#Lord Byron on his Death-Bed

[diioonysus]

death in art

the death of chatteron by henry wallis (1856) ophelia by john everett millais (1851-52) the execution of marshal ney by jean-leon gerome (1868) requiescat by briton riviere (1888) yellow fever in buenos aires by juan manuel blanes elaine by edward rosenthal (1874) the doctor by luke fildes (1891) ivan the terrible and his son by Ilya repin (1885) the bride of death by thomas barker (1839) lord byron on his death-bed by joseph denis odevaere (1826) recognition: north and south by constant mayer (1865) the lament for icarus by herbert james draper (1898) death of seneca by dominguez sanchez manuel (1871)

[lux-vitae]

Lord Byron On His Death-Bed by Joseph Denis Odevaere (c. 1826)

[burningvelvet]

On November 8th 1820, Claire Clairmont wrote some satirical stories in her journal about Lord Byron and Percy Shelley—they were written as ideas for caricatures (the Regency era term for what we would now call editorial cartoons or comic strips):

Wednesday, November 8th.

Caricature for Albé. He, sitting writing poetry, the words “Oh! faithless Woman” round the room, hearts are strewed, inscribed, “We died for love of you.” Another—he catching a lady by her waist, his face turned towards her, his other hand extended holding a club stick in the act of giving a blow to a man who is escaping. From his mouth,

“The maid I love, the man I hate

I'll kiss her lips and break his Pate.”

Three more to be called Lord Byron's Morning, Noon and Night. The first: he looking at the sky, a sun brightly shining—saying: "Come, I feel quite bold and cheerful—there is no God.”

The second towards evening, a grey tint spread over the face of Nature, the sun behind a cloud—a shower of rain falling—a dinner table in the distance covered with a profusion of dishes, he (with a Wallup) says—“What a change I feel in me after dinner; where we see design we suppose a designer; I'll be a Deist—I am a Deist."

The third—evening—candles just lighted, all dark without the windows (a cup of green tea on the table): and trees agitated much by wind beating against the panes, also thunder and lightning. He says

"God bless me, suppose there should be a God—it is as well to stand in his good graces. I'll say my prayers to-night, and write to Murray to put in a touch concerning the blowing of the last Trump."

Pistols are on the table, also daggers—bullets—Turkish scymitars . . .

Another to be called “Lord Byron's receipt for writing pathetic History.” He sitting drinking spirits, playing with his white mustachios. His mistress, the Fornaria, opposite him drinking coffee. Fumes coming from her mouth, over which is written "garlich;" these, curling, direct themselves towards his English footman who is just then entering the room and he is knocked backward. Lord B. is writing, he says.

"Imprimis, to be a great pathetic poet. First prepare a small colony, then dispatch the Mother, by worrying and cruelty, to her grave; afterwards to neglect and ill-treat the children—to have as many and as dirty mistresses as can be found; from their embraces to catch horrible diseases, thus a tolerable quantity of discontent and remorse being prepared, give it vent on paper, and to remember particularly to rail against learned women. This is my infallible receipt by which I have made so much money."

The last his death. He dead extended on his bed, covered all but his breast, which many wigged doctors are cutting open to find out (as one may be saying) what was the extraordinary disease of which this great man died—His heart laid bare, they find an immense capital “I” grown on its surface—and which has begun to pierce the breast—They are all astonishment. One says, “a new disease.” Another. “I never had a case of this kind before.” A third what medicines would have been proper, the fourth holding up his finger (A desert island.)

Caricature for poor dear S. He looking very sweet and smiling. A little Jesus Christ playing about the room. He says:

“Then grasping a small knife and looking mild

I will quietly murder that little child.”

Another. Himself and God Almighty. He says:

"If you please God Almighty, I had rather be damned with Plato and Lord Bacon than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus." God Almighty: “It shall be as you please, pray don't stand upon ceremony."

Shelley's three aversions: God Almighty, Lord Chancellor, and didactic Poetry . . .

Sources: The Journals of Claire Clairmont edited by Marion Kingston Stocking, Harvard, 1968, Archive.org. “The Lord Byron / John Polidori relationship and the foundation of the early nineteenth-century literary vampire” by Matthew Beresford, University of Hertfordshire June 2019. Byron: A Biography by Marchand, Vol. II, 1957.

[boozeandblues333]

The Death of Sardanapalus (1827)

French painter Eugène Delacroix was heavily inspired during the making of this painting by Lord Byron’s poem (Sardanapalus) and Rubens’ love of female flesh, more precisely, flesh in general. Here we see a defeated Oriental potentate, whilst his terrified concubines are being slaughtered by his opponents. His favourite amongst all, with her ghastly, almost lifeless body, stretched across the bed, awaits death with a surprising aura of courage.

Although the story and contents of the painting are hard to digest, the imagery and the human forms painted by Delacroix’s flawless technique, are close to perfection when looked at it carefully.

[blueshistorysims]

April 2nd, 1919, Edinburgh, Scotland

Montgomery’s father had died only hours after Byron arrived at the MacGregor home days prior. He hadn’t known the late Mr. MacGregor, but he felt for the family. He couldn’t imagine how they felt. 

Montgomery was devastated, aimlessly wandering the house or sitting and staring at the ground. His mother had recovered, still weak, but would live. Edeline on the other hand… Byron didn’t know. Some hours she was well enough to speak and sit up, others she would have violent fits, coughing up blood. 

“She won’t live,” the Scot whispered. 

Byron swallowed. “You’re giving up hope?”

“No. Her body is exhausted. It’s a miracle she’s lasted this long. She knows it too.” He blinked tears from his eyes. “She won’t last the night.”

He, Montgomery, and Elspeth sat quietly. It was an odd thing, holding vigil. They were waiting for his sister to die. All he could think of was Alexander’s death, how unsettling his last breath was, the way he sunk into the cot, skin yellowed. Dead people didn’t look asleep. They just looked dead. 

Then the door banged loudly. Elspeth looked incredulous. 

“Who is knocking at 11 at night?”

Byron stood. “I’ll see,” he muttered after one glance at Montgomery. The poor man couldn’t move.

To his shock, Rebecca and Giselle walked through the doorway, dressed in black. 

“Mama? Giselle?”

Rebecca nodded. “We took the quickest train.”

He stared at both of them. Why were they dressed in black? Why did Giselle look so sullen? Why did his mother look as if the light had disappeared from her eyes?

“...Why are you dressed in black, Edeline is not yet dead. How is father? Has he reco-” He broke off, staring at the tears in his mother’s eyes. “No,” he gasped, feeling faint, tears pooling in his eyes. “No, don’t tell me-”

Rebecca took her son in her arms as he began to cried. “He passed peacefully,” she soothed. “I was holding his hand.”

Byron couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Memories of his father ran through his head and the thought of being the only male Walsh in his family was horrifying. 

“My fuckin’ God!” A shrill voice screamed, ruining the moment. 

Byron and Rebecca stepped back, stunned by the voice. Giselle looked blindsided by the language. 

“That’s Elspeth,” he muttered, panicking seizing his body as he rushed toward the stairs. “Something’s happening.”

Rebecca screamed the moment she opened the door. Edeline was seizing on the bed, violently hacking blood, staining her nightgown and bedsheets. Montgomery was crying and yelling, begging her to stop as Elspeth stood spellbound, too bound by shock to move. Giselle began to weep, looking away from her sister’s body, and Byron wept, unsure of what to do, still desolate from the news of his father’s death. No, Edeline couldn’t die. Lord, no. Please. 

And then all was still.

Byron blinked and he saw Montgomery falling to his knees and sobbing into the bed. He blinked and stared at Edeline’s blood-covered face and chest. She was dead.

[poemoftheday]

Poem of the Day 8 June 2024

And Thou art Dead, as Young and Fair

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

And thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon return'd to Earth!

Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,

And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,

There is an eye which could not brook

A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,

Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I lov'd, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell,

'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see

Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,

Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep

I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away,

I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey;

Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,

The leaves must drop away:

And yet it were a greater grief

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,

Than see it pluck'd to-day;

Since earthly eye but ill can bear

To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade;

The night that follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,

And thou wert lovely to the last,

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky

Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed,

To think I was not near to keep

One vigil o'er thy bed;

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,

To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;

And show that love, however vain,

Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free,

The loveliest things that still remain,

Than thus remember thee!

The all of thine that cannot die

Through dark and dread Eternity

Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears

Than aught except its living years.

[princesssarisa]

Some further comments on those Don Giovanni program notes I just reblogged:

(1) I do think the way the program notes apply each of the Seven Deadly Sins to the opera's non-Giovanni characters is interesting. I don't necessarily agree with all the choices, though. I would never think to name "envy" as Donna Elvira's sin: yes, she wants a man who isn't "hers" anymore, but she doesn't envy the other women he seduces, she tries to protect them from him. I'm not sure if I agree with their choice of "lust" for Donna Anna either. But I like the way they did it. If they had to choose "lust" as Anna's sin, I'm glad that instead of taking the popular route and imagining that she lusts after Don Giovanni, they claim that her fatal flaw was lust for Don Ottavio, because she let the man she thought was him into her bedroom, despite how unseemly that would have been in their time and place. I wouldn't mind seeing more productions take that view of her. The idea that she blames herself for her own sexual assault and her father's death because she gave too much into her passion for Ottavio is a valid one. It would explain why she refuses to let Ottavio console her or even think of marrying him until her mourning is done, without claiming that she doesn't really love him.

(2) It's interesting to see Lady Caroline Lamb's famous quote about Lord Byron, "Mad, bad, and dangerous to know," applied to Don Giovanni. It fits, of course, but it stands out for me because I've only seen that quote applied to one other man besides Byron himself. A man associated with moody Romantic literature because his sisters wrote it: Branwell Brontë. And I had just been thinking that Christopher Maltman's Don Giovanni in the 2008 Salzburg production – the Don who's slowly and painfully dying throughout the opera, but trying to pretend he isn't – reminds me of the stories of two of the Brontë siblings' deaths. First, Branwell, with his alcohol, drugs, and love affairs, the fact that he seems to have ignored his illness and stayed up and about in the village until just a few days before he died, and the legend that at the very end, either to emulate the Roman emperor Vespasian or just to prove the power of human will over bodily weakness, he insisted on getting out of bed and died standing up. (I don't know if that story is true or not, though – Charlotte's letters never mention it.) Second, Emily, who also stubbornly ignored her illness, refused to see a doctor or take medicine, and struggled to go about her normal life for as long as she was physically able. Of course they were dying of tuberculosis, not a bullet in the stomach. But I still imagine that for their sisters, their father, and the servant women Tabby and Martha, helplessly watching them was a process very much like what poor Leporello goes through in that Don Giovanni production.

[thelustybraavosimaid]

Every night when they made camp, Ygritte threw her sleeping skins down beside his own, no matter if he was near the fire or well away from it. Once he woke to find her nestled against him, her arm across his chest. He lay listening to her breathe for a long time, trying to ignore the tension in his groin. Rangers often shared skins for warmth, but warmth was not all Ygritte wanted, he suspected. After that he had taken to using Ghost to keep her away. Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor’s sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword.

...

The day before last, Jon had made the mistake of wishing he had hot water for a bath. "Cold is better," she had said at once, "if you’ve got someone to warm you up after. The river’s only part ice yet, go on." Jon laughed. "You’d freeze me to death."

"Are all crows afraid of gooseprickles? A little ice won’t kill you. I’ll jump in with you t’prove it so."

"And ride the rest of the day with wet clothes frozen to our skins?" he objected.

"Jon Snow, you know nothing. You don’t go in with clothes.”

"I don’t go in at all," he said firmly, just before he heard Tormund Thunderfist bellowing for him (he hadn’t, but never mind). (Jon II, ASoS)

--

[Zei] tried to kiss Jon too, but he held her by the shoulder and pushed her gently but firmly away. "No," he said. I am done with kissing. (Jon VIII, ASoS)

--

They crossed the yard together, just the two of them. The snow fell all around them. She walked as close to Jon Snow as she dared, close enough to feel the mistrust pouring off him like a black fog. He does not love me, will never love me, but he will make use of me. Well and good. (Melisandre I, ADwD)

--

"He may not heed your words, but he will hear them." Val kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You have my thanks, Lord Snow. For the half-blind horse, the salt cod, the free air. For hope."

Their breath mingled, a white mist in the air. Jon Snow drew back and said, "The only thanks I want is—" (Jon VIII, ADwD)

--

"Princess." Jon inclined his head. Shireen was a homely child, made even uglier by the greyscale that had left her neck and part of her cheek stiff and grey and cracked. "My brothers and I are at your service," he told the girl.

Shireen reddened. "Thank you, my lord." (Jon IX, ADwD)

--

The sight made Lady Alys smile. "Do you dance often, here at Castle Black?"

"Every time we have a wedding, my lady."

"You could dance with me, you know. It would be only courteous. You danced with me anon."

"Anon?" teased Jon.

"When we were children." She tore off a bit of bread and threw it at him. "As you know well."

"My lady should dance with her husband."

"My Magnar is not one for dancing, I fear. If you will not dance with me, at least pour me some of the mulled wine." (Jon X, ADwD)

--

The warrior witch Morna removed her weirwood mask just long enough to kiss his gloved hand and swear to be his man or his woman, whichever he preferred. (Jon XII, ADwD)

--

And the character I’d want to be? Well who wouldn’t want to be Jon Snow — the brooding, Byronic, romantic hero whom all the girls love.

[Source]

[scotianostra]

December 13th 1585 saw the birth of William Drummond of Hawthornden, the noted Scottish poet.

William Drummond was born at Hawthornden Castle near Edinburgh in 1585, the son of the first Laird of Hawthornden, who was one of King James I’s ushers. He was educated at the Royal High School of Edinburgh and gained an MA at Edinburgh University in 1605. He then spent two years in France studying law.

He succeeded to the title on the death of his father in 1610 and abandoned his law studies in favour of becoming a poet. In 1613 his first poem, Tears on the Death of Meliades, an elegy on the death of Henry, Prince of Wales, was published. This was followed in 1616 by Poems: Amorous, Funerall, Divine, Pastorall, in Sonnets, Songs, Sextains, Madrigals, a lament following the death the previous year of his wife to be. In 1617 he wrote Forth Feasting, a poem celebrating James I’s first visit to Scotland that year, and in 1618 he was visited by the poet Ben Johnson.

In the mid 1620’s he experimented with a number of military inventions, including a primitive machine gun, none of which appear to have been successful. After travels to the continent he settled permanently at Hawthornden and married Elizabeth Logan who bore him nine children, only one of whom outlived him. He started work on a history of Scotland and produced a number of Royalist political pamphlets before his death in 1649.

He was one of the first Scottish poets to write in English and is one of 16 poets and writers whose names appear on the Scott Monument in Edinburgh which include Lord Byron, Robert Burns, and Tobias Smollett. His most important works are The Cypresse Grove, an essay on the folly and the fear of death, and his poems, many of which are adaptations from French, Italian, and Spanish. He was a great collector of scholarly books in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Italian, and English, most of which he bought in France. In 1826 he generously donated a large number of these to Edinburgh University.

Her Passing

       The beauty and the life        Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon —O tears! O grief!—hung at a feeble thread To which pale Atropos had set her knife;        The soul with many a groan        Had left each outward part, And now did take his last leave of the heart: Naught else did want, save death, ev'n to be dead; When the afflicted band about her bed, Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes, Cried, 'Ah! and can Death enter Paradise?'

[tomionesmutfest2024]

Reader Bingo Board 1: Right Column Bingo

For context, there were three full Bingo boards, then all three versions condensed to be 4x4 and finally all three versions condensed to be 3x3. Here is one way to score bingo on the first board.

Foot Fetish

(Wow, I could not find anything on this, but here is a story that mentions feet 4(!) times - it might not feel like a lot but I was scraping the bottom of the barrel here.)

Fortune In Spades by LittleMulattoKitten

Summary:

Hermione was supposed to be married or otherwise "contained" as a concubine by her twentieth birthday, like the rest of the female muggleborns and halfbloods in Britain. She was not supposed to teach herself magic in secret and hope that one muggleborn peasant was insignificant enough to go unnoticed. She never expected to end up escorted up to the castle to the King's study. Nor did she expect him to decide her fate personally. King Tom never expected to find his favorite kind of woman —clever, strongwilled, and powerful— in a muggleborn scullery maid who'd somehow mastered wandless casting without a tutor. Law-breaker or not, she didn't belong in the dungeons. She belonged at his feet. She belonged in his bed. She belonged to him. He just had to show her. Written for Weestarmeggie's Tomione Smut Fest 2018.

2. Tied Up

The Last Time by WildKitsune

Summary:

Tom and Hermione keep finding reasons to hook up even though they are broken up, and they both know they will never be right for each other. Each time it happens, they always swear it will be the last time. Prompt by weestarmeggie17 “Tomione have split up but keep ending up in bed together because they can't help themselves”

3. Swallowing

Sunlit Garden by januarywren

Summary:

“I want a hero: an uncommon want,” Tom murmured, his index finger tracing beneath the finely printed words. Lord Byron’s work was a favorite of his, and his wife’s, “when every year and month sends forth a new one, till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, the age discovers he is not the true one – “ His wife curled in his arms, warm and sated with his spend dripping from her thighs. She made for a decadent sight; her chignon askew and her cheeks flushed pink, while Tom held her closer to him. She was the only one he desired close, the only one he had never considered pushing away. Nor did he desire the afternoons they spent at the manor to end when they made love freely throughout every wing of the manor and every sunny place outside. The garden was well tended, while the apple orchard stretched throughout countless acres, ensuring they would never be caught en dishabille unless they wished it. It was their private paradise, or their ‘Eden,’ as they called it. One that others would never know of... For the Tomione 2020 Fic Gift Exchange! 🔥💖

4. Anal

Teaching Miss Granger by Anonymous

Summary:

Hermione never foresaw herself breaking the rules, let alone one. It all changed in her sixth year when a new professor challenged her. Reading from books had its limits, he told her. Professor Riddle dared her to step out of her comfort zone. What was the point if she never put her knowledge to use? Magic had a purpose. She needed to find hers. Her sixth year passed by quickly as she learned more than she ever could. But reading books was still one of her favourite hobbies. Nothing could ever replace it until she discovers another passion.

5. Violence at Foreplay

A Soul's Epilogue by TheSoulweaver

Summary:

Years and years of war would exhaust a soul, straining it and wringing it dry with no escape except death. However, Death had a different plan for Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age. Her soul was transferred to a girl who was supposed to be dead. A handsome dark wizard had made sure of that. Or so he thought. *** "I vow to dismantle you, Tom," she whispered against his skin, her hands wandering from his chest to his shoulders in barely perceptible caresses. Sensually, she licked over his flesh. "I will slowly unravel you, and then I will mould you anew." Before he could respond, she sank her teeth into his throat, just enough to cause a sting. His hips bucked into hers, rubbing deliciously over her bare pussy. "And if that fails," she whispered, "I'll end you myself."

[arinewman7]

Lord Byron on his Death-Bed

Joseph Denis Odevaere

oil on canvas, c. 1826

[someday-dreamlands]

𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘉𝘺𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘦 (𝘑𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘩-𝘋𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘴 𝘖𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘦𝘳𝘦, 1826)

[burningvelvet]

More thoughts about The Tenant of Wildfell Hall after finishing it…

1 good movie adaptation WHEN?

2 the themes of universalism and the idea that everyone can change if they want it bad enough and nothing is permanent and we have the ability to make choices and self-destruction has social repercussions bc it affects the ppl around you… yeah, my heart is full!

3 helen successfully microdosing her own child with poison to give him a pavlovian response to alcohol so he wouldn’t end up as an alcoholic like his father and grandfather because she intuitively knew he had a genetic predisposition to addiction despite having no modern knowledge of science or psychology. excellent.

4 the shit helen goes through in this novel is unreal. our girl is basically trapped in a frat-house — complete with the booze, drugs, laughter, fraternizing, sportsmanship, anti-intellectualism, infidelity, and rape culture.

5 as a sad aficionado of the romantic era & byronic studies i can 100% without a doubt say that not only is arthur based on some popular victorian conceptions of lord and lady byron and their marriage, but the brontës must have been familiar with biographical writing on byron’s life! i’ve found several academic texts to support this and it’s 100% true.

6 also, as a person who grew up with relatives who suffered from severe substance abuse and mental illness, i’m pretty confident in saying that the brontë sisters must have had some inside knowledge to spark their sustained interest in writing about these subjects. there are specific details and feelings pertaining to these topics which are documented with so much acuity it must have been personal to them. it seems a lot of academics theorize this as well — however, i still don’t know enough about the brontë family biography to form my own opinions on this topic yet!

7 helen is such a progressive mother (considering her circumstances and level of education, and the non-harmful drugging aside which is questionable today but within the narrative understandable) and her theories on education and parenthood are so advanced.

8 i think arthur’s friends (especially mr. hargrave and annabella) are as bad as he is, considering the fact that they enable him and they could easily use their influence to try and sway him considering but they choose not to — only partly because he’s the “leader of the pack,” but partly because they also have zero respect for helen and enjoy openly bullying and abusing her in her own household

9 big shoutout to the servants in this novel who are the real heroes. all throughout the novel (especially starting from Gilbert’s POV considering he and his family are a little poorer off than those of the Huntingdon circle) we see the lower-classes and smaller owners gradually triumphing against the upper-classes, gentry, and larger land owners. i love the line about rachel having to sell helen’s fine gowns for cheaper ones, and how helen notices that rachel still looks decent while dressed like a more common woman.

10 the very ending with everyone’s resolutions was a bit choppy and rushed but i don’t mind because everything went how i wanted it to go lol. but the ending for arthur/helen — the fact that he never repented, but helen still believes in universal salvation nonetheless, and still took care of him even though she didn’t have to, after everyone else abandoned him — the person he treated the worst still cared for him when no one else did — she fulfilled all her marital vows and he fulfilled none of his — his fear of death — her letter of december 5th, her holding his hand until the very end — his last words, “pray for me!” don’t leave me!” — all the unspoken words on her part, her feelings of helplessness, her telling him that she cannot save him, his crying and cursing the world — her fainting from exhaustion — him continuing to act like a brat on his death bed — her taking control, her cleverness with the contract — her lack of closure — aahhhh! just so heart wrenching and frustrating and angsty yet also cathartic and realistic.

[ssaalexblake]

the haunting of villa diodati is so unfairly slept upon 

[vizuart]

Lord Byron on his Death-bed - Joseph Denis Odevaere (c. 1826)

[maemelany]

Fixing The Broken Series (Prologue)

Masterlist 

Prologue, Part 1 , Part 2 

Author’s note: Guys! After reading sooooo many stories on Tumblr, I’ve decided to write one myself. It’s my first one, and I hope one of many more to come. I hope you like it. I thought about this one after realizing how short the break was before the filming of Infinity War and Endgame (Literally one month). I thought it must have been hard for all of them. And then it made me think how harder it could have been for Chris if he was married. So here it is, Fixing the Broken.

It’s a love story full of angst, very sad parts (because that’s my thing) but remember, it’s a love story. Here’s to the happy, the tragic and the tears (there will be a lot of tears) and I really hope you like it!

Summary:

People say that time heals all wounds. In your case, time made it worse.

You’ve been married to Chris for five years, but his absence spoke louder than his words. After 5 years of trying, you’ve decided that you’ve had enough, and you left him. But Chris doesn’t want to let you go; he doesn’t want to give up on your marriage.

Would he be able to fix what you consider irretrievably broken?

Hope you enjoy! 

word count: 925

Absence, that common cure of love – Lord Byron

This time, you’ve had enough. You’ve been through everything with your husband, but this time you have to call it quits. As you pack your clothes in a big travelling bag, you realize you’re really doing it, you’re leaving your husband after five years of marriage.

It’s not that you don’t love Chris. You love him more than your whole life. When you said yes at the altar, you meant it. You said forever, and you meant it. But last night, as you were sipping your wine in front of another Netflix tv series you’ve started out of boredom, you’ve realized you never signed for this.

This being loneliness. When you got married in front of your families, you promised to be there for each other for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death do us part. The keyword here is to be there. How can you even respect your vows if you’re not present?

Of course, you knew you were getting married to one of the busiest actors in Hollywood, but frankly, you naively thought he would make some effort for you. Of course, you would never ask him to do that. Essentially for two reasons, first, you loved Chris too much to keep him from doing the thing that gives him the most joy. Your husband loves what he does. The way he gets excited about every project in which he’s involved. The light in his eyes when he talks about his characters, you would never take that away from him. Secondly, you wanted the decision to come from him. When you first met him, you bonded on your mutual love for Boston. Naively you thought that marriage would deepen his roots in the city, and he would prefer to stay here more.

Well, needless to say, that you couldn’t have been more wrong. You got married right before the beginning of the filming of Infinity War. It made you laugh when you realize you didn’t even have a proper honeymoon. Then there was the week you spent in Scotland because Chris thought it was a good idea for you to come since they were shooting some scenes there for the movie. You have always been something he scheduled between his busy life. He only wanted to spend time with you when it was convenient for him. When there was some spare time in his busy schedule.

The worst part was actually after Infinity War. You thought you would finally have time with your husband. A time you could both spend enjoying your early marriage days, but again you were wrong.

You had one month, and that was it. Before you could even blink, Chris was gone again to film End Game. Of course, That one month was amazing. The thing with Chris was that whenever he was near, you felt on top of the world. You loved him so deeply. Just him being there was more than enough. During the month between filming Infinity War and Endgame, you and Chris would spend days in bed, around the house playing with his nephews. You would watch them playing in the pool, Chris making them laugh. You imagined him doing the same with your own children, and the thought made your heart so full of joy.

But before you could blink, the bliss was already over. He was gone again. You tried to hold on that month. Every time you felt lonely, you would watch the videos of you both on your phones, but it wasn’t enough. As much as you wanted it to be enough, it just wasn’t. You also visited his family, spent time with Chris’ mother and sisters and children. Again, it was nice, comforting while it lasted, but not enough.

You needed your husband, and your husband was simply not there.

So, when after Endgame, when Chris got involved in more and more projects, it hit you.

It would never end. Chris will never stop being everywhere but with you. You would never be enough for the love of your life.

So, there you were, so tired you couldn’t even cry anymore. Honestly, you didn’t even have tears left to cry, as Ariana would say.

With your bag ready, you went downstairs. You were so grateful that Dodger was with your sister-in-law. You couldn’t bear your baby watching you leave. As you passed by the open living room, you saw the picture of you and Chris hanging on the wall, and your heart fell even further. You realized you were actually doing it. It took all the courage you had inside of you not to back down and call him. You knew that even the sound of Chris’s voice would make you want to stay.

But you also knew that you weren’t really making the decision. Chris made it a long time ago. He chose to be away; you were only respecting his choice now.

You close the entry door, and it felt like you were closing a huge chapter of your life: the happiest and yet most tragic one.

You meant it when you said forever. You really did. But forever cannot happen when the person you’re supposed to share it with is not here. There’s a reason the vows say till death do us apart. Death was supposed to be the only thing that could do us apart. Chris chose to not be here. Chris chose absence over love.