#(we will not speak of Charles and Camilla)

[nerdrooikat]

drabbles about the deer imagery in The Secret History (specifically in relation 2 Camilla) because her becoming a deer/believing that she did stuck in my mind (although this post will mostly take Camilla and the other's recollection of events to be as they recount it – if i examine it in it's effect as an incorrect account, that would be in a separate post)

Obviously there's, on a meta level, an irony to it – Camilla and Charles are named to make fun of the Princess Diana scandal that was happening at the time, and so ironically Camilla transforms into an animal sacred to Diana.

There's also a parallel that I think could be interesting to make between Camilla and Taygete, who for anyone unfamiliar, was turned into a deer by Artemis to protect her from Zeus' sexual advances. Although I think that what happened in the Bacchae was concensual sexually, I think it could possible be indicative in Camilla's narrative role as the "wanted"/"desired" one within the greek class – by Charles, Henry, Richard (although he wasnt there) and even Francis, although he wants to be her more so than actually wanting her.

Additionally, outside of how it actually functions within the story, her transformation into a creature associated so closely with innocence, especially in relation to Diana/Artemis' virginity, might perhaps be tied to Richards view of her as this "pure" and "virginal" person – obviously we know this is far from the truth, and he himself learns this later, but I think it definitely ties into this flawed angelic idea of her he so covets.

I think this interpretation ties into the myth of Actaeon (in terms of "deer transformation myths") although its very interesting to me that they different at key points – Camilla, the "virginual" character, is the one transformed, rather than the sexual transgressor (Charles) or the one who introduces miasma (Henry). But, like Actaeon, she is pursued and hunted – which, another key point – Actaeon is pursued and killed by his own hunting dogs, and Charles returns from the ritual with a bite mark, perhaps tying him into the myth thurther?

[smol-soop-spoon]

I tthink we need to make something clear and it's that the guys of the greek class get pegged. Thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[charliedaltonswife]

Crack of A Gun

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: okay so instead of Richard getting shot you do, that's it, its a long one.

Warnings: getting shot?? Henry doesn't off himself in this one. Like the tiniest charles/reader if you squint like really hard. POV change as well.

master list found here

Richard POV

The door slammed open with a violence that ricocheted off the walls, startling us into silence. Charles stood in the threshold, gun in hand, his face flushed and wild, the air around him charged with the tang of whiskey and adrenaline. He staggered slightly, but his grip on the gun was disturbingly firm, his knuckles white against the polished metal.

“Jesus, Charles, you've brought a gun?” you said, stepping forward slightly, your tone firm but not unkind.

His eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, something in his expression softened, his grip faltering. But then Camilla spoke, her voice calm and steady. “Charles, you’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”

“And you think you are?” he snapped, rounding on her. “You think any of you are? We killed Bunny! We’re all just sitting here, pretending like it’s fine, like he’s not at the bottom of that ravine - rotting - and it’s fine.”

"Charles, put the gun down." I piped up, for some reason compelled to say something. Charles turned to me and I intently regretted it. The gun pointed lazily in my direction sent me into a state of paralysis.

"Henry's gotten to you as well, like he does with every one of us. Ruined our lives." Charles slurred, drunkenly turning towards Henry.

“So you’ve come to kill me then, and you suppose that will make things better?” Henry’s voice cut through the tension, cold and measured. He didn’t move from his seat, his sharp gaze fixed on the weapon in Charles’s hand, as if daring it to waver.

Charles let out a humorless laugh, his chest heaving. “Better than your stupid ideas,” he shot back, his voice slurring at the edges. “What are you doing, Henry? Sitting there like everything’s fine? Like, like we’re not completely screwed?”

Camilla took a step back, her composure slipping. “And you’re going to screw us even more if you kill another person Charles.”

“Can’t you see it Milly,” Charles spat, his voice venomous. “We can't act like this was the right thing. Bunny’s dead because he wouldn’t play along with Henry’s psychotic little games.”

Henry stood then, his movements slow, deliberate. “Bunny’s dead,” he said evenly, “because he was going to put us all in jail. All of us. Including you, Charles.”

Charles laughed again, a bitter, hollow sound. “Oh, you’re good, Henry. Always so calm, so rational. But what happens when this falls apart, huh? What happens when Richard cracks, or Francis decides he’s had enough of this madness?”

“That’s enough,” Henry said, his voice sharp now, a command.

But Charles didn’t back down. If anything, he seemed to feed off Henry’s anger, his grip tightening on the gun. “No, Henry. It’s not enough. It’s never enough with you. Always planning, always controlling-”

“Charles, stop, you’re too drunk to be holding a loaded fucking weapon,” you said, stepping forward again, your hands raised slightly.

“Y/N, don’t,” Henry said sharply, his gaze flicking to you.

But it was too late. Charles’s attention was on you now, his expression twisting with something unreadable. “And you,” he said, his voice quieter now, more dangerous. “Always defending him. Always standing by him, like you’re his little, his little disciple.”

“Don’t be a prick Charles, you know that’s not true,” you said evenly, though your voice shook slightly. “We’re all stuck in this together.”

“Oh, are we?” he said, his tone mocking. “Funny, because it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m the only one who sees how insane this is. Maybe you're too blind by this perverted infatuation you have with him.”

You faltered, "Well aren't you brave when you're drunk. Come on, say what you really want to say Charles."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his sister cut him off before he dug himself a hole. I had no idea what you meant, nor did you ever tell me after what you and Charles were talking about.

“Charles,” Camilla said softly, her voice trembling. “Please. Just put the gun down.”

He looked at her then, and something in his face crumpled, just for a moment. But then Henry stepped forward, his movements careful, calculated, and the fragile truce shattered.

“Give me the gun,” Henry said, his voice low, commanding.

“No,” Charles said, his voice rising. “No, you don’t get to-”

Henry lunged then, his hand closing around Charles’s wrist, and everything happened at once. The two of them struggled, the gun swinging wildly, and you moved instinctively, reaching out to help. 

Then a crack.

The gunshot shattered the air, louder than anything I had ever heard. For a second, everything froze, the sound of it still ringing in my ears, the acrid smell of gunpowder cutting through the room.

Then I saw her on the floor, clutching her side, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“God,” Francis whispered, his hand flying to his mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“Y/N-” I choked, but Henry was already there, dropping to his knees beside her, his face pale and rigid.

Charles staggered backward, the gun hanging limp in his hand, his face twisted in horror. “I didn’t-” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to-”

“You idiot,” Henry snapped, not even looking at him. His hands were pressed against her side, blood seeping through his fingers. “Get me something to stop the bleeding.”

Camilla moved first, grabbing a towel from the side table, her hands trembling as she passed it to him. “Here,” she said, her voice shaky.

Henry snatched it without a word, pressing it firmly against the wound. “Keep pressure here,” he ordered, guiding her hand to the towel.

“Henry,” she murmured, her voice faint but steady.

“Don’t talk,” he said sharply. “You’ve already lost too much blood.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted weakly, her lips curving into a faint, wry smile.

“Shut up,” he said flatly, his eyes flicking to hers for a brief moment before returning to the wound. “You’re not fine.”

Across the room, Charles was pacing, his hands in his hair, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “I didn’t mean to,” he kept saying, his voice rising. “I didn’t mean to - she just - why the hell did you move Y/N?”

“Oh yes, blame the woman that's been shot Charles. Why the hell were you holding a gun in the first place?” Francis snapped, his voice cutting. “Are you completely out of your mind?”

“Oh, don’t start, Francis,” Charles shot back, his voice trembling. “You’ve been sitting here pretending like everything’s fine, like we didn’t, like we didn’t,”

“Enough,” Henry barked, his voice slicing through their argument like a blade. “All of you. Make yourselves useful. Richard, get some water.”

Charles hesitated, his hands shaking, but the force of Henry’s glare seemed to pin him in place. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands, muttering to himself as I scurried out of the room as fast as I could to the kitchen.

I grabbed a glass of water from the tap and brought it over. “Here,” I said, my voice softer now. “What can I do?”

“Well, you did a year of med school, you tell me.” Henry responded before I knelt down next to you, trying my best with the little resources I had and faded memory of that year in med school, to try to help you.  

“Henry,” Y/N said again, her voice a little stronger this time.

He looked down at her, his jaw tightening. “I told you to stop talking.”

“I’m okay,” she insisted, her eyes meeting his.

“You’re not,” he said bluntly. “You’ve been shot. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Her lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement in her expression despite the pain. “You’re awfully bossy, you know that?”

He didn’t answer, his gaze dropping back to the wound as he adjusted the pressure on the towel. His hands were steady now, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a rigidity that betrayed the effort it was taking him to keep his composure.

“Henry,” Camilla said quietly, hovering nearby. “Should we call someone?”

“No,” he said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We handle this ourselves.”

“Handle it ourselves?” Francis repeated, incredulous. “She’s been shot, Henry. She needs a hospital.”

“And when they start asking questions?” Henry shot back, his voice cold. “What do you suggest we tell them? That our friend was so guilty for killing our other friend that he accidently brought a gun and shot her?”

Francis fell silent, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

Henry turned his attention back to her, his voice lowering slightly. “We’ll take care of this. You’ll be fine.”

She gave a small, shaky laugh, wincing at the motion. “You’re very reassuring.”

“It’s just a graze,” I muttered, pulling the towel back to inspect the wound. The words should have been a relief, but my tone was clipped, like I was more annoyed with the situation than anything else.

“See?” you murmured, your voice a faint tease. “I told you I’m fine.”

Pressing the towel back against your side, he replied “This does not qualify as ‘fine.’”

“It’s not that bad,” you insisted, though the sting of the graze and the throbbing ache spreading from your ribs told a different story.

Henry didn’t dignify that with a response, his focus sharp as he shifted slightly, one knee on the ground beside you, his hand firm but careful against your side.

“Christ, I think I’m going to be sick,” Francis muttered, backing away from the scene and collapsing into a chair, his head in his hands.

“You’re not the one who got shot, Francis,” I responded

“I promise Y/N, I didn’t mean it,” Charles’s voice rose again, panicked and defensive. He stood suddenly, knocking over a chair in the process, and ran his hands through his hair. “I swear, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop, it’s quite alright Charl-” you had started but was interrupted by Henry. 

“No one cares about your excuses right now,” Henry said flatly, not even looking at Charles. “What matters is fixing this mess.”

“Mess?” Charles spat, his voice cracking. “She’s not a mess, Henry.”

“Not her,” Henry said coldly, finally glancing up at Charles. “The situation. Which you made infinitely worse.”

“You didn’t exactly stop me, did you?” Charles shot back, his face flushing.

“Stop it,” Camilla interrupted, her voice trembling but firm. She stood between them, her hands outstretched, trying to contain the fraying tension in the room. “Fighting isn’t going to fix anything.”

“Camilla’s right,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “Everyone just... take a breath.”

Henry didn’t respond, his eyes narrowing slightly as he adjusted the towel again.

“God, he’s insufferable,” Francis muttered from the corner, earning a faint laugh from you that turned into a wince.

“Don’t make her laugh,” Henry snapped, his voice cutting through the room.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize we were in the operating room,” Francis retorted, his sarcasm barely masking his nerves.

“Enough,” Camilla said again, her voice cracking this time. She glanced down at you, her expression softening. “Are you sure you’re okay? Really?”

“I’ll live,” you said, your gaze flicking to Henry. “As long as Dr. Winter here doesn’t strangle me with his bedside manner.”

Henry’s lips twitched, just barely, but his hands remained steady as he worked. “If you stopped talking, I wouldn’t have to.”

-

The group’s arguing eventually fizzled into an uneasy silence. Charles had retreated to a corner, his head in his hands, while Francis lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the smoke curling around him in faint spirals. I stayed seated on the couch, having done what I could. 

It was Henry who broke the silence, his voice low and firm. “Camilla, Richard, clean up the blood. Francis, help them out. Charles—” He didn’t even finish the sentence, just sent him a withering look before turning his attention back to you.

“You should lie down,” he said, his voice softening slightly as he helped you to your feet, his arm steady around your waist.

“I’m fine, Henry,” you protested, though you leaned into him as he guided you toward the couch.

“Would you stop saying that,” he replied bluntly. “You’re not.”

-

3rd person POV

Later, after the others had reluctantly left - Camilla, Francis and Richard dragging Charles outside for fresh air - Henry stayed by your side, his presence solid and unwavering. His expression, usually so inscrutable, was softer now, though still laced with the faintest trace of tension as he continued to tend to your wound. His movements were purposeful, precise, and somehow calming, each gesture meticulous as if he had done this a thousand times before.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, watching him as he cleaned the graze on your side with careful attention.

Henry’s gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp yet tempered with something else. “Don’t be foolish,” he replied, his voice clipped, but beneath it, you caught a flicker of something less harsh. “You’re bleeding, and I’m not about to leave you to suffer in silence.”

You managed a faint smile, despite the ache in your side. “I’m really fine, Henry. I don’t need a personal nurse.”

His lips tightened, as if he was ready to dismiss your words, but instead, he said, “I know you’re fine. It’s not about that.” His fingers brushed the bandage, a subtle tenderness in his touch. “I want to be here.”

The simple truth in his words hit you harder than you expected. It left you silent, the weight of the moment sinking in, more than the pain from your side ever could. His hands continued their work, efficiently securing the bandage, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the question delicate despite the sharpness in his eyes.

“Not really,” you admitted, swallowing the lie. “It’s just a graze.”

He didn’t believe you. The slight narrowing of his eyes made it clear that he saw through your attempt at masking the discomfort. He said nothing, though, his hands stilling briefly as his gaze dropped to your wound, his expression unreadable but full of quiet concentration.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” he muttered, his voice tight, the words laced with self-directed guilt.

You reached up, your fingers brushing his wrist, the contact small. “It wasn’t your fault,” you said gently, your gaze steady on his.

Henry looked at you then, his gaze darkening, sharp and intense. “It could have been worse,” he said, voice rough. “I should have stopped him sooner.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” you interrupted, your voice soft but firm, squeezing his wrist just enough to catch his attention. “It was an accident, Henry. You didn’t cause this.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering to your side, his eyes dark with frustration, and maybe something else - something quieter, almost protective.

“He’s reckless,” Henry said, his voice rougher now. “And stupid. And you…” He cut himself off, his expression tightening even further. “You could have died because of it.”

“But I didn’t,” you said, your voice quieter this time, but no less resolute.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, his hand still resting near your side, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of your shirt. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “You scare me sometimes.”

You looked up at him, eyes searching. “Me?” you asked, surprised. “Why?”

Henry’s gaze met yours, his expression guarded yet open in a way it rarely was. “Because you’re you,” he said, his voice strangely vulnerable. “I can’t imagine a world where something happens to you.” He stopped, shaking his head as if trying to shake the thought off, but it lingered between you like something tangible.

You felt a sharp twist in your chest at his words, but instead of speaking, you reached up and touched his hand gently, squeezing it lightly, as if that simple gesture could offer reassurance.

“Sadly, it seems you’re stuck with me,” you said quietly, your voice soft but certain.

Henry didn’t say anything immediately, but his grip on your hand tightened, steady and grounding. It was a wordless acknowledgment, his hand warm and sure against yours. For a moment, everything else faded, the tension, the fear, the pain, leaving just the two of you in the soft stillness of the room.

He glanced down at you then, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You should rest,” he murmured after a while, his tone strangely gentle, though it still carried that underlying command that you’d come to recognize in him.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a mix of affection and stubbornness. “Henry Winter telling someone to rest?” you said with a half-smile. “How rich.”

A small, fleeting smile tugged at the corner of his lips in response, almost imperceptible but enough to soften the sharp edges of his usual demeanor. “Consider it a rare moment of concern,” he said, his voice low, but with the faintest trace of humor that made your heart skip.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wince as you moved, but eventually, you settled your head carefully in his lap, your body aching but the warmth of his presence grounding you. His hand remained steady, hovering above you for a moment before finally resting lightly on your arm. He didn’t pull away, though his posture was stiff for a moment, as though unsure how to proceed.

“Are you comfortable?” you asked, your voice soft but teasing.

Henry’s lips quirked just enough to be noticeable. “You should be the one asking that,” he muttered, but it was clear the tension had eased between you.

His hand rested firmly against your arm, and for the first time in hours, the rest of the world outside that room seemed to disappear. The soft crackle of the fire blurred into a gentle hum as he absentmindedly traced light patterns on your arm.

“You’re worrying about them again, aren’t you?” he said eventually, his voice laced with amusement, though it was quiet.

You sighed, a soft breath escaping you. “They’re all just... shaken up. Charles more than anyone,” you murmured, your eyes drifting closed. “He never meant for this to happen.”

Henry’s fingers paused for a beat, but he didn’t speak at first. Instead, his gaze softened as he stared down at you, his eyes heavy with something that might have been concern—or something else entirely.

“You have a habit of doing that,” he said finally, his voice steady. “Worry about everybody else except yourself.”

You opened your eyes briefly, catching his gaze. “Liar.”

He smirked slightly, the faintest trace of that signature Henry Winter teasing slipping into his expression. “You know it’s true,” he said bluntly, before his gaze softened again. “You’re going to worry yourself to death before the bullet can.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The weight of the world seemed to have lifted, leaving only the two of you in the quiet cocoon of the room. It was strange, this comfort between you, but undeniable. Finally, you leaned up slightly, meeting his gaze with a quiet certainty.

“Henry?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but his grip on your hand unwavering. “Hmm?”

“Thank you,” you said softly, your words simple but sincere.

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on you as though considering his answer carefully. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than before, softer, more genuine. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

a/n: sorry for the pov change, i find it awfully gross. double post today, your girl felt productive and didn't want to continue writing her essay

[urfavoritedcwhore]

hi lovely! I come bearing a henry winter request

So maybe they are all in Francis’ house (reader and henry are dating) and henry gets one of his headaches and idk reader takes care of him (as he reluctantly lets her)

Im sorry that is all i came up with for now😭 thank you <333

uhm i literally love that idea so yes of course.

just let me help you//henry winter x reader

doing this in the way i wrote my last henry winter fanfic, instead of using “you” I write “i” and so forth. (don’t worry tho cause there will be plenty of “y/n”’s thrown in here:)

warnings: mention of alcohol, mention of migraines, swearing, drinking

(not proof read)

sitting in the hammock Reading my book at the country house is probably my all-time favorite thing to do. the fall air, the sounds of the twins bickering with Bunny as they all play croquet, Francis and Richard out on the boat, and my lovely Henry reading on the porch with a glass of scotch. However, this day is severely different. As my friends and I drive to the lake house, Henry is growing increasingly snappy. Bunny begins to go off on a rant about how “religion is a ploy to get all of the dumbasses who believe in that shit’s money.”. I listen to his rant, shaking my head slightly as the twins let their mouths hang open in disgust. “Bun, it’s not as if you could truly know that. No one knows if there’s a God or not. It’s all based on personal belief," I explain from the front seat. Being a devoted Catholic, it takes all my willpower to not wear the same face of horror that Camilla and Charles hold, but I know that’s precisely what Bunny wants. “Your joking right, y/n?” I watch him in the rearview mirror nudge Richard. “Old man, can you believe the bullshit she’s spewing?" Bunny says in his nasally voice with a chuckle. I see Richard simply shrug and continue to look out the window. “Bunny, please just change the topic; no one likes bickering about religion with you," I say a bit sharper than before as I continue to watch him from the rearview mirror. “Old gals on her period," he says as if it’s a fact. I turn my head to Henry as he drives, my expression angry and my gaze saying, “Your seriously going to let him speak to me like that?”. Henry glances over at me briefly before returning his gaze to the road silently. I let out a small scoff and voiced my thoughts aloud to him. “You’re going to let him speak about me like that?" I asked, irritated. Bunny chuckles behind me, which only angers me further. Henry only takes a deep breath and remains quiet. “Your attack dog is not barking for you, y/n?” Bunny asks amused. “Both of you, shut up," Henry says sharply and suddenly as he continues to face the road. My eyes grow wide, and I scoff in disbelief before looking out the window and shifting my knees towards the door away from him. Bunny remains chuckling in the back seat. I remain quiet for the rest of the drive, my face undeniably red with anger and embarrassment, both from Bunny speaking to me like he did and Henry not defending me. As we pull into the driveway of the country house, I practically swing open the door as soon as the car stops. I slam it shut, just so Henry can know how frustrated I am. Everyone piles out of the car stretching, except for Henry, who swiftly makes his way towards the front door. I follow behind him as he swings it open and walks up the stairs without a word to me, not even bothering to get his bag out of the car before going to his room. I stand at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, watching him in udder disbelief. Everyone piles in behind us, chatting loudly and heading for the kitchen. I walk away from the stairs, following the group to the kitchen. “Asshole," I mutter under my breath as I walk to the cabinets to get a bottle of wine out. “He’s more...irritable than usual," Charles says behind me as I grab the wine bottle and turn around to get a glass. “Yes, maybe he’s upset about us arriving so late," Camilla replies back as she scrunches her face the way Charles is—something that they always do when they’re thinking. I shake my head and nudge Bunny out of the way of the glasses, grabbing one and setting it on the counter. “He’s just in a pissy mood; he has been since this morning," I say, annoyed as I cork the wine and pour some into the glass. Francis looks up from the piece of mail he’s been studying since we walked in. “Did you see him as he got out of the car? He looked as if he was going to pass out," he says, running a hand through his hair. Camilla shrugs, “Perhaps he’s tired," to which Charles immediately nods, “Yes, perhaps he is.”. I scoff slightly and take a sip of my wine. “Tired? My god, I’ve never once seen him tired. He’s just being a supercilious jerk.”.

Richard shakes his head. "He looks ill," he says in an emotionless voice. slightly irritated that no one’s agreeing with me, I turn around and walk out of the kitchen with my wine in my hand. I find myself back in front of the stairs, staring up at them as I sip my wine. I place my foot on the first stair, and before I know it, I'm marching up the rest of them on a mission. I get to the top of the stairs and look down the left hallway, marching to the room Henry always stays in and slamming open the door. “How are you feeling, darling? Hopefully like a real lousy boyfriend," I say sharply as I see him sitting on the end of his bed with his face in his hands. “Out," he says without looking at me, his voice audibly shaking. My face softens slightly as I continue to study him and the state of his room, curtains closed, no lights on, his jacket off, and his tie loosened. I walk towards him slowly, setting my wine in the dresser as I do so. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask, placing my hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me; he's sweating and extremely pale. Any ounce of anger I have left in me immediately disappears. As I study his face, my own face drops. How could I have been so stupid? “Migraine," I whisper as he looks up at me. He flinches at my quiet word in pain, “Please, please just leave y/n.”. It absolutely breaks my heart whenever I see him like this. Henry is always so put together and independent, but when he has his migraines He becomes almost small-looking, desperate. I rub his shoulder gently and whisper, “Where’s your medication?” I ask softly. “Car," he says as he flinch’s from the pain of hearing his own word. I immediately turn around and jog out of his room, downstairs, out the front door, and to the car. I grab his bag from the trunk and jog all the way back into the house and up the stairs. When I get back into Henry’s room, I'm panting and trying my hardest to catch my breath quietly. After about ten seconds of standing like an idiot, breathing heavily in front of him, I place the bag on the floor, following it down, and sitting on my knees in front of it. I hear him let out a quiet gasp of pain as he hears me unzip the bag. I riffle through it, trying to be as quiet as possible, until I find the small orange bottle of his pills. I unscrew the lid as I stand back up and pour one out into my hand. I grab my wine off the dresser and walk to him, holding the pill and wine out to him. “Please, darling, I can take care of myself," he says quietly and desperately, his voice betraying his words. I move my hands towards him more as a way to say, “Just take it." He slowly reaches out and takes the small pill from my hand, putting it into his mouth before taking the wine from me and using it to wash down the pill. He still looks ghostly white; his eyes close instantly. I gently take off his glasses and lay him flat on the bed, climbing beside him as I cover his eyes with my hand gently to make the room darker for him. He lets out a soft sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t trouble yourself with this," he whispers. I shake my head as I continue to hold my hand gently over his eyes and lay on him. “I’ll do this all night if I need to," I whisper back, my thumb gently tracing his scar in a soothing manner. “Please, y/n, stop treating me like a child. I can take care of myself," he says unconvincingly. I shake my head again and whisper back, “Just sleep, hen.”. He finally falls asleep about five minutes later as I lay beside him for at least three hours, my hand never leaving his eyes. I watch his chest move up and down, his breathing as he sleeps much more even and natural compared to his breaths when he’s awake. I don’t notice at first when he wakes up. “How long has it been?” he asks in a raspy, mumbling voice. I take my hand off his eyes, and he turns on his side to look at me. “Just a few hours, are you still feeling ill?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair.

“You didn’t have to do that; I’m more than capable of taking care of myself," he replies, wrapping an arm around my waist as we lay on our sides facing each other. I nod. “Just let me take care of you from time to time, okay?” I say, moving my hand out for his hair and placing it under my cheek. He closes his eyes and nods slightly as he pulls me closer to him. “Sorry," he mumbles into my neck. I chuckle softly; he’s acting like a child right now, clingy and sleepy. “It’s okay, just get some more rest," I say back as I put my chin on top of his head. "I love you," he mutters into my neck. I kiss the top of his head gently. "I love you too, Hen.”.

A/N: hope this is what you were looking for:)) thank you for the request, i loved writing this!!

[sunarots]

BETTER THAN REVENGE! ━━━ tooru oikawa & rintarou suna

16. breakthrough ♡

Rin leans back against his car with a lit cigarette between his lips, an arm draped around your neck to keep you close. You anxiously keep your vape as close to your mouth as possible, taking a hit whenever you feel your anxiety rise. Atsumu paces back and forth in front of the two of you, stumbling into the way of pedestrians repeatedly. He has one airpod in, listening to the instrumentals you'd pieced together.

Rin pulls the cigarette away and blows the smoke over his shoulder before looking back to you. "We got you. Just like always. Okay, babe?"

Sighing, you nod your head and flash him a weak smile. "Yeah. Okay. We got this," you repeat under your breath, leaning further into him. "Thanks."

He shrugs his shoulders and goes to speak, stopping himself when he notices the approaching couple. Atsumu stops in his tracks, resting his hands on his hips before turning to the pair of you. "Well, if it ain't Charles and Camilla. Ya wearing yer revenge dress?"

You can't help but laugh at Atsumu's comment, shielding your smile with your free hand. You turn fully to face Oikawa and Emiko, stuffing your vape in the pocket of your jeans before grasping onto Rin's hand. "Hey!" You pray your fake smile says it all, gesturing to the cafe. "Ready?"

"Yes! Let's go!" Emiko tugs on Oikawa's hand and immediately leads the way inside.

Rin stubs out the cigarette on the roof of his car before flicking it into the bin, grimacing at the thought of what’s about to happen. You follow the others towards a table hidden around the corner, Emiko instantly excusing herself and Atsumu so they could get everyone's drinks. Rather, her blocking his path to the table so he had no choice but to follow her away.

You slip into the seat opposite Oikawa, Rin falling into place by your side once again. You lean back in your seat, clasping your hands together and resting them on the table. "So, how's the show? You like the script?"

Oikawa laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair and slumping back in his seat. "Yeah. It's interesting. Different."

"Not too different, though," you quickly point out, moving one of your hands to grab Rin's beneath the table. "For you, anyway. Emiko's a great actress. Really smiley and bubbly, but being able to play such a messed up role is impressive. Though, you are the expert."

Rin covers her mouth with his free hand, clearing his throat and adverting his gaze from Oikawa as he sinks lower into his seat.

"Oh, well... That is the job of an actor." He leans forward in his seat, running a hand down his face. "Um, how's the album coming?"

Rin smiles, straightening up. "Oh, it's great. We have one last song to record, and then it'll be out. Hopefully soon on streaming platforms."

You nod along, enjoying watching Oikawa's face contort with distress. He looks behind you and sighs in relief, practically jumping out of his chair to assist Emiko and Atsumu with the drinks.

"What're we talking about?" Emiko asks eagerly, accepting Oikawa's hand as he helps her sit.

"Our new album. We're recording the last song tonight, and then it'll be out for streaming soon. Next week, I hope," you explain, taking a prolonged sip from your cup. "Me and Rin are working on a duet. We can't quite place a chorus or bridge that pulls it together, but I'm on the verge of a breakthrough."

"Wow. It's amazing you can predict it." Emiko gapes, tucking her hair back behind her ears. "What brings it on?"

You shrug your shoulders, Atsumu speaking for you, "Oh, she can take inspiration from anything. Especially people. She could probably write a song about ya." He grins, lightly swatting your arm as if to ask did you hear that?

"I bet she could," Oikawa retorts, clearly intended to be internal. He clears his throat and straightens up. "So, will we make a start on this script? What questions do you have about the plot?"

You shake your head. "No, I think we have the plot. You and Emiko are having problems- sorry, I don't know your characters' names. Anyway, you have problems in the marriage, she goes to all lengths to keep you together and stop you from doing all these sleazy things. That's the gist of it, right?"

Oikawa nods along slowly, clenching his jaw. “Just about, yeah.”

Atsumu runs his fingers along his jaw and sighs heavily. “Y’know, I feel like that reminds me of something. Like it’s a film I’ve seen before…”

You start to laugh at his comment, amused by his efforts of making this as uncomfortable for the couple as possible. It’s clearly working, with the way Oikawa looks like he may explode. Before Rin has a chance to add on to his jests, you grab onto his wrist with wide eyes.

“Oh my god. Rin, the song.” You turn away from Oikawa with an eager smile, full focus on your partner. “I think I’ve seen this film before, and I didn’t like the ending.”

Rin nods along as you hum the tune after, repeating your lyrics in his head. He gasps, snaps his fingers at Atsumu and looks between the two of you. “You say, I gave so many signs. I say, You never gave a warning sign.”

You clap your hands together, looking at Atsumu who’s started the voice recording before opening his notes app to write the lyrics you’ve both quoted. He nods his head, drops his phone to the table and beams at you. “We got it!”

“You’ve done jack shit,” Rin scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“We would forget if he didn’t do this,” you quickly point out, moving his hand back down to your lap and smiling over at the two sat opposite from you at the table. “I’m so sorry about that. If we didn’t do that now, we’d have forgotten it. Sometimes Atsumu comes in handy.”

“The hell do ya mean sometimes. I’m useful!”

You and Rin both fight back your smiles before exchanging a look. “Debatable.”

masterlist. previous | next

summary. as a world-famous singer, everyone knows everything about all of your relationships. namely, your renowned on-again/off-again relationship with one tooru oikawa. it’s hard not to when every song you write is about him. but no one truly knows all of the gory details of all your dirty breakups, except from the two of you. and after announcing in a drunken red-carpet interview that you never want to see his face again, everyone starts desperately searching for the truth behind your twisted relationship. and just when you think you can escape these rumours, in comes a job opportunity your band can’t turn down.

taglist (open!). @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @iaminyourfloors @rrosiitas @v3nusplanetofluv @draculauracullen @lollbecca @honeytwo @wakashudou @tojirin @makki0s @alexithemiyatic @aboutkiyoomi @hermaeusmorax @theepitomeofswag @qyoongi @esunarint @frootloopscos @kimigiri09 @sweetlyvibe @hhoneyhan @jlly1 @nizaii @mdmraz

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

It doesn’t make sense that Meghan would leak that she made Kate cry because it makes her look bad. If it was Camilla, what’s her business leaking that anyway? That started this whole thing. Why do the royals leak? Their lives would be easier if they don’t leak out of pettiness. I understand maybe William leaking his side/feelings. For example, saying he doesn’t want to put his arm around his brother anymore. But Camilla leaking something about Kate and Meghan is just weird.

Anyway, what other stories do you think can be traced back to William/KP?

Ok, so first there are two Camilla’s here. We need to be clear which one we’re speaking about, just like we have to take extra steps discussing the Charleses (King and Spencer). There’s Camilla Tominey the journalist who broke the story that Meghan made Kate cry. Then there’s Queen Camilla who allegedly learned what happened through William venting.

Second, you’re thinking too logically about Meghan. If she leaked the story, she wouldn’t think about how it makes her look bad - her focus/intent would have been how it makes her look powerful, in that she got Kate to back down and follow her wishes. And also, the rumor isn’t that Meghan leaked. It’s that Meghan is the source, which means she may have been gloating about it to someone, which someone else (maybe Camilla T., maybe not) overheard and that person leaked to Camilla T. And like I said last night, it’s been credibly alleged that Camilla T. actually has written receipts that Meghan did make Kate cry - allegedly she has or saw text messages of Meghan talking about it. And what’s Camilla T’s business about it? It’s her job to report on the royals. This was too huge a scoop to sit on because it contradicted the “fab four” PR narrative that the Sussexes and the palace were creating.

Switching to the other Camilla, the now Queen Camilla, what’s her business? Her business is that she tells her friends and her friends turn around and gossip to the press. It’s happened before - specifically, we know all the details of the first time William met Camilla in 1998 because she told a friend and the friend blabbed to the press about it. (William blew up about it, so did Charles to a lesser extent, and both Charles and Camilla had to do a bit of damage control with William and The Queen over it, if I’m remembering correctly.)

You don’t have to believe any of this. None of it has been confirmed, other than something William told Charles and Camilla about re Harry and Meghan during a private dinner that later wound up in the press. We don’t know *what* this something was, just that it happened. Everything else is all speculation based on what we know about past behavior and rumors.

Why do the royals leak? Well, let me ask you this: why does anyone leak? Because it’s not exclusive to the BRF; the same shenanigans happen all over the world - on film sets, in governments, in corporate offices, in royal palaces, in families, in friend groups.

It’s about power and dominance. People who don’t have any power, or the right kind of power, but who are desperate for it will use gossip and leaks as a tool to a) knock their opponent out of place and assume their power or b) show/prove to others that they’re in the room where it happens.

The people who have *real* power and/or who are content with what they have don’t play this game. They don’t need to. They don’t want to. If you want to find who holds all the power in an organization, look for who doesn’t talk.

And also about KP leaks - again, it’s the Charles and Camilla problems. Up until 2019, KP was both Cambridges and Sussexes, so you have to clarify which one. Historically, Harry leaked and spoken to the press way more than William ever did - and it’s on record from a few reporters that Harry would drink with them at the pub pretty regularly and give dirt on everyone else. William, to my knowledge; didn’t really leak on that level until Meghan came around and made everything toxic.

But specific leaks attributed to William? I can’t think of any off the top of my head right now without having to check my spreadsheet (I’ve already lost this answer once when I switched apps so I’m not going to risk it again) but perhaps others can chime in. I’ll definitely take a look at the spreadsheet when I get some time and report back, though.

[ccuniculusmolestus]

Do you think Henry would kill himself anyway even without thr situation with Charles? When I got to Bunny's death in book I had a feeling that Henry will kill himself over it. So I was wondering if you felt the same vibes

I don’t think Charles’ situation caused the suicide, but maybe it acted as a catalyst. The root cause of the suicide was Julian’s “betrayal” and also, I think his obsession with Greek ideals/being a Greek hero/embodying the glory and might of a myth, combined with his depression/general disdain towards living a contemporary life were big contributions to his suicidal (perhaps even homicidal) tendencies.

I think it’s obvious from the start that Henry is Not Very Right in the head. No I don’t mean his autistic hyperfixation on Ancient Greece and its ideals, but generally speaking, he seems like a stoic intellectual but something was always off about him, just a little. I think it becomes obvious when we try to look outside of Richard’s perspective.

That being said when I was reading the book I hadn’t processed any of this and was not expecting his suicide. In fact when I got to the hotel part I was actually under the impression (for some reason) that there was at least a few more pages left (and I never expected he wouldn’t be in those pages 🥲 this is Richard’s story after all…) so his suicide made me go “what.”

But yeah, Charles/Camilla were catalysts to Henry’s suicide but not the cause of it. The cause had been established I think many years ago and had been building up. Bunny’s murder might as well have been a reason too, because maybe it made Henry realize the tendencies he had that he DIDNT want to have, maybe he knew he’d kill or hurt more people because he couldn’t help it, maybe killing Bunny made him realize how sick he truly was. It’s the typical tragedy of when someone you love is alive and causing you extreme trouble you may want them dead, but then when you’ve stained your hands in their blood and they’ve ceased to exist you realize, in passing days and moments, that you miss their voice and maybe they didn’t deserve that.

Taking a life is not so easy. When you kill, you lead your soul to a gradual corruption of not only your self but your community (in this sense maybe his friends?). (The concept of miasma).

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Inside William’s Next Act: Tatler’s May issue goes behind the scenes as the Prince of Wales is rising above the noise — and playing the long game

The burden of leadership is falling upon Prince William, but as former BBC Royal Correspondent, Wesley Kerr OBE, explains in Tatler’s May cover story, the future king is taking charge

By Wesley Kerr OBE

21 March 2024

When I first met Prince William in 2009, he asked me if I could tell him how he could win the National Lottery.

It was a jokey quip from someone who has since become the Prince of Wales, the holder of three dukedoms, three earldoms, two baronies and two knighthoods, and heir to the most prestigious throne on earth.

He was, of course, being relatable; I was representing the organisation that had allocated Lottery funding towards the Whitechapel Gallery and he wanted to put me at ease.

William is grand but different, royal but real.

At 6ft 3in, he has the bearing and looks great in uniform after a distinguished, gallant military career.

He will be one of the tallest of Britain’s kings since Edward Longshanks in the 14th century and should one day be crowned sitting above the Stone of Scone that Edward ‘borrowed.’

William, by contrast, has a deep affinity with Scotland and Wales, having lived in both nations and gained solace from the Scottish landscape after his mother died.

He’s popular in America and understands that the Crown’s relationship to the Commonwealth must evolve.

The Prince of Wales has long believed that ‘the Royal Family has to modernise and develop as it goes along, and it has to stay relevant’, as he once said in an interview.

He seeks his own way of being relatable, of benefitting everybody, in the context of an ancient institution undergoing significant challenge and upheaval, as the head of a nation divided by hard times, conflicts abroad, and social and political uncertainty.

We might recognise Shakespeare’s powerful line spoken by Claudius in Hamlet: ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’

With the triple announcement in January and February of the Princess of Wales’s abdominal surgery and long convalescence, of King Charles’s prostate procedure and then of his cancer diagnosis, the burden of leadership has fallen on 76-year-old Queen Camilla and, crucially, on William.

The Prince of Wales’s time has come to step up; and so he has deftly done.

In recent months, we have seen a fully-fledged deputy head of state putting into practice his long-held ideas, speaking out on the most contentious issue of the day and taking direct action on homelessness.

Last June, he unveiled the multi-agency Homewards initiative with the huge aspiration of ending homelessness, backed with £3 million from his Foundation to spearhead action across the UK.

He is consolidating Heads Together, the long-standing campaign on mental health, and fundraises for charities like London’s Air Ambulance Charity.

He was, of course, once a pilot for the East Anglian Air Ambulance services – a profession that had its downside: seeing people in extremis or at death’s door, he found himself ‘taking home people’s trauma, people’s sadness.’

Tom Cruise was a guest at the recent London’s Air Ambulance Charity fundraiser, William’s first gala event after Kate’s operation.

And more stardust followed when William showed that, even without his wife by his side, he could outclass any movie star at the Baftas.

There’s also his immense aim of helping to ‘repair the planet’ itself with his Earthshot Prize: five annual awards of £1 million for transformative environmental projects with worldwide application.

This project has a laser focus on biodiversity, better air quality, cleaner seas, reducing waste and combating climate change. Similar aims to his father; different means to achieve the goal.

On the issue which has caused huge convulsions – the Middle East conflict – William’s 20 February statement from Kensington Palace grabbed attention.

He said he was ‘deeply concerned about the terrible human cost of the conflict since the Hamas terrorist attack on 7 October. Too many have been killed.’

There were criticisms – along the lines of ‘the late Queen would have never spoken out like this’ or ‘what right does he have to meddle in politics?’ – but it was hard to disagree with his carefully calibrated words.

His call for peace, the ‘desperate need’ for humanitarian aid, the return of the hostages.

The statement was approved by His Majesty’s Government, likely cleared with the King himself at Sandringham the previous weekend and also backed by the chief rabbi of Great Britain, Sir Ephraim Mirvis.

Indeed, William and Catherine had immediately spoken out on the horrors of 7 October.

William followed up the week after his Kensington Palace statement by visiting a synagogue and sending a ‘powerful message’, according to the chief rabbi, by meeting a Holocaust survivor and condemning anti-Semitism.

This is rooted in deep personal conviction following William’s 2018 visit to Israel and the West Bank, says Valentine Low, the distinguished author of Courtiers and The Times’s royal correspondent of 15 years, who was on that 2018 trip.

‘William was so moved by his visit to Israel and the West Bank, he found it very affecting, and he was not going to drop this issue – he was going to pay attention to it for the rest of his life,’ says Low.

‘He must feel that… not to say something on the most important issue in the world [at that moment] would be a bit odd if you feel so strongly about it.’

There was concern from some commentators about politicising the monarchy, but this rose above the particulars of party politics.

As Prince of Wales, like his father before him, there is perhaps space to speak out sparingly on carefully chosen issues.

On this occasion, his views were in line with majority public opinion.

On homelessness, news came that same week that William was planning to build 24 homes for the homeless on his Duchy of Cornwall estate.

‘William’s impact is very personal,’ says Mick Clarke, chief executive of The Passage, a charity providing emergency accommodation for London’s homeless.

‘Two weeks before Christmas, the prince came to our Resource Centre in Victoria for a Christmas lunch for 150 people.

He was scheduled to stay for an hour, to help serve, wash up, and talk to people.

He ended up staying for two and a quarter hours, during which time he went from table to table and spoke to every single person.’

Clarke continues:

‘William has an ability to listen, talk and to put people at ease. During the November 2020 lockdown, he came on three separate occasions to help.

It gave the team a boost that he took the time; it was his way of saying: “I support you; you’re doing a great job.”’

Seyi Obakin, chief executive of Centrepoint, one of the prince’s best-known causes, adds:

‘People associate his patronage with the big moments like the time he and I slept under Blackfriars Bridge.

The things that stick with me are smaller in scale and the more profound for it – in quieter moments, away from the cameras, where he has volunteered his time.’

It is a different approach from the King’s.

As Prince of Wales, he was involved in the minutiae of dozens of issues at any one time, working into the night to follow up on emails, crafting his speeches, writing or dictating notes.

Add to that much nationwide touring over 40 years (after he left active military service in 1976), fitting in multiple engagements, often being greeted formally by lord lieutenants.

This is not William’s style. He has commended his father’s model, but he does things his own way.

Although patronages are under review, William has up till now far fewer than either his father or his grandparents.

Charles is sympathetic to William’s approach and his desire to make time with his young family sacrosanct.

They are confidantes, attested by the night of Queen Elizabeth’s death.

They were both at Birkhall with Camilla, reviewing funeral arrangements while the rest of the grieving family were nearby at Balmoral, hosted by the Princess Royal.

Charles has had almost six decades in public life and is the senior statesman of our time, with even longer in the spotlight than Joe Biden.

After Eton and St Andrew’s University, where he met Catherine, William served in three branches of the military between 2006 and 2013, finishing as a seasoned and skilled helicopter rescue pilot.

His later employment as an air ambulance pilot stopped in 2017, when he became a full-time working royal.

At that time, not so long ago – with Harry unmarried, Andrew undisgraced, and Philip and Elizabeth still active – William shared the spotlight.

Now, after the King, he’s the key man.

He can look back on the success of his first big campaign initially launched with his wife and brother in 2016: Heads Together.

‘We are delighted that Prince William should have become such a positive and sympathetic advocate for mental health through his Heads Together initiative and now well-established text service, Shout, among other projects,’ says the longtime CEO and founder of Sane, the remarkable Marjorie Wallace CBE.

‘It is not always known that he follows in the footsteps of his father, the King, whose inspiration and vision were vital in the creation of our mental health charity Sane.

As founding patron, he was instrumental in establishing our 365-days-a-year helpline and was a remarkable and selfless support to me in setting up the Prince of Wales International Centre for Sane Research.’

'Indeed,' says Wallace, 'this is where Prince William echoes the work of his father, showing the same ‘understanding and compassion for people struggling through dark and difficult times of their lives and has done much to raise awareness and encourage those affected to speak out and seek help.

We owe a huge debt to His Majesty and the Prince of Wales for their involvement in this still-neglected area.’

Just as I saw all those years ago at that early solo engagement in Whitechapel, William still approaches his public duties with humour and fun.

‘He defuses the formality with jocularity,’ says Valentine Low, citing two public events in 2023 that he witnessed.

In April last year, while on a visit to Birmingham, William randomly answered the phone in an Indian restaurant he was being shown around and took a table booking from a customer – an endearing act of spontaneity.

On his arrival later that day, the unsuspecting diner was surprised to be told exactly whom he had been talking to.

In October, Low reported, William ‘unleashed his inner flirt as he hugged his way through a visit with Caribbean elders [in Cardiff] to mark Black History Month.

As he gave one woman a hug – for longer than she expected – he joked: “I draw the line at kissing.”

And while posing for a group photograph, he prompted gales of laughter when he quipped: “Who is pinching my bottom?”’

Low believes that when William eventually becomes king, he will be more ‘radical’ than his father but wonders if people will respond to ‘call me William’ when ‘the whole point of the Royal Family is mystique and being different.’

However, William has thought deeply about his current role and is prepared for whatever his future holds.

For now, there is a decision to be made on Prince George’s secondary schooling. It’s said that five public schools are being considered, all fee-paying.

Eton is single-sex and boarding but close to home. Marlborough (Catherine’s alma mater) is co-ed and full boarding. And Oundle, St Edward’s Oxford and Bradfield College (close to Kate’s parents) are co-ed with a mix of boarding and day.

As parents, William and Catherine aspire to raise their children ‘as good people with the idea of service and duty to others as very important’, William said in an interview with the BBC in 2016.

‘Within our family unit, we are a normal family.’ Which may be one reason why he is so resistant to their privacy being compromised either by the media or close family members.

The 19th-century author Walter Bagehot wrote:

‘A family on the throne is an interesting idea also. It brings down the pride of sovereignty to the level of petty life… a princely marriage is the brilliant edition of a universal fact, and, as such, it rivets mankind.’

If hereditary monarchy is to survive, it must beguile us but also demonstrate its utility, that it is a force for good.

William said in that 2016 interview, ‘I’m going to get plenty of criticism over my lifetime,’ echoing Queen Elizabeth II’s famous Guildhall speech in 1992 ‘that criticism is good for people and institutions that are part of public life. No institution – city, monarchy, whatever – should expect to be free from the scrutiny of those who give it their loyalty and support, not to mention those who don’t.’

William saw close up his mother’s ability to bring public focus and her own personal magnetism to any subject or cause she focused on.

He admires his father’s work ethic, the way he ‘really digs down,’ sometimes literally (I understand that gardening is giving the King solace during his cancer treatment).

But the biggest influence for William was Her late Majesty, as he said on her 90th birthday.

As an Eton schoolboy, William made weekend visits to the big house on the hill, being mentored by Granny rather as she had been tutored in the Second World War by the then vice-provost of Eton, Sir Henry Marten.

William said in 2016:

‘In the Queen, I have an extraordinary example of somebody who’s done an enormous amount of good and she’s probably the best role model I could have.’

That said, his aim was ‘finding your own path but with very good examples and guidance around you to support you.'

Queen Elizabeth II had a brilliant way of rising above the fray and usually being either a step ahead of public opinion or in tune with it.

If you are at the helm of affairs in a privileged hereditary position, your duty is to serve and use your pulpit for the benefit of others.

In a democracy, monarchy is accountable.

The scrutiny is intense, with an army of commentators paid for wisdom and hot air about each no-show, parsing each announcement, interpreting each image.

William takes the long view. He has ‘wide horizons,’ says Mick Clarke.

‘There are so many causes that are more palatable and easier to achieve than ending homelessness, but his commitment and drive are 100 per cent.’

The prince seeks a different way of being royal in an ancient institution that must move with the times. His task? To develop something modern in an ever-changing world.

He faces all sorts of new issues – or old issues in new guises.

Noises off from within the family don’t help – Andrew’s difficulties, or the suggestions of prejudice from Montecito a couple of years ago (now seemingly withdrawn), which prompted William’s most vehement soundbite: ‘We’re very much not a racist family.’

William is maybe a new kind of leader who can keep the monarchy relevant and resonant in the coming decades.

Queen Elizabeth II is a powerful exemplar and memory, but she was of her time. William is his own man.

He must overcome and think beyond ‘the unforgiving minute.’

Indeed, he could seek inspiration in Rudyard Kipling’s poem, If.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch[…]

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

This article was first published in the May 2024 issue, on sale Thursday, 28 March.

[sketches4mysw33theart]

No Such Thing As Ghosts

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A secret meeting with Henry Winter in a graveyard at twilight. What can go wrong?

Warnings: None

Also would like to add - I know ventriloquism is spelt wrong in here. It's on purpose!

Other Henry Winter pieces: To Indeed Be A God, Omnia Redit Ad Pulverem

“Henry?” I whispered tentatively into the quiet, purple darkness. “Are you there?” 

I always felt the need to whisper when we met on nights like that. To this day, I don’t know why. The only people I could wake there were the dead.  

As I stepped through the foreboding arch, rising up like a gargoyle through the twilight, and into the graveyard, I heard the clicking of a light, the clapping of a book shutting, the rustle of a thick coat, the snapping of twigs. 

“I’m here,” he said, from the right. I turned to the sound of his voice in time to see him, dot of a lantern in hand, emerging from behind a grave sculpture he was rather fond of, a weathered marble depiction of a cherub whose nose had long since eroded. When we were last there, that same cherub had been on its side in the dirt. Despite his admiration for it, Henry had refused to put it back in its place.    

“I wasn’t sure you’d come. It’s supposed to snow tonight.” He looked tired, particularly in that incandescent light. This, however, was nothing new.  

“I know. We’ve managed snow before.” 

Henry and I had been secretly meeting for months, almost a year. Our clandestine trysts were well considered, in far-flung places that no one, not even Bunny Corcoran, would consider searching. Henry feared the scrutiny he and I would receive. I, after all, was majoring in medicine. It felt like a treachery to our separate kingdoms, I in medicine, he in Classics, that we were in love. A war on time. Romeo and Juliet, kept apart by the fog of the mountains and the turrets of Hampden College. But never by the snow, it seemed. 

It was a funny night, illuminated by a bright moon but encroached with shadows, the threat of the oncoming storm. Still, it was just light enough to see the outlines of the graves around us, the one mausoleum of the tiny town, the eerie statues looming before us, faces turned piously in every direction as though we had recruited them as lookouts. 

“Someone’s been here since August,” Henry said, coming to me finally and rubbing his gloved hands up my arms. I didn’t realise I'd crossed them over my chest. “The cherub’s back in place. You’re cold. Perhaps we should go to my car?”  

He must have felt my quivering bones, even beneath the thickest coat I owned. I shook my head. Despite it all, I liked meeting at the graveyard. It was quiet, far away from the familiar, and, in a terrifying way, beautiful. Almost all old things were beautiful to me then. Henry taught me that, through the strange photographs in his books and his detailed monologues. He had a gift of bringing history to life. 

“No, I’m fine. Have you seen anyone around?” 

He scoffed. “Of course not.” 

This was the main reason we met there so often. Who on Earth would hike through the woods at twilight to laugh among the tombstones? Well, we knew the answer to that. There had been the time we held a picnic in the height of summer, when fireflies had flew through from the nearby river and Henry had managed to catch one in his bare hand, the night we spent in the mausoleum to satisfy some maudlin craving of Henry’s, the evening we’d played hide and seek (somewhat begrudgingly, on one of our parts) among the gravestones. That had been the first time we'd claimed the graveyard as our own, mere days after Charles and Camilla had shown Henry through the place after hearing them speak about it.   

The graveyard had belonged to a town, struck by disaster and long since deserted. Besides a looming church pyre and a few piles of rubble, it was the only indication that a town had once stood there at all.  

“Here, sit down.” Of course, Henry had come prepared. Behind his grave of choice was spread out a meticulous picnic blanket, the host of his book, another thick blanket and matches and kerosene for the lamp. Gingerly, I arranged myself on the it, leaning partly on the gravestone for support. Once I was settled, Henry stretched out beside me, arm pressed against mine, hand resting on my leg.  

“I missed you,” I mumbled, reaching over to take that same hand. He settled his thick fingers between mine and afforded me a small smile, nosing softly at my cheek. “How’s the new boy?” 

Henry sighed, a warm exhalation that spread across my face. “Strange. I can’t read him very well. But he seems the silent type, so I don’t see why he won’t get along just fine. Charles and Camilla are particularly fond of him.” 

“You’re not?” 

“No. He's so... quiet, closed off. He walks around like a ghost.” 

I didn’t say anything. I’d seen Richard, the new addition to the Greek class, fairly often around campus, floating to his classes and slipping into the rowdy parties. Ghost was certainly the best way to describe him. But I’d never said two words to him, so who was I to judge? 

With that conversation abruptly dried up, I glanced around the cemetery that protected us from our lives, looking for snow. There was none yet, of course. Just gravestones, cool and still. 

“Do you think this place is haunted?” I asked, ghosts on my mind now. Henry laughed scornfully. 

“Of course not. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“How do you know?” I asked accusingly, with a teasing smile. Henry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 

“Because how could there be? There’s no conclusive evidence of a life after death, and there is certainly no conclusive evidence of spirits.” 

“Didn’t the Ancient Greeks have a God of ghosts?” 

“Oh yes, Melinoe. Also, the God of nightmares. Far too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” 

 I stared at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Come on, you don’t believe anything happens after death?” 

He was silent for a moment, considering my question. “I believe... that our souls linger. Not on Earth, that’s far too ridiculous. But... somewhere. Julian once said...” 

Before he could continue speaking, there was a creak out in the woods, echoing through the silence. Startled, we both whipped up to face the direction. A hunter stalking down its dinner? A bird flying past a bare tree? Or... 

“Did you hear that?” I said, springing to my feet, holding back a laugh. “That sounds like a ghost to me.” 

“Oh, for...” Henry’s head fell to his tented hand, but I could see the curve of his lips.  

“No, no, listen, Henry.” I was smiling as I held my hand to my ear and nudged his leg with my toe. There was another noise. A rustle in the forest. Closer.  

I looked down to him. “We’re not alone here.” 

Henry chuckled. “There is no such thing as ghosts!” 

“I don’t know, I think we could be about to capture your conclusive evidence.” 

Another noise. Even closer. Twigs snapping, leaves rustling, insects buzzing, wind blowing. 

“Really,” Henry huffed, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. “How many times? There’s no such thing as...” 

Suddenly, another noise, a crash, like an elephant marching through the forest edge, and Henry fell silent, peering beyond the gravestone. “See?” I said, gleefully. “No such thing as ghosts, indeed.” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “No, there is not.” Then, footsteps, not loud, necessarily, but obvious in the quiet that echoed between the gravestones. Very clearly human. It was only when I heard it getting closer that I realised my spectre, corporal or otherwise, could present a serious danger to us. Two college kids, out in a graveyard, in the dark. Good Lord.  

“So, who the hell is that?” Henry finished, darting eyes staring uselessly into the darkness. His gaze flew to the lantern, still lit on the blanket. 

But, before he could stoop to pick it up, there were more footsteps, the eerie sound of a mumbling voice getting closer, like a radio being turned up. Henry’s spine was stiff, assuring the stretch of his shoulders and each inch of his height was obvious. Then, a shout, “Is anyone there?” 

I knew that voice. It was familiar, terribly so, but I couldn’t place it. A glance at Henry told me he knew it too, but seemingly better than me. 

“Oh God.” He had gone white, all the colour sapped from his cheeks in the flutter of my eyelashes. Instantly, I was on edge. 

“What?” I whispered. “What is it?” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed listlessly as he swallowed. “It’s Bunny.” 

Oh God. I knew Bunny, alright. There weren’t many on campus who didn’t. Loud, ferreting, damn near insufferable Bunny, whose obnoxious voice seemed to reach as far as Fairfax and twisted mind ensured acquaintances either adored him or loathed him. From what I had experienced and seen, and the stories Henry had hesitantly told me, I fell into the latter.  

“Bunny?” I repeated incredulously. “What the hell is he doing here?” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “Get down,” he whispered, “on the blanket, behind the cherub. Stay down, don’t move.” 

I followed his commands without delay, happy to be told what to do in the face of this unforeseen upheaval. My mind was frantic. Of all the people who had to happen upon us, it had to be him. Now curled up on the blanket, cradling my knees like a child, I looked up to Henry, his strong jaw set, calm hands cleaning his glasses on the tail-end of his shirt. As the footsteps came closer, through the archway, and the mumbling voice bounced off the gravestones in awe, he was tucking his ruffled shirt back neatly into his waistband.  

And then... 

“Henry,” Bunny honked, his voice carrying so harshly it made me wince. “Am I glad to see you, old boy, I just got so lost on one of my little walks. These damn Vermont nights, hm? Creepin’ up on me. What on Earth are you doing out here at this time of day? It’s supposed to snow tonight, you know.” 

“Yes, I heard, Bun. I was –“ 

“You wouldn’t be hiding someone back there, would ya?” He knew. I could tell, just from his voice. “’Cause, y’know, I couldda sworn I heard ya talkin’ to someone.” 

“No, not at all. I –“ 

Again, Bunny cut him off. “Naw, I know I heard you talking to someone. What you doin’, taking up ventriloqulism, or somethin’?” He laughed, the squawking of a flock of seagulls. “What you got behind there, hm? Is that where you’re hiding her?” 

Henry protested uselessly, trying to mollify Bunny before he could get too close. I watched him step forward, presumably to meet his friend before he could get to me, then saw the red of Bunny’s hair and the glint of his glasses as he tried to see beyond Henry’s broad frame.  

“You brought blankets, I see. And a lantern. And-“ I saw no point in avoiding it. Bunny was leaning so far around the grave, trying to poke his head around Henry’s large frame despite the latter’s protests and fidgeting, that he would see me one way or another. May as well save everyone’s blushes. 

This time, it was Bunny that got cut off, by my face, no doubt paled and terrified-looking, rising up over the other side of the grave. “Hi, Bunny,” I said meekly. 

“Well,” Bunny said, stopped in his tracks. I could see the surprise glinting behind his glasses, the few cogs turning slowly in his futile brain. Henry, his shoulders still braced but looking somewhat relieved, took the hand I reached out to him under the cover of the grave. “Well, well, well. I’ll be damned. Henry and his little doctor, is it? I must say, Henry, I never thought you’d get down with a pill pusher. Actually, now that I say it, it makes perfect sense.” He laughed again, but I looked at Henry without even a smile on my face. I saw, with little surprise, that Henry wasn’t sharing in our unexpected guest’s joy either. In fact, he looked angry. Startlingly so. 

“Go on then. Doctor, doctor, give me the news. What’s the story between you two?  Y’know, my father always says doctor’s are charlatans, a load of crooks.” 

“Actually, Bun, I don’t want to be a doctor.” Henry squeezed my hand tight as I finished this sentence.  A warning, I realised after, when it was too late. “I want to be a psychiatrist.” 

“Oh, a shrink, hm?” Bunny’s eyes glinted maliciously, illuminating like hell fire in the cast of Henry’s lantern. He gestured to Henry. “He your first patient? There’s rules and regulations, y’know, codes of conduct. No mouth to mouth at those appointments.” He laughed again.  

“Yes, very droll, Bunny,” Henry said disdainfully. “Do you need us to walk you back to Hampden?” His hint wasn’t even subtle, voice dripping with annoyance, but Bunny did not, or refused to, pick up on it. 

“Me? Oh, no, I’m fine, I know the way. But I want to hear about you two. Has he tried to-?” 

“Actually, Bun,” I jumped in, trying to think on my feet under his scrupulous gaze. “I don’t know if you’ll have time. I heard Marion was looking for you earlier. Something to do with Cloke Rayburn, and a tinfoil package?” 

Bunny’s face, which had twisted into an aloof, non-caring expression at the mention of his girlfriend, fell instantly as I finished speaking.  

He dithered for a moment, fisting the edge of his thick coat with one hand and scratching at his head with the other, mumbling vocal disfluencies, half-baked excuses and nonsensical reasons why he should or shouldn’t go. These fell out of his mouth in a torrent, almost unintelligible. I glanced at Henry, but he was only staring stonily at our unwanted visitor. 

“Perhaps you’d better go find out what she wants?” I pushed as gently and indifferently as I could. 

Bunny threw his hands up, a surrender to a decision finally made. “Doctor’s orders.” He laughed raucously, so shrilly it set me on edge. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your little love nest. I look forward to hearing all about this later, Henry.” It felt like a threat. From the look on Henry’s face, he took it like one. 

“See you folks later.” And with a wave of his hand and a blur of sandy hair, Bunny was gone like the apparition I’d initially thought he was. Immediately, Henry sighed out a long, deep breath. Relief. 

“Good God, I’m never going to hear the end of this now,” he said as he slid down the gravestone to rest on the blanket. “Of all the people who could’ve found us, it had to be him, didn’t it? Not Charles, not Francis, not even one of your friends... Bunny.”  

“C’mon, he’s your friend, Henry, he would-” Henry shot me a glare, quickly broken by a smile as I stopped talking. 

“Oh, he would do that to me. To us.” he said, sighing as he took my hand and coaxed me down beside him. “Well, I’d been meaning to introduce you to everyone, anyway. Camilla will adore you, I think.”  

A spark of anxiety flared at the bottom of my stomach, but I refused to let this show in front of Henry. The Greek class always walked through the college grounds like royalty, simultaneously above and below everyone around them, who were awestruck by their ethereal presence or disdainful of the timeless coldness of their manner.  

Still, I’d had the same misleading thoughts about Henry until I met him, when he spoke to me with an open air I had originally thought was beneath him. I knew meeting his classmates would have had to happen some day.  

“Look,” Henry said, startling me out of my worry. I glanced at him, still, stoic, carved like a great Greek statue, staring up into the dark shadows of the trees swaying in the breeze. “It’s snowing.” 

It was. Finally. Flakes as small and thin as dust were beginning to fall, catching in the sparse leaves and landing quietly on the headstones around us. The graveyard and the forest were completely silent once more, slowly sprinkling with snow.  

“Come on,” Henry said. “Stay with me tonight.” 

[primythios]

I just realised, we don’t really see much of Camilla, Charles and Francis doing greek throughout the book (if I remember correctly, correct me if im wrong) but Henry is definitely the forefront for all of the actual academia going on; mentions of him speaking in greek to Julian and ‘being at his happiest’. I see it as taking the light off of the others in Richard’s eyes-they are no longer the smart, esoteric greek students. They’re just students. He doesn’t show a side of the others to balance the group; he only shows the smart, academic Henry Winter and the academically challenged Bunny Corcoran, almost as if to justify his affections and infatuation with only Henry.

[betryl]

Along with Camilla's and Bunny's, another pov I would love to see is Charles'. He had such a tragic development throughout the book, but we get to know very little about what he actually went through, and it makes it easy to put all the blame on him – of course, he was an abuser and that doesn't change, but it would still be so interesting to actually get his own opinion, without Henry, Camilla or Francis speaking on his behalf. Not to justify him, but just to see things the way he did and get yet another interpretation of the whole story.

We'd get to know what his and Camilla's relationship was actually like – and it would probably look even worse from his perspective. His encounters with Francis, too. He puts the blame on Charles taking advantage of him, even though they were probably both taking advantage of each other in some ways – but we never got to hear how Charles felt about the situation.

We'd get to see him slowly lose his mind to alcohol, and it would probably be even more subtle than how it felt from Richard's pov, making it even the more chilling. Him getting progressively more depressed, more irritable, more violent (and therefore, I believe, more guilty about his own behavior too), to the point of being basically drunk all the time, and feeling like a totally different person to how he was at the beginning.

And then we'd get to see him get more and more paranoid about Henry. I would have loved to see more of their dynamic, because while I've seen some people reducing it to a love triangle with Camilla (?), it wasn't just that, and Charles had quite a few valid reasons to hate him. Henry pulled Charles into the whole mess basically against his will – he was the only one who, more than once, tried convincing the others the murder was a bad idea, and no one listened to him and listened to Henry instead. He was depressed for Bunny's death. He got coerced by Henry to get involved with the police too, having to bear the weight of everyone possibly ending up in jail if he did something wrong.

He realized that all of this was mostly Henry's fault, but then the situation with Camilla came along, and Charles suddenly understood he had just become the next target Henry might have wanted to get rid of – and he even tried to. He had every right being scared of him, but the others barely even believed him. So the paranoia turned into genuine fear for his life, until he eventually snapped, and we know what happened next.

All of this was hidden behind Richard's pov, which definitely made it difficult to understand his actions or how he was feeling. As much as I don't like him as a person, he really grew on me and genuinely became one of my favorite characters. And seeing it all from his perspective would be terrifying.

[shakespearesdaughters]

The Secret History Theories

I’m currently re-reading Donna Tartt’s The Secret History right now and I have several theories but no one to share them with, so I thought I would put them here to see what you all think!

Richard pushed Bunny. ​

Richard said he hates authors who skip over the grisly parts of their crimes out of shame/embarrassment/guilt but he does it.

He was not only involved in the planning of Bunny’s murder but encouraged it by telling Henry what Bunny told him about the farmers murder knowing that Henry was already thinking about killing him.

While he showed some guilt about the murder afterwards he had no qualms about going through with it and was involved in the planning of it every step of the way.

He had a vested interest in Bunny dying not just to help protect the group but because Bunny knew/implied he knew about Richard’s true background and that he was lying about having money. He would have wanted to keep his secrets. He also wanted to secure his place in the group and what better way to do so than to kill someone.

We don’t know how Bunny died, as Richard purposely skips over this information. The only thing we do know is that Henry walked towards him, Camilla checked to make sure Bunny was dead. But what exactly did Richard do? If Richard didn’t kill Bunny why wouldn’t he tell us how Bunny died? 

​

2. Julian was more involved than Richard either was aware or wanted to admit. 

I think he was the person Camilla remembered seeing at the Bacchanal. He and Henry had spoken before the Bacchanal and Julian had told him to do what was necessary.

Henry got the idea to do the Bacchanal from Julian. Henry and Francis both were interested in acquiring the land with Francis wanting to purchase the house and Henry finding the land sacred. Henry is implied to have spent more time with Julian than the others having been to his home and had private conversations. ​

He also calls Bunny by his nickname for the first time when it came to Bunny’s suicide note which was odd. He said he knew or was able to predict what his students were doing and with how close he was to Henry there’s no way he didn’t know what they were up to. Which is probably why he had to leave and did leave so quickly. 

​

3. Richard was the author of Bunny’s suicide note as a confession. He spent a lot of time with Bunny and with Henry. He could have gotten the paper from either of them. The typewriter was in the study room for anyone to use. ​

Richard was an excellent student and could have written the note convincingly enough to sound like Bunny. It gives him the perfect out in the murder of the farmer because he’s not named once in them and it implicates the group especially Henry. Which could be Richards payback against Henry implicating him to the FBI. Also it’s the only way for Richard to confess just like he is confessing to us with the book for his guilt without having to actually atone for anything.

Richard also flip flops between insisting that Bunny was the author to it being possibly someone else. We also don’t know when the letter was dropped off because Julian doesn’t mention it. But from the way he was acting when he spoke to Richard and Francis and why he initially took it as a joke/brushed it off before speaking with Henry one could infer it was delivered after Bunny’s death. 

​

4. Charles is the only other person who could have written the note because he was also close to Bunny and Richard notes he is an expert forger and the letter is one big middle finger to Henry and the only other person who had a reason to hate/implicate Henry as revenge besides Richard would be Charles. ​

5. Francis is a predator who was possibly abusing Charles and no one in the group seemed to care. He also tried to have sex/ SA Richard and foreshadowed doing it when he said “if you drank as much as he(Charles) does, I daresay I would have been in bed with you, too.” ​

6. A catamount killed the farmer, Henry lied about it so he could manipulate the group and to murder bunny. 

There’s several hints about it being a big cat from Charles bite, to the way the body was found I mean how on earth did they rip open the stomach of a grown man and mutilate him without any weapons? They even go the catamount inn. ​

There would be something so deliciously ironic and really fulfill the themes of it being a Greek tragedy if it had all been a wild animal and Bunny was killed for nothing. ​

​

7. I think Richard was there at the Bacchanal and it was one of the many things he omitted. 

He is a self professed liar, an excellent one at that. He has no problem going where he’s not supposed to as we saw him entering the room and calling the number to find out about the plane tickets Henry purchased. He was following the group around. It wouldn’t be a hard stretch that he followed them to the woods and saw the bacchanal/orgy. 

He would have been upset he wasn’t invited because of his socioeconomic background. And upset that Bunny was invited over him. ​

Camilla thought she saw another person there. Henry thought he saw Dionysus there. Though it could have been Julian it could have also been Richard. ​

He admits he omits things and considered lying about Julian, he romanticizes Henry despite the murder, he easily went along with the murder of Bunny and has a thought of attacking and SAing Camilla and there is an implication he WAS lying about something very important. Which leads up to question what did he lie about? ​

He is not as horrified or concerned like a normal person would be when hearing your new friends just committed a brutal ritualistic murder. I think he was there, either as voyeur/bystander or he actually participated and was afraid Bunny might know or would find out which is why he goes along with it.

[charliedaltonswife]

julian allows a vocal student, an accomplished soprano, to sit in on a few latin lessons with the greek class. henry, frustrated by yet another new member and her inexperience with the language, immediately dismisses her.

his curt attitude and quick remarks lead to a tense relationship. it’s not until he unwillingly attends a recital (perhaps with julian?) that all pretense melts away. henry, ever a sucker for the arts, falls head over heels, aria over feet.

idk how it ends. do they make up? do they make out? surprise us!

Aria for the Unmoved

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

for your troubles, waiting for so long for me to answer these requests, i made this extra long. i've been awfully busy with writing a really important year long paper. anyway anyway, i wont bore you all, hope you like it.

Summary: read the request

Warnings: none

master list found here

“You cannot be serious.” Henry’s voice cut through the room like the edge of a knife, slicing cleanly through the moment of polite silence that had settled after Julian’s announcement.

You had been expecting some resistance, after all, the Greek class was notoriously insular, a carefully curated collection of minds handpicked by Julian himself. You had also heard from all around campus various things about this group; pompous rich kids, people who worshipped the devil, engaging in cult activities in their down time. But if changing colleges had taught you anything, it would be to never make a judgment about someone only using the source from a different person. Make a decision on your own, it couldn’t hurt. But you had not expected this; Henry Winter, sitting back in his chair like some Roman senator, arms folded across his chest, his expression one of cool, unbothered distaste. You began to rethink the ideology you lived by, embarrassed and standing awkwardly in front of a group of people you thought would become your peers. 

Julian, for his part, was unshaken. He smiled, the small, enigmatic sort of smile that suggested he had already foreseen this exact reaction, perhaps even relished the challenge of it.

“She has been studying Greek previously,” Julian said smoothly, as if speaking to a petulant child. “And given the nature of our discussions, I thought it would be beneficial to join now just as we begin Latin.”

Henry did not take his eyes off you. He was assessing, calculating, like one of those Renaissance portraits where the subject looks about to lunge forward and strike. The others, meanwhile, exchanged glances, Bunny, who had already introduced himself to you twice, was grinning in his boyish, conspiratorial way, while Francis, half-lounging, half-collapsing in his chair, exhaled cigarette smoke as though bored before you had even spoken a word.

Charles, who always looked a bit beleaguered, just sighed. Camilla alone seemed unbothered, offering you a small, encouraging smile that you could not quite trust.

But Henry, Henry was brimming with that impossible hauteur, that particular arrogance of men who had never known the sting of exclusion themselves.

Julian turned to you. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

You took a breath. You could feel Henry’s stare like an iron brand.

Keeping your voice even as possible, you introduced yourself. Julian, delighted, gestured for you to continue. But, you decided to do something different after your name leaves your lips. In Latin, you told the rather small group that you were a singer, particularly a soprano, who had an interest in the classics much like themselves despite your lesser practice in the Latin language. 

When you finished, the room was quiet.

Bunny and Camilla nodded, impressed. Even Francis looked vaguely interested.

Henry, however, just tilted his head slightly, regarding you with the kind of expression one might give a particularly well-trained dog that had managed a new trick.

“Not bad,” he murmured, reaching for his book. “Though I’m afraid your accent is atrocious.”

A flicker of something hot curled in your chest.

You smiled. Sweetly. “I’m afraid your manners are.”

Bunny let out a wheezing laugh.

Henry just exhaled, looking almost bored. “Well,” he said, turning a page. “Aren’t you just pleasant?”

It had been a week since your first Latin lesson with Julian’s class, and Henry had yet to address you directly.

He made his dissatisfaction clear in other ways, pointed silences, barely concealed sighs whenever you entered the room, a studied avoidance of your presence that would have been comical if it weren’t so utterly infuriating. You weren’t an idiot; you knew you were intruding on something sacred, that their little class was something private and impenetrable. But you were here at Julian’s request, not your own, and if Henry Winter thought his petty little cold shoulder would scare you away, he was sorely mistaken.

The others had warmed to you in their own ways. Francis, amused by the whole ordeal, had taken to sitting beside you, occasionally passing you notes in the margins of his translations, 

Henry looks like he’s going to be sick or You should sing the next passage, see if he keels over

…which helped lessen the blow of Henry’s thinly veiled contempt. Richard, ever polite, made small talk before class, and Charles was friendly in the way of someone who had no real stake in the matter. Bunny, although made you pay every time he offered to get lunch, made as much an effort as he could. Camilla, at the very least, seemed to like you.

Henry, however, remained resolute in his distaste.

You weren’t sure why this irritated you as much as it did. You didn’t need his approval; you weren’t here for him. But there was something about his dismissal that clawed at you, something about the way he acted as if your presence was a personal affront that made you itch to provoke him, to shatter that mask of perfect indifference and force him to react, to feel.

So, when Julian asked you to translate a passage in class that afternoon, you took your time.

You smoothed your hands over the pages of your book, deliberately slow, feigning concentration as you traced the Latin script with one careful finger. The room was still, the only sound was the soft ticking of the clock on the far wall.

Henry sighed. One of those annoying sighs that really got on your nerves. 

It was a small, sharp thing, barely audible, but you caught it. And because you were feeling reckless (or perhaps just stupid), you smiled, as innocently as possible. 

“Something wrong, Henry?” you asked, your tone sweet, almost indulgent.

He didn’t look at you, kept his gaze fixed on his own book as he turned a page. “Only that this would go faster if you actually read the passage. We’re meant to be in critical discussion about the passage, yet here we are waiting for you to just get through it.”

Julian, seated at his desk, gave no indication that he had heard the exchange. You glanced at him, but his attention was elsewhere, absently turning a paperweight between his fingers.

Your smile widened. “I was under the impression we were allowed to take our time. Accuracy over speed, isn’t that right?”

Henry exhaled, an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “Not when you’re wasting others' time. I mean, how are you supposed to analyse the passage when your brain isn't even capable of simply reading it aloud.”

You sat back in your chair, turning your head slightly to look at him. His posture was relaxed, his expression blank but you knew just from his words that you had finally managed to get him to verbalise his dislike towards you instead of outright ignoring you. You wondered how much it would take to draw it out.

“Well,” you said, almost lazily. “I’d rather be correct than, what was it you said to Bunny the other day? Pitiably impatient?”

Henry turned his page with a touch of too much force.

“Indulgence in academics,” Henry said, finally looking up at you, “is the hallmark of someone more interested in appearing intelligent than in actually learning.”

You tilted your head. “And impatience is the hallmark of a man who expects everyone to keep up with him or be left behind.”

Henry smiled, but there was no real humor in it. “The difference is that I don’t pretend otherwise.”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something tense and electric about it, like a thread pulled so taut it might snap at any moment.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

“Shall we continue?” Julian’s voice, mild as ever, cut through the quiet.

You turned back to your book, pulse loud in your ears.

And, when you spoke again, your voice was perfectly, painfully steady.

-

Henry didn't want to go. He had half a mind to refuse Julian’s invitation outright, but something in the way the old man had phrased it made refusal impossible. 

“I think you’ll find it rather enlightening, dear boy.” Which was Julian’s way of saying, I expect you to be there. And so Henry had gone, though the prospect of spending his evening listening to you warble your way through some overwrought composition was hardly appealing.

He arrived late, slipping into his seat without drawing attention. The conservatory was grand, lined with rows of plush chairs and chandeliers that flickered in the dim light. A hall built for sound, everything in it designed to capture, to amplify, to resonate. Henry leaned back, arms crossed, indifferent.

Then the lights dimmed.

And then you stepped onstage.

Henry exhaled sharply through his nose, watching as you walked into the center of the stage. Your posture was different; straighter, shoulders back, the slight tension in your hands betraying some nervous energy. Your dress, a deep velvet green, stood out against the dark wood paneling, your hair neatly pinned, exposing the vulnerable slope of your neck. It was a strange thing, seeing you like this, untouchable, poised, entirely separate from the girl who sat beside him in the seminar room with ink-smudged fingers and an infuriating tendency to challenge him.

The first note rang out.

Henry blinked.

It was soft at first, then rising, gathering depth and texture like a wave curling over itself before it broke. He had heard you sing before, of course, half-formed melodies under your breath as you translated some passage of Ovid, absent-minded hums in the study, but this was something else entirely.

His fingers twitched against his knee.

It wasn’t just the beauty of your voice. It was the way you commanded the space, the way the sound filled every corner of the room, folding itself around the architecture, seeping into the bones of the building like ivy through cracked stone.

Henry’s breathing slowed, his pulse steady but too loud in his ears. He could hear everything, the minute shift in your vibrato, the deliberate control of your phrasing, the breath that caught at the end of a sustained note. This wasn’t mere performance. This was possession.

And Henry hated being possessed.

He did not move. Did not react. He merely listened, stiff as a statue, as you unspooled something that felt perilously close to grief, or longing, or, God forbid, hope.

When the piece ended, there was silence. Then came the applause, loud enough to be deafening, reverberating through the old wooden walls despite the large room being packed with people. The audience leapt to their feet, clapping, whistling, their faces bright with admiration. Henry, however, remained still.

He felt something like resentment claw at his throat.

Because he had been wrong about you. Something which he didn't like being. 

Because he had never expected to be so completely undone.

Because you were beautiful. Not just in the physical sense; no, he already identified that the moment you stepped into the class but chose to disregard it as he thought intelligence was the real measure of a person. But, you were just that; his measure fit you to a tee, and not only that, but you had a voice that sounded like what church goers would imagine was an angel. You were a dream, utterly infatuating. And that. Well, that infuriated him.

-

You were alone, which you actually enjoyed.

The afternoon was mild, the air crisp with the first real bite of autumn. The sun cut long shadows across the courtyard, golden light catching on the tops of the buildings, the stone benches cold beneath your thighs. You had been reading, properly reading, for once, not just pretending to while half-listening to Henry and Francis argue about Horace. Your book lay open in your lap, a translation of Catullus.

You sensed him before you saw him. A shift in the air, the distinct sound of footsteps over gravel. Then, his voice, calm, measured, just above a murmur.

"You looked like a statue just now."

You didn’t startle, but you did glance up. And there he was, standing just beside the bench, hands in the pockets of his coat. You blinked. He looked different out here, away from the dim lecture halls and smoky living rooms, too sharp against the soft autumn light, an anachronism in the golden haze.

You raised a brow. “What?”

Henry tilted his head slightly, studying you. "You were sitting so still. Like one of those funerary reliefs, the kind where the subject holds a scroll, looking very dignified." His eyes flickered down to your book. “Except you’re reading poetry, and they were mostly reading tax records.”

You huffed, turning a page idly. “Flattering.”

A pause. Then, wordlessly, he pulled something from his coat pocket and held it out to you.

It was a book.

You blinked at it, then at him. “What’s this?”

Henry exhaled shortly, as if already bored of the exchange. "You left before I could say anything last night."

You frowned. “I didn’t know you would come. I didn’t even know you knew about it.”

Slowly, almost as if you didn’t trust him - like this gift was some trick or practical joke. 

He gave you a copy of The Aeneid. It was a beautiful edition; dark green leather, the spine embossed with gold leaf, the kind of book that looked like it belonged in an old library, dust motes catching in the afternoon sun. You turned it over in your hands, fingers running along the edges of the pages, the gilt just beginning to fade.

You looked up at him. “What’s this?”

A shrug. “What do you think it is? It’s a book.”

You scrawled at him, rolling your eyes a little as you heard him chuckle only slightly but you didn’t argue. 

“You sang well,” Henry said, so suddenly and plainly that it took you a second to process.

Your head snapped up. For a moment, you thought he might say something else, some deflection, some clever remark to balance out the rare sincerity of the words, but nothing came.

And yet, he did not look at you. Just past you, as though if he met your eyes he would be forced to acknowledge something he wasn’t ready to. You swallowed. 

“Well,” you said, tilting your head, forcing a smirk. “Funny hearing a compliment come out of your mouth, I didn't think you capable.”

Henry’s mouth quirked, half a smirk of his own. "Let’s not get carried away."

He stepped back, reaching into his coat for a cigarette. The metallic flick of his lighter cut through the air, and then the brief flare of flame.

You watched as he took a slow inhale, exhaled, then turned slightly, already beginning to leave.

You opened your mouth, whether to thank him, to call him insufferable, to say something, you didn’t know.

But before you could, Henry glanced back at you through the curling tendrils of smoke. His eyes flickered briefly to the book in your lap, then back to your face.

"Don’t let it collect dust."

And then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of tobacco.

- 

A few months have passed since the first tense lessons, the sharp barbs traded over Latin declensions, the icy glances exchanged across Julian’s study. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the dynamics shifted. The others had grown used to you, and you to them. Richard, quiet and watchful, had been the easiest to befriend; Francis, all languid charm and easy indulgence, had taken to you quickly. Charles and Camilla had remained politely distant at first, but in time, even they seemed to accept you as something inevitable.

Henry did not soften, not exactly, soften wasn't the word. He still spoke to you with that same sharp, clinical precision, still had a way of making even the most neutral statements feel like accusations. But he no longer dismissed you outright, no longer treated you as some unfortunate intrusion upon his well-ordered world. There was something else in his gaze now, something but not unkind.

And so, when Francis invited everyone to his house for the weekend, it did not feel strange that you went.

Francis' estate was the kind of place that seemed almost deliberately out of time, set deep in the Vermont woods, isolated, sprawling. The house itself was grand but crumbling at the edges, filled with velvet-upholstered furniture and dust motes suspended in the light from tall, warped windows.

The days passed in a slow, dreamlike haze. Mornings spent languidly in bed or sprawled across the living room with books, afternoons wandering the overgrown grounds, evenings filled with candlelit dinners and endless, half-drunk conversations.

The lake was still, black water stretching like polished obsidian beneath the dull afternoon sky. Francis' house loomed in the distance, the others draped along the dock in various states of boredom and indulgence. Richard was smoking, Charles half-drowsing with his feet in the water.

"I want to take the boat out," you had said, standing on the edge of the dock, barefoot, a little restless.

No one had moved.

Francis had made a vague gesture, something that meant then do it, and Bunny had laughed, some offhand comment about how he’d rather drown than row.

You turned to Henry. “You?”

A pause. Then, without much enthusiasm, he stood, exhaling through his nose. “Fine.”

It wasn’t a grand offering, nothing gallant or chivalrous. Just an agreement, simple and dry. He stepped into the boat after you, settling opposite, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he picked up the oars.

The water lapped softly against the sides as he rowed, his movements unhurried, precise.

“I assume you’re not going to help,” he said after a moment, eyebrows raised.

You stretched your legs out in front of you, arms resting along the edge of the boat. “Why should I? I was under the impression that men enjoy physical labor. Something about exertion, the masculine ideal, et cetera.”

He scoffed. “That’s an absurdly shallow reading.”

“Oh, forgive me, Henry. How terribly reductive of me.” You waved a hand, mockingly magnanimous. “Didn’t I sound like Bunny for a minute though?”

“You have an astonishing ability to speak at length while saying nothing at all.”

“Likewise.”

Silence, except for the dip and pull of the oars. A bird, somewhere in the trees, whistled a sharp, distinct tune. You, without thinking, whistled it back.

Henry faltered, just for a second, but enough for you to notice. He studied you in that unreadable way of his, as if you were some particularly interesting passage in a book he wasn’t sure how to interpret.

Then, without preamble, he leaned forward and kissed you.

It wasn’t hesitant or unsure, but neither was it particularly forceful. It was like an interruption, an afterthought, something he had decided, quite suddenly, to do.

His lips were warm, softer than you would have expected. You barely had time to process it before he pulled back, watching you carefully, as though he was bracing himself for your reaction.

You touched your lips briefly, then, still absentminded, let your fingers graze his.

“Well,” you said finally, voice light, amused. “That was very Greco-Roman of you.”

Henry’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite.

The boat drifted, the others distant on the shore, unaware.

a/n: dont be a silent reader darling, it keeps me going seeing notifs

[the-empress-7]

so I'm trying to figure out who their target market is for interest in this tour of Colombia...... definitely not the US, we couldn't care less..... maybe the market is BP/KP and they are still trying to prove they can handle royal tours, but honestly, William isn't interested and Charles/Camilla are up at Balmoral with family and friends and not paying any attention......so who? especially since it seems so last minute and hastily put together........... so then it struck me..... maybe she's still trying to get a speaking gig at the DNC convention that starts next week.....and this Colombian tour is her polishing her credentials as an international celebrity influencer humanitarian and the real job that that Chief of Staff who quit was tasked with was getting her up on the stage in Chicago next week.

This is Meghan rebranding as a diplomat and bulking up her resume for a political appointment in the future.

[houseofbrat]

Speaking of the KP Klown Show using Charlotte for PR:

Ingrid Seward is a KP lapdog so it’s the usual slop with of course some subtle digs trying to assert that The King is an absent grandparent when the reality is he has to work hard because (1) someone has to while Willy and Cathy are perpetually on vacation and (2) the media would never give him a pass.

And this article features one of my favorite KP fibs that they’ve been pushing for months now - that The King is wearing a friendship bracelet from Charlotte.

To me this looks like a bracelet he was sporting after a 2003 visit to Haven’s Trust, a breast cancer charity. If he was given this then, it would make sense why he’d wear it again after his own cancer diagnosis. KP’s obsession with co-opting every aspect of The King’s cancer diagnosis for their own PR, is bizarre and distasteful.

P.S: have you ever done a chart on Charles’ reign? If you have would you mind resharing? I recall seeing one for Willy but not for KC3. Thanks!

So should we take guesses as to whom sent Jessica Green at the Daily Mail the bracelet story? Lee Thompson? A different "senior communications officer"? Bethany Bajoul?

Meanwhile, the close relationship apparently shared by Charles and his granddaughter Princess Charlotte, ten, was put on show when the King wore what appeared to be a 'friendship bracelet' on official engagements last year. Made up of yellow and red thread, the band seemed to be similar to versions sported by His Majesty's granddaughter when she attended the Wimbledon final that year with her mother, the Princess of Wales.  The King's bond with his grandchildren is said to be in part thanks to his wife, Queen Camilla, who has been 'instrumental' in bringing Charles closer to his family.

Good catch on the bracelet history! Your explanation makes much more sense than the pr drivel the DM spat out.

It's interesting all this focus on Charlotte. I don't remember George getting such a huge focus when he turned 10.

She's been on the cover of two major American tabloids--Us Weekly and People. Now Hello! Canada.

All I remember about when George turned 10 was articles saying he might not do military service. That was so long ago.

But now THE KP TITANIC appears to be purposely linking Charlotte to King Charles. Is this an attempt to prevent Will & Kate from looking like outcasts? Due to what is going to be revealed about them in the coming months?

And how PISSED Charles and the rest of the BRF are at Will & Kate? Because if Will & Kate have to host a garden party solo, without the help of any other working BRF members, then linking Charlotte to Charles via imaginary friendship bracelets makes sense.

THE KP TITANIC doesn't want to look like reckless, idiotic losers and want protection/assistance from the monarch from parliament. Protection or assistance that does not appear to be forthcoming from the monarch, aka King Charles III, right now.

While I haven't finished all of my analyses on various BRF members' charts, I can tell you the next 18 months are going to be an absolute roller coaster for the BRF.

On the docket we have:

Will & Kate's reputational disaster (which is probably phrasing it too lightly)

Harry & Meghan's divorce

Meghan and her kids'...whatever you want to call it

The bells tolling for Andrew (might be later this year or next year, haven't finished checking yet)

Charles either finishing or reducing his cancer treatments

I have some concerns about Camilla's health at the moment, but nothing too worrying yet.

That's what I can think of off the top of my head. Some of that may change when I finish my analyses, but that's what I have on my mind at the moment.

Sam Geppi did a brief interpretation of Charles's reign, partially based on the official start date of his reign. Start at the 6:17 mark.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

I do flip-flop on whether Camilla has the problem with Kate, or if it’s Charles, or if it’s both of them.

I didn't think Camilla had an issue with Catherine, I thought it was mostly Charles up until her hairdresser went to talk shit about Catherine's hair out of nowhere. There was no need for that at all. It's quite clear to me now that it's both of them

Yep, and sometimes it feels like Camilla's a little more two-faced about it at times than Charles is. Charles will speak directly to the press or do certain things himself (like the Order of Companion honor), whereas Camilla speaks to the press via friends and surrogates.

But at the end of the day, we just don't know what's happening behind closed palace doors. I imagine we'll find out eventually, because Charles and Camilla sure do like to talk.