#or have i just absorbed henry winter into my personality for a while

[senzanomeor]

so i just finished the secret history by donna tartt half an hour ago and i just hopped on tumblr to ask yall is it okay that i found majority of the book highly relatable? you know. ha ha. or?

#because you know #the college im currently attending and chose #was because it was prettier than the other one #and my therapist once told me years ago that aesthetic matters to me a lot if im ready to base important life choices on it #and i just remembered that as i was reading this #because back then i thought what she said was dumb although she was right #and this book #but anyway #i think i probably could kill a person #if pressed i guess #so now im wondering if everythings all right with me #or have i just absorbed henry winter into my personality for a while #as you do #the secret history #donna tartt #post

[kitkatopinions]

The baby boy himself, Whitley!

(for the ask meme)

Whitley is so my baby, I love my child so much. I’m realizing I say ‘I’m really excited for this one’ for like every character I get for this ask game, but it’s because I’m having so much fun! These take a bit to write, but they are honestly so interesting to me, so as an fyi, if anyone does have any character they want to ask my about, but thinks they might be too late, or I might be uninterested, I’m still totally interested! It just might take me a bit to answer. :)

My top three ships for the character

Whitley/Oscar is my top ship for this in canon currently. It works best if Ozpin could somehow be separated from Oscar (which is theoretically possible I guess,) but yeah. Farm boy vs rich boy, they look cute together, their personalities could vibe, and they’re both snarky, but at heart caring and compassionate. Whitley/Mercury. I mentioned this in my Mercury ask, but I was writing a fic with @why-i-hate-rwby-now where Whitley and Mercury were thrown together and had to work together to escape their abusers, and I just kind of started shipping them while writing it. O.O Also Whitley/Penny is cute as heck and I could totally see her grounding him and also making him loosen up, while Penny thinks he’s funny and interesting.

My three least favorite ships for the character

Whitley/Blake. I don’t understand this ship, Blake just feels like more of an adult atm compared to Whitley - a literal child. (Yes, I realize I ship Whit with Merc, but A. I thought Merc was sixteen while I was writing that fanfiction and he acts kind of on the young side, while Blake has been acting ‘as an adult’ and being treated ‘as an adult’ for two seasons at least while directly talking to Whitley, and has always been more of a mature character for her age anyway.) But on top of that, Blake seems to treat Whitley like an in the way child and is kinda judgey to him, while Whitley barely seems to notice her. Whitley/Henry Marigold just feels bad. And Whitley/Yang. Again, Yang has been written as a nineteen year old demanding to be treated as an adult (though I wanna say she’s less mature than Blake) but also Yang is a hotheaded character and has been acting pushy lately, and that’s fine as a character flaw, but I feel like it just puts me off her for Whitley especially.

My biggest criticism for the character

He’s treated like he’s not a victim??? Like, his abuse and neglect and even his struggles are just... Not really gone into or acknowledged very much, Weiss acts like he has to prove himself before she can show him the slightest bit of sympathy or affection when she’s his big sister, his relationship with Jacques is glossed over and he isn’t given closure there, Willow’s neglect isn’t really acknowledged seriously, Winter seeming totally disinterested in him doesn’t feel like it even matters, Weiss is treated as blameless in her and Whitley’s problems. And the writing kind of frames Whitley as having gotten a redemption, when the worst things he did was be a bit of an asshole while in an abusive situation as like a fourteen-fifteen year old with no aura or glyphs or fighting ability. Emerald and Whitley’s volume 8 arcs should not be comparable! Emerald is a full on murderer and was still willingly working with Cinder to attack people as a nineteen year old woman, and yet she and Whitley are treated very similarly by the narrative (helping one person and then that ‘making up for’ their ‘past mistakes’ and then them just being on the good side and carrying the team’s actions until the pathways arrive and they both go to Vacuo. To be clear, I think this framing was too much for Whitley since he never even needed a redemption at all imo, and not enough for Emerald, the literal murderer of Penny who was just recently willingly helping Cinder try and murder Penny once again.) Whitley should’ve been treated as the child he is, he should’ve been treated as the victim he is.

My favorite thing about the character

His potential dynamics, but specifically with Weiss. He and Weiss both had almost the exact same upbringing, only Weiss actually had more support, but guys... The way the two of them coped had similarities, but were also very different. Weiss hid behind anger and sternness, Whitley hid behind peppiness and smiles. Weiss copied Winter, Whitley copied Jacques. Weiss was always afraid of people putting on acts around her, Whitley was constantly putting on acts as a means of survival. Each of them are plagued by jealousy, pettiness, judgmental behavior, and they both have good qualities that are similar, but they both are too prejudice against each other to see those good qualities and need to learn to understand where the other is coming from. Weiss is a fighter, but a follower, while Whitley seems to have a bit of a ‘fawn’ tendency, but plans and enacts schemes under the table (even if it doesn’t have to be, like with Nora! Whitley’s instincts were to just figure out how to help Nora and then go off and do it alone without telling any of the obviously antsy people with guns what he was doing - after he was spying on them lol.) I just love the possibilities that exist with two characters that are so similar, but so fundamentally different. Also I’d love to see him resentful of Winter and snarky and passive aggressive with her, and Winter not really getting the problem, and Weiss having to mediate between them. Idk, there are so many possibilities of amazing interactions and connections Whitley could have with the others, and he could be a really new, good viewpoint if he was allowed to flourish. And maybe became kind of a ‘guy in the chair’ more permanent part of the team. Like, I know we don’t need more character bloat, but let me dream!

A headcanon I have about them

Before Weiss lost her inheritance, Whitley was sort of tasked with learning everything but being head of the company, like he was learning the financial side of things, the technological side of things, ordering, inventory, scheduling, all about Dust and mine operations... And Whitley’s naturally academic and a fast learner, so he absorbed a lot of it. But yeah, I think Jacques was trying to train Whitley up to be a sort of always available PA of Weiss’s that could handle anything she didn’t want to do / was too busy to do, and that was something Whitley really resented too. His skillset was essentially being crafted around helping Weiss, but never learning how to actually manage the company itself and severely lacking in the social side of things, like he’d never be able to make a proper speech. Also, like pretty much everyone I think he plays piano and writes his own music compositions (which in my headcanons he subconsciously writes to include vocals only for him to then get bothered that even his music seems influenced by Weiss. XD) Also I know this is three headcanons, but if he had been trained to fight, he would’ve used duel pistols and would’ve eventually developed a ‘born out of trauma’ semblance.

What I would change about them if I was making a re-write

I’d just allow his status as a victim to be recognized and for him to have the sympathy I feel his character deserves. I’d have him and Weiss both framed as having contributed to their bad relationship, but Weiss - as the sister four to five years older than him - would be the one who makes the first moves towards repairing it, proving she has changed enough to put aside her pettiness and be there for the brother she does truly love. I’d also get Willow away from him, or at least let Whitley be angry and distant and not have their relationship fixed over the course of an in-universe day. This is why I say there should’ve been another Atlas season, which I think is what I’d do when it boils down to it. With every plot point coming fast and then being pushed on the back burner for the next plot point, there’s no time to focus on any of it or to give the character’s sufficient growth from it. So then things like Willow having her hand glued to Whitley’s shoulder feels very ingenuine, because their ‘growth’ was so rushed. So yeah, I’d really just add an extra season and let Weiss recognize that Whitley is also an abuse victim, make her be the one to start making steps to be there for him, and let things like his relationship with his mother come slower and not be an easy fix. Also I’d have Winter acknowledge that she has a brother more regularly and have her actually care about him, even if she hasn’t shown it well at all.

What I I think of their character allusion and what (if anything) I would change about it

Whitley has no assigned character allusion and his name doesn’t offer very many hints, since it literally just means white meadow/field snow, but it’s easy enough to assume that like Weiss and Jacques - Snow White and Jack Frost - Whitley’s character allusion has something to do with the cold. I agree with the general opinion that he’s connected to ‘the Snow Queen,’ and is likely meant to be Kai, a once kind hearted boy who gets a piece of a magic mirror in his eye that only lets him see the bad in people and gets kidnapped by the snow queen. His best friend Gerda goes on a quest to save him - encountering a land of eternal summer and a talking crow amongst other things - and temporarily forgets him due to an enchantment, but then finds him almost frozen over and saves him by crying on him and through the power of her love that literally makes people and nature bend to her will, Gerda rescues Kai and dislodges the mirror piece from his eye so that he can be cheerful again. Pretty in tune with how the writers wrote things. I don’t mind this, but if Whitley is meant to be Kai and Weiss is meant to be his Gerda, there were two missed opportunities here that could’ve been great. One, Gerda is reminded of her love for Kai whenever she sees red roses, and Ruby and Whitley have a few similar mannerisms and kind of similar coping through their ‘cheery exterior’s’ even f Ruby’s lost all her sass and Whitley’s never had her spazzy, dorky, rough around the edges traits. I think it would’ve been cute and make for a more interesting dynamic if Weiss had mentioned to Ruby in volumes 1-3 that Ruby reminds her of her brother, and if it had made Weiss both harder on Ruby (since she and Whitley are estranged and he does drive her crazy a lot lol) but it also made Ruby all the more endearing to her and is one of the reasons they could be friends fairly fast despite Weiss’s early animosity (since she loves her brother and the traits he shares with Ruby compliment hers.) The next missed opportunity I can think of is that everyone thinks Kai is dead in the Snow Queen for a bit, but Gerda doesn’t believe it and goes looking for him instead. You could easily fit this into a narrative where everyone else has given up Whitley as a lost cause, but Weiss won’t believe that and is determined to help and to get close to Whitley again, which is what I think I’d want to go with. But also, a Whitley death fake out? That could be very good and very emotional. And it’d be easy omg. Weiss could think the Hound has killed him sometime during the fight (even if just for a moment,) but also if Whitley had been the first one to fall in the void instead of going through to Vacuo O.O 

Idk if we’ll ever get his character allusion confirmed, but if it isn’t someone from the Snow Queen, I feel like the whole fandom will say “What?!” at the exact same time. XD 

[bondsmagii]

Regarding what was lying in mom's bed three months after she had passed.

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Bonnie Jennings, regarding a discovery made in her mother’s bed three months after her mother’s death. Original statement given May 18, 2009. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

Mum and I… we weren’t close. That’s probably an understatement. I suppose the correct word for it is that we were estranged, but that’s always seemed far too gentle for my liking. If I’m being honest, Mum and I hated one another. I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but my mother was a difficult woman to get along with. She drove everybody away in the end, but not even in the tragic, oh, she can’t help it kind of way. No, she knew exactly what she was doing. She revelled in it, I think. Well, I know she did. I’m not sure what she got out of it, but she liked to… to hurt people, I guess. She got a kick out of it. She was never quick about it, never in-your-face, because that wasn’t fun for her. She was so insidious. She would draw it out, let it take its time, ensure you never had enough to directly confront her about it. She never had a kind word for anyone or anything, and especially not for me. You know, I absolutely hate it, because whenever I mention that my mother and I didn’t talk much people always assume it’s because of well, you know. Somebody like that, you don’t expect them to be accepting of these kinds of things, do you? They always assume I had the classic story of coming out and being booting into the street, but no. That’s just a tragic story that gets parcelled up and delivered out as sad little stories meant to tell everyone how brave we are, and how much we endure, and it always ends with a reconciliation or with us getting back on our feet, stronger for it. Really, that’s not what happens most often. Of course it still does, and I’m not denying that, but I think people need to talk more about the more subtle kind of dismissal we might face. When I told Mum I was trans, all she said was “alright”. That’s it. Just the one word. She didn’t want to know anything more about it, she didn’t want to ask what it meant. She was completely disinterested, but not even in the way that some parents might be – struggling to deal with the fact that they’ve lost a child or whatever crap they come out with. I’m charitable about it – I know it is a shock. I have a lot of trans friends with good relationships with their parents who reported that their parents did need some time just to get used to the idea, but I think that’s normal. When somebody has an idea of you and you tell them they’re wrong, and that you were never that person, it’s a shock. But Mum was so self-centred, so absorbed in her own existence, that she really didn’t care about anything or anyone else. It didn’t matter that her son was actually her daughter. It didn’t centre on her, so who cares? It was infuriating, because on the surface she looked like a model mother. She began using the correct name and pronouns immediately and didn’t slip up once. She advised me on clothing and hair and makeup and gave me beauty tips. She looked so supportive, but really it was just her controlling criticism repackaged. I think, in a sick way, she loved having a daughter. Now she was the expert, as the older woman, and she could boss me around and condescend to me even more. It was an absolute nightmare, but I’m not here to talk smack about my mum – even though I could quite happily do so all day. No, this is about what happened after she was dead and gone. You hear that? Dead. She’s dead, and she’s still causing me problems.

I hadn’t spoken to Mum for over a year when she passed. She never even told me she was sick. None of my business, I guess. It was just Mum and me growing up, and there was no extended family. As I said, Mum drove everyone away in the end. There was absolutely nobody there at all, and that’s why her body rotted in her house for months before anyone found her. She died in the winter, and it was so cold her body basically froze  – she never left the heating on a timer, always turned it on manually so she could have more control over the cost. It wasn’t until the weather started getting warmer that neighbours noticed all the flies on the window, realised they hadn’t seen Mum for a while. They called the police, the police broke in, and they found the putrid mess that used to be my mother. Pretty messed up, right? Somehow I was still her emergency contact, because I guess there was nobody else, and so the police called me and broke the news and I was shocked but not really that upset. I mean, that sounds bad, but she’s been dead to me for some time, you know? Really it was sort of nice to know she was actually dead, because grieving for a living person – especially a person you never really had – is a very complicated business. Now she was dead, I thought I could finally just close that chapter. Of course it’s never that easy.

As her next of kin, I was responsible for her… estate, I suppose. That sounds so grand considering it was just a small semi-detached in rural Lincolnshire, but little though it was, it was mine. She never made a will, as I found out when I expressed surprise she’d left me anything at all. She hadn’t actually bothered, so by default it had all gone to me. I was living in Peterborough at the time, and Mum’s house was only in Spalding, so we didn’t live that far apart at all. It didn’t take long for my then-boyfriend and I to get in the car and head down there to see what all we needed to do. I wasn’t interested in keeping the house for myself, because why would I want it? Not to mention Henry and I had been considering buying a place together – later, when he proposed to me, he confessed he had been planning to pop the question that weekend but then they had to go and find my mother’s corpse, which was kind of funny in a morbid way – so we figured if we could sell the place it might be good money to put towards our own first house. Of course, there was the small matter of trying to sell a house where somebody had died, but I figured it wouldn’t be that hard. It wasn’t a brutal murder or anything like that. If we could clean the place up nicely, I didn’t think it would matter too much.

Well, they hadn’t exactly told us how bad it was going to be. Did you know that the family are in charge of cleaning up a house after a death? I didn’t. I thought that would be something that would be covered, you know? By who I’m not sure, but I didn’t think it would be down to family members to scrub up blood and worse from the carpets or the walls or whatever. I at least thought the police would warn us, and maybe it just slipped their mind, but whatever happened or didn’t happen ended up with Henry and I walking into that house not knowing what to expect at all.

We soon got the idea. The stench was abysmal, even just walking up the garden path. Of course, the body itself had been taken care of, but a body that’s been laying in the house for three months leaves behind a lot of evidence, even if it did spend most of that time mostly frozen. Mum’s bedroom was just… it was a nightmare. Words cannot describe the stretch. Sweet and sticky and sickly; you can taste it more than you can smell it. Cloying. That’s the word that came to my mind. I always thought it was a stupid word, but in that moment I understood exactly what it meant. Cloying. I could feel it in my throat and in my nose, thick and viscous, like having a cold and needing to cough up phlegm. Thank God I hadn’t had anything to eat or I would have thrown up. Poor Henry wasn’t so lucky – though he just about made it to the bathroom. I suppose I’m just morbidly curious, because despite the stench I walked right in there, holding my cardigan over my nose. The covers were pulled right back from the bed and there was this incredible stain on the mattress, almost like a bruise in the way it faded into different colours and shades. Sort of like a bruise meeting a patch of rusted iron, black and deep red and dark purple and then lighter shades of brown and grey, all in the vague outline of a prone body at the darkest parts, spreading out like some messed up halo as it grew lighter. It was absolutely vile, but fascinating in its own way. At the very least, she had done us the favour of dying in the bed rather than on the floor, because the carpet would have been a lost cause. With this, I reckoned we could throw out the bed and everything on it, air the room out, and it would be good as new.

I needed a little fresh air myself, so I opened the windows wide and then went to see if Henry was alright. He was still retching pretty badly, so I snooped around the spare room a bit – nothing much to see, if I’m honest – and then decided to wait for him in the back garden, where I’d be able to take advantage of the breeze. I was sure I could smell that heavy stench clinging to my hair, and do you know for weeks afterwards I still thought I could smell it? It doesn’t come out, no matter how much you wash it. Anyway, I obviously glanced into Mum’s room on my way out, and immediately I saw something was wrong. The covers were all back on her bed.

Now, I know for a fact they weren’t there before, because I saw the big stain on the mattress. Now the covers were back in place, not tucked in or even overly neat, but definitely covering the bed and tossed around like somebody was curled up under them, asleep. Strangely I didn’t feel scared or even very confused. I kind of… stood there for a moment, wondering how I was seeing what I was seeing, and then quite quickly I just accepted that I was seeing it and there was nothing I could do about that, so I decided to check it out. It’s not something I would ordinarily do, I don’t think – I’m curious, but I’m not touch a bed covered in decomposing body juices curious – but for some reason I just walked in there and pulled back the covers. One fluid movement, like a mother trying to get her teenager up for school. I just yanked it back from the top, near the pillows, and then I finally felt the horror that should have come much sooner.

It was… maggots, obviously. They were everywhere, writhing around in a huge pile, twisting their way over the stain and out of the bedsheets and even crawling up my arm, where I was still holding the covers. I screamed and shook my arm frantically, sending maggots flying in all directions, and immediately they began making their way back to the mass on the bed. It was like there was some kind of gravitational pull dragging them back to that pile of wriggling, twitching creatures, and as I watched I became convinced there was some kind of method to their movements. They were arranging themselves, forming into a shape, and I only dragged my eyes away when Henry appeared in the doorway, looking alarmed. I realised then that I’d screamed, and I tried to play it down – in that moment I wasn’t overly surprised, now I’d had a second to think about it, because yeah, of course there are maggots. They like dead bodies, right? I guessed that after the body was removed there were probably a ton of them in the mattress itself that had wriggled up in search of food, though thinking about it again, I didn’t recall seeing any holes in the cover sheet or anything. I tried to calm down, but something drew my eyes back to the maggots – I think it was the way Henry was just staring at the bed, horrified in a way I’ve never seen before – and I saw that the maggots had… how do I even describe this?

They had sat up. They were sitting, and they were in the vague shape of a person. I could see a head, shoulders, the arms limply by the sides. There was a torso that joined on to the bend of hips and legs stretched out in front, over the bed, the feet disappearing into the covers that were still left. I could see the slight rise in the covers where the feet were. The maggots were still moving around, so the shape was constantly shifting, but I could distinctly see details beginning to emerge. Hair. The sunken pits where eyes should be. A gaping mouth that was opening and closing, a black void behind it, as though the figure was trying to say something. And it was. I could hear this strange voice, like an exhale of air, a voice that was barely there at all – but I knew it was saying my name. Bonnie. Bonnie. I could hear it as clearly as anything. In that moment, it was the loudest thing in the room.

I stumbled backwards, but it was as far as I could go. I was frozen, even as I watched the figure swing itself out of bed and get to unsteady feet. It stumbled towards me like a drunk, wheezing deep in its throat, and I thought it sounded like a laugh. I’m not even saying that with hindsight – it was laughing at me. It was my mother’s laugh, and in that moment I knew she was doing this. I mean, I don’t know if she was, because how could she? But in that moment I thought I knew she was doing it, anyway, and I was so angry at her. I was so damn mad at her, for dying in such a horrible way and leaving me with the mess, for all the stuff she’d pulled on me growing up, for every single thing she had done to me, the big things and the petty things, and now this! She couldn’t even die properly, she had to come back and terrify me and traumatise me and ruin everything! I screamed again, but this time it was just pure, animalistic rage – I’ve never heard myself make such a sound. I looked around and I saw the chair sitting in front of the mirror and I picked it up by the back and chucked it into the air, catching it by the back legs and swinging it at the maggot figure with everything I had. I don’t even know what good I thought it would do, because it was just maggots, but the figure disintegrated around the torso and the maggots scattered to the floor. The figure half-collapsed, just a pair of legs wobbling towards me, and I let out this manic laugh before I saw the maggots were already regrouping. Finally I gathered some of my senses and I turned for the door, yelling at Henry to run. He didn’t need telling twice. We both sprinted down the hall and I think we both jumped clean down the entire set of stairs – or it at least felt like that. We ran out into the street and I pulled my cardigan off and started jumping on it, because I was sure I could feel all those maggots crawling on me. Henry finally grabbed me and pulled me away, and we got into the car and drove off. Left the cardigan right there on the street.

We didn’t really discuss what had happened. I hired a cleaning company that specialised in that kind of clean-up, and they never reported any problems. The house was cleaned up good as new, aired out, all Mum’s stuff either sold or thrown away. Eventually the house sold too, even if it did take a little longer than I’d like. Henry and I got married, managed to buy our first house, and while we’ve mentioned it vaguely a few times we’ve still not really talked about it. I think we both probably mutually agreed that we must have been seeing things, and to be honest I let myself believe that for a while. I mean, there’s no way, right? But recently it’s just been bugging me, and I’ve been dreaming about it. It’s just been on my mind, and I can’t pretend that I didn’t see what I saw any longer. I don’t know if this will be of any use to you, or even if it’s the kind of thing that you go in for, but I thought I would write it down nevertheless. I do feel a little better now, weirdly. I thought reliving it all would make me feel worse, but I’m not going to complain.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

Well. That certainly makes me wish I hadn’t eaten lunch before recording. It all seems mostly standard up until the sentient maggot hivemind, and if it had just been Mrs Jennings present I would say it’s possible she might have been mistaken. It’s a fairly specific thing to see, but given the circumstances and the inherent revulsion most people experience when seeing that many maggots at once, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if the stress of the situation resulted in Mrs Jennings believing she saw something unusual. There is, however, one more thing included with this statement – a brief affirmation from Mr Jennings, which, while he chose not to go into detail, does affirm that everything in Mrs Jennings’ statement is true to what he himself witnessed. Of course, he wasn’t present with his wife for the entirety of the time period the statement covers, but he was there at the most important part. One person having such a highly specific hallucination would be a stretch, but two people experiencing the exact same highly specific hallucination is even less likely.

Tim contacted the current residents of the house that used to belong to Mrs Jennings’ mother, but they reported nothing at all unusual in the time they had been living there. They were aware of the fact a death had occurred in the house – just as well, really, as Tim was quite happy to tell them about it – but didn’t seem overly bothered. In fact, Tim reported that they seemed almost disappointed that the house hadn’t come with a resident ghost, though looking at Mrs Jennings’ description of her mother, I’m not entirely sure that’s the kind of ghost they would want to have to house share with.

Tim also managed to get in contact with John Atchieson, owner and operator of Atchieson Cleaning Solutions, a company based in Peterborough that, alongside general domestic and commercial cleaning jobs, also specialises in cleaning up biohazardous materials – crime scenes, accident scenes, natural deaths. The case of Mrs Jennings’ mother was found in their records, and Mr Atchieson could remember nothing unusual about it. In a rare stroke of luck, the employee assigned to oversee the clean up at the house was Mr Atchieson’s son, also named John; Mr Atchieson Senior was able to contact him and ask if he remembered anything specific from the site himself, but apparently there was nothing remarkable about the job at all – just a standard decomposition job, hauling away the hazardous materials and cleaning the room with heavy chemicals to try to get rid of the smell. Mr Atchieson Junior helped remove the mattress himself, and reported no maggots of any kind.

Given the lack of physical evidence I would like to claim that there is no basis to this statement, but considering the fact there are two witnesses and this wouldn’t be the first time that a being apparently made of some kind of larvae or insect has been observed wandering about, I’m more inclined to worry about where Mrs Jennings’ mother may have gone, if she was no longer in her bedroom.

End recording.

#tma #statement prompts #my writing #fakements #long post #anon #asks

[shannaraisles]

Fidèle de la Cœur - Chapter 1

In Regency era Thedas, the second family of a deceased Bann are forced to uproot themselves and build a new life far from the place they called home. Invited to live in Kirkwall by the Viscount - an old friend of their dead father - the two Lavellan sisters discover two very different paths to understanding the merit of a truly constant heart.

A Sense and Sensibility/Dragon Age mash-up, in which Brandon gets the right girl, and no one gets married before they reach the age of twenty.

Next Chapter - OR - Read on AO3

Chapter One

The sonorous tones of a melancholy piano echoed through the family wing of Ostwick Keep, lending voice to a grief that must be heard and accepted. Servants kept to themselves, speaking in hushed tones out of respect for the family so recently bereaved, yet forced to be about their business thanks to the arrival of the new Bann and his wife. It seemed to those women who could no longer call this place home that no sooner had word arrived of the old Bann's death than the new Bann Trevelyan had arrived hard on its heels, greedy to take up his position of respect, authority, and wealth. 

Johannes, they could have tolerated without much issue. The piercing gaze of his wife, Lady Goldanna, was an insult that could not be borne, and yet must be ignored for the sake of peace. She had made it quite clear that she had never approved of her father-in-law's second family, and now she fully intended to see them out of the only home they had by filling it with her ostentatious tastes and offensive personality. That her in-laws were elven appeared to make her poor manners ever more unfriendly, a fact that the servants were very quick to note. Her announcement upon arrival that her brother, Mr. Alistair Theirin, would soon be arriving to spend the winter with them was simply one more headache for the household to absorb.

The Lavellan women - for such they would now be called, no longer entitled to their half-brother's family name nor expectant of any support from him - were forced to accept this unwelcome change so soon upon the tails of the former Bann's death, and each reacted to the pain and inconvenience in their own ways. Ellana, the now Widow Lavellan, a handsome elven woman no more than forty years of age, had given way to her grief so wholly since the death of her beloved husband that she barely stepped from her rooms, weeping inconsolably as though she might never look upon the world with dry eyes again. Her somewhat romantic and dramatic view of their new circumstance was transmitted to her younger daughter, Lanise, who now chose to spend hours in the music room, playing the saddest of music at the highest of volumes, determined to cloak the house in the mantle of her grieving sixteen-year-old heart. And then there was Eralen, the elder Lavellan daughter who, though as heartbroken and saddened by their loss as her mother and sister, showed the world a calm face and gentle manner, taking on the burdens of running the household, making Goldanna and Johannes welcome in their new home, and consoling her mother during the worst of her fits of grief.

"Mamae, there is no need for this," she said, watching as her weeping mother swept about her private rooms, tossing keepsakes and personal items haphazardly into an open trunk. "Johannes will not simply toss us out onto the street."

"Yet he was quick to arrive and take charge of the estate," Ellana snapped back at her daughter. "And sending that woman ahead of him to hurry us along! Vultures, the pair of them, taking stock and inventory, laying a price on every precious memory we have made here. I will not stay to be a stranger in my own home, I will not -"

Yet here she crumbled, collapsing onto the stool by her vanity, her tears renewed with a wail muffled only by the press of her handkerchief to her mouth. Eralen bit her lip, moving further into the room to lay a gentle hand on her mother's back.

"I will start making enquiries to finding us somewhere else to live," she said quietly, not knowing what else she could say in the face of her mother's distress. "But until we have somewhere to go, you will have to bear it, Mamae."

Ellana groped for her daughter's hand, pressing her wet cheek against Eralen's knuckles.

"What would we do without you?"

Eralen smiled faintly, bending to kiss her mother's hair. As she straightened, the sonorous music faded for just a moment, only to be replaced with a melancholy rendition of a song the late Bann had dearly loved. Eralen winced just a split second before her mother burst into tears once again, throwing herself fully into her grief for the loss of the husband she had loved. 

With an imperceptible sigh, the elder Miss Lavellan left her mother to her weeping, calling for Orana to bring Mrs. Lavellan a cup of tea and sit with her a while until she was calm again. As the young maid nodded and hurried away, Eralen turned her face toward the music room, steeling herself to enter the whirlwind of dramatic emotion that was her younger sister. 

Passing one of the drawing rooms, she paused at the sound of voices, tilting her head toward the cracked door to briefly overhear what her half-brother and his wife were discussing. 

"Really, my dear, three women can live comfortably enough on the annuity granted by the terms of your father's will without putting you to the trouble of overseeing such a thing yourself," Goldanna was saying. "Indeed, they will be quite set up for life. And, of course, when the mother dies, the girls will receive ten thousand between them, which is not a sum to be sniffed at."

"My dear Goldanna, I made a promise to my father that I would see them cared for," Johannes answered, but even Eralen could tell he was being persuaded by his wife's greedy reasoning. "What do you say to the occasional gift of fifty gold every now and then?"

"And what would they spend it upon?" was Goldanna's reply. "In their situation, it would be more an insult than a help, I am sure, and we must think of our sweet Henry's inheritance. I feel certain your Papa never meant for you to help them with anything so vulgar as money; indeed, you need only give them the assistance they shall need when it comes to their relocation."

"No, Fanny, I must be plain on this case. My stepmother and sisters may remain here at Ostwick for as long as necessary to secure them a comfortable living."

"Of course, my dear," Goldanna soothed her husband in syrupy tones. "Yet one cannot help feeling that they cannot be allowed to engage in polite society with us. Miss Eralen is, I concede, acceptable in appearance and manner, but your stepmother and Miss Lanise are simply out of the question. Such violence of emotion cannot be allowed to stand and taint our reputation with the memory of the former incumbent."

"Oh, I quite agree on that point -"

Forcing herself not to frown, Eralen continued on, anxiously sweeping her hands down along the soft wool of her dress. So Goldanna was already working to have them gone with no inconvenience to herself; that was no surprise. She was saddened by Johannes' attitude, however. She had thought her half-brother stronger of spirit than this, yet it seemed he would bow to his wife's will. They could not expect any assistance from him. It was disappointing. But they would manage. Eralen had kept the books and helped run the household for several years now; she could keep her mother and sister from living beyond their means somehow. 

She opened the door to the music room, a sympathetic cast to her gaze as she looked upon her sister, not more than four years her junior. Lanise's eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks glistening with tears as she watched her own fingers dance heavily over the keys before her. The music was beautiful, yes - Lanise had always had a gift for it - but the heaviness of emotion she instilled into it was enough to make anyone's heart break for her. 

"Lanise, da'len," Eralen began, moving into the room to catch her sister's attention. "Could you play something else? Mamae has been weeping since breakfast."

Lanise sighed tearfully, her fingers stilling on the keys, and for a long moment, the sisters simply looked at one another - one openly passionate in her grief, the other calm and composed in spite of it. Then the younger nodded, lowering her eyes to begin playing once again. This tune was no less melancholy than the last, though lighter in sound and complexity.

"I meant something less mournful, da'len," Eralen said, but she knew she was defeated before she began.

She loved the passion and fire in both her mother and sister, envying them the freedom to express whatever they felt in any moment. Yet in grief, they fed off one another, each one plunging the other deeper into more violent expressions of loss, until she herself felt inadequate in her own pain. No doubt Lanise thought her cold in many ways, but Eralen knew one of them had to keep a calm head in this trying time. If the conversation she had overheard was any indication, the sooner they were gone from Ostwick, the better things would be for all of them. 

#FdlC #regency crossover #dragon age fanfiction #sense and sensibility fixit #lanise lavellan #ellana lavellan #eralen lavellan

[lilacmoon83]

Clarity

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 15: Sparks Fly, Pt 2

Snow cuddled against him, as they turned the corner and walked along Main street with his arm slung firmly around her.

"Cold?" he asked, with a chuckle.

"The winters here are just about as miserable as they were back home. But I guess cursing us to a place with sunny beaches would have been too pleasant," Snow mentioned. He chuckled and kissed her hair.

"I'll keep you warm," he promised. She smiled up at him.

"You always do," she said, as they were so absorbed by each other that they almost didn't see Kathryn barreling toward them.

"Oh…Kathryn," she said. The other woman glared at her.

"Well, I should congratulate you on the success of your article," the blonde said, as she held up a copy of the Storybrooke Mirror.

"My article? I didn't write that," Mary Margaret refuted.

"Oh no...but do you really expect me to believe that it wasn't you that fed these lies to this reporter!" Kathryn hissed.

"She didn't...we don't even know who this August person is," David insisted.

"Then why did he write these things!? You were my husband! I didn't make it up!" she shouted. He sighed.

"Maybe not, but for a really long time, I was gone and you didn't seem to give me a second thought. Did Regina tell you that she knew I was in the hospital the whole time?" David questioned. He knew that they couldn't really tell her that the marriage was exactly fake since that didn't mesh with her curse memories. But pointing out certain anomalies would bring other things into question.

"N...no, she didn't. She said she just found out you were there when you woke up," Kathryn said.

"But that can't be true. She was listed as my emergency contact and would have been notified the moment I was in whatever accident that I was in," David replied. Mary Margaret caught onto what he was trying to do.

"That's right...and the hospital had you listed as John Doe. That doesn't make any sense if you had an emergency contact. Regina would have been able to identify you," she recalled. This made Kathryn recoil in confusion. Everything they said made a lot of sense.

"But why would Regina hide you from everyone, especially me?" she asked.

"I don't know...but I don't think she's your friend like you think. Besides, do you really want to be with someone that can't love you the way you deserve?" he asked. Kathryn swallowed thickly and shook her head.

"Of course not...and I know we were just going through the motions," she admitted.

"You'll find someone," Mary Margaret assured her.

"That's easy for you to say," Kathryn grumbled.

"It is, but I happen to know someone at the school that's perfect for you. He's the gym class teacher," Mary Margaret said.

"I don't need dating advice from you!" Kathryn replied, as she stormed off.

"Well...that went well," he muttered, as they continued along the street.

"It was so nice of Regina to plant it into her head that I must have influenced the reporter to write that article," Mary Margaret said sarcastically. He scoffed.

"Yeah, we probably should have anticipated that, but why did you tell her that she should meet the gym teacher?" he asked curiously. She smiled coyly.

"Because Jim the gym teacher is really Frederick, her true husband," she replied and he smiled.

"Sneaky…I like it," he said, as they arrived at the Storybrooke Mirror's building. They knocked on the office door and unsurprisingly, Sidney Glass answered.

"Well...if it isn't Storybrooke's favorite adulterers," he said.

"Watch it or you'll find out how good my right cross is," David warned.

"What can I do for you and the fair Miss Blanchard?" Glass asked and David studied him with scrutiny. He seemed familiar, but he couldn't place who he might have been back in their land.

"We're looking for August W. Booth...he wrote an article in your newspaper," David said.

"We'd just like to talk to him," Mary Margaret added.

"Well...that makes three of us. You see, Mr. Booth neither works here nor had authorization to put that article in my paper," Sidney explained.

"Then why did you print it?" Mary Margaret asked.

"Isn't it obvious? This man broke into my office and placed his article in my paper without my knowledge or approval," Sidney replied.

"You must be in hot water with Mayorzilla then," David joked. He had heard Emma call her that in an offhand remark and decided that it was a fitting description if he had ever heard one.

"Laugh now, if you must, but I'll be printing a retraction to the article and then the town will go back to believing the truth about you both. You the cheater and her the tramp," Sidney said, which caused David to put his hand around the other man's neck and push him back against the door.

"If you hurt me...I'll make sure you're thrown in jail!" Sidney warned nervously.

"David...he's not worth it. He's a worm," Mary Margaret urged, as she touched his arm. David released him and backed away, as he attempted to collect himself.

"The waters have been muddied now and the truth always comes out, trust me. The town isn't so eager to believe anything reported by you anymore," David warned, as he took her hand and they continued on their way. As they walked by the alley, they didn't see the man standing there listening to the whole conversation.

Now that August knew they were looking for him, he would have to be careful to avoid them. They were clearly awake and he didn't want to be the one to tell them the truth about the wardrobe and who he really was.

"You two look cold...how about some cocoas?" Granny called, as she happened to be outside at the moment they walked by.

"Really?" Mary Margaret asked.

"I thought our kind wasn't welcome?" David asked and she nudged him.

"I see where Emma gets her lack of tact now," she murmured.

"Do you want the cocoa or not, chisel chin?" Granny asked shortly. Mary Margaret smiled.

"We'd love some," she said, as they followed Granny inside.

~*~

The gavel slammed down, as the Judge brought the hearing to order and they were seated. The Bayliff announced the docket number and the Judge looked over the documents in front of him.

"How do we know this guy isn't in Regina's pocket?" Emma whispered to Gold.

"That's actually a really good question," Neal agreed.

"I will be very convincing and he is more afraid of me than he is of her," Gold assured him.

"What did you do to him?" Neal questioned.

"Here...nothing yet. But I know things about him he'd rather not have made public," Gold replied vaguely.

"Wonderful…" Neal drawled.

"Who cares if it gets us visitation," Emma said and Neal conceded to that point with a nod.

"We're here today to discuss the visitation right of the biological parents of Henry Mills. I will hear opening arguments now," the Judge said, as Albert Spencer got to his feet and buttoned the front of his suit coat.

"Albert Spencer for the defendant, Mayor Regina Mills, Your Honor," he said, as he approached the bench.

"For the last ten years of Henry Mills' life, my client has raised her son and quite admirably so. She has been there for everything. The sleepless nights, the diapers, the nightmares, and all the ups and downs that come with often grueling duties of a parent. Now that the boy is older, the birth parents have come out of the woodwork to demand him back. To rip him from the woman that raised him would be a grave error in judgement, I believe. The birth parents are unstable and both have criminal backgrounds. It is my position that Regina Mills remain the sole custodian of Henry Mills," Spencer said, as he took his seat.

"Mr. Gold for the plaintiff, Your Honor," Gold said, as he rose from his seat.

"While we can agree that Regina Mills has raised young Henry from birth and provided him with all the material necessities he wants, she has not been exemplary when it comes to the boy's mental health," Gold said, which made Regina seethe.

"I have witnesses willing to submit testimony that they have heard the Mayor call her own son crazy for his very vivid imagination. The boy's own psychiatrist can testify that Mayor Mills' language alone could be very harmful to the boy. So much so that they boy sought out his own birth mother on his own," Gold continued.

"And while both Mr. Cassidy and Ms. Swan have made mistakes in their past, they were barely adults and have since turned their lives around. The boy wants them in his life and his opinion should be considered in this," Gold stated.

"Objection, Your Honor. That boy is a minor and it is not the practice of the courts to allow minors to make decisions concerning their well being themselves," Spencer objected.

"I believe I said that his feelings should be considered; not the sole basis of this case," Gold clarified, but the Judge put his hand up.

"As this is not the actual custody hearing, I believe this is a very simple decision," the Judge stated.

"I have reviewed the case, including comments from Dr. Hopper, who has stated that he has noticed a positive change in the minor in question since the resurfacing of his birth parents," he stated.

"Until we convene on the matter of custody, I am going to grant visitation rights to the birth parents. Every other weekend and two weeknights," he said.

"Your Honor...this is an outrage!" Spencer objected.

"Save it for the custody trial, Counselor. The visitation is only until trial and will be re-evaluated upon the outcome of the trial. But considering the birth father did not even know that he had a son, which could have changed whether or not his son was even adopted, I cannot in good conscience deny him the chance to know his son. The same goes for Ms. Swan, as she was clearly under duress at the time of his birth. Whether they are fit or not will or will not be proven in the custody hearing," the Judge ruled, as he slammed the gavel down. By now, Regina was fuming and if looks could kill, they would have surely all been dead.

"If you think this is going to go your way...then you're sadly mistaken," Regina growled, as she stormed out.

"Thanks...papa," Neal said, as he shocked Gold by giving him a gentle hug, which he reciprocated.

"You know that I would do anything for you...and Henry now," he replied. Neal nodded. He was still struggling with his feelings toward his father, but this had definitely made him reconsider his decision to keep him at arms length.

"Yeah...thanks. I owe you another one I guess," Emma said.

"This one is on the house, Ms. Swan," Gold replied.

"We should go see if we can get the kid and go to Granny's to celebrate. We can invite your parents too," Neal said, as they exited the courtroom.

"Will you stop calling them that?" Emma asked.

"How long are you going to keep denying what you know is true?" he replied.

"Neal…" she said.

"No…I'm serious. You have a gift for knowing when people are lying. I am from a place called the Enchanted Forest. My Dad is Rumpelstiltskin...also known as the Dark One. I escaped through a portal and landed in this world in the 1800's, London, to be specific. Then I got carried off to Neverland by Peter Pan's shadow…" he continued.

"Do you know how insane you sound?" she interjected.

"Yes...but am I lying?" he asked. She scoffed and walked off, but he persisted.

"I got rescued by none other than Captain Hook from the water, only for him to later sell me out to Peter Pan himself. Then I spent two hundred years in trying to escape that hell hole, only to finally succeed and find myself in the Land Without Magic again, America this time, in 1997. Then I met you just a few years later…" he continued, as Gold followed them, listening intently.

"Why does it matter to you so much if I believe or accept them as my parents, which they're not?" Emma asked, as they stopped on the street.

"Because I know how much you always wanted to find them and how much you wanted answers. Both are now staring you in the face and you're running away again," he accused.

"Screw you...Henry is the only thing keeping me here and you know it," Emma replied.

"Nope...now you're lying. You care about Mary Margaret and even David," he insisted.

"Enough! I don't give a damn about them and if it's all true, then why should I?" she shouted, as they were now just outside the diner.

"You've seen the book. You saw that nursery they made...for you. Parents that don't want their kid don't do that, Emma and you know it," Neal said, as neither of them noticed David and Mary Margaret coming out of the diner.

"Why do you care so much!?" Emma cried in exasperation.

"Because I know the truth! You were cheated out of having them and they were cheated out of having you! First, because of the curse...but ultimately, because of a lie told by people that were supposed to be their friends!" he said.

"What?" Mary Margaret asked and he suddenly realized they were there...

#Snowing #SnowxCharming #Charming family #Emma Swan #Neal Cassidy #Mr. Gold #Regina Mills #Henry Mills #romance #adventure #angst #drama #family #Clarity #A 7x15 am AU

[c-ptsdrecovery]

Fanny Price and Emotional Abuse

colubrina replied to your post “Emotional Neglect in Austen”

I would actually love to read your analysis of Fanny Price if you ever had time and inclination to write it out.

Oh my goodness, where do I start?

Fanny Price is abused and neglected from start to finish of that novel. She suffers direct emotional/verbal abuse from Mrs. Norris, bullying from Maria and Julia, excessive criticism from those three AND Sir Thomas, and emotional neglect from Lady Bertram and Tom. She also suffers PHYSICAL abuse and neglect, mostly from Mrs. Norris, who does not allow her to have any heat in her room in the winter and forces her to work beyond her strength in the summer even though Mrs. Norris KNOWS she’s chronically ill (and it’s no wonder, considering the amount of emotional strain Fanny’s under, that she should be chronically ill!). 

The only person in that house who even notices that she’s utterly miserable from the trauma of being torn from her family is Edmund: he’s the only one who treats her like a person and is kind to her. It’s no WONDER she falls in love with him: he’s the only person in the entire family who doesn’t treat her like SHIT. But while Edmund recognizes Mrs. Norris’ behavior toward Fanny to be beyond the pale, he generally does not seem to notice that his more immediate family also treats her horribly. Lady Bertram treats Fanny as a servant, putting her own (Lady Bertram’s) needs and wants before Fanny’s (”You don’t want to go to the party, do you? You want to stay home with me because I get bored if you don’t!”). Sir Thomas is generally so critical and cold that when he greets Fanny kindly on his return from Antigua she is “nearly overcome” by his kindness. Even Edmund himself begins to both emotionally and physically neglect Fanny the moment he gets interested in Mary--leaving Fanny for ages on the bench alone, keeping her waiting too long for her horse when she needs to exercise, etc. Fanny only gets noticed and included as a member of the family when Maria and Julia are both gone and the family is apparently bored without them--the same reason Henry decides to flirt with her.

The result is that Fanny has almost no self-esteem. She has completely internalized Mrs. Norris’s lesson that “Wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last.” At one point she parrots the lessons she’s been taught by the treatment of the entire family:

“I can never be important to any one.” “What is to prevent you?” “Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.” “As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either.”

She believes she’s foolish and awkward because the family harped on her lack of education and “refinement” when she first came to them, and they have drilled into her, not only that she is not important to them, but that she can never BE important to ANYONE. Classic result of emotional neglect. And Fanny NEVER actually gets over it, throughout the entire book.

She’s nearly silent through much of the book too, mostly because she’s too terrorized to talk. As someone who was similarly brainwashed by emotionally abusive parents, I can tell you that taking any attention under some circumstances feels excruciating and guilt-inducing, because you’ve been conditioned so hard to believe that “being the center of attention” is somehow morally WRONG. Fanny suffers from precisely that false belief (note her distress when she is required, by the social rules of the day, to start the dancing at her own ball--Sir Thomas basically has to SCOLD her into it!).

That said, it’s amazing to note the one way in which she DOES have self-esteem: she believes in her own moral judgment. This is the only basis on which she is able to think and act independently of others. When Edmund treats her badly, she gets seriously annoyed. When she notices Henry’s bad behavior toward Maria, she is indignant. She secretly judges Mary Crawford the whole way through the book. I would attribute this trust in her moral judgment to be the result of the kind of long walks and talks she has with Edmund in the text and has had her entire life: he has molded her to think of things with the same moral judgment he uses and to think herself capable of being superior to others in that moral judgment. Of course, since she has absorbed the moral tone of Edmund, learned from Sir Thomas, she is pretty judgy sometimes, since Sir Thomas clearly feels himself and his moral code to be superior rather than conservative. She certainly feels superior to her birth family (with some reason, honestly lol), because in this one thing she has been taught that the family she grew up in was superior to others. She has imbibed this superiority and acts it out when at Plymouth.

Let me give you an example of Sir Thomas’s conservative moral code. You might think, from reading Mansfield Park, that Jane Austen disapproved of private theatricals, and that they were generally considered too naughty by the Better Sort of Person. It turns out that this isn’t true at all. Not only were private theatricals popular, but Jane Austen enjoyed performing in them and even WROTE some plays for that purpose! One of them involves a gentleman sitting on a lady’s lap!! It turns out that the strait-laced tone of the novel is not so much a reflection of the author’s standards of conduct, but of Sir Thomas’s, imbibed by Edmund and then Fanny. Edmund, Fanny, and Sir Thomas’s dislike of private theatricals would have been a bit PRUDISH at the time, not the obvious standard of Good Breeding.

Another thing the novel has imbibed from Sir Thomas is its insularity. The modern criticism of Mansfield Park talks a lot about the family’s isolation. Now, I don’t hold with the criticism that makes a big deal out of Fanny marrying her cousin and implying that that’s incestuous, because in the 19th century, cousin marriage was not only acceptable but a norm. Marrying your cousin was often considered desirable because it strengthened family ties and kept money in the family. BUT, I completely agree with the observation that the Mansfield Park family seems to shun the outside world. 

One thing that I don’t know if the criticism has commented on is that dysfunctional families often function like cults. Offspring of dysfunctional families tend either to rebel and “run away” (Maria elopes, Julia elopes, Tom rebels) or to fail to establish autonomy (Edmund takes a living in Sir Thomas’s gift and later the house right down the road; Fanny never gets out of the family at all because she marries Edmund). Dysfunctional families also teach their members not to trust those outside the family circle. They don’t tend to socially interact much with others. I can say from personal experience that my parents have VERY few friends that they see outside of work or church, and only one couple that they invite to the house regularly. As a child, I rarely got to have birthday parties with my friends: my parents would instead invite my extended family. I was taught not to establish strong bonds outside the family, to trust the family only to be generous or to help and support me. I find it difficult to establish strong ties of friendship outside the family or to trust those friends to support me the way my family might.

The Bertrams are the same way. Maria and Julia go to local balls, but that happens offscreen, and we never meet any of their acquaintances except Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth (who become family). The family disapproves strongly of Tom’s having such an active social life away from home, and disapproves when he brings home a friend (Mr. Yates) to stay. Even when Sir Thomas holds a ball for Fanny in the house itself, we never actually meet any of the guests except the ones we already know! And the “last straw” that causes Edmund to agree to join the theatricals is when they start asking people “outside their circle” of Mansfield and the parsonage to participate. He also deplores that they might invite in an audience of these personae non gratae. Frankly, it’s amazing that the Bertrams were willing to open their family circle enough to let in, not only the Grants, but the Crawfords.

I’ve gone on for quite awhile, but I’ll close like this. When I first read Mansfield Park, I hated it and I hated Fanny, because she had no backbone and cried all the time. Then I watched the 2007 adaptation with Billie Piper, and realized that although Fanny was so shy and retiring and weepy, she had an iron backbone in that nobody could make her do what she thought was wrong. Mansfield became one of my favorite Austen novels.

At the moment, I don’t feel like I can reread MP. I’m dealing so much with my own history of emotional abuse and neglect that MP strikes just waaaay too close to home (also the reason I can’t rewatch Tangled right now). I’m not sure how much I like MP anymore, frankly. Austen did a fantastic job of accurately portraying a victim of emotional abuse. And she gave Fanny what she wanted at the end, which was Edmund. But I can’t help wondering if Austen herself wished she could have ended the novel differently. She comes right out and says, authoritatively, that if Edmund had married Mary, and Crawford hadn’t run off with Maria, that Fanny would have married Crawford and been happy. She could have escaped from her abusive family, with someone who really sees their abuse: “And they will now see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.” If Crawford and Maria hadn’t run off together, the ending of Mansfield Park might have been entirely different--and it MIGHT have been better.   

#jane austen #mansfield park #literature #abuse #emotonal abuse

[catalinda04]

Carried Away Chapter 53: Lucy in London

Masterlist

Lucy was surprised to find that she and Henry would not be watching the actual movie at this premiere. She stood next to Henry in the lobby of the theatre hosting the premiere.

“I have to be here for the press, and the red carpet, but staying for the film is optional. Then I’ll need to make an appearance at the after party.” Henry informed her.

“Then what do we do for two hours?” She asked him. His eyebrow went up suggestively. “Please, with Madrid traffic? I doubt we’d even make it to your hotel before we had to turn around.” She laughed.

“We could find somewhere quiet for dinner.” He suggested, Lucy laughed again.

“Honey. This is Spain. It’s only 7:30. We may be able to get tapas, but it’s way too early for dinner.” she told him. They were discussing the possibility of going for tapas, when they were approached by two other couples. His co-stars, Armie and Alicia were accompanied by Armie’s wife Elizabeth, who Lucy had met at the New York premiere, and a tall man that Lucy thought looked a lot like Michael Fassbender.

Armie spoke first, “we were talking about going to find some tapas before the after party. Do you two want to join us?”

Lucy and Henry exchanged a look before Henry turned to Armie, “We’d love to.” The six got a recommendation from an aide working on the premiere, and set off around the corner. Lucy had to pick-up her dress to keep it from trailing on the ground.

The group ordered a variety of tapas and a couple pitchers of Sangria. They talked like they’d been friends forever. When Lucy’s glass of Sangria was empty Alicia’s boyfriend, who turned out to actually BE Michael Fassbender, picked-up the pitcher to refill it. Lucy put her hand over the top to stop him.

“Aw, come now Lucy, don’t be a wet blanket.” Michael said coaxingly.

“Sorry, Michael. I’ve spent the better part of the last ten days trying to keep a group of American teenagers from drinking, I can’t go back smelling like booze. But if you’re in London next week, look us up. I’ll gladly let you buy me as many drinks as you want then.” Lucy laughed.

“Be careful there Lucy,” Alicia warned, “he’ll keep buying you drinks until you pass out.” The whole table laughed.

When the time came, they all walked back to the theatre to catch their rides to the after party, and to take Lucy back to her hotel. Henry accompanied Lucy back to her hotel. Leaving her with a long kiss before heading off to the after party. Before he left, Lucy reminded him to be back by 8:15 the following morning, if he was going to join them on the tour for the day.

Lucy mounted the three steps into the hotel’s lobby and found Giuseppe standing at the registration desk. “Ah Lucia, you are back. I hope you had a good time at the party for your boyfriend’s work.”

“I did, thank you. Did everything go ok for the evening?”

“Ah, yes. All was well. Many students bought gelato for dessert. I did not realize your boyfriend was the Superman, Lucia.”

“Yes, he’s an actor. It’s still ok if he comes with us tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Sì, certo. Though I would think he would not enjoy touring with high schoolers.”

‘He’s grown quite close to some of my students, and he wants to spend some time with me.” She told him. “But I should be getting to my room to change before bed checks. Hasta mañana Giuseppe.” She said, turning to the elevator.

“Sì, scusi, fino a domani, Lucia.” Giuseppe said turning back to his paperwork.

Marie was still awake when Lucy got back to their room. She looked up from her phone when the door opened. “How was the premiere dear?”

“It was lovely. We walked the red carpet, then we all went out for tapas and sangria.” Lucy told, her slipping off her shoes.

“So you had a good time?” Marie asked, leadingly.

“Yes, mom, I did. Thank you for making me go. How were the kids? Everything go ok?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle; a couple of bar fights, three got tattoos, two got married. Standard kid stuff.”

“They got married, and didn’t invite me?” Lucy asked, playing along. “Selfish kids.”

“What can I say, they’re in love.” Marie smiled

Lucy started slipping on her sandals, “I’m going to go do bed checks,” she said, turning to the door.

“No, need. I already did them.” Marie informed her.

“But it was my night to do them.”

“I know, but I did them. Now get ready for bed, we have a busy day tomorrow. Did you see the schedule in the lobby?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you again, mom. I really appreciate you taking the group tonight so I could go with Henry.”

“What are mothers for?” Marie said, turning her gaze back to her phone.

The following morning, Lucy was just slipping on her shoes to leave for the day, when there was a knock on her door. Wondering what, which of the kids, needed, she opened the door to find a smiling Henry, looking super casual in black shorts, and a dark grey tank top with a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neckline. His trademark dark curls were hidden under a Real Madrid hat. She threw her arms around him, and her lips crashed into his. Marie came out of the bathroom asking, “who was at the door? Oh. Good morning Henry.” She said, her gaze landing on the couple.

“Good morning, Marie,” Henry replied, smiling.

“How was the after party?” Lucy asked, as she, Henry and Marie made their way down to the hotel’s lobby.

“It was fine. The same people having the same conversations. I didn’t stay long.” He told her.

Henry was surprised that he actually enjoyed his day touring with Lucy and her students. All of her drama students that were traveling made a point to come talk to him, while one-by-one the students from the other groups gathered up the courage to ask him for an autograph or a picture, or both. He always obliged, not wanting to disappoint anyone.

He enjoyed touring Madrid with Lucy. He had been to Madrid once before to shoot a film, but hadn’t spent much time sightseeing. Lucy pointed out places she liked and knew from her many visits to the city. She explained some of the significance of the symbols in the royal palace, and told him stories of her time here with her friend Sarah. Summer Lucy was coming back. He hadn’t truly believed her last year when she explained the differences between Summer Lucy and Winter Lucy, but after spending those months with her in Minnesota and seeing her now in Spain, he understood what she was talking about. She wasn’t a different person, but she could show a different side of her personality. Her transformation wasn’t complete, with her students being in attendance, she was some sort of combination of Summer Lucy and Winter Lucy, a grey area. It only made him love her more.

Henry stayed with the group for the entire day, through curfew. Once Lucy had been assured that everyone was in for the night, she and Henry snuck out to stroll through the nearby Retiro park. They absorbed each other’s company on the sultry summer night in the city. They found a bench and engaged in some serious snogging. Lucy could have sat on that bench kissing Henry forever, but much too soon, her phone alarm signaled time for her to return to the hotel.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” Henry admitted, walking Lucy back to her hotel.

“I know, but it’s pumpkin time. Besides, I need to get some sleep. We leave for the airport at 6:00 tomorrow morning. Then in will be just five short days, and I will be in London. We’ll have seven whole weeks. You’ll be sick of me. Though I will miss this park.” She said wistfully, looking back at the gate they had just exited.

“I promise you, that one evening, we’ll take a blanket to Hyde Park, and watch the planes come in over London. Or we could watch them from my roof, if you don’t want to go to the park,” he promised.

“You have a roof? With space for sitting?” She asked surprised.

“I do. It’s not much, but there’s space for a couple of chairs and a small table.”

“You will have to show me when I get there. That sounds like a wonderful place to do some reading.”

“I prefer the back garden for reading, but to each her own.”

They had reached the front door of the hotel. “I wish it were Monday,” Lucy said, burrowing into Henry’s side.

“So do I Cupcake, but it will come soon enough,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I love you Lucy.”

“I love you too, Henry.”

Lucy was proud of herself. She had managed not to cry when saying goodbye to Henry. It helped that she would be seeing him in less than a week, but it was a proud moment for her anyway.

Henry had been right, the five days had flown by. She returned home late Wednesday night, after being awake for close to 24 hours. Thursday was her day for laundry and jet lag. Friday Lucy ticked off items on her to-do list: she arranged to have her mail forwarded to her parents’ house, and completely cleaned out her refrigerator. Saturday was spent baking for Quinn and Thomas. She had managed to convince Anna to hold her niece and nephew’s family birthday party early, so she could attend, and make their cakes, like she always did. When she got home from the party on Sunday she started packing. She finished her packing on Monday morning, just in time for her father to arrive to bring her to the airport for her flight to London.

She hugged her dad tight, before walking into the terminal. She didn’t notice the mist in his eyes as he watched his little girl walk away. He wondered how many more times he would do this, before she flew away for good.

Lucy was grateful for the First Class seat Henry had booked for her. Between the end of the school year, the trip, and the past week, she was exhausted. She managed to stay awake through dinner service, but before long, she was fast asleep in her seat. The flight attendant woke her just before they were to land at Heathrow.

Lucy had expected to take a taxi by herself from the airport to Henry’s but, was pleasantly surprised to find him waiting for her. He wore his normal summer wardrobe, but had dawned a black chauffeur's cap and was holding a sign with her name on it, or rather Cupcake. She laughed out loud when she saw him. She gave him a quick kiss and a long embrace, not wanting to make too big a scene, should there be any photographers around.

Henry insisted on taking her luggage, though she protested that she could roll it herself. He led her to a taxi outside. He only took his Aston Martin out for special occasions. The driver took her luggage, and they climbed in the back. Henry jostled her awake when they reached his house. “Hmm? Oh. I must have fallen asleep. We’re here?” She asked.

“Yes darling. Let me help you out.” He climbed out of the cab and offered her his hand. She took his hand and climbed out, swaying as she stood upright. Henry caught her by the shoulders. “Are you alright?” He asked, concerned.

“I’m fine,” she responded, though she did feel quite dizzy. “My ears must be messed up from the flight. All I need is to lay down for a few minutes and they should be good as new.” She assured him.

Henry paid the driver and escorted her inside. Kal was waiting for them. He hopped around in excited circles until Lucy knelt down to rub behind his ears. “Hi, boy! How are you? I’ve missed you.” She wrapped her arms around the dog's neck. When she stood, she swayed a bit, throwing her hand out to catch the wall. Henry, who had brought her luggage up to the bedroom, saw her grab the wall as he was coming back down.

“Lucy, are you sure you’re well?”

“I’m fine, I just stood up too fast. I’m going to go lay down for a half hour, get my equilibrium back to normal, then I can show you just how much I’ve missed you.” She said suggestively.

The look of concern didn’t leave his face. ‘Do you want anything?” He asked as she slowly ascended the stairs. She turned carefully.

“Maybe a glass of water, my throat is feeling scratchy, airplanes are so dry,” she said, touching her throat.

Henry poured her a glass of water, concerned about what could be wrong with Lucy. He went up to the bedroom, to find Lucy wasn’t lying down. He heard the shower running in the next room. He waited for her. She emerged from the bathroom on a plume of steam, her hair wrapped in a towel, with another tied between her breasts. She saw him sitting on the bed.

“I wanted to shower off the flight before lying down. I felt grimy.” She explained, digging through her suitcase for her short leggings and a tank top. Henry watched her dress with hungry eyes. It had been almost a month since he’d gotten to see her curves. But his concern for her damped his libido.

She walked to her side of the bed, picked up the glass of water he’d brought, and drank heavily. She pulled a face as she swallowed, as if the glass had been full of glass shards, not cool water. She pulled back the covers, and climbed in. “Will you come get me in about half an hour? I don’t want to sleep all day.”

“Of course, darling.” Henry said, kissing her on the forehead before turning to leave the room. Kal, who had been sitting on the bed changed his position to lay his head on Lucy’s legs.

“Kal, come.” Henry ordered. The dog raised his head to look at his master incredulously, and set it back back down.

“He’s fine. Leave him.” Lucy mumbled, well on her way to sleeping again. Henry shook his head and went downstairs to check his email. Almost an hour had passed by the time Henry went to wake Lucy.  Kal was still where he’d left him, with his head over Lucy’s legs. Henry sat next to Lucy on the bed, and gently shook her shoulder. She groaned, but didn’t wake up. He shook her a bit harder. “Darling, you need to wake-up. If you sleep all day your body clock with be off for days.”

With a bit more prodding, Lucy sat up in bed. She had a pained expression on her face, and she held the bridge of her nose. “Are you ok Cupcake?”

“I all of a sudden I just have all this pressure in my sinuses,” she said, massaging her cheeks under her eyes. “I think I may be getting a sinus infection.”

“Do you want to go to the doctor?”

“No, I get sinus infections all the time. Some pseudoephedrine will clear it up in a couple of days. Do you have any?”

“I don’t believe I do. Do you want me to go out and get some for you?” He asked concerned.

“Would you please?” She asked, hating how pathetic her voice sounded, but her teeth were starting to hurt from the pressure in her sinuses.

“I’ll go now. Tell me again what’s it called.”

“Pseudoephedrine. The good stuff. I have to show my ID in the states to buy it because stupid people use it to make meth. But it’s the only stuff that really works.”

“I’ll be back in a bit. Why don’t you go downstairs and find a movie for us to watch when I get back?”

“I’d like that.” She smiled at him as he left the room and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stood gingerly, hoping the dizzy feeling had subsided. It hadn’t. She knew what that meant, but was hoping the pseudoephedrine would clear out everything that was blocked. She slowly made her way down the stairs to the living room. She picked a movie; a romantic comedy that she loved, but that she was sure hadn’t been there last summer, and when to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Hoping the steam would clear her sinus and soothe her sore throat.

Henry returned half an hour later with a box of pills, a nasal irrigation bottle like she had at home, distilled water, and a pack of digestive biscuits. Lucy opened the box of pills and took the prescribed dose, before going to the bathroom to rinse out her sinuses. By the time she returned, Henry had made her a fresh cup of tea, and set the biscuits on a plate.

Lucy managed to stay awake for most of the movie, but went to bed early, leaving Henry to worry about her in the living room. He went upstairs to find her using almost all of his pillows to prop herself upright to sleep. It didn’t look comfortable, to him, but to each their own, he thought.

Henry awoke in the morning to Lucy’s side of the bed empty, and the light in the bathroom on. He knocked lightly and entered when he heard her croak a noise. She looked miserable. “I think I’m sick. The pseudoephedrine didn’t work at all, and now my ears are hurting and I have white spots on my throat. I need a head transplant.”

He crossed the bathroom and wrapped her in his arms, resting his chin on her head. “Oh, darling. Let’s get you to the doctor, he’ll make it all better.”

“I’m going to shower first. I’m hoping the steam will let me breathe for a few minutes.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready to go.” He kissed her temple and left the bathroom. He took Kal for a short walk, then called for a cab.

Henry sat in with Lucy as the doctor checked her over. He asked her questions about her sleep and work habits. He confirmed what Lucy had suspected; a sinus infection, double ear infection, and strep throat. He wrote her a prescription for an antibiotic, and suggested she continue the sinus irrigation.

The doctor had called in the prescription to the pharmacist that Henry had mentioned, so it was ready to be picked up when Lucy and Henry arrived. Henry had been oddly silent since they’d left the doctor’s office. When they got back to Henry’s house Lucy took her first dose of pills and made herself another cup of tea. She sat on the sofa in the living room and Kal jumped up to sit next to her. Henry looked agitated.

Lucy stared into space for a few minutes, drinking her tea, her other hand mindlessly petting Kal’s head. Finally, Henry sat down a across from her and let her have it.

“Damn it Lucy.”

His tone startled her. He’d never raised his voice around her, much less at her. “What?” She asked, genuinely confused by his anger.

“You need to take care of yourself. You run, and run, and run, until you have nothing left and now look at you. You relax and every bug in a 50 mile radius has attacked you.”

“Don’t yell at me. I’m sick.” She said pathetically.

“You wouldn’t be sick if you took better care of yourself. When was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?”

She mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

“A little louder if you please.” He said, his voice lower, but Lucy could tell he was still upset.

“I said February. Ok?” She snapped at him, meeting his gaze.

“You haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since February?” He asked incredulously.

She couldn't meet his gaze this time, “Not since you left. I had a really hard time sleeping through most of March, then things were almost getting better in April. May is always a hectic month for me, then the student trip, and prepping to come here. No. I haven’t really relaxed since February.”

“So you’re saying it’s my fault you haven't taken care of yourself?”

“No. I’m just telling you the truth. You asked me a question, and I answered honestly. It’s my own fault I got sick. I do run myself ragged and only stop when my body finally gives out. It’s a bad habit. But it’s not your doing.”

“Lucy, I need to know that when we’re not together you’re taking care of yourself. I can’t be on location worrying if you’re running yourself into the ground. Will you promise me that you’ll start to make more time for yourself?”

“Well, what do you think this next seven weeks is? It’s time for me to relax.”

“I meant after this summer. When you’re back to school. Promise me you’ll say no sometimes, and take care of yourself. I can’t be with you all the time to make you slow down, I need you to promise me you’ll do that.”

Seeing how affected he was, she promised him. And made a mental note to make herself slow down. “I really am sorry I worried you, Darcy. Would you come snuggle with me and Kal as we watch Gwyneth Paltrow see what might have been?”

“Your wish is my command, Cupcake.” He said plopping down on her other side.

Henry had asked her to pause the movie while he went to the loo, when the doorbell rang. Lucy answered the door to find a florist delivery man waiting with the most beautiful bouquet of tulips and roses Lucy had ever seen. She signed for the bouquet and went to the kitchen to read the card. “Happy 1 year anniversary, Cupcake” the card read, in Henry’s bold masculine hand. She heard him approach.

“Henry, they’re beautiful.” She said through misty eyes.

“It was a year ago today that Will came to my door waving a tabloid rag in my face.” He said smiling. “It’s been the best year of my life.”

“Oh, Henry. I would kiss you, but I don’t want to get you sick. This is so sweet.” She turned back to the flowers. Henry wrapped his arms around her from behind and watched as she arranged the flowers in the vase she had found under his sink.

Lucy hadn’t intended to spend her first week in London in bed, or rather she had, but had hoped for more exciting activities than trying to breathe, or move without getting dizzy. But Henry wouldn’t let her do anything more strenuous than go to the living room. By the time her first week had passed, she was so ready to leave the house.

She arranged a lunch date with Henry’s sisters-in-law Sienna and Eva, Nik and Simon’s wives. The three women met at a little, out of the way bistro near Hampstead Heath. Eva was happy to be away from little Benjamin for a few hours. At 14 months, he was starting to walk along furniture and driving his mummy and daddy insane. Of course Eva also had a gallery full of pictures to show the two women. Sienna was happy to have some adult conversation.

“So, Lucy,” Sienna began, “what have you been up to with your time in London so far?”

“Well, I haven’t gotten out of bed much since I got here.” When Eva and Sienna exchanged a look, Lucy elaborated. “I’ve been sick. I wore myself down, and as soon as I stopped, the sickness caught up with me. I’m still on antibiotics for another two days.”

“Well, just make sure you have backup protection,” warned Sienna. “Antibiotics can mess with birth control, that’s how I got Ethan. Don’t get me wrong. I love my boys, but Nik and I weren’t planning on starting our family as soon as we did. But I got sick and well, Ethan.” The three women laughed.

The three women enjoyed a long lunch catching up on each other’s lives since they’d seen Lucy at Christmas. Lucy lost track of how many glasses of wine she’d had after her third, but she wasn’t driving, so she wasn’t concerned. When lunch was finished, the three women agreed to meet weekly for a lunch together, and to include Olivia, Piers’ wife next time.

Lucy caught a cab back to Henry’s house. She danced her way up the steps to the front door, and let herself in, singing quietly to herself. She danced into the living room and found Henry watching a Rugby match on the TV. She plopped herself in his lap, and looped her arms around his neck. “Hey good lookin’ you come here often?”

“You’re in a good mood. Lunch went well, I take it.” He laughed.

“It was so nice. I really like your sisters-in-law. We’re going to do lunch every week. Do you brothers ever get together?”

“Not often, no we don’t,” he said after thinking for a moment.

“We should invite them all over for dinner. We can cook, and it would be a fun casual night. What do you think?”

“Cupcake, I think that is a great idea. Why don’t you arrange it with the other women, and let me know when it will be.”

“Deal.” She replied, kissing him noisily on the lips, before bounding upstairs to retrieve the book she was reading.

Lucy’s days fell into a sort of pattern. She awoke usually around early mid morning. She and Henry would have breakfast together, before he went to the gym for several hours. While he was gone Lucy liked to read on the roof. She had fallen in love with the space as soon as Henry had shown it to her. They had picked out a couple of matching chaise lounge chairs and an umbrella table to put up there. Lucy would bring a book or her iPad and read. Normally Kal would join her, sitting at her feet, soaking in the sun, when it shone. In the afternoons she would go out, trying to find something she hadn’t seen before.

Lucy spent one full day at the British Museum. She had been gone so long, that Henry had called her to make sure she was alright. She spent time roaming the neighborhoods she hadn’t had a chance to visit last summer; Notting Hill, and Covent Garden, and the parks. Sometimes Henry would join her, sometimes she went on her own. She also spent many hours mentally mapping his neighborhood. She still found it very easy to get turned around and lost. She didn’t want that happening again.

Lucy had told her friends back home that she loved London, but with her time spent there this summer, she was starting to feel like London loved her back. She started imaging what it might be like to raise children in the city. When she and Henry wandered through a park or garden, she imagined them pushing a stroller, or carrying a hamper to picnic on the grass as a family. Though she tried not to daydream too often. Her life, it seemed, was better than any dream.

Chapter 52             Chapter 54

Armie & Elizabeth

Alicia & Michael

#Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill fanfic #Henry Cavill fan fic #Henry Cavill fanfiction #Henry Cavill fan fiction #Carried Away #Kal Cavill

[astudyinfreewill]

"i almost lost you" for pynch please

so this is 3 months late because i’m literally the worst but HERE ENJOY THIS THING that was gonna be a short drabble but devolved into 4k of angst/fluff. sorry for the wait anon, and thanks to @adamparrush for helping me navigate the intricacies of american high school schedules!

(you told me) this is right were it begins || read on ao3

‘Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railingsAnd you clutched my brain and eased my ailing

Is There Somewhere - Halsey

The aftermath of dealing with the demon leaves behind a wake of emotional debris they were not – couldn’t have been – fully prepared to tackle. They all have a lot on their plate: assessing the damage, picking up the broken pieces, allowing the wounds to scar over.

There’s the matter of Gansey, and what exactly he is now that he’s been brought back to life. There’s the matter of Noah, who had been fleeting and barely-there for a while, but is now completely gone, leaving the group to struggle with grieving someone who was already dead. There’s the matter of Henry, and how he fits into this new, fragile balance they have.

And, of course, there’s the matter of Gansey-and-Blue, and the matter of Adam-and-Ronan.

The first couple of weeks go by completely smoothly – dreamlike, almost. Adam goes back to school, and starts picking his jobs back up, shift by shift. Ronan drops out – officially, this time – and goes back to the Barns. Declan and Matthew come back to town for a short while, and Aurora gets a funeral, the elaborately carved white coffin as lovely and vacant as she had been in life. (Adam doesn’t really understand dream people, or what it’s like to lose a beloved parent, but he understands enough to recognize the fractures in the Lynch brothers: the cracks in Declan’s politician facade, the clouds rolling over Matthew’s sunny disposition. He understands enough to see Ronan break again: quieter, this time; with less anger than when Niall was killed. But he still breaks.)

They don’t talk about it, because they just don’t do that kind of thing – they never have; they wouldn’t know how. Instead of words, Adam offers himself: a shoulder for Ronan to rest his head on, lips trailing over his cheek, a hand lightly placed on his when they’re at Nino’s. Gentle, anchoring touches to keep him from spiralling into his grief. He drives down to the Barns after work and plays with Opal when Ronan is too heartsick to manage it; he lets Ronan crash at St. Agnes at 3 in the morning, when it’s pitch black outside and the world weighs hopelessly on Ronan’s shoulders, and shields him with his body, curled around the black hooks of Ronan’s tattoo.

Sometimes it’s enough. And sometimes it isn’t.

The fact of the matter is that before being Adam-and-Ronan, they were Adam and Ronan: two satellites orbiting planet Gansey, inevitably colliding with each other over and over, and only taking stock of the damage when the impact had already left craters in both of them. Even as they’d slowly become friends, then better friends, then something more altogether, Adam had never harboured any illusions that they would ever stop fighting. So, logically, he should not have expected them to stop butting heads now just because they were… whatever they were (…together? Boyfriends? That was something else they had not talked about).

But Adam hadn’t been thinking logically ever since Ronan had kissed him in his childhood bedroom, taking reason away and replacing it with soft white light and the foreign feeling of being loved, loved, loved. If he had, he might have seen it coming when their new, unspoken peace suddenly came unspooled around them on a winter night.

As it is, though, it’s ten minutes to midnight and Adam is tired. The end of the semester is fast approaching, Aglionby teachers apparently trying their best to fit as many test as they can in the last few days; his shift at Boyd’s has been relentless today, the garage drastically understaffed because three of the mechanics are home with the flu. He stayed up until 3am last night revising for an algebra quiz, skipped today’s lunch in favour of cramming in some last-minute Latin homework, and he knows tomorrow’s schedule is not looking any better. His stomach growls loudly, the grilled cheese sandwich he had for dinner not nearly enough to make up for the meal he missed, and all he wants is to crawl into bed and catch up on lost sleep, but he has college applications to write; he has sent out most of them already, but there are still a few he needs to finalise by the end of December, and they’re not going to write themselves.

He’s so absorbed in his work that he barely hears the first knock on the door, his head only jerking up when a second round of knocks comes, louder and more impatient. There’s no question of who it is – there’s only one person it could be at this time of night – and normally Adam would go greet him at the door, kiss him, pull him inside by his belt loops. Tonight, though, he’s just so exhausted and hungry and done that he can’t even bring himself to get up. “Come in,” he calls out wearily, scratching out a mistake in the rough draft of his cover letter.

Ronan walks in, bringing with him an eddy of cold night air and a metaphorical storm cloud over his head. Adam doesn’t know what it is, exactly – but something in him picks up on Ronan’s obvious bad mood, and his own already grim mood ricochets dully off it, grating at his patience.

“God, Parrish, how the fuck are you still working?” That tone, the bored, casually dismissive one, has not made an appearance since before – before the demon, before Aurora, before the kissing and this newborn thing between them. Adam can’t say he’s missed it, and his hackles instinctively rise with the muscle memory of a dozen previous fights.

“Because I have no choice,” he huffs, dryly. “I could’ve been more ahead of schedule if I hadn’t had to spend all of lunch break on Latin homework. I tried calling you to check if I had the vocabulary right, but you didn’t pick up.” As you never do, is the unspoken but still obvious add-on to that sentence. Adam knows it’s petty, but he can’t keep the petulance out of his voice. This is another thing he had expected to change after, even though he had no logical grounds for it, and it annoys him to be proven wrong.

“I was out,” Ronan shrugs, apparently unperturbed, but he has felt the silent barb, and his own defenses rise in response, in an all-too-familiar mechanism: guilt leading to self-deprecation leading to insecurity leading to anger. His shoulders are tense as he props himself down on the floor against Adam’s bed.

Adam watches him out of the corner of his eyes. Ronan is a spring coiled tight, the black cloud trailing after him apparently only getting denser and denser as he chews restlessly at the leather bands on his wrist. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are pink, as if he’d been driving with his windows down. As if–

Adam puts his pen down with deliberate calm.

“Have you been racing?”

Ronan snorts. “Okay, Gansey.”

Adam turns to look at him more fully, and despite the fact that yes, historically it’s Gansey who’s been the one dealing with a street-racing Ronan, Adam has still seen it often enough to know the signs. The adrenaline crackling in and around him, the restless way he taps his boot against the floor, the combative glint in his eyes.

“Well, have you?”

“So what if I have?” it’s a childish response, and once upon a time, Adam might have fired back something cutting for that alone, rolling his eyes at Ronan’s antics. Now, he knows better than to do that, but he’s unable to stop his thoughts from derailing frantically in another direction.

It’s mid-December. Even in Virginia, the weather has been hostile, especially over the past week, with on-and-off spells of merciless rain, which combined with the temperature dropping at night makes for a constant chill in the air. And it makes the roads freeze over at night.

There’s ice on the roads, and Ronan’s been racing.

Adam’s heartbeat picks up speed in his chest, going faster for every mile he imagines Ronan going over the speed limit, shooting down a poorly-lit country road, trying to outmaneuver some good-for-nothing delinquent.

“Are you an idiot?” he blurts out, before he can think better of it.

“What the fuck, Parrish? Just because you’re busy applying to fancy schools you don’t get to be all high and mighty with the resident drop-out,” Ronan sneers, but there’s a beat of genuine hurt under the sarcasm. Adam hears it, but he can’t make himself acknowledge it right now. His chest feels too tight, and his mind keeps reliving the same dreadful possibility.

Gas pedal. Gear shift. Wheels on slippery ice. Crash.

“I thought you’d stopped racing,” he says, forcing his voice to remain even.

Ronan shrugs. “It’s fun.”

That’s not a lie, not exactly; Ronan does love racing. But it’s a lie right now. Because this, this isn’t Ronan racing for fun. This is Ronan racing the way he did right after Niall died, or the way he did before he could master his night horrors. This is Ronan lost and helpless and grieving for his dead mother, reeling from almost losing his best friend, unmoored with the fear of Adam leaving for college. This is Ronan racing like maybe he doesn’t care so much if he wraps the BMW around a tree.

Adam slams his notebook closed. “Yeah? How fun is it going to be when you crash the damn car because you couldn’t be bothered to check if there’s ice on the ground?”

Ronan rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Parrish, can you relax and take the stick out of your ass for like five seconds?” he drawls. Adam knows, technically, that he’s just committed his first mistake: he’s getting angry, which means Ronan will act as infuriatingly aloof as he can to balance it out. But he can’t seem to stop himself, hurtling towards anger the same way he imagines the BMW skidding along a dark road to a fiery end.

He imagines Ronan on the ground, crushed under metal sheet and debris.

He sees Ronan on the ground, blood pooling around him as the demon unmakes him piece by painful piece, gasping for air and desperately creating with every ragged breath.

He can’t stand it.

“If you’re gonna be an asshole, you can just leave. I’ve got shit to do anyway,” he bites out, getting up and gesturing towards the door.

Ronan immediately gets up as well, hurt and rejection tumbling into anger. “Of course you do. Like you have time for anything apart from your fucking homework.”

“Oh, give me a break, Lynch” Adam exclaims, his voice rising in volume despite his best efforts. “Excuse me for wanting a future. Not all of us care so little about their lives they can just drop out of school and spend all their time racing cars.”

“What the fuck is your problem, huh?” Ronan shoots back, stepping closer to him in the cramped little room. “No, really, what crawled up your ass and died? It’s none of your business what I do with my free time now I’m not stuck in that shithole of a school anymore.”

It’s a sore spot – unlike Gansey, Adam has always recognised the futility of trying to force Ronan to stay in school against his wishes, but it doesn’t mean he agrees with the choice. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss him. He can’t help himself from leaning closer, into Ronan’s personal space, matching him step for step.

“Right, of course, because sticking it out a few more months in high school was gonna kill you, but speeding down frozen roads in the dark for shits and giggles isn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, would you get the hell off my back?! I’m fucking good at driving, and I know what I’m doing! Why the fuck do you even care if I race?”

“Because I almost lost you!” Adam all but yells at him. His fists clench spasmodically at his sides, and he feels the bite of it, wondering if he’s broken skin; he wants to punch a wall, kick a chair, something, but every time the idea of violence crosses his mind he sees Blue’s frightened face, and a wave of self-loathing clamps his muscles into place.

Ronan seems to be similarly frozen into place, his eyes wide. They’re both breathing hard, despite standing perfectly still. Adam takes a shameful step back, unable to meet Ronan’s eyes, his fists still balled hard at his sides.

“You don’t know– you have no idea–” he starts, low and unsteady, his traitorous accent weighing on every vowel. “I had to watch as that thing took you apart. Watch as it killed you. I thought it was over. I thought you–” his voice cracks and he shakes his head, biting down on his lip to keep his eyes from welling up, because he’s not doing this, he can’t do this – but he is anyway, his ribs constricting around his lungs painfully, his throat working uselessly against a lump. Everything inside him is chaos, knocked asunder with the knowledge of how Ronan – this miraculous boy, this god-like dreamer – is ultimately just as fragile as any human, perhaps more so because of how much life he holds within himself.

He sees, again, Ronan unmade by the demon, but he also sees Ronan drowning in Cabeswater, sinking in acid to try to save Opal; he remembers the desperation with which he’d tethered himself to the ley line and asked Cabeswater to please save him please please save him just save him. He remembers Ronan’s dream double, lying on the floor of the church they’re standing above just now, convulsing and bleeding out, looking so much like the real Ronan that even the memory twists Adam’s stomach painfully. He remembers rushing to the hospital after getting a panicked phone call from Gansey and seeing Ronan in a hospital bed, pale as death, his arms bandaged with red-stained gauze.

He remembers his own hands clenching around Ronan’s throat to choke the life out of him.

The fear and disgust are an almost physical weight on his chest, and he still can’t bring himself to look at Ronan, even as he finds his voice.

“I know maybe you don’t care about your life right now,” he says quietly. “But if you care about me at all, even a little bit– please, please, just– stay alive.” He closes his eyes, recognising the battle as lost when he feels dampness against his eyelashes but too tired to care, sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion and emotional upheaval getting the better of him.

The next moment, Ronan’s hands are on his, taking hold of his fists and gently teasing them open. Adam looks up through slightly blurry eyes to see angry red crescent marks on his palms, and Ronan running his thumbs over them. Ronan’s face is doing complicated things, regret and confusion and grief warring with each other, his eyes still wide with something like wonder. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking helpless, like he doesn’t think that’s enough. Adam blinks back more tears and thinks somewhat hysterically that this is the first time Ronan’s ever apologised first for a fight.

“God, don’t– I’m the one who should–” Adam stumbles, then heaves out a ragged sigh. “Don’t be sorry. Be safe.”

He allows himself to look at Ronan’s face more steadily, and watches his expression shift through something like shame, then pain, his eyes very bright, like maybe he’s close to crying as well, and Adam’s heart flips over in his chest, wishing desperately he could undo the entire night, go back to before they ever fought. Ronan brings Adam’s hand up to his cheek, presses the palm there, then turns his head just enough to brush his lips to it, barely a kiss.

“It hurts,” Ronan says in a very small voice, breath warm against his hand. It’s vague, and he doesn’t offer any clarification, but Adam knows what he means. Losing Aurora, losing Cabeswater, losing Gansey without knowing how they were going to get him back, his treacherous dreams telling him he’s going to lose Adam as well.

Adam is new to love, but he thinks he’s starting to understand loss, because for the first time in his life he feels he has things to lose. He thinks about Persephone, the first adult to ever be good to him. He thinks about Cabeswater, whose absence still feels like a gaping hole in his chest. He thinks again about the possibility of losing Ronan, losing Gansey, losing Blue, losing Opal, and his hands tighten around Ronan’s.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He means it in more ways than he can put words to, his eyes dropping to the floor again. But Ronan, perceptive as he can sometimes be – and Adam knows this by now, should be used to it, but it somehow always blindsides him – seems to pick up on it anyway.

“Parrish,” he says softly, “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know,” Adam murmurs. Unlike Ronan, he’s no stranger to lying. He knows that it’s not his fault – not technically. But all he can think of is the demon using his hands to strangle Ronan, the demon using his eyes to spy on them. Ronan’s hands covered in Aurora’s blood and Adam standing by, unable to help, a useless magician.

“Adam,” Ronan says, more steady now. “It’s not your fault.” He slides Adam’s hand down, to rest against his neck, thumb pressed to the pulse point. Fear lurches deep in Adam’s gut as he instinctively recoils, trying to take his hand back. Ronan doesn’t let him.

Instead, Ronan – stubborn, impossible Ronan – takes his other hand and places it on his throat as well, an achingly tender mimicry of Adam’s worst nightmare.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats, conviction weighing in every word. “That was not you. It could never be you.”

“Ronan,” Adam tries to protest, with a note of pleading. Ronan’s throat is warm and smooth and alive, and he forces his hands to stay as limp as they can and resist the urge to touch.

“Adam.”

They just look at each other for a long moment. It probably looks stupid from the outside, Adam thinks distantly; but all he wants right now is to collapse against Ronan’s chest, to hide his face into his shoulder, to listen to his heartbeat’s constant reminder that they’ve won, they’re alive, they get to have this.

“I trust you,” Ronan says, his tone gentler than it is on most occasions. Adam is reminded fleetingly of baby mice and baby ravens, back when he was still discovering that Ronan wasn’t all sharp edges and thorns.

“What if I don’t trust myself?”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Ronan replies easily. “But it’s okay, because I trust you enough for both of us.”

Adam swallows, the motion almost painful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I trust you more than anyone.” It’s the truth, because Ronan never lies.

Adam wants to cry again, but he doesn’t. Instead he allows his hands to move, to settle more firmly around Ronan’s neck, not pushing but feeling, gently pressing his index fingertips to the spot behind Ronan’s ears, his thumbs to the pulse under his chin, all smooth skin and rough stubble.

Ronan closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale from his mouth, letting his hands fall off of Adam’s as if giving Adam control has dislodged a weight from his shoulders, allowing him to breathe more easily.

The sudden surge of love clutching at Adam’s heart right then is stronger than even the ley line coming to life inside him, and he can’t help himself from chasing that exhale, pressing his lips to Ronan’s, softly at first, then more firmly, again and again and again. When they part for breath, their foreheads stay touching, Adam’s head tilted back slightly with the height difference he pretends to be bothered by.

“Can we like, go for hot chocolate or somethin’?” He almost kicks himself for how trivial of a question that is to alight upon, his Henrietta accent making it even more prosaic, but right now, all he wants is to stay close to Ronan, to forget about demons and death and sorrow and just revel in everything they haven’t lost, sitting together like two normal teenagers in the booth of a 24 hour diner.

Ronan lets out a surprised laugh, and when Adam looks up to see, with relief, Ronan’s eyes crinkling up with a smile, he thinks maybe that wasn’t the wrong question to ask after all.

“Thought you had homework,” Ronan says, his voice rough.

“Fuck homework,” Adam replies, and Ronan sucks in a breath, only half for show.

“Parrish,” he says, “you’ve literally never been hotter to me than in this exact moment.”

“Fuck off,” Adam laughs.

“Damn, it gets better and better,” Ronan comments on a wolf-whistle, not missing a beat.

Adam rolls his eyes at him, grinning, but then a thought makes him sober up for a moment. “I think we need to get better. At this talking thing, I mean.”

Ronan makes a face of exaggerated distaste, everything in him rebelling at the idea of conversations about feelings.

“You know I’m right,” Adam says.

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” Ronan mutters, then offers: “I’ll… pick up my phone?”

“It’s a start,” Adam concedes, amusedly, even though that’s not the real problem and they both know it.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t survive Latin class without my help,” Ronan shrugs with false modesty.

“Right,” Adam drawls. “Anyway. I’ll… try not to freak out about things?”

“Sounds fake,” Ronan hums, poking his nose at Adam’s cheek.

“Your face sounds fake.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Parrish. Maybe they shouldn’t make you valedictorian after all.”

“Maybe, but your ass better stay alive till graduation, ‘cause I want you there anyway.”

“Yeah. I guess I better,” Ronan replies simply, but his tone is serious; it’s a promise, and they both know it.

Adam nods. “Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” Ronan nods back. “Whipped cream and a metric fuckton of marshmallows?”

Adam’s stomach growls at a frankly ridiculous level of decibels, which would be mortifying except for the carefree way Ronan laughs at that, which kind of makes it worth it.

“Shut up,” Adam mutters without any heat, trying to hold back a smile. His ears feel warm.

“Let’s get some marshmallows in you, Einstein,” Ronan chuckles, kissing his cheek.

The drive to the diner is quiet, and Ronan keeps carefully below the speed limit. That’s not new per se, as he’s taken to doing it more and more when Adam’s in the car with him, but it feels especially significant tonight. Like an assurance, maybe. Adam stares at Ronan’s profile in the dim light, all sharp and handsome lines, and enjoys the simple pleasure of knowing that they have each other, that moments like these are theirs and theirs alone.

“I used to wonder how long it would take before we fought again,” he says, without really deciding to. “I think maybe I thought we wouldn’t, but clearly that was dumb of me.”

“Ah.” Ronan’s tone gives nothing away, but the tightening of his jaw loudly broadcasts his fears – that Adam will decide this is too much effort, that it’s too much work, that it’s more trouble than Ronan’s worth.

“Yeah. How else are we supposed to do better if we never fuck up?”

It’s clearly not what Ronan was expecting, and as he takes the last turn for the diner, a small, almost surprised smile plays around his lips. He glances at Adam out of the corner of his eyes, the motion practiced and familiar; Adam, as always, looks back, feeling a burst of simple, uncomplicated satisfaction bloom in his chest as he rests his head on top of Ronan’s on the gear stick.

They’re going to be okay.

#trc #adam parrish #ronan lynch #pynch #the raven cycle #my writing #otp: young gods #wow i haven't written anything in???? eons???? #hopefully this is ok #anonymous #answer

[feuillesmortes]

Fic update! Sorry to keep anyone waiting. This is the last chapter before our season finale as I’m finishing (part 1 of) this fic next chapter. It’s been an incredible journey, so thanks everyone for sticking with me. Tagging my mates @queenbessofyork and @harritudur, who I love dearly <3

You can also read it on Ao3.

April was the cruelest month, but she had never felt it so keenly before. Her bedroom bathed in sultry light, the curtains filtering the sunbeams, Lizzie opened the windowpanes to look at the passers-by walking on the street. The sun was up again, and another day prepared for work and silence.

Not the type of silence found in quiet strolls taken beneath the scrawny branches of winter trees. No, but the tedious, everlasting silence hanging heavily between textbooks and libraries while life outside grew greener each day. The urge to go out on town had never felt so tempting now that she was bound to a desk in hopes of memorising every tiny detail she had been taught across two semesters. The education system was hardly fair on the students.

She leaned out the window, her morning apple in hand. Down below people came and went like busy bees. Were these streets always so filled with children? Were they ever so crowded? Lizzie mulled unhappily. It must have been the time of the year. A few feet apart, on her bed, her mobile buzzed with yet another text from Katie and Joan.  

Just arrived in Regent's Park Are you coming? We brought a picnic basket xx

Lizzie resigned herself to a heavy sigh and a sorrowful reply.

Sorry, I can't. I've got two chapters to finish today. But have fun you two xx

As much as life outside called to her, Lizzie felt undeserving of a picnic. Her fingers hovered above the mobile screen, frozen in air. Her contacts list showed the name of a Henry T, the picture one she herself had cropped out from a group photo. The mention of Regent's Park had reminded her of one particular afternoon, autumn leaves, late roses and... him. The last message he had sent to her dated from the 2nd of April.  

Spoons will be perfect. 7 it is then. x

Lizzie had not heard from him since. All that was left was a long, uncomfortable, unyielding silence. Rodrigo too had noticed his absence. 

"Is Tudor always so busy now? He never drops by anymore." That was his simple remark on the subject, and yet kindly, as if sensing there was something wrong, his only one. Her "How could I know?" was met with a sad and sympathetic look, like the ones bestowed on patients going through a difficult surgery. Rodrigo, him too, had not talk about it since.

As much as she tried to hide it, the truth was that she missed Henry. She missed watching his smug, mischievous smirk unfold. She missed hearing his voice, his quips, that sarcasm that often said everything she thought but was too polite to admit. She missed looking at him, at those eyes that absorbed it all — that hunger that shone through to enquire of all things, to take possession of all things. She missed the thrill of being under that gaze, disarmed in the face of a danger she longed to know, a burning desire to just melt into his arms.

And yet, she would not text Henry. She had thought of hundreds of things she could say to him. She had typed and erased, typed and erased. But what should she say after all? There had been nothing going on between them before. She wasn't even sure she should say something in the first place. Her eyes lingered on the necklace he gave her, that expensive gift laying on her nightstand. She should at least return it.

A wild frenzy took over her then. Hands trembling, Lizzie brought her phone to her right ear and waited.

"Hello?”

“Hi! Is this Maud?” Lizzie tried her brightest, chirpiest tone.

“Yes, it’s her.” The voice coming from the other side of the line, though, didn't sound so bright. “Sorry, but who’s this?”

“Oh, sorry! Sorry, I forgot! It's— It’s Lizzie. Henry’s… friend.” There really wasn’t a right word to describe her status. “Do you remember me? You gave me your number last year. You said I could ring you... if anything should...”

“Oh, Lizzie! Of course I remember you, luv! You alright?”

That was it, her last resort: ringing the girl she had once thought was Henry’s girlfriend. There should be at least some sort of reward for the most desperate of measures.

“Yeah. Hmm, listen… Have you talked to Henry lately?”  

“I think we texted a week ago or so. Why? Did something happened?”

Maud sounded oblivious enough, so Henry mustn't have told her. Why not fake it then?

“No, no. Everything’s fine.” She chuckled, forcing again her easy voice. Lizzie didn’t know why she was fake smiling when Maud couldn't see her. “It’s just that, well, I haven’t been able to talk to Henry since... last week, I reckon.”

A lie. It had been more than a fortnight since she had last seen him. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe he’s changed his number?”

“I don’t think so, no. Have you tried his flat?”

Relief flooded over Lizzie. Henry had not moved out yet, her biggest fear. “Yeah, I— I have. But I couldn’t find him there. At least the times I tried.”

Another lie. Lizzie hadn’t had the courage to simply… go to his flat and knock on his door. She had passed in front of his building a couple of times, had longingly stared at his window, but hadn’t done much further. How could she think of meeting him face to face when she couldn't even come up with a text? If she was to meet him, it had to look like it happened by chance.

“Oh, have you checked the campus library? I wouldn’t be surprised to find him there. Harry said your exams are coming up. Yikes.”

“Just so.” Lizzie chuckled, nervously. For the last couple of weeks she had been constantly telling herself she should have started revising ages ago. She had thought that worrying about her exams would be enough to get Henry out of her mind. She had been wrong. “Yes, I’ve checked the library but no. I couldn’t find him.”

In fact, Lizzie had checked every place on campus she had ever seen him at. The library, the café, the students' union hub. She had even gone to a meeting of the Tolkien Society. Not only she had not found Henry there, she had to explain she actually had never seen the last Lord of the Rings film. Embarrassing to say the least.

“Maud, did Henry… Did Henry tell you if he’s doing anything this weekend?”

“Oh, you know what? He actually did!”

“DID HE?!” Lizzie almost dropped her phone.

“Yeah, he said he was going to this party— Promoland, melodrama, something like that.”

Her heart sunk with that strange information. Henry going to a party? Unless… “Oh, I think I know the one. Propaganda. It’s a indie rock scene.”

“Sounds about right."

Lizzie remembered one time she shared earphones with Henry. "Did he… Did he say if he was going there by himself? Or if he’s going with friends?”

“No, luv. I’d be surprised if he told me that much. You know how Harry is.”

Unfortunately, she did. It was hard enough to find a person who didn’t want to be found, but finding someone who didn’t use social media was especially difficult. Henry did have a facebook profile — a meager thing with his basic information and a simple enough profile picture that Lizzie had kept looking at for the past few weeks — but he had not updated it in months. Some employers like to check your profile, he had once said, and that was the only reason he had an account in the first place.  

“What if he’s a psychopath?” Her sister Cecily had asked her. She was the only person Lizzie had opened up about Henry. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, Lizzie on her laptop. It looked like stalking really wasn't her forte.

“I mean, why isn't him on twitter or instagram? I wonder what he’s hiding.”

“He’s not hiding anything.” Lizzie took it almost personally. “He’s just a private person, is all.”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think he's safe.”

“Safe? What— Cece! We lived in the same flat for months! He’s not a psychopath. Henry is just… Henry.”

“Lizzie, are you still there?”

“Oh, yes! Sorry, I was reminiscing. Yeah, I know exactly how he is.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be of much help.”

“Oh no, no! You’ve helped me tremendously! Truly, thank you.”

A pause.

“...You know you can tell me if anything’s wrong, right?”

“There’s nothing wrong.” Lizzie tried her sweet voice again, her most melodious pitch. Easy lies coated with sugar. She had learned it from her father.

“Yeah, but if you need to talk—”

“Maud, I think there’s someone’s calling me. I should really go.”

“Alright, luv. I won’t press it any further.”

“Thank you again, Maud. Just… please don’t tell Henry I called.”

So this was how Lizzie found herself outside the legendary Electric Ballroom on a Saturday night, elbowing the hordes of undergrads desperately trying to forget about their exams with some late night partying. Those famous clubs of Camden Town, the ones that had seen the likes of The Smiths, U2 and many other rock legends, those were always crowded on the weekends. That would certainly pose a challenge to her quest.

“Is your name on the guest list?” The bouncer asked Lizzie, her voice barely audible above the loud beat reverberating off the club’s brick walls. She tried again, spacing her words and raising her pitch. “Miss, is. your. name. on. the. guest. list?"

"Hmm, yes. Yes, it should be there.” Lizzie tried her best blank face. Of course her name was not on the list. “Name's Elizabeth Regina York.” She hoped her nonchalant tone would do the trick for her.

But her arm was held down when she tried to scurry past the door staff. “I would need to check your ID, miss. But I don’t see your name here.”

“It should be there. There’s got to be some mistake. Certainly it’s there.” Lizzie tried again to step around to get to the ticket booth, but the bouncer blocked her way and held out a hand to her.

“I will have to ask you to get back in the queue.”

Lizzie glanced at the number of people queueing up behind her. At the pace it all was going, Lizzie would get to the club at the end of the party. Who knew if Henry would still be there! “Look, is there anything you can do for me? There’s been some mistake surely.”

The security guard was adamant. “Miss, if your name’s not on the list there’s nothing I can do. House’s full.”

“But I really need to get in there! If you could just—”

“I’m sorry, miss. Not my job, not my problem.”

She tried to grasp at something, anything. “See, my boyfriend’s in there! I really need to talk to him.”

“Then he should’ve waited for you outside, shouldn’t he?” Yes, he should have. Only he wasn't her boyfriend at all. She opened her mouth to plead again but was interrupted. “Get back in the queue, miss.”

A wild commotion was heard. “MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY!” People cleared the path as a drunk girl with a fluorescent pink top was carried outside, hanging on the shoulders of two friends. She vomited, splashing a few people on her way out.

“Teens these days...” The security guard shook her head. She turned back to Lizzie, only to found that she had already vanished inside.

The loud beating of the club partially deafened Lizzie. As her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, the inevitable question came to her: how on earth would she find Henry at such packed and poorly lit rooms? She stood in the corner of the main room, tried to discern the dancing heads from one another. The flickering lights made her uncomfortably dizzy, the heavy boom of the bass shook the floor under her feet.

The DJ on stage made a sign and everyone started cheering. Soon enough the lyrics of Mr. Brightside were heard, people singing along from the top of their lungs. A few Alex Turner’s face masks swam among the crowd.

♫ Jealousy, turning saints into the sea Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis But it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me Open up my eager eyes, ‘cause I’m Mr. Brightside ♫

People spinning around, arms raised, bobbing their heads, singing. The blasting music was contagious. Everyone looked like having such a good time. Lizzie had never felt so out of place before. Feeling half-defeated, she decided to go to the bar — eventually Henry would have to stop there, she reckoned. Realising she could not simply stand there indefinitely without being asked her drink, she asked for her traditional pint of Strongbow Dark Fruit.

“We don’t have that here.” Lizzie tried to think of another drink, but the bartender’s impatience made her unable to think fast. “Would you like a Carling instead?” She accepted the beer, if only not to let him waiting any longer. She hated letting people down, from people working service jobs to family and friends.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “If you come with me outside I can buy you a Strongbow.” The voice barked at her ear. “There’s a Liddl just down the street.” Lizzie turned her head to look at the unknown man with such a “who-the-fuck-are-you” look that he felt compelled to present himself. “Couldn’t help but notice you standing there, princess.” He offered her a crooked smile and extended his hand to her. “Hi. I'm—”

“Goodbye.” Lizzie grabbed her pint and dashed away. 

She stopped by the stairs leading to the ladies and gents. That was another place Henry would have to pass by eventually, wasn’t it? The minutes ticked by, her pint glass was emptied. She bought another. Lizzie checked every guy’s face that came her way, some who looked back unkindly. She sat down, no longer caring whether her seat was too dirty to rest her bum. Further inside The 1975 and other bands were playing. She pulled out her mobile — No messages, no texts, no nothing. Muteness. She decided she didn't care anymore.

Where are you?

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

I miss you.

It felt like carving her heart out. How could those simple words make her feel so vulnerable, so naked? Everything was coming into place, and oh, she was most certainly an idiot! If only her foolish pride hadn't rendered her so blind, she might have seen that... that...

Lizzie wiped the single tear that dared to roll down her cheek. She would not let herself be seen like this. She thought of all the girls she had met crying at nightclubs. She would not be like that, and yet, the thought only made her sadder. She hid her face behind her hands and wept silently, one tear at a time. Bitter tears of frustration.

Not so silently as she would like to. A warm hand landed on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” She peered through her fingers to find the blurred vision of a girl smiling at her. Lizzie cleaned her cheeks.

“I’m ok, thank you.” Maybe if she wasn’t feeling like utter rubbish she might have remembered the features of that girl.

“You don't look ok. What happened?”

Lizzie laughed bitterly. “I happened. I've fucked up everything." The words sounded harsh even to her own ears. "I've botch it all up. That’s what happened.”

The girl offered her that same sympathetic smile Rodrigo had given her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be.” Lizzie sniffed and smiled weakly. She felt so unbelievably pathetic. She wanted to be left alone to her misery, but it wouldn't be the polite thing to say. "Sorry, there's something I must do. I've gotta go."

She got up from her place and almost ran to the first floor. That was it, Lizzie had decided: she would find Henry right there and then, even if it was the last thing she did. She circled the dance floor, touched shoulders and arms. "Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry." Not him, not him, not that one either. The flickering lights started making her dizzy again, the loud beat hurt her ears.

♫ Well are you mine?        are you mine tomorrow? Are you mine?        or just mine tonight? Are you mine?         are you mine tomorrow? Or just mine tonight? ♫

"Henry!" Her heart jumped. She saw the back of a head that looked just like him. The same haircut and the same slope of the shoulders. She grabbed his arm and he turned and... It wasn't him. She backed off by small tentative steps. "I'm... sorry!" Her steps soon turned into running. She wanted to flee, to disappear. She needed to get out of there.

________________________________________

"I need to get out of here." Henry almost shouted, trying to get his words across. The music was loud enough to muffle his voice.

"What, really?" Ed shouted back. "The party's just started."

"I know." Henry had tried to battle his growing discomfort to no avail. He just wasn't feeling up for a party.

"Alright, mate. Just let me get Tom."

"There's no need to—"

Ed took two long strides and tapped Tom on the shoulder. Though he couldn't hear him, Henry could see the words coming out of his mouth. Tom snapped back his head as if a teacher had just caught him sleeping in class. "What? Now?!" Ed uttered some words back. "He can go. I'm not leaving."

"Tom, c'mon!" Ed's frustration was loud enough to be heard this time.

"I'm not leaving yet! They're playing absolute bangers tonight! And not to mention the girls."

Henry rolled his eyes but moved to intervene. "Guys, guys. There's no need. Stay, both of you. Have a good time."

He strode along the crowd to get to the exit door, the same one that was used as an entrance. He received a few bumps along the way. Thrice damned people. Didn't they all have anything else to do on a Saturday night other than flooding that club? Henry could swear the whole lot of London had rushed to Camden Town.

"Tudor, wait!" Edward shouted behind him. "I'm coming with you!"

They fought their way out, not before witnessing a girl wearing a bright fluorescent top throwing up. She left what could only be called a proper pavement pizza at the entrance door, but they were able to sneak around it unscathed. 

Outside, Henry was finally able to raise his arms without hitting someone. He inhaled the nigh air, relishing the feeling of freshness filling his lungs once more. Not that he had really cared about those things in the past few weeks, not in the least. He pulled out his cigarette pack and lighter.

"Hey, mate..." Hands on his pockets, Ed eyed him curiously. "I'm sorry about Tom. He can be quite the prick sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Henry raised an eyebrow at him, lighting up a cigarette.

"I know he can be a dickhead when he wants, ok? But he can also be a good friend... In his own way."

"Yes, I believe you." Henry sniggered, taking a drag. He almost pitied Edward for relying on such poor friends. Or maybe that was his own case, actually, though he preferred not to dwell much on the thought.

"Anyways." He sighed. "Why did you come? Go back to the party. You've still got your wristband. Go. Go have fun."

"No, no. It's quite alright." Ed dismissed it with a simple head shake. "There's a nice takeaway just around the corner where we can buy kebab for a fiver. Oh, and they've got chips for a quid!"

Traditional drunk food. "I'm not pissed enough for that amount of grease, thank you. I think I'll pass." He offered his friend a sardonic smile and clapped him on the shoulder as a way of goodbye.

"Tudor—"

Henry stopped and turned. "What?"

Ed hesitated, looking as if unsure of what to say. He scratched his neck. "Why are you acting so bloody weird lately?"

"Weird?" Henry forced a laugh. "I'm not acting weird."

"C'mon, mate! You so are! You've been sulking like a stroppy cow!"

"This is the normal me." Henry puffed and exhaled a thick white cloud, unfazed. "Nothing's wrong with that."

"Of course something's wrong! See, you took up smoking again. I'm trying to help—"

"Why are you trying at all?" His voice came out strained, harsher than he meant to.

"Cause that's what friends do, you daft old sod!"

Ed losing his cool was a novelty, but not something that could unnerve Henry. "At the moment this daft old sod wants to be left alone. Can the friend understand that, or is that so difficult?"

Ed nodded begrudgingly and looked away. "He can."

"Good." Henry flicked off his cigarette and stepped on it. "And goodbye." He moved to leave, not caring if he was littering. Bloody waste of a good fag, that's what.

"Wait, Tudor!" Henry turned once more, seething. "Just don't do anything stupid, ok?"

"Stupid like taking Tom's pills, for instance?"

Their colleague had offered them his ‘magical’ pills as soon as they entered the club. He had said something along the lines of letting go and forgetting their troubles for the night. Of course Henry wasn't daft enough to be tempted.

"Yeah. Precisely like that. Don't do anything you might regret later."

Henry narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm not like that."

"So you say."

"Truly, Ed. You flatter me." He waved him off. "Goodnight."

Henry took the night bus but didn’t go home. Instead he found himself at the banks of the river Thames, feet dangling from the railing. He had another lit cigarette between his knuckles, though he barely kept track of the times it touched his lips. At his side the bright lights of Millennium Bridge crossed the river like an arrow to lead into a pitch of nothingness. They had turned off the lights of St Paul's cathedral that night. It looked abandoned and alone among the financial buildings of the City. A dreary thing that had outlived its time. How very apt, Henry thought, that it should be dark tonight.

Henry sat on the railing looking at that shadowed dome for long stretching minutes. The Bankside area was oddly deserted that hour. If Henry were to go to, say, Covent Garden, or Soho, or Mayfair, or any other area around Westminster, he'd found more than the distant sounds of the passing ambulances or the occasional tourists walking along the river. He liked it that way. He had sat on that same spot another time.  

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

She had recited, the sun setting brightly on her hair. They had stopped at that place one winter afternoon, having visited Bray's office in the City. Lizzie had fetched some papers to take to her mother that day. At the time, the lawsuit against her uncle was an ugly business, one tainted by greed and long-held family grievances. Henry, who had grown up with a loving and supportive uncle, couldn't quite image how it felt like.

"I like to think there's more to life than simply struggling." She said, crossing her ankles and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I like to think there's happiness to be found, if only we look for it hard enough."

"There is." His reassurance, though honest, was feeble.

"I want to live." She gave him a straight look, one that spoke of resolute determination. "Not just survive."

Henry didn't quite know how to respond to that, he simply chose a silent nod. He felt the urge to kiss her there and then, but she looked so unbelievably sad. He wanted to kiss that sadness away, hold her warmth close, bury his nose in her hair. He wanted to shower her with kisses till he heard her laughing under his lips. Lizzie was made for happiness, he knew that with as much conviction as a father knew his child.

He gave her one of his earbuds. "Fancy some music?"

She plugged it and scooted closer. "What you've got there?" She smiled, lips parting slowly.

The sunset had turned her hair to a shade closer to red. Flame and gold.

Sweet Thames, run softly, she had said, till I end my song. Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

Oh, he would never fall in love again! Lizzie was his first, and his last. From atop the railing, Henry swept the city with one bitter look. And to think he was starting to like it. He had even thought of buying a house there, for God's sake! All the tips Lizzie had given on how to look like a real Londoner — how he should always have his oyster card in hand (not in his wallet, nor in his pocket), or how he should always look like he was running late, even if it was 10 pm and all he had to do was going home. Make yourself look important. — all those tips and... for what?

"Why?" He blurted aloud, though he didn't know if he asked the city, the universe, or himself.

His only answer was silence. There wasn't even the wind blowing that night. The air was stalled; heavy dark clouds gathered in the sky promising rain. Down below, the river ran through silent streams. And for a moment only, he could believe he was deaf.

His phone suddenly buzzed with a text. His cigarette on the lips, Henry instinctively moved his hand to take out his mobile, but thought twice. Why should it matter if anyone was texting him? It was probably one of the lads. Probably Edward asking after him. He slipped a hand through his pocket and turned it off. It was not the best way to thank his friend, Henry knew that much. He cooly contemplated himself for what he was: a bitter man with great ambitions, with the makings of a great leader.

Maybe he didn't deserve love after all. Well, he surely wanted to be loved — maybe that was one of his great ambitions —  but did he deserve it? Or better yet, did he need it? He would dissect the feeling, look at it through a medical lens, turn it into numbers and compute it, if only he could. A sudden anger built inside him then. He lifted himself up and stood straight with his two feet on the railing. He surveyed the buildings across the river with one appraising look. He would conquer that city, that country. He would not let himself down. With one look of defiance, he proclaimed: "I will not!"

"Yeah, man! Fuck them!"

Startled, Henry lost his balance. His cigarette fell on the waters below. His right foot slipped, but a hand immediately took hold of him and pulled him backwards, bringing him back to the safety of the ground.

"Careful, bruv! Careful!"

Alarmed, Henry gasped for air, soon undergoing a fit of coughing. One of the strangers patted him on back. "There. Easy, man."

His coughing slowly subdued. Fixing his clothes, Henry eyed the two men standing in front of him warily. Bloody stupidity to let himself be overcome by emotions like that. He could not let that happen again.

"You alright, mate?" The men were sharing a bottle hidden inside a brown paper bag. It was illegal to drink on most streets of London, but that didn't actually stop people from drinking. Of course, one could always engage their local policemen into confiscating their booze in case of insufficient sneakiness.

They passed him the paper bag. "Here, have some. For your coughing."

Henry debated whether he should take the offer or not. Oh, sod it. He took a sip of the drink and gasped, immediately regretting it. "What even is this?!" He pulled out the bottle and searched the label for a definition.

"Shhh. Just drink it, man. You'll feel better."

Henry could almost laugh. "Cheers." He raised the bottle and took another sip. Then another one, and another one. He wiped his mouth before returning it to the strangers.

"I get why you're angry, man." One of them said, gesturing at the financial district across the river. "Briefcase wankers, the lot of them."

Henry supposed he was a briefcase wanker too. Or soon to be one.

"Not worse than the tax-evaders at Buckingham Palace, heh?" The second added, causing them both to laugh. They looked throughly drunk.

Henry felt like he had just walked into a feverish dream. "I'm sorry, you are?" Asking for names was the first step to intimidation, his uncle had taught him once.

"Dev." The first man answered. "And this is Andrew."

"Well, Dev, Andrew. Thanks for the drink." He fake smiled. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

“You're sure you're alright, bruv? We caught you perched on the railing. Not cool, man. Not cool.”

Definitely not cool. Henry felt incredibly stupid. “Mmm, yeah. I’m... fine, thanks.”

“Right. Take care, man.”

“And watch your step!” They laughed again.

Their giggle resonated into the long shadow of the night as Henry walked away. He couldn’t believe he had just received advice from two drunks. Tired, he finally let himself go home. Before entering his flat, though, he sat on the short steps leading to the building and lit another cig, for the smoke alarms in his studio flat prevented him from doing so indoors. It was a nuisance, to say the least, but better to smoke outside than waking the whole block with the noisy alarm. Taking a long drag, Henry looked at his watch: 3:07 am.

He heard footsteps approaching. A pair of ankle boots stopped in front of him.

"Henry?"

He looked up to find Lizzie. Wide-eyed, mouth slightly parted. A question danced on her lips.

No fucking way.

#henry x lizzie #my fic #modern au #flatmates au #henry vii x elizabeth of york #heee #i'm SO sorry to keep you waiting for so long #here's a thing

[caddyxjellyby]

Alcott Readathon 2018: An Old-Fashioned Girl (1869)

Alcott’s third or fourth depending on how you count Good Wives novel, featuring cane-shaking, a menage a trois, and America’s favorite fighting Frenchman. Polly Arrives Fanny tells Tom to pick up Polly from the station. Tom says "She'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and she'll be about right, too." Fanny says "If I was the President, I'd make a law to shut up all boys till they were grown; for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the world." I wonder what Tom means by wearing a thingumbob? A veil maybe? The naughty boy tells Polly the hack-driver is tipsy so he won’t have to sit with her. It boggles my mind that a fourteen year old would refer to herself as a “little girl.” I suppose back them children didn’t have to bend over backwards to be taken seriously. That is, if you refer to yourself as a little girl people won’t take you seriously. But if they just do it as a given you don’t bend over backwards to earn it. Polly sings for Madam Shaw, the grandmother, and they talk about how they were brought up properly unlike the Shaw siblings. Madam Shaw doesn’t approve of children calling their father Papa. What the fuck. I bet “the old man” would make her spontaneously combust. The girls see a vulgar play; Polly doesn’t understand half the jokes, and the girls on stage are dressed as jockeys, which I think means wearing trousers. Scandalous. Madam Shaw praises her innocence.

New Fashions

Apparently eyeglasses were trendy in 1869. Polly follows Fanny to school, where the girls gossip about Carrie who ran away with an Italian music teacher.

Fanny: "I like to read about such things; but it's so inconvenient to have it happen right here, because it makes it harder for us. I wish you could have heard my papa go on. He threatened to send a maid to school with me every day, as they do in New York, to be sure I come all right. Did you ever?"

Belle: "That's because it came out that Carrie used to forge excuses in her mamma's name, and go promenading with her Oreste, when they thought her safe at school. Oh, wasn't she a sly minx?"

Trix: "I think a little fun is all right; and there's no need of making a talk, if, now and then, some one does run off like Carrie. Boys do as they like; and I don't see why girls need to be kept so dreadfully close. I'd like to see anybody watching and guarding me!" GO TRIX KEEPING GIRLS THE SLIGHTEST BIT “CLOSER’ THAN BOYS IS PSYCHOLOGICALLY HARMFUL AND DISRESPECTFUL. ...I have a lot of feels about gender and child-rearing, okay? Okay. The constant ads for the Blockers movie keep bringing it to mind. (Kathryn Newton, the most recent Amy March, is in it.) The Bostonians gush over some exciting novels; Polly doesn’t know them. Polly: "My mother says a real gentleman is as polite to a little girl as to a woman; so I like Mr. Sydney best, because he was kind to me." I want that embroidered. “Polly was not a model girl by any means” Sure, Louisa. The kids say ain’t a lot. Creosote sent my mind straight to Discworld. Polly’s Troubles Polly wished the children would be kinder to grandma; but it was not for her to tell them so, although it troubled her a good deal, and she could only try to make up for it by being as dutiful and affectionate as if their grandma was her own. Awww. The fact that they name their sleds is adorable. Me, I’ve never been a person to name inanimate objects, other than occasionally referring to something as the precious. Fan reads Lady Audley’s Secret. "I shouldn't think you'd make him laugh, when he's always making you cwy," observed Maud, who had just come in. Good one, Maud. Little Things Polly is a perfect child who can do no wrong, except spend some money on bronze boots instead of presents for her family. We learn that she has a dead brother named Jimmy. They studied Latin together so she helps Tom with his. Tom falls off his new velocipede and hits his head. Polly holds it while a doctor gives him stitches. Scrapes AFTER being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after Tom's mishap, the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that grandma said she was afraid "something was going to happen to them." I kind of loathe this line of thinking? If you want children to be good, don’t insult them by not trusting them. Polly, if you’ve never had to lie to your parents then you know you have good parents, and not everybody is like you. A boy sends Fanny flowers and that’s unacceptable. “I'll send you to school in a Canadian convent,” says Mr. Shaw. Oh boy. Tom dresses up in Fanny’s outfit, then they and Maud look at Polly’s journal, which is full of sketches of the family and friends, and Polly’s thoughts on Fan. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I should love her just the same; but she isn't kind to me; and though she is always talking about politeness, I don't think it is polite to treat company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare say I am; but I shouldn't laugh at a girl's clothes because she was poor, or keep her out of the way because she didn't do just as other girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can't feel as I did; and I'd go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and I do love them dearly." Grandma Tom was reposing on the sofa with his boots in the air, absorbed in one of those delightful books in which boys are cast away on desert islands, where every known fruit, vegetable and flower is in its prime all the year round; or, lost in boundless forests, where the young heroes have thrilling adventures, kill impossible beasts, and, when the author's invention gives out, suddenly find their way home, laden with tiger skins, tame buffaloes and other pleasing trophies of their prowess. The Shaw kids find Polly up in Grandma’s room, listening to her stories. They’re like you never told us that story and Grandma’s like you never asked. "At eight o'clock on the appointed evening, several of us professed great weariness, and went to our room, leaving the rest sewing virtuously with Miss Cotton, who read Hannah More's Sacred Dramas aloud, in a way that fitted the listeners for bed as well as a dose of opium would have done.”Surprisingly snarky Grandma. "Wait for your turn, Tommy. Now, Polly, dear, what will you have?" said grandma, looking, so lively and happy, that it was very evident "reminiscing" did her good. "Let mine come last, and tell one for Tom next," said Polly, looking round, and beckoning him nearer. Oh come on now Polly. Tom wants to shoot cats? Okay. Polly asks about a glove; Grandma tells the story of Lafayette kissing the glove with his picture on it and then kissing her on the cheek to avoid that. Grandma’s Aunt was married to John Hancock, just like Abigail Alcott’s grand-aunt was married to him in real life. Also she thinks leg o’mutton sleeves are beautiful and becoming. Let’s not hold it against her. Colonel May, that’s LMA’s grandfather. Next we go even further back in history - Grandma produces a letter “written by Anne Boleyn before her marriage to Henry VIII, and now in the possession of a celebrated antiquarian.” How she acquired this letter is not explained, and it does seem to be the original letter and not a copy. Good-by [sic] We get it, Louisa, you think fancy clothes are sinful. They hold a going-away party for Polly, inviting some girls to keep Maud out of the way and Tom’s school-friends, Rumple, Sherry, and Spider. Polly and Tom open the redowa; he’s bad at keeping time to the music, like me. She doesn’t know how to dance the German so she plays with the little girls in the library. Aww, they snuck presents for her family in Polly’s trunk. Six Years Afterward "WHAT do you think Polly is going to do this winter?" exclaimed Fanny, looking up from the letter she had been eagerly reading. She’s returning to Boston to teach music. Mr. Shaw respects her for being independent. Tom says she’s pretty in a moment of foreshadowing. Madam Shaw has died. "Where did you learn so much worldly wisdom, Polly?" asked Mr. Shaw, as his wife fell back in her chair, and took out her salts, as if this discovery had been too much for her. "I learnt it here, sir," answered Polly, laughing. "I used to think patronage and things of that sort very disagreeable and not worth having, but I've got wiser, and to a certain extent I'm glad to use whatever advantages I have in my power, if they can be honestly got." What is this, the Shaws doing something good for once? Holy hell! “You must come and see my pets, Maud, for my cat and bird live together as happily as brother and sister," said Polly, turning to Maud, who devoured every word she said. "That's not saying much for them," muttered Tom, feeling that Polly ought to address more of her conversation to him. Geez, Tom, entitled much? Tom is engaged to Trix. Polly keeps bees at her country home. It must be so nice to be able to clean without the paranoia that you’re going to get mocked for doing it wrong. All hail living alone! Lessons Polly finds her drudgery a bit harder than she expected but her pupils love her. She found Fanny enduring torment under the hands of the hair-dresser, who was doing his best to spoil her hair, and distort her head with a mass of curls, braids, frizzles, and puffs; for though I discreetly refrain from any particular description, still, judging from the present fashions, I think one may venture to predict that six years hence they would be something frightful. The problem with writing books set in the future. Polly comes home one day to find her landlady, Miss Mills, sewing a dress for Jane, who also lives in the boarding-house and tried to kill herself because she couldn’t find work that paid enough for the rent. Polly goes to visit Jane. Brothers and Sisters Polly’s brother Will visits her every Sunday and they’re BFFs. Tom hates being called Carrots; I want an Anne of Green Gables crossover. Maud informs him that Polly thinks he’s handsomer than Mr. Sydney. "Don't make such a noise, my head aches dreadfully," said Fanny, fretfully. "Girls' heads always do ache," answered Tom, subsiding from a roar into a chuckle. Um, fuck you Tom. He suspects Trix of wearing makeup because she won’t let him kiss her cheek, only “an unsatisfactory peck at her lips.” That’s less satisfying than the cheek? Whatever you say, Tom. Fanny confirms it. He doesn’t approve. Will arrives to take Maud to Polly’s; LMA gets a dig in: “They were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being a "dig," and Tom a "bird," or, in plain English, one was a hard student, and the other a jolly young gentleman. Tom had rather patronized Will, who didn't like it, and showed that he didn't by refusing to borrow money of him, or accept any of his invitations to join the clubs and societies to which Tom belonged. So Shaw let Milton alone, and he got on very well in his own way, doggedly sticking to his books, and resisting all temptations but those of certain libraries, athletic games, and such inexpensive pleasures as were within his means; for this benighted youth had not yet discovered that college nowadays is a place in which to "sky-lark," not to study.” We'll see more of that when we get to Jo’s Boys. Polly talks better than other girls who are coquettes. Seriously. Jesus Christ. Maud has “a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public” and “a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company.” Huh. Needles and Tongues Fanny’s sewing circle meets at the Shaw house. Polly listens to them gossip. “Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.' s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion.” That’s pretty funny. Polly and Trix butt heads over giving charity. “[Trix] felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever.” I am not entirely unsympathetic to Trix. Polly tells them about Jane and they’re very moved and resolve to hire her for sewing. Forbidden Fruit Polly, Fanny, and Tom go to the opera. Polly buys new gloves for the occasion and their dog chews them up and she’s like serves me right for buying something I didn’t need. Her new bonnet survives, though, and Tom mentions how becoming it is. "Dress that girl up, and she'd be a raving, tearing beauty," he whispers to Maud, and Polly overhears. A bit of sarcastic fourth wall breaking: I deeply regret being obliged to shock the eyes and ears of such of my readers as have a prejudice in favor of pure English by expressions like the above, but, having rashly undertaken to write a little story about Young America, for Young America, I feel bound to depict my honored patrons as faithfully as my limited powers permit. Otherwise, I must expect the crushing criticism, "Well, I dare say it's all very prim and proper, but it isn't a bit like us," and never hope to arrive at the distinction of finding the covers of "An Old-Fashioned Girl" the dirtiest in the library. Polly wears her hair down, holy shit. Maud comments on what a lovely bride she would be, Tom refers to her as “Mrs. Sydney,” and Fan goes to the carriage “in an usually lofty manner.” Love triangle ahoy. And who should appear at the opera but Arthur Sydney? Polly, on her reaction to heartbreak: "That's not my way either," she said decidedly. "I'd try to outlive it, and if I could n't, I'd try to be the better for it. Disappointment needn't make a woman a fool." Sounds like Rosamund. We are reminded that French novels are evil, and Polly calls Tom a modern Beau Brummel. The Sunny Side Fanny and Tom discuss Polly/Sydney. Tom thinks being a fine lady wouldn’t suit her; Fanny disagrees. Tom realizes his sister likes Sydney and says nothing about it. Polly introduces Fanny to her friends Becky and Bess, two artists who live together. Becky is sculpting “the coming woman” and needs to put a symbol in her hands. Fanny suggests a queen’s sceptre, Polly a man’s helping hand, and Bess a child. Becky turns those down. Kate, an accidentally successful author, suggests a ballot-box. They have a lunch of sardines, oranges, crackers, and cheese, on mismatched plates which one 1860s reviewer found too unfeminine to be realistic. We learn that "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." Kate wants to put Polly in a book. Very funny.

Nipped in the Bud Polly inner monologues about how she can’t love Arthur Sydney as a wife should, so she ought to tell him before he proposes. Particularly since he and Fan would suit each other. She changes her route home so as to avoid meeting him, then he sees her coming home from Fanny’s one day and they talk. He says that Fanny hasn’t improved with her years and Polly defends her friend. “She puts on that dashing air before people to hide her real self. But I know her better; and I assure you that she does improve; she tries to mend her faults, though she won't own it, and will surprise you someday, by the amount of heart and sense and goodness she has got." Breakers Ahead Tom gets expelled for knocking down the Chapel watchmen. At least he didn’t need that degree for a job. And Mr. Shaw’s business has failed, and Tom has acquired a significant amount of debt. Oh no. Polly comforts him and then Fanny, who doesn’t actually need much comforting, being glad for the distraction from her unrequited love. Indian cake . . . is that cornbread? A Dress Parade The big house was given up as soon as possible and the little house taken; being made comfortable with the furniture Madam left there when she went to live with her son. The old-fashioned things had been let with the house, and now seemed almost like a gift from Grandma, doubly precious in these troublous times. At the auction, several persons tried to show the family that, though they had lost their fortune, friends still remained, for one bid in Fanny's piano, and sent it to her; another secured certain luxurious articles for Mrs. Shaw's comfort; and a third saved such of Mr. Shaw's books as he valued most, for he had kept his word and given up everything, with the most punctilious integrity. Maud enjoys herself learning to housewife. Polly gives Fanny advice on freshening her wardrobe, such as turning her grey suit. Fanny used to give Maud her old dresses for tableaux. Polly’s story is based on real life. From LMA’s ”Recollections of My Childhood”: People wondered at our frolics, but enjoyed them; and droll stories are still told of the adventures of those days. Mr. Emerson and Margaret Fuller were visiting my parents one afternoon; and the conversation having turned to the ever-interesting subject of education, Miss Fuller said,-- "Well, Mr. Alcott, you have been able to carry out your methods in your own family, and I should like to see your model children." She did in a few moments,--for as the guests stood on the doorsteps a wild uproar approached, and round the corner of the house came a wheelbarrow holding baby May arrayed as a queen; I was the horse, bitted and bridled, and driven by my elder sister Anna, while Lizzie played dog and barked as loud as her gentle voice permitted. All were shouting, and wild with fun, which, however, came to a sudden end as we espied the stately group before us, for my foot tripped, and down we all went in a laughing heap, while my mother put a climax to the joke by saying with a dramatic wave of the hand,-- "Here are the model children, Miss Fuller!" Playing Grandmother Tom has a harder time than his sisters. He’s too bad at business to help his father so he hangs out with Mrs. Shaw. "I'd cut away to Australia if it wasn't for mother; anything, anywhere to get out of the way of people who know me. I never can right myself here, with all the fellows watching, and laying wagers whether I sink or swim. Hang Greek and Latin! wish I'd learned a trade, and had something to fall back upon. Haven't a blessed thing now, but decent French and my fists.” Oh my gosh I think Tom’s a millennial. Polly teaches Maud how to make raisin cake for Tom’s birthday. He receives two letters: one from Trix dumping him, and one from Arthur Sydney saying that’s he’s paid Tom’s debts. Tom, unwilling to owe him, decides to go West, young man, like Polly’s brother Ned. The Woman Who Did Not Dare POLLY wrote enthusiastically, Ned answered satisfactorily, and after much corresponding, talking, and planning, it was decided that Tom should go West. Never mind what the business was; it suffices to say that it was a good beginning for a young man like Tom, who, having been born and bred in the most conservative class of the most conceited city in New England, needed just the healthy, hearty, social influences of the West to widen his views and make a man of him. Polly goes home for the summer, Maud to the shore with Belle, and Fan stays home. I’m pretty sure Polly lives in Concord. Does she know the Marches? She returns to Boston in the fall and Fanny says have you been sick? No, it’s love. Polly gives vague answers and Fan replies that she thinks Sydney is starting to like her. She shows Polly a photo Tom sent and Polly’s face makes her go Aha. Winter passes, and in May Fan and Sydney get engaged. Tom’s Success "Come, Philander, let us be a marching, Every one his true love a searching," would be the most appropriate motto for this chapter, because, intimidated by the threats, denunciations, and complaints showered upon me in consequence of taking the liberty to end a certain story as I liked, I now yield to the amiable desire of giving satisfaction, and, at the risk of outraging all the unities, intend to pair off everybody I can lay my hands on. Tom comes home and tells Polly he loves her. "Now, Tom, how could I know you loved me when you went away and never said a word?" she began, in a tenderly reproachful tone, thinking of the hard year she had spent. "And how could I have the courage to say a word, when I had nothing on the face of the earth to offer you but my worthless self?" answered Tom, warmly. "That was all I wanted!" whispered Polly, in a tone which caused him to feel that the race of angels was not entirely extinct. I suppose if I liked Tom more the romance might work for me but I don’t and it doesn’t. Neither pairing seems to happen naturally, the narrative forces them together. Will marries Jane and Maud remains a spinster, “[keeping] house for her father in the most delightful manner.” The End and I’m glad of it! Next is Little Men.

#an old fashioned girl #louisa may alcott #alcott readathon 2018

[novacabtaxi]

Seeing Manhattan Without Uber Or Subway – GoNOMAD Travel

Exploring Lower and Mid-town Manhattan on Foot

By Supriya Pant

Put on a pair of walking shoes, carry some water, and just set out to discover the island of Manhattan, NYC.

My personal journey on foot started with the idea of taking the New York City’s subway system to reach any particular area and promising myself that once I get off, I would only get back with sore feet that are ready to collapse.

A quick disclaimer, I am skipping some usual suspects, like Central Park and China Town because a day in Central Park or China Town is a different theme altogether. To those who feel you have seen it all, I say walk again and discover Manhattan like never before.

NYC is made up of five boroughs, Manhattan is the most famous. You can start your exploration from any place, but I suggest have the area mapped out.

Day 1: Exploring Greenwich Village

My day one started at the west side of lower Manhattan, better known as Greenwich Village. O. Henry paid a memorable ode to West Greenwich village in the opening lines of his haunting short story ‘The Last Leaf’.

In a little district west of Washington Square, the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. 

Then the Village was used to house struggling artists and musicians. The famous Hotel Albert here hosted everyone from Walt Whitman to Andy Warhol.

In the ’90s it became popular as the dwelling of the sitcom Friends. Though the show was shot in LA, the characters lived here. You can spot plenty of the famous fire exits everywhere in the Village area and the exterior shot of the building shown in the show can be found in 90 Bedford Street.

Chess in the Park

There are plenty of other things to do here like just sit around Washington Square Park. The impressive Washington Square Arch presides over a large fountain and a dazzling array of street performers.

Checkmate a buddy on the north-west corner of the park with its built-in chess tables or watch some furry friends play catch in the dog park.

The area around Washington Square Park also houses the famous New York University, to add to its vibrant young exuberance.

If you get hungry MacDougal Street is around the corner and makes global food fest a single street affair.

You can hop skip jump between the Ethiopian Injera, Vietnamese Pho, and Spanish Tapas. MacDougal Street is also home to The Comedy Cellar, which hosts both amateur and famous comedians in the New York stand-up scene.

For a change, try skipping Starbucks for a quaint Greenwich Village cafe. There are Reggio and Dante among others. You get cozy wooden interiors and a cup of old-fashioned cappuccino. If you want something stronger to drink, then have plenty of options for booze too.

Reggio’s 1902 Coffeemaker

Not taking sides, but my personal favorite is Reggio, with walls adorned with Italian renaissance paintings and the giant coffee machine from 1902. Take a book along or get a window seat and watch the buzzing street outside.

The village has taken center stage in many historic movements. If you decide to walk ahead there is Christopher Street. It has Christopher park with the famous George Segal sculpture honoring the gay rights movement and commemorating the events of the Stone Wall Inn that stands opposite the park.

The village has introduced the world to Beatniks and Bohemians. Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, and John Lennon have called it home at different times. Every street here has a hidden corner deeply drenched in rich history and trust me walking around is the only way to sink into them.

Day 2: Explore-Midtown Manhattan

This area is the heart of Manhattan’s activity. In the heart of it is Times Square. Placed at 42nd and Broadway, Times Square is filled with a dazzling display of billboards, lights, and Broadway musicals.

It’s always brimming with tourists, buzzing with activity. Fun fact, Times Square got its name when the New York Times moved here in 1904. Before that, the area was known as Longacre Square. The already crowded hub gets almost 2 million people when the ball-drop happens, ringing in the New Year.

Through the years, it has served as a popular backdrop to many celebrated pieces of art from the iconic V-J Day kiss photograph to the masterful ‘Birdman’. So, it is likely at first look it gives a vibe of “been here” but if you can be a little patient, sit on the red bleacher stairs at northern Duffy Square and soak in the mood, it will turn up as a worthy pit-stop.

Watch a Broadway Show

You can watch a Broadway musical or take a five to six-minute walk to Bryant Park. Adjacent to the New York Public library this park was a no-go area in 1970s, due to its notorious association with drugs and drug dealers. The park got restored to its current status due to the efforts of prominent and common New Yorkers. Google even installed free Wi-Fi.

It’s now an all-weather park, with Empire State watching over it. I especially love it in winter. The Winter Village kiosks serve everything from hot chocolates to hand-knitted mittens. Then there is the ice-skating rink and if you are really lucky you even get to witness the frozen Bryant Park fountain in all its glory.

Also walk over next door to the New York Public Library, to witness its magnificent ceilings and reading rooms and also drop by at the children’s section in the basement to see the original Christopher Robin’s toys that made the world of hundred-acre wood.

Skating at the Rock

A little ahead in the walk is the Rockefeller Center with its famous Ice-skating rink and the even more famous Christmas tree. Even on a non-wintery day, its observatory deck offers a great view of Manhattan or you can just enjoy walking around and marvel at the Art Deco construction that includes the famous Radio City buildings.

A short distance away is the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). On Fridays, they even offer free tickets between 4 and 8 pm. It’s a great place to get absorbed in Manet, Monet, and Picasso. It houses some of the world’s most famous artworks including Van Gogh’s Starry Nights and Monet’s Waterlilies among others. MoMA’s modern and pop art collection includes the not-to-be-missed works of Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein.

If the “Campbell’s soup cans” manage to stimulate your hunger, it is time to head out for Halal guys on 53rd street. Their killer red sauce on chicken over rice is well worth the long queue and wait. Cart food is another delight in the gastronomical landscape of New York City.

Even if you skip the Halal guys, head over to any of the zillion carts around the city and get yourself anything from gyro to falafel with a healthy dose of red and white sauce. You haven’t tasted New York if you haven’t tasted its cart food.

A good way to end this midtown marathon would be to head to Grand Central Station. You wi

ll need to backtrack a few steps from MoMA but Grand Central in just fifteen minutes away. Apart from being a transport hub, the station is also a shopping and dining hub. It has a cathedral-like exterior and is most famous for the astronomical ceiling in its main concourse.

Look out for the average commuters in a hurry while being the star gazing tourist! Experts may doubt the accuracy of the constellations, but this backward universe and the four-faced opal grand clock is definitely worth a watch. It’s a famous place to meet!

Day 3: Explore-Wall Street and the Financial District

At the southern end of NYC, the New York Subway greets you with Oculus. If Grand Center takes you into the grandeur of the past, Oculus is futuristic spaceship-like. During rush hours you can spot all the banking stereotypes here. Suited men and women, juggling mobile phones along with morning coffee after all Oculus belong to the busiest business district of all, Wall Street.

You can get into the observatory of one world trade center and enjoy the birds-eye view of Hudson and Jersey City skyline. The elevator to the observatory also plays an interesting graphic history of the city as it zooms you into its top floors.

Just south of the center you will be in the sobering presence of the National September 11 Memorial and Museum.

From here you can charge through streets and reach the charging bull statue in about 15 minutes. You will walk past imposing building of the wall street area, cross Trinity church, and then might have to battle a queue of selfie stick holders before you get your turn with the bull.

At a short distance from the charging bull, you will reach the southern tip of Manhattan. It’s the sight of the historic Battery Park.

There is much to be appreciated here if you are history buff, but other than that it also offers a path along the Hudson to stroll, bike, or run and a stunning view of the freedom tower and Statue of liberty. Ticketed ferries are available for Ellis Island and Statue of Liberty from here.

Alternatively, a little ahead you can take a free ride on the Staten Island Ferry at Whitehall Street and feel the Hudson breeze as you experience sailing across the majestic lady liberty.

If you are still up for a longish walk after the ferry ride, the Brooklyn Bridge is around forty minutes away. In 1884, 21 elephants and 17 camels had to walk across it to prove to the public that the suspension bridge was steady.

Today we have no such problems as both pedestrians and bikers share busy narrow lanes across it. This great feat of engineering is always a very busy tourist attraction.

Ideally, end this day with a walk fifteen minutes away to South Street Seaport. Did I mention it’s one of the oldest and most picturesque neighborhoods of Manhattan?

Take a sneak peek at the South Street Seaport Museum, stop for a drink at the cobbler stone street, or just feel the ocean from the pier and watch the sun go down.

All this my friend is just Manhattan! The city of endless possibilities never disappoints steady feet. So, ladies and gentlemen next time you are in the Big Apple, skip the cab, and don’t forget those sneakers.

from TAXI NEAR ME https://taxi.nearme.host/seeing-manhattan-without-uber-or-subway-gonomad-travel/

[montemoutdoorgear1]

What You Need To Know About Down Jackets

Coats, Jackets and other corresponding attire archetypes are getting majestic material touches. The clothing shelters are speaking out aristocratic heralds from the day they’ve been introduced with special needlework specifications, craftsmanship pioneering unique designs and features, long-lasting outfit endurance, so on and so forth.

There are a lot of clad-on consolidations when it comes to upgrading fragile apparel (dress) with coverage of soft solid-state attire fabric fortitude (usually coats and jackets). But there are still other options that promote both versatility and vivacity to one’s personality. You will find tons of different types of coats and jackets that vary in shapes, have standard colors, undergo a different needlepoint scheme procedure, different materials with shipshape formations,

Since I’m myself when it comes to jackets (preferably made in leather), I cannot grasp any other garment than being fond of all-inclusive leather jackets. I have a huge collection and totally a separate closet to store my best rawhide masterpieces. Mostly I buy my jackets from local brand stores, get my Dubai-based Uncles to do this “garb job” for me, or getting some flashy real deal sales at Amazon. I don’t relish my clothing regalia from third parties, but still, Avengers Endgame Hoodie has sound authenticity when it comes to genuine leather endorsed garments. Got a few last and it erased all my doubt about ‘small fries’ trying to sell legit brands. MJ is a great platform from where you can go for your favorite jackets with spick-and-span quality branding.

Over the past few months, I’m being drawn into Down Jackets and I wanted to share my personal expertise and experience so far I’m having with a few downs I bought last year. So here’s what I’ve recollected so far for you guys.

Overview of Features and Formulas you need to know about Down Jackets

The name of this outfit says it all. Deep down under the polyester-satin materials or any other abridged fabric, duck and geese feathers are trapped on the inside of its sleek garment gleaming shell.

 Since feathers are naturally meant to protect big flying flappers from cold breezes since they swiftly reel in skies in big groups. Hence, down jackets are amazing for people looking to stay warm in cooler climates with low-density outfits gripping in a decent down jacket fill power.

 Fill Power is predominantly a down jacket feature and it’s one of the main specs buyers will look out for. The FP is basically the capacity of the fluffed up scoring made through feathers – higher the fill power, more the down jacket’s warmth and heat absorption.

 A down jacket has a puffer formation yet remains quite a unique wear for individuals looking for an exclusive attire selection. Down jackets are known for their insulation impressions and really offers something you want for an enduring ensemble to have.

Down Jackets have a generous roomy fitting space for obese people as well since it’s a dexterously built wobbly wearable downright from its construction?

Down Jackets are made solely from the aesthetics point of few and are permeated with vibrant colors to make them look absorbingly cooler and fashionable.

Down jackets are considerably lightweight yet has substantial heat retention to it.

The puffer/parka outfit themed down jackets offer exceptional styles and are conveniently repressed down to fit in your luggage i.e. taking less space in your baggage and making room for other necessitated traveling items.

3 Major Types of Down Jackets Constructions You Should Know

Before getting into the enlightening revelations for what you should observe to purchase the perfect down jacket. You must educate yourselves for the three major types of downs and the specified ways they’re weaved and formed.

The most basic and indeed the cheapest form of down jacket is the Sewn Through one. Not that it’s a warm see-through outfit that some people might confuse it while reading its supposed name. This distinctive down jacket is formed while keeping in cost-effective factors in mind. This one is a simpler, straightforwardly drafted with a less expensive material used in its construction. Not confuse this for a cheaper type, but it’s utterly made to keep its costs under budgets so that everyone could enjoy one of these.

Moviesjacket is simply the opposite of Sewn Through. It’s a thoroughly built down jacket and has maximizing fill power due to its lofty structure, deft handmade craftsmanship, and the dedicated deep-rooted sewing scheme. This one has great quality and Vectorptionally long-term suitability to it.

Down Jackets are also considered to be constructed on the following basis apart from considering its types:

        Elasticity and Durability

        Lightweight and comfortable to wear

        Warm Jacket for harsh cold weathers

        Waterproofing and breathability

Down Jackets are Time-proven to be Hilltop Hikers and Mountaineers Top Choice

Incontestably, enthusiast and summit conquering cliffhangers cherish their down jackets the most. They ease them in their adventures and keep them always in their backpacks when they’re treading of for the coarsely rugged rocky terrains. There are a lot of assorted attires you can buy when it comes to your next best down jacket having the best fortitude fill-up materialization. You can find a lot of blogs promoting the trendiest downs you can get.

A few names include:

        L.L.Bean Ultralight 850 Down Sweater

        Helly Hansen Odin Vero Jacket

        Mountain Hardware Ghost Whisperer

        Eddie Bauer MicroTherm 2.0 Storm Down Jacket

        Canada Goose Hybridge Lite Hoody

        REI Co-op Magma 850 down Hoodie

        Featherweight Down Jackets

        Henry II Down Jackets

        Aurora Women Down Jacket

Down Jackets Insulation Fabric Material has all the Magic

These outfits are ideally constructed and have plentiful fabric factors playing amidst down jackets. Some of the best fascinating aspects of it. First of it is the fill power factor that quills up the intensified plumage warmth of duck, geese or any other related flock bird feathers. The Fill Power can be measured and has somewhat standard scores ‘sanctioned to it. The FP ratings are as follows:

*FP – 400-450 (Medium), 500-550 (Good), 550-750 (Very Good), 750-900 (Excellent)*

Furthermore, down jackets are wheeze thickened with the best insulation materials. The fabric is nimble-fingered inculcated with seated stitchery scheming and you get ultimate warmth and a sound roomy fitting. Other amazing features to down jacket include attached hood collars, banded sleeves cuffs, and hemline for concealing the smallest of areas to keep in the heat. Lastly, you just cannot ignore the lined pockets secluded on the border insides of the jacket.

“Honest Flaws of a Down Jacket that should not be ignored”

Ø  The down jackets lose absorbing insulation when getting wet.

Ø  Down Jackets require special cleaning and care when you’re looking for its long-term maintenance.

Ø  Down Jackets are not decent for keeping them enfolded in your wardrobes. Also for most of the jackets that require hangers to keep them in organized in the closets.

Ø  These outfits take a lot of time when something spills over them. Also, they might take a day or two to get dry at room temperatures once they get wet.

Ø  Down Jackets are way too expensive compared to other outfits meant to keep you warm, so these should be your second best choice when it comes winter wears!

Author Bio:

I am Kathleen Swafford passionate of internet stuff such as blogging, affiliate marketing and most importantly, I like to trade domain and website. If you are inside digital marketing, let’s connect us for future opportunities. </span

The post What You Need To Know About Down Jackets appeared first on Montem Outdoor Gear.

from Montem Outdoor Gear https://montemlife.com/what-you-need-to-know-about-down-jackets/

[swipestream]

Short Reviews – The Dark World, by Henry Kuttner

The Dark World, by Henry Kuttner was originally published in the Summer 1946 issue of Startling Stories. The reprint reviewed was published in Winter 1954 issue of Fantastic Story Magazine, which can be found here on Archive.org.

“My Plane Crashed Over the Jungles of Sumatra, and Now I’m the Dread Lord Ganelon, but My Ex-Girlfriend is a Vampire and Wants Me Dead!”, an all-new a classic Isekai adventure from Henry Kuttner!

I talked a little bit about this story last week, but now I have some more time to get into the meat of it. The premise is that a mysterious being or act of sorcery [read “intense science magic”] caused the timeline and reality of Earth to split in two [semi-spoilers] around Arthurian times. Our world’s history proceeded as it did, but “The Dark World” saw an accelerated evolution of man’s mental powers and ability to use his mind to harness natural forces. Mutants had evolved powers that took on the aspect of certain mythic beings [werewolves, vampires, gorgons] that somewhat justified the existence of the myths in our own world.

The Dark World starts in earnest when the protagonist is pulled from Earth to the Dark World by the vampire sorceress Medea and told that he is not who he thinks he is, Edward Bond, but is actually Ganelon, Lord of the Coven, bound to the great beast Llyr. There was an Edward Bond, who was from our world—the two were forcibly switched before by magic science, and Edward Bond had been using his knowledge as a WWII fighting man to aid to rebels in the woods who were trying to stop the Covenanters. Now Ganelon is back in his body but stuck with the memories of Edward Bond and the conflict of a split personality; when trying to figure out what is going on and getting his memories back as Ganelon, he discovers that his Coven, even his own lover Medea, is preparing to sacrifice him to the beast Llyr, the only way in which he could be destroyed!

Ganelon escapes and ends up having to work with his hated enemies, the rebels in the woods, while pretending to be the good Edward Bond. There is, of course, the will he or won’t he betray the good guys in the end and the question of what he’ll do with the good girl who loved Edward Bond and witch who loved Ganelon.

I’ve seen several people say that the most interesting stuff going on science fiction and fantasy is coming out of Japan, but a lot of what’s out there is actually following many of the same paths as SFF from the 1940s and earlier; it’s just so alien to the average person that they had no idea what the normal tropes of science fiction and fantasy were.

A lot of common elements found in JRPGs are present in The Dark World—the notion that magic is another name for natural forces that can be harnessed by tools of science and “magic” as the byproduct of mutations caused by the presence of a buried undead man-god-machine hybrid are just a couple examples that might seem mind-blowing and incredibly novel to those who’ve played a Final Fantasy or Xenogears for the first time, but here they are in a rag from 1946.

I don’t know for certain that Kuttner read or was influenced at all by Kline, but it would be very unsurprising. The manner of mind transference is not at all dissimilar from Kline’s Mars and Venus books, however the minds are transferred across dimension in the same time rather than across time within the same dimension. In Kline’s stories, an individual with a near identical brain and body make-up had to exist at some point in time for a transfer to occur*. In The Dark World, the transference required that the same individual exist in both dimensions [not an easy occurrence, given the timelines’ divergence. Here, of course, the added chestnut is “what if the transferred consciousness or soul shared the memories of the host?” Where does Edward Bond end and Ganelon begin?

The Dark World is an exceptional and fantastic work, but it does have a few flaws which I suspect may be simply in Kuttner’s style of writing. Kuttner is vague on spatial details, something that I noticed in his collab with his wife “Earth’s Last Citadel” and did not know then which writer to attribute it to**, to the point where there feels like there’s not a setting—his characters act out the scenes and adventures on a sparse Shakespearean stage with nothing but that which the character is immediately interacting present. While it made Last Citadel a bit difficult to follow, it did not detract too badly from The Dark World, which was written in 1st person and thus could be chalked up to the self-absorbed and somewhat introspective nature of an unreliable villain narrator.

  *: The handwavium here is that it’s implied in Kline’s stories that humanity actually has a common descent from peoples of Mars and Venus and therefore there would be bound to be some repetitions in Man’s limited code across the aeons—see Jupiter Ascending for a more recent interpretation of this.

**: I know that the general consensus is to assume that most of what they wrote after they were married was collaborative; I’m just going off the fact that none of what I’ve read by CL Moore in either the Best Of or the Jirel omnibus shares this difficult to describe property; in fact, I’d originally been put off enough by this aspect of Earth’s Last Citadel that, had I not found a dirt-cheap hardcover Jirel omnibus and taken a chance on it, I might have written off Moore altogether as not-my-cuppa. Needless to say, I’m glad I didn’t.

Short Reviews – The Dark World, by Henry Kuttner published first on https://medium.com/@ReloadedPCGames

[montemoutdoorgear1]

What You Need To Know About Down Jackets

Coats, Jackets and other corresponding attire archetypes are getting majestic material touches. The clothing shelters are speaking out aristocratic heralds from the day they’ve been introduced with special needlework specifications, craftsmanship pioneering unique designs and features, long-lasting outfit endurance, so on and so forth.

There are a lot of clad-on consolidations when it comes to upgrading fragile apparel (dress) with coverage of soft solid-state attire fabric fortitude (usually coats and jackets). But there are still other options that promote both versatility and vivacity to one’s personality. You will find tons of different types of coats and jackets that vary in shapes, have standard colors, undergo a different needlepoint scheme procedure, different materials with shipshape formations,

Since I’m myself when it comes to jackets (preferably made in leather), I cannot grasp any other garment than being fond of all-inclusive leather jackets. I have a huge collection and totally a separate closet to store my best rawhide masterpieces. Mostly I buy my jackets from local brand stores, get my Dubai-based Uncles to do this “garb job” for me, or getting some flashy real deal sales at Amazon. I don’t relish my clothing regalia from third parties, but still, Avengers Endgame Hoodie has sound authenticity when it comes to genuine leather endorsed garments. Got a few last and it erased all my doubt about ‘small fries’ trying to sell legit brands. MJ is a great platform from where you can go for your favorite jackets with spick-and-span quality branding.

Over the past few months, I’m being drawn into Down Jackets and I wanted to share my personal expertise and experience so far I’m having with a few downs I bought last year. So here’s what I’ve recollected so far for you guys.

Overview of Features and Formulas you need to know about Down Jackets

The name of this outfit says it all. Deep down under the polyester-satin materials or any other abridged fabric, duck and geese feathers are trapped on the inside of its sleek garment gleaming shell.

 Since feathers are naturally meant to protect big flying flappers from cold breezes since they swiftly reel in skies in big groups. Hence, down jackets are amazing for people looking to stay warm in cooler climates with low-density outfits gripping in a decent down jacket fill power.

 Fill Power is predominantly a down jacket feature and it’s one of the main specs buyers will look out for. The FP is basically the capacity of the fluffed up scoring made through feathers – higher the fill power, more the down jacket’s warmth and heat absorption.

 A down jacket has a puffer formation yet remains quite a unique wear for individuals looking for an exclusive attire selection. Down jackets are known for their insulation impressions and really offers something you want for an enduring ensemble to have.

Down Jackets have a generous roomy fitting space for obese people as well since it’s a dexterously built wobbly wearable downright from its construction?

Down Jackets are made solely from the aesthetics point of few and are permeated with vibrant colors to make them look absorbingly cooler and fashionable.

Down jackets are considerably lightweight yet has substantial heat retention to it.

The puffer/parka outfit themed down jackets offer exceptional styles and are conveniently repressed down to fit in your luggage i.e. taking less space in your baggage and making room for other necessitated traveling items.

3 Major Types of Down Jackets Constructions You Should Know

Before getting into the enlightening revelations for what you should observe to purchase the perfect down jacket. You must educate yourselves for the three major types of downs and the specified ways they’re weaved and formed.

The most basic and indeed the cheapest form of down jacket is the Sewn Through one. Not that it’s a warm see-through outfit that some people might confuse it while reading its supposed name. This distinctive down jacket is formed while keeping in cost-effective factors in mind. This one is a simpler, straightforwardly drafted with a less expensive material used in its construction. Not confuse this for a cheaper type, but it’s utterly made to keep its costs under budgets so that everyone could enjoy one of these.

Moviesjacket is simply the opposite of Sewn Through. It’s a thoroughly built down jacket and has maximizing fill power due to its lofty structure, deft handmade craftsmanship, and the dedicated deep-rooted sewing scheme. This one has great quality and Vectorptionally long-term suitability to it.

Down Jackets are also considered to be constructed on the following basis apart from considering its types:

        Elasticity and Durability

        Lightweight and comfortable to wear

        Warm Jacket for harsh cold weathers

        Waterproofing and breathability

Down Jackets are Time-proven to be Hilltop Hikers and Mountaineers Top Choice

Incontestably, enthusiast and summit conquering cliffhangers cherish their down jackets the most. They ease them in their adventures and keep them always in their backpacks when they’re treading of for the coarsely rugged rocky terrains. There are a lot of assorted attires you can buy when it comes to your next best down jacket having the best fortitude fill-up materialization. You can find a lot of blogs promoting the trendiest downs you can get.

A few names include:

        L.L.Bean Ultralight 850 Down Sweater

        Helly Hansen Odin Vero Jacket

        Mountain Hardware Ghost Whisperer

        Eddie Bauer MicroTherm 2.0 Storm Down Jacket

        Canada Goose Hybridge Lite Hoody

        REI Co-op Magma 850 down Hoodie

        Featherweight Down Jackets

        Henry II Down Jackets

        Aurora Women Down Jacket

Down Jackets Insulation Fabric Material has all the Magic

These outfits are ideally constructed and have plentiful fabric factors playing amidst down jackets. Some of the best fascinating aspects of it. First of it is the fill power factor that quills up the intensified plumage warmth of duck, geese or any other related flock bird feathers. The Fill Power can be measured and has somewhat standard scores ‘sanctioned to it. The FP ratings are as follows:

*FP – 400-450 (Medium), 500-550 (Good), 550-750 (Very Good), 750-900 (Excellent)*

Furthermore, down jackets are wheeze thickened with the best insulation materials. The fabric is nimble-fingered inculcated with seated stitchery scheming and you get ultimate warmth and a sound roomy fitting. Other amazing features to down jacket include attached hood collars, banded sleeves cuffs, and hemline for concealing the smallest of areas to keep in the heat. Lastly, you just cannot ignore the lined pockets secluded on the border insides of the jacket.

“Honest Flaws of a Down Jacket that should not be ignored”

Ø  The down jackets lose absorbing insulation when getting wet.

Ø  Down Jackets require special cleaning and care when you’re looking for its long-term maintenance.

Ø  Down Jackets are not decent for keeping them enfolded in your wardrobes. Also for most of the jackets that require hangers to keep them in organized in the closets.

Ø  These outfits take a lot of time when something spills over them. Also, they might take a day or two to get dry at room temperatures once they get wet.

Ø  Down Jackets are way too expensive compared to other outfits meant to keep you warm, so these should be your second best choice when it comes winter wears!

Author Bio:

I am Kathleen Swafford passionate of internet stuff such as blogging, affiliate marketing and most importantly, I like to trade domain and website. If you are inside digital marketing, let’s connect us for future opportunities. </span

The post What You Need To Know About Down Jackets appeared first on Montem Outdoor Gear.

from Montem Outdoor Gear https://montemlife.com/what-you-need-to-know-about-down-jackets/

[montemoutdoorgear1]

What You Need To Know About Down Jackets

Coats, Jackets and other corresponding attire archetypes are getting majestic material touches. The clothing shelters are speaking out aristocratic heralds from the day they’ve been introduced with special needlework specifications, craftsmanship pioneering unique designs and features, long-lasting outfit endurance, so on and so forth.

There are a lot of clad-on consolidations when it comes to upgrading fragile apparel (dress) with coverage of soft solid-state attire fabric fortitude (usually coats and jackets). But there are still other options that promote both versatility and vivacity to one’s personality. You will find tons of different types of coats and jackets that vary in shapes, have standard colors, undergo a different needlepoint scheme procedure, different materials with shipshape formations,

Since I’m myself when it comes to jackets (preferably made in leather), I cannot grasp any other garment than being fond of all-inclusive leather jackets. I have a huge collection and totally a separate closet to store my best rawhide masterpieces. Mostly I buy my jackets from local brand stores, get my Dubai-based Uncles to do this “garb job” for me, or getting some flashy real deal sales at Amazon. I don’t relish my clothing regalia from third parties, but still, Avengers Endgame Hoodie has sound authenticity when it comes to genuine leather endorsed garments. Got a few last and it erased all my doubt about ‘small fries’ trying to sell legit brands. MJ is a great platform from where you can go for your favorite jackets with spick-and-span quality branding.

Over the past few months, I’m being drawn into Down Jackets and I wanted to share my personal expertise and experience so far I’m having with a few downs I bought last year. So here’s what I’ve recollected so far for you guys.

Overview of Features and Formulas you need to know about Down Jackets

The name of this outfit says it all. Deep down under the polyester-satin materials or any other abridged fabric, duck and geese feathers are trapped on the inside of its sleek garment gleaming shell.

 Since feathers are naturally meant to protect big flying flappers from cold breezes since they swiftly reel in skies in big groups. Hence, down jackets are amazing for people looking to stay warm in cooler climates with low-density outfits gripping in a decent down jacket fill power.

 Fill Power is predominantly a down jacket feature and it’s one of the main specs buyers will look out for. The FP is basically the capacity of the fluffed up scoring made through feathers – higher the fill power, more the down jacket’s warmth and heat absorption.

 A down jacket has a puffer formation yet remains quite a unique wear for individuals looking for an exclusive attire selection. Down jackets are known for their insulation impressions and really offers something you want for an enduring ensemble to have.

Down Jackets have a generous roomy fitting space for obese people as well since it’s a dexterously built wobbly wearable downright from its construction?

Down Jackets are made solely from the aesthetics point of few and are permeated with vibrant colors to make them look absorbingly cooler and fashionable.

Down jackets are considerably lightweight yet has substantial heat retention to it.

The puffer/parka outfit themed down jackets offer exceptional styles and are conveniently repressed down to fit in your luggage i.e. taking less space in your baggage and making room for other necessitated traveling items.

3 Major Types of Down Jackets Constructions You Should Know

Before getting into the enlightening revelations for what you should observe to purchase the perfect down jacket. You must educate yourselves for the three major types of downs and the specified ways they’re weaved and formed.

The most basic and indeed the cheapest form of down jacket is the Sewn Through one. Not that it’s a warm see-through outfit that some people might confuse it while reading its supposed name. This distinctive down jacket is formed while keeping in cost-effective factors in mind. This one is a simpler, straightforwardly drafted with a less expensive material used in its construction. Not confuse this for a cheaper type, but it’s utterly made to keep its costs under budgets so that everyone could enjoy one of these.

Moviesjacket is simply the opposite of Sewn Through. It’s a thoroughly built down jacket and has maximizing fill power due to its lofty structure, deft handmade craftsmanship, and the dedicated deep-rooted sewing scheme. This one has great quality and Vectorptionally long-term suitability to it.

Down Jackets are also considered to be constructed on the following basis apart from considering its types:

        Elasticity and Durability

        Lightweight and comfortable to wear

        Warm Jacket for harsh cold weathers

        Waterproofing and breathability

Down Jackets are Time-proven to be Hilltop Hikers and Mountaineers Top Choice

Incontestably, enthusiast and summit conquering cliffhangers cherish their down jackets the most. They ease them in their adventures and keep them always in their backpacks when they’re treading of for the coarsely rugged rocky terrains. There are a lot of assorted attires you can buy when it comes to your next best down jacket having the best fortitude fill-up materialization. You can find a lot of blogs promoting the trendiest downs you can get.

A few names include:

        L.L.Bean Ultralight 850 Down Sweater

        Helly Hansen Odin Vero Jacket

        Mountain Hardware Ghost Whisperer

        Eddie Bauer MicroTherm 2.0 Storm Down Jacket

        Canada Goose Hybridge Lite Hoody

        REI Co-op Magma 850 down Hoodie

        Featherweight Down Jackets

        Henry II Down Jackets

        Aurora Women Down Jacket

Down Jackets Insulation Fabric Material has all the Magic

These outfits are ideally constructed and have plentiful fabric factors playing amidst down jackets. Some of the best fascinating aspects of it. First of it is the fill power factor that quills up the intensified plumage warmth of duck, geese or any other related flock bird feathers. The Fill Power can be measured and has somewhat standard scores ‘sanctioned to it. The FP ratings are as follows:

*FP – 400-450 (Medium), 500-550 (Good), 550-750 (Very Good), 750-900 (Excellent)*

Furthermore, down jackets are wheeze thickened with the best insulation materials. The fabric is nimble-fingered inculcated with seated stitchery scheming and you get ultimate warmth and a sound roomy fitting. Other amazing features to down jacket include attached hood collars, banded sleeves cuffs, and hemline for concealing the smallest of areas to keep in the heat. Lastly, you just cannot ignore the lined pockets secluded on the border insides of the jacket.

“Honest Flaws of a Down Jacket that should not be ignored”

Ø  The down jackets lose absorbing insulation when getting wet.

Ø  Down Jackets require special cleaning and care when you’re looking for its long-term maintenance.

Ø  Down Jackets are not decent for keeping them enfolded in your wardrobes. Also for most of the jackets that require hangers to keep them in organized in the closets.

Ø  These outfits take a lot of time when something spills over them. Also, they might take a day or two to get dry at room temperatures once they get wet.

Ø  Down Jackets are way too expensive compared to other outfits meant to keep you warm, so these should be your second best choice when it comes winter wears!

Author Bio:

I am Kathleen Swafford passionate of internet stuff such as blogging, affiliate marketing and most importantly, I like to trade domain and website. If you are inside digital marketing, let’s connect us for future opportunities. </span

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