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dwellordream · 3 years ago

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“...While on his travels Augustus would have continued to be preoccupied with the old issue of what would happen after his death. He had clearly demonstrated at the time of his departure that he could not manage without Marcus Agrippa, married at the time to Marcella, Octavia’s daughter. Agrippa now divorced her (her compensation was to be married to Iullus Antonius, the son of Antony and Fulvia), so as to be free in 21 to marry the widowed Julia. Plutarch says that this marriage came about through Octavia’s machinations and that she prevailed upon Augustus to accept the idea. It is not clear what her motives would have been.

If we are to believe Seneca we might see pure spite. He claimed that Octavia hated Livia after the death of Marcellus because the hopes of the imperial house passed now to Livia’s sons. This could well be no more than speculation, and Seneca does not even hint at any specific action by Octavia against her supposed rival. The whole story sounds typically Senecan in its denigration of dead individuals who are easy targets. Once again, we are told nothing about Livia’s reaction to the marriage. She might not have been able to object to the earlier marriage between Julia and Augustus’ nephew Marcellus, but in 21 the situation was different. Her older son, Tiberius, who was not yet married, had been passed over in favour of an outsider to the family.

But whatever his sense of obligation to his wife, Augustus probably felt that he had little choice in the matter. Agrippa’s earlier reaction to having to take second place to Marcellus, a blood relative of Augustus, would have provided a good hint to Augustus of how his friend would have taken to playing second string to Tiberius. Agrippa was now a key figure in the governing of Rome. He was not a man to be provoked. If Livia had been entertaining hopes that this early stage of a preeminent role for either of her sons (and such a suggestion, while reasonable, is totally speculative), such hopes would have faded with the birth of two sons to Julia and Agrippa.

Gaius Caesar was born in 20 bc, and, as if to confirm the line, a second son, Lucius Caesar, arrived in 17. Augustus was delighted, and soon after Lucius’ birth signalled his ultimate intentions by adopting both boys. He thus might envisage himself as being ‘‘succeeded’’ by Agrippa, who would in turn be succeeded by either Gaius and Lucius, who were, in a sense, sons of both men. In late 16 bc Augustus set out on an extended trip to Gaul and Spain, where he established a number of veteran settlements. Livia may have accompanied him. Dio does report speculation that the emperor went away so as to be able to conduct his affair with Terentia, the wife of his close confidant Maecenas, in a place where it would not attract gossip.

Even if the rumours were well founded, the implication need not necessarily follow that he had left Livia behind. Livia had a reputation as a femme complaisante, and Augustus may simply have wanted to get away from the prying eyes of the capital. Certainly at one stage Livia intervened with Augustus to argue for the grant of citizenship to a Gaul, and this trip provides the best context. Moreover, Seneca dates a famous incident to this trip, Livia’s plea on behalf of the accused Gaius Cornelius Cinna. It could well be that Seneca misdated the Cinna episode, but he at any rate clearly believed that Livia had been in Gaul with her husband at the relevant time.

…Agrippa lived to see the birth of two other children, his daughters Julia and Agrippina. The first (born about 19 bc) is the namesake of her mother, and, in the historical tradition, cut from the same cloth; the second was to be somewhat eclipsed in the same tradition by her own daughter and namesake, the mother of the last Julio-Claudian emperor, Nero. Agrippa thus became the natural father of four of Augustus’ grandchildren during his lifetime (a fifth would be born posthumously), and his stock rose higher with each event. He had served his princeps well, and could now take his final exit. In 13 he campaigned in the Balkans. At the end of the season he returned to Italy, where he fell ill, and in mid-March, 12 bc, he died.

His body was brought to Rome, where it was given a magnificent burial, and the remains were deposited in the Mausoleum of Augustus, even though Agrippa had earlier booked himself another site in the Campus Martius. In the following year Octavia died. She is celebrated by the sources as a paragon of every human virtue, whose only possible failings had been the forgivable ones of excessive loyalty to an undeserving husband and excessive grief over the death of a possibly only marginally more deserving son. As noted earlier, we should be cautious about Seneca’s claim that Octavia nursed a hatred for Livia after the death of Marcellus. But there can be no doubt that her death was in a sense advantageous to Livia, for it removed one of the main contenders for the role of the premier woman in the state. Only Augustus’ daughter Julia might now lay claim to a precedence of sorts, but she in fact became an agent in furthering Livia’s ambitions, rather than an obstacle. Once her formal period of mourning was over, Julia would need another husband. Suetonius says that her father carefully considered several options, even from among the equestrians.

Tiberius later claimed that Augustus pondered the idea of marrying her off to a political nonentity, someone noted for leading a retiring life and not involved in a political career. Among others he supposedly considered Gaius Proculeius, a close friend of the emperor and best known for the manner of his death rather than of his life: he committed suicide by what must have been a painful technique—swallowing gypsum. This drastic action was apparently not in response to the prospect of marriage to Julia but in despair over the unbearable pains in his stomach.

In 11 bc, the year of Octavia’s death, Augustus made his decision. He could hardly pass over one of Livia’s sons again. They were the only real choices, given the practical options open to him. Both were married, and Drusus’ wife was the daughter of Octavia, someone able already to produce offspring linked, at least indirectly, by blood to the princeps. Divorce in this case would not have been desirable. Augustus had already demonstrated his faith in Livia’s other son, Tiberius, by appointing him to replace Agrippa in the Balkans. He was the inevitable candidate for Julia’s next husband. In perhaps 20 or 19 Tiberius had married Agrippa’s daughter Vipsania, to whom he had long been betrothed. Their son Drusus was born in perhaps 14. In 11 Vipsania was pregnant for a second time, but Tiberius was obliged to divorce her, although he seems to have been genuinely attached to her. Reputedly when they met after the divorce he followed her with such a forlorn and tearful gaze that precautions were taken that their paths would never cross again.

He was now free to marry Julia. This marriage marks a milestone in Tiberius’ career and in the ambitions that Livia would naturally have nursed for her son. Augustus was clearly prepared to place him in an advantageous position, and the process could be revoked only with difficulty. It is inevitable that there should be speculation among modern scholars that Livia might have played a role in arranging the marriage. Gardthausen claimed that she brought it off in the teeth of vigorous opposition. Perhaps, but the suggestion belongs totally to the realm of speculation. If Livia did play some part in winning over Augustus, she did it so skilfully and unobtrusively that she has left no traces, and the sources are silent about any specific interference on this occasion.

Nor can it be assumed that Augustus would have needed a great deal of persuading. No serious store should be placed in the claims in the sources that he held Tiberius in general contempt and was reduced to turning to him faut de mieux. Suetonius quotes passages from Augustus’ correspondence that provide concrete evidence that the emperor in fact held his adopted son in high regard. Suetonius chose the extracts to show his appreciation of Tiberius’ military and administrative skills, but his words clearly suggest a high degree of affection that seems to go beyond the merely formulaic.

He addresses Tiberius as iucundissime, probably the equivalent in modern correspondence of ‘‘my very dear Tiberius.’’ He reveals that when he has a challenging problem or is feeling particularly annoyed at something, he yearns for his Tiberius (Tiberium meum desidero), and he notes that both he and Livia are tortured by the thought that her son might be overtaxing himself. Livia’s other son, Drusus, although arguably his brother’s match in military reputation and ability, seems to have been quite different from him in temperament. Where Tiberius was private, inhibited, uninterested in courting popularity, Drusus was affable, engaging, and well-liked, and there was a popular belief, probably naive, that he was committed to an eventual restoration of the republic. He had found a perfectly compatible wife in Antonia the Younger, a woman who commanded universal esteem and respect to the very end.

They produced two sons, both of whom would loom large on the stage of human events: Germanicus, who became the most loved man in the Roman empire and whose early death threatened to erode Livia’s popularity, and Claudius, whose physical limitations were an embarrassment to Livia and to other members of the imperial family, but who confounded them all by becoming an emperor of considerable acumen and ability. They also had a daughter, Livilla, who attained disrepute through her affair with the most loathed man in the early Roman empire, the notorious praetorian prefect Sejanus.

Drusus dominated the landscape in 9 bc. The year seemed to start auspiciously for Livia. In 13 bc the Senate had voted to consecrate the Ara Pacis, one of the great monuments of Augustus’ regime, as a memorial to his safe return from Spain and the pacification of Gaul. The dedication waited four years and finally took place in 9, on January 30, Livia’s birthday, perhaps her fiftieth. The honour was a profound one, but indirect and thus low-key, in keeping with Livia’s public persona. Her sons continued to achieve distinction on the battlefield. A decorated sword sheath of provincial workmanship has survived from this period.

It represents a frontal Livia with the nodus hairstyle, and shoulder locks carefully designed so as to flow along her shoulders above the drapery. She appears between two heads, almost certainly her sons, and the piece pictorially symbolises Livia at what must have been one of the most satisfying periods of her life. To cap her sense of well-being, Tiberius, after signal victories over the Dalmatians and Pannonians, returned to Rome to celebrate an ovation. Following the usual practice after a triumph or ovation, a dinner was given for the Senate in the Capitoline temple, and tables were set out for the people in front of private houses.

A separate banquet was arranged for the women. Its sponsors were Livia and Julia. Private tensions may already have arisen between Tiberius and Julia, but at least at the public level they were sedulously maintaining an outward image of marital harmony, and Livia was making her own contribution towards promoting that image. Similar festivities were planned to celebrate Drusus’ victories. Presumably in his case Livia would have joined Antonia, Drusus’ wife, in preparing the banquet, as she had joined Tiberius’ wife on the earlier occasion.

While Tiberius had been engaged in operations in Pannonia, Drusus had conducted a highly acclaimed campaign in Germany. By 9 bc he had succeeded in taking Roman arms as far as the river Elbe. So awesome were his achievements that greater powers felt the need to intervene. He was visited by the apparition of a giant barbarian woman, who told him—she conveniently spoke Latin—not to push his successes further. Something was clearly amiss in the divine timing. Suetonius implies that Drusus heeded the warning, but calamity befell him anyhow. In a riding accident Drusus’ horse toppled over onto him and broke his thigh. He fell gravely ill.

His deteriorating condition caused consternation throughout the Roman world, and it is even claimed that the enemy respected him so much that they declared a truce pending his recovery. (Similar claims were later made about his son Germanicus.) Tiberius had been campaigning in the Balkans at the time but had returned to Italy and was passing through Ticinum after the campaign when he heard that Drusus was sinking fast. Travelling the 290 km in a day and a night, a rate that Pliny thought impressive enough to record, he rushed to be with his brother. He reached him just before he died in September, 9 bc. Drusus was universally liked, and his death at the age of twenty-nine could not seriously be seen as benefitting anyone.

Nevertheless, it still managed to attract gossip and rumours. The death of a young prince of the imperial house would usually drag in the name of Livia as the prime suspect. In this instance such a scenario would have been totally implausible, and Augustus became the target of the innuendo instead. Tacitus reports that the tragedy evoked the same jaundiced reactions as would that of Germanicus, three decades later in the reign of Tiberius, that sons with ‘‘democratic’’ temperaments—civilia ingenia—did not please ruling fathers (Germanicus had been adopted by Tiberius).

Suetonius has preserved a tradition that Augustus, suspecting Drusus of republicanism, recalled him from his province and, when he declined to obey, had him poisoned. Suetonius thought the suggestion nonsensical, and he is surely correct. Augustus had shown great affection for the young man and in the Senate had named him joint heir with Gaius and Lucius. He also delivered a warm eulogy after his death. Even Tiberius’ grief was portrayed as twofaced. To illustrate Tiberius’ hatred for the members of his own family, Suetonius claims that he had earlier produced a letter in which his younger brother discussed with him the possibility of compelling Augustus to restore the republic.

But events seem to belie completely the notion of any serious fraternal strife. Tiberius’ anguish was clearly genuine. His general deportment is of special interest, because of the light that it might throw on his and Livia’s conduct later, at the funeral of Germanicus. According to Seneca, the troops were deeply distressed over the death and demanded Drusus’ body. Tiberius maintained that discipline had to be observed in grieving as well as fighting, and that the funeral was to be conducted with the dignity demanded by the Roman tradition. He repressed his own tears and was able to dampen the enthusiasm for a vulgar show of public grief.

Tiberius now set out with the body for Rome. Augustus went to Ticinum (Pavia) to meet the cortege, and because Seneca says that Livia accompanied the procession to Rome, it is probably safe to assume that she went with her husband. As she travelled, she was struck by the pyres that burned throughout the country and the crowds that came out to escort the funeral train. The event provides one of the few glimpses of Livia’s private emotions. She was crushed by the death and sought comfort from the philosopher Areus. On his advice, she uncharacteristically opened herself up to others. She put pictures of Drusus in public and private places and encouraged her acquaintances to talk about him.

But she maintained a respectable level of grief, which elicited the admiration of Seneca. Tiberius may well have learned from his mother the appropriateness of self-restraint in the face of private anguish. It was an attitude that was later to arouse considerable resentment against both of them. During the funeral in Rome, Tiberius delivered a eulogy in the Forum and Augustus another in the Circus Maximus, where the emperor expressed the hope that Gaius and Lucius would emulate Drusus.

The body was taken to the Campus Martius for cremation by the equestrians, and the funeral bier was surrounded by images of the Julian and the Claudian families. The ashes were deposited in Augustus’ mausoleum. The title of Germanicus was posthumously bestowed on Drusus and his descendants, and he was given the further honour of statues, an arch, and a cenotaph on the banks of the Rhine. Augustus composed the verses that appeared on his tomb and also wrote a prose account of his life. No doubt less distinguished Romans, of varied literary talent, would have written their own contributions.

The anonymous Consolatio ad Liviam represents itself as just such a composition, intended to offer comfort to Livia on this very occasion, although it was probably composed somewhat later. Livia was indeed devastated, but as some form of compensation for her terrible private loss, she now, after some thirty years in the shadows, came into greater public prominence. The final chapter of Drusus’ life seems to have opened up a new one in his mother’s.”

- Anthony A. Barrett, “In the Shadows.” in Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome

#livia drusilla #octavian #livia first lady of imperial rome #anthony a. barrett #roman #ancient #history

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elisabeth515 · 4 years ago

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(Some) Greek Gods as Historical Figures

So some days ago I secretly logged back into Mythology and Cultures amino and I stumbled across post of casting historical figures as the gods from Greek mythology. Of course, I hated it, so I made my version of this.

Note: Of course, this is going to have quite a lot of Napoleonic figures, since I am more familiar of this period, but please do reblog this post (or tag me on another post) with the hashtag “#mythical figures as historical people” and add some more of your historical figure Greek God fancasts!

Note 2: this post is for entertaining purpose, and just me introducing some guys to y’all and I am not a historian myself and hopefully you all would still like my takes😅

1. Zeus - Louis XIV of France

First and foremost, I shall introduce the king of gods featured in Greco-Roman myths. You may ask, why don’t I cast Henry VIII of England? Well, my reason is very simple: Henry is far from accurate to Zeus in actual myths.

To be honest, Zeus has a more “absolute power” energy in it, and Louis XIV totally has rocked it (like that iconic line “l’état, c’est moi (I am the state)”). Well, Henry also has that kind of energy but everyone only remembers his six wives and the uncountable number of bloodshed (not to mention Catherine of Aragon is a much better fighter than him—got this from Horrible Histories OwO)... Anyways, Louis XVI is basically a Zeus.

2. Hera - Catherine of Aragon

This brings to Catherine of Aragon herself. She’s a total Q U E E N and if you have watched “Six” the musical you already got what I mean (like, being the wife who married to Henry the longest). There’s also the early warlike aspect in Hera (featured in Homer’s works) that Catherine has it as well (at least you know that she’s getting more victories than Henry if you have watched Horrible Histories season 6, in the episode with Rowan Atkinson playing Henry VIII (which is sad because I want Ben Willbond to play him—he iconic to the HH fandom)), making her a great casting of Hera.

Hera, in my opinion, is a very strong woman who has to take Zeus’s shit and I could totally understand why she took revenge on the girls that Zeus has slept with—but anyways, hopefully you guys would like it :3

3. Aphrodite - Pauline Bonaparte

This is half-self-explanatory, really—just look at that statue she posed as Venus, the Roman equivalent of Aphrodite.

Pauline was famed for her beauty in her time, also a big chunk of scandals from her affairs (which bugs her big brother Napoleon, a lot). Nevertheless, despite her big spending habits and a great sexual appetite, she always helped Napoleon in some surprising ways (like she sold her house in Paris to the Duke of Wellington to get the funds for Napoleon).

Just like Aphrodite herself, Pauline harnessed her beauty very well. Thus, I rest my case.

4. Apollo - Joachim Murat or Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria

(Warning: long content ahead)

Firstly, let me briefly introduce them because you guys might not know them much.

Joachim Murat was a marshal of France, also one of Napoleon’s brother-in-law, grand duke of Berg and Cleves from 1806 to 1808 and the King of Naples from 1808 to 1815. After the wars, he attempted to escape yet was caught and executed in 1815 in Pizzo, Italy (if you have read of Alexandre Dumas’s “Famous Crimes” you might know him—by the way no one has cut his head off and sent it to that big nose King Ferdinand).

For those who have watched “Elisabeth” or the “Sissi” movies, you might know Franz Joseph I of Austria already but you might not know much about himself besides being the husband of the (in)famous Empress Sisi (ie. Empress Elisabeth of Austria). He was the Emperor of the Austria from 1848 to his death in 1916—one of the longest reigning European monarchs in history. During his reign, the empire had been through a lot of change, most notably, the creation of Austria-Hungary. Nevertheless, he was also the Emperor who started World War I and he died of old age in the midst of the Great War.

For Apollo, I’m not casting musicians because this is quite overdone. I rather want to shed a light to the other arts that he represented in Greco-Roman mythology. This makes me want to draw a parallel to Joachim Murat as he was also a great sucker of classical literature. Plus, he also was known to be a flamboyant dresser (his nickname was “the Dandy King” by the way), also the designer of the uniforms of the Neapolitan army (with an excessive amount of amaranth, perhaps his favourite colour). Really, everyone just sees him as a great flamboyant himbo but in reality, he’s iconically badass in the battlefield as the First Horseman of Europe. Well, also he’s known for being extremely good with women even though his wife Caroline was fierce as hell. So, in my opinion, he fits the image of Apollo that we know.

However, you guys might feel surprised why I picked Franz Joseph for Apollo. Well, he really... was a rather mediocre ruler in my opinion, and perhaps our most memorable image of him was the senile emperor who signed the declaration of war to Serbia. Nevertheless, he was a well-liked man among his subjects, at least to some old citizens of Austria-Hungary telling future generations. Besides, culture flourished in Vienna under his reign—with notable figures like Sigmund Freud, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Erwin Schrödinger. Despite the series of unfortunate events which made the empire started to crumble, Austria-Hungary arguably has its cultural importance in Europe. Sounds like what Apollo would do if he’s a ruler, somehow.

Well, enough of his political achievements, let’s talk about his private life... which was probably the actual reason why I picked him.

Enter Duchess Elisabeth in Bavaria, the Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, also known as Sisi.

On a side note, Marshal Louis-Alexandre Berthier of France, Prince of Neufchâtel and of Wargram, was Empress Sisi’s grand-uncle in-law via his marriage to Duchess Maria Elisabeth in Bavaria

Absolutely love Pia as Elisabeth in the musical so please don’t mind me using a gif from this :3 ((also, “Elisabeth” spoiler alert

Franz originally was to marry her sister Helene (nicknamed Néné), nevertheless, on the first meeting in Bad Ishl, he has fallen for the young Elisabeth, head over heels—making him defying his domineering mother, Archduchess Sophie, for the very first time. Elisabeth also liked him and did not expressed her refusal either, so they got married in St. Augustine’s Church in 29th April, 1854.

However, the marriage was not well. Sisi was not accustomed to the strict Austrian court especially Archduchess Sophie (also she was not really a fan of intimacy). Poor Franz was rather helpless in situations between his mother and his wife, and eventually, Sisi chose her freedom over her duty as Empress, traveling around the world. They two briefly went back together during the Austro-Hungarian compromise, yet she was constantly not there. Eventually, Sisi was assassinated by an anarchist named Luigi Lucheni during her stay in Geneva, Switzerland, and Franz was devastated over her death (“she will never know how much I love her”).

To Franz, he loved her so, but he really didn’t understand her needs. Even though he had countless mistresses and female companions in Vienna, he still missed his wife. I say, he was really unlucky when it comes to love. Like Apollo himself, he dated countless nymphs and humans, but a lot of his notable relationships did not have a good end. (Probably Cyrene was the most lucky one, yet she also has chosen to be left alone after mothering several children with Apollo.) For this, I picked Franz Joseph as Apollo.

5. Ares - Jean Lannes or Michel Ney

As usual, for those who don’t know much history, I shall briefly introduce my babeys these two great soldiers.

Jean Lannes was one of the marshals of Napoleon, known for being one of Napoleon’s closest friends and his fiery personality, and is considered one of the best marshals of the 1st French Empire. His finest moments including the Battle of Ratisbon in which he led his men to storm the well-guarded city with ladders (hence his nickname “ladder lord” in our very humble Napoleonic marshalate fandom :3). Sadly, he died of the wound he received in the battle of Aspern-Essling in 1809.

Michel Ney was also one of the marshals of Napoleon, known for his extreme valour (yep, he is known as the “Bravest of the Brave”). As you might know, he was one of the marshals who was in Waterloo, yet, his finest hour was during the retreat from Russia in the disasterous 1812. Sadly, he was arguably the most prominent victim of the White Terror under the second Bourbon restoration, executed in 1815 (**I am not accepting any kind of conspiracy theories of my babey survived and died in America😤).

Speaking of Ares, I have a lot of things to say (that’s my dad ;-; no jkjk). He is really not that bloodthirsty idiot who casually hates humans. Well, he’s more like a fiery dork and a man who was very faithful to his lovers, and fights very well (by the way also one of the best dads). So, the bois that come into my mind are automatically two of the most courageous marshals of France.

Lannes, if I have to get him a godly parent, it would definitely Ares. He resembled the god a lot (also I sometimes imagined Ares as a smol bean with dark hair), probably looks the most like Ares himself. He got that fiery temper, that faithfulness to his wife Louise, also being a very courageous fighter in the field—well he literally was like, “NO LEMME STORM DAT CITY *grabs ladder*”.

There you have it, my big bro our ladder lord Jean Lannes who can pull off a perfect Ares.

Ney is like a slightly introverted (and mature) version of an Ares person. You can guess his temper already through his famed auburn hair, and indeed despite his shy exterior his temper sometimes was a bit explosive, and a bit impatient (which was somehow one of his fatal flaws). He was a great fighter, known as a skilled swordsman in his youth. And you all know how brave he is in his famed epithet. Michel Ney is purely badass (and C U T E) you know (and he needs a lot of hugs because he has really been though a lot in the wars, and was a possible case of PTSD which was shown in his arguably suicidal behaviour during the battle of Waterloo). That’s why I casted him as the Greek god Ares OwO

And there you have it, my interpretations on the Greek gods via people in history. I originally would like to include more but somehow I realised that I have written too much about my picks. So, if you want to add more, reblog this post or tag me on the post you made on this topic (and please use the hashtag “mythical figures as historical people” so that I could look into your choices via the search bubble on this app🥺).

Last but not the least, I hope you all lovelies like this, also have learnt something new via my brief introductions on some historical people. Have a great day!

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missluthorwillseeyounow · 4 years ago

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Part II Wed By Candlelight (The Portrait of the Secret Bride)

Supercorp The Corpse Bride AU

Kara’s dreams that night are turbulent. She could attribute it to the fact that she’d had to endure dinner with Mon-El’s mother, but it’s far worse than any nightmare even Rhea could induce.

She dreams of her lady’s brother, returning home the prodigal son. But she knows of the atrocities Lex Luthor is said to have committed, of the wife and child he had left dead in his wake -- and Kara doesn’t want him anywhere near her lady. She can see the war Lena wages between her good judgment and her good heart, can see her vacillating between her love for her brother and her own instincts.

But Kara, who has no such attachment to him, sees how he brings nothing but discord and chaos into their lives. And she’s right.

Over dinner, he announces his plan to restore the Luthor name and fortune -- by promising Lena in marriage to his new business associate, a man named Morgan Edge.

It’s the first time she’s ever seen her lady truly angry. Lena’s fury emanates from her lithe frame in cold waves as she stands from the dinner table, straight-backed and proud, facing Lex with glacial eyes that burn with pent-up rage, before she throws her glass of wine in his face.

The second they’re locked in her room, Lena grasps Kara’s arms with desperate fingers. “We need to leave.”

“Lena--”

“I can’t stay here, Kara. Not like this. Not when he intends to shackle me to a man like Morgan Edge. I met him once, and that was enough. He’s a despicable cockroach of a man. I cannot stay here and marry him, Kara. I will not.”

Kara hears the steel in her lady’s voice, and loves her for it. She opens her arms and Lena melts into her, lips touching her throat, soft words murmured against her skin. “I won’t marry anyone but you.”

Kara huffs a small laugh against Lena’s hair. “Somehow I don’t think the Bishop will approve of that.”

“I don’t care. Hang the Bishop.” Lena smiles when Kara laughs again. She pulls away slightly, just enough for Kara to see the brilliant clarity in her eyes. “And hang the Luthors. Let them rot in this miserable place. We’ll leave them here. You and I can go somewhere we can be together.”

Kara’s heart pounds like a drum, and she takes one of Lena’s hands in hers. “You’d leave your family to be with me?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Joy bubbles up in Kara’s chest, almost dispelling the heaviness that had settled there since hearing of Lex’s plans. “We could go to Kandor. My cousin lives there with his wife, they might have a place for us.”

Lena rests her temple against Kara’s, her lips brushing softly against her hair. “As long as I’m with you.”

Kara sighs, and the two of them stay that way for a long moment. It feels as if they are standing at a precipice, with the threat of Lena’s family surrounding them and the terrifying exhilaration of the unknown before them, freedom just within reach.

“I’ll leave for Kandor at dawn, to make sure Kal can make a place for us.” Kara brings Lena’s hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers in lieu of a ring. “I will come back for you, I promise.”

And Kara somehow, somehow, knows that this is the last night she will spend with Lena.

The dream shifts, and Kara finds herself in the dark of night, the wind whipping across her face. The horse she is riding on snorts in exertion as she urges the animal as fast as it can go.

There’s a fierce desperation in the way she grips the reins. She doesn’t know where she’s going, all she knows is that it’s a matter of life and death that she get there in time.

There’s a wound on her side that burns, but she just presses on it and keeps riding. Bruises have bloomed over her knuckles. Blood dripping from her eyebrow and an accompanying wave of dizziness tells her that she also has a head wound, but she grits her teeth and forces herself to stay on her seat. Nothing is more important than getting to her destination.

“Kara, we have to stop.” A man appears in her field of vision, riding alongside her. Something in her recognizes him as Kal, her cousin. “You’re bleeding too much.”

“No!” She protests violently, her voice breaking in the whipping wind “If Lex’s men found us, that means Lex knows that Lena and I were planning to run away. He’s going after her, Kal. We have to get to her first!”

She leans forward, urging her horse faster still.

Only, she never gets to her destination, because the dream shifts again, and this time, instead of a mount, Kara finds herself sitting at a desk, in a small, unfamiliar room.

Beside her, Kal’s son, Jon is sleeping peacefully in his cradle. On the table, at her elbow, is a solitary candle, its flickering flame casting a familiar thin light on Kara’s bowed form.

“Lena.” Her voice is little more than a whispered sob. The candlelight brings back too many bittersweet memories that make Kara’s heart ache and crumble, as if it’s dying a living death inside the cavity of her chest. “Lena…”

Kara swallows back a sob and wipes away the tears that blur her vision. She’s worked with less light before, she reminds herself, as she bends over the small locket, painstakingly recording every detail she can remember. She works ceaselessly and without the need for sleep, as if it were possible to bring her lady back to life with each brush stroke.

She knows -- She knows it’s impossible to bring her back. She knows it’s impossible to capture the warmth of her smile or the soft steel of her voice in a miniature portrait, she knows, but each brush stroke feels like a penance, a way to keep her alive.

When she’s finished, Kara seals it within the necklace. A secret only she knows.

This time, Kara all but forces herself awake.

She scrambles out of bed, nearly waking Mon-El in her haste. The floor is cold under her bare feet, but she doesn’t care. She scurries out of the room and down to the foyer where she’d left her coat.

Her hand plunges into the coat pocket and she triumphantly fishes out the antique necklace her mother had left her.

The exact same necklace in her dream.

Quickly, she retrieves a knife from the kitchen and pries it open as carefully as she can. It’s a painstaking process, trying not to damage a two hundred year old piece of jewelry, but finally, Kara’s efforts pay off.

The necklace opens to reveal the portrait Kara had seen in her dream -- a faithful likeness of Lena Luthor in miniature.

For the first time, it occurs to Kara that this is the only time she’s seen Lena outside of her dreams and their encounters. This solitary portrait is proof that Lena had lived. That she had been loved.

Kara’s breath leaves her in a rush, as she slowly realizes what this is.

A lover’s final gift, her penance, handed down her family for generations, from one bride to another, with the secret bride who never was inside.

She doesn’t quite know how she feels. It’s a lot to process, and it’s truthfully been a mad whirlwind of the past few days that barely seems real. She looks down at the locket in her hand. Lena’s face smiles up at her, the painting so devotedly true to her likeness, it almost feels like she’s alive.

Well, Kara thinks. If she’s doing this, she might as well go all in. They say every bride goes crazy before the wedding, after all.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Kara grabs her coat and shoves her feet into her boots. She spares a few seconds to root around for a flashlight in the hallway closet before setting out the door.

The air is chilly as she hurries along the familiar overgrown path. Somehow it’s less tranquil and more scary walking along the trail in the middle of the night, with the wind rustling through the trees and insects chirping. The serenity she’d felt before is gone in the oppressive darkness. In the night, everything seems much more ominous, formless shadows flitting around her, the night sounds loud in her ears. The leaves crunching under her feet feel more ominous than comforting now, and Kara finds herself jumping at every sound.

She draws her coat tighter around herself as she nears the graveyard, her flashlight illuminating a narrow beam of light that plays menacingly over the tombstones.

“Lena? Are you there?”

Kara’s voice is a tentative whisper, and she feels stupid. It’s cold, it’s the middle of the night, and she’s in a graveyard, looking for a ghost. Her steps falter, and she sighs, rubbing her arms to stave off the cold. Maybe it’s time to go home.

She turns to leave, but a familiar voice wisps in the wind behind her, making her shiver.

“You came.”

Kara whirls around to see Lena’s pale form behind her. The eerie silver radiance of her skin in the darkness makes her look otherworldly. But the dark red stains on the white of her red seem unnervingly real. Like Kara could touch the mortal wound on her abdomen and still feel the pulsing of blood within.

It reminds Kara of why she’s here.

Her fingers close around the locket around her neck, and she steps forward, closer to Lena. “I did. I… I think I can help you, Lena. I think I know what happened all those years ago.”

“What?” Lena’s voice is thin and hesitant, as though she can scarcely believe Kara’s words. “How--?”

“I see it. In my head, in my dreams every night. I see you and Kara. I’ve seen the love you had for each other, and I’ve seen -- so many things, but I need your help. I don’t have the whole story, there’s a side of it that’s missing, and it’s you.”

“I - I don’t understand, Kara.”

“What do you remember from the night you died?”

“I - I don’t… I don’t remember. So much of it is a fog in my mind...” Lena turns away from Kara, her hands flying to her temples. “It’s been so long. I’ve been waiting so long…”

Kara clutches the locket around her neck. “You have to remember. Please, Lena, remember. Because I have pieces of the puzzle, but you have the key to it. Try, please…. Look, you said you were waiting for Kara. But were you alone?”

“I… I think so. I’ve been alone for so long…”

“What about that night? That night you died?” Kara presses on, her hands coming up, wanting to take Lena’s arms, but she knows that there’s no body there to touch, so she lowers her hand. “You said the place where you were waiting wasn’t a graveyard then. What was it?”

“I - no, it wasn’t, I --” Lena’s voice is becoming higher, panicked and confused. Her beautiful face is lost and frightened. “I don’t know!”

Kara knows she’s pushing too far, and her instinct to comfort and soothe comes to the fore. She reaches out to touch Lena, and before she can remember that Lena is dead -- has been dead for two hundred years -- her hand comes up to touch her shoulder.

She touches nothing, but for a second -- less than a heartbeat -- her fingers meet resistance at the curve of Lena’s shoulder when there should only be empty air.

In that instant, everything changes. A shock comes through the end of Kara’s fingertips, and all at once everything turns white.

As the light blinds her, Kara hears voices in her ear. “Lex is watching, and the trip to Kandor is five days long. I can’t risk you leaving until I know there’s a safe place for us there. I promise you, Lena, I will come back for you.”

An unfamiliar voice. This time, a woman’s. “Lex has informed me that Morgan Edge is arriving tomorrow. This wedding must proceed smoothly, Lena. This is what you and I have been working for your whole life. What have I always told you? Everything I do, I do for you and our family…. We are so close, my dear. Everything we have lost will be restored to us. The Luthor name shall be revered once more, and we can become a family again.”

When the blinding light fades, Kara finds herself in the same old room in Luthor Manor where she and Lena slept. Except the sanctity of the tiny dark room has been violated by another.

Lena is dressed in immaculate white lace, flowers at her breast and in her hair. She looks beautiful and terrible at the same time.

Lex has her by the arm, his face a cold snarl above her as he holds up one of the wine glasses from the dinner table. His hand is wrapped around Lena’s forearm, and Kara rushes forward to rip him off of her, but there’s no use. Her hand passes through Lex, and he continues to sneer menacingly at Lena.

“You’ve never been poisoned before, have you, little sister? Well, I have. Arsenic has a very mild odor.” He holds up the glass to her face before throwing it across the room. Lena stiffens, but she doesn’t flinch. “Usually, one would never recognize it, but I know because my bitch of a wife put it in my drink the night she left me, sneaking off like a frightened little rat, just like you were planning to.”

Lex bares his teeth. “You women, you’re all fools. None more than you, baby sister. You couldn’t even think of a different plan.”

“I did.”

Lena’s free hand subtly disappears within the folds of her dress. As Kara watches, she silently withdraws a knife hidden within her dress and swiftly stabs it into Lex’s side. Lex yells in pain and his eyes widen as Lena twists the handle and pulls the knife out for good measure.

Lex groans as Lena pushes him off of her and leaves him lying on the ground. She gives him one last look, her eyes full of pain and cold anger. “Good bye, Lex.”

Without another backwards glance, Lena draws her cloak around her shoulders and all but flies to the stables. Her horse is there, ready and saddled, and she rides swiftly away from Luthor Manor.

Kara recognizes the path she takes. It’s the same path she’s taken away from the Inze house, the one that leads to the graveyard, and at once, her stomach is filled with dread. She wants to scream at Lena to take a different road, but Lena can’t hear her.

The dread worsens into full panic when she hears hoof beats growing louder and louder near them. She sees the same terror in Lena’s eyes when another horse cuts her path, and the mare she’s riding on rears up in fright.

“Lena!” Kara screams as Lena is thrown off the horse, her head hitting the ground hard. But Lena can’t hear her. She moans feebly on the ground, the back of her head covered in blood. She hangs onto her consciousness, and Kara watches fearfully as Lena tries valiantly to get up.

Behind her, Lex dismounts from his horse, his entire right side blooming red with blood from Lena’s knife. He advances toward her, hand on his side, and Lena stumbles, pulling herself away from him on her arms.

Kara frantically tries what she can to help, even though she knows it’s useless. Her hands can’t pull Lena up or beat Lex away as he drops onto one knee beside her struggling form. A glint of a blade is the only warning Kara gets before the blade Lena had used to stab Lex drives into her body now, and all of Lena’s breath comes out in a choked scream.

“You couldn’t just do what I asked, could you, Lena? Everything would have been perfect, little sister. Our fortunes restored, the Luthor name once again redeemed and exalted, and you would have been set for life.” Lex hisses in her face, flecks of his blood spitting from his mouth to her cheek. “But you had to go and spread your legs for some servant girl like a filthy whore!”

Lena closes her eyes, tears trickling down her face, and Lex laughs mirthlessly at her, voice lowering to a dangerous mutter.

“And where is she now, Lena? Where is your faithful Kara? She never came back for you, did she? You’re about to die, little sister. You’re going to bleed out in this godforsaken road, and she’s not here. You’re all alone.”

Kara screams at him, beats her ineffectual fists at him as he struggles to his feet, away from Lena, dropping her body on the side of the road. Kara drops to her knees beside her fading form, frantically trying to place her hands on her abdomen, as if she could close the wound herself. “Lena…. Lena….”

Her hands can do nothing. Unlike before, there is no resistance when she tries to touch Lena, her hands simply grasp thin air, even though the jagged wound on Lena’s stomach is terrifyingly real. Lena chokes on blood and air, and she can’t see Kara’s pleading face as she mouths her last word.

“Kara…”

All at once, the light blinds Kara again, and she’s wrenched away from Lena. She screams and tries to reach out, but to no avail.

When the light fades, she finds herself in the woods again, this time astride a horse, with Kal by her side.

She spies the limping form of Lex Luthor between the trees, blood trailing behind him, and she feels white-hot rage surge through her veins. She dismounts from her horse and lunges at him, dragging his broken body forward.

“Kara!” Kal’s voice tries to stop her, but Kara is beyond all reason.

She fists her hands into his bloodied collar and shakes him. “Where’s Lena??”

Vaguely, Kara realizes that she’s no longer seeing Lena’s memories, but Kara’s. The realization is lost when Lex laughs, and she wants to tear the smile from his face.

“You're too late.” Lex sneers, blood and spittle flying from his mouth, his face contorted in a terrible smile. “She’s dead.”

Kara finally screams her rage in his face. “You’re lying!! Where is she??!”

Lex doesn’t answer, just laughs and laughs. She wants to kill him, she could so easily finish the job, but she has to find Lena first.

She leaves Lex with Kal, and follows the trail of blood, her stomach turning and her heart pounding in her throat. From a distance, Kara can see where the trail ends, to a pool of blood and a lifeless figure dressed in white.

She screams. And screams.

It feels never-ending.

Everything shifts again, and Kara weeps against it, wanting this to end.

It doesn’t.

When everything rights itself again, Kara is standing in front of the old Luthor Manor. It’s in terrible condition, the west wing has caved in. Its shutters are broken and its windows empty. Like the family it served, it is dead now.

“There’s nothing left here, Kara.” Kal tells her “We should go. There’s nothing for you here.”

Kara shakes her head, resolute. “Not yet. I have a promise to keep.”

Their room is in disrepair. The bed they shared their love on is lifeless and broken, just like her lady. Kara grips the dusty sheets, tears slipping silently down her face. She would howl her grief out if she could. If she could, she would scream and yell and rage for the woman she loved and lost.

But she can’t. Her grief is too far beyond that.

So instead she drops the sheets and bends down to retrieve her oils and paints from their hiding spot in the floor. Nothing else in this room is retrievable, but this -- the last gift Lena gave to her -- is sacred.

That night, with great effort, she lifts the brush again. She can’t paint Lena’s face anymore. It hurts too much. That wound will never heal, but she can seal it within the necklace and place it above her heart.

Instead, Kara paints everything and anything else. She lets the brushes guide her, instead of her guiding them.

For a long time, she paints only in blacks of night and reds of blood and browns of earth covering the dead. She paints in slashes and heavy strokes that demand the weight of grief.

Sometimes the brush becomes too heavy in her hand, and she yearns to put it down, but Kara made a promise, and she is the only one left to keep it for -- herself, and the memory of a dead girl -- so she persists.

And then one day, baby Jon comes toddling into her room, burbling nonsensically around the fist in his mouth.

He waddles unsteadily toward her, tripping into her dress. She catches him with a small oof! And he laughs as a streak of paint smears his cheek. His hand splatters into her paints and he smears them over Kara too, making her chuckle.

They make a little game out of it, smearing paint all over each other, and Kara opens the brighter colors that catch his eye. Soon, both Kara and baby are smeared with greens and yellows and blues and pinks. She opens the colors that had been Lena’s favorites, and she lets Jon smear them onto her face.

She’s just teaching the baby how to mix paints to get orange when Lois catches them red-handed in the middle of their mess.

But instead of scolding them, Lois sees the first smile Kara has cracked in months and she shakes her head at both of them, chuckling, and marches them both off to get a bath.

And so Kara heals.

Slowly, and in small steps forward and many falls backward. But she learns to live again. She learns to build her life around the cavern in her heart.

Lois gives one of her paintings to her sister Lucy as a gift, and it hangs in Lucy’s sitting room for a while, until one of her guests, an illustrious and irrepressible widow named Lady Grant, sees the painting and offers to purchase it from Lucy on the spot.

Lady Grant proceeds to commission an entire series of paintings from Kara, and Kara rapidly acquires more patrons who marvel at her paintings, and praise her on the depth and emotion behind her work.

“One cannot help but be moved by them, by you, Kara.” Lady Grant tells her once in a rare moment of candid compassion.

Through it all, she never forgets her promise.

When, years later, she stands underneath an arch of white flowers -- plumerias, her lady's favorite -- Lois asks what her “something borrowed” is for the wedding, Kara doesn’t answer her.

Instead, Kara silently answers the woman in the portrait, sitting hidden in the necklace above her heart.

“My heart. It will never be owned by another, merely borrowed. He may become my husband, but my heart will always, always belong to you, Lena.”

______________

“Kara… Kara, wake up.”

Kara opens her eyes to see Lena’s face hovering over hers. The ground is cold and hard underneath her, sprinkled lightly with dew. Kara blinks rapidly a few times. It’s morning now, still early if the light is anything to go by, and the first rays of the sun are just brightening the horizon.

“Kara…” Lena’s eyes are relieved as she sits up, but her voice still holds a touch of concern. Her fingers hover lightly over Kara’s shoulder, touching but not quite touching. “Are you alright?”

“Do you… Do you remember now?”

Lena looks away from her, her eyes downcast and pained. Her voice breaks on a single word “Yes, I remember. I died on this road, and Kara, she never came. I was alone.”

“No.” Kara surges forward, ducking her head to get Lena to meet her eyes. “She came back for you. She… she may have been too late, but she came back. She never forgot you, Lena, not for the rest of her life. And she never forgot her promise.”

Lena finally meets her gaze, her eyes full of sorrow and hope long held back.

“Come with me. Let me show you.”

The path feels long and full of the things Kara knows now, but she and Lena walk through it side by side. Kara wishes she could hold Lena’s hand, but she settles for letting her fingers brush the outline of Lena’s.

She takes Lena back to her ancestral home, and opens the doors for her. The morning sun is just high enough now for the light to filter beautifully through the vast windows, painting the rooms with warmth.

“She made this home for you, Lena.” Kara turns to the other woman, who finally steps through the threshold with a look of wonder in her eyes. “All those years ago, Kara promised you she would build you a house filled with light and warmth, and she did. She built it from the ruins of the house where you first shared your love, and she’s kept it for you all these years.... All the women in my family -- every daughter that passed through these halls, every bride that said their vows here, all the way down to my Mother who was married here and left this place to me -- every single one has kept it.... And it was all for you.”

Kara takes the locket on her chest and opens it to show Lena the portrait her Kara made of her. “She kept you in her heart until she was ready to give you to her daughter at her wedding day. She was never able to be with you, but don’t you see...? Every time this necklace passed from one bride in this family to the next, she gave you her vows and she kept you alive.”

A strange sense of peace washes through Kara as she leads Lena through the halls of her family’s home. Lena’s home.

Lena touches the walls of the house, the flowers adorning the staircase, with reverent hands. There are tears on her face, but she is smiling as steps into the light filtering through the windows. She closes her eyes and turns her face to the light, as if she can feel its warmth. Kara stands next to her, feeling her heart fill at the sight of Lena in the home she was promised.

“Your brother cursed you with his last words when he made you believe she would never come back. That you were all alone. He kept you bound to your sadness for so long, but Lena…. your Kara loved you so much that her love for you spanned generations. You don’t have to let his words keep you bound. You can choose to be free.”

Lena’s eyes open slowly, and as Kara watches, her face becomes radiant, awash with blinding love and emotion.

“I…… I see her. I see Kara.” Lena’s reverent voice breaks into a breathless sob. “She says she’s been waiting for me.”

Lena turns back to her one last time, tears of joy shining in her eyes, and Kara knows she will never see her again. “Thank you.”

For a long moment, Lena glows so brightly that the light blinds Kara’s eyes. By the time her eyes open, the light is gone.

And so is Lena.

Kara stands quietly in the middle of the room and takes a long inhale. The melancholia of the past few days is gone. Even the anxiety of the last few weeks seems to have fallen off her shoulders. Instead, she just feels a lightness in her whole body, and a clarity of thought she hasn’t known in a long time.

“Kara?” Alex’s voice comes from behind her, concerned, and Kara turns slowly to face her. “Are you okay?”

Kara huffs a small laugh and beams at her. “Yeah, I really am.”

Alex moves to stand beside her. She’s still in her pajamas, and there’s a quiet sort of hesitation in the way she approaches Kara, all sisterly concern.

Kara smiles warmly at her and offers her hand. Alex takes it and they both look out the vast windows.

“I can’t go through with this wedding, Alex.”

Her sister turns toward her, studying her with a protective eye. When all she sees on Kara’s face is contentment and a tranquil sense of calm, Alex nods. “I know.”

“You do?”

“I could kinda tell.” Alex shrugs and gives her a knowing look. “You’re my sister, I know you. I was just waiting for you to tell me.”

“Does Eliza know?”

“Knowing her, she probably does.”

“Well, then.” Kara inhales long and deep. “I guess the only one left to tell is Mon-El.”

“Why am I not surprised that your groom is the last to know that he’s not gonna be a groom after all?”

________

By SorrowsFlower

This was so fucking hard to write (I actually had most of it written up but it was hard to join them all up together, but it JUST WOULD NOT LEAVE ME ALONE). There is an epilogue of sorts to this, but I think y’all can probably see it coming, so I might as well not write it lol.

#supercorp #supergirl #kara danvers #lena luthor #katie mcgrath #melissa benoist #the corpse bride #supercorp au #fanfic #my writing

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minervacasterly · 4 years ago

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Queen Mary (I) Tudor -The Woman behind the Legend of 'Bloody Mary'

"As Mary continued to face Protestant treason she became even more ruthless, with the infamous burnings intended to eliminate what she perceived as a stubborn and destabilising minority. In our context we see Mary's actions as those of a fanatic. In her context she was eliminating fanatics, and of the most dangerous kind, incorrigible rebels against God and queen. But Mary also had to work positively, to build a future, and this unravelled in the face of her infertility and declining health. She failed in her ultimate duty to produce a child and this meant, once again, that the wider family was key to the future. Mary's preferred choice as her heir, was Margaret Douglas, could not compete with the claims of Henry VIII's second daughter and, as Elizabeth took note, it was the knowledge that she would succeed her sister that fueled the disorder and rebellion against Mary. With the loss of Calais in the last year of Mary's life it would be easy for her enemies to paint the young, Protestant Elizabeth's accession as a brilliant new dawn. It is as such that it is still projected. Mary remains associated with her late seventeenth-century sobriquet 'Bloody Mary', and an infamous recent advertisement for the London Dungeon depicted her face transforming into a demon-zombie. Elizabeth, by contrast, has been played in films by a series of beautiful actresses: Elizabeth is ever Cate Blanchett, fairy queen, to Mary's bitter, grey-faced Kathy Burke. Yet these sisters were neither simple heroines nor villains. Both were rulers of their time and we can only understand Elizabeth if we see, as she did, what the Tudor sisters had in common and how she could learn from Mary's example. Most significant for Elizabeth was the fact that Mary's Protestant enemies had sought to redefine the nature of a 'true' king. They argued that religion was more important than blood, or victory in battles -a true king was Protestant- and that all women were by nature unsuited to rule over men. Elizabeth's response was to offer her ordinary subjects a theatrical representation of herself as a 'true' ruler: the seeds of which had been sown by Mary herself in her speech during the Wyatt revolt, in which she is a mother who loves her subjects as if they were her children. Here was a female authority figure accepted as part of the divine order." ~Leanda de Lisle, TUDOR

"The blackening of Mary's name began in Elizabeth's reign and gathered force at the end of the 17th century, when James II compounded the view that Catholic monarchs were a disaster for England. But it was really the enduring popularity of John Foxe which shaped the view of her that has persisted for 450 years. Attempts to soften her image have been made, but their tendency to depict her as a sad little woman who would have been better off as the Tudor equivalent of a housewife is almost as distasteful as the legend of Bloody Mary. To dismiss her life as nothing more than a personal tragedy is both patronizing and mistaken. One of the main themes of Mary's existence is the triumph of determination over adversity. She lived in a violent, intolerant age, surrounded by the intrigues of a time when men and women gambled their lives for advancement at court. Deceit, like ambition, was endemic among the power-seekers of mid-Tudor England who passed, in procession, through her life. Pride, stubbornness and an instinct for survival saw her through tribulations that would have destroyed a lesser woman. Her bravery put her on the throne and kept her there, so that when she died she was able to bequeath to Elizabeth a precious legacy that is often overlooked: she had demonstrated that a woman could rule in her own right. The vilification of Mary has obscured the many areas of continuity between her rule and those of the other Tudors. Today, despite the fact that much more is known about her reign, she is still the most maligned and misunderstood of English monarchs. For Mary Tudor, the first queen of England, truth has not been the daughter of time." ~Linda Porter, THE MYTH OF BLOODY MARY

"Foxe's account would shape the popular narrative of Mary's reign for the next four hundred and fifty years. Generations of schoolchildren would grow up knowing the first Queen of England only as "Bloody Mary", a Catholic tyrant who sent nearly three hundred Protestants to their deaths, a point made satirically in W. C. Sellar and R. J. Yeatman's 1930s parody 1066 and All That. Mary's presence in a recent survey of the most evil men and women in history is testament to Foxe's enduring legacy. But there is, of course, a different Mary: a woman marked by suffering, devout in her faith and exceptional in her courage. From a childhood in which she was adored and feted and then violently rejected, a fighter was born. Her resolve almost cost her her life as her father, and then her brother, sought to subjugate her to their wills. Yet Mary maintained her faith and self-belief. Despite repeated attempts to deprive her of her life and right to the throne, the warrior princess turned victor and became the warrior princess turned victor and became the warrior queen. The boldness and scale of her achievements are often overlooked. The campaign that Mary led in the summer of 1553 would prove to be the only successful revolt against central government in sixteenth-century England. She, like her grandfather Henry VII and grandmother Isabella of Castile, had to flight for her throne. In the moment of crisis she proved decisive, courageous, and "Herculean" -and won the support of the English people as the legitimate Tudor heir. Mary was a conscientious, hardworking queen who was determined to be closely involved in government business and policy making. She would rise "at daybrea when, after saying her prayers and hearing mass in private," she would "transact business incessantly until after midnight." As rebels thereatend teh capital in January 1554 and she was urged to flee, Mary stood firm and successfully rallied Londoners to her defense. She was also a woman who lived by her conscience and was prepared to die for her faith. And she expected the same of others. Her religious defiance was matched by a personal infatuation with Phililp, her Spanish husband. Her love for him and dependence on her "true father", the Emperor Charles V, was unwavering. Her determination to honor her husband's will led England into an unpopular war with France and the loss of Calais. There was no fruit of the union, and so at her premature death there was no Catholic heir. Her own phantom pregnancies, together with epidemics and harvest failures across the country, left her undermined and unpopular. Her life, always one of tragic contrast, ended in personal tragedy as Philip abandoned her, never to return, even as his queen lay dying. In many ways Mary failed as a woman but triumphed as a queen. She ruled with the full measure of royal majesty and achieved much of what she set out to do. She won her rightful throne, married her Spanish prince, and restored the country to Roman Catholicism. The Spanish marriage was a match with the most powerful ruling house in Europe, and the highly favorable marriage treaty ultimately won the support of the English government. She had defeated the rebels and preserved the Tudor monarchy. Her Catholicism was not simply conservative but influenced by her humanist education and showed many signs of broad acceptance before she died. She was an intelligent, politically adept, and resolute monarch who proved to be very much her own woman. Thanks to Mary, John Aylmer, in exile in Switzerland, could confidently assert that "it is not in England so dangerous a matter to have a woman ruler, as men take it to be." By securing the throne following Edward's attempts to bar both his sisters, she ensured that the crown continued along the legal line of Tudor succession. Mary laid down other important precedents that would benefit her sister. Upon her accession as the first queen regnant of England, she redefined royal ritual and law, thereby establishing that a female ruler, married or unmarried, would enjoy identical power and authority to male monarchs. Mary was the Tudor trailblazer, a politiccal pioneer whose reign redefined the English monarchy." ~Anna Whitelock, MARY TUDOR: PRINCESS, BASTARD, QUEEN

Furthermore, as the country shifted from Catholicism to Protestantism, people began to find it easier to vilify her. During the Victorian age, England was at its height. People would say that the sun never set on the English Empire, and as a result, there was a growing sense of nationalism. Previously beloved figures like Queen Elizabeth I, Kings Edward III, Henry V, among others, were no longer kings and queens for people to admire and look upon but national symbols of pride, who were almost god-like. Edward III's victories against the French, Henry V's conquest of France, Elizabeth's Protestantism and victory against Spain with the Spanish Armada and other Catholic rivals, were extolled, and glorified, while Mary I's foreign ancestry was looked down upon. Ironically, all of these monarchs were also foreign in one way or another. You can say that Queen Elizabeth I wasn't because her parents were English, but what about her paternal ancestry, or her maternal one? No matter which way you look at it, she had foreign ancestry as much as any monarch. In fact, the Victorian era's own monarch, was of foreign descent as well! Victoria wasn't even an English name. She was named after her mother, Victoria of the Saxe-Coburg clan who was German and she married her cousin, who was also German. It was very common for royals to marry other royals, which meant that their offspring would be of foreign descent. In Mary's time this wouldn't be a reason to look down on her, on the contrary, she could point to her royal ancestors, be they foreign or not, with pride as a sign of how much royal blood flowed through her veins, making her eligible to be her father's heir. But as it has been pointed out before, times change and with it, so does our view of every historical figure.

#Queen Mary I of England #Tudor History #16th century #dailytudors

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wonkywackyberry · 5 years ago

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So, this will probably be a super long post so if you’re going to stay, strap in. With COVID 19 I’ve been going back and re-watching some of my favorite shows and rediscovered my love for Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood. Apparently, there is a lot of controversy over which is the better which I wasn’t aware of (thanks Tumblr?) so I will start by saying; I love FMA as well. It was the first anime I ever watched so it will always have a special place in my heart and I do re-watch episodes (or the entire season) occasionally. However, one of my favorite things in this series is the female characters.They went hard in the paint here.

#1. Olivier Mira Armstrong

I cannot even begin to say how much I love her character. She is a force to be reckoned with. People literally call her the Northern Wall of Briggs. She isn’t just an officer, she is a good leader (there is a big difference). She encourages her soldiers to think for themselves, instead of just following orders, to the point where she urges them to not follow a leader they have no faith in. She values her men; fighting beside them instead of sacrificing them, and specifically placing Milo near her BECAUSE she needs his different view to become a better leader. She doesn't want the traditional life of family and children and while she has some character growth in the form of her mentioning how touched she was with Edward's devotion to protect Winry, she does not miraculously change her personality or her goals, she remains who she is (because it really irks me when the female character just drastically changes her entire personality because her new boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/partner says so).

2. Izumi Curtis

I feel this goes without saying. Her character is a contrast to that of Olivier's in the sense that it shows how a woman can desire marriage and children without turning her into as the typically portrayed weak wallflower. She proudly tells anyone who asks that she is a housewife, usually right after/before kicking someone's teeth in. She can be strict, even merciless, but also acts as a surrogate parent to Ed and Al. She admits her feelings of inadequacy and depression after losing her child and shows that having emotions doesn’t make her less. Her reputation proceeds her, even Armstrong recognizes her name. Her skills are impressive; Greed admitted that fighting her was tough and she flipped Sloth over her shoulder like it was nothing. I'm convinced that Ed and Al proudly talk about her anytime they are complimented on their skills. Plus, she does all of this while literally vomiting blood half the time.

#3. Riza Hawkeye

Again, this woman's reputation proceeds her. People call her "the hawk's eye". This is not just a nickname from her team, this is known throughout the military. During the coup, the Central soldiers were expecting casualties because she is just that good. On multiple occasions, she demonstrates how strict she can be, but has fiercely loyal and loving to those around her (in her own way). The war is something that has haunted her but she does not hide this, she wants the truth behind Ishval to become public knowledge because keeping it hidden is a disservice, even knowing that she will most likely have to face a trial for her actions there. I also think Brotherhood further explores her relationship with Roy. She is the reason that he is the Flame Alchemist, even though this is a great source of anxiety for her. She feels responsible that something so destructive is allowed to be used and makes sure that Roy does not fall victim to the madness it can bring. Riza is the one person Roy trusts above all else, not only with his life but with his soul.

#4. Winry Rockbell

I feel like this is another character who got more development in Brotherhood. While she is the love interest for one of the main characters, she still has her own identity. She has a life outside of them, dedicating herself to her work and is so good at it that some of her customers refuse to see other people. Again, her reputation proceeds her (have I said that before? Oh right only for every woman on this list). Another difference is her emotions are not just centered around Ed and her love for him. The backstory of her parents' death shows this quite well. Not only is she sad to have lost them, but this causes anxiety about Ed and Al. We see her anger at Scar but also her effort to work with him, even help him. We can also see the constant debate/effort she makes to live up to her parents' wishes in her actions. She agrees to go with Scar, bandages his wounds, delivers a baby and uses her art to help restore people's lives. Ed tells everyone that it was Winry who gave him his arm and leg back and that he is only able to help people because of her. He boasts about how amazing his mechanic is to enemies because he can essentially smash it to bits and still function. She is a PERSON, not just a love interest (Ed is literally the last one to know that she is his love interest).

There are obviously other characters within the series, but these are my favorites. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

#fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #winry rockbell #izumi curtis #olivier mira armstrong #riza hawkeye

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aegor-bamfsteel · 4 years ago

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I had this fic idea where: Calla, Haegon, their mother and youngest siblings didn't escape and they were taken as hostages in the Red Keep. Calla kind of ends up "playing the game" and trying to forge a better life for her mom and siblings while trying to overcome her trauma of losing her brothers and dead, her anxiety over Daemon II not being around and not having any contact with him and Haegon most likely going to the faith. And she also has survivors guilt. Basically this is a "Calla plays the game while trying to survive" (this includes her glaring at BR and lowkey planning his death, finding Matarys endearing because he's actually fairly nice and so is his brother/dad, she also looks like her mom. OH AND SHE DYES HER HAIR QUITE OFTEN)

Basically my question was: how much would have changed if Calla, Haegon and their mom and younger siblings didn't get to escape?

That’s a really interesting, elaborate fic idea, dearxstorm! If you end up writing it, make sure to link me and I’ll write a comment! Calla has the potential to be an interesting character, and your characterization of her in the prompt sort of lines up with my own (having the Sweetness hiding Steel personality); I like the idea of a psychological story of her dealing with the loss of her family while trapped in a court that hates her at best. I also like your headcanon that she dyes her hair, because it’s a physical identification with her mother’s people; all too often, in asoiaf as in other works of fantasy, the heroes of noble families identify more with their father’s house at the expense of their mother’s (the young Starks identify more with their father’s house to a lesser degree than the others, but even the young Greyjoys are krakens rather than Harlaws, the young Martells don’t consider themselves half-Norvosi, forget about Aegon V + siblings identifying themselves as something other than the blood of the dragon), and it’s the villains that tend to include parts of their mother’s heritage (the Baratheons of king’s landing include a lion in their sigil, the Greens from the Dance of Dragons owed their initial success to their Hightower mother). In addition, Essosi women are almost to a woman treated horribly in Westeros; divorced (Mellario, Larra), exiled (Rohanne), or tortured and killed (Mysaria, Tyanna, Serala, Serenei), so it’s great you decided to single out Rohanne’s Essosi influence on her children as something neutral to positive.

As for your question about what would happen if Calla+family didn’t manage to escape, I asked warsofasoiaf about it years ago; his response that Bl00draven would’ve had them all killed, while certainly in-character (his consistent character trait is harming boys to accomplish his goals), isn’t particularly satisfying for writing a fanfic with these characters. We see Da3ron II took lands and hostages from those who knelt; Lord Bracken’s son died during the Great Spring Sickness, perhaps as a hostage in King’s Landing; Eustace Osgrey’s daughter and only heir Alysanne was sent to the Silent Sisters at age 7, while Standfast went from a prominent lordly house to one of landed knights. Daemon’s lands and titles were likely under attainder, being of fairly recent creation. In Westeros, killing (mostly male heirs) or sending to the Faith (more likely female heirs) the child rivals to one’s lordly power seems to be the norm (most infamously Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen on Tywin’s orders, but also Cerelle Lannister by her uncle Gerold, Rohanne and Cerelle Tarbeck were sent to the Silent Sisters and Rohanne’s young son was likely murdered during the Reyne Rebellion, the extermination of Houses Darklyn and Hollard bar one after the Defiance of Duskendale). So I tried to look at examples from medieval history to see if I could save the younger Blackfyre boys:

As much grief as I give GRRM for not being historically accurate while claiming he’s true to life, the gendered fate of young male and female rivals who were captured seems to pass muster: with boys usually being killed or “disappeared” (Arthur of Brittany was imprisoned then murdered by his uncle King John of England, the Princes in the Tower mysteriously vanished with the prime suspect as their uncle Richard III) and girls either imprisoned (Arthur’s sister Eleanor was imprisoned for 44 years until her death by her uncle John and cousin Henry), forced into a convent (Gwenllian Princess of Wales by Edward I, Joanna la Beltraneja was given a choice between this or marrying her infant cousin Juan by his mother Isabella of Castile), or married to steal their lands/unite claims (Arthur’s mother Constance was betrothed to his father from age 5 after her brother was forcibly disinherited from the duchy of Brittany, and I’m still not sure what happened to him; Eleanor de Montfort was eventually married to Llewellyn of Wales after she was captured and imprisoned by the English).

I think the best hope for the Blackfyre boys is for them be rescued and taken to Tyrosh (although Bl00draven would probably try to separate them to prevent all of them taken at once).

A longer-term option is for Rohanne’s relatives in Tyrosh to try to negotiate their release, probably with a solemn oath never to return to Westeros (happened with the Charles VII’s cousin Charles Duke of Orleans who spent 25 years in various English prisons after his capture by the English at Agincourt until his old rivals the Burgundians negotiated his release; Amaury de Montfort, despite having taken holy vows, was captured along with his sister Eleanor and only by swearing never to return to England and the Pope plus Llewellyn intervening was he released).

Failing that, maybe Baelor Breakspear could try to go ‘the Dontos Hollard route’, asking for clemency out of the boys’ age/birth, and sending them to King’s Landing as squires, and probably make sure they don’t return to their old lands. I doubt they’d be allowed to wed, but I suppose Rohanne could petition for a restoration of Daemon’s old lands to House Blackfyre (as Anne Scott managed to save her lands from her husband Duke James’ attainder after the Monmouth rebellion, and her two surviving sons by him were able to marry and inherit and were loyal to the crown), and they could be wed into a loyal Red house of Da3ron’s choosing; it’d be her grandchildren inheriting these lands (Elizabeth I imprisoned her cousin Katherine Grey for the rest of her life for secretly marrying and had her separated from her two sons, but they were allowed to marry and her grandson became the next Duke of Somerset, despite his family reputation). Not Daemon II if he’s been captured with the others, but possibly Aenys. I’m not saying this is a likely scenario considering the characterization of Bl00draven and the actions of Da3ron II to the other children of rebels, but it’s a kinder solution that maybe Baelor might come up with.

I don’t imagine that these boys will be sent to the Faith, but rather the Night’s Watch seems to be the place for defeated rebels/men sentenced to death; so in all likelihood at least the elder ones could be sent to the Night’s Watch once they’re old enough. Westeros as well as medieval history has shown how easy it could be to take someone from a convent/monastery and use them to take their lands/incite a rebellion (Robar abducting Rhaella from the Faith; Marie of Boulogne was abducted from her convent by Matthew of Alsace to forcibly marry him to steal her lands), plus these vows can be undone (at least in medieval Italy, where sometimes cardinals had to leave the Church to get married to continue their family line; it’s implied in the sentences of Lucinda and Priscella that septas can break their vows) so I think at least the elder ones would not be allowed.

The Blackfyre girls have a higher chance of not being murdered. The worst case-scenario that I could unfortunately see happening is sending them to the Silent Sisters along with poor Alysanne Osgrey, which seems to happen to the most dangerous of noblewomen (rebel queen Marla Sunderland, sasser-of-kings Maris Baratheon, Ellyn Reyne’s daughters Rohanne and Cerelle), all potential heiresses for another rebellion (not likely with so many brothers, but if they manage to escape and another uprising coalesces around them who knows). Another option would be to the Faith to be septas, which happened to more minor noblewomen men wanted out of the way (Rhaella and Megette’s daughters for their “inconvenient birth”, Lucinda Penrose and Priscella Hogg for their roles in the plot to kill Daenaera).

A particularly painful scenario would be confining them in the Maidenvault until/if a new king decides to release them as their grandmother Daena was. Considering that the next king is Aerys, I doubt they would be released (like Eleanor of Brittany) or marry

It seems not uncommon in Westeros for an ambitious man to marry an heiress of the previous ruler to become suo jure lord of her lands (Tyrek Lannister’s marriage to the infant Lady Ermesande Hayford, Dickon Tarly’s marriage to Eleanor Mooton, Lancel’s marriage to Amerei Frey to steal Darry, and most famously Orys Baratheon’s forcible marriage to Argella Durrandon). The problem with doing this in regards to the Blackfyre girls is that considering their father’s lands are probably under attainder, they don’t have lands to inherit, much less a dowry. Of course, Rohanne could try to petition for a creation of new lands, possibly in exchange for giving up their claim to the throne (Princess Renee of France gave up her claim to the duchy of Brittany in exchange for being made duchess of Chartres by King Francis I, so she could finally be allowed to marry). Another idea would be to send them abroad for matches to Essosi cities the Reds have ties to, such as Lys and Pentos. In a happy scenario, the Blackfyre girls were allowed to marry with permission; to show that Da3ron is serious about healing the realm, he or Baelor could betrothe Calla and Matarys (not expected to inherit the throne; your prompt said they were getting along!). What happens after his death in the Great Spring Sickness is anyone’s guess.

In the edgy scenario, the girls marry without permission, possibly to a Velaryon descendant of Baela’s (just going by my theory of at least some Velaryons as Blackfyre supporters); it seems in medieval England that some potential female claimants to the crown did marry secretly to men with more distant claims (Lady Katherine Grey as mentioned before, but also Lady Arabella Stuart two generations later, to Grey’s own grandson), thus frustrating the desires of their monarchs to marry them abroad. Sometimes they were able to escape their captors and raise their children in exile, eventually allowed to return to their home country; the most famous of these was Margaret Beaufort and her son Henry, who later won the English throne by right of conquest with weak dynastic claim.

A lot of these scenarios ignore the canonical cruelty of Bl00draven and the vindictiveness of Da3ron with regards to the Blackfyres and their supporters; I don’t imagine that they would show mercy to the defeated rebels, and warsofasoiaf’s scenario that they would all be secretly murdered is definitely a possibility. They also ignore Rohanne’s characterization (such that it is) of a take-charge noblewoman who was in my opinion unquestionably a pro-Blackfyre rebel that used her money and influence in Tyrosh to provide a home for the exiles and orchestrated their escape (the idea that Aegor Rivers helped Rohanne escape to her own country seems to diminish her achievements); I don’t think she would be asking the Targaryens for any favors, considering in canon she knew them well enough that she preferred to flee than surrender to the House that gave Bl00draven high office. Barring the “Bl00draven kills them all” scenario, I don’t think she would be executed due to her sex and that she’s from foreign nobility (especially if her male relative was still Archon), but we have no idea if the Faith is an option for her (did she convert? Considering the characterization of GRRM’s other Essosi women as holding to their homeland’s traditions, I doubt it); it’s likely to me she would be separated from her children, who would be governed by Red supporters (maybe if Rhaena is still alive, she could coach the girls?), an emotionally hard punishment for her (considering all of her canonical actions involve her children, it seems she loved them very much). It’s possible she might be sent back to Tyrosh as a gesture of goodwill to her family, after some years of confinement; or she could be sent to a remote location, like Cassandra Baratheon upon a forced marriage to Walter Brownhill.

tl;dr If the Blackfyres and Rohanne aren’t going to be murdered after being captured: the boys would likely go to the Night’s Watch once old enough, or imprisoned in the Red Keep and married under ideal conditions; the girls might go to the Faith, imprisoned in the Maidenvault, married off to non-Tyroshi Essosi, or secretly married; Rohanne would likely be briefly imprisoned, separated from her children, and either sent to the remote countryside or Tyrosh. What happens to them depends on how merciful the Reds are feeling, and how much of a risk they deem them to be. Just expect that if someone leads a rebellion in their name, for the boys to die.

#asoiaf #asoiaf headcanon #what if #House Blackfyre #Rohanne of Tyrosh #calla blackfyre #fic ideas #ask #medieval

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hisakata-resutomoshibi · 4 years ago

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So I got to thinking too deeply about origin stories the other day. I wrote this in a frenzy in one day so cut me some slack you guyss~ lol

(here you go @katzkinder @mrskeletondarkness )

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been four days since my last confession." He murmured, eyes fixed on the green velvet drapery only half discernible in the dim lighting filling the claustrophobic confessional box. "I once more lost my temper. It was just a small child but he was lingering in the outer hall and I knew him well. He is Alexander and on kitchen duty this week."

"And what did you do?" The soft voice from beyond the altar asked.

"I lashed out. I do believe he may have cried." There was no response to this but a lingering sigh and he grimaced. "There are more, of course. I was prideful of my position and my duty to oversee the facility in the absence of Father Antonio. I have overslept once and missed the Holy Hour."

"Unbecoming of a deacon."

He bit his lip, fingers curling tightly into his palms. "Yes, Father."

"This is something that I seem to see a pattern of." The voice had grown lighter and almost joking. "Are you perhaps not a morning person?"

"Not at all." He muttered sourly.

"See that that be something you work on."

"Yes, Father." He began sifting through the recent memories for something more inconsequential, struggling to see past the irritation he felt at the call out and finally settled on the most interesting. "I witnessed a marriage the other day. They seemed quite happy."

"And the sin?" The voice lilted up in amusement.

"I took the top most layer of the wedding cake."

There was a desperately concealed snort and then a clearing of the throat and he did his best to hold back a smile. "I think that is enough, don't you? Is it not time for your infirmary rounds?"

"Yes, Father. Ah- this is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.” He intoned dutifully, making to stand and dust the loose crushed velvet from his robes.

"For penance you will help the boy Alexander in the kitchens when you have completed your other duties." A pause and then, "And no bread at dinner for the week."

Scowling unseen in the dark, he nodded. "Yes, Father."

"Your Act of Contrition."

Taking a deep breath, he settled back onto the stiff wooden bench and let his mind drift as the familiar words flooded forth. "My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart, in choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned-"

The infirmary that he chose most to visit lay at the edges of the city and he often found himself wondering if it was the walk through the crowded, busy streets, or the lack of elderly patients at that particular institute that he liked about it. It was difficult to say really and bore no real worth in contemplating beyond relishing in the somewhat fresh air that blew in from the smaller subdivisions and off the ever renewing water of the fountains so recently restored.

"You're here again."

Her voice was gentle and welcoming, clearly biased in her delight at the sight of him, and he struggled to hold back a smile.

"Of course. It is an almost daily occurrence."

"That it is." She smiled, ushering him in and down the hall. "I'm afraid most are sleeping at the moment and not much in need of such a friendly face."

"Then I shall do the rounds with you."

She once more smiled brightly and nodded, turning to gather her jacket. "Please do!"

Their conversations were always varied and pleasant, and he found her to be a relaxing presence; all at once joyful and demure, and yet suggestively combative and interesting. It was of course, he mused somewhat guiltily, a plus when the sun hit her endless golden hair and flashed, star bright, against the darker colors of her dress.

It was something that he was always mocked for. But then, he decided, watching her laugh cheerfully with one of her patients, worth it.

"They say there was a werewolf spotted not far from here!" Matteo exclaimed, dropping his plate down on the table. It clattered and threatened to spill and he chuckled self consciously.

"Do not be an idiot." He murmured testily, pulling his own plate farther away to protect it from the splattering of gravy off Matteo's. "They will say anything to keep a head up in notoriety."

"You're always so dour and pragmatic!"

"I am not, I am merely-"

"Yeah, yeah! A deacon of the church, bent on becoming pope." Matteo laughed, stabbing his spoon into the lukewarm potatoes they were being served.

Blowing out a harsh breath, he glared over at his friend. "Don't say things like that!"

"Well it's true, isn't it?"

"You once again demonstrate your enormously empty head."

Matteo only laughed once more, and he looked away again, down into the dregs of his cup and wondered if it were possible. Was it something that he could dare to dream of being worthy of? "Superstitious fancy." He muttered, not expecting an answer.

"You know, Faaver Antonehio claims is all twue." Matteo slurred, mouth full of bread. "He says thas why-" He paused and swallowed loudly, earning another glare. "He says that's why the city shuts down after dark. That and vampires." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Folly." He scoffed. "Vampires are no more real than ghosts."

"Then what do you think we're so armed against?"

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

"You have demonstrated quite a lack of faith."

He spun around, long gown fanning out and creating a rustling against the stone flooring in the otherwise total hush of the hall. "Father!"

"Calm down." Antonio chuckled. "I do not mean in your studies, but in your disbelief in what I'm sure you have been hearing murmurs of in the streets."

Wracking his brain, he could only come up with one common theme, and he struggled to keep his mouth from dropping open. "Do you mean the vampires and werewolves?"

"Exactly that." Glancing up and down the hall, Antonio stepped closer, his candle threatening to go out in the sudden rush of air between them as he approached. "For no other reason than your safety, please try to keep in mind that rumors are all based on something."

Without pausing to think that perhaps he was throwing his friend to the dogs, he snorted. "So all that ilk that Matteo spouts is not just nonsense but true?"

"More so than even he seems to ascribe it, yes." Antonio answered. He hesitated and then placed a hand on his shoulder, resting heavy and warm in the chilly hall. "You have duties in the morning so try to keep your head, alright? And do not let it affect your sleep. But remember this, you are destined for far more than you see before you now."

The innocuous statement seemed more confusing than reassuring and so he merely nodded. "Yes, Father."

Later, as he lay in bed, staring unflinchingly at the dark cavernous ceiling of his room where the moon, long since risen, was casting shadows into the corners, he couldn't help but picture a large wolf running through the streets and found himself hard pressed not to laugh. What a bunch of ridiculous lies. It was all just childish dreams and jokes blown out of proportion by the uneducated masses. And though it may very well be his duty to love and protect those very people, that did not mean he had to fall prey to their hysteria.

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

It was best to focus on the news he had received. Best to not look at the telltale red that was occasionally splattered across his pillows and sheets in the morning. No, it would do no good and so he shoved it far back and to the graveyard of his mind. He would not think of it. Instead he would relish in the knowledge that he would seem to not only be progressing to priesthood but to a place in the College.

He had been warned, months ago now, by Father Antonio, that there were changes in the air, but never would he have dared to imagine something like this.

"Handpicked." He murmured, watching his reflection in the water basin. He was looking impossibly paler and thinner, his already sharp jaw now razor like, and his eyes, such a lively green, now clouded. "For life."

It was a melancholy thing to hear of a death, but he could see past that and to it's natural place in the order of life. It was simply the way of things. That was true in the most dire of situations and it was true now. Splashing a hand through the water, he let out a breath of relief when his image faded into the ripples and he stepped away to begin his morning routine.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." He covered a soft cough with a stomp of his foot on the hardwood. "It has been three days since my last confession and I have fallen prey to pride and fear." There was no immediate response and so he continued. "I have lost not faith but trust, and I fear death."

"There is nothing to fear in death."

"No. But early dea-" He cut himself off, wondering how to parse the emotions that were tying him in knots so frequently now. So much so as to be distracting, leading to forgetfulness, spite, impatience. "I wish penance to renew my trust in God."

Faced with the city at dusk, he suddenly couldn't remember the last time he had ventured beyond the halls past midday. It was a colder evening and the wind bit into the hollows of his ribs and forced shivers across his skin. Tugging the cloak tighter around his shoulders, he hurried forward, long legs carrying him past the familiar sights now so strange in the twilight.

The place he had been sent, a seemingly unnoteworthy apothecary, was not far and it wasn't until he was in sight, breath labored and mind fixed on the sign over the doorway, that he first saw the shadow at the edges of the street. It hadn't appeared to have been following him, indeed, it seemed not to notice him at all. But when a second figure lunged forward from the open ended alley and sank a flashing blade into the first's chest, he couldn't stop the strangled sound of surprise from ripping free of his throat and into the night.

It was a mistake.

Both men, for he could see now that they were men, turned to him and he sank back a step. Mind blank in astonishment, he did not at first notice when the second advanced from the dark of the side street and towards him. It was foolishness to think that the glow of his robes would deter the man in any way but he still, for the first moment, held out hope. He just couldn't imagine dying in a place like this.

"Hey!" The first shouted and he for a moment found space in his crowded mind to marvel at the fact that the man was still standing, much less shouting so loudly.

"What are you-" His words were cut off by the fist that connected with the side of his head, and seeing stars, he stumbled back until his calves met a small wooden cart parked nearby. His temper flared, burning away the inky constellations in his mind and he frowned darkly. "You should not have done that."

"Ah man." The first man moaned tiredly. "What do you think you're doing hitting a priest?"

"You should not be hitting any one." He grit, resisting raising a shaking hand to his temple which throbbed more richly with each gust of chill night air.

"Yeah, that's true." The first sighed, leaning languidly back against the building, blood steadily gathering at his feet. "But I think it matters a little less if it's me."

"Shut your fool mouth!" He roared, eyes widening in yet more dread when he felt his own blood gathering in the crevices of his teeth and escaping the confines of his mouth.

"Hey, you ok?" The man asked, pushing away from the wall, his hair catching the street light and flashing like snow. "You look kind of peaky."

"I'm fine!" He spit, biting down on not just his tongue but the overwhelming, overlapping, paralyzing fear that grew suddenly up from that long buried place, watered with the blood that had, until now, seemed to have been staying where it was supposed to.

"You have quite a temper there, Father." The man sighed, having finally reached them. He glanced at the second figure who, in seeming disbelief, had not moved since the beginning of their conversation. "I'm tellin' you. It's better if he has his way with me. After all, what do I care?"

"You want to die?!" He exclaimed, livid in both dismay and amazement.

"No." The figure muttered, reaching out now, lightning fast and wrapping an arm around the second's throat. "But even if I did, it's not like I can."

"What in the world do you-" He broke off, watching in incredulity as, with each movement of the mans arms, more blood gushed free and ran like a waterfall down his legs to the cobblestones; he did not seem concerned by this and with what could only be seen as inhuman strength, lifted the second figure over his head and tossed him, light as a child, across the street and into a rubbish pile. The impact rendered the second figure unconscious and the man now turned his ruby gaze back.

"You should probably get home or whatever. Take a long nap."

"Your- eyes are-"

"Red?" The man interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, well I am a vampire."

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

It was growing harder and harder to ignore, he admitted, as he crept down the deserted hall in search of Matteo. Indeed, most nights now, he found it difficult to sleep for the chills and chest pain. He could feel it digging ever deeper, sinking it's unknown fingers into his lungs and muscles and wracking him with aches and shivers and now even an inability to eat. He was thinner than ever, as Matteo liked to remind him, joking that a strong wind might be enough to loose his feet from the floor and sweep him away and to Heaven. And it would have been an annoying enough joke on its own but for the twinge of real worry he could discern in Matteo's eyes whenever he was looked at too closely or accidentally let out a cough that had been punching at the back of his throat for the last hour.

It should have been nothing. He was a man of God. He was pious and good and atoned. It should have been nothing.

But it wasn't.

There had been no answers for him in the dead of night, or the light of dawn. or in the long watches of desperation every Mass.

Slamming an already bruised fist against the nearest archway, he winced when the hollowed bones in his hand creaked. Rubbing at the spot, he bit his lip, and tried to ignore the panic that fluttered so like children’s breath at his heart. It would do no good. It would only increase the pain. It would only bring on another of his fits.

Knowing that vampires were real, assuming that he hadn't hallucinated the entirety of the event a couple weeks, wasn't making anything easier. His faith, already on shaking legs, was threatening to topple completely when faced with the truth of such creatures, the Damned, lurking in the night, in the city, and free to prey on those they chose. And if they truly existed, then what did that mean for Matteo's claim of werewolves?

He couldn't afford to wait any longer.

He was about to give up for the night, winded and miserable, when he turned a corner and almost ran head first into Matteo himself. He stumbled back, barely catching himself on his weakened ankles and shrugged off the concerned hand Matteo put forth.

"What are you doing out so late at night, my friend?" Matteo asked, the faux cavalier tone to his voice grating against already raw and bloodied nerves.

"Looking for you." He hissed. Grabbing a handful of the others robes, he gave as mighty of a pull as he could, one so diminished from his usual that he almost broke down in tears. "We need to talk."

"About what?" Matteo whispered cautiously. "Do you feel like you-"

"Not about me." He panted. "About the damn vampires."

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

This was probably the time to go and see Father Antonio, he thought detachedly; there was no coming morning for him. And he would go too, he insisted, argued vehemently to himself, if only he could get up.

"Do you want another drink of water?" The voice next to him asked softly and he turned his head, neck muscles protesting violently.

The figure there was blurry at best, but he thought he could make out blonde waves. Unsure if he had given a response or not, he blinked, willing the vision to clear. If nothing else, what a sight to be his last.

"Is he-" Matteo's high alto drifted over from the doorway and the blonde blur shook its head.

"Please come in." The soft one answered.

A shaking hand wrapped around one of his, seeming miles away, and Matteo's face slowly materialized. His freckles looked more pronounced than ever and it took him far too long to understand it was the unnatural pallor of Matteo's face that made them so.

"How are you, my friend?"

Summoning every ounce of life left in his body, he scoffed, the sound weak and wet in the otherwise complete silence. "You- demonstrate- your empty head-edness."

A trembling smile wound over Matteo's lips and his grip tightened just a fraction. "What would I be otherwise?"

A priest, he thought sullenly, enviously. It had been his future, his goal and meaning in existence. Now, Matteo would see that Ordainment alone. Perhaps he would even earn his spot in the college, one that he had not even had chance to sit in on.

There were no answers anywhere.

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

When next his eyes opened his vision had cleared, was in fact crystal sharp and bright despite the obvious glow of the moon beyond the windows, windows that he did not recognize. Suspiciously, he cast it about the room and recoiled in shock when he met a gaze he had never seen before.

"Feeling better, aren't we?" The stranger asked cheerfully. "Tell me! How is your head? Your lungs? Quite a toll it took on you there! I'm surprised you held on as long as you did. Naught but mush in your chest by the end!"

"What are you talking about?" He demanded, eyes flying wide at the restoration of his deep tenor. It was something that he had not heard in the last month of suffering and wavering delirium and it's sudden reappearance was startling at best and terrifying at worst.

The man grinned, wide and unfettered. "Welcome to your new life!" He stepped back, out of his immediate line of sight, and spread long arms. "How do you feel, be honest."

"I-" He cut off, scowling blackly and sitting up, once more stunned by the ease with which this small motion, before next to impossible, was now accomplished. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"I've already told you." The man tutted. "Doubt Doubt. That is your name now."

"My-" His gaze flew to the small mirror over the sink that was inset into the wall. In it stared back a mad version of his face. Returned were his delicate, high cheekbones and attractively curved forehead, leading back into shining ravens feathers for hair, but his eyes... gone was the green of a spring rain and in place was a sparkling. cold ruby flame. "My name is-" He trailed off distractedly, realizing that he could not seem to remember it. All his memories were intact, strong and full of conviction, even the dread soaked ones of the last few weeks, but this, his name, he couldn't seem to-

"Not any more." The man smiled. "You are Doubt Doubt. Of Envy."

The mention of the sin, one of the last complete, coherent memories that he possessed, knocked the wind from his newly restored lungs and he bolted up, lithe and sure on his feet once more. "Impossible! Where am I?"

"Your friend really should have warned you." The man murmured, looking for all the world as though he were full of pity. "But then, it's entirely possible he did. Many don't seem to remember those last few days."

Without thought, he crossed the room in six staccato steps, his hands already winding around the throat of the man, this tormentor sent to punish his for his dying sacrilege. But even when his fingers, strong now, stronger than ever they were before, dug into his flesh, the man only continued to watch him calmly. Finally, after several moments of blinding rage he forced his grip to go slack, hands falling away from the mans neck, shoulders, back to his own sides, hanging limply.

"You have quite a temper." The man laughed and instantly another memory was summoned to the forefront of his mind. One of a pale, lackluster youth in worn clothing, with a mortal wound in his chest, tossing a grown man twenty feet; a young man with the same burning blood in his eyes.

"Vampire." He murmured, the words falling free in numb disbelief.

"That's right." The man agreed brightly.

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

It was with both fear and hope that Doubt Doubt stopped just before the first step of the ancient stairs that led up to the entrance, a path he had so oft taken without a second thought. But there in lay salvation, or at the very least, an end to this treacherous half life, this stain upon his humanity. Tugging the hood low over his face, making sure that nothing but his thin lips could be seen, he took a step and then another. He was unsure if it was relief or disappointment he felt when, in stepping through the doorway and into the gold gilded opulence, he did not burst into flames or finally fall dead to the floor.

It had been months, long enough that he was sure that even were he recognizable, no one would have the time to think twice. As long as he steered clear of the back quarters, kept to the crowded main halls and rooms, it was going to be fine, there was no one that-

"Oh my god." A voice breathed and Doubt Doubt spun on his heel, anguish pooling in his stomach. "You-" Matteo broke off, wide brown eyes suddenly flooding. "I thought he had spoken lies."

"Who?" Doubt Doubt demanded harshly, forgetting his plan and allowing his feet to follow the pull towards the other.

"T-that man." He stuttered, taking his own step back in response to every one of Doubt Doubt's forward. "He told me that you-"

"That I what?" He insisted, now towering over the smaller man.

He could see the moment that Matteo saw the red of his eyes for his face, already pale in shock, drained further, until he was almost a bleached parchment. "Your-"

"Come with me." Doubt Doubt interrupted swiftly, grabbing Matteo's arm and dragging him as quickly as he could without drawing attention towards the so familiar halls that led to his room.

The door, as he had hoped, was unlocked and, in pushing it open, he felt a rush of regret wash over him. He should not have come back here. Not when he had for so long agonized over his plan already. Matteo, now following willingly enough, was hovering in the doorway and at Doubt Doubt's sharp look, swallowed a gasp and darted the rest of the way in. He, whether out of habit or a lack of self preservation, pulled the door closed behind him and then they stood, silently studying the other in the swirling dust motes filling the room.

Matteo, as always, was the first to speak; his voice weak and hollow in the gloom. "He said he could help you."

"Who?"

"I saw..." His eyes darted to the window, now shuttered, and back. "I met a boy in the square. He was the one you told me about. I thought nothing of it until I saw his eyes." His gaze fluttered briefly up to Doubt Doubt's before falling back away. "You were right."

"Of course I was." Doubt Doubt muttered flatly.

"When you- you died." Matteo sucked in an unsteady breath, his vision once more clouding over with tears. "My friend, my dear one, you were dead and I- I think I-"

"You lost your mind." Doubt Doubt accused, fingers clenched beneath his sleeves, where they could not be seen.

"I could not stand to see you like that. I heard, you know. Father Antonio does not keep secrets as well as he thinks. I kept thinking, thinking that if I could only do something you would be able to, to join the College and-"

"I can do no such thing as I am." He snarled, stepping forward and whipping back the hood, letting his hair fall free, eyes flashing in the muted sunlight.

Matteo's expression grew fearful and awe struck in equal parts as he looked up into Doubt Doubt's face. "God, what have I done?" He whimpered, hands clasping in desperation between them. "That man, he said that he could change it, reverse your death or- God, forgive me. Please. Forgive me."

"I will forgive when you have done something about this." Doubt Doubt whispered, tone dripping in venomous hate. "Find a way to end this suffering or you will only be destined to join me."

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

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Doubt Doubt began, foot tapping fretfully against the worn wood of the confessional. "It has been eighteen months since my last confession. I have been consumed with hate and vitriol. I am no longer a man of God."

"Everyone is a child of the lord." The voice beyond the veil was elderly and breathy and Doubt Doubt found himself wondering suddenly how easy it would be to frighten such a man to death.

"Every one, you say?"

"Yes, of course. All of mankind is held in his loving arms."

"I am no man."

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

Surely, Matteo would have passed by now, Doubt Doubt mused, watching the water in the hold of the ship slosh worryingly. It had been more than a century. Men were not meant to live so long. And so it was that, feeling his sanity degrade further every day, he decided that it best he leave his beloved city. For what was it now but a painful prison? It was no more his city than the ticket he had used to board this ship had been.

Glancing down, he wondered if the tailor he had contracted had found the request strange. Most likely it was not every day that he was instructed to create a bastard priest's robes. Now in jet black, Doubt Doubt was confident that he would not be questioned or accosted, and the drape, the heavy fall of the fabric was, despite the passing years, still a comfort. There was no ornamentation, no rosary or trim; those were things from the past, things that were no longer in his grasp, and the memories it summoned had been far too much. Each new election, each new pope and passing of priests and bishops had left him bereft and sinking further beneath the black waves of his own destruction; Doubt Doubt had realized he had to leave, because he could not die.

The veil he wore now had been a gift oddly enough. A strange girl with sparkling green eyes had given it to him on the street one late evening. Wandering alone past the river, Doubt Doubt had stumbled, hurriedly pulling his hood and thick cotton scarf back up and over in fear when he had noticed the girl and her mother near the water's edge. She had seen though, he could tell by her knowing look, and when, after a brief word to her mother, she turned her steps towards him, he considered running. It would be easy to outrun one so small; he could outrun anything in the world now, after all.

"That looks uncomfortable." She said solemnly when they were within earshot of each other. Holding out her small hand, she presented a thin, delicately made silk veil. "Take this."

Doubt Doubt stared down at the offering in stupefaction and it was only when she huffed impatiently and waved the veil around a bit that he was jolted back into active thought. "I do not need it."

"But you look like you would like it. You'll breathe easier." She insisted, and without warning, crossed the rest of the distance between them and plopped the soft material into his hand, which had reached out of its own accord in habit. "Please take it, Father."

Biting his lip deeply, enough to bring a flash of copper to his tongue, Doubt Doubt curled his fingers over the veil and let all he could think to say fill the void. "I never made it that far."

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

It had become habit to speak lowly, it was far easier to hide his teeth that way. Or at least that's what he told himself. It was more likely that than, though trapped in a never aging body, he was somehow still growing old in mind. Mumbling and hiding and denying were just so much easier. And when one spent his time making little bottled ships, an infuriating hobby that he had picked up from Matteo, one did not really need to speak.

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

The church in this new city was small, but then, all seemed small in the face of the Vatican, he mused, standing in the street and staring up at the dome. It would accomplish nothing, bring nothing but regret and anger, but he still could seem to stop himself from ascending the stairs and gliding into the atrium. Sister like wall sconces and décor greeted him and he breathed a soft sigh. Letting his fingers trail over the statues lining the alcoves, he worked his way towards the altar and paused, staring up at the swirling scrollwork of the inner bannisters.

"Good day!" A voice called cheerfully, and Doubt Doubt started, his gaze flying to the back of the room. There stood what he could only think was the resident priest, and instantly his heart sank. "Don't worry, you're always welcome!" He added seeing the twist of Doubt Doubt's lips.

"I do not belong here." He said softly, voice carrying in the quiet of the air.

"All belong!" The priest exclaimed, still smiling. "And you have that look. The call of God, it speaks to you."

"I have not heard that voice in years."

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

She was like a long forgotten dream but try as he might, Doubt Doubt could not place his finger on the memory. It sat, hovering at the edges of his mind, winking in and out of sight in frustrating patterns. Something about her long, blonde hair pulled at his empty heart and drew him in, filled him with a sense of ease and happiness that he had not known in lifetimes. She felt like an unfamiliar homecoming.

She was so, so hard to resist.

And so, when she came to him, found him in that dark basement, biding his endless time and pretending not to exist, he did not think twice, did not stop to question why she wanted him. Only rejoiced shallowly in what little feeling he could summon that there was still some reason for his continued presence on this cursed plain, some meaning in his cruel existence.

And now it was too late. She was standing before him, bereft and broken, mad from the hole in her heart, and they were contracted and he had only two options. Both were unthinkable and once more he was left with the clarity of vision that he had never seemed to possess in the moment. Someone, a man he once knew, had joked that his hot head was the reason he had made it to deacon. "You're just too stubborn and scary when angry to say no to!" He had always laughed and Doubt Doubt spent a moment admiring the clarity with which he could recall such words. But what had been his name?

"You have to." She slurred, leaning forward and draping herself over his shoulders. "You're mine and I say and so you have to."

He remained silent, hoping that she would grow bored and lose interest, but he had no such luck and her anger was too strong, her hate too powerful.

"You will." She demanded, pulling out a kitchen knife, one that looked pilfered from the family's heritage collection, if he had to hazard a guess. "Use this, it will be so easy. He is so small~" She thrust the knife into his hand and barely looked when, in sliding the blade through her own, she sliced open her lily white palm. "Tomorrow is someone's birthday and I must make a cake. You can think of how you want to do it and then we'll have two reasons for cake!" She used the bloodied hand to swipe back her wild hair, falling in clumps over her forehead and Doubt Doubt almost couldn't resist the urge to jump up and pull her hand away, saving that beautiful color from the sin of her blood. "Figure it out, or I will."

He was small, though not as small as the one he had come to find, and Doubt Doubt only just saw him in the doorway of the little ones room. Standing there, staring openly into Doubt Doubt's eyes, he seemed to feel no fear, though the flash of the knife was visible in the setting sun's flames through the window. Yes, he had always been an odd one. Doubt Doubt had only talked with him several times, just enough to place his face and name in the great tide of those that resided behind the walls of the mansion he now haunted. Mikuni was his name, yes and he was her son; that much was obvious as he possessed the same silken cornflower hair.

Neither said anything and, in a fit of determination, Doubt Doubt turned from the doorway, tucking the knife away. He had not intended to use it but between his worried distraction and the siren call of the contract he had found it repeatedly in his hand over the course of the last few hours.

Mikuni watched him go, he could feel that razor sharp gaze piercing his back, and only when he had once more hidden himself away in the basement, tucked into the darkest corner he could find, the heat of the boiler a comfort to his chilly scales, could he finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Surely, she would not be able to find him here. And without his poisonous presence perhaps she could regain her mind, find once more her love and soul that he had so come to enjoy. The connection sang, even within the limited confines of the building but she was not truly thinking, had not been for months, and so he hoped she would not be able to follow it's call.

When hours later the sound of footsteps roused him from his fugue like doze, fear cramped his lungs, shooting ice into his already frozen veins. How had she-

But the figure that stopped in front of his hiding place was not hers, and he relaxed somewhat. No, it was the boys. Mikuni's. And it was with a piqued interest and vague sense of dread that he wondered how this one could find him when even his own master could not.

"I have a proposal for you."

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

Adjusting the veil, he approached the cold stone steps that he had spent a lifetime treading up and down and now had not seen in decades. The sun was wasting away behind the promenade and yet people still lingered, modern attire and garish colors at odds with the old world design of the building. Jeje took a deep breath and swept up the staircase, attempting to keep his heart rate and back even. There was after all, nothing to fear. He had entered before, many times, in hopes of destruction and atonement, in desperation, and in rage. It was not absolution he sought now, but the simple peace of truth.

The high, arched ceilings, as beautiful as ever, rose above his head and he sighed, feeling that old cloak, once so comfortable and now only a gaudy costume, fall back over his shoulders. It had been his duty, his only desire- a dream no longer within his grasp. All around him, the scrolling designs, checkered framework of paintings, carved bannisters, and painstakingly carved statuaries reflected back the memories he had carefully piled over with dirt in the past hundred years of existence. Flooding back in such a wave they were incomprehensible and he almost lost his step. It was only when he noticed a set of curious eyes on him that he regained his composure and, straightening the shoulders of the priest robes he had donned so fretfully that morning, strode on. They fit just as well, as they should, as he had not changed, and in the ensuing observations he noted the vague curiosity replaced by an awed sort of respect. So it seemed he still looked the part.

Wasting time that he did not have, knowing Mikuni was holed up at their hotel room, most assuredly watching the clock in begrudging silence and counting the minutes, he trailed along the many familiar winding passages and elaborate stairwells, admiring the filter and fall of the sun, like solid beams, from the windows and across the dizzying tile floors. It was all so equally unchanged, he thought in amazement.

Pulling the freshly cleaned fabric left to right, the light petering out as he did so, Jeje sat on the loving, sturdy bench and waited. The sounds of rustling could be heard on the other side and then a polite cough. With a stranglehold on his bewildered emotions, he cleared his throat and began, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned." He hesitated. "It has been eighty-nine years since my last confession." The priest on the other side, whoever he may be, to his credit, managed to tamp down on his noise of shock, no doubt confounded by the voice he was hearing. Supposedly that of an as of that moment at least hundred year old man, it was still as silken and low as the deepest of chime bells. "I have committed the gravest of sins. An accomplishment for my already dark soul."

"God will forgive al-"

"Not this." Jeje interrupted, pushing past the ingrained, resurfacing habits of deference. "Not any more. I have corrupted the young and innocent. I have sullied his family home and life. Ruined it as surely as I am ruined. First through his mother and now through, most detestably, him. She was loving and warm, the love of his life, and because of me she fell into a deep madness. She wanted the worst of things. And now she is dead."

There was a heavy pause, the priest- no, the mortal man- on the other side, pulling in a deep breath, as though in preparation. "Was it an accident?"

"No, Father. It was murder."

#servamp #servamp jeje #doubt doubt #my writing #ORIGIN STORIES ORIGIN STORIES ORIGI-#slams fists on table #sleepy ash #mikuni alicein #a little bit~#servamp fanfic

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wolint · 1 year ago

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FRESH MANNA

SPIRITUAL PROSTITUTION

Jeremiah 3:1-11

Prostitution is called the "oldest profession” in the world. It was the most common way for women and previously some men to make money, even in Bible times. The Bible tells us that prostitution is immoral. Proverbs 23:27-28 says, "For a prostitute is a deep pit and a wayward wife is a narrow well. Like a bandit, she lies in wait, and multiplies the unfaithful among men."

Hosea 4:12 makes a graphic accusation against Israel: “My people inquire of a piece of wood, and their walking staff gives them oracles. A spirit of whoredom has led them astray, and they have left their God to play the whore.” Why would God say Israel had a spirit of whoredom (“spirit of prostitution,”? the same can be said of our generation and society today.

So many are prostituting themselves after other gods or jumping from church to church or denomination to denomination. What are they looking for? What are you looking for?

The narrative goes that Judah had separated from her husband, the Lord, and had been a harlot with many lovers, again, just like this age and generation and society. We, like Judah, are constantly unfaithful in marriage to the Lord and have no right to turn to Him or expect Him to return to us. Our unfaithfulness is evident in that the land is completely polluted with idols, and we sit as prostitutes by the roads as seen in Genesis 38:13-14, 20-21, this is the image of a cult prostitute. But God’s faithfulness to His word is greater than our unfaithfulness to Him, as Jeremiah later recorded God’s promise of Israel’s national restoration under the new covenant.

Morality and immorality are relational concepts that impact the way God feels about His people.

God is not the cold, emotionless and unfeeling judge sitting on His throne in the sky without feeling the pain of our constant straying and betrayal. God is personal, He feels our pains and laments our strays, but despite these, He is always eager to be reconciled to us and us to Him, unfaithful as we may be.

We have people church-crawling looking for “something” that I am not sure they even know what they are looking for. Or maybe they are looking for the “perfect church”, which unfortunately does not exist. Creating a culture of spiritual prostitution.

So many of us, like Judea have vacated our position as the bride of Christ to become brazen prostitutes.

Even though Judea made a pretend repentance, in verse 10, God the all-seeing God saw through their pretence, just like He sees our pretend piety and holiness.

God forbids involvement with prostitutes because He knows such involvement is detrimental to us as Proverbs 5:3-5 says, "For the lips of an immoral woman drip honey, And her mouth is smoother than oil; But in the end, she is bitter as wormwood, Sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death, Her steps lay hold of hell".

We must all take care that we don’t get so steep in spiritual prostitution that when we show up in church or Christian gatherings, we end up praising God with a rock heart.

Although prostitution is sinful, prostitutes are not beyond God’s scope of forgiveness. The record of Rahab in Joshua 2 shows us that God is willing to forgive anyone who repents.

Just like anyone else, prostitutes have the opportunity to receive salvation and eternal life from God, to be cleansed of all their unrighteousness and to be given a brand new life! All they must do is turn away from their sinful lifestyle and turn to the living God, whose grace and mercy are boundless. 2 Corinthians 5:17 puts it clearly and encouragingly for every returning spiritual prostitute.

We must learn to stay put with God and stop straying.

PRAYER: Father, help me to remain faithful to you as my only saviour and deliverer and not become a spiritual prostitute in Jesus’s name. Amen.

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT. PRAYER MIN.

#spotify #devotional #christianpost #women's ministry #biblestudy #biblestudy christianpost women's ministry #biblestudy christianpost 'women's ministry #conference #family #prayer meeting

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wonderlandleighleigh · 5 years ago

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Anidala Week Day 2: Canon Divergence

(Canon Divergence is pretty much all I do. So here’s a thing loosely set in the universe I play around in anyway. :) )

To save the Republic(’s approval ratings), Anakin and Padme have to get married.

Again.

“I’m not saying you have to.”

Padme lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at her friend, crossing her arms. “But you’re saying we should.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Bail shrugs. As head of the Chancellatory committee, he’s had a lot of work to do, and not much of it makes him popular with anyone. “You can’t argue that there’s been a lot of distrust between the people and the Jedi Order...and the Senate and the Jedi Order...and the Jedi Order and the Jedi Order. It would make them seem like they could be normal people.”

“They’re not normal people,” Padme points out, taking a seat in Bail’s office. It feels strange to be able to move around again without feeling like there are two bowling balls in her stomach. Though she misses her babies terribly when she’s not with them at home, she’s glad for the freedom that not being pregnant gives her. “They’re Jedi. That’s always been the point.”

“A point that isn’t working anymore,” Bail tells her. “Obi-Wan being on the committee is a good start for repairing relations between the Jedi and the Senate, but a public display would make a bigger impression on the people of the Republic.”

“Bail, Anakin and I are already married,” Padme argues. “We’ve been married for years, and now we’re parents, and Anakin is still recovering from that fight with Palpetine. Between those things and my work, we don’t have the time.”

“So hire a wedding planner,” Bail shrugs. “Look, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from being married to the Queen of Alderaan, it’s that sometimes you do stupid, ridiculous things to make your people happy.”

“And you think that the stupid, ridiculous thing that I should do is have a very large, very expensive, very public wedding to the man I’m already married to, to show the people of the Republic that we’re all playing nice together,” Padme surmises.

“Exactly.” Bail sighs softly. “You’ve already had the intimate wedding you wanted to have.”

Padme huffs to herself. It hadn’t quite been what she’d always dreamed of, but…

“And the Senate and Jedi approval ratings are quite literally circling the drain,” Bail goes on. “If we’re not careful, all of us will lose our upcoming elections, which means that all the work we’ve done here so far has the potential to be completely undone. And a vote to remove the Jedi from government oversight wouldn’t be far behind, which means they would lose government support and funding. We have to at least try to give the people some sort of hope. Some sort of positive display that will restore their faith in the idea that we can all work together to clean up this terrible mess. And yes, a wedding is hokey. It’s obvious, it’s clearly a ploy. But it will be a popular ploy. Anakin is the most successful Jedi General of the Clone Wars; he rooted out the Sith Lord in our midst, and you are one of the most popular Senators among us. The people adore you. This is a PR goldmine.”

“It’s my life,” Padme reminds him. “One that, up until a month ago, was very private.”

“Well, you’re our only choice,” Bail says, sympathetically. “I’d ask Obi-Wan, but Jinn is already a year old, and no one likes Satine. Hell, they don’t even like Obi-Wan anymore, now that he’s on the committee instead of leading an army.”

“Not that he cares, which he shouldn’t,” Padme mutters. “He’s here to advise us. Not win popularity contests.”

“We work in politics, remember? It’s all a popularity contest.”

Padme sighs heavily. “So. I’m getting married. Again.”

Bail smiles at her. “Congratulations.”

*****

Anakin is visibly confused when she gets home that night. “What was wrong with our wedding?”

“Nothing,” Padme tells him quickly, taking his hands. “Our wedding was wonderful and beautiful. I got to wear my dream dress and you were so handsome, and sweet, and it was just for us. But…”

Anakin waits for her, still frowning. “But?”

“But...this...isn’t about us,” Padme goes on. “This is about restoring the faith of the people of the Republic. Of showing them that there is unity between the Senate and the Jedi.”

“There isn’t,” Anakin points out. “In fact, all there has been is finger pointing over who missed what sign that things were terrible. Mace got angry. I’ve never seen Mace angry. I thought he was going to slice off the heads of the entire committee. Including Obi-Wan.”

“Well, that was a bad day at work.”

“Angel, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they’ve all been bad days at work.”

“Which is why we need to do this.”

Anakin sighs softly. “So you want us to get married again. In front of the entire galaxy.”

“It’ll be fun,” Padme insists. “We’ll get dressed up, we’ll eat cake...and we only got one night of a honeymoon, maybe we could take longer this time.”

“Between twin infants and your work schedule?”

“Why are you making this difficult?” Padme asks, starting to lose her patience.

Anakin pauses for a moment before speaking up. “Because our wedding, however small...however brief, was special to me. It was the most important day of my life, right along with the day the kids were born. I don’t need or want a do-over.”

Her heart melts as she sees the sincerity in his eyes. “Oh, Ani.”

He takes a breath and grins sheepishly. “Alright. Okay. If us re-getting-married is going to be the thing that unites everyone and brings peace to the galaxy, who am I to argue?” A rush of relief washes over her as she throws her arms around him. “Thank you. I promise I will make this as painless as possible.” ***** It is not painless. It is weeks of planning. Robe and gown fittings. Of tastings and flower arrangements and guest lists. “Well, the Council has agreed to come.” Anakin blinks owlishly. Padme sighs, a touch exasperated. “Ani, the entire point of this is to show unity between the Jedi and the Senate. I spoke with the Council last week, and they’ve agreed that they, along with other key members of the order will be there.” Anakin shakes his head as he changes Luke’s diaper, playing with his son’s feet absently. “Whatever you say, Angel.” “I know your relationship with them is a little strained…” “Yes.” Padme deflates a little, knowing that it’s taken a long time for Anakin to heal from his fight with Sidious, and that the Council nearly threw him out of the order anyway, for his marriage and children. “I should have spoken to you about this first. I thought you knew.” “It’s fine,” Anakin tells her. He takes a deep breath and turns to her. “After all, this isn't for us. This is for the Galaxy, right?” She nods, pursing her lips, and staying quiet. “And as long as I get to have Rex and the 501st there, it’s fine,” he says. It’s Padme’s turn to blink owlishly. “...Oh.” Anakin narrows his eyes. “You did invite my men to our wedding, didn’t you?” “I...may have...forgotten?” Before he can get truly upset, she holds up her hands. “I will fix this, right away, I promise, Anakin.” As she rushes out the door, she hears him call back “Invite the 212th, too!” Padme closes her eyes and takes a deep, cleansing breath. Between her work schedule, and this wedding planning, and trying to fit in Anakin and their children, her life has been a mess. Her husband has been a complete saint through most of this, taking care of the children, and putting quite a few of his Jedi responsibilities on hold, it’s hard to be mad at him when he acts like a bantha brain. But she will be completely glad when this is all over. ***** The day arrives without much fanfare. Since the ceremony is at night, (Mace Windu had been adamant about “On the steps of the Temple. The Senate needs to show it’s willing to actually meet the Jedi halfway, since we’re always coming to you.”), they have time for a quiet morning together. Padme feeds the twins as Anakin makes them breakfast, and she sighs contentedly as she listens to the nuna bacon fry under Anakin’s soft humming. “I want this forever,” she says wistfully, as she cuddles Leia. Anakin turns to her, cracking a grin. “Good thing we’re already married.” ***** It goes by much quicker than Padme had thought it would. Jar Jar performs the ceremony, which is strange, but it feels fitting, since he was there when they first met as children, and before they know it, he’s saying “I’sa now pronouncin’ you, husband and wife! Kiss her, Ani!” And Anakin does, tugging her close and kissing her eagerly, as if he’s been waiting to do this in front of the Senate and the Council and the Galaxy for years. He probably has, Padme thinks as she wraps her around around his neck, smiling against his lips. ***** The reception is enormous, and loud, and busy, and Padme is being pulled in all different directions, to be congratulated and kissed on the cheek and hugged, and the longer the party goes on, the drunker everyone seems to get. She knows she should be having a good time, but mostly, she wishes that she could have gone with Dorme and the twins back to their apartment. She would love to get out of this tight gown and rock her babies to sleep and then get a little work down before curling up with Anakin in bed. Padme supposes that she can do that tomorrow night. It takes her a while to find Anakin. They keep getting separated in all of the chaotic revelry, but she eventually finds him at a corner table with Rex, Ahsoka, Obi-Wan, Satine and Cody, watching all the party while nursing a drink. He beams at her when he sees her and when she gets close enough, he takes her hand and gently pulls her down onto his lap. “There you are.” Padme wraps her arms around his neck and instantly relaxes, surrounded by the people she knows well, a port in a storm. “I was busy making the rounds. Which you should be doing.” “Eh. Everybody knows where I am,” he shrugs, grinning at her. “Besides, nobody cares about the groom at a wedding. It’s all about the bride.” “I’d say congratulations, but since you’ve been married for years, it feels a bit silly,” Satine teases. “You said it,” Ahsoka pipes up. “I should have been in on that particular secret, by the way.” “No one was in on it,” Obi-Wan grouses. ‘Not even I knew.” “Er,” Rex says awkwardly. “Rex knew?!” Ahsoka cries. “Rex knew and I didn’t?!” “He didn’t know we were married,” Anakin snaps. “Just that we were together. And...talking regularly over holo comm during the war. That’s all.” “That’s all,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “How are you any better?” Anakin asks, bewildered. “Jinn is a year older than the twins. I had no idea you and Satine were still seeing each other. You hid your baby from me, Ahsoka, and the Council for an entire year.” “We were at war!” “Hey, no fighting,” Ahsoka cuts in. “We don’t fight at weddings.” “We were already married,” Anakin points out. “And our first wedding was better.” Padme smiles and kisses Anakin’s temple. ***** When they finally make it home, it’s incredibly late. Anakin goes to check on the twins, who are fast asleep, and Padme closes the door to the guest room that Dorme is sleeping in, so as not to disturb her. She sighs softly and turns to Anakin, taking his hands. “Thank you, Ani. I know this wasn’t really what you wanted. But I appreciate that you went through with it.” “Well, now that it’s over, we can get back to some semblance of normalcy,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “Maybe we could take the twins to the park tomorrow.” She smiles and closes her eyes, pulling him close. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

#anidalaweek2020 #fic #au #anidala #padme amidala #anaikin skywalker

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mikkomacko · 5 years ago

Text

Dear Daisy 4

Daisy's buttering up toast for Harry's late breakfast, radio playing the news through static speakers when the dreaded words are spoken. It's Chamberlain's address, the one they've been waiting for for a couple months now, but that doesn't mean she's at all prepared to hear the news.

"... consequently this country is at war with Germany."

She freezes, looking up at Harry with wide eyes. He's dropped the newspaper he was reading, the paper now laying in a heap on the table, but he looks unfazed. Picking at his bottom lip, brows furrowed, it appears as if he'd been expecting the declaration. Maybe he did know it was coming. After all, he's got good connections with government officials and media personnel.

They're both silent as the Prime Minister finishes his speech, claiming that Hitler is a threat to peace in all countries and needs to be stopped. He says that he expects the people of Britain to cooperate with courage, and that they're unwavering faith is what will restore peace in Europe. It's always about peace.

Harry doesn't speak until the radio has returned to regular news broadcast, notifying everyone of the weather conditions for the next week. "S'about time I suppose, that fucker's been walking on thin ice for awhile."

His nonchalance is calming, enough to have her finishing up his breakfast and carrying the plate over to him. He thanks her quietly, and she retreats back to the kitchen for her cup of her tea. She ate this morning while Harry was still sleeping in. She sits in her usual seat across from him, heart thumping. A war? She was barely a baby during the Great War, not even as old as Kitty, and she can't recall what it was like at all. But war is no good, it's scary. It's death and blood and separation of families.

"Are you going to have to fight?"

Harry looks up at her, a bite of sausage halfway between his mouth and plate, obviously caught off guard by the question. She mumbles an apology, eyes dropping to the table top as he finishes his bite.

"Suppose so. S'only a matter of time before they announce men over 18 must sign up." Once again he speaks as if it's no big deal, as if packing up and strapping a gun to his back to go kill Germans is just an average day-to-day activity.

"And if they don't? If they only call for volunteers?"

This time Harry doesn't look up, eyes still floating over the newspaper. "Then I'll volunteer." He takes another bite of food, chewing slowly. Daisy sips her tea, hand trembling pathetically. She doesn't know why she's so nervous. They've won a war before, crushed Germany into smithereens that left it in a depression worse than theirs. Maybe it's because this time she's aware of the war. Or because she knows Harry will be going to fight.

"You're acting like this is nothing more than a business meeting with competition."

Harry shrugs, flipping the paper to the next page. "My father fought in the war to keep my mum and sister safe, and I'll proudly do the same for them..."his eyes briefly flicker up to her, piercing over the edge of the paper before he hides behind it again, "and you."

Daisy's whole body rushes with heat, butterflies swarming her chest and she stutters on her breath as she tries to find a response. As her fiance it's sort of his privellage (and curse) to protect to her, but he almost sounds proud to offer himself up for her, and that's not really something she'd expect from an arranged marriage. Shouldn't he feel like he's being forced to fight for her just as he's being forced to marry her?

"T-that's..." she says quietly, throat tightening when he actually looks at her this time. He looks apprehensive, perhaps embarrassed by what he said, and it makes her heart beat even faster. He's being vulnerable with her. Just a tiny bit, but still. He's showing her a part of him, one she didn't know existed. She thought he was just prideful and rude, but there's something more. Not a lot of people could look upon an incoming war with their chin up and chest out, but Harry doesn't it easily. "That's really brave." She finally finishes, and for the first time in her life, his arrogance pleases her.

The only wedding shop in town is a small one, only holding a couple dressing rooms and few racks of dresses. Daisy always dreamed of having a wedding with lots of flowers, maybe in one of the nicer parks or her parents backyard. She never put a lot of thought into it, but she did know that she for sure wanted it outdoors and she wants to pick the flowers. Which leaves her a bit unprepared for picking a wedding dress.

They're all beautiful, silky and pearl white, some with lace and others without, but that's it. They're all plain and simple, nothing to make them pop even just the slightest bit. Her depleted mood at seeing yet another gown just like the others goes unnoticed, at least by her mother and Anne, who are both pulling out dresses and veils and garters by the handful. Harry's trailing behind her, a glass of champagne held delicately in his left hand as he halfheartedly watches the girls browse through the racks. Gemma is flipping through a book of some sort, most likely one filled with more dress ideas, so she's not too surprised that her pout is overlooked. At least she thinks it is, until Harry lays a soft hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her back from the dull gown she was practically glaring at.

"If you don't find one you love, don't get one at all." he says firmly, and if this were a week ago she'd probably scowl at the roughness in his tone.

She tears her eyes away from the dress, looking up at him with disappointed eyes. "But I have to find one. I can't just wear normal clothes to this-"

"Shush," he interrupts, taking a sip of his drink. She can't help but notice how pretty his pink lips look when they're stained with gold-hued drink. "you'll get a dress but I don't want you wasting money on one you'll hate. We can talk to the dress maker, see what she can cook up for you."

His thoughtfulness is sweet, even if it's a little shocking. She supposes he doesn't want her looking too miserable walking down the aisle, but with the way things are unfolding, he shouldn't worry. It seems the more time Daisy spends around him, the more she has to fight off excitement at the thought of being with him forever. She tells herself it's just the business side of it, despite his attitude, he's a dream husband. Handsome, a little rugged but somehow still beautiful, and he'll always be able to provide food and a home, and he's not too mean about her hobbies and likes. Maybe she's fooling herself, but it's easier for her to do that. She can't imagine how embarrassing I'd be to tell Harry that she may actually like him just to have him laugh or make a comment about that "not being part of the deal."

"You don't cook up a dress Harry." She teases, tone light despite the very heavy pounding of her heart. He scoffs, muttering something that sounds like "Lord help me," before bringing his glass up for another lengthy drink. Daisy can't help but giggle quietly, eyes widening when Harry looks at her with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips.

"I wasn't laughing." She immediately denies, blushing when a chuckle rumbles through his chest. He nods his head towards his sister, ignoring her nervous gaze.

"Go find a style of dress you like before you drive me mad."

Daisy doesn't need to be told twice. She scurries around him, crossing the aisle and approaching Gemma. The elder Styles sibling looks up when she senses company, smiling kindly.

"No luck?" She asks, frowning when Daisy shakes her head.

"Harry told me to look through the book to find a style I like."

Gemma quickly flips to a page near the front before handing Daisy the book. It's a page of different sketches, all showing the basic outline of styles. "I figured since you couldn't find anything you could just pick an outline and build from there."

Daisy smiles, realizing that Gemma and Harry think alike. She looks over the designs, not really enjoying the ones pictured. She supposes the princess cut is nice, but still too plain. How is she supposed to look ethereal in that? It won't take anyone's breath away, won't make them all stare in awe, and probably won't even impress Harry.

"There's more on the next page." Gemma tells her, picking up on her pout. Another similarity between her and Harry. Daisy's chest tightens, realizing that she's actually starting to get to know Harry, enough to pick out habits he shares with his sister. Ignoring the fluttering inside her, she flips to the other page. Immediately, her breath is taken away.

A beautiful drawing of flowing gown, layers of fabric fluffing out at the legs while the top is still on the tighter side of things. It's perfect, and it'll be even more amazing if she can get one with a train in the back. Daisy's eyes fall on the name of the style: Basque.

"This ones wonderful." She says quietly to Gemma, biting her lip in excitement as she shows her the page. Gemma's smile widens, nodding happily.

"Oh thank goodness," she breathes with relief, "I loved that one too but I didn't want to pressure you or anything."

Daisy peeks up at Harry, cheeks warming when she sees him instructing their mother's to put the gowns back. Even when Anne gives him that motherly glare, the one that says 'I know best!' Harry still shoos her away.

"There were no dresses here like this." Daisy says sadly, returning her gaze to Gemma. Ever the Styles, she takes Daisy's hand and pulls her towards the counter where Mrs. Fields is organizing dresses for pick-up.

"Excuse me," Gemma calls to her, holding a hand out for the book. Daisy easily hands it over. "my sister-in-law really likes this style of dress but we've yet to find one in the store. Do you have any in the back?"

Mrs. Fields adjusts her glasses on her nose, looking at the page being displayed to her. "Oh a basque gown! We only have a few simple ones, but of course we can make adjustments and add the details you like."

Daisy's smile grows, excited that she's found a dress she'll actually love. Seeing her beaming smile, Gemma nods. "Could we perhaps try one on?"

Mrs. Fields nods, hurrying through the door into the back. The sound of hangers scraping on rods fills the air, and Daisy smiles gratefully at Gemma. "Thank you, I appreciate you helping me."

Gemma smiles bashfully, waving off the compliment. "I would never leave you to pick out a dress with Harold. He's so impatient and grumpy when it comes to things like this. And he's got terrible taste."

They both giggle at that, y/n thinking of the numerous articles of clothing she's seen him in. Maybe it's just because he's so handsome he pulls everything off, but she can't think of an outfit of his that she doesn't like. Shyly, she shrugs. "I like his style."

Mrs. Fields is back before Gemma can respond, but her smirk still makes Daisy blush. "Here we are!" Mrs. Fields lays out three dresses on the counter, smiling brightly. "These are what we've got. Try them all on and let me know which one you like best, and what you'd like added or changed!"

Gemma thanks her again, her and Daisy grabbing the three dresses and heading towards the dressing rooms. Harry spots them, brow furrowing when he sees her carrying a dress. "What did ya find?"

"A dress," Daisy says cutely, hugging the fabric closer to her body. "m'gonna try them on, and then let Mrs. Fields know how I feel."

Anne and Meredith perk up at that, rushing over to look at the gowns. Gemma brushes them off, telling them to wait for the dressing room. Harry observes Daisy for a moment, searching her face as if he's looking for a falter in her excitement or a hint that she's lying. When he finds none, he nods. "Then let's go."

"Oh no mister!" Anne exclaims, stepping in front of Harry before he can move to the changing room. "You're the groom! Have some manners and wait out here."

Harry's huffs, looking over his shoulder at Daisy for help, but she's not going to say anything to go against Anne. She really doesn't want her mother-in-law thinking she's disrespectful. Seeing her hesitant gaze, Harry grumbles under his breath and moves to sit on the chairs lined up by the door.

Gemma teasingly winks at her brother as she enters the room, Meredith ushering Daisy in before her and Anne follow. Gemma hangs the three dresses behind the changing screen, then takes a seat on the bench with the mothers. Daisy disappears behind the light blue screen, unbuttoning her top and shimmying out of her skirt. The first dress is pearl white and made of silk, with sleeves of lace. It's pretty but Daisy doesn't really want sleeves so she moves to the next one.

Funnily, it's a daisy white, made of charmeuse with layers of tulle on the skirt making it flow out elegantly. The back drops a little lower than the front, making a small but cute train. Biting her lip, Daisy slips the dress on, leaving the zipper down since she can't reach the back.

"How is it Daisy?" Her mother calls out, prompting her to step out into view. The mirror on the other side of the room reflects her back, taking her breath away. The top half highlights her figure, billowing out at her hips but staying loose enough that's it impossible to see just how thick her thighs are. The neckline is a little low, the top of her cleavage peeking out cheekily and thin straps on her shoulders.

"You look wonderful!" Meredith cries, rushing to her feet to circle her daughter. Daisy smiles bashfully, ruffling the skirt a bit as her mother does the zip. Anne, who's eyes are suddenly filled with tears, holds a hand over her heart.

"You're stunning Daisy!"

Her cheeks grow hotter, but she can't help but agree. Other than the neckline and straps, the dress is absolutely perfect.

"I think this is the one." Daisy tells Gemma in response to her raised eyebrow. Gemma nods, pleased with Daisy's confidence in her choice. She wants to ask Mrs. Fields if they can alter the top a bit, and maybe add some color to it somehow, but she can't help but want to hear what Harry thinks. It seems like their mother's are willing to go along with whatever she says, but she wants another opinion. One that's not her own.

"Can you all take the other two dresses back and bring Mrs. Fields with you?" Daisy requests innocently, smiling doe-ishly at her mother. Eager to please, she goes to fetch the other dresses with Anne. Gemma's looking her up and down suspiciously, that knowing smirk on her face again.

"Gemma-"

"I'll keep them distracted for a bit. Maybe pick out a veil or two with Mrs. Fields."

Daisy doesn't get to thank her before Anne and Meredith are back with the other dresses. "Come on then!" Anne says, grabbing Gemma's hand and pulling her to the door. Daisy waits for their footsteps to fade before rushing over and peeking her head out. Harry's sitting on the chair, still waiting, arms over his chest and disgruntled gaze set on his retreating mother.

"Psst, Harry!" Daisy whispers harshly, waving a hand at him when he looks up, wide-eyed. "Come in, quickly."

Harry's on his feet immediately, following her into the room and closing the door. It's not until they're in the center of the room does she look at him, and the sight makes her lightheaded.

His lips parted, eyes wide as they slowly drag over her figure. Somehow, she notices his fingers twitch at his sides before they disappear behind his back. Daisy's lips curl bashfully, thinking that maybe he had wanted to reach out and hold her. "What do you think?"

Green eyes snap up to her, a bit dazed as he clamps his mouth shut. "Do you love it?" He asks tightly, the only hint of approval coming from the gleam in his gaze.

"I like it," Daisy admits, "but I want to change the neckline and maybe add color. What do you think?"

Her answers seems good enough for Harry, because he slowly walks a circle around her. His fingers gently run over the straps on her shoulders, fingertips barely brushing her skin but making goosebumps rise. "Could lower 'em," he suggests thoughtfully, carefully pulling the strap down until it rests on her bicep, "so they sit there, maybe add some ruffles or something along the top."

Daisy looks back in the mirror, imagining the top covered in ruffled fabric, covering most of her exposed chest but leaving enough out to be enticing. And the straps on her arms would be beautiful, leaving her collarbones and neck open enough for her to wear a necklace. "I love it." She finally breaths, looking back at him. He's looking at the skirt of the dress, pitching his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger.

"How about flowers?" He finally asks, looking at her through his thick eyelashes. "Could have little ones embroidered at the bottom, add a bit of color for you?"

She can't help but smile at him, grateful for his help. She knew he'd be able to help, to come up with ideas that would really make her love it. And now, judging by the way he looked at her when he walked in, she knows he's likes the way it looks.

"Yeah," Daisy agrees, "I think Lily Iris would look nice. Maybe in a light pink?" The same pink as the bedroom, she thinks to herself, unable to look away from him when two dimples sink into his cheeks.

"S'perfect." Harry agrees, eyes fluttering over her one more time. "You'll look like a dream-well, you already do, but even more so."

"Thank you," she murmurs, "any chance I can get you into a light pink tux?"

His smile falls when she giggles. "Don't push it Daisy."

Daisy didn't know what to expect when Harry had come knocking on her door after lunch, telling her to be ready to go out for dinner at 7. She thought maybe it was a business dinner or they were meeting up with his uncle to update him on the wedding plans. After the boat situation, Harry had told Mr. Styles he'd be taking over planning everything, which wasn't good for her already melting heart. Fully prepared to tell Mr. Styles about the design for her dress and hoping he wouldn't hate it, Daisy's speechless when Harry pulls up next to the neighborhood park and stops the car.

"Harry, this is the park." She says dumbly, and he chuckles.

"Good to know your eyes work Daisy." She pouts, confused as to why they're at the park and hurt that he's teasing her, while he just climbs out of the car. He moves around the front to her door, pulling it open and holding out a hand to help her out. Before she can overthink it, she lays her fingers in his warm palm, shivering when he closes his digits around hers.

"Why are we at the park?"

Harry doesn't release her hand as he guides her off the sidewalk and into the grass. A few groups are still running around the grass, little boys kicking a ball around and girls laying in the grass to look up at the sky while their guardians watch from the nearby benches.

"Know you enjoy sitting in the grass in the backyard, and I thought maybe you'd like to have dinner here instead." Harry says nonchalantly, tilting his head up to look at the sky before his eyes continue to dart around the area. He's nervous, she realizes giddily, but for what?

They cross the little wooden bridge with the creak underneath it, Daisy's jaw dropping as the grass comes back into view. A thick flannel blanket has been laid out, a wicker basket laid on top of it next to a tray with two thin candles resting on it. "Is that for us?" She asks, even though Harry's obviously pulling her towards the set up.

"Yeah," he nods, "thought it's about time I take you out for our first date."

Daisy thinks she could cry. He was nervous because he set up a date for her. Harry, who almost killed her once and would tease her for every little thing, went out of his way to set up a romantic dinner for her when he didn't have to.

"You didn't have to-"

"I know," Harry interrupts, "but I wanted to. Know I'm not exactly the man you wanted to marry and yet you've still been an angel about it-with a few nagging moments-" Daisy rolls her eyes, not too offended when she sees the dimples in his cheeks, "so I wanted to show you that I can be a good husband."

Before she can even think about what she's doing or how it could change their relationship, Daisy's stepping into his chest and slinging her arms around his neck. Harry stumbles, but his arms loop around her waist and his hands rest warmly on her back. It's not the first time they've held each other like this, but there's a big difference in dancing at their engagement party with everyone watching and clinging to each other in the middle of the park while on a date. Stupidly, Daisy can't help but think that maybe Harry's courting her, putting in effort because he actually has feelings for her. It's a nice thought, until she remembers that she's not even sure if she has feelings for him.

"As long as you keep me away from open water, you'll be the best husband." Harry laughs at her words, and his fingers hesitantly trail up her spine.

"What if I teach you to swim?" He ask lowly, and she shivers pleasantly. "Got a boat at the docks, can't take it out by myself."

Daisy pulls back enough to look at him. She can't tell if he's teasing or not, but by the softness of his gaze she doesn't think he is. You don't know him, she reminds herself, you wouldn't know if he's sincere or not.

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "I am not getting on another boat for you Harry Styles."

His smirk is teasing and charming. "We'll see about that Daisy Withers."

Daisy's got the flannel blanket wrapped around her shoulders, tummy full from the dinner Harry made them when he stops her with a gentle grip on her elbow. "Need to tell you something," he murmurs, lowering the picnic basket to the ground. The car's in sight, only a few feet away and she wonders why he's chosen now to stop her.

"Okay," she nods, hands fiddling with the blanket. Harry looks more somber than he has all night, eyebrows pinched and lips in a thin line.

"I got a letter today," he sighs, running his fingers through his curly hair and dropping his gaze to their feet. "registering me for the British Expeditionary Force."

Daisy's heart lodges itself in her throat, thumping so harshly she can feel it beating behind her eyes. It takes her a moment to find her voice, swallowing thickly. "A-and?"

Harry finally looks up at her, frown deepening. "I ship out to France in two weeks for training."

The tightness in her throat let's up. "France?"

"Allied with us. I train there and then wait for assignment."

Germany is not fighting in France, she assures herself, willing her shoulders to relax. He's not stepping right into a battle zone, now storming Poland or whatever other area Hitler's desecrating. He'll be safe, at least for a little while. "Okay," Daisy finally whispers, not exactly knowing what else to say, but that's okay because Harry does.

"Before I go, I want us to be married." He doesn't give her a chance to voice her questions, somehow knowing them already. "Not the wedding ceremony, but the certificate. If anything happens here, happens to me, you'll be safe with my last name."

She doesn't want to think about what he's implying. If he's hurt, captured, killed. If Germany somehow stomps over the British soldiers like rats and invades Great Britain, she'll need an important name like Styles to keep her and her family out of labor camps.

"Do you... think I'll need it?" It's not exactly what she wanted to ask. She wanted to know if he had faith in himself and his country, or if he really thought this would be it. Daisy feels sick thinking about the next two weeks being her last days with Harry, and she guesses that thought really shows how she's feels about Harry now. A month ago she wouldn't want two seconds with Harry, and now two weeks are not enough.

His hands reach up to cup her face, tilting her chin up to look at him. He looks more sure of himself now, that same privileged and prideful aura surrounding him. "No I don't, but I'd like to leave knowing I've got a wife waiting for me."

Maybe she's in shock, or maybe she's hysterical from not only realizing that she likes Harry but that he's now leaving too, but the mesmerized way his lips form the title wife make her tip toe, hands dropping the blanket and hooking into his suspenders, and she presses her lips to his.

Daisy's never been kissed on the lips before, only ever receiving pecks on her cheeks or hands, and she never really thought Harry would be the first man she kisses, but the when he holds her face softly and presses his full lips against hers, she can't imagine kissing anyone else.

"Don't think it's proper to be kissing on first dates Daisy." Harry mutters when they break away, blinking his eyes open. For some reason he looks bigger, broader and taller as he towers over her with a cocky smirk on his face. He's still holding her face, pushing a stray piece her hair behind her ear.

"Maybe not," she breathes, "but I think it's proper to be kissing my husband on our first date."

Harry shakes his head, shoulders bouncing with deep chuckles. "Sometimes I really hate you," he says with no bite, and then he's kissing her again.

Sometimes she hates Harry Styles too.

"It's really sweet that he's doing this." Summer murmurs, pinning a strand of Daisy's hair away from her face. She refused to give up flowers on her wedding day, settling for having it braided across the top of her head with flowers woven in.

"I know," Daisy mumbles, gnawing on her bottom lip. The bathroom is empty aside from the two girls, and she's glad for it. Today is a day for her, Harry, and their closest friends. No family, they'd agree that night they got home after deciding to marry as soon as possible. They'd get their big ceremony, but this is for them. Not forced, not bargained, but wanted.

"Are you scared?"

She shakes her head immediately. Summer finishes her hair, and Daisy smiles at her reflection. She decided to wear the dress Harry hates, the one that's a tiny bit shorter than the others but fits her figure well. The color isn't the prettiest, but she always liked how naturally pretty it makes her feel. And she wanted to spite him a bit, since he's yet to explain why he hated her so much before they moved in together. She can't help but smile imagining the way he'll frown at her outfit when he sees it.

"I think I have feelings for him Summer."

Unfazed, her best friend smiles. "I've known Daisy. I thought so after that night on the boat, and then hearing you two yell at each other at dinner confirmed it."

Daisy gawks, cheeks heating up. "You didn't think to tell me?"

Summer giggles, moving to the mirror to fix her own dirty blonde hair. "I couldn't tell you. You hated him, and me trying to force your feelings only would've pushed you further."

She feels a bit stupid as Summer smiles innocently at her through the mirror. It was obvious? She liked Harry before even knowing it herself. Could he tell? Could everyone tell?

"I think his sister might be the only other one who knows." Summer tells her, reading the look on her face.

"Gemma?"

"Yeah. She was giving him funny looks that night on the boat too."

That explains the way she kept smirking and teasing her and Harry when they were shopping. She knew all along too, and in that famous Styles way, she was enjoying having the upper-hand.

"That's not bad then." Daisy finally sighs, watching Summer finish up. They're only a few minutes late when they leave the restroom of the courthouse, immediately spotting Harry pacing outside the door of the judges quarters. He's brought his best friend as well, an Irish man named Niall that Daisy faintly recalls meeting on the boat.

The sound of the door shutting draws Harry's attention to them, head snapping up with wide eyes as he looks at her. He looks handsome, as always, in a pin striped penguin suit, fabric tight on his chest and shoulders. His hair has been greased enough it falls in messy waves instead of curls, except at his neck where the rouge strands have still coiled.

"Showing up late to your own wedding." Harry chastises, reaching out for her hand. She takes it, hand feeling dainty in his calloused ones.

"Had to make sure I look good enough for the family name." She retorts, smiling widely when his eyes flicker down to her dress. His jaw ticks, lips purse as he exhales harshly through his nose. Bouncing in her flats, she eagerly awaits his complaint.

He leans in closer to her ear, breath hot on her skin. "Don't think I could let you around my family in a little number like that Daisy."

Oh, she falters, not expecting the headiness in his tone. Was that attraction in his voice? The dress he's always loved to insult now making his breath heavy and intoxicating in her ear. She doesn't get a chance to think about it before the judge is opening his door and welcoming the foursome in.

"Well Mr. Styles, I've got the certificate ready to be signed and the contract ensuring that not a word of this will be spoken to anyone outside this room aside from those in charge of your assets." The judge says in greeting, moving back to the chair behind his desk. Niall shuts the door behind them, taking his place at Harry's side.

"Thank you Mr. Colsett." Harry says deeply, and Daisy's eyes widen at the tone. She's never heard Harry speak like that, all formal and business like. She hates how attractive the rumble of it is, subconsciously squeezing his hand as her and Summer share impressed looks. If Harry notices her odd behavior, he doesn't say so.

"Would you like me to go through the whole ceremony or will we just be signing?"

Harry swallows thickly, holding a finger up to Mr. Colsett before turning to Daisy. "There's a lot I've got to say to you, a lot to explain, but I'd like to save that for a better time."

He's still speaking in that powerful tone, and she feels mushy as she just nods in agreement. She's sort of glad that they'll just be signing, because she still needs time to figure out everything she needs to tell him too. And she doesn't want it happening in front of two strangers and her nosey best friend.

"We'll just be signing then."

A pen is handed to Harry, and he doesn't release her hand as he leans over the desk to sign the certificate. Daisy does the same, writing a little sloppy without having her other hand to stabilize the paper, but she doesn't want to let him go either. Summer winks cheekily at her as she signs the witness line, and Niall pats Harry on the back as he signs as well.

"Excellent," Mr. Colsett grunts, moving the certificate over to make copies, "I now you pronounce you husband and wife."

Summer and Niall both cheer at that, Summer pressing a kiss to her cheek as Niall does a silly jig that makes Harry laugh. He pulls Daisy's gaze away from Niall with a hand on her face, much like the night of their first date. "Am I allowed to kiss you or do I have to wait for the ceremony?"

"It's not a real marriage if it's not sealed with a kiss Mr. Styles."

Harry's smirk deepens. "We can't have that can we Mrs. Styles?" he replies, teasingly, cutting off her laugh with a kiss. She releases his hand, gripping the lapels of his suit jacket and pulling him closer to her. They've only got one week left, and she intends on keeping him as close as possible.

The week leading up to Harry's departure goes too fast for Daisy's liking. One would think that spending hours sitting in the living room and just staring at him would feel like years, but to Daisy it feels like minutes. As the seconds tick away, so does her sanity, and she slowly feels like she's turning into a ticking time bomb. No matter how many walks they go on, how many meals they make together, or how many times she's attempts at teaching him to crochet, it's not enough. And now she's having to split him with Anne and Gemma, and as selfish as it sounds, she doesn't want to. They've had their whole lives with him and she only gets a couple months? How's that fair?

By the time his final night rolls around, just the sight of him makes her tremble with tears. He's good at hiding any anxieties or second thoughts he might have, because the only difference she can spot in his behavior is the way he treats her now. A kiss every morning when they meet in the kitchen, holding her hand when they listen to the radio or ride in his car. And even though they don't act like a married couple in front of family, the dinner with everyone goes a lot smoother than the first one.

This time Daisy sits by him, holding his hand under the table as her father and Mr. Styles passionately complain about being too old to fight in the war, through everyone knows they're both happy with sending off their sons. Sterling isn't due to ship out for another week, and the thought of having to say goodbye to him too is crushing.

Anne and Meredith continue to discuss the wedding as if there's no war and they'll still be walking down the aisle in May when everyone knows Harry will most likely still be on the battlefield at the time. Even Kitty has picked up on the odd behavior, and much to Harry's liking, is more worried about him then her own brother. She avidly asks Harry about the 'trip' he's going on, pestering on why he can't take her and Daisy along but Harry tells her it's for the bad side of business and he doesn't want the girls seeing that side. Kitty accepts the excuse, only after Harry seals it with a kiss on her little forehead. She's afraid that action alone might give them away, but the only one who looks at him oddly is Sterling. The constant back of forth of talking about the war and then ignoring it the next minute makes her dizzy, and she's happy to send everyone off with quick hugs.

The house is silent behind them, Harry and Daisy hovering in the dining room with somber looks. She's sure he can feel her fright, and it's proven true when he wraps two strong arms around her. "What's going on in that head of yours Daisy?"

She clings to his neck, eyes watering and throat tightening. "Can I sleep in your bedroom tonight?" Her voice wavers pathetically, and his hold on her grows stronger.

"Of course you can."

They part long enough for Daisy to go change and wash up for bed, letting her hair out of its twist and rinsing off her makeup. Harry's waiting for her on the staircase, still in his button up and trousers, pinching at his bottom lip as he stares at the floorboards. It's the first time she's seen even a hint of nervousness from him, and the sight makes her lip wobble with emotion.

"Ready?" He asks, rising from the stair. He holds his hand out for her, leading her up to his room as if it's her first time being there. They pass the mysterious bedroom, Daisy tempted to ask about it again just so they have something to talk about, but she doesn't want to anger him on their last night.

His bed is made neatly, the blanket from their picnic thrown over the comforter and pillows. Harry flicks on the lamp by the bed, casting the room in a soft glow. Daisy sits on edge of the bed as he moves about, closing the curtains and digging around in his dresser for pajamas. She's left in silence when he enters his restroom to change, and she peels back the sheets on his bed. Not sure what side he sleeps on, she settles for sitting right in the middle of the bed.

Harry tosses his clothes in heap by the closet door, kneeing his way to the right side of the bed. Daisy slides over, slipping her legs under the blankets and falling back into the plush pillows. He does the same, puffing out a sigh and pushing his hair off his forehead. They're silent for a moment, staring up at the ceiling while Daisy thinks about how nice his sheets smell.

"You don't have to be so far away." Harry whispers, and Daisy looks over to find him already watching her. She doesn't say anything back, but the sheets rustle loudly as she slides over to him. To her surprise, Harry lays his arm out so she can cozy up by his side. She lays her head on his chest, and his hand finds her shoulder, gripping it softly. Once again they're silent, Daisy chewing on her bottom lip. She wants to talk to him, wants him to make her feel better, but she can't think of what to say.

"Are you scared?"

Harry hums, fingers slowly trailing down her arm. "Not yet. S'just training."

"For now."

"I don't know what comes after, but whatever it is, I can handle it."

She fiddles with the buttons on his pajama shirt. "How do you know?"

"Because I've handled you just fine for the past few months." He jokes, and her lips fall into a frown.

"If any of us are difficult, it's you. You're always so mean."

Harry doesn't respond for a moment, but he keeps stroking up and down her arm. "I know," he finally admits, and Daisy's glad she finally told him something. Maybe now he'll talk to her, explain what happened all those years ago that made him treat her so terribly. "and I'm sorry. S'hard for me to figure out how to act around you."

The button she was playing with accidentally slips undone, and she blushes as she fastens it again. "Why?"

"Was raised by my uncle, and he's the meanest old bastard I've ever met. S'hard to change old habits." Harry's hand slips up into her hair, massaging near her scalp and she melts further into his warm chest.

"What happened?"

"When?" Harry mumbles, sounding like he might be on the verge of sleep too. Daisy doesn't want to risk moving to look at his face in fear that she might ruin the safe little moment they've built.

"That night at your uncle's, and everything after that made it so hard for you to be around me."

He shifts under her, not really moving from the position he was in before and Daisy wonders if he's uncomfortable or nervous. She kind of hopes he is, as pay back for all the times he's made her feel that way.

"Don't wanna tell you that tonight," Harry finally says, and then the light in the room flickers out. Daisy rolls her eyes at his stubbornness. "I will, but not tonight."

"Why not?" She wants him, or at least something from him. Something to validate her feelings for him. Of course, he gives nothing but teases.

"If I tell you everything tonight, it'll be like a goodbye, like m'not coming back. I don't want that. Want you to believe I'm coming back because I am." Faintly, she thinks he might press a kiss to the top of her head. "This isn't goodbye forever Daisy. I promise."

Good, she thinks, wrapping her arm around his waist, because if there's one thing she's learned about Harry, it's that his word is always good.

Harry looks handsome in his uniform, Daisy realizes mournfully, ignoring the other men around them that are bidding their families and friends goodbye. She'd send a million more men overseas if it meant Harry got to stay with her. But she can't, she reminds herself, pouting as she watches him hug Anne. His mother looks small in his hold, safe and protected. She hopes she looks like that in his arms too.

Anne's crying when Harry moves down the line to Gemma, kissing his sister's cheek tenderly and engulfing her in the same tight hug he'd given his mother. Like her brother, Gemma stays strong, whispering something in his ear that Daisy can't hear, with tears brimming her eyes but not daring to fall. Daisy feels pathetic when he steps in front of her, thick bulky uniform somehow still looking good on him.

"Promise me you're not going to worry too much." Harry requests, dropping his bag to the ground. His fingers find her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

"Promise not to give me anything to worry about."

His lips quirk up in an amused grin. "I promise." Daisy likes when he promises things, it makes everything feel a little more stable. The train behind him puffs out a cloud of smoke, pulling a rush of passengers on. Harry doesn't move aside from digging his hand into his coat pocket.

"S'not very pretty," he says quietly, holding up a silver chain with a plain silver band dangling from it. "but it's my favorite ring." He slips the chain over her head, somehow not even catching it on her nose or her hair

"Why are you giving this to me?"

He shrugs, but his eyes dart down to her bare left hand and he gently grabs it in his right one. "Give me something to come back for." She can tell he doesn't mean just the ring, he means his wife. She squeezes his hand.

"I don't want you to go," she finally admits for the first time, and maybe this was a bad time to say it, but she couldn't hold it in anymore. "I'm just starting to like you and now I have to send you off."

Harry chuckles, wrapping his other arm around her waist and pulling her into his chest. She wants him to kiss her but she knows he won't. They agreed to be subtle in front of his family. "Time apart makes the heart grow fonder or some shit like that."

Daisy giggles at his ability to somehow be stupid but romantic at the same time, wrapping her other arm around his neck and hugging him tightly. "Think it might be dangerous to grow any fonder of you."

"I used to think the same thing." Harry mumbles in her ear, and her throat tightens when the train let's out a warning whistle. It's the final boarding call.

Reluctantly, he pulls back from her, smiling at her watery eyes. "Look at you, crying because of me again."

Daisy lightly shoves him, not causing any harm with how sturdy he is. He heaves his bag back up on his shoulder, smiling bitterly at the three girls waiting for him. "Take care of each other yeah? Don't rely that other jackass, he's useless." She grins, knowing he means his uncle. She hates Thomas Styles, and Harry feeling the same way obviously proves something for his character.

"We will Harry." Anne promises, "Now you go out there and be a hero okay?"

Harry chuckles at that, some hidden sentiment in the words, and with one longing gaze at Daisy, he turns and boards the train. The platform is empty of soldiers now, but she can pick out Harry walking down the aisle of the train. She watches him, heart thumping loudly and before she can register what she's doing, she's leaping onto the rails surrounding the train.

"Harry wait!" Daisy calls, catching him between cars. His head snaps to her, eyes wide and confused. She leans over to be closer to him, waving her hand from him to do the same. "Please?"

Harry drops his bag again, gripping the edge of the doorway as he leans as far forward as possible. Behind her, someone grabs the edge of her shirt, keeping her from falling. Gripping the back of his neck, she pulls his mouth onto hers.

"Daisy-" he mumbles, caught off guard with the sudden kiss. She ignores him, and the impressed whistles coming from the men on the train, pressing her mouth more firmly against his. She doesn't care that Anne and Gemma are watching, because all she cares about is Harry.

They separate, Harry licking over his lips and grinning boyishly at her. Cheeks flaming, she pushes his hair off his forehead. "I don't care if your a war hero or not, just come back in one piece okay?"

He swallows thickly, nodding. "I promise," he swears, managing to peck her mouth one last time before the train lurches forward, chugging as it pulls away. Harry stays hanging out of the doorway, watching her stand on the rails with a hand clutching the ring around her neck and tears in her eyes, until the locomotive carries him around the building and out of sight.

#dear daisy #harry styles #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #one direction #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #ww2 harry #soldier harry #1930s harry #arranged marriage au

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pamphletstoinspire · 4 years ago

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December 13 - Today is the Feast Day of Saint Lucy

“No one’s body is polluted so as to endanger the soul if it has not pleased the mind. If you were to lift my hand to your idol and so make me offer against my will, I would still be guiltless in the sight of the true God, who judges according to the will and knows all things. If now, against my will, you cause me to be polluted, a twofold purity will be gloriously imputed to me. You cannot bend my will to your purpose; whatever you do to my body, that cannot happen to me.” Saint Lucy

by Father Francis Xavier Weninger, 1876

Saint Lucy, one of the most renowned Christian heroines, first saw the light of the world at Syracuse, in Sicily. Her parents were of high rank and very rich; but Lucy cared not for temporal goods, and had already when quite young, vowed herself to the Lord. As her father had died early, her mother desired that she should marry a youth, her equal in rank and fortune, but still a heathen. Lucy was horrified at this proposal; but not to displease her mother by a refusal, she endeavored to delay giving a decisive answer, praying meanwhile to God to aid her. Her prayer was answered in an unexpected manner. Her mother became sick and needed her daughter’s assistance. Already four years had passed, and there was yet no hope of a recovery, when the mother, persuaded by Lucy, allowed herself to be carried to the tomb of St. Agatha, at Catania, which was celebrated for many miracles. On arriving there, Lucy, after long prayers, was overcome by sleep, in which St. Agatha, accompanied by many Angels, appeared to her and said: “What do you request of me, dear sister? Behold your mother is cured! Your faith has worked this miracle. Know then, that as God, for my sake, made Catania glorious, so will He, for your sake, make Syracuse famous; for, you have prepared for Him an agreeable dwelling by vowing your virginity to Him.”

When Lucy awoke she found her mother, who had been sick so long, entirely restored. Joyfully embracing her, she warmly congratulated her, and after both had given due thanks to the Almighty, they also showed their gratitude to the virgin, St. Agatha. After this, Lucy said to her mother: “I beg of you, dearest mother, speak not to me again of a mortal bridegroom, for I have long since united myself to One who is immortal. I pray you also to give me the portion you would have given me if I had married an earthly bridegroom.” The mother, thinking that her daughter would give all to the poor, replied: “If you will wait till after my death, you will be at liberty to do as you like with your inheritance.” To this Lucy made answer: “What we leave to the poor after our death is not so agreeable to God, nor so useful to us as what we give them during our life-time; just as a torch which is carried after us is not of the same service as one which is carried before.” Moved by these words, the mother promised to accede to all her wishes. Hence, having returned home, she gave Lucy the portion which was due to her, and the holy virgin gave it immediately to the poor.

When the youth who had asked her hand in marriage heard of this, his love was changed into hatred, and he accused her to the Governor, Paschasius, as well for refusing to become his wife, as also for being a Christian and despising the gods. Paschasius called Lucy into his presence, and admonished her to sacrifice to the gods, as well as to keep her promise to the young nobleman. “Neither will be done,” replied the virgin; “I sacrifice only to the true God; to Him have I given my faith; not to any man.” “I obey the command of the Emperor,” replied Paschasius; “you must sacrifice to the gods, and keep your word.” “You obey the command of the Emperor,” said Lucy, “and I obey the command of God. You fear a mortal man, I fear an immortal God, and Him I will obey.” “Your brave words will cease,” said Paschasius, “when your fortitude is tried by tortures.” “No,” said Lucy, “they will not. The servants of the Lord are never in want of words; for Christ has said to them: ‘When you speak to kings and magistrates, do not long consider what and how you say it, for it will be given you what to speak. It is not you who speak, but the Spirit of God speaking through you.'” “Do you pretend to say by this, that the Spirit of God dwells in you?” asked Paschasius. The holy virgin replied: “Those whose life is pure and chaste are a temple of the Holy Ghost.” “I shall take care that you be not much longer such a temple,” said the Governor; “I will send you into a brothel where you will soon be deprived of your purity.” “If my will is not in it,” said the chaste virgin, “my purity will be undefiled, even as you can force me to cast incense on the altar before the gods. God judges not by the violence which is done to the body, but by the will. If you cause such violence to be done to me, my chastity will earn a double crown.”

Paschasius, enraged at these words, commanded her to be taken to a house of iniquity, and there exposed to the wickedness of men. Lucy went forth courageously, full of trust in God, whose aid she implored, into the street; where, suddenly, by the power of the Almighty, she became immovable, so that they could not remove her from the spot notwithstanding all their efforts. They fastened ropes around her, and even yoked several pairs of oxen to them, but all was useless; she stood like a rock and could not be moved. Paschasius ascribed this miracle to witchcraft, and commanded pitch and boiling oil to be poured over her, and set on fire; but she remained unharmed in the midst of the flames. The tyrant could no longer endure to see the fearlessness of the Christian heroine, much less listen to the admonitions which she gave to those around her to forsake idolatry; hence he commanded that a sword should be thrust into her throat to end her life. Sinking to the ground, the Saint closed her eyes in death, and received the crown of martyrdom, in the year of our Lord, 303.

The prophecy that the persecution of the Christians would soon cease, with which she had comforted the faithful shortly before her end, became true. Her holy body was buried at Syracuse. From time immemorial this holy virgin and martyr has been invoked by those who suffer from diseases of the eyes.

From THE LITURGICAL YEAR, Dom Guéranger OSB, Book I

THERE comes to us, today, the fourth of our wise virgins, the valiant Martyr, Lucy. Her glorious name shines on the sacred diptych of the Canon of the Mass, together with those of Agatha, Agnes, and Cecily [Cecilia]; and as often as we hear it pronounced during these days of Advent, it reminds us (for Lucy signifies light) that He who consoles the Church, by enlightening her children, is soon to be with us. Lucy is one of the three glories of the Church of Sicily; as Catania is immortalized by Agatha, and Palermo by Rosalia, so is Syracuse by Lucy. Therefore, let us devoutly keep her Feast: she will aid us by her prayers during this holy season, and will repay our love by obtaining for us a warmer love of that Jesus, Whose grace enabled her to conquer the world. Once more let us consider, why our Lord has not only given us Apostles, Martyrs, and bishops as guides to us on our road to Bethlehem, but has willed also that we should be accompanied thither by such virgins as Lucy. The children of the Church are forcibly reminded by this, that, in approaching the crib of their sovereign Lord and God, they must bring with them, besides their faith, that purity of mind and body without which no one can come near to God. Let us now read the glorious acts of the virgin Lucy.

Lucy, a virgin of Syracuse, illustrious by birth and by the Christian faith, which she had professed from her infancy, went to Catania, with her mother Eutychia, who was suffering from a flux of blood, there to venerate the body of the blessed Agatha. Having prayed fervently at the tomb, she obtained her mother’s cure, by the intercession of St. Agatha. Lucy then asked her mother that she would permit her to bestow upon the poor of Christ the fortune which she intended to leave her. No sooner, therefore, had she returned to Syracuse, than she sold all that was given to her and distributed the money amongst the poor.

When he, to whom her parents had against her will promised her in marriage, came to know what Lucy had done, he went before the prefect Paschasius and accused her of being a Christian. Paschasius entreated and threatened, but could not induce her to worship the idols; nay, the more he strove to shake her faith, the more inflamed were the praises which she uttered in professing its excellence. He said, therefore, to her: We shall have no more of thy words, when thou feelest the blows of my executioners. To this the virgin replied: Words can never be wanting to God’s servants, for Christ our Lord has said to them:

When you shall be brought before kings and governors, take no thought how or what to speak; for it shall be given to you in that hour what to speak; for it is not you that speak, but the holy Spirit that speaketh in you. Paschasius then asked her:

Is the holy Spirit in thee? She answered: They who live chastely and piously, are the temple of the holy Spirit. He said: I will order thee to be taken to a brothel, that this holy Spirit may leave thee. The virgin said to him: The violence wherewith thou threatenest me would obtain for me a double crown of chastity. Whereupon Paschasius being exceedingly angry, ordered Lucy to be dragged to a place where her treasure might be violated; but, by the power of God, so firmly was she fixed to the place where she stood, that it was impossible to move her. Wherefore the prefect ordered her to be covered over with pitch, resin, and boiling oil, and a fire to be kindled round her. But seeing that the flame was not permitted to hurt her, they tormented her in many cruel ways, and at length ran a sword through her neck. Thus wounded, Lucy foretold the peace of the Church, which would come after the death of Diocletian and Maximian, and then died. It was the Ides of December (Dec. 13). Her body was buried at Syracuse, but was translated thence first to Constantinople, and afterwards to Venice.

With regard to her relics, Sigebert (1030-1112), a monk of Gembloux, in his “sermo de Sancta Lucia”, says that he body lay undisturbed in Sicily for 400 years, before Faroald, Duke of Spoleto, captured the island and transferred the saint’s body to Corfinium in Italy. Thence it was removed by the Emperor Otho I, 972, to Metz and deposited in the church of St. Vincent. And it was from this shrine that an arm of the saint was taken to the monastery of Luitburg in the Diocese of Spires–an incident celebrated by Sigebert himself in verse. The subsequent history of the relics is not clear. On their capture of Constantinople in 1204, the French found some of the relics in that city, and the Doge of Venice secured them for the monastery of St. George at Venice. In the year 1513 the Venetians presented to Louis XII of France the head of the saint, which he deposited in the cathedral church of Bourges. Another account, however, states that the head was brought to Bourges from Rome whither it had been transferred during the time when the relics rested in Corfinium.

#st lucy

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