#Francis seemingly have no powers with his people

[devotedlypinkpeanut]

An Eternal Cycle: Fire, Blood and Venom — The Good King

SUMMARY : In this first life, you attract the attention of King Lee Heeseung, known throughout the kingdom as the good king. Seemingly tender, patient and fair, he is admired for his passion and determination to achieve his goals. But behind this mask hides a man obsessed with you, ready to do anything to have you. His obsession becomes a dangerous game where tricks and manipulations intertwine with a captivating sweetness, plunging you into a whirlwind of emotions. Whether it's seducing you or breaking down any barriers between you, Heeseung is determined to make you his, no matter the cost.

PAIRING : Lee Heeseung x fem!reader 

GENRE : Dark romance, obsession, drama, slow burn, psychological tension, historical romance, reincarnation, fantasy, reverse harem.

WARNING: Reincarnation, obsession, intense psychological manipulation, prolonged emotional abuse, destructive and humiliating power games, betrayal, psychological and physical degradation, toxic relationships, emotional and mental manipulation, cruel and deliberate lies, degrading verbal abuse, suffocating atmosphere of control and isolation, total crushing of individuality, total loss of self-control, possessive and totally controlling behavior, exploitation of vulnerabilities, psychological humiliation, constant pressure, silent terror, degrading mental manipulation, forced submission, brutal and relentless domination, enjoyment of absolute power, physical and psychological suffering, complete abandonment of all personal dignity, sensory deprivation and suffering inflicted to obtain total submission.

Number of words : ~ 32k

A/N: Good evening! I had to split the chapter into two parts, and the second one is barely started (1% written). I was inspired by The Tudors series for this story. Feel free to like, repost or comment if you liked the first part! Happy reading 📖!

I haven't proofread at all, so there are probably spelling mistakes or inconsistencies, I apologize! Enjoy reading!

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AMBOISE, FRANCE — December 1, 1555

It had been almost three years now, three whole years where your life had taken a turn you hadn't seen coming. You and Giselle, your half-sister, had been sent to France by your father, a mission that you had seen as a simple service to render to the court of King Francis I. The king's sister, an influential and powerful woman, had done you the honor of choosing you both as her company ladies. 

The position was honorary, certainly, it offered you a place at the table of the powerful, in the circle of the privileged. It was a chance for the Belmont family, once revered and respected, to regain its lost prestige. But, as is often the case in family intrigues, the truth was hidden under a layer of carefully woven lies. The true purpose of this mission, which your father had barely let you glimpse, was much more sinister: to restore the Belmont name by erasing the indelible stains that had sullied your reputation.

Your name, once synonymous with nobility and honor, had been tarnished. A vile rumor, started against you by those who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, had spread through the halls of the nobility. You had been accused of being a prostitute, a mere object of desire unable to resist the call of the flesh. The whispers grew louder and louder, and soon, anonymous letters and false testimonies were leaked, carefully fabricated to make people believe in the infamy of your name. 

The evidence was so well-arranged that no one dared to doubt it. It mattered little that you had never given in to temptation, that you had never succumbed to those who sought to humiliate you; truth had no place in this game. The rumor grew, and even the most loyal allies of the Belmont family turned away from you. Your dignity, your reputation, and even your engagement to a young aristocratic duke were shattered in one fell swoop. The latter, too sensitive to social pressure and public opinion, abandoned you, leaving you alone, facing your destiny, humiliated and devastated.

Since that day, you had gotten into the habit of distancing yourself from prying eyes, of delving into studies that, while allowing you to escape reality, also offered you a certain power. Princess Karina, sister of Francis I, was a rare woman at court. She was neither a courtesan obsessed with power games, nor a noblewoman lost in her vanities. Karina, brilliant and eager for knowledge, was passionate about philosophy, history and politics. 

At her side, you had found refuge in books that few women of your rank would dare to read: works on gender equality, questioning the established order, freedom and rebellion against the Church, this intransigent power that dictated everything. You knew that these writings were dangerous, that they could cost you your life, but it was your only way to remain yourself, to preserve a part of freedom in this world where the chains were invisible but very present. 

The covers of these books were discreet, almost bland, for fear of attracting the attention of those who would judge and condemn without appeal. But each word, each idea, gave you a little more strength. These books were your silent rebellion, your last refuge from the storm that blew around you.

However, while you were delving into forbidden writings, Giselle, your half-sister, was following a very different path. She had neither the same intellectual concerns nor the same aspirations. Giselle had been born under a more favorable star, or at least, she had always imagined it that way. Despite the disgrace that struck your family, she had always known how to manipulate men with disconcerting ease. The court, with its superficiality and fragile appearance, seemed to be a playground for her. 

And Giselle had no intention of searching for the truth in dusty books. She knew what she wanted: the crown. She knew that the king, Francis I, was a powerful, seductive, and above all impressionable man. That was her ultimate goal: to seduce him, to bewitch him, and to secure a place at his side. Every evening, she went to the king's apartments, slipped into his arms, and offered everything he desired, without qualms, without restraint.

Giselle firmly believed that this game of seduction would take her to the top, that it was only a matter of time before she became queen. She already saw herself crowned, her hair adorned with the royal crown, her name written in history. Every evening, every meeting with the king reinforced this conviction. But you couldn't help but smile bitterly at her naivety. You knew, better than anyone, what the Church and society really thought of women like her. A royal mistress, no matter how beautiful and charismatic, could never become queen. The Church would never allow such a woman, a woman without virtue, to take her place at the king's side. One had to have purity of soul, unquestionable virtue and, to your great regret, Giselle had neither.

The kind smiles the king gave her were only appearances. The crown, like a mirage, eluded her every time she reached out her hand. The king, under the control of the Church, would never go against the wishes of the priests and cardinals. They controlled the kingdom, they controlled her soul, and they would never allow a courtesan to sit in the place of queen. But Giselle did not see this reality. She was blind to this cruel truth. You could barely contain your disgust at her naivety. She deluded herself, believing that a simple smile and a few nights spent with the king would be enough to change her fate. 

And it was one of those nights when the air seemed frozen, when the coldness of winter spread through the castle like a silent beast, penetrating the cold stones and the thick sheets. The candlelight flickered, struggling against the biting wind, each flame flickering, ready to go out at any moment. There was that lingering smell of melted wax, and a faint scent of damp wood rose from the hearth where the embers crackled faintly. The light in the room was dim, almost dying, like the brightness of a glimmer of hope that is fading.

There you were, sitting alone at your desk, immersed in an old book, a text that seemed to you from another era, a moment suspended in a world you did not know, a world you would have liked to escape to. The pages were worn, almost fragile, the words unfolded before you, woven with mysteries and promises, but you could not help but let yourself be distracted by the silence of the room and the solitude that weighed on you, like a blanket too warm that stifles the air.

The noises in the hallway were heard, faint at first, then more and more distinct. It was her. You knew it before you even looked up. The lightness of her gait, that hushed but confident step, that way of invading the room without a sound. Giselle.

You saw her appear in the doorway, her slender and graceful silhouette outlined in the subdued light, like an ethereal apparition. She approached slowly, her golden hair, of a silky texture, falling in perfect waves around her face, capturing the light of the candles like a luminous veil. There was something fascinating in her presence, almost unreal. Her face, delicately sculpted, had that rosy tint that the bite of the winter cold gave it, but she did not seem to suffer from it, not at all. 

She adjusted with a nonchalant gesture her linen nightgown, of a bright white, which hugged her curves with an almost provocative grace, highlighting a skin of incredible softness. Her neckline, subtly suggested, exposed a skin so smooth that it seemed unreal. She came forward again, with an equally assured step, that slow dance she performed so naturally, like a sort of spectacle that you, an involuntary spectator, watched without being able to look away.

You felt a shiver run through you as she leaned over to open a dresser in the corner of the room, a soft creaking sound escaping from the drawer. The sound was strange, almost like a promise of chaos hidden in the tranquility. She grabbed a bottle of perfume, opened it with that elegance so particular to her, and began to spray her neck and wrists with a sweet fragrance, almost too intoxicating. This perfume, you recognized it well, it was sweet, fruity, almost syrupy, a mixture of ripe fruits, citrus, vanilla, an exoticism that she knew how to exploit perfectly.

A cloud of perfume spread across the room, invading your nostrils. It was too strong. Too sweet. A wave of nausea washed over you, but you refrained from reacting, although your nose wrinkled in an involuntary expression of disgust. The pain was there, tangible, in your stomach, in that dull nausea that rose, as if each drop of perfume said more about what she was, what she did. She was ready to sell her soul for a little power, a little recognition in this world of beasts. And you, there, you watched her do it, unable to turn away.

She approached you, a subtle smile playing on her lips. Her eyes shone with apparent mischief, but, looking closer, you could perceive an emptiness in them, as if behind her smile hid an absence or a deep melancholy. She leaned slightly towards you, so close, that you could almost feel the warmth of her body, this warmth that contrasted with the cold air of the room. The smell of perfume assailed you again, stronger, denser, like a leaden weight.

You tried to control the expression on your face, but the grimace that formed on your lips was unavoidable.

“Wish me luck, little sister,” her voice, soft and fluid, rose in the room, tinged with a subtle, almost childish mischief. But there was also this coldness in her eyes, a coldness that was not childish. “And don’t make that face. Remember, you don’t have to envy me.”

Her crystalline laughter rang out then, melodious, but terribly cold. It was a laugh that made entire kingdoms bend, a laugh that had the power to bring an entire empire to its feet without her having to lift a finger. It was innocent and perverse at the same time, a deadly charm that she mastered to perfection. And you, you were no longer fooled. Not this time.

“You’re more than a body, Giselle.” The words came out more firmly than you expected. Your voice was soft, but it carried a depth you hadn’t anticipated. “Don’t you feel disgusted by all of this, even a little? Don’t you see that you’re more than just a body, more than just a desire, more than a commodity to be traded?”

She froze. For a moment. A heavy silence fell. Her smile faded abruptly, her eyes, which still shone with that innocent mischief, hardened, frozen in an icy coldness. She straightened up, as if your words had hit her where it hurt. She protected herself, instinctively, but the breach was there. The light in her eyes went out almost instantly, and everything that made her beauty shine faded, giving way to a vulnerability that she could not hide. The perfection of her mask was crumbling.

A heavy silence followed, then she answered in a harder, sharper voice, but there was a break, a fracture behind those words. “We are both women, Y/n, born into a world ruled by men. This world gives us no choice but to play the role imposed on us. Our father, our brother, our uncles, even our cousins… They are the ones who dictate to us, since the day we opened our eyes.” Her hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into the skin of her palms. “And the only thing we have left, the only thing we can offer them, is what they want. Our bodies. Our submission.” She took a deep breath, as if trying to contain an emotion that was too intense. “No, Y/n. I don’t feel disgusted. I just feel alive. Because at least I am fighting to stay here, in this world that wants to erase us.”

She turned on her heel, but before walking away, she gave you one last look, mixing a hint of mockery with the sadness she so skillfully hid. "I know what you think of me, sister. And I hope with all my heart that you never have to face that reality. Because if you did, you would understand what it means to sell yourself to survive."

She turned to the door and opened it. Her body straightened, her mask perfectly in place again. Then, into the darkness, she was gone, leaving behind the weight of her words. The door slammed shut with a heavy breath, and the silence that followed was as oppressive as the air you breathed. Giselle's words echoed through you, painful, permeating every fiber of your being. 

She was right. She was always right. But why did she have to take this path?

You looked down at your book, but the words blurred, elusive. Shadows danced around you again, and once again, you found yourself alone.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — December 23, 1555

A masked ball is being prepared tonight, a grandiose event intended to welcome King Lee Heeseung, undisputed sovereign of the most powerful kingdom: Korea. The news has spread like wildfire in the court, and the excitement that takes over the place is almost palpable. Everywhere, the ladies whisper, their faces lit up with feverish curiosity, while their fans barely hide their overflowing enthusiasm. Their admiration for this man seems almost suffocating to you, but that hasn't stopped you from listening.

As you listened, you learned that Lee Heeseung ascended the throne at the age of only four, a child king crushed by the overwhelming weight of power. Now twenty-two, he has become a figure who inspires as much respect as admiration. His reign is marked by brilliant victories and subtle diplomacy, capable of seducing both his people and foreign nations. He is described as a conquering king, but his nickname, the Good King, is a testament to the universal affection he inspires. His legend transcends borders, and his name is whispered with an almost sacred reverence.

But more than her talents as a strategist or diplomat, it is her appearance that seems to captivate hearts and inflame minds. It is said that her beauty is so dazzling that it defies understanding, almost unreal: a face sculpted with divine precision, perfect features that blend elegance and severity. Her eyes, it is said, are of a disturbing depth, capable of seducing or breaking at will. Every woman at court dreams of being the one who will catch his eye, the one who will pierce his armor and win his favor.

However, a shadow tarnishes this almost idyllic picture. Contrary to what many hope, Lee Heeseung does not seem to be looking for love or desire the company of a soul mate. His preferences are much more down-to-earth, much colder. He rejects all emotional attachment, contenting himself with the ephemeral pleasures of the flesh. For him, women are only a means to satisfy his desires, nothing more. And, as you have so quickly understood, once they cease to interest him, he abandons them without remorse, replacing them with others, like one exchanges a broken toy for a new one.

You can’t help but feel a deep loathing for such a man. Just thinking about his behavior makes you feel a dull anger, a disgust so intense that it tightens your chest. Your fingers involuntarily clench around the book you were holding, until your knuckles turn white. You try to calm the storm brewing inside you, but the images that invade your mind make it impossible. You see him, this man you’ve never met before, an arrogant smile on his lips, feasting on the admiration he receives. You imagine his gestures, the way he could brush against a woman with cruel detachment, reducing her to a mere object of pleasure, without ever granting her an ounce of humanity.

And yet, it’s not just his behavior that sickens you. It’s the blind adoration he inspires, the way everyone, men and women alike, seems willing to turn a blind eye to his failings, just because he’s handsome, because he’s powerful. Such injustice revolts you.

How can someone so selfish, so unscrupulous, be celebrated, praised as a blessing?

Your heart twists with pain and rage. The very idea of ​​such a person walking this earth, of him being not only tolerated but adored, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. And yet, tonight, you will be there. You will be at the ball, masked, watching from afar this man who embodies everything you despise. Part of you burns with curiosity, eager to confront the image you have created of him. The other part dreads what you might discover, fearing that the reality is even more abject than anything your mind has imagined.

You let out a small, shaky sigh, your breath heavy and hesitant, as you move away from the bustling lounges and into the garden. The cool air of the late afternoon brushes your skin, but it fails to soothe the restlessness that eats away at you from within. You search for Princess Karina, that familiar face, that calming presence that could, perhaps, offer you some comfort in the midst of this foreign and oppressive crowd. The garden is unreal in its beauty, a tangle of colors and scents that seem to want to swallow you up. Blue roses, an almost supernatural hue, mauve lilacs so delicate they seem made of silk, and poppies, a pure and striking red, like bursts of light in the lush greenery.

You stop for a moment, your gaze lost in the magnificence of the place, your breath suspended. You let yourself be carried away by the harmony of the place, as if to forget for a moment the heaviness of your heart. In the distance, you hear the soothing murmur of the fountain. This light, almost singing sound, reaches you like a distant melody, announcing an upcoming transformation. 

In a few hours, this same fountain, initially a source of calm and serenity, would be transformed into a wine fountain, whose streams of a golden and sweet liquid would flow in abundance to celebrate the ball party. The idea squeezes your heart, disgusts you a little. This wine, which could flow in abundance in this same fountain, mixes with your dark thoughts, this image diluting in the anger that boils deep inside you.

Yet you continue to move forward, with a faster step, your feet brushing the damp grass of the garden, your eyes searching for Princess Karina among the flowers. You would like to lose yourself there, to blend into this idyllic world, far from the hustle and bustle and the heavy gazes, but your thoughts are too agitated for you to abandon yourself to the tranquility of this place.

Suddenly, without warning, a figure that is all too familiar appears in the distance. At first it seems distant, blurry, then gradually becomes clearer. It is him. Your father. The Duke of Belmont. Every cell in your body tenses the moment you recognize him. Your heart leaps in your chest, a sharp, painful movement. He moves forward with a light step, as if he does not even realize the shock wave he causes in you. His face radiates a bright smile, a smile that seems completely out of step with what you feel at that moment. 

Every step he takes towards you seems to tighten the grip on your chest a little more. The sunlight falling on him makes him shine, but to you, he is more than ever the embodiment of icy indifference and betrayal. The distance between you is closing inexorably, and with it, your unease is becoming more and more oppressive. It's as if every movement of his body, every flash of his smile, is hitting you full force, shaking everything you thought you had buried deep inside you.

Since your arrival in France, since the day he sent you here with Giselle, you have had no news, no letters, no visits from him. He simply sent you to this distant country, as if you were just a piece moved on a chessboard, without any real importance. No words, no sign of affection, not even a gesture of curiosity. He forgot you. And, worse still, he erased you from his mind, as if you had never existed. 

In his eyes, everything you represent is just a mistake that he got rid of by entrusting you to other hands. The void he left in your life is heavier than all the chains in the world. Even more unbearable than his pure and simple absence. He has become a specter that haunts your days, wandering around you, reminding you at every moment that you are only a ghost in his memory. A weight that you cannot bear.

But there, in front of you, he is very real. He comes closer, his smile almost frozen on his face, like a rehearsed scene that he plays over and over again. He knows nothing of what you feel, he does not perceive the waves of anger and pain that overwhelm you, nor the bitterness that twists your insides with each passing second. 

He walks towards you, with that ease that he has always had, with that certainty of being above everything, as if his actions had no consequences. You hate him for that, for that innate arrogance, for that ability to move forward without a backward glance, without worrying about the impact he has had on your life. As if he had erased you with a simple gesture, as if you were just a simple step taken, without emotion or consequence. 

Your heart races, but it's not excitement or anticipation that's coursing through you. No, it's anger, pain, and humiliation that are boiling inside you, too strong for you to ignore. There he is, in front of you, his smile wide and bright, so sincere in its appearance that you almost come to doubt. 

How can he be so insensitive? How can he smile like that, when he's left you in oblivion, in this imposed solitude, in total indifference? 

You want to turn on your heel, run away from him, but something pins you to the spot. An invisible force, perhaps fear, or perhaps this bitter resignation, paralyzes you. You stand there, frozen, your body tense, your hands clenched around the book you're still holding, the bile of disgust rising slowly in your throat, threatening to invade your entire being.

He finally stops in front of you, and in his eyes, you see a glint of pride, as if he were offering you something, a favor that he feels deserved by staring at you like that. But to you, this look is that of a man who still believes himself to be in control of everything, a man who ignores the gaping cracks he has left in his wake, flaws he refuses to see.

“Father.” The word escapes your lips like poison, sweet and sugary, an illusion of respect you try hard to maintain. But your eyes betray you. They betray the disgust you feel every time he addresses you in this way, as if you were nothing more than a thing to be manipulated, to be controlled.

He looks at you, a slightly smug smile, as if your mere presence brings him a gratification he has been waiting for, with that icy condescension he reserves only for his daughters. His gaze envelops you, cold and distant, making you feel as if your existence is but an extension of his empire, a possession he can move around at will. His lips curl into a smile, almost a smirk, but it is not the warmth of a loving father that greets you. No, it is the satisfaction of a man who knows that everything, even you, will eventually bend under his control. 

“My sweet Y/n, you have not changed…” He seems to savor each word, articulating them slowly, as if this compliment, if it can be called that, is a delight he has already tasted a thousand times. And you, in his mind, are nothing more than a simple object in this great game of manipulation, a piece he can move around at will.

His gaze becomes more piercing, more insistent, and you feel this heaviness settle on your chest, like an invisible hand that prevents you from breathing. You respond with a small smile, but it is icy, almost mechanical, a blade hidden under an apparent gentleness. "Thank you, Father." The words slide through the air, hollow and devoid of any real warmth. Each syllable you pronounce is fragile, ready to break under the pressure. And your face, although rigid, controlled beyond measure, is only a mask, a bulwark that you wear every day to not let the storm that rages inside you burst.

He takes a step forward, approaching slowly, but his gait is calculated, methodical, like that of a predator taking its time, savoring every moment of this dance. He doesn't need to hurry, because he knows, better than anyone, that you're already caught in the cruel trap he's woven around you. His eyes, icy as the abyss, don't leave yours. "Do you know why I'm here, Y/n?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, but it's so loaded with implications that you feel like each word resonates heavily in the air, like an invisible weight tightening your chest, making it suddenly heavy and suffocating.

You hesitate for a moment, your breath hanging, as if every movement, every breath, could betray the slightest of your flaws. You look for an escape, a way to flee this situation without showing the slightest weakness, but your words remain measured, almost icy. "No. No one warned me of your presence, father." You feel your heart beating wildly, too hard, too loud. Yet, you refuse to give him the slightest victory, to offer him an ounce of this anxiety rising within you. You try to mask the storm raging beneath the surface.

He tilts his head slightly, like a wild animal watching its prey, scrutinizing your every move, trying to pierce the mask you're trying to maintain. "It's better this way," he says with a light sigh, almost distracted, as if he were doing you a favor. But you know, deep down, that this silence, heavy with unsaid things, is his way of enclosing you, of locking you in this game that he controls with disconcerting ease.

Your stomach tightens painfully. His words crash down on you, slowly, inevitably, an oppressive pressure that almost makes you falter. “What’s going on, Father?” Your voice remains calm, but behind this seemingly simple question, there is a visceral anxiety, a whirlwind of emotions that you struggle to contain. You want to look away, to flee from this piercing gaze, but you know that at this precise moment, the slightest hesitation, the slightest movement, would be seen as weakness. And you don’t have that luxury. Not here. Not now.

He finally stops, standing in front of you. The air seems to be charged with a palpable, electrified energy, as if the world around you is about to explode under the tension. His eyes remain riveted to yours, and you feel the heaviness of his gaze weighing on you, more oppressive than ever. 

"Giselle... She is no longer in the king's favor." The sentence falls like a clap of thunder, an unfathomable brutality that tears through the silence already heavy with unsaid things. The shock is such that the air around you seems to freeze for a moment, as if time had suspended its flight.

For a moment, the world seems to stop around you. Everything becomes blurry, indistinct, as if you were floating outside of time. You feel yourself swaying, a feeling of dizziness taking you by surprise, but you force yourself to keep your feet firmly planted in this terrifying reality. 

“Poor Giselle,” you whisper, and even you can hear that hint of bitterness piercing your voice. But deep down, a part of you rejoices. You knew this moment would come eventually. Your sister’s weaknesses have never been a secret, and you’ve always seen this inevitable end looming on the horizon. Yet with every word you speak, something inside you twists. A strangeness settles in, something darker. A cruel reality that eludes you, that leaves you with only a bitter feeling of emptiness.

Your father stares at you, his face frozen in an icy expression. His gaze darkens, a flash of emotion you hadn’t anticipated, a crack in his impassive façade. As if this situation, this defeat, was much more serious than he had let on. 

“Poor us,” he whispers hoarsely, as if every word burns him. These are not just the words of a father disappointed in his daughter. They are the words of a man cornered, desperate at the loss of his power, of everything he thought he had acquired. “As long as she was the king’s lover, our name, our reputation, our fortune… everything was secure. But now, it can all fall apart.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with threat, calculation, despair. And yet, you know deep down that Giselle doesn’t really interest him. It’s not her he’s mourning. It’s you. It’s you, Y/n, and what you can do to save the legacy he believes he deserves, to repair what he considers an irreparable loss.

You stare at him, frozen, your gaze fixed on him, unable to utter a single word. The silence settles in, heavy, oppressive, almost suffocating. An invisible pressure seems to surround you, to compress you. Each breath becomes a burden, each thought an unbearable weight. The simple idea of ​​what he expects of you gives birth to a wave of disgust, a disgust that is not limited to what he asks of you, but to everything he represents. You see him there, in front of you, your own father, the one who should be your protector, reducing you to a simple instrument of transaction.

But he also knows. He knows there is no escape. He waits, like a patient predator, for you to submit, for you to agree to play this role he imposes on you, the one he believes you will eventually take on.

The shiver that runs through you isn’t just the biting cold of the garden. No, it’s the heaviness of his expectations that makes you shudder. And then he speaks again, his voice lower, slower, like a spider’s whisper slowly weaving its web around you. “Unless…” His words slip through the air, insidious, worming their way into every fiber of your being, imbuing your soul with a dull echo that resonates deep within you. “Unless you can attract the attention of the King of Korea.”

That sentence, those few words, are invisible chains closing in on you. You feel them wrapping around your body, tightening, slowly but surely. The noose tightens around your heart, each beat a cruel reminder that your life, your entire being, are nothing more than means to his ambition. The world seems to shrink to this simple reality: what you are, what you are becoming, none of that matters to him anymore. He sees you as nothing more than a piece on his chessboard.

The garden, the trees, the sky above you… everything disappears in a vaporous blur. Your father’s words echo in your mind with icy sharpness. The King of Korea. This man, this living legend, whose divine beauty seems unalterable, but whose implacable harshness terrifies you. His name alone makes you shiver, a cold, painful fear runs through your body. He is both a myth and a monster, a creature whose aura of power and seduction leaves no room for innocence. And you, you are supposed to attract him, to hold him. The idea breaks you from the inside, a burst of despair that tears at your soul.

Your heart clenches, painfully, crushed under the weight of reality. You don't have the strength to answer right away. The silence, this silence that floats around you, becomes both your refuge and your prison. The truth of what he expects of you hits you like a sledgehammer, makes you falter. But you know that there is no question of giving in. In this world, in this life, weakness is a luxury that you cannot afford. Not now. Not with what you know about your father, and even less with what he expects of you.

You look away, but he sees everything. He knows everything. Your mask is perfect, but your eyes can't lie. You know he reads them like an open book. "What if... if I had him, Father, and he got tired of me, what would you do?" The question escapes you slowly, almost involuntarily, like a last breath of hope. You try to break this vicious circle, to find a crack in his facade, an escape. But the very moment you ask the question, you know he already has an answer, a terribly simple answer: you will succumb, sooner or later, to what he expects of you.

His smile grows wider, more predatory. You know that this smile is that of the man who no longer needs convincing, the one who has already won. He doesn't need to say more. His eyes shine with a light that makes you shiver. "Maybe he would get tired, Y/n, but maybe you would also know how to hold him back." He lets his words stretch out, slow, calculated, like invisible threads that weave themselves around you. "Maybe... you would know how to awaken something in him that no one else could."

His words, like an icy mist, invade your mind. At that moment, he approaches even closer, and each step he takes towards you gives birth to a silent fear, like a sudden wave of cold that passes through your entire body. He is very close now, within reach, and you feel the aura of domination that he gives off. With a gesture, he brushes your cheek with the tips of his fingers. 

The contact is icy, cold as the life he imposes on you. An electric shock runs through you, but it is not a pleasant shiver. It is a shiver of fear, a shiver of revolt. His fingers slide slowly over your skin, as if he wanted to mark your face with his possession. "There is something inside you, Y/n." Your father's voice becomes softer, more intimate, but the threat is palpable in each syllable. "Something that could upset kingdoms."

His eyes bore into yours, a glimmer of certainty, arrogance even, shining in their depths. And you see that certainty, you feel it, you know he believes in you in a strange, dangerous way. He believes you're capable of anything. But you hate that belief he has in you. He believes you're capable of manipulating, seducing, conquering… He believes you're capable of imprisoning the soul of the king himself. But you, deep down, know what that means. He's shaping you, changing you, like one shapes a weapon. And you hate him for it.

A heavy silence falls between you, a silence that weighs, that crushes, before you break the calm with a broken voice. "I will do my best, father." Your voice wavers, weak, and even you hear the weariness that runs through it. The weight of abandonment, of submission, hits you full force. But in your voice, there is also something else. A smirk, a flash of defiance that struggles to pierce your resignation.

Your father smiles even more, a bright, victorious smile. He leans towards you, brushing your cheek one last time with a gesture that is too gentle, too reassuring. But beneath this gentleness, you know that there is the promise of a return, of an even heavier weight to bear. "I knew I could count on you, Y/n." His words are a burden, an icy hug, an embrace that leaves you powerless. Then he slowly withdraws, without another word, but his eyes fix you one last time, full of promises and silent threats.

And you stand there, frozen, petrified, your heart pounding. Your breath is short, as if the pressure of his words has stolen all the air around you. He has left his mark on you. His expectations are eating away at you. And even as you stand there, still standing, you know the game has begun. You have no choice. Not now. Not in this world where every gesture, every word is a weapon. Not when you know that your life, and perhaps your sister's, depend on your ability to play this role.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December 23, 1555

For the ball, you have chosen a dress of incredible sophistication, a masterpiece of couture that seems to perfectly embrace the nobility of your rank while instilling a wind of subtle rebellion. Your dress, of an intense midnight blue, captures the light of each candle, creating fascinating shadows and flashes that dance with each of your movements. The fabric, a heavy and slightly shiny velvet, unfolds around your legs with each step, like a calm but deep sea, each fold undulating delicately, adding an elegant fluidity to your gestures. The intensity of the color echoes the depth of your gaze, a mysterious and unfathomable hue that hides as much as it reveals.

The dress is beautifully cinched at your waist by a silk corset embroidered with gold and silver threads, which tightens your silhouette in a vice that is both soft and imperious. Each gold thread seems to breathe with you, sculpting your body in a way that recalls the most precious statues of the court. The corset, worked with incomparable finesse, ends in delicate patterns that intertwine in subtle arabesques, as if the very history of royalty and ancestral magic were woven into the fabric.

The sleeves, long and fitted, follow the shape of your arms with a precision that borders on obsession. They are covered in intricate embroidery, each pattern telling a secret story, sinuous arabesques that slowly climb up to your wrists. The embroidery, of a bright gold, mixes with the silver threads like a fusion of shadow and light, creating almost living patterns. At the end of your wrists, black satin ribbons, of a discreet opulence, are tied with a precision that catches the eye, adding a touch of refinement, a vulnerability hidden behind this perfect calculation.

The skirt, vast and imposing, is formed of multiple layers of superimposed fabric, each carefully selected for its majestic drape and incomparable fluidity. With each movement, it comes to life, spreading around you, like a calm and deep sea ready to swallow everything in its path. The edges are delicately decorated with fine lace and discreet pearls, which quiver in contact with the light. 

At the back, a light train unfolds, brushing the ground with infinite softness, like a promise of silent, hidden power, just waiting to be revealed. The slight shiver of the material under your feet, almost invisible, gives you an aura of grandeur, a silent majesty that surrounds you. You are no longer simply a young woman, but a presence, a spectral vision. The dress seems to transport you out of time, each step echoing the legacy of queens and ladies of the court, but also a mystery hidden beneath your apparent grace.

And then there's your mask.

It is just as sublime as the rest of your outfit, a masterpiece forged in finely crafted metal, a silver hue that blends perfectly with the golden tones of the dress. The mask covers the upper part of your face, hugging the contours of your nose, cheeks, and eyes, but leaves your lips free. These, full and tender, are exposed to the light of the assembly, ready to capture the gaze of all who dare to cross your path. 

The metal is smooth and cold to the touch, but incredibly light, almost airy, as if each gold filigree embedded in the structure of the mask was there only to accentuate the calculated coldness of your gaze. The sapphires, embedded at strategic points, shine like stars under the dim candlelight, their brilliance eclipsing everything around you. Each stone seems like a memory, a fragment of an ancient world, captured in a suspended moment.

Black and silver feathers, carefully sewn, border the mask, adding texture and movement to your appearance. Each feather, though soft, has the firmness of a weapon, a symbol of your freedom, of your refusal to be dominated. They float, almost unreal, in the air around your face, like a mist of mystery that barely dissipates.

Beneath that mask, your eyes shine with an unfathomable, calculated, almost piercing light. Although your face is partly hidden, your gaze is that of a queen, of a creature prey to her own torments and desires. There is a certain distance in that gaze, a calculated coldness, but also a deep passion that hides behind every flutter of your eyelashes, every furtive movement. When you meet the gaze of the guests, your gaze pierces their souls, their deepest thoughts, terrifying them in an almost imperceptible way.

And the veil hanging beneath your mask adds an extra layer of mystery, almost brushing your skin, swaying delicately with every movement of your head. It spreads in a perfect arc, like an invisible wave, brushing your neck and décolleté in a way that is both sensual and distant. The edges of the veil, adorned with black roses embroidered with silver thread, are a subtle but powerful touch, a discreet tribute to your rebellion, to your indomitable character. These black roses, in their macabre perfection, are a reminder of your spirit, your inner strength and your will to never be possessed. They seem to bloom under the glow of the candles, drawing the eye to your neck, your skin, your soul hidden behind this appearance of impenetrable elegance.

The grand ballroom, lit by hundreds of candles, seemed to transform into an ocean of flickering light. The reflections danced on the stone walls, mingling with the laughter and hushed murmurs of the guests, creating an unreal, almost magical atmosphere. But in the middle of this sea of ​​elegance and splendor, Heeseung was elsewhere, out of time, out of everything that surrounded him. His gaze, carried away by a force greater than him, did not leave your silhouette.

There you were, in the center of the room, a mystery embodied in your midnight blue velvet dress. It hugged your curves with an almost unreal fluidity, every movement you made seemed suspended in time. The dress, delicately adorned with gold and silver threads, sparkled under the candlelight, like a sea of ​​sapphires, and every step you took caused a wave of admiration among the guests. But it wasn't just the beauty of your outfit that captivated Heeseung. It was you, the shine hidden behind your mask, the discreet glow of your eyes that barely reflected under the veil. It was that look, that look that seemed to carry everything in its path, like a calm sea hiding raging waves beneath.

He no longer heard the voices around him, not even King Francis I speaking in his ear, his words becoming indistinct whispers in the back of his mind. Francis, in the middle of a speech about politics and possible alliances, had no idea that Heeseung was completely elsewhere. He was absorbed, captive to a moment, a single moment: you. The conversations were reduced to background noise. There was only this palpable tension, this electrification of the air between you, and everything around him seemed to distort and dissolve into a light mist.

Heeseung was hanging on your every move. Shadows danced around you, shards of light playing here and there, intensifying the depth of your face barely revealed under the veil. His gaze, captivated by the curve of your neck, slid slowly over your face, following the perfect line of your features to finally stop on your eyes. Those eyes… they were everything. That was where the mystery and the truth he ardently desired to uncover lay. Behind that mask, behind that veil that concealed almost everything, he guessed that you carried something precious, rare, inaccessible. And that, more than anything, troubled him deeply.

He was there, in that sea of ​​light and laughter, but there was nothing left but you and him. Nothing else. Nothing else mattered.

Francis, completely unaware of the seductive power of the scene, continued his speech. He spoke of strategy, alliances, lands to annex and potential marriages. He spoke, spoke endlessly. But all this was lost in the void for Heeseung, who, while keeping Francis in his field of vision, could not take his eyes off you. He heard the king's words, but did not listen to them. They had become empty, futile. Heeseung felt alien to this world of politics and plots, like a spectator trapped in a dream from which he was desperately trying to awaken.

When Francis finally caught sight of Heeseung's intense fixation, he understood. A slight mocking smile played on his lips. He approached him, like a predator ready to savor its prey, and murmured in a low, amused voice, almost invisible amidst the bursts of laughter and surrounding conversations: "So, Heeseung, you seem particularly absorbed by one of the Belmont sisters, don't you?" His tone betrayed an amusement that was in no way sincere. A slippery amusement, more cruel than benevolent, all the while knowing the effect it could have on him.

Heeseung, in spite of himself, felt his heart racing, an intense heat invaded his chest. He briefly looked away, staring at Francis for a moment, but immediately, his attention turned back to you. It was no longer a question of will. He could no longer take his eyes off you. The simple thought of leaving this moment, of moving away from you, filled him with a sort of palpable anguish. He wanted to know everything. Understand everything. He felt his soul contract under the intensity of the desire he felt, an irrepressible need to approach this mystery.

He cleared his throat, trying to regain control of himself, but the question escaped him before he could even stop it.

“Who… Who is she?” His voice, trembling despite himself, betrayed the depth of the desire he felt. It wasn’t just a superficial curiosity. No, it was a visceral need. An urgency to know everything, to understand everything. To discover who you really were.

Francis, of course, noticed the vulnerability in her voice. It only made his smile grow wider. He stepped closer, leaning in with measured slowness, as if savoring every word, every moment he would have the power to delve a little deeper into Heeseung's silent suffering.

“Ah, Y/n Belmont…” The king sighed, and the sigh sounded almost nostalgic, as if the young woman’s name evoked an old story, a distant and elusive romance. “She is… different, you know. A solitary soul, lost in her books, far from worldly distractions. She finds more pleasure in the solitude of her library than in the arms of men. But…” Francis let a silence settle, a smile that was far from innocent spreading across his lips. “Her sister, Giselle, she… She loves the court, the attention, the glory. I have…” The king paused, weighing his words. “I rode her, many times, once upon a time. An effervescent passion, but without mystery. I called her my ‘French mare’.”

Heeseung absorbed every word Francis said about you. He tried to understand why you obsessed him, why every sentence Francis said seemed to chain him further to this inexorable desire to know you, to possess you. An inner storm he couldn't control consumed him. He tried to look away from Francis, who seemed to be savoring the situation with obvious pleasure. But when his gaze caught sight of you again in the crowd, a shiver ran down his spine.

Without even a glance at Francis, without paying attention to the other guests who turned to watch his departure, he put down his glass with a sudden movement, leaving a trace of wine flowing onto the tablecloth. He stood up, his body guided by a force he did not understand, a force greater than himself. He crossed the room with a quiet determination, an obvious and irrevocable goal. His heart was beating at a frantic pace, but there was no more room for fear or hesitation. He was heading straight for you.

And all around him, the air seemed to thicken. The murmurs of the guests, the bursts of laughter and the looks of lust, all of it was nothing more than a rough sea that seemed far away, almost nonexistent. In his mind, there was only you. Just you.

Heeseung moved through the ballroom with a slow, calculated pace, like a shadow slipping through the bright light of the chandeliers. Every movement of his body seemed weighed, measured, but the energy around him was anything but controlled. He was a magnetic presence, a whirlwind of raw attraction that, without a word, made the crowd around him part. The light seemed to slip away beneath his feet, absorbed by the darkness of his gaze, and the air itself vibrated under the weight of his influence. The music, once joyous and light, seemed muffled, as if the entire universe were slowing down to match its rhythm.

The whispers, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—everything around him was fading, swallowed up by an invisible pressure that silenced the entire world. Faces around him were blurring, distorting, as if a veil of warmth and mystery were covering everything. And at the center of that swirl was you. Him and you. A perfect juxtaposition of presence and silence, attraction and reserve. A suspended moment, where all he could see was you.

He only had eyes for you.

He takes another step toward you, instinctively, as if an invisible and irresistible force were pulling him in your direction. A shiver runs down his spine, his senses on alert, every fiber of his being tense in inexplicable expectation. An energy he doesn't recognize takes hold of him. It's as if the room itself is closing in around him, isolating him, focusing him only on you, on the silhouette that you are. 

Every movement you make, no matter how subtle, seems to amplify this attraction. He's seen women, thousands of women, but none of them have ever been able to destabilize him in this way. None have ever had such power over him. Why you? What do you have that others don't? This question haunts him constantly, but he can't answer it. And the closer he gets, the more he loses himself in a whirlwind of confusion, desire, and frustration.

But before he can close the distance between you, he feels a firm grip on his arm. He freezes instantly, a dull anger rising within him at the sight of the intruder who dares to interrupt his quest. He turns his head, his jaw clenched, and finds himself face to face with Yang Jungwon, his trusted advisor, always able to read his every thought. A mixture of annoyance and curiosity reads on Jungwon's face, as if he knows exactly what's going on in his king's mind. His eyes shine with a subtly mocking glint, but he doesn't let it show.

“Your Majesty,” Jungwon said in a calm, almost tranquil tone, “I’ve never seen you in such a state. You seem… captivated.”

The words ring like a bell in Heeseung’s head. He clenches his jaw, aware that he’s been caught up in the moment, that he’s let his emotions rule him in a way he’s never allowed before. His eyes, however, keep returning to you, despite his efforts to focus on something else. He can’t seem to escape you. You’re there, obsessing him, haunting him. The temptation to come closer again, to unravel this mystery, is stronger than ever.

Jungwon, impassive, follows his gaze and, when he sees your silhouette in the crowd, a spark of intelligence crosses his eyes. He smiles slightly, as if he understands completely what is happening here, without needing to say it explicitly. He then murmurs, in a tone that borders on amusement: “She has an undeniable presence, I grant you that. Even from afar, she is difficult to ignore.”

Jungwon’s words hit Heeseung like a whiplash, shaking his control further. He stares at him intently, and in his eyes, you can read all the possessiveness, all the agitation he feels. What Jungwon doesn’t know is that every word, every syllable, fuels the already burning flame inside him. He feels anger bubbling under his skin, a mix of envy and frustration that he struggles to contain. He slowly turns his head to his advisor, his gaze turning icy, almost menacing. The air between them grows heavier, more tense.

“Put away your eyes, Jungwon,” he growls, his voice low and rumbling, a thinly veiled threat in his words.

Jungwon, still implacable, tilts his head slightly, but he doesn't seem afraid. On the contrary, a glint of amusement lingers in his eyes, an almost imperceptible light that he doesn't completely hide. "You know very well that I would never do something so reckless, Majesty," he says calmly. "But if I may say so... Be careful. Women like her, as fascinating as they are, can be more dangerous than an armed enemy."

Jungwon’s words, spoken in a neutral tone, seep into Heeseung’s mind like poison. They echo in his head, but he shakes them away with an imperceptible movement of his head. That’s not what he needs. He can’t help but want to understand you, to solve this mystery. Yet the tension Jungwon reminds him of is there. He knows it. He feels it. But nothing will stop him.

“I don’t need your warnings,” Heeseung retorts, his voice firm, without trembling. “What I want are answers.”

Jungwon watches his king in silence, infinite patience in his gaze. Then, slowly, he nods, his features regaining a new seriousness. “Very well, Your Majesty. I will take care of it immediately.”

As his advisor disappears into the crowd, Heeseung stands there, motionless. A palpable tension emanates from him. He stands like a wild animal ready to pounce, every muscle tense, his mind in torment he has never known. His eyes scan the room, searching for your silhouette in every corner, but the crowd has become a labyrinth, and you have vanished, like a ghost erased by the light. Doubt seizes him. Was it real? A mirage? An illusion born of his desires? He can't help but chase the thought away. No, it can't be. What you left him, this feeling, this attraction, is too real to be fleeting.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm the turmoil inside him. But even in the darkness of his closed eyelids, your image persists. Your eyes, your silhouette, the mystery that emanates from you… All of it pursues him, obsesses him. He has never been one to let himself be guided by his emotions, but you have made him waver. He hates this vulnerability he feels, but at the same time, it attracts him. He is a prisoner of this fascination.

There is no room for doubt anymore. You are his obsession, and he will find you, no matter what it takes. He must understand you, possess you, solve this puzzle that is you. Because at this moment, he knows one thing: this is not a game. This is a war. A war where he is willing to sacrifice everything he has for… you.

The noise of the party had died down, leaving the garden plunged into an eerie, almost eerie quiet. Shadows danced beneath the trees as the moon shyly lit the stone paths, creating an atmosphere that was both unsettling and inviting. Heeseung, his gaze fixed on you, felt a confusing mix of excitement and frustration. From the first moment he had seen you, you had become the object of all his thoughts, a silent obsession that consumed him from the inside. Every glance he had been able to cast upon you, every mention of your name only fanned the fire that was growing within him.

He stopped at a distance, watching you move with a carefree grace, almost cruel in the way you ignored his presence. You stood by the fountain, your fingers absently brushing the petals of a nocturnal flower. Your allure was a captivating mix of modesty and provocation. The midnight blue velvet of your dress hugged every curve of your body, accentuating the sensuality of your movements without ever falling into excess. The neckline, although sober, revealed just enough skin to arouse the imagination of anyone who dared to gaze at you.

Heeseung bit the inside of his cheek, struggling to maintain a facade of calm. In reality, he was consumed by desire. He had isolated himself from the party for one reason only: to be with you, alone, away from prying eyes and silent judgments. His usually sharp mind was now clouded by thoughts he could no longer control.

He took a deep breath before walking towards you, each step echoing lightly on the gravel of the path. The sound of his footsteps, soft but distinct, broke the heavy silence. You turned around slowly at the sound, your eyes meeting his in a second that seemed to stretch out forever. A sudden warmth invaded Heeseung, his stomach twisting under the intensity of the look you gave him. There, in the shadows, the air between you was saturated with electricity, heavy with silent promises. There was something indescribable in the atmosphere, a palpable, almost suffocating tension that tightened his chest, as if each movement, each breath risked breaking the fragile balance that had settled between you.

He stopped a few steps away from you, his breath short, and scrutinized you for a moment, unable to look away. The darkness around you seemed to isolate you from the world, imprisoning you in a bubble where time dilated, as if suspended. He was a king, certainly, but in this moment, he was nothing more than a man, trapped by his intense desire for a woman he could no longer banish from his thoughts, a woman who haunted and obsessed his mind.

“Lady Y/n Belmont?” His voice, low and hoarse, betrayed the inner storm that was devouring him. The question, although useless, was only a pretext to break this oppressive silence, this unbearable tension that enveloped you.

Your gaze didn't waver, but a flicker of questioning pierced your eyes. "That's right," you answered in a soft but perfectly controlled voice, which slid between you like an invisible caress. You didn't take your eyes off him, trying to decipher his intentions behind his piercing eyes. "Who do I have the honor of speaking to?" you continued, with impeccable politeness, although one could guess a hint of subtle curiosity, which Heeseung caught without difficulty.

He gave a slight smile, a glimmer of satisfaction crossing his features. “Lee Heeseung,” he answered in a deep voice, but his name wasn’t enough to contain everything he felt at that moment. He stepped closer, each movement filled with silent determination, and slowly reached out his hand toward you. Without thinking, as if guided by an unconscious reflex, you offered it to him, the gesture almost automatic, dictated by years of social conventions, but carried by a palpable tension, a quiver of an unspoken promise.

But what followed was anything but conventional. His fingers slowly closed around your hand, his warm palms hugging the coolness of your skin. He tilted his head, his gaze still fixed on you, and, with an almost unbearable slowness, placed his lips on the back of your hand. The kiss lasted a second too long, a second that seemed to suspend time, transforming this seemingly innocent gesture into something much more intimate, much more threatening. The air between you grew heavy, charged with this unbearable tension, as if this simple contact opened the door to much darker and unacknowledged desires.

You shuddered slightly, and the tiny movement didn't escape him. He removed his lips from your skin, but didn't immediately let go of your hand. He held it for a few more moments, his fingers gently brushing yours, as if to prolong the contact, before slowly releasing them. This gesture, this prolonged contact, this hesitation to let you go, expressed his desire far more intensely than any words.

You tried to hide your confusion, but he saw a glint of embarrassment in your eyes, and it awakened a feeling of power in him, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. Still, you quickly pulled yourself together, trying to bow to him, but he abruptly placed his hand on your shoulder, stopping you from continuing your gesture.

“No need for formalities…” he murmured, his voice deeper, hoarse, as if he were struggling to contain the storm brewing inside him. “Let’s just be a man and a woman, here and now.”

You looked up at him slowly, surprised by the intimacy of his words. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest, and the warmth of his hand could be felt through the fabric of your dress. It was a burning touch, heavy with unspoken promises, and you couldn't help but shudder under the subtle but persistent pressure. He dominated you without saying a word, and this domination, although silent, imposed itself on you, seeping into your breath, into every fiber of your being.

“A man and a woman…” you repeated weakly, your words trembling with uncertainty. “I don’t think a woman of my rank has the right to consider you a man like any other.”

Your breath was short, and you felt your desire awaken against your will, a dull heat invading your belly. The proximity of his body, the depth of his gaze, everything about him awakened a part of you that you had long repressed, a part that rebelled against your reason.

He smiled, a smile heavy with meaning, almost carnivorous. "Remember that I am first and foremost a man, before being king." His fingers slid slowly from your shoulder to your chin, in a meticulously calculated, almost possessive gesture. He gently forced you to raise your head, and in that movement, something broke between you. The distance disappeared instantly. His fingers brushed the fragile fabric of your veil, and he felt it slide, almost sensually, against his skin.

“I could have been born a commoner,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing yours, a palpable heat between you. “But God had other plans. Yet what I want right now is not the king who desires you. It is the man.” His voice, so low and intimate that you had to strain to hear it, vibrated through the air, penetrating your senses. Each word seemed to force its way into your soul, awakening buried desires within you, desires you had long ignored, or left in the shadows.

Heeseung leaned in slowly, each movement deliberate, precise, like a predator savoring the prey it was about to capture. The air around you seemed to thicken as it closed the distance, until there was only a thin invisible border between the two of you, a space as fragile as mist, but with a palpable tension. His eyes, deep black, anchored themselves in yours, as if he were trying to penetrate your soul, to probe every part of your being, every thought hidden behind the facade you were trying to maintain. He was there, scrutinizing you, probing you without a word, but each fraction of a second seemed to weigh an eternity, making the air unbreathable, heavy, almost suffocating.

With every inch he gained, the atmosphere grew heavier, denser, charged with an unbearable tension. You could feel the heat of his body spreading slowly, like an invisible wave breaking against your body. The breath he let out brushed your skin, barely a contact, but with an intimacy that froze you in place. This simple proximity took your breath away, each breath becoming more difficult, as if the air itself had become rarefied. The feeling of suffocation grew, and yet, you were not ready to move, as if an invisible force was holding you there.

Your muscles were tense to the limit, like steel wires ready to give way under the pressure, but no part of your body seemed ready to take a step back. Your feet were anchored in the gravel of the garden, the hard, cold ground like an anchor, but it was the moment that held you there, as if you were becoming a part of this suspended moment. The thought of fleeing brushed your mind, but it clashed with another sensation, more poignant, more burning—the irresistible pull he exerted on you. You felt torn, caught between the will to escape and the call of a desire you could neither understand nor control.

He finally stopped, just at the edge of what seemed like intimacy, a breath away from you. So close, so terribly close, that you could almost feel every variation of his breath against your skin, every exhalation like a secret whisper. The scent of his skin, warm, spicy, overwhelming, mingled with the cool night air, but you couldn’t focus on anything else anymore. All that existed in that moment was him—his presence, his warmth, the way he seemed to engulf you without even touching you, like a magnetic force you couldn’t ignore. He was there, closer than ever, but you didn’t dare move, petrified under his gaze.

Your gaze locked with his, your mind suddenly drawn into the depths of his eyes. It wasn’t just a look, it was a silent invitation, a challenge, a promise. There was something inherently wild in that dark, burning glow, incredibly sensual, and yet terrifyingly authoritarian. It was a look that didn’t demand, but imposed, a look that soaked into you like a sweet poison. It unsettled you, forced you to observe him, to lose yourself in the abysses of his thoughts, in the darkness of his desire—or perhaps in a hidden fragility that you could only touch.

His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his face tense, and yet he stood there, terrifyingly in control, as if fighting deeper, more brutal desires. The tension between you was palpable, an invisible line you longed to cross, each testing the other’s limits, almost perversely. He seemed harder than stone, more imposing than any figure you’d ever met, and yet in that gaze, in that heavy silence, there was a hint of uncertainty, a fragility ready to reveal itself—but only to you.

Your entire body was boiling. You could feel every movement of your breath, every beat of your heart echoing in your ears. He was pulling you in, inexorably, like a calm sea before a storm. You wanted to pull back, to break the tension, but it was as if you were no longer able to control your own body. A shiver ran through your skin, not from the cold, but from an unbearable heat that devoured you from the inside. The heat of his body was everywhere, pouring into every fiber of your being, wrapping around it, submitting you to his will without him even moving.

He leaned in a little closer, just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath slipping over your ear, brushing your skin, like a caress that was both burning and icy. His lips were so close to your skin that you could almost feel them, brushing your neck without ever really touching, but there was a raw, wild desire in that promise. And yet, you didn't dare move. You stayed there, frozen, your eyes fixed on his lips, so full, so perfect, and you knew, deep down, that you couldn't back down.

He slowly raised his hand, hesitant at first, as if waiting for a sign from you, each gesture seeming like a test. His fingers brushed your cheek, so softly that you could barely feel them, but that caress, that simple touch, was more intimate than anything you had ever experienced. A shiver shook you, and your breathing quickened, too loud in the oppressive silence. He kept staring at you, and in his eyes shone a glimmer of triumph, a certainty that he already possessed you, even if you had not yet made a move.

“You shouldn’t…” you whispered, your voice cracking, trembling. But even you knew your words held no weight. They were weak, almost useless against the force of the moment.

A thin, predatory smile touched his lips, a smile that was anything but tender. “And yet I do it,” he replied, his voice deep and sharply sweet, like a sharp knife sliding through silk.

Your heart clenched in your chest. He knew. He knew everything, he knew how you felt, and yet he moved forward, imperceptibly, slowly, each movement a promise, a warning, an invitation. The space between you narrowed, and narrowed, until there was nothing left but this shared breath, this palpable heat, this inevitable collision of desire and reason.

The distance between your lips was now tiny, almost nonexistent, but just before everything shattered, a thought hit you like lightning: you couldn't. Not here, not now. Not like this.

You turned your head away slightly, an instinctive gesture, breaking the trajectory of his kiss. His lips brushed your cheek, so lightly that it was almost unreal, but the effect was devastating, electrocuting you to your very core. The heat of his breath, the softness of this barely perceptible contact, invaded you with a desire so brutal that you almost lost your footing.

“We can’t do this…” you whispered, your voice almost inaudible, drowned out by the tumult of your thoughts and emotions.

Time seemed to stand still as he stood there, frozen, his fingers millimeters from your face, never touching you, like a silent promise that in an instant, everything could change. His gaze never left your face, scrutinizing every nuance of your expressions, every breath you let out. The pressure of his presence was overwhelming, as dense and opaque as a mist, enveloping you entirely. Every movement he made seemed calculated, measured, but with a purpose you could not yet grasp, destabilizing your entire being.

The air between you was thick with palpable tension, a space where desire, confusion, and frustration danced in silence, locked in an unbearable embrace. His unfathomably black eyes stared at you with an intensity that threatened to make you lose control. It was as if every fiber of your being was exposed, vulnerable, ready to give in. His silence was heavy, more deafening than any words. And yet, everything about his posture, about the closeness he maintained between you, told you that he was waiting for something, that he was pushing you to react, to give in.

“Why?” His voice finally broke the silence, but it wasn’t an innocent question. It was a challenge, an invitation, an almost imperceptible reproach, but palpable. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, a justification, a word that would explain everything he felt, what he hoped for. In his eyes, you could see impatience, the shadow of a frustration that he didn’t even try to hide anymore.

Your body jerked back, reacting as if in shock, your heart pounding. Every movement felt too sudden, too desperate. Uncontrollable tremors shook your body, but there was nothing you could do about it. “Because I promised my virginity to my future husband, Your Majesty,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of the confession. The words weighed heavily on you, a burden you could no longer bear, but had to say, to defend yourself, to get away from him, to not give in to the growing temptation.

Heeseung didn’t react immediately, but his eyes darkened, as if your words were a blow he hadn’t anticipated. He was still staring at you with that burning intensity, but something inside him snapped slightly. A furtive gesture, an almost imperceptible contraction of his jaw. You could almost feel the struggle playing out inside him, an inner war he had no intention of losing. He didn’t want to lose you. Not like this.

Yet he remained still, frozen in his posture, his fingers millimeters from your face, hesitant to cross that invisible boundary. He didn't move, but his eyes remained fixed on you, as if every expression on your face, every movement of your body, was a message he had to decipher.

“And I don’t know who he’ll be, but he’ll be the only one who’ll have it,” you continued, your voice growing firmer, but still trembling with the electricity of tension. It was a statement, but it was also your way of setting a limit, of imposing a boundary he wouldn’t dare cross. At least, you hoped so. But as he remained silent, he turned his head slightly away, as if to avoid responding to what you had just said, as if he wanted to dodge the idea that your words had any power over him.

This gesture, almost imperceptible, hit you like a blow. It was neither anger nor rejection, but something more painful, more destabilizing. It was as if he was protecting himself from a truth he was not ready to face. And this distance he put between you, this subtle avoidance of his eyes, was more than indifference. It was a silent rejection, a distancing that made you waver.

A mixture of anger and pain erupted within you then. “Because I know what happens otherwise!” you blurted out, your voice cracking on the words, each syllable vibrating with frustration and pent-up rage. “My reputation has already been sullied once. I will not let it happen again.” The weight of those words washed over you, evoking that part of you that you had always protected, that past that haunted you relentlessly. A dull anguish took hold of you, an inner pain that devoured you at every moment, leaving you vulnerable and almost broken.

But it was the mention of Giselle, your sister, that made you falter. "And my sister Giselle... She's called the great whore by everyone." Each word tore you further apart, and even though you wanted to hold back these revelations, they escaped you. Shame washed over you, icy, a wave of coldness that made you falter, but there was no turning back.

He looked at you then, his dark eyes deeply anchored in yours, and for the first time since his arrival, you perceived the intensity of his emotions. It was neither indifferent nor cold, but something much more complex: a mixture of incomprehension, rejection, and yet, also defiance. His gaze was sharp as a blade, but he did not look away. He stared at you as if you were nothing more than an obstacle to overcome, as if your words only fueled his desire to break the mask you wore.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he finally whispered, but his voice held no compassion. It was distant, icy, a desperate attempt to regain control, to cover up the crack that had just opened. And yet, despite his words, he still hadn’t moved an inch, and his fingers hung in the air, as close to you as they had ever been.

Then, slowly, he turned away, and the sound of his footsteps faded into the night. Before he completely disappeared into the darkness, a heaviness settled in the air, as if a part of you wanted to call out to him, to scream his name, but you remained frozen, plunged into a crushing silence. “Your Majesty!” you called, your voice broken by a despair you couldn’t explain, but he didn’t turn around.

He disappeared, and you were left there, alone, your heart pounding, your throat tight with conflicting emotions. A breath of relief briefly crossed your mind, but before you could even appreciate it, a familiar figure emerged from the darkness. Your father. His gaze was as cold as iron, as implacable as a final judgment. He stared at you for a long time, and shame, more crushing than anything, washed over you. You felt torn, caught between the burning heat of this forbidden desire and the icy coldness of family expectations.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December 24, 1555

The golden light of the setting sun bathed the room in a deceptive softness. The rays, filtered through the tall windows decorated with stained glass, spread like a stream of honey, casting bright shards that danced on the walls, tapestries and luxurious furniture. Yet this luminous warmth contrasted cruelly with the icy atmosphere that permeated every corner of the room. The walls, richly decorated with carved moldings and heavy velvet drapes, seemed to close in, as if the space itself were bending under the weight of an oppressive silence.

The wooden floor, its shine and warmth enhanced by the twilight light, seemed almost unreal. The soft warmth of the air, at first comforting, gradually faded as one approached the center of the room, where an icy coldness seemed to emanate from Heeseung's imposing silhouette. Motionless, frozen in a pose of extreme calm, he looked like a marble statue, his arms crossed over his chest. For long minutes, he had not uttered a word. It was as if time itself had frozen, subjugated by his imposing and almost supernatural presence.

His silhouette was silhouetted between shadow and light, contrasting with the golden flashes that seemed to engulf him. Tall and athletic, he stood straight, every line of his posture betraying absolute control. The subtle tension in his shoulders and the stillness of his back gave him an almost superhuman aura. Absorbed in silent contemplation, his gaze remained fixed on the horizon through the window, searching for something beyond the visible landscape, something intangible. The setting sun bathed his eyes in a golden light, accentuating their darkness and their unearthly brilliance, like a heavy sky before a storm. Deep and unfathomable, they seemed to probe the confines of his soul, radiating a silent menace that struck anyone who dared to cross them.

Yet despite an outward appearance of perfect control, one detail betrayed his inner turmoil, a discreet crack in the façade of calm he was trying to maintain. His fingers, tense but feverish, rested on the windowsill, tapping the wood with an irregular rhythm, almost imperceptible, but loaded with meaning. Each hesitant beat seemed to mark the passage of the seconds, one by one, in a growing tension that he struggled to contain. This tiny, almost insignificant gesture nevertheless resonated like a dull echo in the minds of those who observed it, like the oppressive ticking of an invisible clock, announcing the moment when everything would change. This drumming, both discreet and insistent, betrayed a latent impatience, a ferocity contained under an apparent mastery, ready to burst forth at any moment.

Jungwon, standing a few paces behind, watched the scene with painful acuity. Every detail of Heeseung’s attitude, every tiny change in his posture or gaze, seemed to carry a coded message, a clue in a game whose rules escaped him. He had seen men of power before—generals, princes—but none wielded such an aura. Heeseung did not need to raise his voice or make a threatening gesture to impose his will. His silence, this implacable calm, was enough to trigger an irrational anxiety, a tangible oppression that seemed to compress Jungwon’s chest. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, each second that passed tightening the space around him further, like an invisible hand closing on his throat.

Jungwon stood there, facing a king whose power he had yet to fully appreciate. Accustomed to maneuvering among men of power, balancing flattery and truth, he knew how to decode the subtleties of court games. But with Heeseung, there was no courtesy or easy exchanges. Only the crushing weight of silence and the dull threat of his gaze, like a sword hanging over his head. It was not the man who inspired such terror in him, but the implacable certainty that no word or gesture could escape a silent, deep, and inescapable anger, surpassing anything he had ever faced.

The silence was heavy, oppressive, almost palpable. A weapon. Every second Heeseung remained still, every moment no words crossed his lips, amplified the pressure. Jungwon tensed further, aware that the initiative was his. The slightest sign of hesitation would be a condemnation. This oppressive silence left no escape. The inevitable was approaching. He had to speak before this silence crushed him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Jungwon took a deep breath, his breath short, as if he had just emerged from a long dive underwater. This simple act, yet vital, seemed an ordeal in itself. The air around him seemed to have thickened, laden with an oppressive heaviness that weighed on his lungs. Each breath became an effort, a silent fight to maintain his calm, to resist the panic that threatened to invade him. His heart beat violently in his chest, a frantic rhythm, like the beating of a drum announcing an imminent end, the inevitable conclusion that was approaching.

“Your Majesty…” he finally whispered, his voice so weak it seemed to dissolve into the air heavy with tension. It trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to betray the torment boiling inside him.

Heeseung didn't answer. He stood perfectly still, like a marble statue frozen in time. Yet a tiny, almost imperceptible change occurred. His fingers, which had been drumming softly against the windowsill, suddenly stilled, and his shoulders, already tense, stiffened even more. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, but the atmosphere around him changed. It was as if time itself had stood still, frozen by the tension of this oppressive silence.

The silence continued to weigh, relentless. There was no turning back. Jungwon knew he had to speak, that he had to pierce the veil of invisibility that shrouded the truth he carried. Each word would be another step into an abyss from which he could not return. But he had no choice.

“The rumors about that family… seem to be confirmed,” he finally breathed. His words were not simply a confession, but stones thrown in a deceptive calm, revelations heavy with consequences.

Immediately, a new tension invaded the space. Heeseung turned his head slowly, almost disdainfully, as if accepting this information was an effort he did not want to make. The slowness of his movement made each second even more oppressive. The look he gave Jungwon expressed no benevolence. It was piercing, icy, like a sting ready to pierce the air.

“Speak clearly,” Heeseung ordered, his voice low, but so strong that it seemed effortless. Each word carried the threat of a dull pressure, an unspoken invitation to say more. “What do you mean by ‘confirmed’?”

Jungwon swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. Every breath felt like an ordeal, as if the air itself had thickened, making the atmosphere unbearably heavy. His hands were shaking slightly, but he couldn't let himself look at them, as his eyes were already glued to the ground, avoiding Heeseung's piercing gaze. Heeseung, still motionless, was scrutinizing him with an almost supernatural intensity, as if he could tear Jungwon's soul apart and probe every thought buried deep within. There was no respite, no escape from the pressure emanating from him.

“It seems like… prostitution is a tradition in this lineage,” Jungwon muttered, his voice hesitant, each word weighing on his tongue like poison, difficult to spit out, but unavoidable.

His words, weak and shaky, were lost in the heavy air of the room, but they couldn’t dispel the growing shadow that enveloped Heeseung. He didn’t move, but a palpable tension began to crystallize around him. He stood like a statue, frozen in icy calm, but every muscle in his body seemed tense, as hard as a wire ready to snap. 

Jungwon’s gaze sank deeper and deeper into the ground, as if he hoped the earth would swallow him up. But he couldn’t stop. He knew, deep down, that the words that followed would seal his fate. He inhaled deeply, the cool evening air hitting his skin, but the stifling heat of the situation wrapped around him, making him almost nauseous. He cleared his throat, a futile gesture to ease the growing anxiety.

“The late Duchess, mother of Lady Y/n… was said to have been a brothel girl before marrying Duke Belmont.” Those words, heavy with innuendo, resonated in the air like a whiplash, marking the moment with absolute gravity. They seemed to float, suspended, in space, ready to cause the atmosphere to implode. Heeseung, though motionless, seemed to absorb each syllable, his face impassive like a calm sea just before sinking. But Jungwon knew, deep in his soul, that beneath that calm surface, a storm was brewing.

Heeseung turned away slowly, but it wasn't an escape or a gesture of relaxation. It was a calculated, measured movement that carried much more than the simple action of moving. Every inch he gained seemed suspended in time, like a predator about to strike. Heeseung's fists, hanging at his sides, suddenly clenched. The golden light that filtered through the windows hit his hands in a particular way, revealing white knuckles under the extreme pressure he was exerting. Jungwon felt a shiver of terror run down his spine, his breathing becoming more difficult with each passing moment.

Heeseung didn’t speak immediately, but his silence was an invisible threat, a pressure that squeezed every fiber of the air. This silence, heavy and suffocating, demanded more than words; it demanded revelations. “Continue,” he finally ordered, his voice so low and sharp it seemed to cut the space in two. It resonated like a knife, an invitation to reveal himself, but also a warning: say too much and it would all be over. Each of Jungwon’s words hung like a tight thread, too fragile not to give way under the intensity of Heeseung’s gaze.

Jungwon tried to keep his composure, but his hands were shaking like leaves in the wind. Every word he spoke seemed to bring him closer to the abyss. He knew that the slightest misstep could trigger a reaction he couldn’t control. He took a deep breath, every fiber of his being aware that everything, absolutely everything, was riding on this moment. “As for his older sister, Giselle… she was said to have had relationships with several influential men in France, including King Francis I.” He paused, hoping that this revelation would be enough to ease the growing tension. But deep down, he knew that this was only the beginning.

The king’s name seemed to echo through the room like a clap of thunder. The air around him thickened, each vibration of the sound hitting the ground like an earthquake beneath the surface. Heeseung, still frozen, didn’t move an inch, but something in the atmosphere shifted, becoming even heavier, more threatening. Jungwon felt his hands grow clammy, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. He wanted to run away, to make himself small, but he couldn’t. Not now. He continued, his voice almost inaudible, a whisper that seemed to blend into the shadows of the room, “And Lady Y/n…”

The words he was about to say were the harshest, the most impactful, the ones that would put an end to all illusion, all restraint. “Lady Y/n… would have had her engagement broken… because of her reputation. It is said that she would be incapable of preserving… her honor.” At that moment, the silence became abysmal, so deep that it seemed to swallow the entire world. Jungwon’s breath became short, almost inhuman. He could no longer breathe freely; the air around him had become an unbearable weight. His heart was beating so hard that he felt the pressure in his temples, in his arms, in his entire being.

Heeseung still didn't move, but his gaze, cold and piercing, seemed to fix on an invisible point, right in front of him. Rage burned in his eyes, an icy anger, implacable, ready to burst into devastating bursts. The muscles of his cheeks tensed, his jaw clenched, and his fists clenched until they became blocks of stone, threatening to shatter under the force he imposed on them. The silence, now a leaden weight, created an unbearable tension, both insidious and crushing. 

Finally, Heeseung broke the silence, but his words fell like a hammer blow. “Enough.”

His voice snapped, sharp as metal. It wasn’t just an order, but the release of a chaos he’d held back for too long. He turned abruptly, icy slow, like a predator ready to strike. Every movement, every muscle in his body seemed to vibrate with a restrained power, an anger he controlled with terrifying efficiency.

Jungwon stood there, trembling, like a helpless spectator in the theater of his own devastation. He knew that what he had just revealed, every word, every confession, would bring about consequences he could never change again. Heeseung was calm, too calm, but that calm was more terrifying than the most violent of angers. The king stood there, frozen in a deathly silence that boded nothing good.

The silence in the room was almost unbearable, an invisible pressure that crushed every thought, every movement. Jungwon raised himself slightly, like a man preparing to face the inevitable, his body tensed almost exaggeratedly, a rigid posture marked by fear. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to flee, to escape by running, but he had no right to. 

He knew that this moment would mark a turning point, that the words that would come out of his mouth would not come back. Yet, with each breath, the feeling of suffocation strengthened. His heart pounded in his chest at a frantic pace, each beat resonating like a hammer blow striking his temples. Heeseung's gaze, cold and implacable, weighed on him like a sledgehammer. Here he was, facing a man who could crush him with a simple gesture, and yet, he could no longer afford to back down.

He gathered his strength, forcing himself to speak, to not let the terror that paralyzed him overwhelm him. His voice trembled slightly, betraying the uncertainty he could not hide. "This is verified information, Your Majesty, from reliable sources." The words were pressed to his lips, but he would have preferred to hold them back. The feeling of betrayal mixed with a consuming anxiety. Who was he to deliver this information to Heeseung, to break a silence as fragile and uncertain as the one that reigned between them? He felt like a puppet, manipulated by invisible threads woven by politics and lies.

He dared to look up, searching for a reaction from Heeseung. But the latter, implacable, did not move. His dark eyes shone with an icy coldness, as if the inner storm he felt was imprisoned behind that gaze. And yet, even without a word, Jungwon knew that a volcano was rumbling inside him. The palpable tension in the air, charged with this contained anger, seemed to make the room smaller, the atmosphere denser. Jungwon felt crushed, his chest compressed by the intensity of the atmosphere, as if the slightest movement risked causing an explosion.

“Reliable sources?” Heeseung repeated, his voice sharp, like a cleaver. Each word fell with surgical precision, a latent menace that weighed down the air. The steel in his tone pierced Jungwon, who felt like an insect under a microscope. His gaze grew sharper, more menacing. He took a step forward, and the space between them seemed to narrow almost supernaturally. 

Each movement of Heeseung’s exuded raw energy, an overwhelming authority, annihilating any attempt at resistance. He was no longer simply a king, but a man embodied in anger, an almost supernatural being in his ability to dominate the space around him. “Since when have we been peddling gossip and slander like market women?” His words slammed into the air, each syllable amplified by the violence of his voice. It was a verbal slap, a deep disdain that disfigured everything it touched.

Jungwon immediately felt overwhelmed, an icy heat invading his body as Heeseung's gaze bored into his. That gaze didn't just scan, it pierced his soul. He felt like a trapped animal, unable to escape. His breath hitched, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to answer, but the words got lost in his throat. Heeseung's pressure on him, invisible but very real, prevented him from finding a way out. Every thought was blurred. He wanted to explain, to justify himself, but the force of that gaze, of that anger emanating from the man before him, cut him off from any possibility of expressing himself.

He opened his mouth again, trying to regain control, to salvage what he could from this conversation. "Your Majesty, I'm just..." But he didn't even have time to finish his sentence. He didn't have the opportunity to defend himself, to try to explain. Heeseung suddenly raised his hand, and this clear and authoritative gesture was enough to silence him. There was no room for discussion, no room for interpretation. 

“Enough!” Heeseung shouted, the sound resonating like thunder, vibrating with anger and pain. The room shook with the intensity of the shout, and Jungwon froze, a dizzy feeling washing over him, as if the ground had just disappeared beneath his feet. He felt his body stripped away, his mind reeling under the weight of this pure, burning anger.

Heeseung stepped closer, his gaze a sharp blade, and her next words hit him like a punch. “Lady Y/n is not that kind of woman!” The statement rang out heavily, laden with all the passion and emotion that was boiling inside him. It was as if each syllable was tearing a piece of himself out, as if the man he was was breaking, torn apart by the mere mention of your name. 

His fists clenched with such force that his knuckles instantly turned white, and his nails dug into the skin of his palms, but he didn’t even seem to notice. His muscles tensed, an animalistic, desperate rage contorting his face. He no longer seemed to be the calm, measured king he had been until then. He was the very embodiment of anger, a raw, uncontrollable force. 

How dare they tarnish your name with such accusations? Heeseung wondered inwardly, the growing hatred against those who had tarnished your honor consuming him completely. His thoughts were now besieged by waves of anger, frustration, and confusion.

And yet, deep inside him, an even more troubling truth was beginning to emerge. It was a truth that tore at his heart, that paralyzed him with the weight of uncertainty. He felt connected to you in a way he didn’t understand. The more he fought against it, the more it seemed to intensify, and the more impossible it became to ignore. His desire, his fascination with you, was now intertwined with this new revelation that was warping his perception of you. He was no longer simply the king in this situation; he was a man trapped by his own feelings, his desires, and the lies that surrounded him.

He turned abruptly on his heel, unable to bear this tension, this anger, this inner tearing any longer. Before Jungwon could formulate a response or a retort, Heeseung was already at the door. With a sharp gesture, he turned the handle and escaped, slamming the door with such violence that the noise resonated like a cleaver in Jungwon's mind. This dry and definitive sound filled the enclosed space of the room, marking the end of the exchange and the beginning of an irreversible change.

Jungwon stood there alone, frozen, his head spinning with the built-up tension. The silence, heavier than ever, fell upon him. He slumped against a wall, his knees wobbling with the effort. His hands were shaking more and more, and his heart was beating in his chest like an insistent drum. He knew that what he had just said would change the course of things, but he couldn't know if it would be for better or for worse. He was caught in a whirlwind he hadn't chosen, and the consequences of his words, at that moment, seemed as uncertain as his own future.

AMBOISE, FRANCE — Night of December December 25, 1555

Heeseung had sent you a letter through a chamberlain, inviting you to join him in his room. The very idea of ​​this invitation, as sudden as it was relentless, invaded your mind, lighting a flame of anticipation mixed with apprehension. Your heart was pounding, resonating in your chest with an intensity that seemed to grow with each beat. Each step you took towards his room sounded like a distant echo, a dull, heavy sound that drowned in the oppressive silence that surrounded you. 

The closer you got to that door, the more the tension mounted, gripping you, almost paralyzing you. The pressure was unbearable, as if the air itself was tightening around you. The silence, heavy and relentless, had no other effect than to amplify the feeling of menace that hung in the air, making each movement more difficult than the last. It wasn't just the fear of coming face to face with him, but the fear of what you would feel, of the unknown, of what might happen once you crossed that threshold.

You finally stopped in front of the door. No sentry in sight, no guard. This absence of observers was unsettling, as if you were already under surveillance, but in an invisible, omnipresent way. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the fresh air caress your skin, trying to calm the inner turmoil that shook your body. Then, suddenly, a decision imposed itself on your mind. There was no turning back. You had to move forward. You would not back down. Not this time. Not after everything you had been through to get to this point.

With carefully measured slowness, you slid the solid wood door open. A slight creak broke the silence of the room, an almost imperceptible sound but one that resonated like a warning. You crossed the threshold, and the wood of the door closed behind you with a subtle click, like an invisible prison that locked you in this suspended moment. 

The darkness that reigned in the room made you shiver, an almost palpable coolness that contrasted with the stifling heat of your body. Only the dim glow of the candle on the table cast flickering shadows on the walls, creating a strange, unreal atmosphere, as if time itself had suspended its course. And then, you saw it.

There he was, motionless, an imposing figure in the gloom. Sitting on a black velvet chair, his back perfectly straight, he exuded a paradoxical grace, a subtle elegance that contrasted with the heaviness of his presence. A glass of red wine, almost whole, rested between his slender fingers, glistening faintly in the flickering light of the candles. He stared at the window, his eyes lost in the darkness outside, an icy coldness in his gaze, as if everything around him no longer existed. His features were frozen, hard, like an invisible wall erected around him, enclosing him in his own torments.

In front of him, you suddenly felt tiny, almost insignificant. The atmosphere between you two was electric, palpable, and yet, an irresistible force seemed to draw you towards him, like a cruel magnetism. A raw energy, an almost tangible presence, invaded you little by little, seizing you without you being able to escape it.

You watched him for a moment, stopping yourself from making any noise, but you knew he already knew you were there. He was waiting for something. He was waiting for you. And you had no control over what was going to happen. You stepped closer, and when your voice came out, it was quieter than you wanted it to be, but there was no trace of doubt or fear in your words. No room for that.

“Majesty,” you murmured, each syllable seeming to weigh heavily, as if you were crossing a threshold, an irreversible commitment. You let yourself go into a fluid, graceful bow, your head bowed in respect, but your heart was beating too fast. Your hands were shaking imperceptibly. Not enough for him to notice, but enough for you to feel them, that slight tremor betraying the tension that ran through your entire being.

A slight shudder passed through the air. He didn't move immediately, but you felt his gaze sharpen, an invisible heat burning your skin. Then, finally, he released his grip on the glass, a sigh escaping his lips, heavy with weariness. He delicately placed the glass on the windowsill before standing up, slowly and calculatedly, like a shadow sliding through the room, implacable, threatening.

He approached you, his heavy footsteps echoing like a burden, an almost palpable weight that you could feel in the air. With each passing second, the distance between you two was closing in, leaving you as if caught in an invisible vice, a trap from which you could not escape. His eyes did not detach themselves from yours. 

But in their depth, there was not only a fixation, there was an analysis, a meticulous examination of each of your gestures, of each thought that could cross your mind. It was as if he was breaking you down, measuring you, calculating every aspect of you with icy precision. His gaze was sharp, sharp, capable of cutting the air around you. A part of you, more instinctive, wanted to flee, to escape this hold he had on you. But another part, darker, remained there, motionless, ready to face this moment, ready to face him. He left you no choice.

“Lady Y/n Belmont,” he said, his deep, icy voice echoing through the room like a cleaver. His words, harsh and precise, cut through the air with an implacable coldness, but there was something eerily captivating in that coldness, like a snake ready to strike, savoring every second before the attack. He spoke your name with such authority that your heart stopped for a moment, but you forced yourself to stand straight, not to betray the slightest weakness. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, shone with an indecipherable light, as if he were trying to tear the veil of your soul. “You lied to me about your supposed virginity. But it was all just a pretext, a lie to push me away, to distance me from you.”

The words struck like whiplashes, sinking straight into your heart. How dare he attack you like this, reduce you to a mere lie, an illusion? How could he judge your soul, your truth, based on rumors and assumptions? Every syllable he uttered hit you with an unsuspected violence. Everything inside you shook, a sudden wave of anger surging through your being, but that rage was quickly swallowed up by a deeper pain, an unbearable humiliation that tightened your throat.

You staggered slightly, but you quickly caught yourself. Yet the dizziness did not go away. It was too intense, too oppressive. You felt its power, its domination in the air, like an invisible force invading you. It grabbed you, reduced you to helplessness. You no longer had any control over the situation, or even over yourself. Yet you knew that you had to fight. You had to respond, resist, even if every fiber of your being pushed you to give in.

“H… How dare you!” Your voice, though broken by emotion, remained sharp, laden with a mixture of anger and pain. You straightened up, straighter, a silent defiance in your eyes. “You barely know me, but you dare judge me on what? On rumors? Speculations that have reached you?” The pain in your voice made no attempt to hide itself. It pierced the air like a silent scream, bursting with truth. It was as if your soul was being torn in two, exposed and vulnerable before him, but you would not back down. You stared straight into his eyes, your gaze filled with a burning rage, a deep pain that mixed with that anger. “You know nothing about me, nothing about what I feel, what I experience.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, a laugh that was both painful and heartbreaking. It was a laugh without joy, a laugh heavy with everything that had been broken inside you. Then, the tears, hot and unstoppable, began to flow. You felt them slide down your cheeks, like traces of shame that you couldn't hold back. With a sudden movement, you wiped them away angrily, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you broken, while turning away from him, your heart beating faster in your chest.

But, without warning, he approached you, moving even closer, his chest pressing against your back. Before you could even react, his hand grabbed your arm with such force that you didn't have time to flee. A warm breath brushed your skin, and although his words seemed tinged with gentleness, an icy insistence pierced his voice. "I apologize... Don't cry anymore." This gentleness, at this moment, was not a comfort. It was a subtle manipulation, a calculated gesture to erase the distance between you, to disarm you. 

He tightened his hold on you, his chest against your back, and you could smell the intoxicating scent of wine mixed with that of the leather of his clothes. The air became heavy, suffocating, almost intoxicating. He wrapped your hands in his with unsettling gentleness, then, without warning, abruptly turned you towards him, forcing you to face him.

Your breath hitched. He was so close, his face so close to yours that you could almost feel the heat of his skin, hear the beating of his heart. Yet there was no real heat in his eyes. Not yet. “I…” He hesitated for a moment, as if the words were escaping him. “My words overtook my thoughts. I believe in your purity. You are different from the other ladies of the court.” His hands rested gently on your cheeks, unexpectedly tender, wiping away your tears with a gentleness you hadn’t anticipated. The feeling of his skin against yours made you jump, a shiver running down your body.

You gasped, surprised by the gentle gesture, yet charged with unresolved tension. Your eyes closed briefly, unable to grasp this sudden turn on his part. The warmth of his hands on your face made you shiver, and a wave of confusion washed over you. What did all this mean? Why this change in behavior, after his accusations and his coldness?

Under his touch, it became impossible to distinguish what was reality and what was just a clever game of manipulation. And that was Heeseung's power: he had this disturbing gift of erasing your bearings, of blurring your emotions until you lost yourself in an inner turmoil where he embodied both the merciless executioner and the unattainable savior.

The silence that has settled between you is dense, oppressive. It spreads, grows heavier, like a thick fog that gradually engulfs the room, until the slightest sound seems muffled. Heeseung finally breaks this silence, but his words carry a weight that you had not anticipated. "I have to be able to trust you, Y/n." His voice, deep and calm, slides over your skin with an almost tactile slowness, like a warm breath that brushes your soul. He pronounces your name with such authority, such certainty, that it makes you shiver, reducing you to a sensitivity that you did not dare to reveal. 

His lips brush yours in a contact as brief as it is intense, like a suspended whisper, and you feel the breath of his words mingle with yours, a shared breath that seems to capture every thought, every heartbeat. The moment lasts a fraction of a second, but it imprints itself on you with brutal force, every cell in your body vibrating with the presence of this man who stands so close to you, almost within reach of your breath. The outside world disappears then, as if swallowed up in darkness, giving way to this moment suspended between you, where time seems to expand, ready to give way under the mounting pressure.

You've never felt such pressure, and yet, deep down, a part of you knows that nothing here is simple. He's not just talking about trust in its most banal sense, he's talking about a silent submission, a total opening of the soul, a fragility that he expects you to reveal to him without beating around the bush. And that terrifies you. 

“You’re saying that to me?” Your voice is weaker than you’d like, but you can’t make it any firmer. The words hang in the air, uncertain, as you struggle to maintain that defiant, resistant posture. Your eyes first land on his lips, still marked by the touch he gave you, then slowly rise to his eyes. They stare at you intensely, deep and unfathomable, as if every movement of your thought, every beat of your heart, is readable in his gaze.

There is no distrust or doubt in his eyes. There is only waiting. A relentless waiting.

Your arms tighten at his sides as he slides his hands around your waist. His skin against yours is hot, but there’s no gentleness in the touch, only the relentless pressure of his fingers digging into your back. Slowly, inexorably, he presses you closer to him, closing the last of the spaces between you, as if to coax you into giving in to the heat rising between you. His body is a solid mass, an imposing presence against yours, and you feel completely at his mercy, even if you do everything you can not to show it.

He leans in a little closer, and you feel his breath on your face, each exhale brushing your skin like an almost violent caress. “With your hatred of marriage, your sanguine temperament, and your aversion to heretics, why should I trust you?” You articulate your words with a harshness that barely masks the fragility beneath, but everything in you knows that each syllable is but a last stand. A stand you erect against what he represents.

There, in the darkness of the room, you know those words are the most sincere you can say. Heeseung is everything you hate in this world: the powerful man, the one you can't control, the one who has no place in your world of propriety and calculation. And yet, something, deep inside you, wants him more than anything. You look away, trying to escape the unfathomable depth of his gaze, but it's already too late.

He smiled slightly, a fleeting glint lighting up in his eyes, before his face returned to its mask of calculated coldness.

“You can’t.” His voice, a barely audible whisper, pierces you like a sharp arrow, a raw, unforgiving truth that freezes in the air between you, as sharp as it is inescapable.

His lips moisten slowly, then his hand rises, brushing your hair with maddening slowness, each movement calculated, almost ritualized, like a danse macabre. The touch of his hand in your hair is soft, an infinitely controlled tenderness, as if each gesture is meant to remind you that he has complete control of the situation. His fingers then slide to your chin, brushing your skin in a way that triggers an icy shiver, slowly rising through your body, impregnating every inch of your skin with a burning coldness.

Then, without a sound, he whispers against your lips, “May I?”

The words are simple, almost innocent, but you know he's not really expecting a response. It's an invitation. An invitation to give in, to give him what he wants, to abandon all your principles and let yourself be swallowed up by the desire he's awakened in you.

Your heart races, but you don't dare move. You try to control your breathing, but it betrays your will, becoming more erratic, faster, carried away by the rising tension that squeezes your stomach. Every fiber of your being screams to answer him, to give in to this irresistible call, but you force yourself to shake your head, to break this fragile connection that he seeks to weave.

“No.” The word escapes your mouth, sharper and more abrupt than you had imagined, and you perceive a furtive, almost amused glint in his eyes. Yet, behind this apparent coldness, a palpable frustration emanates from him. He did not want to hear this word. He did not want to suffer this rejection, and you watch the muscle of his jaw tense imperceptibly, a barely concealed tension. But he does not back down. On the contrary, his presence becomes even more oppressive, more imposing, like a silent force seeking to crush all resistance, to subjugate every part of you that still fights against it.

“Don’t resist.” He says the words like a promise, a threat, a challenge, all at once. His voice, deeper, almost a whisper, a total control hidden behind each syllable. His eyes don’t leave you, they anchor to yours, insistent, piercing, as if their intensity were meant to annihilate you, to swallow you up. Each word he utters seems to weigh down the air between you, creating a pressure that intensifies, grips you, engulfs you, leaving you feeling an invisible but terribly palpable force.

You force yourself not to bend, not to give in to the overwhelming authority he exudes. 

“No, for so many reasons.” Your voice, weaker than you wanted, trembles with a fear you never wanted to admit, but that rumbles inside you, uncontrollable. Yet your decision remains anchored in your mind, firm, stubborn. You take a step back, your heart pounding, desperately seeking a little space, a little air, but every movement seems futile. He is everywhere. He catches you with every breath, with every shiver his gaze triggers.

Then he takes a step toward you, his gaze intensifying, more penetrating, more haunting. "I can't think of any valid reason not to kiss you." The words fall heavily, like an implacable verdict. Your chest tightens under the weight of his declaration, each syllable compressing you, squeezing you. Everything about him urges you to give in, to bend. Every movement of his body, every nuance in his voice, seeks to convince you, to force you to accept, to submit to what he is offering you without embellishment, without any possible return.

You want to back away, to escape, but deep down, you know that it no longer makes sense. He is there, present, each breath seems to pull you deeper into the grip of his power. Yet you try one last time to escape him, to push back his hold. 

"But that's not what we're talking about, is it?" Your voice, lower, more uncertain, betrays a fragility that you dared not admit. It is a last gasp, a desperate act of resistance. You feel the weight of his gaze, intense, penetrating, destabilize you, but you force yourself to hold on. You still struggle to keep your head up, to not let yourself be swallowed up by what he represents.

He leans in then, and his voice grows softer, an unexpected depth and palpable sincerity vibrating in each syllable. “I want you.” He says the words with a disconcerting simplicity, but with such utter certainty that they resonate in your mind, in every fiber of your body, like a wave that passes through you. His fingers reach for your hand, seek to seize it, but you are already moving away, even though you know it is futile.

“Yes… I know.” The word barely escapes, a whisper, almost a confession. Your eyes close for a moment, abandoning yourself to the intensity of the moment. You force yourself to exhale slowly, desperately trying to cling to a reality that escapes you, to remind yourself that you are not yet lost, not yet swallowed up by this whirlwind. 

But deep inside you, a truth imposes itself with a dull heaviness: each step you take to get away from him encloses you a little more in his web, each movement only brings you closer to his grip, and you know that there is no more room to flee. What awaits you, you already feel it, implacable and inevitable.

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — December 31, 1555

For eight days, you had returned to the Belmont residence, desperately fleeing Heeseung and the suffocating hold he had over you. This choice had not been made lightly, but it had a cost. Your father had expressed his anger in a scathing manner, calling your departure an ill-considered whim. To him, Heeseung represented much more than just a man: he was a pillar of power, a precious alliance that your family could not afford to lose. His words still echoed in your memory: “Do you think you can escape someone like him? You are deluding yourself, Y/n.”

But it was not an illusion. It was a necessity.

Staying close to Heeseung would have been far more perilous than any consequences your father could conjure up. You had seen that fire in his eyes, felt that overwhelming intensity in his words, and you knew he wouldn’t stop. Every look he gave you seemed capable of stripping you of all your certainties, every word spoken in that deep, controlled voice made something vibrate inside you that you didn’t dare name. Getting away, leaving before it was too late, was the only way to protect yourself—to protect what was left of you.

The Belmont residence, with its vast, shadowy corridors and almost solemn silence, should have been a sanctuary. But it had become a prison, where every corner seemed to whisper his name. Heeseung wasn't there, but his absence was more oppressive than his presence. You woke up every morning with the unpleasant feeling that he was watching you, that he was everywhere and nowhere at once.

He hadn't forgotten you. And he reminded you of it every day with calculated insistence.

The gifts arrived like a well-oiled clock. Jewels encrusted with precious stones, fabrics so delicate they seemed unreal, exotic perfumes with intoxicating notes. Each gift was a testament to his exquisite taste, but also to his stubbornness. They arrived in luxurious boxes, carefully wrapped, as if they carried within them a promise or a challenge. You had them systematically sent back, your strict orders leaving no room for interpretation. But this gesture, although necessary, always left you with a bitter taste. You knew he would not be discouraged—on the contrary, it would only strengthen his desire to reach you.

And then there were the letters.

These carefully written missives, sealed with his seal, carried with them something intimate, almost dangerous. The paper, of exceptional quality, sometimes bore a slight trace of his perfume, a subtle note of smoked wood and spices. Each morning, a new letter was deposited, and each morning, you observed it with apprehension mixed with a shiver that you dared not recognize.

You had tried to ignore them. You really had. But your will had given way after the first one, and now you couldn’t stop reading them. His words were a trap. They seduced you, taunted you, playing with your emotions like a master on a violin. Sometimes tender, sometimes burning with barely contained passion, they always left you breathless, your hands shaking. These sentences, skillfully constructed, seemed to reveal a part of him, a part you weren’t sure you wanted to know—or could handle.

That morning, nothing was different, and yet everything seemed even more unbearable.

The chamberlain entered without knocking, as was his custom. His stern silhouette stood out in the shadows of the room. He looked at you with a calm, almost indifferent eye, but you immediately felt that the message he brought would be heavier than anything he had transmitted to you until then. Without a word, he stepped forward. With almost ceremonious precision, he placed a small lacquered wooden chest on the coffee table in front of you.

He bowed slightly, and before he had even closed the door behind him, your gaze had already settled on the object. This chest, strange and intimate, seemed charged with a meaning that you could not ignore. You did not need to open it to guess that it bore the trace of Heeseung. It was another way, subtle but inevitable, of binding you to him. A rope stretched between you, that you had nevertheless sworn to cut.

You hesitated for a split second. What else could he bring you, you who had rejected all his attempts at communication? But this hesitation, although brief, gradually transformed into an irrepressible curiosity. Curiosity for this object of which you knew nothing, but which seemed to call you in an insidious way. Your trembling fingers slowly reached out towards the chest, hesitating between rejection and the desire to discover what it contained. The moment seemed suspended, frozen in time, when, with an almost solemn slowness, you lifted the lid. The light creaking of the wood mingled with the air in the room, breaking the silence with a dry sound, like a tear in the heart of your apparent calm.

Inside, a necklace. Disconcertingly simple. A thin silver chain, smooth and shiny, rested delicately on black velvet. Nothing superfluous, nothing extravagant, but the beauty of this jewel lay in its purity, in this almost painful simplicity, which seemed to contain a thousand unspoken meanings. At the end of the chain hung a pendant in the shape of a small medal, finely engraved. The “H” on it was no accident. It was the “H” of his name. The first letter of his first name. And that simple “H” hit you like an invisible punch. You knew what it meant. The shockwave that went through you was immediate, dazzling. It wasn’t just a jewel. It was a mark, an imprint left on you, an indelible sign that he was asking for you again and again.

You took the necklace, slowly, as if by touching it you accepted everything it represented. The hold it had on you, the silent force of its desire, the certainty that it would not let go. A shiver ran through you, sweet and painful at the same time. The cold metal against your skin seemed warmer than ever. Each link of the chain was like a silent caress, a gentle but inescapable pressure. You held it between your fingers and suddenly, the room seemed to close in on you. The air became thicker, heavier, like an invisible weight.

The weight of that jewel, of that gesture, brutally reminded you of the words he had sent you. You had done everything to ignore them, to push away his letters, his gifts, his almost palpable obsession. But today, with that necklace, it all came back to you. You felt the pressure of his invisible gaze on you, his silent hold catching up with you, inevitably. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a promise, an implicit declaration that you had no choice. Whether you liked it or not, it was there, in every fiber of your being, in every breath you took. And you, you were unable to get rid of it.

You let the necklace slowly slip from your fingers and set it back on the bed. A sigh escaped your lips. A sigh you couldn't quite identify. Was it frustration, anger, or simple relief? What you knew was that this moment marked the end of your refusal. Not because you wanted to give in, but because at some point, he had gotten to you again. And there was no going back.

Your gaze then turned to the letter. It lay there, carefully sealed. The royal seal, which you knew so well, seemed heavier than ever today. The image of the red wax, of the seal melting under the pressure of your fingers, gripped you like a warning. You knew that breaking this seal was breaking something inside you. But you could no longer back down. The fate of this letter, of this message, was now in your hands. And you knew that reading it would change everything. Once again.

The wax gave way under the pressure of your fingers. The snap of the seal breaking echoed through the room, resonating like the end of your isolation. The scent of ink, spicy and woody, invaded your nostrils. It was a scent you knew too well, a scent that took you back to moments, to memories you had tried to erase. But it was all coming back now. Everything.

You unfolded the letter, each movement feeling heavier than the last, each breath shorter. And your eyes fell on the first few lines. He was there, in every word, every sentence. His words. His emotions. His desires.

“ My star,

I never told you what you deserved to hear. Maybe I was afraid, or maybe I lied to myself. But today, it's too late to hide behind silences or unspoken words. The pain of your absence devours me. Eight days. Eight days without you, and already I'm broken.

I wake up every morning, haunted by a single question: what have I done? Why did you push me away like that? Why did you leave me in the shadows, to lose myself in the uncertainty of your silence? I see my faults well. I know that my mistakes hurt you, that I destroyed what we had without even realizing it. And I regret it more than you can imagine.

But I can no longer bear this emptiness. This silence. This lack that tears me apart every moment, like a blade that cuts me in two. Every word you write to me breaks me, but it's all I have left of you. A word, a breath, a memory. And yet, every letter, every word, I welcome them as a final bond, as painful as it may be. It's all I have to keep you close to me, to keep me from collapsing into this solitude that I can no longer bear.

I know I have no right to ask you this. I know I've lost you and that you no longer trust me. But I beg you, don't abandon me. Don't close the door forever. Give me a chance, however small, to repair what I've broken. I know, deep down, that you still feel something. That all is not lost, despite the pain. And even if you refuse to admit it, I am willing to wait. To suffer in silence, to follow you in the shadows, until you accept the light of my presence again.

I will come back, no matter the time, no matter the obstacles, no matter how many times you push me away. I will come back, again and again, because I will always love you. Always, no matter what. Because no distance, no coldness, will be able to extinguish this fire that burns inside me.

With all that I am, Heeseung. ”

Those words… Those words hit your soul like a devastating wave. A desperate plea, a plea, a promise. He had left you a part of himself in each letter, and now he was offering you a part of his soul. Pain and hope were mixed in those words, and you felt each letter touch you deeply. But it was especially those three words, those three words that he had finally confessed to you, “I love you,” that pierced you. He had said them for the first time, and yet they resonated like a declaration that he had always carried within him, but that he had wanted to hide, offering them to you now in a fragility that almost made you falter.

You had never believed he could say them, those words that seemed too heavy for him, too imbued with his pride and his will to control. But there, in this letter, they were there, simple and striking. And yet, reading them, you didn't know if it was a relief or an additional weight that invaded you. Maybe both. A short breath, a poignant pain took hold of you, and a part of you wanted to erase them, ignore them, convince yourself that he hadn't really said what he had written. But another part of you, the one that terrified you, couldn't help but welcome them, to feel them in every fiber of your being.

You wanted to run away, to ignore, to push it all away. But every beat of your heart, every breath you took, betrayed you. You knew that today, you couldn't remain indifferent. Those words, like a sweet poison, were spreading through you, and you knew that they would haunt you, haunt you until you had to face them, no matter where it led you.

You closed your eyes, your body shaking with the intensity of the moment as you clutched the letter to your chest. In the oppressive silence, you understood that no matter what you did, he had already won. You were no longer free.

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — January 2, 1556

Heeseung's footsteps echo heavily on the large wooden staircase, each echo striking the heavy air of silence that reigns in the manor. Each noise seems to amplify the palpable tension that grips you like a vice. He approaches slowly, but he doesn't need to hurry. Time, suspended, expands under the weight of waiting. You know he's there, that each step he takes brings him a little closer to you, to this inevitable confrontation that frightens you as much as it fascinates you. Your heart beats faster, each pulse pulling you a little closer to an outcome that you dread and desire at the same time. A shiver runs down your neck, and you almost run out of breath at the thought of what he wants, what he expects from you. He's only a few steps away, and already, you feel his presence invading you.

A heavy silence precedes his voice, which suddenly comes, sharp but imbued with a kind of forced calm. “I need to talk to you.” The words, simple, hit the air with such intensity that they almost seem physical to you. There’s an urgency in his voice, something you can’t ignore, a pressure that pushes you to listen to him, to let him take up all the space. It’s not anger. Not yet. But the intensity in his gaze, the quiet strength of his posture, the determination that emanates from each syllable, everything about him screams that this moment is crucial. And it makes you shiver, a shiver that mixes terror and desire.

You force yourself to stay still, to show no weakness, no crack in this mask you have forged for yourself. But inside, a whirlwind of sensations overwhelms you. Your heart pounds in your chest, hitting your ribs like a trapped bird, beating with a violence that threatens to destroy everything. You feel his words in the air, floating around you, permeating every corner of the house. And yet, you have no right to falter. You close your eyes for a moment, forcing yourself to breathe deeply, seeking that inner calm that will allow you to face the approaching storm. When you open them again, he is there, right in the middle of the steps. His gaze is a black, unfathomable sea, an abyss into which you feel you could sink if you linger too long.

You take a deep breath, trying to regain control. Your voice comes out softer than you would have liked, broken, hesitant, but you force it to remain firm. “There is nothing to say.” The words seem foreign to you, as if you hadn’t spoken them. The softness of your voice betrays the inner tension that is eating away at you. You want to look away, to escape, but your feet seem nailed to the ground, frozen in the stillness of this scene. You fear breaking down, letting him see the slightest flaw, losing everything if you let go of this fragile facade. If you let yourself be overwhelmed, you know that Heeseung won’t give you a chance to get out of this. And yet, somewhere, a small voice in your mind whispers to you that you have never been so close to losing everything.

He finally stops at the top of the stairs, and you feel his eyes fall on you with such intensity that it almost takes your breath away. Those black, unfathomable eyes, filled with an icy determination, scrutinize every part of your being. They leave you no escape. You want to look down, but it's as if his gaze is chaining you, preventing you from looking away. You swallow hard, trying to regain control of your emotions, but it's no use. You know he's devouring you with his gaze, analyzing every movement of your body, every breath, every tiny reaction that could betray what you're feeling. He doesn't take his eyes off you, and in this intensity, you feel very small, vulnerable. You look down, unable to hold his gaze any longer, but it's too late. You know he's seen it.

“I wrote you letters. Lots of letters.” Heeseung’s words are heavy, almost loaded with reproach. He slowly approaches, each step he takes feeling like another burden on your shoulders. His voice, initially icy, trembles slightly, and the fragility hidden behind his words affects you more than you want to admit. He stops a few steps away from you, and you see his fists clench, knuckles turning white under the pressure. He’s in control, and yet you can tell he’s fighting something, a feeling he can’t quite control. There’s pain in his eyes, a deep frustration he tries to hide behind his apparent calm. Each word seems to cost him, and you see him withdraw into himself with each syllable he utters.

You feel a strange warmth rising in your stomach, but you immediately push it away, refusing to give in to it. You try to strengthen yourself, to remember why you can't give him what he wants from you. "And I answered you," you say, your voice quieter this time, but you know you can no longer hide the fragility that has crept in. Your fingers are shaking slightly, but you squeeze them in your palms so as not to let your fear take over. And you feel yourself slowly losing yourself. But you can't give in. Not now. Not in front of him. You have to stay strong. This is your only chance.

Heeseung comes closer again, and the sound of his footsteps seems to reverberate in your head, like a drum beating to the rhythm of your own heart. His presence, imposing, overwhelms you, invades every space around you. He is so close that you feel his warmth, his breath almost brushing your skin, and yet, you cannot move. You want to back away, to escape, but you feel paralyzed, prisoner of this moment. He stares at you, his eyes piercing your soul, searching for a truth hidden in your pupils. 

“In my last letter, I told you that I loved you. I thought you loved me too.” His words, so simple, resonate in you like a clap of thunder, and you stagger under the weight of this confession. His eyes shine with a deep, almost painful emotion, and you see him close his eyes for a moment, as if he was having trouble dealing with what he feels, as if he were fighting against himself to not lose control.

Your heart tightens. Love? That word resonates within you with an unsuspected force. It's so simple, so direct, and yet, everything inside you screams that it's not that, that it's not that way. But, in a corner of your mind, a little voice whispers that maybe, just maybe, he's right. Maybe you love him too. But no. Not like this. Not in this cage he's trying to impose on you. Not in this relationship where every gesture, every word, every breath seems to want to possess you, to destroy you a little more.

No. This is not love. Not under these conditions. Not with him.

The atmosphere in the room grows heavier and heavier, almost palpable. Every breath you take feels like a burden, as if the air is thickening around you, slowly tightening. Your chest rises with difficulty, each beat of your heart echoing in your ears, a dull pulse that makes you lose track of time. Everything around you compresses, space shrinks, and every breath becomes an ordeal, every movement a struggle against the invisible vice that grips you. 

You feel as if your body, your very soul, is going to burst under the pressure of this oppressive silence. But you refuse, steadfastly, to give in, to let the panic bubbling inside you show. You want to stay in control, to persist in believing that once again, you can master the situation, that you can break the stranglehold without letting yourself be swallowed up. But deep down, something is twisting, tearing inside you, a cacophony of contradictory emotions, of irrepressible desires, of dull terror.

“It’s not enough.” The words leave your lips like a sentence. They seem almost foreign, as if your own body is rejecting what he’s just said. And yet, immediately, you feel the impact: a stab to the heart, a dull but very real pain that invades you. It’s a shock, an explosion, as if those words had been the detonation of a bomb you had armed yourself. They are not just protests, but a desperate attempt to set boundaries, an attempt to stem the tide of pressure that is sweeping you away. But you know, deep down, that this gesture is futile, that you have no power here, that everything you do is only a temporary reprieve.

A cold laugh escapes his lips, almost amused, but there is nothing light in this sound. It is a hard laugh, acerbic, almost cruel, a cold anger that hides there. It is not mockery that strikes you, but the control, the precision of the violence contained in this laugh. It is not an unleashed rage, but an icy anger, measured, like a poison that diffuses slowly in the air. 

“Isn’t that enough for Y/n Belmont?” The sentence hits you like a slap. It pins you to the spot, knocks you down under its weight. Each syllable resonates within you like a condemnation, a warning that there is no turning back. He wants to break you, again and again, until you give in. And the thought freezes you, makes you waver. 

How do you escape a trap when you yourself are the one who set it?

He takes a step toward you, then another, and with each movement, you feel yourself shrinking further into yourself. Instinctively, you try to escape, but there is nowhere to run. The distance between you narrows dangerously, and your body tenses, a feeling of horror mixed with desire passing through you like an icy shiver. You want to back away, but each step back pushes you deeper into his web, each inch gained seems to lose you a little more. The wall behind you hits you brutally, a physical shock that takes your breath away and prevents you from fleeing. He is there, very close, and you are trapped, caught in his presence, in this electric tension that unites you. There is no escape.

You want to ask him if, for him, this is enough, but the words remain stuck in your throat. Your voice trembles, breaks, but you can't even get them out. Everything inside you screams, screams for him to move away, to let you breathe, but you remain frozen, unable to move. He devours you with his gaze, scrutinizing every corner of your being. Each second under his burning gaze seems like an eternity, an endless torment. A part of you feels vulnerable, naked, exposed like never before. His gaze seems to penetrate beyond your skin, to seek out what you hide, what you don't even dare to admit.

Heeseung finally stops, too close, so close that you can feel the warmth of his breath caressing your face, each shiver of his body against yours unsettles you further. He is there, right against you, and you know he is waiting for something. An answer. But even if you know he is dangerous, that he could break you with a single word, you cannot push away this attraction, this magnetic force that he gives off. It is an overwhelming, implacable presence, a power that invades you effortlessly. A part of you wants to push him away, to defend yourself, but another part wants to succumb, to let itself be engulfed by the wave of desire that he deploys around you. These two forces fight inside you, pulling in opposite directions, each trying to take over.

His voice, almost a whisper, breaks the silence. "What should I do then? Tell me, and I will do it... I don't want to be ignored by you anymore. My heart hurts." There is a plea in his words, a palpable pain that makes a tremor grow deep in your stomach. You see his weakness, you see that he is suffering in a way that you could not even imagine. But at the same time, you feel that this suffering, he wants to make you bear it. He gets closer, too close, and the proximity becomes unbearable, but you can no longer move, prisoner of this suspended moment.

“Then… marry me.” Your words, though spoken with palpable determination, echo in the air like a desperate cry from the heart, a challenge thrown to the wind, a plea whispered in the icy intimacy of the room. The sentence is heavy with meaning: with renunciation, desire, and rebellion. “I don’t want to be your mistress, nor one of those women without a future. I refuse that.” Your voice, usually firm and controlled, trembles slightly, betraying an emotion much deeper than you would have wanted to let show. It reveals a fragility hidden beneath the facade of coldness that you have patiently built up over the years. It is a breakup, a laying bare, an ultimatum from which there is no escape.

You feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress, as your hand rests on his chest, trying to push him away. But you know that this gesture is futile, that it has no impact on Heeseung. He, much more powerful, much more anchored in this moment, controls the situation much more than you. He captures your hand with disarming ease, wraps it in his with a merciless firmness, as if to tell you that you will not escape what he desires. 

The touch is gentle, but the pressure of his grip on your hand is at once an anchor, almost painful, a marking, an admission of possession. Each beat of his heart against your palm is a brutal reminder that what you feel for him, however hard you try to ignore it, can no longer be denied. You can no longer run away, not in your thoughts, not in your actions.

He squeezes your hand gently against him, his fingers brushing the skin of your wrist with calculated tenderness, before slowly bringing it to his lips, with an infuriating, almost cruel slowness. He places a light, almost furtive kiss on the back of your hand, a touch as delicate as a breeze brushing the surface of water. But this softness is laden with unspoken promises, with desires hanging in the air between you. 

The warmth of his lips against your skin makes you shiver, a shiver that starts in your belly and spreads in waves, permeating every fiber of your being. His eyes, of an unfathomable intensity, do not leave yours, capturing you in an implacable, almost hypnotic gaze. You feel this strange heat, this raw energy, this mixture of desire and domination that emanates from him, passing through you, destabilizing you, sucking you into a spiral of contradictory sensations.

Every movement he makes seems perfectly measured, calculated, but you know that beneath this apparent mastery, the vice of his desire is slowly tightening around you, implacable. An animal, almost bestial energy emanates from him, palpable, vibrant, and you feel reduced to prey, quivering under the pressure of this look, this kiss, this contact. You waver, torn between the desire to back away and the irresistible urge to abandon yourself to the intensity of this moment, to the call of this force that overwhelms you.

“And I will always love you.” Heeseung whispers these words in a deeper, hoarse voice, like a promise whispered in the breath between two silences, a confession made in the intimacy of a suspended moment. The whisper brushes your skin, light as a caress, but charged with such intensity that it takes your breath away, as if each word were striking directly into your soul. It is a word heavy with meaning, a silent commitment that is imprinted on you. And the last kiss, more insistent this time, lands on your ring finger, a gesture that envelops you and makes you shiver from head to toe. Your heart races, your breath stops, and the room seems to shrink into one single thing: this moment between you two, suspended in the air, suspended in time, like a promise that nothing can break.

BELMONT RESIDENCE — SEOUL, KOREA — Night of January 2, 1556

“Well… The king is very much in love with you, my daughter.” Your father’s voice breaks the oppressive silence of the room, soft in appearance, but beneath this softness hides an insidious coldness, an icy, almost threatening undertone. His words float in the air, heavy with meaning, and you feel a shiver slide down your spine, like a wave of dread. The timbre of his voice, calm but authoritative, invades the space with implacable precision. Each word seems to weigh a ton, marking the beginning of a decisive moment.

He walks with a measured, almost ceremonious step, his boots echoing on the cold marble slabs with a dry sound, part of a perfect symphony of silence. His steps seem to slow down time, as if the room itself were holding its breath. You don't dare look up to see him, but you know he's getting closer, slowly, inexorably. The light of the twilight, filtered and gilded by the imposing stained glass windows, reflects on his face, accentuating the rigid lines of his forehead and the hardness of his features, as if carved in stone. A flash of light highlights his icy eyes, those eyes that have never shown you the slightest tenderness, only expectation, disappointment at every misstep, dismay at your silent rebellion.

Your heart tightens in your chest. The slightest movement seems to betray you. You feel trapped, frozen, like prey caught in the light of his reproaches. Your feet suddenly feel heavy, as if each marble slab beneath you is an impossible mountain to climb. You try to focus on something, anything, other than the intensity of this scene. Your eyes instinctively fall on the richly decorated carpet beneath your feet, the delicate patterns that cross and intertwine like invisible threads, imprisoning you, enclosing you even more.

Your hands, clasped in front of you, tremble slightly. You clench them unconsciously, fingers clenching so tightly that you feel a dull ache. A flash of white crosses your knuckles as you struggle to control the fear that knots your insides. You knew this conversation would come one day, but the truth of the moment hits you like an icy slap. No words could express the depth of this wait, the chasm between what you are and what he wants from you. It’s not just about what he wants for you. No, it’s about what he wants from you, what you’re willing to sacrifice under his merciless eyes.

“And what do you think of your task, my child?” His voice rises again, deeper, this time tinged with an authority that sends shivers down your bones. Each syllable is a blow directly to your being, an obvious question in the tone, but a silent demand in the space between the words. He doesn’t wait for a sincere answer. He waits for the one he wants to hear. The answer that will somehow justify his choices, his willingness to shape you, to bend you to an image he drew for you long before you were born.

Your gaze slowly rises, in spite of yourself, as if an invisible force were forcing you to face him. It's not that you want to meet his gaze. No, that gaze is a weapon. But you know that it's the only way to try to control the chaos that rumbles inside you, to keep a fraction of control over this situation.

His eyes bore into yours, icy, piercing, as if he were trying to probe your soul, to decipher what you hide behind your silences, your reluctance. He doesn't need words to make you understand that he expects more than words. He expects you to bow, to show him the deference he demands. The pressure of his gaze is unbearable. You feel like your mind is being swallowed up by his will, that your thoughts are dissipating under the weight of his waiting.

An unpleasant shiver runs down your spine, your heart racing. A ball of apprehension forms in your stomach, then grows, invading every corner of your being. You feel so vulnerable under his gaze. Every word that crosses your lips will be an affront, a betrayal against your own truth. But you have no choice. You know what he expects.

You take a deep breath, trying to control the trembling that shakes your entire body. Your voice comes out faintly, but there is this imperceptible tremor in your words, this fracture in the air around you. “Well… to tell you the truth… I admit… I wasn’t very enthusiastic before.” The words seem to tear themselves away from you. They are bitter, sharp, and yet so vulnerable. It is as if, in speaking these words, you are betraying yourself, as if you are selling a part of your soul to preserve the appearance of obedience.

Silence falls. It is heavy, so heavy that each second seems to stretch out to infinity. Your father does not move, but you feel the weight of his gaze become even more oppressive, more incisive. His gaze does not weaken, and you feel yourself fainting under this pressure. The air becomes thicker, as if everything around you is compressing, leaving you barely room to breathe. He waits. He expects more from you, a confession perhaps, a promise of surrender. A validation of his will, which he has so hoped to obtain.

You swallow, the taste of defeat bitter in your throat, as if you had just swallowed broken glass. You will never dare to tell him the truth. Not this way. Not in front of him. You lower your head, unable to hold his gaze any longer. A sudden warmth fills your eyes, and you feel tears threatening to flood, like a dam breaking. But you refuse to cry. Not in front of him. Not in this moment where your fragility would be a victory for him.

“But today…” You force yourself to continue, but the words no longer come. They remain stuck in your throat, like a knot too tight, a weight too heavy. You want to scream, to shout, but nothing comes out. Silence becomes your enemy. You lower your head even lower, staring at the ground as if you could find an escape there. Your eyes are misty, but you close them. No, you will not cry. Not here. Not now.

Your father inhales deeply, but it’s not just a breath. It’s a sigh heavy with meaning, a hushed sound that slips through the air like an icy mist, brushing your skin before settling in your lungs. It escapes his lips without a sound, but the pressure that accompanies it is palpable, so intense that you can feel it spreading through the room, invading every corner. It’s not the kind of sigh you let out out of weariness or frustration. No, it’s a calculated breath, laden with a much heavier weight. No lightness, no sign of impatience, just a silent threat hidden beneath an icy façade.

To anyone outside, watching without knowing, that breath might seem innocuous, a simple breath of a man caught up in the moment. But you know him. It’s not an involuntary gesture. It’s not a reflex. Each inflection of his breath is measured, carefully measured to let you know that he’s getting ready, that something is brewing behind his closed lips. That sigh hangs in the air, like a warning of an impending storm.

In the stifling stillness of the room, you feel the seconds ticking away like drops of water falling into a bottomless pit. The air becomes heavier and heavier, more oppressive, as the silence settles. The slightest vibration, the slightest breath seems to expand, plunging you into a deeper feeling of claustrophobia. You don't even dare to breathe normally. The air is too dense, too suffocating, compressing you with each breath. You feel trapped. Space seems to close in around you, each breath becoming a provocation, each movement, however small, betraying you. You know he sees everything. And he waits.

Your shoulders tense involuntarily. An imperceptible contraction, as if your body, instinctively, knew that it had to prepare to take it. But there is nothing to take yet. No blows, no screams. Just this silence, heavy and threatening. But this silence is a minefield. Every word he could say, every gesture, could be a detonation. And you know that he will not give you an easy way out. He controls time. And you are only a grain of sand caught in the storm he has already unleashed.

His lips finally part, slowly, like a predator ready to bite. “My child,” he says, his voice low and vibrant. He lets his words hang in the air, rolling them slowly, like invisible chains. Each syllable seems to slip under your skin, sink into your insides. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t need to scream. That voice, soft but relentless, is a sound wave that seeps into every corner of your being. An icy, relentless vibration that seizes you right in the heart. The apparent softness of his voice is an illusion. Behind those words, you immediately perceive the steel of his authority, the ruthless determination that guides each syllable, each breath he lets cross his lips.

Your mind disconnects. You try to find an answer, something to say to break this heavy silence, but no words find their place. Your throat tightens, your breath catches under the invisible pressure he imposes, and you know he expects nothing from you. Only submission. The silence stretches, interminable. Then, before you can even react, a hand appears from nowhere. A cold hand, firm, fast. A hand that grabs your chin with an almost imperceptible brutality.

The touch is icy, like marble. His fingers dig into your skin with terrifying precision, not forcing, but enough to nail you to the spot. A feeling of numbness spreads across your face, down your neck, as if you no longer have control over anything. His fingers are too cold, and the sensation of his touch invades your mind, numbing every thought, every desire to resist. A wave of cold runs down your spine, but you don't dare do anything, say anything. The air around you becomes heavy, like a stifling blanket that you can't remove.

He tilts your head back slightly, a subtle but relentless movement, a gesture without permission, without regard. The pressure on your chin is gentle, but it leaves an indelible imprint on your soul. He subdues you without noise, without physical pain, but with a force far greater, far more crushing. He does not seek to make you suffer. No, what he wants is to make you understand that you have no power here. He wants you to realize, in this moment, that everything around you, everything you are, belongs to him. Everything.

He stares into your eyes. No compassion. No empathy. Just an icy, merciless coldness. His gaze searches your soul, seeks out the slightest trace of resistance, of rebellion, and clings to it like a sharp claw. He leaves you no escape. His eyes are steel balls, implacable, inhuman, probing your deepest thoughts, tracking down the slightest flaw. It's as if he had decided to tear from you any form of freedom, of independence. And you, you don't dare look away. You know that every movement, even the smallest, would be perceived as an attempt to escape, a defiance.

He whispers, his voice sliding through the air like an icy caress, “Believe me, it would be wiser not to let yourself be fooled by your own charade.”

The words, carried by a deceptive sweetness, hit you like stones. Each syllable is a slap, a furtive but relentless blow. They slip under your skin, sneak into your mind, swirl through your thoughts like an insidious poison. You try to fight, but it is futile. His words have planted a seed of doubt, a seed of terror, and they germinate in you, spread in your heart like a slow, irreversible poison.

Your face tense, your gaze avoids his, unable to bear the truth he pours on you. Each word he speaks tears a little more the fragile veil of your stubbornness, the illusion of a freedom that he has already reduced to ashes. He knows. He knows you, and he hates you for this part of you that he has never been able to dominate. Humiliation invades you, deep and dark, like an oil tide that swallows up your last hopes. You feel broken, vulnerable, so much so that even the air seems to weigh heavier, each breath an effort to keep control of your body which, however, trembles in spite of you.

You have no voice or body, only this hold, this cold and cruel grip that tightens with each second, each moment seeming to last an eternity. You feel asphyxiated, and yet, nothing in his attitude suggests the slightest emotion. Your father dominates you, he breaks you, but he remains there, implacable and serene in his power. Time blurs. There is only him, his hand, and your heart beating faster and faster with each second. This gesture, of an almost indifferent simplicity, this palm on your chin, makes you feel like an insect caught in a web, fragile and insignificant. The veins in your neck beat frantically, reminding you that you are still alive, still aware of the war that is being played out at this precise moment. You are nothing more than a shadow of what you were before he entered your life.

Then, suddenly, without warning, he releases you. Not gently. Not mercifully. His gesture is sharp, cutting, like a gust of icy wind. The loss of his grip hits you hard. The absence of his hold is almost more violent than his presence itself. The air, a fraction of a second lighter, suddenly becomes heavy, oppressive, as if you were lacking oxygen. It is a shock, a void, a chasm that opens up inside you when you lose this contact. You feel like you are collapsing, not because the gesture was too violent, but because you know that this is not the end. It is just a pause in a dance that he leads alone, a pause before returning to the charge. You lower your head, unable to support this piercing gaze any longer, this constant pressure that threatens to melt you under his weight.

Your father takes a step back, reestablishing a physical distance that does nothing to diminish the emotional gap between you. His gaze remains fixed on you. He studies you, assesses every inch of your face, every shred of doubt, every fragment of resistance. You want to resist him, scream at him that you are not the docile creature he thinks you are, but your words dissipate in your throat, trapped in an ocean of terror and revolt. There is no more room for rebellion. Submission has become a cruel self-evident fact. His hands cross behind his back, the image of a judge ready to render his verdict, without compassion, without regard for what you might feel. He embodies law, order, what he considers the only path to the family's survival. And you are only a pawn, a tool among others to accomplish this mission.

“Love, my daughter…” His cold, implacable voice cuts through the air. It’s a sentence, a final judgment. Each word, sharp as a blade, cuts through everything you thought you knew. “…is nothing but a weakness. A ridiculous illusion. A flickering flame, bright for a moment before going out, often when you need it most.”

The shock of his words hits you hard. Each word resonates in your head, heavy as the sound of a bell that emits a dull echo, a painful noise that will haunt you. There is no room for ambiguity, for nuance. Love, for your father, is a weakness, something to be swept away in order to focus on what really matters. These words, which should slide off you like water on marble, are imprinted on you like a burn. An invisible mark that you will never be able to erase. You feel helpless, as if an essential pillar of your vision of the world has just collapsed. Love, this feeling that you thought was at the heart of your humanity, becomes a poison for him. He has never known it, and it is as if he reproaches you for this naivety, this failure.

Your father looks away briefly, but it's not a comforting gesture. He settles on the hearth, where the flames crackle quietly. Their orange dance casts eerie shadows on his face, making him even colder, more distant. He seems to withdraw into his thoughts, but you know that this moment of withdrawal is only an illusion. Each second that passes is measured, each word he speaks is a weapon, carefully sharpened in the shadows. Then, slowly, he comes back to you. His icy eyes fix on yours, and you shudder under his gaze. A gaze that forgives nothing, that scrutinizes you as if you were nothing but a worthless thing, an inferior being. You feel dispossessed of your own body, like an object in his hands, a lost soul.

“It’s a fleeting feeling,” your father continues, his voice softer now, but just as relentless. “A luxury we can’t afford. Not you. Not now.”

The world around you tightens, each word compressing you further, bringing you to your knees. You can't breathe. There's no room for feelings. No room for your heart. No room for you. You're just a function in this grand plan he's plotted, a puppet whose strings he's pulling. He moves closer to you, and your legs, suddenly weak, betray you. You take a half-step back, but all you feel is the increasing pressure of his dominance. The physical distance shrinks further, and you feel more and more vulnerable, trapped in this space where he leaves you no escape.

“You must understand,” his tone grows harsher, each word hitting like a hammer. “Your duty transcends your feelings. You are not here to lose yourself in romantic illusions. Your existence, your position, your choices… All of it must serve a greater purpose.”

His words resonate like a clap of thunder. They strike your heart like a fist. You want to fight back, scream that you are not this instrument, that you are not a mere pawn in his game, but all you can do is stand there, frozen, completely unable to free yourself. The air around you is so heavy that it prevents you from breathing. A wave of frustration, of revolt, but also of terror, invades you. You are his captive, at the mercy of this man who sees in you only a simple means to an end.

He walks away, but it’s not a release. No. It’s as if the room is closing in on you, each step he takes deepening the emptiness that’s engulfing you. The sound of his shoes on the marble floor reverberates through the space, resonating like a succession of hammer blows striking your soul, a dull echo that sinks you into an icy solitude, a stifling feeling of isolation. You watch him fade into the shadows, but as he disappears, all that’s left is this coldness that settles in your mind, a chasm of silence and nothingness where nothing else has a place. The weight of his departure brings you no relief. It only deepens the emptiness that overwhelms you.

He didn't leave you alone, no. His departure is like a last icy breath, a treacherous breeze that still embraces you. Every word he spoke, every order he imposed on you, resonates in you, unalterable, a silent bell that crushes you. And you know that there is no escape. No way out. He has planted his ideas, his imperatives, in you, and they have become indelible. Like a poison that slowly seeps under your skin, his words slip into every corner of your mind, stifling the illusion of independence that you still believed was yours. What he did to you, what he stole from you, all of this is now an insurmountable barrier, a painful, frozen truth, condemning you to immobility.

You feel frozen, every movement seems too heavy, every breath becomes almost unbearable. Your heart beats at a frantic pace, trying to escape the cage of your chest, as if it wanted to escape the oppression, this invisible suffocation. Each beat seems to knock against your ribs, like a brutal reminder of what you have become: a shadow of yourself. A shadow of what you were before. Before it locked you in its whirlwind of power and submission. Before everything dissolved into this void.

You feel tiny, insignificant, almost invisible. What you thought you were, your desires, your hopes, all of that is swept away in one go, swallowed up by the immensity of what overwhelms you. The room, once full of life, seems to close in around you, shrinking the space, transforming it into a stifling abyss of emptiness. What was once your refuge suddenly becomes a silent mausoleum where you lose yourself, forgotten. There, in the shadow of everything you could not be, you find yourself alone, alone with what remains of your reality, broken.

And then, the tear falls. It slides slowly down your cheek, tracing a cold line on your taut skin. It is heavy, like a weight, carrying all the pain you have not been able to express, all that you have held back, prisoner of this imposed silence. The warmth of the tear contrasts with the cold that invades you, but it brings you no comfort. It is silent, discreet, but it is there, present. It is an echo of your suffering, a persistent trace of the dignity that you believe you have lost. A tear among many others, but this one is yours. The only thing that remains to you. The only thing that still bears witness to the person you were before everything collapsed. It is fragile, almost imperceptible, but it means everything. Everything you have not been able to say, everything you have not been able to show, everything you have not been able to be.

HWASEONG FORTRESS — SEOUL, KOREA — January 4, 1556

Heeseung stood motionless in front of the fireplace, frozen like a marble statue, an imposing and almost unreal figure in the faint flickering light of the flames. The heat of the fire, which should have warmed the atmosphere, seemed to evaporate around him, pushed back by the cold and distant aura that emanated from his presence. The black velvet cape, heavily draped over his shoulders, fell in perfect folds, hugging the shape of his body with a royal and inaccessible rigidity. The fabric, capturing the golden flashes of the flames, sent them back in a thousand shards, sparkling like stars, contrasting with the depth of the darkness that surrounded him.

His fingers, clasped behind his back, were clenched until they hurt, the tension in the muscles of his hands evident in the glow of the flames. At times, a slight tremor ran through his knuckles, a fleeting shudder that betrayed the nervousness hidden beneath the mask of control he was trying to maintain. For a moment, he looked away from the flames to stare at his reflection in the smooth glass of the fireplace. The intensity of his own gaze, a reflection of an inner storm he was trying to control, made him look away almost immediately. His thoughts swirled, fast, like a torrent he was trying to contain.

The door creaked open, echoing through the empty room. Jungwon stepped inside, his measured steps echoing against the wooden floor, as if he were weighing every move. He knew that anything he did would risk irritating or accelerating the tension saturating the air. He slipped into the room with an almost palpable caution, each gesture carefully calculated. The door closed behind him in an almost sacred silence, the echo of the turn of the handle fading into the depths of the room. The contrast between the simplicity of such an ordinary gesture and the oppressive atmosphere seemed unreal, as if the world outside had vanished. Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence, adding a touch of life to an otherwise frozen scene.

As he approached Heeseung, Jungwon felt his heart beat faster, each pulse resonating like a heavy blow in his chest. A cold sweat beaded at the base of his neck. He knew what was coming next, he knew the gravity of the words he was about to say, and yet, anxiety mixed with concentration. He finally stopped, straightening to face Heeseung, respect palpable in his posture, though his nervousness showed in the slight tension of his gestures. He bowed deeply, placing his left hand on the hip of his sword, an instinctive gesture to keep his balance.

“Your Majesty,” he said in a low but measured voice, an underlying firmness trembling in the precision of each word. He felt that each syllable spoken would shift the balance of the room, and he tried to keep his composure, not to let himself be carried away by the intensity of the moment.

Heeseung, still motionless, didn't react. He didn't even turn his head, as if Jungwon's presence was of no importance, an insignificant detail in the immensity of his existence. His posture remained rigid, like that of a sovereign who was simply waiting for information he already knew, but was not yet ready to face. The silence settled heavily between them, thickening with each second. Then, Heeseung's voice, low but clear, broke the stillness: "Speak, Jungwon." The icy invitation, which was in reality only a disguised order, exerted an invisible pressure, capable of stifling any hesitation.

Jungwon slowly straightened up, fully aware of the heavy responsibility that weighed on him. He felt his legs tremble slightly beneath him, an unpleasant sensation that he chased away with an effort of will. Each word he was about to speak risked transforming the room, releasing a force capable of changing everything. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, but everything seemed blurry around him. The heat of the fire, the flickering glow of the flames, everything seemed distorted, like a reality altered by an unbearable tension.

“A letter arrived this morning from Rome,” he began, his voice choked by the magnitude of the announcement. An involuntary shudder shook his hands, but he let nothing show. His eyes remained fixed on the spot where he could make out Heeseung’s silhouette, as if he feared that everything would collapse if his eyes looked away. “It bears the signature of the Pope himself.”

The words fell into the room like a clap of thunder, and although Heeseung remained frozen, an imperceptible shudder shook his figure. The gaze he fixed on Jungwon, without turning, seemed to analyze every part of her being. The silence thickened, threatening, like a spider's web ready to close around them.

Heeseung slowly turned his head, his movement seeming almost supernatural, suspended in time. His face, barely lit by the flames, was frozen in an expression of icy concentration. His dark, piercing eyes bore into Jungwon's, so intensely that Jungwon felt the grip of the gaze make it hard to breathe. But, forcing himself to hold the gaze, Jungwon knew that he had to face this moment, as terrifying as it was.

Every movement Heeseung made seemed to cause a palpable shift in the atmosphere, as if the room itself was reacting to his presence. Then, in a sharp voice, he asked, “And the contents of that letter… what does it say?” His gaze still didn’t leave Jungwon, like a predator studying its prey before acting. Jungwon, although already used to those icy stares, felt a shiver run down his spine. He wanted to back away, but he knew that running away was no longer an option.

“The contents of this letter… concern your engagement to Lady Y/n, Your Majesty.” The words, heavy with meaning, struck the air like a hammer on an anvil, echoing in the silence. Your name seemed to suspend time itself. Heeseung’s shoulders stiffened imperceptibly, a change so slight it could have gone unnoticed. A fleeting smile crossed his face, as subtle as a shadow, but his eyes, cold and sharp, betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Slowly, he turned, almost with striking theatricality, as if every movement had been carefully orchestrated.

His gaze met Jungwon's, a magnetic force that pierced the air. That gaze, overwhelmingly cold, seemed to seize the soul of its recipient, and for a moment, Jungwon felt completely dispossessed of his own existence. A heavy silence followed, more oppressive than any words. A silence in which emotions swirled, bubbling beneath the surface. But this silence, this suspended moment, was far more threatening than anything Heeseung could have said.

“And what did she say?” he asked in an eerie calm tone, each word measured with icy precision. He didn’t seem eager for the answer, but the tension radiating from him was so strong that it could have been cut with a knife. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, remained fixed on Jungwon, as if he was waiting for more than just an answer: he was waiting for relief. Or a pretext for the explosion.

Jungwon, however, didn't let the weight of the question carry him away. He took a deep breath, a heavy gulp of air, almost as if he was trying to swallow the entire room into his lungs, in order to grant himself a split second of calm. He knew that what he was about to say would set the room ablaze. He knew that his words would carry the violence of a thunderbolt. But he had no other choice.

“The Pope expressed his displeasure…” He paused, the weight of the announcement weighing on his lips like lead. “And he made remarks that I must report faithfully, even though they are… insulting.”

The words grew heavy, almost too heavy to let go of the air. He felt each syllable crash into the room, soaking in like a silent poison. The tension rose immediately, the atmosphere tightening around him, and Heeseung, like a sharp predator, took a step forward. Every movement of his body exuded a quiet menace, a promise that everything in his field of vision could be reduced to ashes in an instant. The smile that inhabited his lips disappeared, his gaze hardening, becoming as sharp as the tip of a sword.

“Insults? To me?” The question was dry, cutting, and Heeseung didn’t need to ask it for Jungwon to know that the answer to that question could determine his fate. The tension was at its peak, and the slightest wrong word could set the room ablaze.

Jungwon shook his head almost imperceptibly, a gesture that seemed tiny, but said it all. “No, Your Majesty. Against Lady Y/n.” The truth, as harsh as it was, escaped his lips like a gasping breath. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, the fear of what was to come next enough to take his breath away.

The silence that followed seemed to engulf the entire room. It was of a rare density, almost suffocating. The air grew thin around Jungwon, the walls seemed to come closer, and the pressure on his shoulders became crushing. Heeseung did not move, his eyes staring at Jungwon with a devouring intensity. His pupils, dark as an abyss, remained motionless, piercing the soul of his advisor. Not a blink, not a gesture. The slightest movement would be a concession. He waited. He waited for the other to speak, to say the words that would break the fragile balance of the situation.

Jungwon, trembling, looked down at the ground, a moment of hesitation crossing his mind. The gesture was almost instinctive, a survival reflex, but he couldn't run away from this confrontation. Slowly, he looked up, and in the gaze he met with Heeseung, he felt an icy shiver run down his spine.

"The Pope said, and I quote: ' A fallen, impure woman has no place on the throne. A whore cannot claim to rule, because neither her body nor her soul are worthy in the eyes of God .'"

The words fell like stones, heavy and crushing, taking away everything that was once light and bright. They echoed through the room, making their way through the walls, penetrating the air until everything became dense and heavy. The silence that followed was as suffocating as a vice around Jungwon's heart. He didn't dare breathe, as if the slightest breath would shatter the morbid tranquility that had settled between them.

Heeseung, for his part, didn't move. He remained frozen in his position, his eyes fixed on Jungwon, but his breath grew shorter, faster. The silence, heavy with anger, became more and more unbearable. It seemed as if his whole body was tensing, every muscle clenched under the shockwave he had just received. The fire in the hearth, until then calm, flickered under the intensity of the anger rising within him, like a wave ready to destroy everything in its path.

Suddenly, a laugh escaped his lips. But it was not a laugh that could have calmed the atmosphere. It was a cold laugh, a sharp, cutting burst, like the sound of a wrought-iron door creaking under rust. Heeseung took a step back, looking up at the ceiling as if the gods themselves could hear him and answer the madness of this outrage. His gaze wandered upwards for a moment, like a man seeking answers the world has no offer.

“A whore,” he whispered, the word spat out with such force that Jungwon thought he could feel the hatred vibrating in the air. The word was laced with disgust, each letter seeming to burn Heeseung’s lips. He looked down at Jungwon, and this time, the smile that had been brushing his lips was completely gone, replaced by an icy expression, a coldness that slid through the air around him like frost.

“This decadent old man dares to utter such blasphemy against her. Against the one who…” His voice cracked for a moment, a tremor briefly breaking through his usual control. He immediately pulled himself together, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. “…against the one who will be my queen.”

The room froze again. The ground beneath Jungwon's feet seemed to give way, his breath hitching as he watched Heeseung turn toward the hearth, his entire body filled with an overwhelming rage. He slammed his fist into the stone ledge. The sound of the impact resonated with such violence that the very walls seemed to shake. The heat of the fire in the hearth seemed to waver from the burst of anger, and Jungwon had no choice but to step back slightly, his ears ringing from the noise, as if the entire castle would shatter under the tension of the moment.

Heeseung, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with pure rage, turned back to him. “He doesn’t know her,” he growled, his voice shaking with fury. Each word seemed to spring from his insides, a cry from the heart, a dull ache that emanated from every inch of his skin. “He knows nothing of her soul, of her purity, of her strength. She is everything a queen should be, and so much more. She is…” He trailed off, searching for words with a desperate urgency, as if his entire being was torn between the desire to defend you and the need to achieve perfection. His breathing was ragged, uneven, each breath taking on an unbearable weight. The tension of the moment seemed to have frozen time.

Jungwon, his hands shaking, didn't know if he should intervene, if he should try to calm the fire burning in front of him or if he should just wait for the storm to pass. But he knew one thing: what had just happened in that room was going to change their world forever.

The silence reigned in the room, thick, heavy, almost palpable. Jungwon advanced cautiously, each step resonating in the tense air, like a drum announcing the imminence of a storm. He knew that this confrontation with Heeseung would not be a simple discussion, but a merciless battle, a duel where each word, each silence, could seal their fate for both of them. Jungwon, who had always believed in reason, knew that here, facing this king ready to consume everything with his own vengeful hand, there was no more room for logic.

His eyes scanned Heeseung, the man who embodied both admiration and terror. The room was dimly lit, the shadow of the fire in the fireplace dancing on the walls, creating shifting shadows, like ghostly specters. Heeseung stood there, motionless, a presence that saturated the space, a force that seemed to invade everything. His shoulders were tense, his gaze fixed straight ahead, oscillating between resolve and anguish, as if each moment pushed him to madness or to greatness.

Jungwon took a deep breath, trying to control the trembling in his throat, before breaking the silence. “Your Majesty…” His voice, usually calm and composed, nevertheless betrayed a hint of worry that he couldn’t hide. “Without the Pope’s approval, this marriage will be considered illegitimate. Your union with Lady Y/n will not be recognized by the Church, nor by your allies. This could lead to an irreversible rupture with Rome, and perhaps even a religious war. You cannot underestimate the impact of this decision.”

Heeseung had barely spoken the words when he spun around with blinding speed, a movement so sudden that the air around him seemed to twist under the intensity of his force. His eyes locked on Jungwon, blazing like two embers ready to explode. The anger within him didn’t even require a shout; his mere presence was enough to suffocate the space. “Rome, you say?” The question burst into the room with such force that it made the walls vibrate, as if the air itself was being shaken by the violence of his words. It wasn’t a question, it was a challenge. Heeseung stepped forward, each step heavy with certainty, a warning, a promise of an impending storm. “Rome is nothing to me, Jungwon. Nothing.” These men in golden cloaks, these hypocrites disguised as servants of God… Do they really believe that their blessings can dictate my future?”

Heeseung moved closer with such speed that Jungwon felt trapped, like an insect in an invisible web. The king’s gaze was a blazing fire, but his words were as sharp as an iron blade. “Do they believe their prayers, their curses, their promises of salvation or damnation have any power over me?” The king stopped right in front of him, so close that Jungwon could feel the heat of his rage, a heat that almost burned his skin. Heeseung’s gaze was a blaze, a flame that consumed everything in its path, and the proximity suffocated the air around them.

The silence stretched, oppressive, suffocating, as Heeseung, towering over him, stared down at Jungwon. “If they think they can stop me from taking her, from claiming her as mine, they are sorely mistaken.” There was no room for hesitation in his tone. Cold, implacable determination mixed with boiling anger, a consuming passion that transformed his gaze into an endless abyss. “I will crush them, Jungwon. I will smash their churches, I will reduce their palaces to ashes.” The king raised each word with a chilling certainty, like a promise he seemed ready to keep. “Rome, its priests and its peacemakers will kneel before me, if that is the price to pay.”

A cold shiver ran down Jungwon’s spine, but he didn’t have time to collect himself before Heeseung’s voice pierced him again. It wasn’t simply a matter of power, but of desire, of an insatiable thirst. “What I want is her, Jungwon. She’s mine. Not theirs. Not their God’s. Only I deserve her.” The words were as cold as a blade of ice, but within them was a violence that left no room for argument. “And if the whole world has to burn for that to become a reality, then so be it.”

The advisor felt as if he were being swallowed up by the intensity of the statement. There was no room for doubt, no room for logic. What he had before him was not a king in search of political power, but a man consumed by an irrepressible fever, a devouring passion that erased all morality. This was no longer a question of alliance, it was a quest for obsession, for total domination.

Jungwon whispers softly, hesitantly, “The war against the Church might cost you more than you think, more than lives, more than lands… It might destroy your kingdom.”

Heeseung interrupted him with a sharp, relentless gesture, like a rekindled flame. “More than what, Jungwon? Than my will? Than my desire?” His fists clenched, so hard that his nails dug into his palms, and drops of blood beaded on his skin. “Nothing is more valuable than what I want.” The words fell like cleavers, and Jungwon felt himself struck by each syllable, like an electric shock.

Heeseung stepped back for a moment, his eyes lost in the firelight, as if he were seeking some peace in the flames, but there was none. There was only hunger, the all-consuming thirst to get what he wanted. He turned back to Jungwon, his eyes shining with an almost supernatural light, and he whispered in a softer but still powerful voice, “She’s mine. And I will do anything, absolutely anything, to make sure she knows it.”

The silence that followed settled heavily, like an invisible weight on Jungwon's shoulders. He didn't dare move, or even breathe. A cold shiver ran down his spine. What he saw before him wasn't just an angry king, or blind fury. It was a man, a king willing to sacrifice everything sacred, everything that represented the stability of the world, for a woman, for a desire that seemed to surpass all reason.

Jungwon felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead as he took in the gravity of those words. The walls of the room seemed to tighten around him, suffocating him under the weight of this cruel truth. He couldn't lie to himself anymore. This wasn't madness. No. What he saw before him was pure, all-consuming passion, ready to swallow up everything in its path. Heeseung wasn't a man who was content with what he had. He was a king who wanted it all, a king ready to destroy everything in his path to possess what he considered the center of the universe: you.

In that suffocating silence, Jungwon finally understood the truth before his eyes. This man, this king, had no limits. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could stop him. He wanted to burn everything: alliances, principles, lives, everything that stood between him and what he coveted. And in that moment, only one truth became clear: nothing could stop him.

Taglist : @strxwbloody @wilonevys

©️devotedlypinkpeanut, do not copy, translate or repost any of my works.

[ineffable-sideburns]

In this post, I'm going to tie numerous observations on screen together to make a single season 3 prediction

it relies on this premise, which i'm about to build a case for:

the way the characters interact with the story is informed by the mythical/historical figures they are directly and indirectly coded as, but it’s not always in the way you’d expect, and some characters are coded in more than one way. we can still use these relationships as Clues to postulate where the story might go and how the characters will interact with one another.

this is by no means exhaustive, obviously. i’ve seen people say that Crowley is coded as Jesus, Aziraphale as Mary, and numerous other figures. i’m just pointing out some things i’ve noticed that I haven’t seen brought up as often.

we’ll start with Crowley, then go on to Sandalphon and Saraqael, then Gabriel, then Aziraphale. yes, it'll all lead up to something and i chose these characters in this order for a reason.

Crowley

so we obviously know he’s coded as Ashtoreth when he dresses up as Nanny Ashtoreth in season 1. yes, we will note that in the book, it’s very vaguely implied that Crowley and Aziraphale both hired Ashtoreth and Francis

in season 2, when trying to get the deets on bae, Beelzebub offers Crowley a “hefty” promotion and then later tells him “you could be a duke of hell".

in researching Beelzebub, at some point I found out about Milton's Unholy Trinity in Paradise Lost, which includes Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Astaroth as the first heirarchy in Hell, and which has (seemingly) lent that idea to demonology in general.

Astaroth is often referred to as the "Great Duke of Hell."

so now with season 2, Crowley has been coded in the show as both the feminine and masculine demons derived from the eastern goddess Astarte.

note: coded != Crowley is literally Astaroth/Ashtoreth. it means we can infer things about the story through the coding

the obvious would be him becoming a duke of Hell somehow in season 3. i personally am not convinced the story will take that route, and it would be sad to see him end up back in hell. this coding is the least compelling for me. it could just be a Milton reference, or maybe, since at this point in season 2, we don’t know why Beelzebub wants Gabriel, this could be a Clue that Beelzebub was sincere. maybe it just shows how powerful Crowley could have been if he’d accepted the deal. or maybe it just adds weight to parallel the decision Aziraphale makes later when offered his own position of power. people have analyzed Crowley and Ashtoreth/Astarte before, and the book/show discrepancy is always brought up, so i'm ignoring that and just addressing the added layer of Astaroth coding. anyway, let's move on to the more interesting observations.

Sandalphon and Saraqael

i’m doing these two together because i’ve found what i believe to be a major connection between them based on Neil’s answer to this ask, a shared trait their mythical figures have, and Saraqael’s actions in the show.

when Sandalphon is introduced in season 1, we learn that he was smiting and turning people into salt during Sodom and Gomorrah. then we see the direct connection Saraqael has with Sandalphon at the end of season 2, when Michael asks her to turn Maggie and Nina into salt pillars and her hand flys up.

but that’s not secret, is it?

you know what is, though?

the fact that she immediately recognizes Metatron in his human form, looks scared shitless for multiple shots, and then proceeds to act like it never happened when he starts addressing all the angels. she doesn’t let anyone know that she recognized him.

do check out this post by @most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer with more shots and analysis of her reaction to Metatron.

still don’t believe me and think that reaction is nothing?

well, let me tell you something both the mythical figures Sandalphon and Saraqael have in common.

they both saw Metatron in his human form.

according to one source, Sandalphon was Metatron’s twin brother, and Sandalphon, like Metatron, was originally human.

in the book of 2 Enoch, Sariel/Saraqael was one of the angels who brought Enoch (human!Metatron) to Heaven.

if Sandalphon had been in that room at that moment, he’d also be secretly recognizing Metatron.

obligatory: remember what I said at the beginning of this post? we are using this coding to analyze the story and how the characters interact with it and eachother. you don’t believe that Sandalphon or Metatron were literally human at one point in GO? that’s fine. i’m just giving a reason why the author may have chosen Saraqael and Sandalphon to serve the same purpose in this scene

it isn’t crazy to think that a lot of the historical lore was used to inform the characters, and if you think it is, at least read about Gabriel first.

Gabriel

Gabriel is being coded…as the actual archangel (fucking) Gabriel. (and as Lord Jim from the novel of the same name by Joseph Conrad - the book Aziraphale glances at before choosing to call Gabriel Jim. but you can google the plot of Lord Jim and how it relates to Gabriel on your own time. it’s too much to get into right now.)

Gabriel is an archangel with the power to announce God’s will to mankind. He is associated with messages, vision, telecommunications, and revelation…

…and in the Bible he announces the birth of John the Baptist, and later, Jesus.

30 And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God.

31 And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name JESUS

Luke 1:30-31

"hey Sithis dude you will not believe this… God now grants that you may conceive seven more children…yippe!!”

let’s get back to that thing about him delivering messages and revelation though.

Gabriel starts off season 2 carrying a box to the book shop (that we think was empty but later find out had a fly in it as well as a message scrawled on the bottom about where his memory is)

he also tells Aziraphale that something terrible was going to happen to him so he had to give him something. you can take that as being the fly, and consciously it probably was, but throughout season 2 Gabriel is unconsciously and unintentionally giving other people messages.

ex.

technically, a message “delivered” (dropped) by Gabriel, found by Muriel

after Crowley not-so-nicely commands Gabriel to remember, Jimbriel says, in a voice that shifts to sound like God’s voice, “I remember when the morning stars sang together and all the angels of God shouted for joy." Crowley recognizes this as what God said to Job, and then another flashback of Job begins.

later, during another vision caused by Crowley mentioning the word tempest: "There will come a tempest then darkness and great storms and the dead will leave their graves and walk the earth once more, and there will be great lamentations... every day it's getting closer."

in the Hebrew Bible, Gabriel appears to the prophet Daniel, and explains his prophetic visions. in Good Omens though, Jim IS the prophet having prophetic visions through Gabriel.

when in the book shop with Aziraphale, Jimbriel starts to hum every day, which is what causes Aziraphale to search down the pub with the jukebox playing that song on repeat. we know from what Terry and Neil have said about every day that it’s the song of the apocalypse, but none of the characters know that, Gabriel included.

what does a song do?

each message the archangel of (fucking) messages delivers is unconscious. not how you’d expect him to live up to his name, right? of course, if they are actually God’s messages, it makes sense that they’re useless, vauge, and well, ineffable. one last thing: spiritually, Gabriel’s messages and prophecies are often believed to be delivered through dreams (or in other words, the unconscious)

edit: this post by @noneorother actually inspired me to look at the mythology of archangel Gabriel, so it’s crucial you check it out. i’ve also seen a post somewhere that posits Gabriel shouldn’t even have some of the memories that go by really quickly before the flashbacks of him and Beelzebub, but i lost the link to it.

edit II: just wanted to add this post by @drconstellation, which analyzes the symbols coded into Jimbriel's clothing.

Aziraphale

it’s hard to ignore the fact that Aziraphale’s name is similar to Raphael, and that we’re missing an archangel Raphael. i’ll link some analysis on the meaning of Aziraphale’s name and share a quote from Terry, but this has all been said before. i want to look at who Raphael is mythologically to see if there’s similarities in Aziraphale’s character, and i also want to see if we can find out the relationship between Gabriel and Aziraphale, and why the latter was a suitable replacement.

Terry said about the name's origin:

"It was made up but... er... from real ingredients. [The name] Aziraphale could be shoved in a list of 'real' angels and would fit right in..."

For instance, Islam recognizes the Archangels Jibril, Mikhail, Azrael (see also the annotation for p. 9 of Reaper Man ), and Israfel (the subject of Edgar Allan Poe's well-known poem of the same name), whereas from Christianity we get such names as Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel.

the excerpt above was taken from here

NOW that that’s out of the way, who is archangel Raphael, the mythical figure?

Raphael’s name means “god heals.” it’s believed he helps people heal and overcome their struggles spiritually, physically, and mentally, and that he protects people on their journeys. he’s also considered to be the angel of joy, love, marriage, matchmaking, and travels.

as an example, in the Book of Tobit, God sends Raphael on a journey with a man named Tobias so that he can meet and woo his future wife. Raphael is also sent to heal her and Tobias’s blind, ageing father.

all the people and things i can count just off the top of my head that Aziraphale has healed or protected:

Anathema (healed)

Anathema’s bike (healed)

the dove he accidentally killed (technically healed by Crowley in the book)

Jimbriel (literally tells Jim he promised he would protect him)

Maggie and Nina when the demons enter the bookshop (tells them he will protect them)

bonus: in a scene cut from season 1, he stops a baby’s stroller from crashing

…and one he couldn’t:

collection of gifs of Aziraphale being full of joy:

you just have to look at Aziraphale smiling, especially at Crowley...

...to know that he represents joy and lo--

oh, but wait, he’s known for hooking people up, right? in case you forgot: Maggie and Nina va voom? originally his idea

similarly to the book of Tobit story I mentioned earlier, who did Aziraphale protect on his journey to meeting his beloved?

remember: the characters don't know they're being coded as anything and they don't know what kind of story they're in, so while Aziraphale didn't know he was going to be reuniting two lovers when he protected Jim, he played the role Neil made for him. it doesn't matter that he didn't know in the same way that it doesn't matter that Crowley could have (potentially) been powerful, or in the same way that it doesn't matter that Gabriel's messages were delivered unconsciously.

one more thing. Raphael heals people spiritually, physically, and mentally, right?

so is it any surprise that Aziraphale thinks he can heal the *ahem* spiritual corruption in Heaven?

we're going to tinfoil hat theory-land now ya'll, but I swear all of these observations are leading up to something cohesive...

Why did Aziraphale replace Gabriel?

i'll spare you all the long theories about Metatron's reasons, although i quite like the idea that Metatron was listening in ever since Aziraphale opened the portal to discorporate the demons attacking the bookshop, and he saw Aziraphale use his halo to declare war in order to protect Maggie and Nina. this shows Metatron that when pushed into a corner, or when it means protecting someone, he can force Aziraphale's hand...even to war.

But can we find a link between Gabriel and Raphael mythically to explain it instead?

if you've made it this far, you know i've got an answer for you. i withheld one detail about Gabriel earlier. in Christianity, he is often associated with blowing the trumpet at the end times to announce Judgment Day.

"okay, so?"

well, do you remember the quote from Terry and the excerpt from lspace I mentioned earlier? when mentioning the origins of Aziraphale's name, the excerpt mentions both angels in Islam and Christianity. the counterpart to Raphael in Islam, is Israfil/Israfel...

who blows the trumpet to signal the Day of Judgment.

"but Aziraphale wouldn't do that!"

he wouldn't intentionally do it. he's not a villain.

you remember who didn't intend to start the apocalypse in season 1, but who was there and given a role to play, regardless of whether he wanted to?

…the one who said no to heaven and hell and refused to be their pawn this time around when offered powerful positions by both?

Aziraphale, after nuking some demons with his halo, with painful foreshadowing: "I think I may have just started a war."

obligatory reiteration: the way the character-coding manifests is not literal, and it isn't always in the way you'd expect. there may be no literal trumpet. but i'm just pointing out the potential symmetry with season 1 in it being Aziraphale who "starts" apocalypse II.

one last thing: Raphael protects people on journeys, and helps them overcome their struggles — but now Aziraphale is on his own journey, and he will have to overcome his own moral struggles (ironically what Crowley helped him with)…alone.

[duckapus]

You Wouldn't Download a Godparent

Had an idea for a Fairly Oddparents/Mega Man Battle Network crossover.

In this universe, Timmy and his friends live in the Electopian city of Dimmsdale, and instead of magic we have Netnavis and the Cyberworld (though admittedly we do still have some magic because Mega Man is weird like that). Timmy's still a pretty average kid with a pretty lousy homelife (his parents are still That Bad. Vicky and Crocker aren't but they're still not great), apart from the fact that he's stumbled into being one of the few people to have more than one Navi.

Wanda.EXE he obtained and customized one of the usual ways, while they found Cosmo.EXE one day while they were virus busting. Poor guy was a mess of junk data and poorly installed customizer programs, seemingly stuck in a slightly unstable WindBug Style Change, and clearly in pain. They took him home, got AJ's help fixing him up, and he kind of just never left. Based on his abilities some of his data might be from the long-deleted Darkloid CosmoMan.EXE, but given he acts like his canon self there's clearly not that much left.

Wanda is Null-Element and favors Sword attacks, while Cosmo is Obstacle-Element and just throws everything but the kitchen sink.

As for some other pairs:

Timmy's Dad has a Wood-Element Navi named PencilMan.EXE. Given what he's like with other living things he's supposed to take care of (hamsters, snakes, his own son...) you can probably imagine how healthy their relationship is.

Chester has StrikeMan.EXE, a baseball-themed Null-Element Navi that belonged to his mother before she died.

AJ has AstroMan.EXE who acts as a lab assistant. Despite being Number-Element and who his Operator is he's a bit spacey and honestly not very bright.

Vicky has Vile.EXE, a Break-Element Navi who's just as mean as she is. He was actually a HeelNavi before he was customized, and they didn't actually change the design that much. Well, apart from his left arm being a massive cannon by default.

Tootie has QuakeWoman.EXE, Tempo to her friends. They're apparently massive fans of Dex and GutsMan.EXE, to the point where they've managed to customize Tempo into the second ever Panel Destruction-Element Navi (GutsMan being the first and for a long while only, of course).

Elmer has SplashWoman.EXE, who's a lot more confident than he is, likely by design. You can probably guess her elemental affinity.

Sanjay has the explosive Ballade.EXE, a Null-Element Navi who probably could've been Fire if he'd really wanted to.

Mr. Crocker has the powerful Elec-Element Navi DynamoMan.EXE. He's not as fast as you'd expect an electricity-based program to be, but he makes up for it in raw strength and voltage.

Trixie has Quint.EXE, who's actually possibly one of the earliest NetNavis to have ever been made. Trixie found his PET in a box in her attic, too damaged to turn on but its data apparently retrievable, and found what was left of Quint inside. She managed to get him fixed up and give him some upgrades to bring him up to modern standards. He doesn't remember much of his life before due to the damage and degradation. (I thought it would be cool if Battle Network Quint came from the past in contrast to Classic Quint coming from the future).

Veronica has Gemini.EXE, a Break-Element Navi with a very split personality.

Francis has OilMan.EXE, who's basically a giant blob of tar with oil drums for hands. You'd think he'd be Fire-Element, but he's actually Wood. Oil burns and came from prehistoric plants after all. He's also a lot friendlier than his Operator.

Chloe has Ciel.EXE, a Recovery-Element Navi who has the unofficial full-time job of helping her deal with her severe anxiety (that girl is a tightly wound bundle of nerves with no real outlets and you all know it).

Jorgen is a Net Official and has Signas.EXE, a Null-Element Navi who's coolheaded and calculating demeanor sharply contrasts his Operator's hot temper and gung-ho attitude.

And there's Catman.EXE, an excentric crime-fighting vigilante Solo Navi who's taken a liking to the kids.

There's also two villain groups, the newest Netcrime syndicate the Network Killers and the mysterious Project X, but they deserve their own posts.

[theinsanecrayonbox]

New Era, New World, a New Wish! Hazel Wells was just your average girl. She grew up hearing stories of the old guard, the super heroes who had rose to prominence in the last World War, then as eth decades stretched on started to fall off as technology rose to meet the challenge. She always dreamed of one day meeting one of the few heroes who still remained active, never had she thought she'd be joining their ranks! That was until one day, when going to work with her father, she stumbled upon the (seemingly) long forgotten magical artifact that had once empowered the heroine Wander Gal. With but a touch and a word, young Hazel was mystically transformed into the new Wander Gal, a hew hero for he new age! How will the world react to thing young gun hitting the scene? And what will this mean for the status quo for those still around?

Muwahahahaaha! Welcome to Wishverse! Formally known as Earth E417, aka Marvel Lass' Earth. On this Earth, there was a calamity way back when, that caused a schism in the flow of magic and probably also skewed the influx of Wonderstones/Wonderworlders that visited the planet. This caused the Glamazons to (seemingly) be destroyed, leaving behind one lone artefact that held their collective power. This is the item that Sharron Karter found and used to become Wander Gal back in the day, but after her (death? retirement?) STAGE took possession of said artifact, and being unable to unlock it's powers, set it in their Vault.

As a result, WWII was a bit quicker, since there was less magic being tossed around. Thus, Albert Crocker was able to work on his Super Soldier serum better, using it on his wife Ada, and eventually a perfected version that was used on his granddaughter Maggie (Marvel Lass). But also as a result, there's less super heroes in the world. The Crockers are the main source of heroic forces in Canada.

Super Sonic grew up as STAGE's poster child for heroics, but hit huge burnout when he entered his later teens and dropped out of the public eye for several years before showing back up as a loose association to the European organization Paladin. He struggles trying to stay out of the public eye, especially with his more self destructive antics, which really makes one wonder how he and his civilian boyfriend Francis James (secretly the criminal Bull-E, associated with the international group BRAT) went so long not realizing who the other really was.

STAGE is the main source of heroics and tech in the Untied States (their main competition being the private commercial company DimmaCorp). Trisha Tang grew up with the remnants of the old guard, and had hoped to reintroduce young heroes to the world, but sadly only came into power after Sonic's self destruction. She made the choice to revive the Wonderworlder in stasis STAGE had on hand, and virtually adopted the young Chloe Carmichael as she helped guide her into being the new poster child for heroics, Powergal. Chloe is younger then Sanjay and Maggie in this case, since she was woken up later, and feels even more alienated from the people she's meant to protect.

STAGE also has several funders and subsidiaries, one of which being The Gallifax Institute, where Hazel's father works, and where the Vault holding the Wander Gal artefact was housed (amongst other things). Hazel went to work with him one day, got separated, and found the artifact which responded to her. Thus she became the new Wander Gal, and it's a race to try to guard her secret identity, make friends with the other heroes, and save the day.

Also points to note (that I have figured out so far...sorta):

Chester is most likely a member of BRAT

DimmaCorp and West Industries are also big name companies

PROTECT and Paladin are one entity (PROTECT might be Canadian)

There might be no Cleavelandlantians? Or they're completely cut off from the surface world (maybe they're replaced by Kennueth's people...)

Hazel IS 10, but since she Shazams/She-Zows into Wander Gal, she ages up to late teens/early-mid 20s to match the other super teens

And to round it off, here's Powergal's full bodied art;

Happy FanExpo Canada Weekend! lol

[badjershark]

All Cops Are Bastards... at least if you're Catholic

14 June 2024, 7:17 a.m. GMT

In an unscheduled announcement, Pope Francis, presumably in an effort to regain the trust of the historically anti-police LGBTQ+ community after being recorded using a homophobic slur, has declared that all marriages which resulted in a child who later became a police officer shall be annulled by the Catholic Church.

This latest papal decree comes as a shock to many clergy and laymen alike, but sources close the Pope say this has been at the forefront of his mind ever since a 2019 episode of Paw Patrol featuring a canine pope who made "undignified decisions" at the behest of the show's police dog, Chase. These decisions include using his forbidden powers to banish an unruly pigeon straight to hell after it tried eating a single grain of his holy kibble, using autotune software to exclude other animals from mass by saying prayers in a pitch so high only God and dogs can hear it, and ultimately destroying the fictional "pup mobile" in an effort to stop the mayor of Adventure Bay from codifying the Separation of Church and State.

In his statement, Francis said, "God, … in His infinite knowledge, knows which unions of Man and Woman will result in children who will later become police officers, and He does not recognize those unions in His Great Kingdom of Heaven."

The announcement may prove to be rather costly for the Church, as the Archdiocese of New York—which, since its elevation from diocese to archdiocese in 1850, has only ever had Irish-American leadership (we checked)—has released a statement claiming that, considering the long history of Irish-American police officers in New York City, the Church will have to do an intensive audit of its clergy to determine how many of them were unknowingly born out of wedlock, and thus falsely ordained. If this number proves large enough, it could lead to a significant portion of the Archdiocese's congregation learning that they, and their families, were never actually baptized. Religious scholars warn that this may lead to a schism or even the rise of seemingly oxymoronic "Irish-Protestantism," as some laymen would rather proclaim a false Pope than their own false baptism.

Francis has assured the press that he's "not worried about false baptisms at all," since baptisms within the Catholic Church need not be performed by a Catholic priest.

"The bigger concern is false marriages," says 52-year-old half-Italian professor of religious studies at Florida University College, Kingston whose name has been omitted as he asked to remain anonymous. "Think of how many people a single priest marries. Now imagine that priest's brother became a cop. Because of that brother's decision, now they're both the result of an illegitimate union, and all those people who think they've been married in the eyes of God have actually been living in sin this whole time, not to mention their children, who are illegitimate as well. It's really a cascading effect when you think about it. Our early calculations estimate that under this new rule, nearly one third of Catholics in the United States are bastards, and nearly one third of Catholic 'marriages' in the United States are illegitimate."

Some critics have drawn attention to the fact that this announcement comes just weeks after reports that the Church has purchased nearly $2.8 billion worth of stock in the U.S. wedding industry. When asked if the two events are related, the Vatican declined to comment.

[edwardseymour]

Is it true that Anne of Cleves sent a marriage proposal to Henry VIII after Katherine Howard’s execution? If that did happen, then I don’t know why people give Jane Seymour flack if Anne’s thinking of marrying a guy who’s judicially murdered two wives, especially since Katherine Howard used to be her lady in waiting.

✨ terfs/zionists fuck off ✨

not exactly…

as darsie summarises: “katherine howard was beheaded on 13 february 1542. between late january and late february, anne’s brother and several other german princes drafted letters to henry. the aim was to encourage the english king to take anne back. however, francis suggested to wilhelm, via ambassadors, that the letters not be given to henry just yet”. it seems like anne’s circle was hoping or assumed henry would take anne back around the time that katherine was arrested. no formal proposal was extended, however.

in november, following katherine’s arrest, jeanne d’albret commissioned a personalised book of hours as a gift for anne of cleves — which heather darsie speculates was in the assumption that anne was in expectation of a betrothal: “a book of hours […] was a common gift for new brides. jeanne, as a dutiful sister-in-law may have been giving her books as a wedding gift in anticipation of anne’s remarriage”. around the same time, katherine was worrying the council with her self-harming behaviours: “she refuses to drink or eat and weeps and cries like a madwoman, so that they must take away things by which she might hasten her death”.

in early december 1541, while katherine languished in syon, henry’s hunting trip prompted one jane rattsey to speculate that he was using the hunt as an excuse to be near to anne: “what if god worketh this work to make the lady anne of cleves queen again?” meanwhile henry “personally authorised torture to be used on the two friends [dereham and davenport] on 6 december” (russell). mere days after dereham and culpeper were executed, on december 12th, southampton sent a letter to henry in support of anne: “he [the cleves ambassador] said his credence was to seek to reconcile the duke’s sister with the king and on december 13th, cranmer wrote that “the ambassador of cleves brought him letters (enclosed) from [olisleger] commending the cause of the lady anne of cleves […] the cause was the reconciliation of the king with lady anne”. around the same time as jane parker’s nerves had collapsed and henry had sent his own physicians “to nurse lady rochford back to health to secure her execution” (russell), the cleves ambassador met with the privy council and “prayed them [to find] means to reconcile the marriage and restore her to the estate of queen”.

so the cleves delegation clearly made some bids for henry to remarry anne, and her social and familial circle seemingly likewise wanted anne to be restored to henry’s wife… but it’s not clear how much this was directly motivated by anne. what we can say is that anne visited henry for new year’s. she gifted him crimson cloth, and darsie also points to a book of hours given to henry by anna, “in which she wrote, ‘i beseech your grace humbly when ye look on this, remember me. your grace’s assured anne, the daughter of cleves’. the date when anna gave henry this gift is not recorded”, but darsie is suggesting anne gave it to henry around this time. meanwhile, katherine spent new year’s at syon, “her mood swinging between terror, depression and forced hilarity” (tallis).

much of this was international murmurings, too. marillac now praised anne as beautiful and patient. in late january, katherine was charged with high treason. meanwhile, in france, “a declamation was published aimed at henry and the privy council about the treatment of anne”, written by john of luxembourg, titled ‘the prayer and remonstrance of the high and powerful madame marie of cleves, sister of the highest and most powerful lord, the duke of jülich, of cleves, and of guelders, to the king of england and his council’ (mistakenly calling anne by her mother’s name).

considering the confusion surrounding katherine’s sudden disgrace — as henry was careful to not let information get out, as evidenced by the ambassador’s erroneous reports — and anne’s assumed superiority over katherine (which anne herself supposedly flexed the previous year, according to darsie)… well, it doesn’t surprise me that this conclusion was reached. henry very firmly rejected anne, however, so it was for nought.

[imgibbon]

a random sampling of the Metal Men and Nightwing (and Power Girl) of the Tangent Comics through the decades

The Nineties- Metal Men #1, Nightwing #1, Nightwing: Night Force #1, Power Girl #1

The Metal Men are the movers and shakers of the Tangent Universe, at least, they were in the first couple waves of the comics. Comprising a team of six who were operation in the late 60s during WW3, they comprised six members (seems to be a running theme in this world). Their final mission went a bit wrong, and the team broke up. Three of them operate out in the open, with Sam Schwartz becoming President of the United States, John "Hawkman" Holliday acting as his Chief of Staff, and Rey "Lobo" Quinones working spec ops. On the other side of the equation tho...

...was Nightwing, the shadow government, created to manage the world's metahumans from behind the scenes. Marcus "Deadman" Moore lead them, aided by Francis "Black Lightning" Powell and Carl "Gravedigger" Waiters. Gravedigger would also head up a team of unruly agents who believed themselves to be subverting the organization, but were instead unwittingly doing the jobs not even the 'normal' Nightwing operatives wanted to do. They were Wildcat (who transforms into a beast upon hearing the word "Shazzam!"); Hex, with his familiar Nightshade and dark arts; Black Orchid, a witch who used tantric energies to power sadistic spells; and The Creeper, who could trap and use peoples' souls to his own end.

Across the pond, "Meridian" operated out of Eurasia, serving as the old world analog to Nightshade. It had many operatives and leaders, including the ancient immortal Vampire warlock Joseph Stalin (no, really), but its two top agents being Jade and Obsidian, who would often work with either the Metal Men or Nightshade as befitted their needs.

All three of these forces, the Metal Men, Nightshade, and Meridian, came together, both co-operatively and at odds, when China perfected its super soldier program and engineered Power Girl. Everyone wanted to be the ones to "rescue", and therefor take control of, the new metahuman, but she had other ideas, promptly displaying her seemingly limitless power and taking off to figure out what she wanted to do with her life on her own terms.

The Aughts- Superman's Reign

Ten years later, during the reign of The Superman, all these players were in a very different game. The Metal Men were no more, The Superman having dismantled all the world governments during his bid for power, and Nightshade was largely disbanded. Hex had joined the resistance and eventually became a member of the Outsiders, the successor team to the Secret Six, while Jade & Obsidian worked as enforcers for The Superman, ever the ones to work for what they deemed to be the winning side.

Power Girl, on the other hand, had become Harvey's new wife, the only one who could match both his near limitless powerset and detachment from humanity, they found in each other kindred spirits... and made everyone else's lives worse for it, even if they thought they were doing it for the greater good. Also, in my opinion, she got a much better costume. She was defeated alongside Harvey, and hasn't really been seen since.

The Teens & The Twenties- nothin'...

Not just Power Girl, none of these folks have really made an appearance in the ensuing years. Given the state of things in Green Lantern Dark, I wouldn't be surprised to see some of the Nightwing or Meridian folks pop up, but for now, we'll just have to wait and see...

[mariacallous]

Professor Francis Fukuyama is a prominent American scholar, political scientist who has written widely on development and international politics. He is probably most known for his work "The End of History and The Last Man," published in 1992. He joined our reporter, Philip Malzahn, in the studio to discuss democracy, the geopolitical landscape, and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.

How do you think the Russian invasion of Ukraine has affected the global narrative around liberal democracy versus authoritarianism? And does it reinforce your earlier ideas about the resilience of liberal democracy?

I think that what has happened in the more than 30 years since I wrote "The End of History" and the end of the Cold War is that many people who lived in liberal democracies became rather complacent. They assumed that democracy would be the single framework for their societies and it wasn't really threatened by anybody. Especially with the beginning of the full-scale invasion, suddenly, people realized that democracy didn't necessarily always exist and that you had to fight for it. 

Ukraine's fight for its own sovereignty and independence has been very inspiring to many people, but it also puts stress on democracy because the war consumes a lot of resources as well as lives. It's changed the global balance of power. 

Europe had to wean itself off of Russian energy and that caused other geopolitical changes. The whole world politically realigned as a result of that. I think that has made us aware of, in a way, the fragility of the current situation that we're facing in terms of the stability of democracy. 

So you basically say that the conflict that was thought to be a little bit lost has revived or has come back? 

I think that in 1989 and then 1991, when the Soviet Union fell apart, for many people it was a relief because all these countries were released from the Soviet prison, in a certain sense. But we didn't anticipate some of the challenges that would appear, so many of the countries that had been communist and had rejected communism now started to show a certain nostalgia for the world that existed back then. 

Then, it turns out that Russia was never really reconciled to the loss of its empire. I think that's what Vladimir Putin represents, is this intense longing for a past where they believe that they were powerful and glorious and they lost that somehow. And that has obviously been driving a lot of the instability in Europe. 

Russia is the last colonial empire. Britain, France, all of these other countries used to have empires and they gave them up, because we live in an age of democracy where people are supposed to be self-determining. Russia is the only country that seems to think it deserves to maintain an empire. 

The war in Ukraine has seemingly unified Europe in ways not seen in recent decades. Do you think this unity will persist in the long term? How much does it influence the future of the European Union and European democracy as a whole? 

The unity was really remarkable in the first year of the war. I think that since then, as the war has dragged on, you're seeing cracks because in individual countries, there has been a little bit of weariness about supporting Ukraine. You're seeing the rise of populist parties like the AfD in Germany, where they're actually more on the Russian side than on the Ukrainian side. Overall, the situation is still reasonably good but there's growing opposition to support for Ukraine. That's going to be a real problem going forward. 

How are traditional political blocs in their allegiance to Russia changing? For example, the AfD populist right-wing party which has pro-Russian sentiments.

Support for the Soviet Union was obviously a left-wing cause, but Putin has transformed Russia into a kind of fascist, right-wing nationalist state. Nationalists don't obviously work together at all times, but in recent years, they've been supporting each other in terms of opposition to Western liberal democracy. Liberal democracy means openness to the outside world, trade, and joining the European Union—this larger entity. A lot of individual nations resent that and want to assert their own national traditions. 

Ukraine has expressed a strong desire to align with Western liberal democracies. How do you evaluate Ukraine's prospects for democratic consolidation in the context of the ongoing war?

There are two institutions that matter in this respect. One is the European Union, and the other is NATO. In terms of the European Union, I think that that's going to happen. There are accession criteria that Ukraine has to meet, but I think that's actually healthy for Ukraine.

 It means that in terms of corruption, transparency, and a lot of governance characteristics—these are things that Ukraine has been struggling to do and should be doing in any event. I think those criterias will be met. 

The NATO part is more difficult because NATO says that it won't accept countries that are actually in a war, which Ukraine is. On the other hand, you can't really end the war until there's a sufficient security guarantee for the future, so that the Russians can't simply start the war up again when they feel stronger. I think that’s one of the chief problems politically that we have to confront. I do think it's ultimately solvable but it is a conundrum right now.

How has the war in Ukraine altered the global geopolitical landscape, particularly in relation to the balance of power between liberal democracies and so-called authoritarian regimes like Russia?

There's a growing axis of authoritarian powers. It's not like the Cold War in that they don't all share the same ideology. For example, Iran is this extremist religious state, mixed in with China, which still claims to be a Marxist country. They all support each other. 

What unites them is opposition to liberal democracy itself. They don't want to be any part of this Western mixture of free societies, open economies and the like. There's definitely an increasing degree of cooperation among these outsider countries or countries that have been outsiders. 

As you said, countries are not necessarily all the same. Neither are the Western and liberal democracies, like Hungary and Germany. Sweden and Norway have huge differences in terms of political systems and society. But still, they treat us a little bit as a bloc, will we see a revival of blocs?

I do think that there is a natural affinity among countries that share basic democratic values, that they believe in a rule of law. They believe in checks and balances and constitutional government. Hungary, I think, actually doesn't belong in the European Union. They've adopted an authoritarian system. They're taking subsidies from the European Union, but they spit back this ridiculous nationalist ideology in the face of the EU. 

The rest of the bloc is pretty unified in terms of its common values and a degree of mutual support, that's important. And actually, I think it's the authoritarians that are more diverse because you do have some coming from the old left, some coming from the right. What they have in common is really not any coherent set of values, It's more just dislike of liberal democracy.

In your book “Identity, The Demand for Dignity and the Politics of Resentment,” you discuss the importance of national identity. What implications does this have for Ukraine’s future?

National identity is important because if different people living in a society don't believe that there's an overall entity that they're loyal to, then they're going to behave in ways that are very destructive of the solidarity of that country. If they want to stick to one ethnicity or one region, that is going to weaken the country as a whole. There's also a challenge for a liberal democracy to have a national identity because, unlike, let's say, a fascist country, you can't emphasize race or ethnicity as the core of who you are.

That means that the task of a democracy is to build national identity around more abstract political ideas, and I think that's something that is true in Ukraine. Why do people not want to live in Russia? They don't want to live under an authoritarian regime that tells them what to do, what to think, controls their education, and prohibits them from moving around and doing things that they want. That is an important freedom that Ukrainians have. I think that can be the basis for a distinct Ukrainian identity. 

Then there are also cultural things, I think Ukrainians are discovering now that their history is unique in many ways. It is not necessarily just part of this larger Russian historical narrative, the way the Russians believe it is. I think it's important to be able to hold onto those aspects of national identity. 

What do you predict for Russia's political future in the aftermath of the war in Ukraine, maybe even during the war in Ukraine? Could internal pressures lead to significant changes?

Theoretically it could. The Russian Federation is very heterogeneous and the war has put certain strains on that. For example, the Russians don't want to recruit their own ethnic Russians as soldiers, because I think Putin fears that that's going to create a pushback from his own population. They're using a lot of ethnic minorities, Buryats, Chechens and so forth. 

That works in the short run, it also is going to lay the groundwork for some ethnic tensions. Overall, I'm not expecting the Russian Federation to fall apart anytime soon because it does have a lot of resources to hold itself together.

Assuming a postwar scenario, what role do you envision for Ukraine in the broader international community? How would Ukraine's experience and resilience influence other countries facing similar threats to their sovereignty and democracy?

I think Ukraine has been a tremendous inspiration to democratic people all over the world. We usually don't face the serious threats that Ukraine has faced. I think the way Ukraine has met this challenge is a great inspiration – not just the soldiers fighting on the front line, dying and wanting to persevere, but also the degree of innovation and entrepreneurship. For example, creating a whole drone core industry. That's something that's quite remarkable that nobody else has done. I think those things are going to be copied by other countries.

Speaking about postwar scenarios and a little bit about the future, I would love to ask about the U.S. elections.

I think the American election is going to have a big impact on Ukraine. It's actually very easy to manipulate Trump. You just have to praise him and build up his ego. Putin has been very successful at doing that. 

Vice President Vance just put out his own peace plan that's identical to Putin's, basically to have a ceasefire. Then Russia gets to keep whatever territory it's succeeded in occupying since 1991. I think that that's going to be terrible for Ukraine because it's going to mean a loss of territory, sovereignty and so forth. The Harris administration will not do that.

There's obviously been unhappiness with the Biden administration not giving permission to use the weapons that have been provided. As their range would really be necessary to defeat Russia. That's a fight, that's ongoing. I think, eventually they're going to give in on this, but that's a lot better than being cut off. It was the Republicans in Congress that cut off all weapons supplies last fall. I think that is what you can expect if the Republicans win the election. 

How do you assess the response of Western democracies to the war in Ukraine? Has the West's strategy been effective in defending liberal democratic values, or has it revealed weaknesses?

I think the biggest critique I have of the Western response has really been the American one, because the United States is the main supplier of military equipment. I think that the United States has had an excessive fear of escalation on the part of Russia and as a result, has not provided sufficient weapons and given permission to use them in a fully effective way over the last two and a half years of the war.

I think that continues with these restrictions by which long range missiles can be used by Ukraine. At the present moment, I don't really see any way of deterring these Russian missile attacks unless they are also subject to a similar kind of strike threat. That's a direct result of calculations made in Washington that I think are excessively cautious.

UNITED24 Ambassador Francis Fukuyama is raising funds to help clear Ukrainian land from Russian explosive ordnance, as part of the platform’s Humanitarian Demining program.

[eternal-echoes]

“We all have the temptation often to put ourselves at the centre, to believe that we are the axis of the universe, to believe that we alone build our lives or to think that our life can only be happy if built on possessions, money, or power. But we all know that it is not so. Certainly, possessions, money and power can give a momentary thrill, the illusion of being happy, but they end up possessing us and making us always want to have more, never satisfied. And we end up “full”, but not nourished, and it is very sad to see young people “full”, but weak. Young people must be strong, nourished by the faith and not filled with other things! “Put on Christ” in your life, place your trust in him and you will never be disappointed! You see how faith accomplishes a revolution in us, one which we can call Copernican; it removes us from the centre and puts God at the centre; faith immerses us in his love and gives us security, strength, and hope. Seemingly, nothing has changed; yet, in the depths of our being, everything is different. With God, peace, consolation, gentleness, courage, serenity and joy, which are all fruits of the Holy Spirit (cf. Gal 5:22), find a home in our heart; then our very being is transformed; our way of thinking and acting is made new, it becomes Jesus’ own, God’s own, way of thinking and acting. Dear friends, faith is revolutionary and today I ask you: are you open to entering into this revolutionary wave of faith? Only by entering into this wave will your young lives make sense and so be fruitful!”

- Pope Francis, APOSTOLIC JOURNEY TO RIO DE JANEIRO ON THE OCCASION OF THE XXVIII WORLD YOUTH DAY - WELCOMING CEREMONY FOR THE YOUNG PEOPLE, 25 July 2013

[unmooring-britain]

Dracula and its adaptions: Queer reading Francis Ford Coppola’s version of Dracula?

In today’s session we talked, among other things, about queer readings that have been applied to Dracula. As I personally whole-heartedly agreed with those, I wondered whether or not adaptions of the text had taken its homoerotic undertones into account. Francis Ford Coppola’s 1992 adaption of the text seemed especially interesting to me, as it claims to be one of the most authentic adaptations, already bearing Stoker’s name in its title. And although many have deemed the film to be certainly closer to the text of the original as some of the other predecessors and successors, James Von Allmen Hart who acted as the screenwriter definitely took some rather large liberties. In contrast to the original novel, which consists of letters and other sources produced by the human protagonists, the film spends quite some time on the figure of the count, who is provided with a full backstory. After having defended his Christian country successfully against the Muslim Turks, he arrives in his castle, only to find out that his lover Elisabeta has killed herself in grief, having received a false report claiming his death. As the priests tell him that her soul is lost due to the sin, she committed by ending her own life, Dracula curses them, as well as the whole religion and wrecks the chapel, which subsequently starts to bleed. Drinking from this blood, he becomes a vampire and is condemned to mourn in eternity. When Jonathan arrives, he however stumbles across a photo of Mina, who seems to be the reincarnation of Elisabeta. He thus sets out to find her in London (though he wanted to go there beforehand already for reasons that are never really explained). The film is therefore not a pure film adaptation of the material, but rather an interpretation and further development of it.

At first glance, Coppola’s film seems to me evidently more heterosexual than Stoker’s text. Not only seems the count’s whole monologue on love now apply to Mina, the scene where Jonathan is being seduced by three vampires is even more sexually charged as in the original, as the three women lure him onto a bed where they meet him bare-breasted and adorned with oriental accessories. Furthermore, Lucy is not the somewhat innocent girl, asking jokingly if she could not maybe marry three people, but more of a vamp (even before she turns into the real thing), as she blatantly flirts with all of the three men, calling for example Morris a “wild stallion between her legs” (who would say that in real life?). She is furthermore not only being bitten by Dracula, but also has sex with him, while she is clad in red, spread on some sort of stone altar. And last but not least even the virtuous Mina is depicted as somewhat sexually frustrated, being left alone by Jonathan and looking at pictures of sex in the novel “Arabian Nights” and greeting Dracula whom she has come to know under his guise as a prince “Oh yes, my love you found me. I wanted this to happen. I know that now. I want to be with you always”, while she is visibly aroused by the nearing presence. She furthermore has a lot of sexual chemistry with Van Helsing (though one can argue that is also the case in the novel) and kisses Lucy during the rainstorm that is brought by Dracula, which the only event in the film which I would claim to have at least somewhat of the homoerotic subtext that is present throughout the book. Other than that, the film seems to rule such an interpretation out, therefore focusing more on the renouncement of Christianity and a seemingly resulting sexual debauchery and thus on the regulatory power of faith.

[cyarsk52-20]

https://apple.news/Axg4HjUrBRF6_hMdoeu9IwA

23 Actors Who Basically Ruined Their Own Career Overnight

BuzzFeed Staff

Hollywood is full of Cinderella stories. But with every story of a star plucked from obscurity, there's another of a celeb fallen from grace: And for some of these actors, it's been a longggg fall down. Here are 23 celebs who went from famous and successful to absolutely abhorred seemingly overnight — and why.

1. As a former child star, Shia LaBeouf seemed poised to become a major star in the 2010s. Not only had he starred in major blockbuster franchises like Transformers and Indiana Jones , but he'd broken into the indie scene with Honey Boy , which was loosely based on his own childhood. While he was a polarizing figure with many run-ins with the law, he was still enjoying critical success.

However, things took a turn for LaBeouf in 2020 when ex-girlfriend FKA twigs accused him of sexual assault, battery, and infliction of emotional distress. She sued him in a lawsuit that also claimed he had knowingly given her an STD. Other past girlfriends echoed FKA twigs's claims with stories of similar behavior. LaBeouf originally claimed that “many of these allegations are not true," though in 2022, he acknowledged, "I hurt that woman. And in the process of doing that, I hurt many other people, and many other people before that woman."

Suggested by cupofteadailyhappiness


Just before the allegations came to light, LaBeouf was dropped from Olivia Wilde's Don't Worry Darling , with Wilde claiming after the allegations that he had a "combative energy" and did not create a safe and trusting work environment. "A lot came to light after this happened that really troubled me, in terms of his behavior," she added. LaBeouf later claimed he had left the production on his own. He was replaced with Harry Styles.

The only project LaBeouf has acted in since 2020 was the minuscule budget Italian-German film Padre Pio. While LaBeouf is slated to appear in Francis Ford Coppola's ensemble film Megalopolis , public perception of the once beloved child star has drastically changed. His case with twigs is set to go to trial at the end of this year.

2. James Franco was similarly no stranger to controversy by the time allegations of him having sex with his students came to light in 2018 (he had previously admitted to sending texts to a 17-year-old asking her to come to his hotel room), but the scandal marked the start of a sharp decline in his career. He was removed from a Vanity Fair cover, but he did remain in the show The Deuce (though viewers were left confused and disappointed by this decision).

In 2019, several of his former students sued him for “widespread inappropriate and sexually charged behavior toward female students by sexualizing their power as a teacher and an employer by dangling the opportunity for roles in their projects.” Franco's lawyer called these claims "false and inflammatory" and "legally baseless"; the case was eventually settled. Franco did eventually admit to having sex with his students, but claimed sex addiction left him "blind to power dynamics" and that he hadn't created his acting school, Studio 4, as a "master plan" to sleep with students.

He hasn't had a project come out since 2019. While he has been cast in two upcoming projects, it still seems unlikely his career will ever recover to the levels it was at — longtime collaborator and friend Seth Rogen has even said he would not work with Franco again.

3. Drake Bell became a 2000s heartthrob after appearing in The Amanda Show and starring in Drake & Josh. While he was no A-List celebrity in the 2010s (and had multiple DUIs), several things occurred post 2020 that caused his career to fall into serious disrepute. First, he was accused of assault by former partner Melissa Lingafelt (allegations which he denied). Then, in 2021, Bell was arrested and charged with "attempted endangerment of a child and disseminating matter harmful to juveniles."

Suggested by grimchbettahavemymoney


The victim in the case claimed that Bell had groomed her from the age of 12, then sexually assaulted her when she was 15. Bell was sentenced to two years of probation and 200 hours of community service. Since then, he has only performed in a few small animated projects, including briefly in Robot Chicken.

4. Stephen Collins was best known for appearing as the beloved patriarch in 7th Heaven in the '90s and 2000s. However, in 2014, he was exposed as having sexually abused multiple young girls between the '70s and '90s — which he admitted to People magazine. “Forty years ago, I did something terribly wrong that I deeply regret. I have been working to atone for it ever since,” he said, denying that he had done anything similar since. He was quickly fired from The Fostersand Ted 2 , and has appeared in no projects since.

Suggested by sammachado


5. In 2020, Ansel Elgort was accused of having sexually assaulted a 17-year-old in 2014, when Elgort was 20. More women came forward to share their stories of troubling behavior from Elgort, including a woman that went on two dates with him at 16 and a woman who said he sent her a dick picture when she was in eighth grade. Elgort responded with claims that "I have never and would never assault anyone” and said his relationship with the first accuser was consensual. He largely retreated from the public eye after this, and notably did very little press for West Side Story , the highly anticipated Steven Spielberg remake in which he had starred. Even the original trailer barely featured him, despite his casting as one of the two starring roles. Other cast members were frequently asked about the allegations against Elgort in his absence.

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Since then, Elgort has only appeared in Tokyo Vice — one reviewer noted, "His presence makes a good show hard to bear." He has no other upcoming projects.

6. While perhaps not quite as famous as some of the examples on this list, Allison Mack from Smallville seemed poised to make a career for herself in the 2000s. However, she soon became heavily involved in the "personal development company" NXIVM, which was exposed as an MLM and cult in 2017. She was eventually arrested with charges of sex trafficking and forced labor after leading a sex cult within NXIVM that allegedly involved starving and branding women, essentially enslaving them.

Suggested by bowsie22


She was recently released shy of serving her complete three-year sentence, though it's extremely unlikely she'll make a return to acting. Mack hasn't worked since 2015 except for a 2017 animated series she provided a voice for — but after her arrest, she was replaced, and her lines were re-recorded.

7. Former Glee and The Edge of Seventeen star Blake Jenner's career has largely ended in the wake of the abuse allegations from ex-wife Melissa Benoist in 2019 (which Jenner admitted to, though he also accused Benoist of abuse). He has appeared in only one straight-to-VOD project since then, and he was replaced in Merrily We Roll Along with Paul Mescal. Jenner was also arrested on a DUI this year.

Suggested by leraleva


8. Armie Hammer was fired from just about every upcoming film and show he was meant to be in (including Billion Dollar Spy , Shotgun Wedding , and the TV series The Offer ) after sexual assault allegations and alleged messages in which he called himself a cannibal became public. He was also dropped by his agency and publicist.

He retreated from Hollywood and wasn't spotted for a long time, until he was discovered to be seemingly working as a timeshare salesperson in the Cayman Islands. He was also spotted back in LA last summer, but he has no projects lined up.

9. In early 2021, Gina Carano posted a photo to social media comparing being a Republican to being a Jew during the Holocaust, which caused fans to dig up some other past problematic social media posts by The Mandalorian actor, in which she denounced wearing face masks and claimed voter fraud in 2020.

She was quickly asked not to return to the Lucasfilm and Disney show, and plans were scrapped for her character to have her own show. "Her social media posts denigrating people based on their cultural and religious identities are abhorrent and unacceptable," a representative for Lucasfilm said in a statement. She was also dropped by her agency.

Shortly after, Carano announced that she would develop, produce, and star in the film White Knuckle with conservative media company the Daily Wire. However, Carano later canceled the film because she refused to adhere to Hollywood's masking policies. She decided to quit her union (presumably the Screen Actors Guild) and make a different movie in Montana. The film was released in 2022 to little fanfare, and it's clear that Carano doesn't have the budding career she once had. Carano also had a role in My Son Hunter , the far-right fictionalized portrayal of Hunter Biden's foreign business deals.

10. Jussie Smollett made headlines in early 2019 for experiencing a hate crime in Chicago...except, as it turned out, Smollett had actually staged the attack. He was then fired from his hit show, Empire , which was in its fifth season.

Charges were filed against him for making a false police report and wasting police resources. A 2021 trial found him guilty of five out of the six counts he'd been charged with, and he was sentenced to 150 days in county jail. He was released on bond after just six days and later made a return to Hollywood in B-Boy Blues, this time behind the camera. He has no acting projects lined up, though he has appeared at events like the 2022 BET Awards.

11. Hartley Sawyer was fired from The Flash in 2020 after his old racist, misogynistic, and homophobic tweets surfaced on social media. More than one tweet referred to assaulting women, with one reading, “Date rape myself so I don’t have to masturbate.”

Sawyer apologized on Instagram: “My words, irrelevant of being meant with an intent of humor, were hurtful, and unacceptable. I am ashamed I was capable of these really horrible attempts to get attention at that time. I regret them deeply. This was not acceptable behavior. These were words I threw out at the time with no thought or recognition of the harm my words could do, and now have done today.” However, the damage was done, and he has no upcoming projects.

12. Roseanne Barr was fired from the Roseanne reboot after making an offensive and racist comment about Barack Obama's adviser Valerie Jarrett, which ABC’s entertainment president, Channing Dungey, called “abhorrent, repugnant, and inconsistent with our values.”

Barr referred to Jarrett as if "muslim brotherhood & planet of the apes had a baby." She later apologized.


The show was canceled and then came back as The Conners, with Roseanne's character killed off. Barr's career never recovered, though polarizing network Fox did give her a comedy special this year which was not quite a critical darling.

13. Another actor to go on a racist tirade that ruined his career was Michael Richards. After becoming a household name playing Kramer on Seinfeld , he reentered a successful career in stand-up comedy. But in 2006, at one of his shows, he went on a racist rant against audience members who were heckling him.




The video made the rounds online, and Richards stepped away from performing. He did apologize, but even his apology was mocked for being insincere. He later briefly appeared on Curb Your Enthusiasm with the rest of the Seinfeld cast, as well as in some other small roles. He then had a larger role in the one-season canceled 2013 sitcom Kirstie , but it did not succeed in relaunching his career. Since then, he has appeared in only one small film.

14. Jason Mitchell rose to prominence over the 2010s in films like Straight Outta Compton , Keanu , and Kong: Skull Island. He was set to star in the Netflix movie Desperados but was fired after allegations of misconduct (including, according to the Hollywood Reporter, making "highly inappropriate remarks" to two female costars while "lingering close to their quarters"). He was then fired from the third season of Lena Waithe's series The Chi (also due to claims of misconduct on set) and dropped by his agency.

Mitchell was accused by showrunner Ayanna Floyd Davis and costar Tiffany Boone, though they were not the only ones to make complaints about his behavior.


Mitchell's career stagnated, and then, in 2020, he was arrested after being found with firearms and drugs. However, in 2021, he appeared in one small film, and he executive produced Everything Is Both in 2023 as well as appearing in a BET original film. Time will tell if he's able to make a full comeback.

15. Another actor whose career tanked overnight — but who may still yet make a comeback — is Lori Loughlin. Loughlin, whose most notable role was Aunt Becky in Full House , was convicted of conspiracy to commit fraud in 2020 and served two months in jail for her part in the 2019 admissions scandal. In the scandal, wealthy parents paid bribes to get their children accepted into prestigious universities.

When she was first accused, she was fired from the Full House reboot Fuller House , as well as from When Calls the Heart. However, post-jail time, she did appear as her When Calls the Heart character in the show's spinoff, When Hope Calls. And recently, it was announced she would star in Great American Family’s Fall Into Winter, her first starring role since the scandal. However, she has not returned to any roles of the same caliber as that of Fuller House.

16. Felicity Huffman was similarly convicted for her role in the college scam, serving just 11 days in prison in 2019. She has struggled more than Loughlin to find roles since, as tabloid OK! reported. She was set to star in an ABC pilot in 2020, though there has been no news about it since.

17. One of the most infamous examples of an actor who ruined his career is Bill Cosby. Known as "America's Dad" after a decades-long career in comedy, he had an equally long history of sexual assault come to light in 2014.

Cosby was accused of dozens of counts of sexual assault, leading to his conviction and imprisonment in 2018. He was released in 2021 — still, it remains unlikely that his career will ever recover.

18. Kevin Spacey is another example of someone who ruined their career through sexual assault. He starred in the Emmy Award-winning role of Frank Underwood in House of Cards , but Spacey's career quickly derailed after Anthony Rapp made sexual assault allegations against him. Soon, other people came forward and alleged inappropriate behavior, harassment, and assault, and Spacey was promptly fired from the Netflix series .

Netflix also scrapped his planned film Gore , and in an unprecedented move, Christopher Plummer was hired to reshoot Spacey's part in All the Money in the World — even though the film had already been completed. Reshoots took nine days, and Plummer was nominated for an Oscar for the role.

Spacey was later ordered to pay $31 million to the production company for House of Cards because he was also accused of misconduct behind the scenes. The actor was recently found not guilty of sexual assault in London, but that doesn't clear him from the court of public opinion, and it seems unlikely his acting career will be what it once was.

He did star in a Italian film The Man Who Drew God last year, but the film did not premiere in US theaters.


19. Danny Masterson, best known for playing Hyde on That '70s Show , was accused of sexual assault by three women in 2017.

He was subsequently fired from the show he was then appearing on, The Ranch , and his character, Rooster, was killed off. He was also dropped from his agency. Masterson denied the claims, pleading not guilty after his arrest. He was recently found guilty of two counts of forcible rape and currently awaits sentencing.

In addition, multiple victims of Masterson have accused him and the Church of Scientology, of which he is a member, of stalking and harassment, claiming that a family pet was killed by the church, among other things. 


20. Chris Noth, best known for Sex and the City , appeared in its reboot, And Just Like That... , in 2021. However, as the show began airing, two women came forward claiming that Noth had sexually assaulted them.

Noth denied the claims, but the damage to his career was done. A $12 million deal to sell his tequila brand was canceled, he was fired from The Equalizer , and his Peloton commercial (inspired by his character's fate in And Just Like That... ) was pulled. The only thing he has appeared in since is a one-night reading last month of a play that he produced, directed, and starred in.

And finally, let's end on two actors who ruined their careers overnight...and then came back.

21. Louis C.K. admitted to masturbating in front of colleagues in 2017 after the New York Times published an article accusing him of this behavior. FX (which had broadcast his show Louie ) severed ties with C.K., and his upcoming film I Love You, Daddy was shelved days before its premiere.

He was recast in the Secret Life of Pets sequel, and his planned specials were canceled.


He seemed to make a comeback in the last couple of years, however, winning a Grammy, going on an international comedy tour, releasing a new special, and cowriting and directing the film Fourth of July. I'm a proponent of redemption and forgiveness, but anyone who has ever sexually assaulted anyone — and this is sexual assault — should never, ever be allowed to gain more fame and wealth!!!

Shame on the Grammys for even nominating him. 


22. Mel Gibson took a break from Hollywood after his 2006 DUI. As he was being arrested, he went on a tirade against Jewish people, which was leaked to TMZ. A few years later, a phone call of him making racist, misogynistic comments to his ex-girlfriend Oksana Grigorieva was also leaked. He was later charged with misdemeanor domestic violence against Grigorieva.

However, just six years after this second incident, he returned in 2016 with Hacksaw Ridge , which he directed. The film was nominated for six Academy Awards, winning two. Gibson himself was even nominated for Best Director.

I really think these awards should have some sort of morality clause, specifically for domestic violence, sexual assault and harassment, and racism. Like, I don't care how good an actor/director/writer/comedian you are — you shouldn't be getting the top awards of your profession when you've been accused of these things, or else other people are going to think it's okay.

23. And finally, I cannot make this list without mentioning Will Smith, who suffered a major fall from grace after slapping Chris Rock at the Oscars in 2022. He was barred from attending Academy events for a decade, and many of his upcoming projects were delayed or halted. Public perception of Smith drastically dropped, and his next film, Emancipation , came and went without much fanfare.

Suggested by davidrivera86

However, Smith does seem set to make a comeback — he is currently filming the fourth installment in the Bad Boys franchise.

[andrewuttaro]

Warning from Trieste - Decision 2024

Is the free world in crisis? In many countries with at least some tradition of democracy, there has been a surge of hard right-wing candidates who seemed disinterested in such institutions, many of which won power: Vicktor Orban in Hungary, Andrzej Duda in Poland, Ferdinand Marcos Jr in the Philippines, Yoon Suk Yeol in South Korea, Narendra Modi in India, Javier Milei in Argentina, Nayib Bukele in El Salvador, Daniel Ortega in Nicaragua, and of course Donald Trump in the United States of America.

Within 10-15 years of a financial crisis there always seems to be a political crisis bound up in populist ideas of national identity and the injustice done to the national spirit by a threatening outsider group. Political scientists will tell you when there is profound insecurity in people’s livelihoods, particularly in basic necessities like food and housing prices, cost of living matters if you will, revolution and chaos are not too far behind.

That might all seem like old news for those of us in the U.S. We endured the COVID19 pandemic with one of the aforementioned leaders contradicting public health directives almost non-stop. But if you ask me something has changed more recently here in American politics. Yes, the right-wing trendline is the same here as it is worldwide but distrust in the institutions of democracy has grown more widespread across the spectrum of political opinion.

What was once just an eye-catching survey result years ago, widespread distrust in institutions including the government, has morphed into doubt about the very project of democratic governance, to the point that it is seemingly baked into American political culture at this point. Do we believe that our government system works anymore?

Since the Second Vatican Council in the early 1960s the Catholic Church has formally endorsed representative democracy, or at least governance that empowers peoples to have control of their own destiny. In the shadow of the madness of the Second World War the thousands of Bishops gathered at that Council felt some sense of moral responsibility. They had failed to prevent the totalitarianism that authored genocide and the deadliest conflict in human history.

Declarations that would have been thought unnecessary a century earlier, against antisemitism and totalitarianism, were more uniformly accepted than the theological documents about the stuff you think about when you call the Catholic Church to mind. In retrospect it’s quaint and charming imagining that many people agreeing on anything, particularly with the added layer of religious discourse.  

On politics and peace, what emerged from the Council was clear. Whether it was Pope John XXIII writing against nuclear war in 1963 or his successor Pope Paul VI actively pushing for treaties on trips abroad, the peacemaking tune out of the highest levels of the Catholic Church has been unmistakable since Vatican II. More than that, in recent decades the criticisms of war and autocracy has gotten so acute that it may seem impossible for the world’s political leaders to obey if they wanted to.

Just-War theory has been so narrowed by recent Popes that you might wonder if any war is justified. The Death Penalty has been explicitly condemned by the Vatican. Neat idea, eh?  Pope Francis goes even further to decry predatory housing practices, denial of healthcare, and ignorance of the elderly as gravely sinful behaviors on a societal level. That last one played no small part in my own decision to do my current work in the regulation of Nursing homes and other facilities designed for older adults which often become warehouses.  

For the current Pope politics is not off limits but it’s  also never partisan. It should come as no surprise then that Pope Francis struck a chord that will ring loudly in the ears of Americans on a trip earlier this summer in the northern Italian city of Trieste. In an election year such as ours I felt too moved to not write about it.

Pope Francis in Trieste

Pope Francis is not the miserly, scolding grandpa his critics would have you believe. He is generally attuned to the needs of a time and place before the people affected know what to ask of him. Within the first year of his papacy he said something that sticks with me to this day and cuts across all facets of the human experience: “If nobody is to blame, everyone is to blame.” Sit with that for a moment and get back to me.

That quote was part of a speech on the Italian island of Lampedusa where migrant boats and the bodies of those who didn’t survive the journey wash ashore regularly. For however bad you think the migrant crisis is here in North America its far more gruesome in Europe where a stormy sea is the main obstacle. Francis knows how to moralize without proselytizing, a rare balance from any minister, never mind the Pope.

On July 7th in Trieste, the Pope was speaking to Catholic Social Week, an annual gathering of civic minded activists discussing the state of Italy and the world since 1907. He delivered another classic speech that feels to me like a clear warning for every person blessed with the vote and political agency in their civic context. I encourage you to read the text of the brief speech with the link here below because he covers a lot with not many words.

Early on Pope Francis acknowledges that world democracy today is not in good health. This is couched in the Italian context but extended out to the whole free world. Specifically he says this after quoting the founder of the social week he was speaking at, Blessed Guiseppe Toniolo, who said democracy is “…that civil order in which all social, legal and economic forces, in the fullness of their hierarchical development, cooperate proportionally to the common good, flowing in the last result to the prevailing advantage of the lower classes.”

You can already tell Pope Francis has a higher standard for democracy than even great patriots here in America. Democracy is not just government by the people oriented toward freedom and liberty, for Francis, democracy is a governing system aimed at the common good and helping the less advantaged. You can see how this would clarify one’s perspective on socio-economic disparities, healthcare, the environment, and many other issues that unnecessarily create suffering for those living under democracy.

Personally I think it goes a long way to clarifying some erroneous practices we take for granted here in the US that ultimately make us less free, perhaps leading us toward a more dictatorial system, but I am saving my editorializing for later.

Where the Pope’s speech goes next is very touching: he uses this image of a wounded heart as a metaphor for what he calls a crisis of democracy today. Marginalization of various people groups hurts the whole social body and makes the whole system less effective and more self-referential. This is like any number of ailments that make the literal human heart work harder and eventually lead to heart failure.

That term, self-referential, is a term Francis uses often. In religious contexts he uses it to refer to all manners of religious people who think so highly of themselves and the religious identity they inhabit that they turn inwards in corrosive selfishness. One example is clergy and laypeople obsessed with the latin mass and fighting him to the detriment of Church unity. Their vanity then has a certain parallel in the secular world when we become so absorbed in our chosen socio-political identities that we become worse for them.

If you consider yourself an avid follower of news and politics then I imagine you know what we’re talking about here. In particularly difficult electoral cycles I have seen friends and politicos I follow spiral into mental health crises over a political agenda. This is not to diminish important political priorities, only to point out how they might be costing us too much of ourselves.

After this metaphor, the pontiff goes onto quote a former Italian prime minister, Aldo Moro, emphasizing, in essence, that democracy is not democracy unless it is at the service of our humanity: that is, human dignity, freedom, and autonomy. Moreover, even if one has the right to vote, are the conditions being created in their body politic to vote knowledgably and wisely, allowing evermore people to vote?

That message hits pretty hard on its own but then Pope Francis speaks of “…freeing ourselves from the waste of ideology…” He is criticizing the lionization of ideologies themselves in political thought. He means that familiar drive to align yourself with a certain, longstanding party or political philosophy to the automatic forsaking of countervailing viewpoints. In short, he is saying that sticking to these too closely will affect us negatively on a human level. Beyond politics you will find the pontiff criticizing ideological rigidity but when he turns it on politics it feels very relevant here in such a starkly divided America.

Circling back to the Aldo Moro bit for a moment, we might ask ourselves how our political viewpoints impact human dignity. If we believe some people shouldn’t vote, what does that say about how we view their humanity? Even further, if we believe others would vote like we do if they were simply smart enough to understand our viewpoint, are we not subtly telling ourselves we are better than?

It only gets sharper when the Holy Father says: “Ideologies are seductive... but they lead you to drown yourself.” Remind yourself these are the words of one of the most well-regarded religious figures in the world today. This warning highlights the earlier quotation pushing the idea that democracy needs to serve our humanity. If we participants in democracy degenerate our humanity through excessive participation in ideology, do we not then degenerate the democracy we live under?

Entering the back half of the speech, his holiness goes onto remind listeners of solidarity and subsidiarity. These are the two bedrock principles of Catholic Social teaching. In this context they refer to the importance of people acting with regard for each other’s plight (solidarity) and the maintenance of political systems that allow everyone to have a say in the policymaking closest and most relevant to their time and place in life (subsidiarity). A disappearing generation of hippie Catholics here stateside could rattle these off for you like second nature.

These principles are invoked to remind us that valuing every person is critical for democracy to persist. Healthy democracy, moreover, requires a practiced ability to transition “…from cheering to dialogue” as the Holy Father puts it. This is to say democracy falls apart when campaigning is eternal, and governing is the afterthought. One specific former American President comes to my mind at that, but I am trying to hold off my analysis at this point in the article. It is tough.

We are roused by campaigning, excited by the thrill of feeling seen and represented, but we are challenged by the task of governing. We are being called to allow ourselves to be challenged instead of fixating on the thrill of increasingly tribal political connections. Good governance is almost always a balancing of different views and possibilities for the maximum possible benefit of constituents.

You don’t have to read too deeply between the lines here to see how Pope Francis is saying that a exceptional love for ideologies in democracies leads to erosion of democracy and the undermining of the dignity of individuals and our humanity as a whole.

Something in that transcends politics into a cultural moment we Americans are in that feels quite sick. Too many of us are so culturally fortified that we begin to see democracy itself as a mere threat to our echo-chambers. Some of us view democracy itself as undermining the common good. This is a fringe trend that has seen some mainstream adoption in the last 8-9 years here in the US. Perhaps it subsides with this election cycle? Let’s get back to the Pope’s warning from Trieste.

The dialogue Pope Francis is advocating for here is in service of inclusion. Once again, democracy is healthy in so far that it is in the service of as many of its constituent people as possible. Those who feel left out are liable to be taken by hopelessness which feeds so many of the flaws that can arise in democracies like militarism, welfarism, hypocrisy, and indeed the tribalism that seems to have generated the crisis of democracy we’re talking about here.

This is where the connection to that 2013 speech in Lampedusa returns to my mind: “If nobody is to blame, everyone is to blame.” In that same speech, the newly elected Pope also spoke about the “globalization of indifference”. We can think of this as his way of talking about the current phase of the information age when we have so much news, facts, and opinion at our fingertips and yet seem more disconnected from each other than ever before. Mind you, he was saying that in 2013.

How have we become so disconnected? How do our disconnections, even within our own political contexts, within our own communities, affect our culture of democracy?

Who is being left out of democracy? Everyone registered above the age of 18 can vote, yes, but who is being left out of the fruits of our system? Those who we leave out intentionally are signs of a deep political illness within us. Those who we leave out unintentionally are the next frontier of inclusion and representation. This is, in some way, a good checkup we can always do on the health of our democracy.

The home stretch of Pope Francis’ Trieste speech turns the wounded heart into the healed heart. He gives hopeful examples of creative efforts to set aside indifference and include as many people as possible in the project of democracy. Examples he uses include recent Italian legislation giving those with disabilities more access to financial services as well as technological innovations designed to assist the protection of the natural environment.

The Holy Father says bluntly at this point: “The heart of politics is participation.” This fraternity requires courage to think of ourselves beyond ever narrower “clan groups” and as broader, more diverse and inclusive people groups. How he is using that word, people, is somewhat lost in translation. A people group is not the sum of individuals but the collective sharing in a dream, a vision for a distinct time and place and those who inhabit it. That is to say, the political entity of a nation-state may or may not be representing all the peoples within it or forging peace within and outside their borders.

The pontiff contrasts this against populism, the political calling card of this crisis of democracy we have found ourselves in. That populism, and the many darker things it can bring (as Europeans are better at calling to mind for obvious historical reasons) prefers easy solutions that ultimately work against ever greater inclusion in favor of increasingly self-referential policy goals: the slow, formal erosion of democracy. Moreover, populism requires an ever-narrower definition of the people group resulting in more exclusion. Us versus them thinking, the bane of existence for diverse democracies, is essential in how populism works in most places.

Underrated point within these closing sentences for me is when the Pope says “Democracy is not an empty box…” He says to speak up with a faith that is not private but is also not interested in defending privileges. The primarily Catholic audience for this speech understood the Pope was taking a swipe at Italian populism specifically here. Populism pits the majority group of a place in defense of perceived lost privileges. In Italy the majority is Catholic. The message is global though: we religious people must not be private about our faith while also being humble enough to not participate in the political process exclusively for the gain of our own distinct in-group.

Moreover, Francis states political love requires us to address causes more than effects, choosing responsibilities over polarizations. We are to make value judgments on responsibilities, not the party line decided by our chosen political tribe. When you’re politically active in defense of a set of societal privileges you like then you are liable to often find yourself on the wrong side of history in a diverse democracy.

A closing word on politicians themselves sneaks up on you at this point. Good politicians have civil passion according to Pope Francis, leading from among the people, perhaps back with the stragglers, to use a shepherding metaphor.

Lastly, the Holy Father speaks to efforts to “organize hope” as the basic command of Catholics, and really all people, who believe in democracy. In a comparable sentiment to the Martin Luther King Jr wisdom we are familiar with here in the US, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice”, Francis says time is superior to space. That is to say that the raw pursuit of positions of power can miss the crucial, more powerful work of doing what it takes over time to do what is right in the end.

Hope, we find at the end of the Pope’s speech in Trieste, is required to build the future. Without hope we are mere administrators of the present, disconnected from building any kind of worthy future for democracy or the dignity, freedom, and autonomy that a more perfect fraternity forms in healthy democracies. All of these high ideals for democracy are just more preaching from the Pope unless we possess the boldness to hope for them and then organize that hope into a movement.

The United States in peril – the World in peril

There is so much here to note and take to heart. I really don’t know where to start. Just contemplating when this speech was given will make your head spin. July 7th was the Sunday after transformative elections in Britian which ended fourteen years of the rule of the right-wing party there. That same day the second round of French parliamentary elections saw a stunning reversal of fortunes against the far-right National Rally party which gave birth to a hung parliament that will force French MPs to work together or face another election in the very near future.

For us in the context of the United States of America, July was a decade unto itself in our politics. Recounting it now feels like the first draft of a history lesson.

After President Joe Biden struggled through a debate with former President Donald Trump in June, there was a relative panic attack among the Democratic Party, horrified the aged Biden could not beat the insurrectionist returned to finish the job. The calls to step aside eventually dislodged the presumptive nominee for his younger Vice President. To inhabit that moment you have to contemplate the stakes involved.

The fear about how best to defeat the creeping authoritarian who is now advocating for concentration camps for migrants and pardons for insurrectionists was palpable throughout the month. Yes, this is where I begin editorializing. The upshot on the November Presidential election was not good before President Biden dropped out; at least for those of us who see some existential risk in re-electing a former President who felt the institution of democracy itself was an obstacle to him at least on one January day in 2021.

On July 9th one Volodimir Zelensky, President of embattled Ukraine, spoke at a summit of the leaders of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). He said what everyone understands bluntly: the world’s eyes look to November. If my perspective about what a second Trump term in the White House would do to America seems verbose then consider the message when it comes out of the mouth of President Zelensky.

Donald Trump has stated he will not defend NATO from Russia if reelected. Where does that leave Ukraine actively trying to fight off Russian invasion? President Zelensky has signaled he would go down with his country if it came to it. With U.S. aid being the logistical make or break for his nation’s war effort Zelensky really is saying that our election will decide whether he lives or dies. Something about solidarity from the Pope’s speech in Trieste might be coming to mind again for you here.

On July 13th, a mere six days after Pope Francis’ speech in Trieste, a gunman with no apparent motive as of the writing of this blog, tried to assassinate former President Donald Trump outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Political violence undermines democracy in few acts more vivid than a political assassination. We may never know the shooter’s motive, he was killed at the scene, but he was only 20 years old and suffice to say he grew up in this current national climate of political hatred. What impact had this period had on him? I know we will never know but as someone who also grew up in it I struggle to think there was no impact.

We were centimeters away from entering what would have definitively been the darkest timeline. But our politics here in America are so sick now, no matter who you blame it on, that what would have otherwise been the central topic of American political life for months if not a year plus, an assassination attempt on a former President and current presidential candidate, was set aside within weeks. Call that the election year news cycle or, as I prefer, think of it as a deep illness of American political life.

Before the month was out the new presumptive Democratic Party nominee solidified intra-party support and began a more rigorous campaign schedule than her President. That presumptive nominee, Vice President Kamala Harris, will be accepting her party nomination formally in Chicago later this month. With that, the final form of the 2024 Presidential election will take shape. With Pope Francis’ warning from Trieste in mind I wonder if we should ask ourselves some tough questions.

A warning for America?

Institutional distrust, that is distrust in the very organization of American democracy, is at such an apocalyptic fever pitch with even your average American that it threatens the project of this country itself. Authentic hope is out of the picture. Self-giving love is practically gone from the world of American politics.

That seems trivial unfortunately for we political junkies embroiled in this stuff on a daily basis, but draw your mind back to human dignity as Pope Francis did in Trieste: What does our terminal institutional distrust do to the system’s ability to do good for people, their dignity, autonomy and the common good?

In President Biden’s speech exiting the race for re-election he posited the idea that character in public life should still matter. That is to say: America must still pick her leaders based on an appreciation for their objective goodness and humanity. What a hopeful idea. We all seem to have the sins of our leaders on our fingertips as if a dagger ready to defend ourselves from their supporters. That isn’t organizing hope, is it? Quite the opposite I would say.

Are we too cynical as a people to define our politics by hope and character? If healthy democracy is to serve our common humanity then it would require great character and at least a general rejection of cynicism, no? Maybe I’m naïve. The alternative these days seems to be deciding that human frailty makes no person truly moral so nobody can be trusted with power. I know I am speaking in sweeping moral generalizations here but look at where we are as a country politically. Measured rhetoric doesn’t seem to catch on these days.

The initial reactions I saw to Biden highlighting character in public life was scoffing and patronizing doubt. To be clear, those were reactions I saw from people who generally supported the now lame duck President and his party. That was disheartening. In the same speech abdicating the 2024 campaign Biden reached to the epicenter of so much of contemporary American political cynicism...

“America is an idea – an idea is stronger than any army, bigger than any ocean, more powerful than any dictator… We’ve never fully lived up to this sacred idea [of the USA], but we’ve never walked away from it either. And I do not believe the American people will walk away from it now.”

Forgive me for being proud of one of my co-religionists, but President Biden ending his political career this way sings more eloquently to the Catholic political experience in America than anything I have ever seen or learned about previously. I wrote another article entitled JD Vance Catholicism on this same blog site and you should read if you want a synopsis of that history. In the meantime, consider Biden’s biography as he says this.

A man who fueled himself with the doubt of his detractors all the way to the White House, stepped aside when he realized it was necessary. A man who attends Mass more regularly than most everyday Catholics I know, chose humility in the face of what he and his political allies say is a moment of existential political danger for the country. I know in my heart that man prayed about this. He has suffered a great deal in his own life and was not about to allow more suffering fall upon his countrymen just because of the pride one feels possessing the most powerful job on earth.

President Biden knows the Holy Father’s warning from Trieste even if he did not hear it before his dropout speech. If our democracy is sick, we need to heal it now before the ailment gets worse. You can tell that even Biden knows there is a sickness to be healed in his speech, even speaking of dictatorship like it’s a possibility here in the USA.

There is also hope in Biden’s farewell; hope we as a people can sustain a healthy democracy that centers and elevates the best of our humanity, not the worst of it. I certainly don’t agree with everything Biden believes politically but the hope he speaks to in this moment is nothing short of essential. We need to be a nation of solidarity for all this country’s peoples and create policy with humanity in mind more than any individual or group of people’s privileges. Humanity comes before anyone’s privileges.

Now Biden’s Vice President Kamala Harris, whom he endorsed to take up this mantle of American democracy, is campaigning against an opposition candidate who has already shown his willingness to subvert the basics of that democracy to try to remain in power. Please, recall January 6th seriously for a moment, and contemplate what that view of America in a President would mean in the context of the Pope’s warning from Trieste.

Go vote on Tuesday, November 5th if you are registered and so able. Vote absentee or however best works for you. But take it seriously, not just because your political tribe has put absurdly high stakes on the outcome. Take it seriously because in the free world we are given this incredible civic sacrament to participate in making the world a better place.

Hold out hope that such a better world is possible. Fortify yourself in hope, not ideology. Democracy is healed when we “organize hope” in the words of Pope Francis; when we choose to work on causes more than effects, choose responsibilities over polarizations, and solidarity over ideology. Those are choices we must make long after election day no matter what the result is.

We are too big and diverse a country to give up on democracy. We are too big and diverse a country to treat hope like a fanciful ideal. Cynicism doesn’t save you. That’s what hope does. What I see in the Pope’s warning in Trieste is a blueprint to not just save democracy but heal it of the illness of cynicism which got us here in the first place. That is a warning to both sides of the aisle, and every free person preparing to vote. Heed the warning from Trieste.

[steelbluehome]

"The loudest applause was for Stan for his transformative performance as Trump."

The Hollywood Reporter

Donald Trump Movie ‘The Apprentice’ Shocks Cannes, Receives Nearly Eight-Minute Standing Ovation (click for article)

"There is no nice metaphorical way to deal with the rising wave of fascism," director Ali Abbasi said when asked why he wanted to make the film about the former president's rise to power in 1980s America. "I think it's time to make movies relevant. It's time to make movies political again."

Patrick Brzeski and Scott Roxborough

MAY 20, 2024 11:53AM PDT

One of the most anticipated moments of the 77th Cannes Film Festival finally arrived Monday night with the world premiere of the Donald Trump drama The Apprentice, starring Sebastian Stan as a young version of the real estate mogul in his pre-MAGA days.

Only Francis Ford Coppola’s wildly ambitious swan song Megalopolis had inspired more pre-premiere chatter and curiosity at this year’s edition of the glamorous French film festival. Ahead of its unveiling, virtually no one had seen The Apprentice, as the movie reportedly was finished only days before its premiere.

Directed by acclaimed Iranian-Danish filmmaker Abbasi and written by Gabe Sherman, The Apprentice explores Donald Trump’s rise to power in 1980s America under the influence of the firebrand rightwing attorney Roy Cohn. Succession star Strong co-stars as Cohn, along with Martin Donovan (Tenet) as Fred Trump Sr. and Oscar and Golden Globe nominee Maria Bakalova (Borat Subsequent Moviefilm) as Ivana Trump.

Several shocking moments late in the film — a scene depicting Trump’s alleged rape of his first wife Ivana and a surgery room sequence showing Trump getting liposuction — drew audible gasps from the Cannes premiere crowd. As the final credits rolled, the Cannes crowd starting clapping in time to the sound of Baccara’s “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie” playing on the soundtrack.

After the screening, Abbasi warmly hugged his cast members and Cate Blanchett, sitting just in front of the director and crew, was the first to jump up and applaud, embracing Bakalova. The loudest applause was for Stan for his transformative performance as Trump. The crowd enthusiastically cheered and clapped, staying on their feet for nearly eight minutes, though many were spotted ducking out of the theater by the four-minute mark. Abbasi kept the crowd going, applauding and pointing randomly to people in the audience. Abbasi also held up his cell phone to the cameras during the standing ovation to show a shirtless selfie of Strong in costume and seemingly backstage from his play in New York. The moment drew big cheers and Abbasi kissed the screen of his phone.

When addressing the crowd, Abbasi commented on the current world events such as the war in Ukraine and the ongoing Israel-Hamas war, explaining how “in the time of turmoil there’s this tendency to look inwards” and “to bury your head deep in the sand and look inside and hope for the best.”

“The storm is not going to get away. The storm is coming. Actually, the worst times are to come,” he added. “But you can pretend it’s not here. You can also deal with it.”

Abbasi then addressed being questioned why he wanted to make a movie centered on Trump and argued that films need to be “relevant” again. He explained, “There is no nice metaphorical way to deal with the rising wave of fascism. There’s only the messy way. There’s only the the banal way. There’s only the way of dealing with this wave on its own terms, at its own level and it’s not going to be pretty, but I think the problem with the world is that the good people have been quiet for too long. So, I think it’s time to make movies relevant. It’s time to make movies political again.”

By Monday night, The Apprentice still didn’t have a U.S. distributor in place, although it sold earlier in the Cannes festival to StudioCanal for the U.K. and Ireland, where it will be released theatrically later this year. 

Rocket Science is handling international sales on the project, which was financed by Kinematics, Head Gear Films, Screen Ireland, Film i Vast, the Danish Film Institute and National Bank of Canada.

The movie is produced by Daniel Bekerman for Scythia Films, Jacob Jarek for Profile Pictures, Ruth Treacy and Julianne Forde for Tailored Films and Abbasi and Louis Tisné for Film Institute. Executive producers are Amy Baer, Mark H. Rapaport, Emanuel Nunez, Josh Marks, Grant S. Johnson, Phil Hunt and Compton Ross, Thorsten Schumacher, Niamh Fagan, Sherman, Lee Broda, James Shani, Andrew Frank and Greg Denny.

[flushed-for-the-trolls]

I will say that while I agree with the second point (Selenia got done so dirty the moment she and Arthur became a thing, and that happened out of actual thin air, no chemistry to add to all of that) the first purported issue is honestly not accurate?

I'll refer to the tribe as BM, cuz of brevity sake.

The BM aren't the only ones who get the pass up, the world of the Minimoys is largely unexplored and left way too vague, and this is despite that fact that the 3 movies largely take place in their world. Anyone that's not a main character gets the side character treatment, even Archibald, who would have the most to say and a lot of intrigue to add considering he kickstarted all this off.

For the implications of Archibald being racist or that he is from the 1960's therefore he may have, idk, forced the BM to move from their original homeland, considering when Archibald comes back to the human world and they are all ecstatic to see him, and in the second movie it's revealed that Archibald went through the same three trials that Arthur went through at the beginning of the movie, and he shows Arthur his own medallion with pride, idk how you can claim that the relationship between them is one-sided or nefarious, there really isn't anything to suggest that, in fact, the opposite is kinda proven.

For Rosie or Francis/Armande, they were out in the hot sun all day digging for the rubies and out of nowhere 5 giant men holding weapons appear from seemingly nowhere, I understand that with all the heat and stress of your son going missing, as well as potentially losing that house, that yeah, seeing 5-6 giant men holding weapons would freak me out or cause me to faint out of shock and terror.

In terms of how Armande describes them, their most predominant feature is that they are tall, and that their skin tone is black.

Unless there's developer commentary or after-statements made after the movie came out about that scene, I don't think there's really enough there to claim it was subtle racism.

To show how imposing they are, Davido, the land developer who was after the rubies, ends up taking a policemans gun and steals the rubies, only for him to walk back-first into the BM, who are still holding their weapons, though Davido is holding an actual revolver, much more powerful than all of the BM and their own weapons, he is so shocked from their imposing stature that it is easy to subdue him.

Also, at the end of the movie, they are all having a dinner together, I wouldn't imagine two people that hate or are scared of black people would do that, it strikes me as a bit odd, to say the least.

That's why I think it was just a miscommunication due to them being so imposing, not saying a single word and holding weapons, just about anyone would he scared, no matter the skin color of the people holding the weapons.

In terms of the face paint, I don't really see the issue, I guess I'll need that spelled out for me, face paint is common among many cultures, and given that this was a sort of rite of passage, face paint makes sense, as it was a common thing among tribes to use face paint to denote someone passing that rite of passage, unless there's some kind of hidden meaning in how the paint was used, nothing is wrong with them painting Arthur's face, in fact, the BMs whole set-up in this scene gives their tribe as a whole more character, it shows that they truly are dedicated to nature, as was alluded to when Daisy read that book to Arthur in the first movie. This isn't me saying that they weren't still done dirty, but it's a huge step up given how absent they were in the first movie.

Also, uh, query how that whole section was culturally inaccurate given that the BM are a made up group of people with a made up culture, yes it may be derived from actual African cultures, however, the bulk of the BMs culture is woven around the Minimoys, being their opposites, and how it caused them to be so peace-like toward nature.

I think that a lot of the issues regarding the movies stem from the fact that not enough time was given for the world to properly develop, it was all so rushed. Think of a random established plot point in any of the movies and I guarantee you that you'll find that it is somehow contradicted by another plot point in the trilogy

Ultimately, I'd argue that despite it's tasteless portrayal of Selenia, and any other problematic aspects it may have, I don't think people should steer clear of what may be a childhood movie, I think that if you're able to critically analyze the movie and recognize what is wrong and what is not, that the movie is quite alright for a nostalgic watch.

I actually saw this post shortly before I saw the movies again, so I went in wondering if this movie was secretly racist and sexist, and that I just somehow missed all of that when I watched the movie as a kid.

And while, yeah, it definitely leaned into sexist tropes, and it certainly is questionable regarding the main romance between Arthur and Selenia, and on a whole, how Selenia was treated by the movie.

I don't really view it as having racist undertones, and with a clear view of it all now, I don't see any kind of stereotypes imbeded in the BM, of course, I could be wrong, maybe there was something neither the OP nor I brought up, but as for what has been brought up, I personally disagree.

Apologies for sperging out on this post, I'm pretty sure this movie trilogy is a certified special interest of mine lmfao. I plan to actually make my own post about this movie, since I've got so many thoughts about it, lol.

Arthur and the Minimoys or the nostalgic movie I would not recommend 

Back when I was little I was a big fan of a cartoon that told a story of a 10 year old boy traveling to the land of microscopic creatures in order to rescue his grandpa.But upon rewatching the trilogy (yes,there are three movies out there) I realized that it has way more problematic aspects then I remember.You may ask:what is so icky about a French cartoon from 2000s with uncanny valley effects that made you want to warn people?Well worry not,for I will explain it to you!

1.Bogo Matassalai

Bogo Matassalai is a fictional African tribe that the main characters grandfather,Archibald Suchshot,helped build an irrigation system.As thanks,they gifted him a bag of rubies and introduced him to their friends-minimoys.What is interesting though,is that both tribes mentioned moved to Connecticut,specifically to the Archibalds yard or nearby,seemingly without any reason (as it wasn’t mentioned in any film).Bear in mind that Arthur’s grandfather is supposed to be an explorer during the 60s,so now the implications are weird.

Another thing is Bogo Matassalais lack of individuality:we don’t learn about their reasoning behind abandoning their homeland to move with Suchshot,their backstories aside from what others told of them,even their names are unknown.The tribe usually shows up when the plot requires them to,helping the main character and then disappearing.What’s worse is the reaction of others towards them:Arthur’s father,Francis,after first seeing members of Bogo Matassalai,ran away frightened towards home where he tried to call the police,and when he failed,Francis tried to explain that he saw “tall and black” figures.His wife,Rosie,isn’t better in this regard:every time she sees the tribe,she either faints or acts as if they could bite her head off.It seems that the crew behind those films wanted to show the bias of Arthur’s parents and ridicule them, but without devoting enough time to this aspect, the audience only sees the shuddering and gawking at people of another ethnicity for the comedic aspect.

It’s also important to add that in the second film,the tribe wanted Arthur to pass the tests of nature,where he hugs trees and sleeps near wild animals.Aside from cultural inaccuracy I’m not qualified to dissect,we also get-

-this.

It becomes pretty clear that Bogo Matassalai are used either as a narrative foil or some kind of exotic “other”,stripping them of any personality or agency.However,this wasn’t the only instance the trilogy did certain characters dirty.

2.Selenia 

Oh boy,where do I even begin?The princess of the First Land was hinted to be Arthur’s love interest from the very start,but upon getting to know her we notice that she’s voiced by a grown actress(Madonna in the eng dub and Myléne Farmer in the french) and is sexualized either through frames that showcase her butt/breasts(like that scene when Arthur took a lace from her top-corset thingy and she had to hold it from falling apart) or through the words of grown men who want to marry her.So aside from objectification of said character,we also get the memo that she’s an adult and Arthur is too young for her.But apparently that isn’t the issue?During their stay with Koolamassai,the princess explains that she’s 1000 years old,but the human equivalent is 10.So now it’s confirmed that Arthur,a 10 year old boy,is considered an adult in Minimoys society and therefore allowed to marry Selenia,a woman who turns out to be a child in human years.So here we have a female character, who,despite being  portrayed by the male gaze,is still implied to be a kid.

Thus here are my reasons as to why watching Arthur and the Minimoys may be uncomfortable for an audience who hopped on nostalgia train or wanted to see something new.

[ask-king-and-queen-of-diamond]

How is the queen usually chosen? Is it just who the King feels will best fit the role?

“The King's order is absolute after all. And the threats of having the Jokers realizing the incomplete ‘Deck’ are not a joke. It’s really not important who becomes who, as long as the King is still alive.

This is why you often see the Queen have no relationship with the King at all. Their status doesn’t matter.

However, the King’s 'deck' is the status of his power and his Kingdom. Back when war goes rampage with each Kingdoms wanting to conquer every inch of land in this world, the King’s cards are usually the one who will give their life to their King’s orders.

Well... Since there’s no danger and wars is forbidden i don’t really think it’s completely necessary to put my mind picking the new Queen but--”

[menciemeer]

Does anyone ever think that like. One of the central ideas of Hannibal is that human beings are delicious.

Not even just in a cannibalism-taboo way, either. Literally everyone who’s gone to one of Hannibal’s dinner parties agrees: The food is good.

(There’s that confusing moment in Trou Normand where it looks like Abigail is realizing what it is she’s eating--confusing because she doesn’t Figure Hannibal Out until later. But what if she isn’t thinking, This tastes just like-- but instead I haven’t had meat this good since--)

It’s not just the taste, either. Human beings in Hannibal seem to make incomparable mushroom fertilizer and instrument strings. Bees love human bodies. And every artist in the entire goddamn world seemingly has this temptation towards human-corpse-as-artistic-medium. Garret Jacob Hobbs uses human hair as pillow stuffing. He holds his pipes together with paste made from human bones.

Also probably worth mentioning is That One Shot in Sorbet (no, That Other One Shot in Sorbet)--the one with the opera singer’s throat, followed by the lingering shot of Hannibal’s ear. It’s the meat again. Meat is singing and more meat is listening. Hannibal is moved to tears--his enjoyment even of music is physical.

It’s probably stretching a bit to try to fit Self-Actualization Via Murder into this paradigm but well. I’m going to try anyway. It’s not just the corpses but the making of corpses that holds this fantastic power in Hannibal Land. We’ve got Randall Tier and Francis Dolarhyde and Will Goddamn Graham all reaching (for) their truest selves via the doing of murder. Hannibal talks about it like this:

We both know the unreality of taking a life. Of people who die when we have no other choice. We know in those moments they are not flesh, but light, and air, and color.

There’s something magical about that. The moment when a person separates from their (useful! valuable! delicious!) body and becomes something else. The moment itself is valuable, if you are one of the Tier-Dolarhyde-Graham classification of killers in Hannibal’s universe.

I feel like I’ve seen a lot of focus on Hannibal disguising what it is he’s cooking with. How his cooking is so good despite. If this post has a thesis, I guess it is that, instead, Hannibal is a good cook because.