#a STORY with; { Frederick }

[little-candy-store-of-horrors]

And at the rate things are going, I fear I am not any way inclined at all! *Laugh track*

[armoricaroyalty]

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author's note: theo they could never make me hate you

If you'd like to know more about how I plan to handle cancer as a subject (and a list of the tags I'll be using), click here.

Transcript under the cut.

On their pre-dinner tour of the house and the grounds, Frederick told her that the room under the eaves had once belonged to his father. He had spoken of the King with unmistakable pride and warmth, and the obvious affection in his voice had made Emily sick with anxiety. He idolized his father; how would he cope with news of the divorce?

All that worry, wasted. The King had less than a year to live; all else was moot.

EMILY | ...Frederick? FREDERICK | ... EMILY | Do you, um...do you want to talk about it? FREDERICK | No. EMILY | ... EMILY | I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, but I'm here to listen if you— FREDERICK | I SAID I DIDN'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT! EMILY | ... FREDERICK | ... EMILY | ... FREDERICK | I shouldn't have yelled. EMILY | ...it's okay. FREDERICK | No, it's not. I'm sorry. [ exhales unsteadily ] ...I'm going for a walk. EMILY | Oh...do you want me to come with? FREDERICK | No. FREDERICK | I need to be alone. FREDERICK | ...

Standing there with the house at his back, Freddy reached for his phone the way his father used to reach for a pack of cigarettes. It wasn't a considered action; it wasn't something he thought about at all. He was seeking comfort, seeking contact. He opened his recent text conversations and tapped the phone icon to begin a call.

[ shower running ] [ phone ringing ] THEO | Shit! Shit, shit, shit— [ phone ringing ] THEO | Hello? ...yeah, I just got out of the shower. What's up? THEO | ...is everything okay? You sound...upset. THEO | Sure, I can talk...what's going on, Freddy?

[hernepenthenotes]

We always think there's enough time to do things with other people. Time to say things to them. And then something happens and then we stand there holding on to words like 'if'.

From A man called Ove

[antiquatedplumbobs]

Spring 1916

It was spring in Brindleton, which meant the calving season was in full swing and sleep was a luxury no longer promised. The whole family felt the strain of it, Hamish and Will the most, but little Charlie came in a close third as Hamish insisted it was time he learned the ropes. Will had experienced almost ten full calving seasons. One morning — when he was unable to crawl to bed until well after the sun rose and breakfast had been served — he found himself desperately glad he wouldn't experience another.

With barely any time for sleep, Will hadn’t seen Clara in weeks. It wasn’t as if she had all the time in the world, either: her own family’s herd wasn’t much smaller than that of Sable Dairy. Despite each other's absence, it would seem neither was far from the other's thoughts. Will had found a small basket of still-warm rolls and a crock of honey sitting on the front stoop in the pearly near dawn that morning; Clara’s initials neatly embossed on the corner of the napkin they were wrapped in.

Will had been unable to stop thinking about Clara after Hamish’s well-intentioned question, and once he began thinking about Clara, he began thinking of his own friends' lives. He had uncomfortably realized that they were all married or engaged, leaving him the only bachelor. Albert and Posie were close to celebrating their second anniversary, and a baby was expected to mark the occurrence. Clive and his new wife had set up his medical practice in a small house overlooking the bay (after throwing the most extravagant wedding the town had seen in years). John — always the more wild of the group — had fallen head over heels for the new baker’s assistant and spent the past six months making an absolute fool of himself as he wooed her. The entire town had breathed a sigh of relief when she had accepted his proposal and the antics came to a halt.

Will had laughed along with everyone else at John (good-naturedly of course) but he had also harbored a secret jealousy of his friend. To find someone and fall so deeply in love so quickly that you would prize your love above all else seemed to Will like a true gift. His father’s stories of love at first sight had set him up with lofty expectations, and Will was still trying to readjust them to fall in line with everyone else's. Most folks knew they wouldn't immediately fall deeply in love; successful, well-matched marriages were built on a foundation of mutual respect and well-matched interests. Clara was a good match for Will.

He had repeated that line over and over again, trying to imbue the truth of it into himself. He repeated it as he looked over the array of delicate rings nestled in velvet at the jeweler's in Britechester; he repeated it as the simple ring was wrapped by the portly jeweler and he parted with a sum greater than any he had ever spent; he repeated it as he sat on the train home, unable to keep from staring at the unassuming ring in its small red box. He had repeated it until it became his truth. He had the ring; her father's blessing had been secured the week before, now all that was left was asking Clara to be his wife.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next / previous / first

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Frederick Pickersgill (Edited By) - And Graves Give Up Their Dead - Corgi Books - 1964

[righteous-r0de0]

FUCK all those old ass redacted fans that got fred and bright eyes purged!!

i finally got ahold of the first (and i think the only preserved) fred video and i NEED more

this is cruel and unusual punishment (and not even the fun kind)

[akuma-tenshi]

i think my favourite thing about aom is that you can tell everyone (except maybe alice) fucking hates each other but they're also trying to be so calm and polite about it. the breakfast scene where orpheus infodumps about mary is the best example of it. his pointed comments so clearly digging into sore spots for both melly and frederick, melly's seething tone of voice when orpheus addresses her about loyalty before immediately throwing the heat onto frederick, frederick just setting down his drink, dismissing the whole thing, and then immediately fucking off but not without one last pointed glance at orpheus, it's so good. like i am just waiting for these people to rip each other apart. alice is on her own quest and getting dragged into these people's beef by virtue of just existing near them and being way too nosy for her own good, it's the fucking best

[ratchet-decades-challenge]

Frederick Burdick fashion circa 1903

Genetics: overlay | eyes | hair (EA)

Everyday: outfit | shoes

Formal: top | pants | socks | shoes

Summer: outfit | hat

Winter: outfit (EA)

Athletic: top + pants | socks

Swim: bathing suit

CC Creators: @kismet-sims @zurkdesign @linzlu @waxesnostalgic

@coeurdavide @happylifesims

[bizarreauhavre]

Frederick Simpson Coburn - Illustration for Berenice by Edgar Allan Poe, 19O4.

[leiawritesstories]

When We Think of Love

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 11 & 12: Song Fic & Forbidden Love @rowaelinscourt. inspired by "Soul Tied" by Ashley Singh

Word count: 3k

Warnings: angst. and pain. the song is quite sad. i'm so sorry.

A/N: this is a sort-of Regency era AU, so the language might be a little weird hahaha. also, Frederick got out of the basement. enjoy...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even though the gown was the latest fashion and only had two layers of skirts with a single underskirt and lightweight wore structure holding up its shape, Aelin felt weighed down by the fine silk that draped her frame, its rosy pink color completely at odds with the grey numbness clouding her mind. 

“You are a vision,” her mother announced, sweeping elegantly into Aelin’s dressing chamber. Evalin Ashryver, Duchess of Orynth, never walked. She floated, and she had taught her only daughter to do the same from the time she could stand. “But why are you pensive, my dear?”

“Simply lost in thought, I suppose.” Aelin painted a soft smile onto her lips. “Mayhap I am a bit nervous for tonight.” 

“As it is well you may be.” Evalin touched her daughter’s satin-gloved hand with her own. “I recall clearly the day my own parents announced my betrothal to your father. I declare I may not remember anything else from that evening.” 

Aelin gave the skirts a gentle shake, letting the fine silk drape more fluidly over the subtle hoops rounding out its shape. “Let us hope His Majesty is pleased with the arrangement, yes?” 

“Of course he is,” Evalin said, brushing away Aelin’s underlying concern. “The prince is the most advantageous match we could have made for you, Aelin dear, and Orlon has long been looking at the benefit of a military tie with Anielle. I know the two of you have only met a handful of times, but there will be ample time for you to become acquainted during the wedding preparations.” 

“I suppose there will be.” Aelin shifted her gaze back to the mirror, resisting the urge to reach up and rip the delicate silver tiara from its perch atop the coils of her hair. She was fourth in the succession for the throne of Terrasen, and she had grown accustomed to the ways in which her family demonstrated their royal position, but there were ever so many moments when she wanted nothing more than to abandon the crown and its weight and flee into the depths of the Oakwald. 

There, parted from society, she could be with her love. 

A soft knock rapped on the door, and Aelin’s lady’s maid entered, curtsying politely to Evalin. “Pardon, milady, Your Grace, but His Grace is ready.” 

“Thank you, Kaltain,” Aelin said. She turned to her mother. “We likely should not keep Father waiting; we know how quickly he disappears into his study if he does not have to make an appearance.” Evalin laughed softly and led Aelin out into the hallway and down the stairs, finding Rhoe waiting at the base of the sweeping staircase, fidgeting with his gloves. 

“Ah, there you are,” he said, looking up. “You look so lovely, my Fireheart.” He squeezed Aelin’s hands and leaned in to whisper into her ear. “I would embrace you, but your mother might strangle me for crinkling your dress.” 

She snickered. “She very well might.” 

“None of that unladylike noise,” Evalin hissed, prodding Aelin with her paper fan. She nodded at the pair of footmen by the double doors leading to the ballroom. “Shall we?” 

“I am as ready as I can be,” Aelin whispered as she placed her hand on her father’s arm. “Only help me not to fall.” 

“Of course.” Rhoe let Evalin glide into the ballroom, nodding and smiling and exchanging greetings with the swarm of beautifully dressed nobility gathered there, and at the swell of the small orchestra in the corner, he led Aelin into the throng. 

She fixed her smile firmly in place but coasted her gaze over the sea of blurred faces, seeking an anchor in the pair of pine eyes that seared into her soul. Catching Rowan’s gaze, she let loose a fraction of her anguish, silently crying her grief to him across the sea of elegantly clad gentry. 

Please forgive me.

~

Rowan Alexander Whitethorn, heir to the Duchy of Doranelle, had known Aelin since they were both small children. His family estate bordered her family holdings, but his father had only recently been elevated to the title of Duke, honored for his many years of service to King Orlon. Rowan vividly remembered the day he had first met Aelin—he was ten and she was seven, and she was a golden-blonde blur of motion on the back of a silvery mare galloping through the forest between their lands. 

“Whoa, there!” he cried in his childish voice, and he caught up with her as she managed to rein in her horse. “Are you quite alright?” 

She gave him a stare far too imperious to be coming from a young girl and tossed her hair with a sniff. ��Kasida and I are perfectly fine, even though we are alone. I do not need to slouch along at a snail’s pace like my governess insists.” 

Rowan couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Pardon me, but I can’t imagine you…slouching along like that, miss…” He trailed off. “Um…” 

Her stare melted into a bright smile. “I’m Aelin. My papa is the duke of Orynth.” She held out her small hand, and he shook it. 

“And I am Rowan. My father is the duke of Doranelle.” 

“So we’re neighbors!” Aelin beamed. “I ride away from my governess very often, and I like this forest quite a lot.” 

“I like the forest too,” Rowan admitted. “It’s quieter than the manor.” 

“Sometimes I dream about living in the forest forever,” Aelin said, an odd kind of yearning flickering across her face. “But anytime I even mention it, my mama scolds me for reading too many faerie stories.” She shrugged. “I still like riding here.” 

“Miss Aelin!” The high-pitched cry echoed through the trees, and Aelin sighed. 

“That’s my governess. I ought to go and find her before she gets lost.” She smiled at Rowan again, and he felt the warmth of it in his soul. “It was nice to meet you, Rowan!” 

He managed to mumble some kind of farewell as she turned her horse around and rode off, only forming proper words once she was out of sight. It was nice to meet you too, Aelin. 

She had told the truth about riding in the forest often, and it became a habit of theirs to ride through the woods together, trading stories of what they were doing and wondering what the Oakwald, the near-mythical forest that spanned western Terrasen, would be like. As they grew older, Aelin’s stories turned from school lessons to etiquette lessons, and she had such a knack for imitating the stuffy old people at her family’s banquets that she made Rowan cry from laughter. Still, he allowed her to practice her lessons and her dancing with him, ignoring how frequently she trod on his toes when she was learning a new dance. 

And their childhood friendship turned into a partnership of sorts, a series of stolen moments of freedom and secret glances across a ballroom or dining room when their families were at a gathering together. Since she was not yet out in society, she was still largely overlooked during those events, and she was free to send him into stitches of laughter with her impersonations of the visiting nobility. He even asked her to dance several times, and she pretended to be a simpering debutante but still counted the music under her breath. He caught her any time she stumbled, and he caught each of her smiles too.

He was eighteen when he realized he had fallen in love with her. 

But she was only fifteen, so he kept it to himself, forcing himself to stay within the lines of friendship yet falling more in love with her every time she flicked a hidden glance at him during a long, boring dinner. She grew a bit more distant over the next few years, caught up in her mother’s constant lady lessons and working so hard—too hard—to be the portrait of a perfect lady, but at her eighteenth birthday ball, he worked up the courage to ask her for a dance. 

The smile that broke across her face, as bright and warm as it had been since the day he met her, kindled a wildfire in his heart. And late that night, hidden in a little-used gazebo in a corner of the Galathynius estate’s gardens, Rowan Whitethorn kissed Aelin Galathynius for the first time, and his heart surged towards hers.

Aelin made her debut at twenty, a few years later than traditional, but her parents had wanted her to wait a while longer so that society would be anticipating her debut. After all, she was fourth in line for the throne, and her marriage would undoubtedly be a topic of gossip and news from the moment she became eligible. Rowan longed for the day when he could bring her flowers and walk beside her in public, when he could finally bring the years of his love for her into the light of day, but he hesitated at the thought of exposing that delicate piece of his heart to the scrutiny of society and of Evalin Ashryver. For Aelin’s mother was a well-respected duchess, but he had seen the effects of her demanding nature on her daughter, and he feared the repercussions of her disapproval. 

He suspected, as he knew Aelin did, that one day their secret courtship would either have to be brought into the light of day or be torn apart by circumstance, but neither of them had wanted to address it. The unspoken bond between them was too precious, too beloved to be so shattered. 

Since her eighteenth birthday, he had courted her in secret, stealing precious moments and pieces of her heart beneath starry skies, foggy mornings, and shaded corners. He guarded every tiny bit of her with his life, from the letters in her tidy script that he kept tucked into his jacket pocket to the faint trace of her perfume that lingered on his collar when she kissed him. Although he could not shout his love for her from the rooftops, he reveled in their masked touches, in the flicker of humor in her eyes when she caught his gaze, in the echo of her laughter when he took her to the empty greenhouse on his family’s land and danced with her there under the sunset. With every encounter, he felt his soul drawn more and more towards hers, felt more and more as if his life were irrevocably tied to hers. 

And when he saw her across the ballroom that evening, when he caught sight of the tiara in her hair and the proud smiles on her parents’ faces and the man in the military jacket standing beside her mother at the front of the ballroom, when her eyes caught his and an ocean of anguish opened in them for a brief, wrenching moment, he felt that tie fracture. 

~

Aelin’s first kiss had been Rowan. 

Her first everything had been Rowan, the only one close enough to her heart to hold its fragile pieces and treat them with tenderness rather than callousness. From laughter-filled memories of her childhood to secret, stolen moments in the gardens during banquets and balls before her debut, to the all-too-few snatches of time she had been able to steal with him after her debut, when she wanted nothing more than his kisses and his gentle, reassuring words. 

She’d known for a long while, deep in the back of her mind, that her marriage would be a political one, for she was high in the line of succession. While it was unlikely that she would ever inherit, since Orlon could just as easily name someone else as his successor, her parents still strategized over which eligible noble could marry their daughter. They had settled on Prince Chaol Westfall of Anielle, the third son of the Prince of Anielle and a well-respected military officer. For him, marriage to Aelin was a massive step up, because he was so far down in the succession for the throne of Adarlan that he’d probably never known he was in line. For her, the marriage would secure military ties between Terrasen and Adarlan, a powerful alliance of nations. 

She did not know the man save for a few cursory meetings. 

At least, she supposed as she walked up to his side, he was not terribly hard on the eyes. He was even passably attractive, if a lady was drawn to brown-haired men in military uniforms with all the apparent personality of boiled potatoes. 

“Your Highness,” Aelin murmured, dipping in a graceful curtsy to Chaol. “It is an honor.” 

“The honor is entirely mine, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, bowing low. 

With a flourish, Rhoe and Evalin turned out towards the assembled crowd, Aelin still with her hand on her father’s arm. The crown quieted, and Rhoe smiled warmly. “We have delightful news for all of you this fine evening. Our daughter, Aelin, has accepted the hand of Prince Chaol Westfall in marriage, and with all good hope, they shall be married in two months’ time!” Applause rippled through the ballroom, and Aelin mentally prepared herself for an evening of simpering congratulations. Beaming at her, Rhoe lifted her hand from his arm and placed it ceremonially into Chaol’s hand, linking the hands of the young couple. 

“Would you like to dance?” Chaol asked, polite but also perceptive—he’d picked up on her unwillingness to be faced with a string of saccharine compliments from the noble ladies. 

She flicked him a crooked grin. “I would love to.”

He led her onto the polished parquet floor and swept her into a waltz, his steps sure and practiced, quick and light on his feet. She must have murmured in surprise, because he grinned, the expression almost boyish. “I took dancing lessons too, once upon a time.” 

“I almost forgot you were nobility under all that military regalia,” she teased. To her pleasant surprise, she found it easy to make conversation with Chaol, albeit mostly small talk and nothing about important issues. As the dance drew to a close, she skimmed her gaze across the ballroom and, once again, caught Rowan’s tormented eyes, his look a caress of her heart. 

Determination sparked suddenly in Rowan’s expression, and he meandered through the crowd, joining the queue of congratulatory nobility, but when he reached Aelin, he bowed like any other eligible gentleman and reached for her dance card. “Might you have a dance for me, my lady?” 

“I believe I do,” she said lightly, pretending this was just another ball and he was just another man who had asked her to dance. Chaol, who had no idea who Rowan was, simply shook Rowan’s hand and accepted his civil words, not noticing the well-concealed grief beneath the congratulations. 

Rowan escorted Aelin onto the dance floor, and he placed one gloved hand at the curve of her waist and took her hand in his free one. As he led her through the sweeping, intricate curves of the dance, he subtly tugged her just a fraction closer than appropriate, just an inch nearer to the unsteady pulse of his heart. “Did you know?” he murmured, and her fractured heart cleaved further at the anguish that pierced his words. 

“No,” she whispered, and she looked into his eyes, baring the depth of her own anguish to him. “I did not.” 

His gaze flicked out the open windows, glancing for an instant towards the expansive gardens, knowing the privacy they could steal, if only for a moment, out there. “One moment?” he asked, turning her smoothly in a circle so her skirts flared out in a perfect arc. 

“One moment,” she agreed, and she folded the mask of happiness back across her face. Rowan bowed over her hand as the dance ended, his lips just barely skimming the satin of her glove. He let her walk back towards Chaol, towards her parents, and he took an opposite course, stopping to dance with another young lady before he covertly stepped out a side door and disappeared into the gardens. 

Aelin waited a few more minutes before she touched Chaol’s shoulder and whispered to him that she needed a moment for relief, and she quietly slipped out a different side door, one that led directly to a refreshing room. Before she could reach the powder room, though, she turned down a different hall and went outdoors, entering the gardens through a little-known side gate. Her heart guided her down the familiar paths of the labyrinth, and she found Rowan in an alcove near the center, seated on a stone bench cast half in shadow by the faint sliver of moonlight. 

“Rowan,” she breathed, heart thumping unsteadily. 

In a rushed blur, his lips were on hers, his arms firm and strong around her waist, supporting her as her legs buckled. She cupped the back of his head and kissed him hard, desperate, the ache in her heart poured into the press of her lips, the curl of her tongue. When she drew back, tears shone in her eyes, but she tipped her head back so they could not fall. 

“I love you, Rowan,” she whispered. Simple, true, broken. 

Tenderly, his thumb stroked the line of her jaw. “I love you, Aelin.” Simple, true, ruined. “But you are betrothed.” He took a single step back, wrenching himself away from the woman who had brought warmth and healing and love into his life. Wordless, she could only nod, every regret and wish that shone in her eyes tamped down by the force of duty. 

She straightened her skirts, righted the dainty tiara in her coiffure, adjusted her gloves, and with one final lingering heart-searing gaze, she left the alcove, heading back into the manor, back towards her family and her betrothed and her duty. So too Rowan turned and walked out of the gardens, but he circled the side of the manor, went into the drive, and signaled his coachman. He climbed into his carriage, closed the door, rapped on the roof, and set his course for home. 

Where his own arranged betrothal awaited him.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

@anarchiii

@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

[stuffobrien]

happy bday baby boy. i havnt enough words to descibre how much i love u. enjoy your day, enjoy your life! proud of u.

[crimesandcuriosities]

The Eerie Disappearance of Frederick Valentich

On October 21st, 1978, a 20-year-old Australian pilot named Frederick Valentich made his last contact with air traffic control before disappearing from the earth without a trace. At the time, he was flying a light aircraft 125 miles over Bass Strait; a passage of water which separates the island state Tasmania from the Australian mainland.

Almost fifty years have since passed and there is still no certain explanation of what happened to Frederick. This case is considered one of the most eerie unsolved disappearances due to Frederick's bizarre last known moments. During his flight, he made contact with air traffic control and reported that he was being followed by an unknown aircraft, which was flying approximately 1,000 feet above him. He described the object as being shiny with green lights and long-shaped, then shortly afterwards reported that his engine was malfunctioning. His final transmission was a cryptic and chilling message: "It's not an aircraft."

Communication was lost and neither Frederick Valentich nor his small aircraft were ever found. Extra-terrestrial activity has often been discussed as the cause of his disappearance, although the Department of Transport has maintained a sceptical view when it comes to UFO theories. They instead suggested that Valentich must have become disorientated and began flying upside down, and what he actually saw was his own aircraft lights reflected in the water below.

[armoricaroyalty]

Through fire and storm, the stone and slate of Morley Cottage had been its salvation. Older and grander buildings had been fallen into ruin, but the unassuming house had stood through the decades, a safe haven for generations of St. Fleurs. It was where Andre had taken his first steps, nearly sixty years before. It was the site of his last conversation with his mother. Swaying slightly, Andre rose to his feet. The conversation fell away, puzzled silence settling over the room as seven expectant faces turned toward him. There were tears in Elise's eyes. He forced himself to look away.

Previous | Chapter Start | Beginning | Next

author's note: so...this is it, the thing I've been building toward since the very beginning.

If you'd like to know more about how I plan to handle cancer as a subject (and a list of the tags I'll be using), click here.

Transcript beneath the cut.

ANDRE | Excuse me...I'll uh, try to keep this brief. I think we all know I'm not much of a public speaker.

A thin ripple of laughter. Amidst the uncertainty, Andre could feel Freddy seeking his gaze, but he kept his eyes down. It was too much like looking in a mirror.

ANDRE | There's something I've been keeping from you. And...I'm sorry. Last week, I...I...I... [ choking ] I'm sorry, I can't--

The silence in that room was profound. No one dared speak, no one dared breathe. Only Elise was unaffected by the dreadful atmosphere; she was on her feet the moment tears began to roll down Andre's cheeks.

There was only one thing she could do for him now.

ELISE | There's no easy way to say this, so...I'll just say it. Last week, your father met with his oncologist for a routine screening. He got the results two days ago. The cancer is back. And this time, it's terminal.

[apinchofm]

THE CHILDREN OF KING GEORGE III & QUEEN CHARLOTTE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM

The royal couple welcomed a total of fifteen children together, but sadly not all of them survived into adulthood. Two, Prince Octavius and Prince Alfred, passed away in infancy, at the ages of 2 and 4, respectively, from smallpox. Later on, Princess Amelia also sadly died young, albeit it at the age of 27, after succumbing to tuberculosis. As for when their brood started to arrive, it seems George and Charlotte wasted no time in getting to know one another and less than a year into their marriage, on 12 August 1762

[hoppityhopster23]

Crown Prince Frederiks (later Frederik vi) Childhood I

Georg Haas

SMK Open

[weirdlookindog]

The Grim 13 - Frederick Stuart Greene (editor), Dodd, Mean & Co., 1917?