#SCURR

[enlitment]

Click on read more if you want to read tired & miffed philosophy student's musings

Jokes aside, I do personally disagree with Scurr when she claims that Robespierre is making an "unabashed populist argument" (wow, okay) when referring to his adherence to the "will of the people". [1]

She links a particular Robespierre's quote to Rousseau's Social Contract (of whom we know Robespierre to have been a devout admirer): "the spirit of the people is good, and it alone renders justice to its friends and its enemies" [2]

Scurr is making it sound - although admittedly implicitly - as if by Rousseau used "the people" to refer to only the lower classes, and thus she feels justified in calling Robespierre a populist. (I do also think there's an issue with seeing populism as something inherently worthy of criticism, but that's an argument for another day),

The problem is that in his Social Contract, Rousseau uses the phrase "the people" to refer to a collection of all individuals in a given state as in "will of the people"). [3].

Maybe it's not the most important thing in the world, but the passage kind of left a bad taste in my mouth. Scurr takes what is arguably a quote meant to champion democratic ideas (as in the importance of taking into account the wishes of all citizens in some way) and uses it to paint Robespierre as someone who's attempting to uncritically appeal to the masses (while also implicitly suggesting that appealing to 'the masses' is in itself worthy of criticism, re the word "unabashed").

NOTES:

[1] Fatal Purity: Robespierre and the French Revolution, Ruth Scurr, p. 170

[2] Robespierre (1910-67), vol. 8, pp. 179-80 (in (1) footnotes)

[3] Jean Jacques Rousseau’s Concept of People, Patrice Canivez, doi: https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/0191453704044025

Relevant passage here:

[azzrael99]

I finally found the book "Fatal Purity Robespierre and the French Revolution" !!

thank you for wishing me luck @earlgrey24 🥰

Now it's time to translate (it's exciting... jeje)

[hwaslayer]

im actually tweaking out rn u dont understand

I SORRRRRRY 😭 IT GETS BETTER 🥺

[empirearchives]

The Elbans were real ones for this

[dukeoftheblackstar]

I squint at all the Duke related asks.

[il-mostrc]

"Oh Will, do you remember when you provided the meat. It held an acidic taste, one of someone frightened. You would taste exquisite, not a drop of fear in the very sinew. Most animals will consume their mate if it boils down to survival."

Hannibal never worries. While that was true on many levels, there was one that had always been designated to Will. Per usual, his smile remains as he observes Will eat the fruits of his labor. "I could be fattening you up for the slaughter. They do the same with poultry and swine." Least they not forget the farm where Hannibal's hands became the deepest of stains.

Can't live with. Can't live without. Hannibal killing and consuming Will would be the same as killing himself. Will isn't threatened by his smile. The scar across his forehead was not nearly as deep as the one against the side of his face. One scar was from a man with the intentions to take his face off. The one Hannibal gave him had hesitation.

"You enjoy me better alive." It's not speculation. It is fact, though Will harbors little doubt their lives now conjoined would be free of any violence amongst themselves. It was simply something they understood.. like a language few others could speak.

Hannibal wanted his friend. He would not separate himself from him without cause. Not that he finally had what he wanted from the start - his equal all to himself. Will continues to eat his lunch undisturbed by the threatening promises in the air.

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Set in sand - Chapter 11

We mark the year 1934 and a peculiar journal falls into your hands. It's telling the tale of an outlaw and the downfall of a gang. Some pages are torn and others are downright unreadable, but nevertheless, you are still able to make out some parts of the tragic story.

With the help of a certain time traveler friend of yours, will you be able to save the author of the journal or will you be the cause for his demise?

Previous chapter - Next chapter

Word count: 5.1k

TW: end-game spoilers will be mentioned very early on in the story, 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, violence, gore, death, misogynistic themes (anything that happens in the game as well), she/her pronouns

As discussed, you find yourself together with Arthur at a stable near Rhodes and are currently looking at a variety of horses. There's not much you can say except that they all look gorgeous.

The outlaw who brought you here on his Tennessee Walker is engrossed in a conversation with the stable owner.

"We was thinkin' of somethin' strong.", Arthur says and the owner points at a particularly large one.

"We got a nice Shire right over here."

You inspect the horse a bit further. It looks absolutely stunning (they all do), but you're not so sure about that pick. "It's a bit big, don't you think?"

"Yes, you're right.", Arthur agrees and rubs his chin with his hand in a thoughtful manner.

"I see. You're lookin' for somethin' smaller then?", the owner asks and you both nod.

"Yea, a sturdy, but fast horse. Not too small of course.", Arthur adds and the man nods.

You and him had discussed what you were looking for before leaving camp this morning. Riding is something you're pretty familiar with by now, but you still don't feel confident enough to get a racing horse or anything like that.

Besides, Arthur had suggested for you to look into one more on the hefty side for the times when you get into trouble. It was a good argument.

"How about this Andalusian. She's young, muscular and listens well." The owner walks towards a medium-sized dark horse and gives her neck a good pat.

Yes, you liked the look of her ever since you walked into the building. You've had your eyes on her almost the entire time as if you knew that she's the one. Much to your relief even Arthur looks satisfied.

"It's a good war horse.", he tells you in a low voice and scratches his cheek. "How much is it?"

"$140. It's a good price for a fine girl like her."

That sum alone is way over your budget and let's not forget about the saddle you have to pay for as well. It breaks your heart knowing you have to settle for another horse when you've already grown so attached to the Andalusian.

"Do you have anything else?", you ask and try to mask your disappointment.

"Of course! How about that Kentucky Saddler over there?", he suggests while motioning with his chin behind you. "They're your standard riding horse. Nothin' special, but gets the job done."

The Kentucky Saddler is the smallest one in the stable in both height and muscle mass. It's definitely not your first (or second) choice, but that one has to do.

"How much?"

"Only $50. It's a steal, I'm tellin' ya, miss.", he says.

It's true. That price is perfect actually, because now you can afford a nice saddle. There is no need to settle for the cheapest one.

The same moment you open your mouth to declare your decision, Arthur chimes in. "We'll get the Andalusian."

Your eyes widen in horror as you face him. "What? Arthur, I don't have the money for that horse.", you hiss and he rummages through his satchel.

"Relax. I'll help you out with that."

He fishes out a stack of cash, more specifically the amount that is exceeding your budget and hands it over to the stable owner. The man let's out a satisfied hum after counting the money and his eyes fall on you.

Your gaze is still sternly set on Arthur as you pay for the rest. It's almost surreal that he just did that.

"I'll get the horse and papers ready for y'all." With that the owner scurries towards the back of the stable and you turn to Arthur.

"What were you thinking?"

"That's a strange way of thankin' a man.", he comments amused and you sigh.

"Of course I'm thankful, Arthur, but I don't want you to waste your money on me. At least not that much", you hiss and he waves it off.

"First of all, I got more than enough and second of all, you need a horse. I don't want you ridin' 'round with a scrawny thing like that one.", he says, pointing at the Kentucky Saddler. "What I want is a decent horse that won't only do it's job, but keep you safe durin' it as well."

His words shake you to your core and you simply stare at him without saying anything. At this point, you can't even begin to count the amount of times he has helped you. It's safe to say that you owe him a lot more than just money.

"She's ready now, miss." The owner hands you some documents and your eyes trail over the words before you nod.

After getting all this done and leaving the stables with Arthur, another question arises. What will you name her?

It's a war horse, so you're thinking about maybe choosing a goddess like Athena or Minerva, but that seems a bit...well, plain. Then suddenly a story comes to mind. The Tojan War more specifically and the Amazon Queen Penthesilea.

Granted, it's a long name and not one that rolls off your tongue easily like Minerva, but you like it. In the story, she died by Achilles' hand and yet he mourned her, because she admired her for her skill and bravery.

The more you contemplate it, the fonder you grow of the name and you give the Andalusian a soft pat. She's beautiful and now she's yours.

Riding her is easy as cake to say the least. It's hard to say if it's because of her nature or if you're having a better time steering and giving commands knowing it's your horse.

Throughout the entire ride home, you can't shake off the wide grin that is glued to your face and you hitch Penthesilea at one of the posts. At some point in the near future you'll have to come up with a nickname for when you call out to her.

Yelling the whole name is going to take too long and by the time you're done you might get shot or something. You don't like the prospect of ending up like Swiss cheese, because you decided to go a bit overboard with naming your horse.

"Thank you again, Arthur. This...I can't begin to explain how much it means to me.", you say to the outlaw and your voice is trembling slightly from how much his gesture moves you.

He places his hands on his weapon belt and kicks a pebble away. "It's nothin', really. I'm just glad that you got a horse that will keep ya safe, is all."

As much as he tries to hide it behind his broody facade, you don't fail to notice how bashful you're making him just now. His ears are turning slightly pink and he shields his face with his black hat while keeping his eyes on the ground.

Something within you wants to tease him for that, but you decide that it would be better to leave him be. If you get too much on his nerves about this now then he might stop helping you out like this all together.

As you make your way with him through the camp, you hear Bill call out to the man from the other side. Him, Karen and Lenny are standing together next to a wagon and the two of you walk over to them.

"We got somethin' cooking that you might be interested in.", Bill says.

Arthur looks anything but convinced by his statement. "Am I gonna like the sound of that?"

"Been cookin' since Horseshoe, but you went and kicked up all that commotion in Valentine.", Bill explains as he paces around. "Now we was preparin' to rob the bank there until you got involved in all that nonsense and I don't know...I feel like it's unfinished business!"

Arthur leans against the wagon and waves around with his hand. "That wasn't my fault. It was just one of them things."

After saying that, Bill throws up his hands in the air and glares daggers at the outlaw. "How come everytime I get in trouble, I'm called a fool and an idiot, but when you get it trouble then oh it's just one of them things."

"It's a good point, Arthur.", Lenny chimes in almost immediately and even Karen crosses her arms infront of her chest.

"A very good point.", she mumbles under her breath and the outlaw's eyes go wide.

His gaze searches for yours and his expression makes it clear that he's looking for support from you, but you shrug. "Hey, don't look at me like that. They're kinda right, you know."

Upon hearing that he gestures as if he's throwing away something and clicks his tongue in irritation. You bite back a chuckle and exchange amused looks with Lenny.

"Well, what do y'all want me to do?", Arthur asks rather offended and Karen let's out a deep sigh as if he just asked for the answer to 1+1.

"Hit the goddamn bank with us!", she yells in a matter of fact way, but the outlaw laughs dryly.

"You think it's worth goin' back there?" His question sounds more rhetoric than genuine.

"The five of us can hit the bank easy, but I ain't gonna lie to you. The law will be on us if we linger."

Arthur furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "Five of us? Who else is comin'?"

All three of them look in your direction and you raise your brows in surprise. They want you to join? That makes you feel oddly touched to be honest. Now you know why Sadie reacted the way she did when you asked her to rob that coach with you.

You clear your throat to not have your voice betray your excitement. "I'd love to if you guys really want me there."

"Of course!", Karen exclaims, nudging your shoulder. "One of us goes in to create a distraction and the other stays outside. The men will look a lot less suspicious if they're waitin' with a woman."

That plan sounds solid actually. It makes sense and you nod. If you play your cards right then they might even let you go inside the bank to create a diversion. You've been wanting to improve your acting a bit.

Much to your relief, Arthur doesn't have anything to say against it. Granted, the look in his eyes is enough to tell you that he isn't quite in favor for it, but at least he doesn't voice it. It means he trusts you enough.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

"You mentioned the law.", Arthur speaks up again and Karen diverts her attention to him now.

"Nothin' serious, just local boys bein' rounded up and pressed into action. If we go in quick and quiet, we can hit it just fine.", she explains.

Lenny steps besides you and eyes you and Arthur up. "If there's five of us."

"And you guys think it's worth the risk?", you chime in.

There is no need for them to answer your question, because you were on board since they said they want you there, but you don't want to seem reckless. They don't have to believe that you're down to run head first into trouble just because they're including you in something.

It's the truth. That is happening right this moment, but still. They don't have to know.

"It's a bank.", Karen responds in a matter of fact way.

"But is the take good?", Arthur counters and you nod along. You already assume that it's more than good, but you want to show that you're thinking things through properly.

"According to the feller I met, yes. It's the end of the stock sales. Plenty of money and plenty of people millin' about."

Anticipation is hanging heavy in the air as the others await your final decision. Not that it's that difficult for you. "I'm in.", you say confidently.

A quick look in Arthur's direction tells you all you need to know. If there were any doubts in his mind then you got rid of them all with your answer. It makes you happy that your involvement is the tipping point for him.

"Alright.", the outlaw finally answers and the mood immediately lightens up.

It doesn't come as a surprise to you that they desperately want him in on this. If there's anything you've noticed during your time here then it's that when you bring Arthur with you to a job it's a guaranteed success.

"We should move in the mornin'. I'll just get out of these rags." Karen picks up a pile of clothes and hurries away.

With this the group splits up and you try to find something to keep you busy until tomorrow.

---

Even though you couldn't get any sleep last night, you feel refreshed and ready to take on the day. The excitement of the upcoming robbery is giving you all the energy you need and you meet up with the others at the hitching posts.

Karen is wearing a beautiful burgundy dress and the men seem to be all dressed in the exact same dark coat. No wonder they wanted another woman to tag along. They do look even more intimidating than usual.

This is also a great opportunity to take Penthesilea on a longer ride and bond with her. There is no other reason for you to leave camp except for paying Rhodes a visit, but that town isn't far away enough.

Getting to Valentine on the other hand is going to take half the day if not longer. You give your Andalusian an oatcake on which she happily munches on.

"Mr. Morgan!", you hear a familiar voice call out and you turn around to see Herr Strauss approaching the outlaw. "That man, the debtor, Thomas Downes. Apparently he's dead."

Dead?

"Dead? Huh. Well, he didnt seem very well.", Arthur mutters and scratches his cheek.

"His wife. I believe he has a wife and child. She will assume the debt of course.", the Austrian continues and Arthur nod.

"Of course."

"When you can, head up there and collect. We lent them a lot of money." With that Herr Strauss leaves and your group mount their horses.

Your mind wanders as you hoist yourself onto Penthesilea's back and follow the others onto the road outside of camp. It's strange that this Thomas Downes had died.

Yes, he didn't look too well last time you saw him, but well enough. Surely he would have lasted a few more weeks or even months. Maybe Arthur's threats had done more damage than you expected.

Whatever it is that cut the man's life short at the end, you know one thing for sure and that is that you want to be there when Arthur collects the debt. Obviously there is nothing to be worried about anymore with the sick man being gone and all, but you can't seem to shake off that uneasy feeling.

Something, a voice in the back of your mind, is telling you to join him when he goes there. It's hard to tell what exactly it is that's pulling you, but you simply have to listen to your gut.

Besides, you're wondering how Mr. Downes' family is holding up. They lost a loved one after all and perhaps your presence won't shake them up too much when Arthur throws around threats again.

Look at you trying to be a good person as if you don't have blood on your hands.

The ride to Valentine is being accompanied by casual chatter between the other gang members, but you're only listening with one ear. Jokes are being made and when the others laugh you join in. You don't want them to think that your head isn't in the game.

You banish your negative thoughts and try to focus on the task at hand. The bank robbery should be your main concern right now. Once that is done, then you can worry about the Downes family.

"We should leave the horses over here.", Bill rips you out of your thoughts and you get off your horses.

You give Penthesilea a soft pat before following the others around the corner towards the bank. They're discussing who should be send in as a distraction.

"I can go.", you offer, but Bill hesitates.

"She's good. Helped me steal an oil wagon once." Arthur's backup earns him a grateful smile from you.

That seems to be enough to convince Bill and he nods. "Alright then. We'll be right outside."

Before entering the bank, you fix up your collar and hair and straighten your skirt a bit. Rather dramatically, you swing the double door open and stroll in with a certain confidence as if you own the place.

Immediately all heads turn to your direction and a bunch of eyes stare you down. It makes you nervous, but there is no backing down now, so you gather all your courage.

As you pull out a white handkerchief, you wave it around for a second and point at the customers.

"Good afternoon to thee and thee and thee! May I present Madame Lupone's terpsichorean troupe of travelling thespians!", you declare in a rather ceremonial way and bow theatrically.

The customers share puzzled looks between one another and you take the opportunity to study each one of them a bit more thoroughly. By the looks of it there is only one guard posted.

A sweet smile forms on your lips as you lock eyes with the guard and pretend to rummage through the pockets of your coat. "You look like a man who'd be interested in what we have to offer!"

He lifts his hands as he makes his way towards you, shaking his head. "Lady, I don't think-"

You don't let him finish the sentence. A sickening crack can be heard as you ram the handle of your revolver straight into his face. The man let's out a mortified screech and blood splatters all over the tile floor.

Not even a heartbeat later, the others come crashing through the front door, pointing their guns and yelling orders. You too put the end of your barrel at the back of the guards head.

"On the floor. Now." Your voice comes out cold and controlled and the man follows your command without question.

Everything that follows after is smooth sailing. For you at least. While you, Lenny and Karen make sure the customers try nothing funny, Arthur and Bill seem to struggle a bit with the safes in the back.

The bank clerk's sobs can be heard all the way to where you're standing and you force your attention somewhere else.

"How's it goin' back there?", Karen yells over her shoulder.

"We're gonna have to crack open the safes!", comes Bill's response.

Hopefully they will be fast about it. You take a peek out through one of the large windows and spot a small group of men talking and looking over at the bank.

"Any minute now, boys!", you call out. "I see some movement outside!"

There is more chatter in the back and after what feels like an eternity, Bill and Arthur emerge again. Their bags look full and loaded and relief washes over you. Bill presses his back against the wall and takes a look outside.

"What exactly did you see?", he asks directed at you.

"There was a group. They were talking and looking at the bank. It doesn't have to mean anything, but you know...", you respond and he nods.

The men outside didn't look particularly alarmed or anything. They might have been discussing something entirely else as well. There are other building on this side of the street after all.

Karen moves closer to the door and steps outside. A few seconds later she enters the bank again. "I think we're fine. C'mon I'll lead the way."

Arthur leans closer to you and lowers his voice. "You good?"

Your nod seems to satisfy him and you move out with the others. Leisurely, you all make your way back to the horses until you spot, in the corner of your eyes, a group of lawmen storming into town on horseback.

A man shouts in the distance. "Somebody robbed the bank!"

You curse under your breath as you enter a full sprint and jump onto Penthesilea's back as fast as your skirt allows you to. Bullets fly around your head and you instinctively duck.

You signal your horse to start galloping and you follow the other gang members out of Valentine. How come that everytime you want to leave this godforsaken town, you do it under heavy fire? It's starting to get real frustrating.

Luckily, Penthesilea doesn't seem fazed by any of this at all. Not even when one of the bullets lands awfully close in the ground infront of her. You make a mental note to yourself to shower her in treats later today.

Without expecting to land any hits, you point your Schofield at the lawmen behind you and pull the trigger a couple times. There is no time to check if any of your shots landed, so you focus entirely on the other gang members.

They soon lead you off road and into a  familiar forest. Easily, you recognize the area and reckon that you must be close to Horseshoe Overlook. Thinking of that place brings up memories.

"I think we lost them.", Lenny comments and you let your gaze wander around.

He's right. It seems like you guys have shaken off the lawmen for now and you jump off your horse, panting. Pearls of sweat have formed on your forehead from the stress of the chase and you wipe them off with the back of your hand.

A relieved and breathless laugh escapes Karen. "Thank you, Gentlemen. That was-"

Arthur cuts her off as he opens his leather bag and inspects the contents. "Stupid and dangerous. Thank you, Bill."

"We're alive and paid! I don't see the problem.", the other man argues and Arthur hands everyone their share of the money.

"And that is the problem.", he comments.

It could have definitely ended a whole lot worse. In your book, you see this robbery as a success as well, but you decide to better leave that unspoken.

Your mouth almost falls open as you count the stack Arthur has given you and realize just how much you guys have stolen. With this amount you could easily buy a whole army of Penthesileas and have enough to equip them with the most luxurious saddles.

"But this is quite the take. Dutch'll be happy. Even if it did come with a heap of trouble.", Arthur says, flinging the leather bag far away into some shrubs.

"Ah, it was fun!", Karen argues and you're not quite sure if you could agree.

Sure, it came with a certain thrill that one can describe as fun, but to you personally it was more stressful than anything else. The constant fear of someone waltzing into the bank in the middle of it isn't something you're particularly fond of.

Having that sense of danger in the back of your mind is definitely a thing you'd have to get used to if you ever agree to join a bank heist again. Perhaps you should stick to coaches for now.

"Alright, there is other business I gotta attend to. Everyone, split up and do not head directly into camp!" Arthur hasn't even finished his sentence before everyone starts to run off. "And make sure you're not bein' followed!"

Now it's only the two of you and he lifts his eyebrows in slight surprise as his gaze falls on you. Seems like he thought that you had also taken off with the rest.

"I got this debt to collect 'round here. You don't have to wait up for me.", he mutters and mounts his horse.

"Let me come with you."

His expression turns sour and he let's out a long sigh. "Listen...I don't want you takin' this the wrong way, but I really don't need you there. Last time-"

He leaves the rest unspoken, but he doesn't need to say it anyways. You already know what he's trying to say. Last time he was at the Downes ranch you had stormed in and interrupted him in his work.

It's understandable that he wants to avoid this happening again, but there is also no need for you to stop him this time. Mr. Downes is dead. The danger is gone, as bad as that sounds.

"I won't do anything without you telling me so. Arthur, you've seen me back at the bank. I can handle this!" Your voice carries a certain urgency and desperation and you dearly hope that that won't make him think that you're plotting again.

There really isn't anything for you to plot anymore. You simply want to be there, because...well, you don't even know it yourself. It's a feeling that is pulling you towards the ranch.

For the longest time none of you say a word until he pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a throwaway gesture. "Alright, but no funny business."

"No funny business.", you repeat reassuringly and mount your horse.

Together you make your way to the Downes residency and dark clouds begin to form over your head. It gives you an odd sense of deja-vu and you swallow the lump in your throat.

In the distance you spot the familiar house and there is a wagon parked in the front of it. Two people are loading crates and bags on it. They must be the wife and child Herr Strauss mentioned.

You leave your horses on the edge of the property and walk towards the wagon. You stay closely behind Arthur and recall his words.

No funny business.

"My husband's not cold in the ground and you come back here." The woman spits out her words like venom. "I nearly paid off what was owed."

"Your husband knew the rules when he took that money.", Arthur argues and lifts his hands. "Now, I'm real sorry 'bout how things turned out, but your husband had a choice. Ain't my fault 'bout the way the world is."

She gives him a look as if he had slapped her right across the face which is evidently pretty much what he did with that statement. "He had no choice! He was good and he did good. There wasn't no choice in that."

Her son hands her a bag from the top of the porch which she quickly loads up with the rest before continuing. "And you've as good as killed him yourself and don't kid yourself. You had a choice."

"You speak as if killin' is somethin' I cared about." The way he says this so coldly sends a shiver down your spine, but nevertheless, you bite your tongue.

"You ever wonder about eternity? You should."

"I hope it's hot and terrible, Mrs. Downes, otherwise I'd feel like I've been sold a false bill of goods. Now, please...get me that money."

She glares daggers at him before vanishing into the house. Watching this...it makes you uncomfortable and strange.

The son isn't any less condescending and doesn't hold back either with giving Arthur a nasty look. For most of the part, the Downes seem to be ignoring you completely.

The outlaw obviously notices the son's dismay for him and steps closer. "Either you got a lazy eye or a lack of respect. Which is it, boy?"

The young man puts down the bag he's carrying. "I ain't got no lazy eyes, nor respect for the likes of you."

When he says the last part, you don't fail to notice how his eyes flicker to you for a brief moment. It doesn't come to a surprise though. You might have been the one to stop Arthur from beating Mr. Downes, but you're still the one by his side.

"Well, maybe when your mother is finished mourning your father I'll keep her in black on your behalf. You think on that, boy."

The son is left speechless for a moment and so are you. His words have shaken you to your core and you're staring at him with your mouth left slightly agape. Arthur's gaze falls on you for a brief second and there is an emotion lying in his expression that you can't quite place.

When the son finally speaks up, his voice cracks and trembles. "Well, maybe you shall, sir, and maybe other events will transpire."

"You better stick to books, because mark my words on this, vengeance is an idiot's game." Arthur's face lights up once Mrs. Downes appears in the doorway and walks down the stairs of the porch. "Ah, Mrs. Downes! Thank you for your punctuality. It's right next to godliness isn't it?"

As he counts the stack of dollar bills, she scoffs. "That's cleanliness."

"I'll have to take your word on that. Good day." With that he goes to leave for the horses, but you find yourself lingering where you stand.

Your gaze is set on Mrs. Downes and you clear your throat. "I'm...I'm so sorry for your loss."

Her eyes wander up and down as she studies you with a stone cold face. Her lips are tightly pressed together, so that they're forming a thin line and you notice only now how her eyelids are red and puffy. Probably from crying.

"I appreciate you stepping in when you did. I do.", she starts with a strained voice and you feel your heart picking up in pace. "But don't be fooled by thinking you're a good person, because you're not. Not when you ride alongside the likes of him."

These words hit you and what's worse is that they're true. You've stolen, robbed and killed. Not once have you stopped to think about what consequences your actions are bringing.

Now you see them though. This family is moving away, because they had to sell their home to pay off a debt. What about the families of the men you've murdered? The two O'Driscolls probably didn't have anyone waiting for them at home, but perhaps the guards at the bank coach did.

They lived honest lives with honest jobs. Why were they guarding that coach that day? They most likely had mouths to feed and now these mouths might not have anyone anymore.

It feels like invisible hands are wrapping their fingers around your neck and squeezing tightly. They have an iron grip on you until you sense something warm on your back. Arthur's hand.

Gently, but assertively he pushes you towards Penthesilea and helps you get up on the saddle even though you don't really need the support. The widow's words are replaying in your mind like a mantra that is meant to drag you down.

I can't continue like this.

Taglist: @shackspossum @heloixe @abducted-cowz

[transrevolutions]

maximilien robespierre (6 may 1758-6 may 2024) and the ways he's been described. sources for each quotation under the cut.

disclaimer: I don't agree with everything quoted here, and some of them are truly incomprehensibly batshit (looking at you, betty from finance). primary sources are in bold. no discernable order.

wikipedia introduction louis-marie stanislas freron ARBR petition bertrand barere several deputies defended by robespierre germaine de stael mary duclaux peter mcphee georges lefebvre alexandre dubois-crance lazare carnot jonathan israel vladimir lenin alphonse aulard marc bloch citizen garnier (prenom unknown) pierre-joseph cambon manon roland honore mirabeau jeremy popkin sieclesetcieux on tumblr gracchus babeuf ruth scurr marie-helene huet

[choccy-zefirka]

Lo! A second Rogue Trader to smooch Abelard while he's kneeling in front of her! (Thank you @leadflowers for letting me toss Plot Bunnies of Unusual Size at you)

The human mind is a fascinating thing. Especially the mind of a psyker.

Granted, Lumen has not always had this... proclivity for setting things on fire by staring at them. Not since childhood anyway. Throne, no; she's nothing like the poor little souls on the Black Ships.

Something shifted in her, something sharp and agonizing like exposed bone in a wound, when she was well into her adulthood (though a lady never tells her age). That odd, ever-hungry, ever-thrashing part of her likely never would have woken up at all, if her old smuggler crew hadn't messed with a xenos artefact that one time.

But psyker or not, she has always been quite brilliant, if she says so herself. Her mind has held fast through whatever the void decided to throw at her.

She’s always been able to think on her feet. She’s always had quick retort on her tongue, and a Plan B, Plan C, Plan D ceaselessly weaving itself at the back of her mind — just in case her bullets or her brand-new witchcraft ever failed her. And she has survived it all. Her men's betrayal. The vice grip of the Inquisition agents they'd ratted her out to. The searing whirlwind of lashings, mental and physical, before her sanctioning. The viper's den she was tossed in, when the blood samples the Inquisition had collected from her revealed she was a long-lost von Valancius. Heiress to a dynasty of cosmic proportions; bearer of a Warrant that, by will of the Emperor Himself, entrusted her with the fate of entire planets.

She’ll be the first to admit that it’s taken quite a bit of mental fortitude — deciding how to run colonies inhabited by billions of souls. She needs even more plans now — Plan E, Plan F, Plan G — because at a moment’s notice, at a drop of an Imperial officer’s hat, she might be asked to decide which lives to spare and which to sacrifice for the supposed greater good. And she’ll be expected to smile all the while. To remain ever graceful, ever charming, gliding among her adoring subjects with a gentle rustle of the finest shimmering, gilded fabric. Back straight as a rod, gaze unflinching, fingers folded in an elegant half-gesture over the steel-boned slope of her frock.

Abelard's etiquette lessons did not go to waste. She absorbed them all.

And in the process, she only allowed herself to be... a little distracted — oh, merely a couple of times — by how adorable he looked when he was reciting all those rules. Which, of course, he had to be informed of, in her sweetest, most playful tone. If there is one thing she cannot resist (aside from tiny pastries), it's being playful with her darling, deliciously prim Seneschal.

Still. The little giggle at the soft bloom of pink on his cheeks and throat was but a momentary diversion. Her mind remained hard at work all the while. Yes, even when she was making a flower arrangement in her new quarters and tapped a rose bud softly against Abelard's nose. She never stopped going over what he told her, in between the (rather weak) protestations of "Lord Captain!". She never stopped memorizing what a perfect Rogue Trader should be like.

Once a pallid, grubby child from a hive world's lowest sunless pits, she may not have enjoyed a noble upbringing, not like the other Cold Trade princess they have on board, the ever-delightful Jae Heydari — but she’s rectified that quickly. Her mind was her buoy in the murky waters of intergalactic politics and righteous Imperial service; and she emerged from every whirlpool on her path. Untouched — on the surface at least — by the muck at the whirlpool's bottom. Radiant, regal, a living statuette of gold.

She kept her wits about her even when the consequences of all her past choices loomed large over her — quite literally.

Oh, how her heart hammered for a moment, retreating into her ribcage's burrow like some trembling, twitchy thing that would scurry about among the refuse heaps on her childhood streets — when the first dance at her Magnae Accessio came to an end, and she had to switch partners.

Her first chosen companion was, of course, Abelard. She'd had him stand beside her at the preceding ceremony, and summoned him once more when the grand ball began. She'd researched the colors of House Werserian (Cassia helped; Lumen had never seen her so giddy) and, despite her usual preference for reds and golds, commissioned a dress in cooler shades. To match the liveries of the "upstart lowborns". Thus announcing, to anyone and everyone who paid attention to such things, that Abelard's kin — not quite former street rats like her, but still not good enough for the Mundus Valancius elite — had her favor. What are you going to do about it, Master Sauerback?

She did not get a good look at Abelard's face during her coronation, as she was too busy waving at the ecstatic masses and smiling the most impeccably measured smile in response to all the outraged glares from the "proper" aristocratic families. But she knew how much it meant to him. To be acknowledged for his service. To be brought forth before the whole planet, entrusted to guard her — not just amid roaring fires and screeching bullets and gurgling fountains of blood, but at a time of (relatively) peaceful celebration.

When she finally turned to meet his gaze, it was at the ball. As the master of ceremonies announced that the illustrious Lady Von Valancius was to lead the first dance, she chose her Seneschal again. With no hesitation, no pause in her ever-racing mind.

He looked more... lost than she had ever seen him, out of his armor, drowning in the honeyed glow of lumens — her little namesakes — that reflected off the polished marble floors. But one little shake of his head at her softly purred compliments ("Why, darling Seneschal, here I thought you couldn't get more handsome and distinguished!"), and he was back to his usual composed self. Hand on the small of her back. Feet moving to the rhythm of the music with an officer's resolve. Eyes tactfully averted from the rise and fall of Lumen's most flatteringly accentuated bosom.

This, too, was his duty, and when called to it, he did not fail to... perform. Yes, Lumen did make multiple jokes about that — until she didn't.

She sighs to herself, recollecting how her voice trailed off, and her very surroundings stood still, when she caught a glimpse of something most curious in her Seneschal's face. His features had softened — almost to the point of smiling.

"I do want you to enjoy yourself, Abelard," she said — chirped — to him. Meaning every word.

But before he could reply, the melody ended, and in the lull between the dances, another guest swooped in. A colossal shadow of flesh and metal, moving with the noiseless grace of a prowling predator. The consequences looming large indeed.

Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar had arrived earlier than Lumen could have deduced from Heinrix's cryptic warnings. She'd imagined she'd find him lurking in her study once the festivities were over. Maybe even sitting at her desk like it was his. But there he was. Interrogating her about her travels through the Expanse, her so-called heretical inclinations — during a dance.

As he spoke, in an even, courteous voice that hid as many coiling wires as his augmented arm — he never stopped guiding her motions with his metal grip, twirling her in time with the music with even more precision than Abelard had... Until she stopped feeling like a person, and began to picture herself as a regicide piece that he was directing across the board. All part of an icy calculated strategy her mind had to strain to keep pace with.

But she did. Even as, internally, she was a hair's breadth from panicking, from dissolving into a screeching warpstorm of memories from her sanctioning — she did. She responded to all his questions with a cool politeness to match his own.

She survived her second brush with the Inquisition.

 And even if the Lord Inquisitor had rattled her, that could be easily masked by accepting Calligos Winterscale's late-night challenge to a friendly drinking contest. Which she, incidentally, won.

All part of the plan.

Her mind has served her well. As a street urchin, a smuggler, an awakened psyker, a Rogue Trader. And now, too, it is doing its best, turning its finest cogs, to keep her shielded; keep her safe.

Obviously, she is still in Commorragh, probably stretched out, till her ligaments are about to snap, on that many-armed xenos' lab table, a cold sticky pool of her own blood clinging to her bare back and quickly drying into a slimy crust.

Soon, the creature will be back again, every hand bristling with saws, pincers, little curving knives.

Her skin will be grated into red-soaked sawdust and regrown again.

Her bones will be broken and healed, broken and healed, crackling like driftwood under xenos fingertips.

Her stomach will be carved into an opening and closing flap, like it's a chest of drawers with a pulsing mass of organs inside, for the creature to rummage in as if it had lost a sock (see, even now, her mind supplants her with humor; to keep her alive; to keep her defiant).

Her hair — her glossy strands of Aquila gold, her pride and joy (and, if combed sufficiently tall, an excellent place to hide a small gun) — will be torn out in soggy clumps, not as much for any specific experiments as for humiliation.

And so it shall continue, for infinity.

She will, of course, keep searching for ways to escape; to assemble blood-splattered puzzle pieces into a Plan H, Plan I, Plan J, all the way to Plan X, Y, Z. Her mind will strain as much, burn as much, as her mutilated limbs.

But that is yet to come. For now, for just a few hours of indulgence, her hardworking brain has decided to grant her a little reprieve. It has conjured an illusion for her; a haven to gather her strength in, before her torment begins anew.

In her mind, she is already back home — in realspace. She has even given herself false memories: a whole grand adventure; a chase after a dancing, leering shade in a theater mask. An explosion, a tumble through the rippling, surreal maze of the Webway... And a reunion with her subjects on Janus, where the xenos dimensional gate is still standing.

Quite a backstory for the theater of her mind to play out!

Right now, the scene is set on one of the white Janusian beaches. She imagines herself laying back on the glinting boundary between the dry sand and the lapping waves, underneath the gently swaying jungle trees. Relaxed and carefree. Idly leafing through her old memories like they were pages of a book.

The review she'd leave on the little volume would be mostly mixed — but the chapters with Abelard in them are her favorites... Could use a few more paragraphs about his scars, though. Maybe also a mention of how Lumen's heart would flutter whenever he’d speak of his family, with such affection and pride; such warmth — quite rare to see in him, and all the more precious for it. Or would that be too serious, too private for a light beach read?

Suddenly embarrassed, Lumen forcibly shifts her focus back to the pict-perfect landscape in her vision.

She is wearing nothing but a nightgown, her mind tells her, and the warm waves are washing over her body, pushing gently against her, making her slide to and fro in the shallows. A drowsy, serene bit of flotsam basking in the light of a sun that's properly affixed to a completely normal, soothingly (deceptively) blue sky.

There's a figure perched on a nearby rock. Wiry, long-limbed, with a sharp pale face and flowing crimson hair.

Oh, it’s *her*, is it?

 To be quite honest, Lumen would rather not think of Yrliet right now: the pain from Drukhari torture is bad enough without trying to disentangle the spool of barbed wire that the xenos has spun in Lumen's mind.

Lumen von Valancius does not suffer traitors. But Yrliet is nothing like the men who sold her out. Lumen’s heart (for when she ascended on her throne, she decided she should still have one, under all the gilding) breaks for her friend's pain and guilt. But are they truly friends... Were they ever?

So yes. Yrliet's presence in Lumen’s daydreams rather disrupts her supposed bliss... Maybe her mind did not conjure her up; maybe the crafty xenos slipped in of her own accord. She knows how to do that.

She... She seems to be talking to her.

"Elantach, listen to me! This is no illusion! We did escape Commorragh, and we are now on Lilaethan. You must come to your senses!"

Lumen fixes her inner gaze upon Yrliet. Slowly, blearily, with a vague sensation that they have had this conversation before.

Interesting. "Come to her senses"? So, delve deeper into the illusion? Lose herself in it entirely? Tempting, but she cannot afford to do that. She has escape plans to work on.

She tells Yrliet as much.

"Oh, come now! You know it's just my own mind taking a little rest, before I blink and we are back in Commorragh again!"

Yrliet's response is a long, frustrated intake of air. Why exactly is she here? What is her goal? She hates Drukhari machinations, doesn't she? So why would she push so hard against Lumen waking up?

"There she is, sir! The retinue is mostly... recovering at the governor's palace, but Her Ladyship has, uh, wandered off."

"Watch your tongue! The Lord Captain would not just wander off! I am certain she had a perfectly good reason!"

Yrliet winces at the crackle of undergrowth under clumsy mon-keigh feet. Lumen, though, grins from ear to ear.

She knows that voice.

And naturally, her illusion of being home would not be complete without it. Hearing it again *is* being home.

"The reason is, elantach's mind is fractured," Yrliet says bluntly.

Her gaze is as burning, as intense, as unshakable as the laser point of her sniper rifle. It pierces, unblinking, through the two humans that have just stepped onto the beach out of the waist-high ferns — a panting, frantically apologetic enforcer, and Abelard, whose hand flies to his chainsword's hilt the instant he locks eyes with Yrliet.

"Explain," he barks.

His tone is almost as firm as Lumen remembers it... But something in the illusion seems to have gone wrong. Abelard's voice sounds thinner... Shakier somehow. Like he's a pale imitation of her Seneschal, drawn in an unsteady hand.

Lumen lifts herself up on her elbows, frowning. Abelard looks just as... off as he sounds. His unaugmented eye is sunken, rimmed with red, and the weathered, beautifully scarred skin seems to hang looser off his face, as if he had lost weight.

Even his trusty coat — whose warm, comforting weight Lumen felt on her bare shoulders on more than one occasion — is notably worse for wear. Like he'd neglected to wash it.

He has, however, kept the little lily brooch she made for him, in another life, far, far away from Commorragh... When her biggest concern was how to best stun her admirers and make her enemies squirm at the Magnae Accessio.

When doing research for an ecosystem revival project on Janus — seated in front of a cogitator in a frilly layered gown, surrounded by plush cushions, because a lady remains ladylike even when browsing old records with a tech priest’s help — Lumen found a most gorgeous pict of a local flower. The priest duly informed her that the entire species had been driven to extinction decades ago by farmland expansion. Enamored with the delicate flow of its silhouette, she reached out to the best jeweler that Jae's galaxy-spanning network of contacts could provide, and he brought the lost lily back to eternal life, crafting a pair of bespoke jewelry pieces. For her and her Seneschal to wear at her coronation… As another way for them to match: her in his house's colors, him with her lily. And another way to remind the highborn that this filthy commoner was her right hand.

She still remembers the look he gave her when she first presented him with the brooch. A gasp of air escaped his lungs, like she'd speared him straight through his heart; and there was... a glimmer of recognition in his eye. She was quick to realize that an old echo from his past was coming back to haunt him. For a moment, her pict-perfect display of queenly grace nearly dissolved into messy blotches, into leaking, muddled colors of panic, straight from under Cassia's brush. She wondered if she'd committed a faux pas, if she'd inadvertently reminded him of something best left buried.

But when he spoke to her, his voice — for the fleeting few seconds before he collected himself — was trembling with quiet awe.

"Truly," he said breathlessly, "The Emperor works in mysterious ways... Thank you, Lord Captain. I serve at your pleasure."

She was so struck by his tone, she completely forgot to make a quip about there being all kinds of pleasure he was surely not too old for... And he has never parted with the lily brooch since.

Even now, in her vision of him on the beach, it glimmers ruby and gold against the dark grime on his coat. While his sword hand tightens, white-knuckled, around his weapon, his other hand keeps travelling to the metal lily. Feeling its contours. Adjusting it. Again and again and again. The motion is so persistent, so repetitive, that it has all but turned into a nervous tic.

In fact, as she squints and cranes her neck forward, Lumen realizes that fiddling with the brooch has dug raw, reddish grooves into Abelard's fingertips.

Her blood runs cold — in a way that has nothing to do with the sea water splashing around her, or the breeze on her skin.

Why would she imagine this little detail? Or the deep, bruised half-moon under his eye? The new lines of exhaustion on his forehead and around his mouth? Why would her own mind be so... uncharitable to Abelard? To the man whose face she summoned from the heaving marshes of delirium, to guide her, to ground her, when she was stumbling through the Commorragh streets, fresh from the corpse pile?

Meanwhile, the little illusory scene continues. Yrliet has deigned to give Abelard an explanation.

"Your Lord Captain believes that we are still trapped. That our return to Lilaethan — to Janus —" Yrliet chokes out the planet's human name like a cat wheezing on a ball of fur. "... is just a pretty story her own brain is telling her, as a defense mechanism against my dark cousins' torture."

Distracted from her worries for... definitely-not-real Abelard, Lumen has to roll her eyes at this. What a droll little debate to have within her mind!

"Well, what else could it be?" she tells Yrliet. "If we were not all inside my head, why would Abelard just... appear so soon after I started thinking of him?"

Yrliet snaps her eyes to Lumen, her face unreadable.

"That is not sound logic, elantach. You think of him all the time, regardless of where your body resides."

Now, at this point Yrliet's impassive porcelain mask cracks. She looks utterly distraught. Disgusted even.

"Your mind was... swarming with images of him when I taught you how to explore your thoughts, long before Commorragh. Some of those images, I would rather not dwell on. Ever again."

Lumen bites her lip.

Well, in her defense, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation behind all the silvery apparitions of Abelard in various states of undress, which stepped out of the fog as she and Yrliet chased down her hopes and fears during that Eldar mind ritual. They were merely the result of her trying to figure out how far down his scars extended! And whether his body hair had gone grey too! Surely, that is not such an outlandish thing to wonder about?

The current Abelard apparition — less see-through, more clothed, feet planted firmly into the imaginary white sand — draws himself up to his full height. His fingers clasp the lily brooch so tightly that the sharper parts of the flower break skin, drawing blood.

"Did you do this to her, xenos?" he demands. "Did you... twist the Lord Captain's mind?"

Yrliet's face freezes again, but her eyes cloud over with an unspoken sadness.

"The answer to that is…  complicated, mon-keigh," she says quietly. "I trust elantach to tell it all, however she sees fit. When she is ready. For now, you must tend to her. Maybe one of her own kind will reach her in a way a child of Asuryan could not."

With that, she leaps gracefully from the rock onto the sand and takes off, up the overgrown path that, in realspace, would have led back to the palace. The enforcer soon scrambles off after her. Maybe he's decided that the xenos is being particularly suspicious right now, and needs to be tailed — or maybe he is not too keen of lingering under Abelard's glare. Either explanation could work in the theater of Lumen's mind.

And thus, the Rogue Trader and her Seneschal are left on their own. Like during their dance, the rest of the world falls back, stilling. Except this time, none of this is real. It can't be.

Yet, the instant both Yrliet and the enforcer vanish among the trees, Abelard drops heavily to his knees... As if he were a hollow, deceptively solid statue of a steadfast warrior, held together only flimsy, rotting scaffolding — which has finally fallen apart. Lumen would never imagine him like this! Except... Except in her worst nightmares. Is that it? Is her perfect little dream world twisting into something darker? Have the bastards shoved another brain-eating maggot up her nose?!

Like some pathetic, flopping beached sea animal, she claws uselessly at the wet sand. Struggling desperately to reshape her dream back into a sunny idyll. Wanting, above all else, to remain in control. For just a little longer. Before she wakes up and is a specimen again.

"Lord Captain," Abelard says to her hoarsely. His fingers, too, have sunk into the sand. Grasping for purchase, but finding only clumps of tiny grains.

"You were gone for so long, I — the people almost lost hope. Please, come back to — with me."

His eye lingers on her brine-soaked form; not lustfully, like she'd expect from one of her fantasies — but with concern. Well. She supposes that can be a fantasy as well. A longing for comfort. How many times, when the barbed xenos whips fell upon her, did she imagine Abelard with his trusty medkit, tending to her wounds?

"You will catch a cold," he blurts out.

After he stuns himself into silence, she laughs. And laughs and laughs. Until her chest begins to ache.

"Of course you'd say that, you darling man," she says...  And the scaffolding that was supporting her own statuette, all curves and glitter and gold, rots away into nothing as well.

"I miss you..."

With a poorly stifled sob — no, no, no; this was meant to be a kind dream, an escape! — Lumen reaches up to wrap her... so realistically damp, goosebump-covered arms around Abelard.

"I miss... glancing back and finding you there. I miss your voice. Your shadow overlaying mine. Even the sound of your gun at my flank..."

Emperor's balls, that came off dubious. But she has no cheeky jokes left in her.

"I don't know how long I have been here," she mumbles, pressing herself against him, with only a layer of waterlogged linen between his body and her own... Suddenly shivering. Suddenly so, so utterly small.

"Sometimes I'm afraid that time has unraveled... Broken… Like everything else in the warp... And that back in the realspace, it's been centuries... And you are long dead..."

She finds the sleeves of his coat, hanging empty off his shoulders, and tugs them around herself. Diving into the familiar, slightly musty warmth. At least... At least the dream world has gifted her a new shelter. A new place to be at home in, for the time being.

"I hope you lived a good life, my darling Seneschal," she tells the apparition that cannot hear her. She knows it's not really him, she does, she does, but the words keep spilling out.

"I hope you raised your great grandchildren, and their children, to do your house proud. I hope you found another Rogue Trader that finished what I — we — started. I hope... Some day, some place, out there... where I might never return... You remembered me, and thought of me fondly."

"I thought of you every waking moment," a voice whispers into her hair. Does it look like her old golden tresses in this dream space, she wonders, or like the mangy mess her captors turned it into? She does not know; she never looked at her face in the water... But regardless, there are fingers weaving through it now. And their tender, reverent touch feels so terribly real that she begins to sob faintly again.

"I neglected my other duties to give more and more orders to the astropaths... I had them scry every system thrice over, I forbade them to rest until they found any trace of you... I was ready to pitch a tent in the Chapel and keep watch… Terrified that I might miss urgent news of you if I stepped away, if I closed my eyes even for a moment... I — "

Abelard cuts himself short. Lumen feels him shudder. That could be the water she's splashed all over him... Or...

"Lord Captain, did you believe a single word I just said?"

She peeks out from the little nest she's made in his coat.

"It's very... gratifying to imagine that you cared for me that much," she admits, looking up at him. "To pretend that you found me. Even if I have to face reality..."

"You do, Lord Captain," he says, with a sudden surge of fortitude in his voice. An emphasis on every word, like a strike of a blade.

And as the final strike, he kisses her.

In all her fantasies, she has always been the one to kiss him first. To leap over the boundaries of propriety with her usual elegant mischief; to turn their dancing into something more.

But here, now... His tongue is against hers; his hands are clawing the fabric of his own coat, reaching for her, clutching her tight. Even as she feels she might melt. Slip through his fingers in a trickle of gold-flaked water.

Never, not in her wildest dreams, has she imagined him drinking of her with such unabashed thirst — what feels like months and months of it, all pent up under his armor.

Which must mean...

"Abelard," she chokes, breaking contact with one final, tiny hurried bite at his lower lip. "You are here... You are really here! We... We made it out of Commorragh! It was not a dream!"

He nods, giddy and out of breath, almost all heavy markings of his restless vigil erased from his features. He even has the strength to get up from his knees while still holding on to Lumen. Something tells her he is intending to carry her like this all the way back to the palace.

But after he takes the first few steps, he stumbles to a halt. His face falls.

"Forgive me, Lord Captain. I acted inappropriately. Exceedingly so. If you dole out punishment for my transgressions, I shall accept it."

She clicks her tongue, clinging on to him — refusing to ever be let down.

"Whatever happened to serving at my pleasure?"

He turns an absolutely impossible shade of magenta... Then, relaxes, exhales — and laughs. A breathy, almost inaudible sound that makes her heart race.

"I missed you as well."

"First Theodora, now me," Lumen muses with a highly affected, faux philosophical tone.

Now, she can breathe again. Can banter again.

"Do you get hopelessly infatuated with every Rogue Trader you serve?"

No. That might have been too far. That will not do in the real world.

"Oh! I apologize, darling. I overstepped."

Abelard tilts his head to study her face. He does not appear angry — but his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

"Let me put it this way, Lord Captain... And I trust this will stay between us. In my past, I've had a tendency to get... infatuated with people I'd later lose. I intend to end that pattern."

Neither of them speaks up again until they reach the palace. But Lumen is content to make the journey in silence, resting her head against Abelard's chest.

He has given her much to mull over, in this brilliant mind of hers.

[tricitymonsters]

Thankfully for Mori, i like metal and rock bands. Sadly for Mori, i am far too chickenshit to get ANYWHERE near the pit and live venues scurr me.

He'd send you recordings if you were dead set on not going but also he'd def try to talk you into it with big promises that he'd keep you away from the pit all night if it would make you feel better. He knows a lot of people at most venues too so he'd be happy to introduce to you to people he trusts that also don't mind keeping an eye on you to make sure you stay comfortable and safe! It's very punk to look after each other, after all!

[katanablue]

I STRAIGHT UP JUMPED WHEN I OPENED TUMBLR AND THIS IDIOT IS THE FIRST THING I SEE

AWOOP JUMP SCURR

[enlitment]

Never mind, scratch the part about me saying Scurr's biography seems to be well-researched so far. As was pointed out by @anotherhumaninthisworld (thank you!) she just gets Camille Desmoulins' age wrong by 3 years when describing what is arguably one of the most important events of his life/of the revolution itself

Like I get that the biography is about Robespierre, but still, I'd be dragged for a thing like that if I had it in by undergrad thesis and she's an academic

I'm just incredibly confused as to why/how? He was born in 1760, which, you know, makes the calculation incredibly easy even for the less mathematically gifted.

There's barely any big difference between 26 and 29, at least in my mind. Like both is late-ish 20s? Is 26 fine but 29 already too old to be seen as 'attractively boyish'? What's going on there?

I'm probably overthinking it. It does, however, show that her research/writing is sloppy, at least in this particular instance.

[joons]

So I became a huge fan of the French Revolution a few hours ago and I'm particularly interested in Maximilien Robespierre. I've been speed-reading lots of articles and they all say different things. Some present him as an Evul Bloodthirsty Executioner Dictator, others present him as a misunderstood kitten. And whenever I find a headline that goes "He was a complex individual, click here for a nuanced take" when I click on it, it says "This post is deleted." 1/3

I’ve browsed your entire Robespierre tag (as well as your French Revolution tag). In a post a long time ago, you called him a “fretful adorable hopelessly self-righteous psychopath.” And more recently, you reblogged a post talking about how he wasn’t really a psychopath, but a scapegoat and not really to blame for the executions in France. So now you have me really curious! 2/3 I already have a list of books about him to check out, as well as a list of films. What I'm mainly interested in is your present personal opinions about him (particularly on a moral, good vs. evil scale) and how/if your perspective on him has changed over time. 3/3

I love this question, anon! "A few hours ago." [zooms through all the reading immediately]

I have been interested in the French Revolution since childhood and started reading more about Robespierre specifically at 17. My earliest sources were Thomas Carlyle's The French Revolution and Ruth Scurr's Fatal Purity, which are both entertaining but flawed. Carlyle, writing in the 19th century, really nails the fever high of the period, taking readers on a lurid, emotional journey through the events of the Revolution, but it's a history based on popular misconceptions that existed at the time and is not the best way to get to know the characters well (but it is brilliant literature). Fatal Purity is a Robespierre biography that comes very close to characterizing him as a "fretful psychopath," endearing at times but ultimately unhinged. Scurr is basically interested in how he rationalizes certain things to himself, but she tends to stay kind of shallow, like, "Well, he was just Like That," instead of going deeper into the time period and examining how Robespierre compared to his peers and how the revolutionaries adapted as circumstances changed. I've read many more books since and don't think Scurr is the final word on him, but even though she situates him as more of a "villain" figure, that book had a big emotional impact on me. I found his death absolutely haunting, and I immediately wanted to learn more about him.

I think you will find quite quickly that the French Revolution still generates heated emotions for a lot of people, and it's often true that you can pinpoint someone's exact political leanings and the time in which they are writing based on their depiction of Robespierre. A lot of this starts to make sense if you look into historiographies of the Revolution, how the story reshapes itself in the telling, how its central figures can become caricatures and symbols that are no longer regarded by their words and actions but by what we believe about them. They become portents, not people, and they bear the anxieties of whoever writes their story. Robespierre's image as a bloodthirsty, deranged, egotistical dictator was set by the people who drove him from power in a way that was quite bloodthirsty itself, and many of them were much more actively involved in constructing systems of violence and persecution in France than Robespierre ever was. However, there are also plenty of sources that are politically invested in downplaying or excusing the mobs and the massacres that were at least politely sanctioned by all revolutionary leaders. You can see the positive appraisals skyrocket after the Paris Commune's rise and fall - many budding Marxists wanted to look back with fresh eyes at the progressive ideals championed by the revolutionaries and even by the Terror, so while we owe a debt to many of those historians for sifting through the reactionary propaganda that way overstated Robespierre's culpability, they can be misleading too. A lot of the scholarship is fun to read because Robespierre always forces people to take sides, to speak in absolutes, because he would not hedge on what he believed - ever. And because he held the ideal of the Revolution above himself, because he defended it and was so strident about its moral necessity, because he was willing to be judged by the Revolution, then of course now he is going to be judged for it, even when his influence is entirely absent from the scenes of its most extreme violence.

All this to say I am not interested in the Revolution because I necessarily see my politics reflected in it; that is not what interests me about it. I love it because it was one of those rare moments in history where anything felt possible and no one knew what would happen next - and I love learning how the people living through it responded and resonated and reckoned with the world coming unglued under their feet. I stan Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, and Napoleon equally, all of whom could not be more different politically or personally, but they all show why this is my favorite historical period to explore.

Robespierre is just one man of many who got jostled into action and into prominence by the Revolution, a bright, ordinary lawyer with a heart for ordinary men, who went from advocating against the death penalty to inflexibly calling for the death of the King, not out of hypocrisy, or social pressure, or contrarianism, but by seeing no other way to proceed while staying true to his highest ideals. The Revolution is full of moments of supreme irony like this, where you can see people steeling themselves against the horrible thing that is coming next, suspicious of everyone else's motives, only for the thing never to materialize, or for them to be so accurate in their predictions that no one around them is ready to hear it. The events that preceded Robespierre's downfall were not of a man consolidating power but languishing in his bed and clutching at a way to again make sense of what France should be, first by envisioning a grand revival of patriotism (not logic or calculation, but a bid for the heart) and then - when he felt disillusioned and betrayed - by refusing to abandon his faith in his country. He could never doubt her, only the people who served her. That optimism drove his paranoia, his disappointment, and it drove him to the scaffold believing there was one more turn of destiny waiting for him. He is a fascinating person who could be exceedingly warm and terrifyingly cold, whose idealism was mixed with a clear-eyed practicality (but not with cruelty), who was often on the verge of nervous, sickly breakdowns but whose appearances at the Convention brought out his fierce tenacity and passionate moral vision. He had a sense of his own myth, aligning himself too closely with the soul of the country, but he also refused to be revered as any sort of hero or leader, preferring to spend time studying minute details and writing in his room. He saw himself as a servant of the greatest ideals, someone who could bring justice to those with none. Any way you look at it, whether he was always essentially pure-hearted and stymied by those who were more self-serving, or whether he lost his sense of justice and gave into a kind of manic paranoia, becoming subsumed by the contradictory demands of the Revolution's ever-evolving aims, perhaps sacrificing something essential and human in order to serve the hope of something better, it is still a tragic story. That is how I see him.

Some recommendations, if you don't have them on your list already:

Books

Twelve Who Ruled - R.R. Palmer (absolutely ESSENTIAL; there are few texts more measured or more informative, and it does a fantastic job of showing the spheres of responsibility of each member of the Committee of Public Safety); Robespierre: A Revolutionary Life - Peter McPhee (one of the latest English biographies, and very good at clearing up misconceptions without being overly romanticized or ideological).

Films

La Revolution Francaise (1989) - A detailed, accurate epic with great casting; Danton (1983) - I remember this being pretty good, but I watched it a long time ago while having the worst migraine of my life, so who knows; Napoleon (1927) - Visual feast! A classic.

Novels

A Place of Greater Safety - Hilary Mantel. I have my quibbles with some of the characterizations (mainly for Saint-Just), but I love her writing and I think she portrays the main three wonderfully. She also wrote this great essay about Robespierre I reread a lot. ("He was a man of spectacular absent-mindedness. He liked flowers. Sometimes he laughed till he cried. He caught Madame Tussaud when she slipped and fell downstairs on her sightseeing-trip to the Bastille. Discern a subject, not an object, and feelings creep in.")

[houseofbrat]

Did Kate have emergency brain surgery?

Remember this?

Back in 2011, Kate was suspected of wearing hair extensions.

The spokesmen at St. James Palace--clearly better than the current crop at Kensington Palace--said it was a scar.

Shimmering in silver, the Duchess of Cambridge conducted her first solo engagement as a royal yesterday – and displayed a hitherto unknown childhood secret. Underneath Kate’s stylish half-up, half-down hairstyle a prominent three-inch scar could be seen on the side of her left temple. A spokesman for the Duchess at St James’s Palace confirmed last night that it was the result of surgery as a young child. ‘The scar related to a childhood operation,’ they said. The palace declined to discuss what kind of operation because it was, they said, a private matter.  Senior royal sources also confirmed that it had been ‘a very serious operation’ but declined to comment further.

Some people speculate that Kate had a VP shunt placed during this surgery.

What Is a VP Shunt? A ventriculoperitoneal (VP) shunt is a thin plastic tube that helps drain extra cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) from the brain. CSF is the saltwater that surrounds and cushions the brain and spinal cord. Why Are VP Shunts Placed? VP shunts are placed to treat hydrocephalus. Hydrocephalus (hi-droh-SEF-eh-less) happens when CSF does not drain out of the hollow spaces inside the brain (called ventricles) as it should. VP shunts drain the extra fluid and help prevent pressure from getting too high in the brain.

How Do VP Shunts Work? Most shunts have two catheters (small, thin tubes) connected by a valve. One end of the upstream catheter is in a ventricle. The other end of the downstream catheter is in the peritoneal (pair-et-NEE-ul) cavity. This is the space inside the belly where the stomach and the bowels are. The shunt is all inside the body, under the skin. The valve opens when the pressure in the brain gets too high. This lets fluid drain from the brain into the peritoneal space. From there, the extra fluid is absorbed into the bloodstream.

[...]

Are There Any Risks From VP Shunts? VP shunts are generally safe, but there are some risks during and after the surgery. There can be bleeding, or an infection can develop. VP shunts do not work forever. When the shunt stops working: * The child can have another buildup of fluid in the brain. * Another surgery is needed to fix it. Problems with a VP shunt happen even with regular care and at unpredictable times. The shunt can get worn out or move as a child grows. A shunt also can get infected, which can be very serious. It's important for families to follow the surgeon's instructions for when to call and when to go to the ER. This way, treatment for an infected or worn-out shunt can start as soon as possible.

Rebecca English's article continues:

John Scurr, consultant surgeon at the Lister Hospital in London, said it was unlikely to have been the result of a tumour. ‘I really doubt it was any serious medical condition and I would say it is as a result of an arteriovenous malformation – a birthmark – being removed, ‘ he said. ‘It is remarkable, given the measurement, that no-one has noticed before.’

Katie Nicholl has a different surgery story regarding Kate when she was at Marlborough:

In her book Kate: The Future Queen, royal expert and biographer Katie Nicholl relays the story, which is just terrifying. Apparently, during Kate's time at Marlborough, she discovered a lump on the left side of her head. The school called Kate's mom, who promptly took her to the doctor. That doctor ordered an emergency operation to remove the lump. "I can remember the incident and her having an operation," Ann Patching, who worked at Marlborough for years, told Nicholl. "I don’t recall anything happening on the hockey pitch [field] that had anything to do with the lump. Catherine had the operation during her term time. She was back at school very soon afterwards. As usual, nothing was too much of a big deal for her. You could never accuse Catherine of being a drama queen, but Carole was very worried, as any mother would be." The evidence of Kate's emergency operation is still around today, in the form of a scar on her hairline that you can still spot in pictures of the Duchess.

So, is the real medical issue that Kate had an emergency admission to a hospital on 28 December 2023? Had an emergency operation and then went home thinking everything was fine.

Then a few weeks later she had serious, post-op complications and had to go back into have things re-done at The London Clinic? In an emergency situation?

That the Spanish reporter was correct she was in a coma, intubated, and with doctors fearing that she would die?

"Water on the brain," aka hydrocephalus is a serious issue and can kill.

Of course, still have to wonder if there were prior contributing factors such as "overwork."

[wizzard890]

Hello! I've been getting really into the French Revolution recently, I was wondering if you had any book recommendations about it, or any recommendations for biographies of Robespierre?

I'll do my best to keep this brief and not just dump a syllabus in your lap.

On the French Revolution generally

Twelve Who Ruled, by R.R. Palmer - a classic of French Revolutionary studies, it's constantly released in new editions with new forwards and scholarship. It examines the Terror through the lens of the Committee of Public Safety, drawing the reader into each of the twelve deputies' lives and political struggles. You won't find a college class on the Revolution that doesn't have this book on its reading list.

A New World Begins, by Jeremy Popkin - this came out only a few years ago, and while there will never be a Final Book on the French Revolution, this one puts up a damn good fight. Popkin is also an historian of the Hatian Revolution, and this book immerses the reader deep in the moment when it felt like a new epoch in human history had begun.

The French Revolution, by Thomas Carlyle - this is not a history, nor is it an effort by a researcher to put forward a clear and rigorous examination of the people and events involved in the Revolution. Instead it's a sort of prose-poem with ambitions on par with the Iliad, a narrative of the French Revolution that so seized the British imagination that it inspired Dickens' Tale of Two Cities, and bled from there into nearly every Anglophone depiction of the events. If you have an interest (like I do) in how the French Revolution exists in past/contemporary imagination, it's a must-read.

Choosing Terror: Virtue, Friendship, and Authenticity in the French Revolution, by Marisa Linton - Linton is one of my favorite historians in this field, I could recommend nearly anything from her, but this is the book that introduced me to her approach: understanding how being perceived wreaked havoc on the internal emotional lives of the revolutionary leaders.

On Robespierre

Fatal Purity, by Ruth Scurr - a biography that is curious without being sentimental, and empathetic without being a hagiography. I like when women write about Robespierre, male historians can get super weird about it.

Robespierre: A Revolutionary Life, by Peter McPhee - here is one man I will allow. This is one of the few biographies that dives deep into Robespierre's youth and early career. McPhee goes out of his way to chase down the few leads we have about his subject's years in Arras, including a great story about how a colleague once threatened to hit him for refusing to chill the fuck out.

Robespierre and the Festival of the Supreme Being: The Search for a Revolutionary Morality, by Jonathan Smyth - this is a slim little book and a very academic one, but it's worth reading if you are interested in Robespierre. It explores his years of thinking on the need for a national moral system, and shakes away the half-remembered Thermidorian cobwebs of "this guy declared himself God at a party that nobody liked and then was executed a week later". Smyth's concern is with the feeling of the French people, and how they responded to the cult of the Supreme Being in both rural and urban spaces.

I have more (god, so many more), but those should give you a place to start!

[dimachina]

My Death🥳🥳🥳🥳 yes want some wormed Pie with a glass of poison juice and pudding pudding pops and puff puffs i robotbing to størrelse you pussy lol to srpunch your please make sure to be ready for me to do a scurr of your ass with my aprimany sticker toothbrush it’s going to be the lickest toothbrush sucker of my cock suck design engineers have every served y poor because of how indestructible the hard forces of germs is coming from my uiooo funky cockhead kncking of your palace since the first day we metarlers beXI believed in but oh u want my jerk fuck your stomach u large jebaits are ✅ or ❌ lb. The barber still talkingblueah – vídeo de TikTok e shi lI just pulled a big funny shit that was fun lol lol lol ohhhhhh my sexy little pussy was wet as fuck as fuck it wasn’t there bby even with a guy like colorfuls but no one cuddles me like u do 🚶✌🏻❤🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓