by, Tyril grabbed two flutes of champagne and emptied them within seconds.

Jude raised an eyebrow. Drinking under Mrs Starfury’s attentive gaze was unlike Tyril. “Which drink is it already?”

“Sec—"

"Fifth," Adrina interrupted, "so please have an eye on him tonight? I'd rather not piss mom off even more by not talking to the guests at my party."

"Wouldn't want you to be put in timeout, go. Oh, and congrats on graduating, by the way," Jude winked at her and once she was out of earshot, he addressed the man next to him. "Getting drunk without me?"

"If you had to listen to my mother tonight, you'd be lying unconscious under the table by now," Tyril shrugged. Given that they were standing in a room full of people, he couldn't embrace Jude, thus he didn't know what to do with his hands. He eventually put them in his pockets. "She found out about Adrina's broken off engagement and father's delayed retirement. Did you run across Adeline by any chance?"

"I did, she looked pissed. What'd you say to her?"

"That you'll be here. Somehow you made a lot of enemies, Jude."

The blonde shrugged his shoulders. His boyfriend’s ex-fiancee was the last thing he wanted to talk about, therefore, he took a look around the grand room, while Tyril sneakily reached for another glass.

“Your house looks exactly the same as ten years ago, but somehow even more like a museum.”

Even your mother looks even more like a statue, he wanted to add, but bit his tongue before the words could escape his lips. Jude chugged a glass of champagne and placed the flute on a table, then wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand.

The amount of white surfaces surrounding him was blinding, the marble and white stone brought about the association of mortuary and Mrs. Starfury’s piercing, adamant gaze provoked an uncomfortable churning in Jude’s stomach. Standing straight in the middle of the group in her black, satin jumpsuit with her long slender fingers wrapped around a champagne flute, watching him intently as if trying to drive him away with the sheer force of her gaze, she looked intimidating. Tyril’s mother emanated an aura of ethereality, nobody could deny that she was glamorous and moved as fluently as the blades of grass in the wind, but Jude was convinced she looked like a ghost of an upper-class Victorian lady haunting these halls and wailing for her lost youth. Given that Vena and Valir’s marriage was arranged, Jude’s theory did make a bit of sense there. Unwillingly, Jude took his eyes off the black-clad ghost.

Tyril hummed. The Starfury heir refused to drop his father’s gaze, despite people stopping by him to greet him. “This house is just for show, like this whole family.”

“Unsurprisingly, they’re not happy to see me. Not that I care,” Jude added, sliding his fingers into the pockets of his trousers. “I didn’t expect to be greeted like the plague, though.”

Tyril's lips curled when his father decided to focus his attention on the guests, the only visible sign of the resentment that squeezed his heart, clouded judgement and clenched his fists. Seeing that, Jude stepped in, regretting he couldn't take his partner's hands into his, trying to soothe him. "Meet me in your room in an hour?"

“Finally!” Jude exclaimed excitedly, picking himself up from the bed. Once Tyril turned the key in the door’s lock, St. Clair wrapped his arms around his boyfriend’s neck and locked their lips together in a searing kiss. A quiet, surprised moan escaped Tyril’s throat, but his body reacted automatically, forcing him to embrace the man in front of his and part his lips with the tip of his tongue.

The room filled with short, ragged breaths and shy moans as the men slowly made their way towards the palatial king-sized bed. The downpour outside intensified, pattering loudly against the windows, while the indistinct chatter of the extravagant banquet one floor below quietened, soon fading into oblivion. After what seemed like an eternity, Jude pulled back to take a breath, too overwhelmed by the ecstasy to open his eyes—instead, he rested his forehead against Tyril’s, his hands sliding down to blindly unbutton his blazer. In the background the bell tolled twelve times and a crowd of people cheered almost as if they were welcoming the new year. Soon after, indistinct tones of a classical piece reached their ears.

“Dance with me,” Tyril said into his ear.

"Always, my love."

Julian, suddenly overcome with a wave of exhaustion, nestled up to his lover, for once feeling grateful for their height difference, and hummed feeling the warmness of the taller man's body. A fist seemed to clench around Tyril's heart at the sight, making it hard to breathe and most certainly impossible not to blush. Wrapping his arms around Jude, Tyril pressed a kiss to the top of his head, smiling at the thought of Jude choosing to appear at a formal banquet with his trademark messy nest on his head.

And despite Jude not being the best and most certainly the most supple dancer, the men rocked their bodies softly from left to right, not saying a word as no word was needed. At that moment, although short and bittersweet, they felt grateful that the universe granted them a second chance.

"I'm grateful to have you in my life," Jude said softly, raising his chin to look his lover in the eyes. "Even if it's just for a moment."

The corner of Tyril's lips quirked almost unnoticeably.

He has a sparkle in his eyes when he looks at me, Tyril thought ten minutes later. Leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed on his chest, Tyril reciprocated the burning gaze of his lover who was watching him from the other end of the balcony, illuminated by the soft yellow wall light. He smiles, seems to be looking at my lips, but his mind is somewhere else.

“Fuck it,” the blonde murmured, having pondered long enough, and lit up the cigarette he’d been rolling around in his fingers for a few minutes.

Tyril watched him pull at the cigarette, hold the smoke for a couple of seconds with his eyes closed and eventually blowing it out. Jude wasn't a regular smoker, but he always had a pack of cigarettes on him just in case and as much as Tyril hated the smell he couldn't help but find himself fascinated with the way Jude's lips closed around the contraption, the way he always looked so focused and stunning creating perfect circles with his lips.

Having caught Tyril staring, Jude smiled at nodded at him.

"What's up, handsome?"

"You should spend the night at my place."

A quiet, somewhat mocking "oh" escaped Jude's lips. It wasn't very often that Tyril invited anyone to his penthouse, the posh, extravagant two storey apartment that he barely spent time at. "And how are you going to entertain me?"

"I believe the ideas will appear in my head once I have you naked in my bedroom, leaning against the window with the rising sun shining at your body and the awakening city watching us."

Jude bit his lip and put out his cigarette. "Careful, your horny poet side starts to show."

Adeline was easily the most stunning woman in the room, not just that day, but any day in any room, and if anyone dared think otherwise Tyril would call them a fool. He loved her, a bit too much even, but not the kind of love that he loved Jude. Love for Jude was pure, natural, easy, loving Adeline required patience and often times felt one-sided. Adeline Perillard was sweet, intelligent, dedicated and loyal, but she had one flaw that's been heavy on Tyril's heart—she was becoming more and more selfish. It was half of the reason why he broke off their engagement.

And if that wasn't enough, there was also Selene—innocent, troubled, undecided, yet something in his heart was telling him that she's the one. His best friend, confidant, lover, his finite and ultimate zing. There was one issue, though—he didn't know anything about her.

"You're missing steps," Adeline said quietly, raising her head to look into her partner's absent eyes. Tyril hummed in response, not bothering to meet her gaze, and She quickly realized that it was a futile effort. Tyril's mind was somewhere else, partly in his room with Jude, partly arguing with his parents. Having given up on grabbing his attention, the brunette rested her head against Tyril's chest again, in the exact spot where Jude's head had been resting just minutes before, and feigned a smile at Tyril's parents when the dancing couple entered her sight.

Seeing that Adeline was still wearing her engagement ring, Vena smiled faintly at the thought that perhaps not all is lost and despite her son's reckless "city break" with a random girl as she decided to call it, Tyril and Adeline decided to start over. Little did she know that them being together was purely promotional, and both had already found another significant other.

Unlike Jude and certainly unlike Selene, Adeline was an incredible dancer. Her moves were fluent and charismatic, in her red, sparkling dress she looked as if she was floating above the ground, holding the hand of her lover. In reality, though, she felt a knot in her stomach and a wave of sadness crashing into her heart. Burying her face into Tyril's body, Adeline tried to blink away the tears, but failed miserably as the sudden movement drew Tyril’s attention.

"Adeline?" he hummed, dropping his gaze to the woman in his arms. When she didn't react, his hand slid up into her hair and his cheek rested against the side of her head. "Do you want to step outside?"

Once a weak confirmation reached his ears, Tyril left the room, shielding Adeline from curious glances.

"Are you alright?"

"Obviously not," she murmured, blowing her nose. Despite her best efforts, the tears just wouldn't stop ruining her make-up. "Pretending to be your fiancée again is one thing, but seeing you sending loving glances at the man I've always been worried about is another. You have to stop hurting me,” she wept. “First you run away with some whore instead of trying to fix our relationship! And then you get back with the guy who’d apparently always been on your mind when you were with me? I know I fucked up, Tyril, I know I wasn’t there when you needed me, but I do not deserve to be treated like this.”

Tyril clenched his jaw. Deep down in his heart, he knew Adeline was right, but in that exact moment when he felt that he was truly happy with Jude, his mind clouded with anger. Feeling as if Adeline was trying to ruin his happiness, his brain frantically looked for the best, the most hurtful comeback.

“Then why did you agree to this stunt?” he asked. “I have a hard time believing you care about the media’s attention, so why?”

Perillard laughed ruefully.“God, you’re so imperceptive! I love you, idiot! Believe me when I say I tried my hardest to hate you, but I can’t. I was stupid and naive enough to believe that perhaps we could try to pick up the pieces of our relationship, but now, having watched you and your new toy for long enough, I think I know what’s your problem,” Adeline continued, her desperation turning into anger. Tyril not responding, infuriated her even more. “You fall in love easily, but are unable of truly loving. You run when there’s the first sign of trouble. You’re pathetic.”

Tyril laughed involuntarily. He hated that she was right.

“We’re done,” she added, calmly, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “I’m done.”

Adeline twirled around and headed towards the exit, running upon Jude as she went. Despite the urge to stop and tell him how much she hated him, the woman straightened her back and raised her chin. Jude, confused and alarmed by the screams resonating in the empty hall, came out of the main room.

“Take me home,” Tyril asked with his hands still balled into fists. Suddenly, as if waking up from lethargy, he felt all the alcohol he drank, the lightheadedness and exhaustion, which ironically made him feel as if a massive weight was just lifted from his chest. “Please, take me home.”

#so i finally wrote something? it's time to give myself another 6 months of vacation #sorry if this is shit i swear the next one will be a smut #tyril starfury #tyril x oc #choices tyril #blades of light and shadow #i like to live dangerously #so i'm not proofreading for the 10th time

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everythingwritingg · 2 years

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Writing Morally Gray Characters

@everything.writing on IG

I’m sure that if you’re a reader or writer, you’ve heard about morally gray characters. They’re often our favorites, since they are inherently multi-dimensional and complex. Even though everyone is morally gray to some extent, this post is referring to characters that have clearly complex motivations, thoughts, and actions.

Give them a reason to be morally gray. This could include a traumatic backstory or upbringing that makes them see the world a certain way. It could be the people they choose to surround themselves with, or society in general. Why does your character have conflicting thoughts? Are there multiple contradicting influences in their life?

Let them cross the lines between good and evil, multiple times. A morally gray character is a broad concept. It could range from a hero who hurts others while pursuing their goals to a villain who has clear moral boundaries. The hero might kill those that stand in his way without a second thought, while the villain could evacuate the children before bombing the building.

Give them both strengths and witnesses. This is important for all character, but especially morally gray ones. Maybe your morally gray villain’s strength is their honesty and their weakness is, well, obviously that they’re evil. Emphasize both of these equally and make sure their actions reflect these traits at least most of the time.

Create circumstances when your character has to make difficult decisions. Which side of them will shine through during these times? For example, your character might be raised in an evil family but only believe some of their family values. They end up becoming close with another character outside the family who is considered “good.” At the end, the family and the good guy end up in a fight and the morally gray character has to choose between the two to protect. Oh, who will they choose?

Create a strong character development arc. Morally gray characters should grow a lot by the end of the story, as with any other characters. This could mean shifting loyalties or a complete change of mindset, but the changes don’t always have to be so drastic. Maybe at the end of the series, your character will exist between good and evil, but they might become slightly more sympathetic to a certain group of people.

Take inspiration from other morally gray characters/people. This could include characters from books and movies, such as Draco Malfoy from Harry Potter, Adelina from the Young Elites, Kaz from Six of Crows, or Aelin from Throne of Glass. Don’t plagiarize, but notice how these morally gray characters are written. And sometimes you may have some morally gray people in your life that you can take inspiration from!

Well, here’s another post that I managed to squeeze in between the projects and exams, but I really enjoyed it. These characters are among the hardest to write, but I have no doubt that the writers of this community are capable of creating complex characters!

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ambfurniture · 13 days

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#decor #home decor #home #welcome home #home & lifestyle #interior #interiors #interior design #interiordecor #interiorinspiration #living room #living room furniture #livingroomdecor #livingroomdesign #living room interior design #livingroominspiration #table

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raducotarcea · 10 months

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clemgreenwood · 1 year

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closed starter for @milesofasher at adelina's italian restaurant

"I really, really appreciate you meeting me," Clementine says as soon as Miles sits down across from her at the table, the waiter setting down another glass of water for him. She's been here almost fifteen minutes -- well before they'd agreed to meet -- nervously playing with the cloth napkin in her lap and going back and forth between being determined this is a good idea, and fearful that it's a terrible one. "You've been so helpful these last few months, I swear, I don't know how me and Gem would've gotten through it if you hadn't been such a rock for us, especially with my mom being...well, you know." Her face reddens a little, and she hurries to say, with a small laugh, "Sorry, you've barely even sat down and I'm rambling."

#c #c: miles #sorry this took me #FOREVER TYFKUGHI

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violetnatelley · 2 years

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Changing of the Song [Part 3]: Chapter 43 - Of Songs, Maps & Symbols

A Marvel & Tolkien Crossover

Main Characters: Elros, Arwen, Illyria, Elrond

Also featuring: Andrea Barnard, Aegnor, Peter Parker, Boromir, Tazhin, Pippin, Maglor, Bilbo, Cirdan, Maeglin

Warnings: Physical Exercise

Other Tags: Oxford University, Light, Fana, The Ainur, Variags, Childhood, Choices, Games, Pawns

Anyways, they made their way through the rather ornate and large building, with Andrea’s eyes focusing on their goal whilst Elliot kept looking about alongside Aegnor and Peter.

At least he wasn’t the only one wary; he dreaded to think of who really came to make a shitty mess of Illyria and Maedhros’ place and what they would do in a public area like this.

Elliot also gulped down the fear he hid from himself as well.

If those people who infiltrated his workplace were behind this, then it meant that his own colleagues were at risk. Halle Warden would definitely be angry about this, no less pissed off at him for bunking off and probably connecting all the dots. For a woman like her: she was always a step ahead in deducing the truth.

What he would dread would be Adelina and Maristela’s safety.

Perhaps he shouldn’t think of it right now though. One problem at a time was something he had to push himself to consider.

(He could have sworn that was something Elrond once said to him, but his memories were still hazy.)

They finally arrived at what seemed to be a set of wooden doors halfway through a wide corridor. The place was darkly lit, but with the sun outside streaming through the tinted glass as Andrea knocked. His eyes wandered about, noticing the very few people looking at them before he stopped at the silver plaque at the bottom.

Professor of Linguistics

Elliot looked at Andrea, less confused but still uncertain as to why she went to someone like them all this way. They might be proficient in languages, but how would they possibly know how to figure out a language which didn’t exist at all in this universe?

Nevertheless, he really hoped this was worth it.

“Professor Porter.”

Once the door opened, there was no doubt that he expected a greying elderly man dressed in academic clothes and spectacles. Though instead of the grey hair, the man in front was almost bald, hair only lining the surrounding parts of his head whilst his grey beard was neatly trimmed. He was around Elliot’s height, albeit a little shorter than him but from this stance – Aegnor dwarfed them all.

Though the professor’s eyes were only towards Andrea, surprised by his expression. He then spoke in a wispy and yet wised tone: “Doctor Barnard, I was not expecting you.”

Andrea stood a little forward than them when she responded quickly, “I’m sorry to bother you, but we’re in a hurry but we’d like to just ask a few questions.” She quickly darted back to Aegnor before she added, “About Tolkien that is.”

The professor’s eyebrows furrowed before his face relaxed – though not without the intrigue in his eyes.

Elliot internally raised a brow at that. All he could assume was that this man knew what they meant…or that Andrea contacted him on the way here.

Nevertheless, once he eyed his watch, Professor Porter nodded. “Well, I do have a meeting in an hour.”

-Excerpt from Elros' PoV

#the oialea series #the silmarillion #mcu x tolkien #marvel x tolkien #marvel cinematic universe #ao3fic #ao3 #chapter update

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zester000 · 2 years

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[EoAS] Prequel Short Story: the Sandlers

The Sandlers

Queen Morgana searched the castle frantically for her son, but he was nowhere to be found. Not in his bedroom, not in the game room, not in the throne room, and not even in the balcony garden, which he would frequent and gaze off into the distance from. He didn’t leave a single trace. All across the House of Obsidian, all anyone could find was that he was completely gone.

She collapsed at the table, groaning to her husband. “Doesn’t a young man 19 years of age know better than to run off before a war?”

King Mare took a sip of his coffee. “Evidently not.”

“But our young man? The one we raised so carefully, and lovingly? Shouldn’t he know better?” She grabbed her coffee, served in an obsidian goblet, like Mare’s.

“He should,” he answered. “But I’m sure he knows to come back.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Well, he’ll learn soon enough, I’m sure. There’s not one person in the House of Pearl who’ll mercy him.”

“I fear that there is.” She began to mutter to herself, forlorn. “Why did I ever approve Mattia’s stupid ball?”

A knock at the door interrupted them, causing Morgana to straighten herself. She assumed her proper dignified face.

“Your midnight?” called a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

She knew her advisor when she heard him. “Come in, Mattia.”

He strode in, his tousled brown hair bouncing from underneath his black cap. “I bear you n-”

“News,” she completed. “What is it?”

“We’ve heard word from the castle guards that Prince Arturo has been spotted heading in the direction of the House of Pearl.”

Of course, she thought. “So the guards saw him but didn’t try to stop him?”

“Um, well… I’m sure they tried to stop him, your midnight, but… one must keep in mind, they’re the new recruits.”

“Where are the regular guards?” she pressured sourly.

“You conscripted them, dear,” Mare reminded her gently.

“Right, they’re preparing for the first battle.” She noticed Mattia standing awkwardly, as he always did once he’d run out of things to say. “You may go, Mattia. Tell the guards to stay put and keep watch for Arturo. He’ll come back eventually.”

“I will. Would you like refreshed refreshments?”

She held up her index finger as she drank from her cup, signaling for him to wait. Finally, she placed the empty cup down on the table. “Yes.”

Queen Alessia scoured the halls of the House of Pearl, roaming the palace in desperate search of her daughter. Not in her bedroom, not in the game room, not in the library, and not even in the sun room, filled with light, which she would frequent and gaze out of the magnificent window from. Not a single resident of the palace, nor Dario- her eagle-eyed advisor- said they’d even seen her since last night.

Frustrated, she took sips of candyleaf tea from her glimmering white glass, but despite the extra spoonfuls of sugar, it still tasted bitter. King Dante sat with her, eating his preferred white biscuits.

She drummed her fingers anxiously, collecting dust on her white satin gloves. “Now is not the time for a girl like her to be running away…”

“Is there ever a good time?” Dante asked.

“Well, there’s no good time, but there are certainly better ones,” she argued, her eyes turning to the chess board battle map in front of her. “Certainly better ones than this… It’s been generations since the House of Caïssa split, years since I became queen, and many months since she first started talking about Arturo after going to that Obsidian ball. She could have left any time, but she chooses to leave now, right before we declare war.”

Dante stroked her arm. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sure she’ll be safe. Adelina’s headstrong, but she’d never jump into something unprepared.”

She wove her fingers in with his and twirled a strand of platinum blonde hair with the other. “It doesn’t make me feel much better knowing she’s had a plan of her own just as long as I’ve had mine.”

“Your radiance!” called a voice from the door. “I come bearing news.”

“Speak it, Dario,” she responded, quickly brushing hair out of her face.

“Fair Princess Adelina ha-”

“Did you find her?” bubbled Alessia with hope.

Dario felt bad saying it. “Not… quite. It was the scouts who found her, but not soon enough.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured with his hands. “She was, well…” He bit his lip. “Maybe I should have started with ‘they saw her off in the distance running off into the woods.’”

Alessia sighed and grabbed her tea cup. “Send them off to find her and come back with more tea.”

“Your radiance, you ordered them to survey the field and keep watch for ambushes.” He grabbed the ornate teapot. “Does this new order supersede the old?”

She paused, thinking as her eyes scanned the chessboard, following the white pieces to the black queen. She counted her pieces, and those of the enemy. White had yet to take its first move. “No,” she concluded. “No it doesn’t. Keep them on watch.”

Dante leaned in. “And then after the battle, they can go find her, surely?”

“After the war,” she decided. “After.”

Adelina watched from the tree as Arturo finally arrived, his backpack sagging, heavy. “Took you long enough.”

“Oh c’mon,” he panted. “We both know the Pearl Palace is closer.”

“Maybe so,” she teased, “but shouldn’t adventurous Arturo be able to make it to something so important in a timely manner?”

“Well it doesn’t matter what Arturo’s capable of, does it? I’ll be Mr. Sandler, soon enough,” he pointed out. “Speaking of, has… he arrived yet?”

“The officiator?” she asked, peering around. “No, not yet.”

“But we have!” came two voices from the bushes. One after the other, the twins Mattia and Dario appeared, removing their Obsidian and Pearl garb as they walked towards the makeshift pews in the clearing. “Sorry for the wait,” Mattia began.

“We both had messages for our queens to deliver first,” Dario finished.

“But now they are filled in on the situation,” Mattia continued.

“And their drinks are filled up,” his twin added. “That should keep them preoccupied for a while. I know Alessia is already back to plotting war.”

“As is Morgana,” Mattia confirmed. “So that leaves us to sit back and watch the newlyweds.”

“Soon to be newlyweds,” corrected Adelina.

Dario rolled his eyes. He was used to the Pearl princess’s fondness for technicality. “Still, we’re just as happy as you that our little plan has finally come together.”

“As the lovebirds finally will,” versed the officiator lyrically as he appeared from the brush, carrying a book under his arm.

“There you are, Edgar!” exclaimed Arturo. “Glad you could make it.”

“Well, I just barely did. It’s potato season, so there were plenty of orders, but I got them done plenty quick. My dad should start looking for me any second now… he never vends our harvest without his assistant.”

“Let’s make this quick, then,” suggested Adelina. “I know our large audience has places they need to be.”

“Will do,” said Edgar as he placed the book on the podium and began flipping through the pages. He mumbled to himself as he searched. “Botany, botany, more botany, sales figures, maps, potato defects- ah! There it is.” He cleared his throat and readied his adult voice. “Family and- well, just friends- thank you all for coming today to share in this wonderful occasion. Today we are here together- well I’ll skip ahead, we all know what we’re here for. Do you Adelina, take this man to be your lawf- um, wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” she said, as she wove her fingers with Arturo’s.

“And do you Arturo, take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

“Yeah,�� he said smiling, until Adelina jokingly punched him on the shoulder. “I mean, I do. I do.”

“Good,” said Edgar, closing the book. “You two are now Mr. and Mrs… what was the name you came up with again? Oh, Sandler, right. We don’t have any rings, and I don’t have any authority vested in me, so I skipped those parts.”

“Hey, isn’t there a part where they kiss?” asked Mattia, disappointed. Everyone, including Dario, turned their head to stare.

Edgar shrugged, unsure. “I mean, maybe? Does it really matter at this point? You two are married, you can kiss each other as much as you want.”

“Like we weren’t doing that before,” lulled Mrs. Sandler as she placed a gentle hand on her new husband’s face, eyelashes fluttering ever so romantically.

Edgar and the twins exchanged awkward glances. “And on that note,” said Mattia, “we’ll be off.”

“You two have fun making out!” called the waving Dario as he began to walk away, with Mattia angrily following after. The couple watched awkwardly.

“I’ll be taking my leave too,” announced Edgar. He tipped his cap. “Enjoy yourselves. If you ever want some potatoes from your favorite potato vendor to relive the moment, feel free to stop by. I’ll give you an ‘I Married You’ discount.”

“Thanks, Edgar,” chuckled Arturo. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Adelina waved as he submerged into the foliage. “Goodbye!”

The two waited until they couldn’t hear his footsteps, and then joined hands. “Let’s find some scenery for this romantic evening,” suggested Mr. Sandler, a lusty fire lighting his eyes. “Someplace private.”

Mrs. Sandler took a step closer, the fire spreading. “There’s plenty of those in the middle of the forest, dear.”

“Perfect.” His lips formed a devious smile.

“You always said you wanted us to go on adventures together,” recalled Mrs. Sandler as she wrapped her hands around his neck. “Will this be the first?”

He leaned in. “The first of many.”

Her lips imitated his. “Oh, many indeed.”

She held the nest of blankets close to her chest, shielding it and the note inside from the rain. Carefully, she climbed the wall, keeping her grip tight against the slippery stones. Peering over the wall, she found the house, with the same beat-up wagon leaning against it. The order board beside it was empty, the faded lettering still remembering when it used to read “William and Son’s.”

Hopping down from the wall and into the cobbled street, she dashed to the door. She knew she didn’t have much time; this village wasn’t fond of outsiders. Neither of them were welcome there, but she was the only one of the two who could leave. She hoped he’d be accepted eventually, at least at Edgar’s house. She hated to leave a burden like this on him, but she knew this was a better home. She dropped the bundle at the doorstep, keeping the note facing up. Then she knocked and left.

He got up from the desk and opened the door. No one was there, but he heard a baby crying. He looked down, and saw a child wrapped in blankets. He picked him up and read the note:

Nathan Sandler

He took the child inside.

Author's Notes:

The House of Caïssa is named after Caïssa- a "goddess of chess" invented by an Italian poet.

All characters except Queen Morgana, Edgar, and Nathan have Italian names, as such.

King Mare of the House of Obsidian- Mare (pronounced "may-ray") means "sea."

Queen Alessia of the House of Pearl- Alessia could potentially mean "defending warrior."

The twin advisors Mattia and Dario both have Italian names.

The star-crossed lovers Arturo and Adelina have amazingly alliterated Italian names.

The Houses of Caïssa, Obsidian, and Pearl will not be around by the time the Eye of All Suits starts. But, they are important to it. You'll see.

#EoAS #EyeofAllSuits

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opera-ghosts · 2 years

Text

MARGUERITE

MME. Miolan-Carvalho created Marguerite in Paris, at the Théâtre Lyrique. In London Patti and Titjiens had both sung it before we put it on in America,—Adelina at Covent Garden and Titjiens at Her Majesty's Opera House, where I was destined to sing it later. Except for these productions of Faust across the sea, that opera was still an unexplored field. I had absolutely nothing to guide me, nothing to help me, when I began work on it. I, who had been schooled and trained in "traditions" and their observances since I had first begun to study, found myself confronted with conditions that had as yet no traditions. I had to make them for myself.

Maretzek secured the score during the winter of '62-'63 and then spoke to me about the music. I worked at the part off and on for nine months, even while I was singing other parts and taking my summer vacation. But when the season opened in the autumn of 1863, the performance was postponed because a certain reaction had set in on the part of the public. People were beginning to want some sort of distraction and relaxation from the horrors and anxieties of war, and now began to come again to hear the old favourites. So Maretzek wanted to wait and put off his new sensation until he really needed it as a drawing card.

Then came the news that Anschutz, the German manager, was about to bring a German company to the Terrace Garden in New York with a fine répertoire of grand opera, including Faust. Of course this settled the question. Maretzek hurried the new opera into final rehearsal and it was produced at The Academy of Music on November 25, 1863, when I was very little more than twenty years old.

Before I myself say anything about Faust, in which I was soon to appear, I want to quote the views of a leading newspaper of New York after I had appeared.

A brilliant audience assembled last night. The opera was Faust. Such an audience ought, in figurative language, "to raise the roof off" with applause. But with the clumsily written, uninspired melodies that the solo singers have to declaim there was the least possible applause. And this is not the fault of the vocalists, for they tried their best. We except to this charge of dullness the dramatic love scene where the tolerably broad business concludes the act. With these facts plain to everyone present we cannot comprehend the announcement of the success of Faust!

Who was it said "the world goes round with revolutions"? It is a great truth, whoever said it. Every new step in art, in progress along any line, has cost something and has been fought for. Nothing fresh or good has ever come into existence without a convulsion of the old, dried-up forms. Beethoven was a revolutionist when he threw aside established musical forms with the Ninth Symphony; Wagner was a revolutionist when he contrived impossible intervals of the eleventh and the thirteenth, and called them for the first time dissonant harmonies; so, also, was Gounod when he departed from all accepted operatic forms and institutions in Faust.

You who have heard Cari fior upon the hand-organs in the street, and have whistled the Soldiers' Chorus while you were in school; who have even grown to regard the opera of Faust as old-fashioned and of light weight, must re-focus your glass a bit and look at Gounod's masterpiece from the point of view of nearly fifty years ago! It was just as startling, just as strange, just as antagonistic to our established musical habit as Strauss and Debussy and Dukas are to some persons to-day. What is new must always be strange, and what is strange must, except to a few adventurous souls, prove to be disturbing and, hence, disagreeable. People say "it is different, therefore it must be wrong." Even as battle, murder, and sudden death are upsetting to our lives, so Gounod's bold harmonies, sweeping airs, and curious orchestration were upsetting to the public ears.

Not the public alone, either. Though from the first I was attracted and fascinated by the "new music," it puzzled me vastly. Also, I found it very difficult to sing. I, who had been accustomed to Linda and Gilda and Martha, felt utterly at sea when I tried to sing what at that time seemed to me the remarkable intervals of this strange, new, operatic heroine, Marguerite. In the simple Italian school one knew approximately what was ahead. A recitative was a fairly elementary affair. An aria had no unexpected cadences, led to no striking nor unusual effects. But in Faust the musical intelligence had an entirely new task and was exercised quite differently from in anything that had gone before. This sequence of notes was a new and unlearned language to me, which I had to master before I could find freedom or ease. But when once mastered, how the music enchanted me; how it satisfied a thirst that had never been satisfied by Donizetti or Bellini! Musically, I loved the part of Marguerite—and I still love it. Dramatically, I confess to some impatience over the imbecility of the girl. From the first I summarily apostrophised her to myself as "a little fool!"

Stupidity is really the keynote of Marguerite's character. She was not quite a peasant—she and her brother owned their house, showing that they belonged to the stolid, sound, sheltered burgher class. On the other hand, she explicitly states to Faust that she is "not a lady and needs no escort." In short, she was the ideal victim and was selected as such by Mephistopheles who, whatever else he may have been, was a judge of character. Marguerite was an easy dupe. She was entirely without resisting power. She was dull, and sweet, and open to flattery. She liked pretty things, with no more discrimination or taste than other girls. She was a well-brought-up but uneducated young person of an ignorant age and of a stupid class, and innocent to the verge of idiocy.

I used to try and suggest the peasant blood in Marguerite by little shynesses and awkwardnesses. After the first meeting with Faust I would slyly stop and glance back at him with girlish curiosity to see what he looked like. People found this "business" very pretty and convincing, but I understand that I did not give the typically Teutonic bourgeois impression as well as Federici, a German soprano who was heard in America after me. She was of the class of Gretchen, and doubtless found it easier to act like a peasant unused to having fine gentlemen speak to her, than I did.

There was very little general enthusiasm before the production of Faust. There were so few American musicians then that no one knew nor cared about the music. Neither was the poem so well read as it was later. The public went to the opera houses to hear popular singers and familiar airs. They had not the slightest interest in a new opera from an artistic standpoint.

I had never been allowed to read Goethe's poem until I began to study Marguerite. But even my careful mother was obliged to admit that I would have to familiarise myself with the character before I interpreted it. It is doubtful, even then, if I entered fully into the emotional and psychological grasp of the rôle. All that part of it was with me entirely mental. I could seize the complete mental possibilities of a character and work them out intelligently long before I had any emotional comprehension of them. As a case in point, when I sang Gilda I gave a perfectly logical presentation of the character, but I am very sure that I had not the least notion of what the latter part of Rigoletto meant. Fear, grief, love, courage,—these were emotions that I could accept and with which I could work; but I was still too immature to have much conception of the great sex complications that underlay the opera that I sang so peacefully. And I dare say that one reason why I played Marguerite so well was because I was so ridiculously innocent myself.

Most of the Marguerites whom I have seen make her too sophisticated, too complicated. The moment they get off the beaten path, they go to extremes like Calvé and Farrar. It is very pleasant to be original and daring in a part, but anything original or daring in connection with Marguerite is a little like mixing red pepper with vanilla blanc mange. Nilsson, even, was too—shall I say, knowing? It seems the only word that fits my meaning. Nilsson was much the most attractive of all the Marguerites I have ever seen, yet she was altogether too sophisticated for the character and for the period, although to-day I suppose she would be considered quite mild. Lucca was an absolute little devil in the part. She was, also, one of the Marguerites who wore black hair. As for Patti—I have a picture of Adelina as Marguerite in which she looks like Satan's own daughter, a young and feminine Mephistopheles to the life. Once I heard Faust in the Segundo Teatro of Naples with Alice Neilson, and thought she gave a charming performance. She was greatly helped by not having to wear a wig. A wig, however becoming, and no matter how well put on, does certainly do something strange to the expression of a woman's face. This was what I had to have—a wig—and it was one of the most dreadful difficulties in my preparations for the great new part.

A wig may sound like a simple requirement. But I wonder if anybody has any idea how difficult it was to get a good wig in those days. Nobody in America knew how to make one. There was no blond hair over here and none could be procured, none being for sale. The poor affair worn by Mme. Carvalho as Marguerite, illustrates what was then considered a sufficient wig equipment. It is hardly necessary to add that to my truth-loving soul no effort was too great to obtain an effect that should be an improvement on this sort of thing. My own hair was so dark as to look almost black behind the footlights, and in my mind there was no doubt that Marguerite must be a blond. To-day prime donne besides Lucca justify the use of their own dark locks—notably Mme. Eames and Miss Farrar—but I cannot help suspecting that this comes chiefly from a wish to be original, to be different at all costs. There is no real question but that the young German peasant was fair to the flaxen point. Yet, though I knew how she should be, I found it was simpler as a theory than as a fact. I tried powders—light brown powder, yellow powder, finally, gold powder. The latter was little, I imagine, but brass filings, and it gave the best effect of all my early experiments, looking, so long as it stayed on my hair, very burnished and sunny. But—it turned my scalp green! This was probably the verdigris from the brass filings in the stuff. I was frightened enough to dispense entirely with the whole gold and green effect; after which I experimented with all the available wigs, in spite of a popular prejudice against them as immovable. They were in general composed of hemp rope with about as much look about them of real hair as—Mme. Carvalho's! I had, finally, to wait until I could get a wig made in Europe and have it imported. When it came at last, it was a beauty—although my hair troubles were not entirely over even then. I had so much hair of my own that all the braiding and pinning in the world would not eliminate it entirely, and it had a tendency to stick out in lumps over my head even under the wig, giving me some remarkable bumps of phrenological development. I will say that we put it on pretty well in spite of all difficulties, my mother at last achieving a way of brushing the hair of the wig into my own hair and combining the two in such a way as to let the real hair act as a padding and lining to the artificial braids. The result was very good, but it was, I am inclined to believe, more trouble than it was worth. Wigs were so rare and, as a rule, so ugly in those days that my big, blond perruque, that cost nearly $200 (the hair was sold by weight), caused the greatest sensation. People not infrequently came behind the scenes and begged to be allowed to examine it. Artists were not nearly so sacred nor so safe from the public then. Now, it would be impossible for a stranger to penetrate to a prima donna's dressing-room or hotel apartment; but we were constantly assailed by the admiring, the critical and, above all, the curious.

Of course I did not know what to wear. My old friend Ella Porter was in Paris at the time and went to see Carvalho in Marguerite, especially on my account, and sent me rough drawings of her costumes. I did not like them very well. I next studied von Kaulbach's pictures and those of other German illustrators, and finally decided on the dress. First, I chose for the opening act a simple blue and brown frock, such as an upper-class peasant might wear. Everyone said it ought to be white, which struck me as singularly out of place. German girls don't wear frocks that have to be constantly washed. Not even now do they, and I am certain they had even less laundry work in the period of the story. It was said that a white gown in the first act would symbolise innocence. In the face of all comment and suggestion, however, I wore the blue dress trimmed with brown and it looked very well. Another one of my points was that I did not try to make Marguerite angelically beautiful. There is no reason to suppose that she was even particularly pretty. "Henceforth," says Mephisto to the rejuvenated Faustus, "you will greet a Helen in every wench you meet!"

In the church scene I wore grey and, at first, a different shade of grey in the last act; but I changed this eventually to white because white looked better when the angels were carrying me up to heaven.

As for the cut of the dresses, I seem to have been the first person to wear a bodice that fitted below the waist line like a corset. No living mortal in America had ever seen such a thing and it became almost as much of a curiosity as my wonderful golden wig. The theatre costumier was horrified. She had never cared for my innovations in the way of costuming, and her tradition-loving Latin soul was shocked to the core by the new and dreadful make-up I proposed to wear as Marguerite.

"I make for Grisi," she declared indignantly, "and I nevair see like dat!"

Well, I worked and struggled and slaved over every detail. No one else did. There was no great effort made to have good scenic effects. The lighting was absurd, and I had to fight for my pot of daisies in the garden scene. The jewel box I provided myself, and the jewels. I felt—O, how deeply I felt—that everything in my life, every note I had sung, every day I had worked, had been merely preparation for this great and lovely opera.

Colonel Stebbins, who was anxious, said to Maretzek:

"Don't you think she had better have a German coach in the part?"

Maretzek, who had been watching me closely all along, shook his head.

"Let her alone," he said. "Let her do it her own way."

So the great night came around.

There was no public excitement before the production. People knew nothing about the new opera. On the first night of Faust there was a good house because, frankly, the public liked me! Nevertheless, in spite of "me," the house was a little inanimate. The audience felt doubtful. It was one thing to warm up an old and popular piece; but something untried was very different! The public had none of the present-day chivalry toward the first "try-out" of an opera.

Mazzoleni of the cheese addiction was Faust, and on that first night he had eaten even more than usual. In fact, he was still eating cheese when the curtain went up and munched cheese at intervals all through the laboratory scene. He was a big Italian with a voice as big as himself and was, in a measure, one of Max Maretzek's "finds." "The Magnificent" had taken an opera company to Havana when first the war slump came in operatic affairs, and had made with it a huge success and a wide reputation. Mazzoleni was one of the leading tenors of that company. He sang Faust admirably, but dressed it in an atrocious fashion, looking like a cross between a Jewish rabbi and a Prussian gene d'arme. Of course, he gave no idea of the true age of Faust—the experienced, mature point of view showing through the outward bloom of his artificial youth. Very few Fausts do give this; and Mazzoleni suggested it rather less than most of them. But the public was not enlightened enough to realise the lack.

Biachi was Mephistopheles. He was very good and sang the Calf of Gold splendidly. Yet that solo, oddly enough, never "caught on" with our houses. Biachi was one of the few artists of my day who gave real thought and attention to the question of costuming. He took his general scheme of dress from Robert le Diable and improved on it, and looked very well indeed. The woman he afterwards married was our contralto, a Miss Sulzer, an American, who made an excellent Siebel and considered her work seriously.

At first everyone was stunned by the new treatment. In ordinary, accepted operatic form there were certain things to be expected;—recitatives, andantes, arias, choruses—all neatly laid out according to rule. In this everything was new, startling, overthrowing all traditions. About the middle of the evening some of my friends came behind the scenes to my dressing-room with blank faces.

"Heavens, Louise," they exclaimed, "what do you do in this opera anyway? Everyone in the front of the house is asking 'where's the prima donna?'"

Indeed, an opera in which the heroine has nothing to do until the third act might well have startled a public accustomed to the old Italian forms. However, I assured everyone:

"Don't worry. You'll get more than enough of me before the end of the evening!"

The house was not much stirred until the love scene. That was breathless. We felt more and more that we were beginning to "get them."

There were no modern effects of lighting; but a calcium was thrown on me as I stood by the window, and I sang my very, very best. As Mazzoleni came up to the window and the curtain went down there was a dead silence.

Not a hand for ten seconds. Ten seconds is a long time when one is waiting on the stage. Time and the clock itself seemed to stop as we stood there motionless and breathless. Maretzek had time to get through the little orchestra door and up on the stage before the applause came. We were standing as though paralysed, waiting. We saw Maretzek's pale, anxious face. The silence held a second longer; then—

The house came down. The thunders echoed and beat about our wondering ears.

"Success!" gasped Maretzek, "success—success—success!"

Yet read what the critics said about it. The musicians picked it to pieces, of course, and so did the critics, much as the German reviewers did Wagner's music dramas. The public came, however, packing the houses to more than their capacity. People paid seven and eight dollars a seat to hear that opera, an unheard-of thing in those days when two and three dollars were considered a very fair price for any entertainment. Furthermore, only the women occupied the seats on the Faust nights. I speak in a general way, for there were exceptions. As a rule, however, this was so, while the men stood up in regiments at the back of the house. We gave twenty-seven performances of Faust in one season; seven performances in Boston in four weeks; and I could not help the welcome knowledge that, in addition to the success of the opera itself, I had scored a big, personal triumph.

As I have mentioned, we took wicked liberties with the operas, such as introducing the Star Spangled Banner and similar patriotic songs into the middle of Italian scores. I have even seen a highly tragic act of Poliuto put in between the light and cheery scenes of Martha; and I have myself sung the Venzano waltz at the end of this same Martha, although the real quartette that is supposed to close the opera is much more beautiful, and the Clara Louise Polka as a finish for Linda di Chamounix! The Clara Louise Polka was written for me by my old master, Muzio, and I never thought much of it. Nothing could give anyone so clear an idea of the universal acceptance of this custom of interpolation as the following criticism, printed during our second season:

"The production of Faust last evening by the Maretzek troupe was excellent indeed. But why, O why, the eternal Soldiers' Chorus? Why this everlasting, tedious march, when there are so many excellent band pieces on the market that would fit the occasion better?"

As a rule the public were quite satisfied with this chorus. It was whistled and sung all over the country and never failed to get eager applause. But no part of the opera ever went so well as the Salve dimora and the love scene. All the latter part of the garden act went splendidly although nearly everyone was, or professed to be, shocked by the frankness of the window episode that closes it. It is a pity those simple-souled audiences could not have lived to see Miss Geraldine Farrar draw Faust with her into the house at the fall of the curtain! There is, indeed, a place for all things. Faust is not the place for that sort of suggestiveness. It is a question, incidentally, whether any stage production is; but the argument of that is outside our present point.

Dear Longfellow came to see the first performance of Faust; and the next day he wrote a charming letter about it to Mr. James T. Fields of Boston. Said he:

"The Margaret was beautiful. She reminded me of Dryden's lines: "'So pois'd, so gently she descends from high, It seems a soft dismission from the sky.'"

#Clara Louise Kellogg #Marguerite #Aida #Faust #charles gounod #giuseppe verdi

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