#alice bernard

[ghw-archive]

A rare Alice Bernard evening dress, 1922-25

[thejazzera]

Vogue (Paris) March 1926

Outfits by Germaine Lecomte, Alice Bernard, Marthe and Pinchart

[hotvintagepoll]

Alice Howell (Distilled Love, Cinderella Cinders, His Wooden Leg-acy)— Total chaos. Combines inherent dignity with absolutely no grasp of social customs or normality. Accidentally spreads mayhem wherever she goes. Slapstick hijinks out the wazoo. 10/10 no notes

Bernard Cribbins (Two Way Stretch, The Railway Children)—Though he eventually aged into a Dignified and Beloved Veteran, a Salt of the Earth Type If You'd Like,, unfortunately (for him, heehee) in his younger years Bernard Cribbins was a pure scrungle wastrel. Not hot enough to be any proper leads yet still sent from heaven as little guys with googly eyeballs, Cribbins deserves a slot in this competition.

This is round 1 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you're confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Alice Howell:

Bernard Cribbins:

[suzieloveships]

Jegulus Batman au

So last week I wrote post about how Bruce and Harley are Regulus and Pandora variants and now I can't stop thinking about Jegulus Batman au

Regulus as Bruce Wayne, but more like Battinson!Bruce instead of comics!Bruce. In the day time he is Regulus Black, awkward rich orphan who looks like he wants to kill himself everytime he steps outside. By night time he becomes Batman, a mask vigilante, who fights criminals of Godric's Hollow, the most corrupt city in all of England. It's his way to repay for his parents' sin, part of Hollow's corruption. His only help is a family butler, Kreacher, who really wishes Regulus finished the med school instead of running around in bat suit

James as the Cat, a professional thief with a heart of gold whom Regulus keep failing to catch. He won't admit it but there were few times when he let James escape. Mostly because James often steal from people that deserve it but also because he loves the thrill of a chase. Overtime the two of them start working together on few cases and slowly fall in love

Pandora as Harley Quinn, once a young psychologist turn a henchwoman of Regulus's biggest villain, Tom Riddle, turn an anti-hero who help Regulus, James and their allies fight evil. Her biggest strength is psychoanalyzing her enemy and getting inside their heads. She and Reg went to med school together before he dropped out, years later while working together she conected the dots and realised that this grumpy bat and that grumpy boy from med school are the same person. Arguably Reg best friend

Lily as Poison Ivy, an ecoterrorist with a power to control plants and Pandora girlfriend. Regulus often lets her and Pandora escape as they most attack factories that pollute the environment

Sirius is both Dick, Jason and Kate. Regulus older brother that after a death of their parents abdicated from a role of a Black family heir and started a life for himself outside of Hollow. He came back to Hollow after seeing Batman on the news an immediately recognising his little brother. Was killed by Tom Riddle, but resurrected but whoever is Al Ghul in this au, I haven't decided yet. He return to Hollow as Red Hood, mad at Reg for "replacing" him and not killind Riddle. It took a while but eventually they startes working together again because at the end of the day they are family

Emmeline as Red Robin, Sirius "replacement", a smart girl that figured out Regulus secret identity and girlbossed her way into becoming his new sidekick (not my joke)

Remus as both Barbara and Renee, the only good cop in an all of Hollow. Later he ends up resigning from the force and starts working for Regulus but hacking into city cameras and becoming his eyes and ears

Mary as Spoiler, daughter of a minor villain name Cluemaster. He was a terrible father so Mary decided to help Batman take him down. Now a member of the batfamily, Emmeline's girlfriend and Regulus's biggest bully (affectionately)

Barty as the Riddler, arguably the smartest man in all of Hollow who loves creating chaos and asking people riddles. Luckly for Regulus Barty is also an attention whore that needs everyone to know that he is the smartest person in the room so he often leaves clues for Regulus to follow

Evan as Penguin, the biggest kingpin, started out as a son of a poor housemaid and climp his way into becoming the most powerful mobster in all of Hollow. For some reason Barty is the only person he really trust in this world (he has a massive crush on him)

Dorcas as Scarecrow, a scientist fascinated by fear and the only person in the world with enough brain power to keep up with both Pandora and Barty

Marlene as Firefly, purely because I think Marlene deserves a flamethrower

Peter as Two-face, Reg's best friend turn enemy with half of his face burned

And Narcissa and Alice as Green Arrow and Black Canary

Harry as Helena and Luna as Lucy

Also Xeno as Rick Flag because I love both of them so much <3

[buster-keaton]

from the moving picture world magazine, november 1920

transcript under cut

transcript:

Buster Keaton Disregards Birthday to Finish Film

Buster Keaton spent his birthday working before the camera in the closing scenes of his fourth two-reel comedy, "Neighbors". Buster is serious in his occupation of making people laugh, and a long October day in California was coming to a close before the nimble comedian remembered that it was the occasion of his twenty-fifth anniversary, but he refused to doff his makeup and comedy clothes until the last scene was "shot".

That evening, however, Buster was the guest of honor at a birthday party given by his parents, Joseph and Myra Keaton, in their residence in the Hollywood picture colony. The elder Keatons and Buster made up the famous knockabout comedy team of the Three Keatons in vaudeville.

At Buster's birthday party the entire personnel of his studios, from Lou Anger, business manager for Joseph M. Schenck, down to the office boy, Luke McGluke, was present. Other guests were Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, the Metro stars, Viola Dana and Alice Lake; Shirley Mason, Miss Dana's sister; Lew Cody and Bernard Durning.

[chaoticraex]

"If you can dream it, you can do it. Always remember that this whole thing started with a dream and a mouse." Walt Disney

[the-arch-elf]

merry Christmas Bernard! ❤️

I hope you’re a lot less stressed than you were. I know you now have next Christmas to think about, but I hope to see you at the party tonight!

💜, alice

Merry Christmas, Alice!

I’ll see you at the party as soon as I figured out where Curtis has fallen asleep at.

Oh, but don’t forget to get some of Judy’s hot chocolate while you’re there! It usually goes fast, so get it while you can.

Yours, Bernard

[heliphantie]

There are all my drawings for “I Draw Disney” art marathon on VK.

It was my first time to participate in such event, and it proved to be quite fun, coming up with ideas for each assignment, following chosen main theme, and trying to not repeat sources and characters, so I had to turn on creativity to finish the challenge.

I have had a few unused ideas up my sleeve, so I may bring them to paper sometime too.

[myvinylplaylist]

Alice Cooper: Along Came A Spider (2008)

Steamhammer Records

[francishodgson]

Passing the Polygraph - Books of Collections

It’s been quite a time that I’ve been obscurely dissatisfied with ordinary photographic monographs. I suppose I shouldn’t complain: I’ve written texts for dozens of them, usually as an introduction before the pictures, and usually found much to like in the pictures concerned. No doubt the good ones still keep coming; the great ones, too, and probably at the same very slow rate as ever. But I’m…

[sweet-vanilla-sims]

Year 1582 Part 2:

Janet’s son, Matthew, grew big enough to play with his siblings and cousins and big enough to drive Janet mad with the chaos of raising three toddlers. 

Margery’s daughter took quite a bit after her though it was still unclear who she would eventually take the most after later. 

Maria’s twins grew up so far looking like a fair blend of their parents and Maria felt more comfortable to relax now that they were at less risk. 

[the1920sinpictures]

October, 1923 Fashions from "Woman's Home Companion" magazine from Alice Bernard (top) and Martial et Armand.

[rmstitanics]

* FAMOUS INDIVIDUALS WITH YOUR MOON SIGN.

If you’re looking for suggestions on which authors and music artists to check out next, look to your moon sign! In Western astrology, the moon is said to represent your subconscious mind, emotions, and inner personality, so it is widely believed that we tend to relate to media by artists who share our moon sign.

♈️ ARIES MOON

WRITERS:

Gore Vidal

George R. R. Martin

Nicholas Sparks

Rick Riordan

Jennifer Lynn Barnes

Christopher Paolini

MUSICIANS:

P!nk

Whitney Houston

Céline Dion

Selena Gomez

Rihanna

Tupac

♉️ TAURUS MOON

WRITERS:

Jodi Picoult

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Hans Christian Anderson

Clive Barker

George Bernard Shaw

Aldous Huxley

MUSICIANS:

Pharrell Williams

Kelly Clarkson

Bob Dylan

Demi Lovato

Christina Aguilera

Pitbull

♊️ GEMINI MOON

WRITERS:

C. S. Lewis

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Orson Scott Card

Franz Kafka

Margaret Mitchell

R.A. Salvatore

T. S. Elliot

MUSICIANS:

Ella Fitzgerald

Florence Welch

Art Garfunkel

Billy Idol

Sia

Tina Turner

♋️ CANCER MOON

WRITERS:

George Orwell

Liu Cixin

Brandon Sanderson

Cassandra Clare

Diana Gabaldon

Lois Lowry

MUSICIANS:

Tchaikovsky

Taylor Swift

Kurt Cobain

Halsey

Aretha Franklin

Janis Joplin

♌️ LEO MOON

Oscar Wilde

Holly Black

Geraldine Brooks

James Dashner

Jack London

Ta Nehisi Coates

MUSICIANS:

Lana Del Ray

Paul McCartney

Queen Latifah

Niall Horan

Bruno Mars

David Bowie

♍️ VIRGO MOON

WRITERS:

Leo Tolstoy

John Grisham

Claudia Gray

Isabel Allende

Xiran Jay Zhao

Douglas Adams

MUSICIANS:

Dolly Parton

Nicki Manaj

Madonna

Lorde

Bo Burnham

Lizzo

♎️ LIBRA MOON

WRITERS:

Jane Austen

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Sylvia Plath

William Shakespeare

Maya Angelou

R.F. Kuang

MUSICIANS:

Ariana Grande

Charli XCX

Bruce Springsteen

Jay-Z

Harry Styles

Fergie

♏️ SCORPIO MOON

WRITERS:

Veronica Roth

Edith Wharton

V.E. Schwab

Harper Lee

Keira Cass

Meg Cabot

MUSICIANS:

Lady Gaga

Tyler the Creator

Cyndi Lauper

Beyoncé

Bob Marley

The Weeknd

♐️ SAGITTARIUS MOON

WRITERS:

Stephen King

Victor Hugo

Marie Lu

Suzanne Collins

Samantha Shannon

Adam Silvera

MUSICIANS

Hozier

Freddie Mercury

Adele

Ludwig Van Beethoven

Chappell Roan

John Legend

♑️ CAPRICORN MOON

WRITERS:

Sarah J. Maas

J.M. Barrie

Jeff Shaara

Joyce Carol Oates

Stephanie Meyer

Angie Thomas

MUSICIANS:

Frédéric Chopin

Neil Diamond

Jon Bon Jovi

Lin-Manuel Miranda

Stevie Nicks

Donna Summer

♒️ AQUARIUS MOON

WRITERS:

Margaret Atwood

Leigh Bardugo

Louisa May Alcott

Seth Grahame-Smith

Anthony Horowitz

S.E. Hinton

MUSICIANS:

Cody Simpson

Marilyn Monroe

Britney Spears

Billie Eilish

Tim McGraw

Carrie Underwood

♓️ PISCES MOON

WRITERS:

Toni Morrison

Edgar Allen Poe

Malcolm Gladwell

Lisa McMann

Alice Oseman

Philippa Gregory

MUSICIANS:

Kenny Chesney

Elvis Presley

Frank Sinatra

Prince

Kendrick Lamar

Sabrina Carpenter

[antigonick]

Hi!! Would you happen to have any recs for good retellings of Greek myths? A lot of books I've seen recommended are usually not up to the mark and I trust your taste!

In terms of contemporary fiction retellings, I don't have much to offer; the few I've picked up were always a let-down, and some older ones too (I goddamn hated Mary Renault's). I do have some favourites in poetry or in older books, but they're usually fairly transformative; and I like picking up different translations of the same ancient texts (especially with plays); they offer a new eye on the text every time, and it's usually a more interesting eye than what's huh... going on with the chain-making of Greek retellings going on these days. What I'm interested in is seeing the same story being spun differently again and again. Oh, okay, there are two that I'm excited to pick up though I haven't: Ali Smith's Girl Meets Boy and Chigozie Oboma's An Orchestra of Minorities; but I can't say anything on them yet. Anyway, a short list of options! Alice Oswald, Memorial Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus Anne Carson, Bakkhai (verging on adaptation translation) Anne Carson, Antigonick Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red Anne Carson and Rosanna Bruno, The Trojan Women Jean Anouilh, Antigone Jean Giraudoux, The Trojan War Won't Happen Jean Giraudoux, Electra Sarah Kane, Phaedra's Love Jean Racine, Phèdre Jean Paul Sartre, The Flies Bernard Shaw, Pygmalion Seamus Heaney, The Spirit Level C. S. Lewis, 'Till We Have Faces Christa Wolf, Cassandra Louise Glück, Meadowlands Louise Glück, Averno Gregory Orr, Orpheus and Eurydice: a Lyric Sequence

I hope you enjoy these!

[alistairtheyrin]

the bard of riverbrook farm, pt. i

la belle dame sans merci, frank bernard dicksee

aemond targaryen x lowborn!reader

masterlist | ao3

summary | the people of the riverlands begin to find peace once more as the land recovers from the dance of the dragons. in an unremarkable village, a musician draws the attention of a peculiar stranger

tags | secret identity, soft romance, bard!reader, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, discussions of trauma related to war, gender-neutral pronouns

wordcount | 3k

likes, reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated 💞 please let me know if this is something you'd like to read more of!

Days like this rarely fell on the Riverlands.

Days when the sun shone, the brook that babbled through your village took on a glimmer, and there was an air of ease about. The green of the leaves on the trees seemed richeron a day like this, branches growing heavy with fruit. The cobblers and tool sharpeners who wandered from village to village plying their trade only had to reach their arms overhead to pluck a golden apple to go with their lunch. Sometimes, they’d even pull down a spare apple to pass to a beseeching child, not because the child needed food but because they wanted it.

That was the best thing about days like this, times like this - the children weren’t hungry, not anymore. Only years ago - when you’d been but a child on the cusp of adulthood - these lands had burned. Your people and your fields had been fodder for dragons and great men playing at war. But then the dragons - and the men in armour - vanished. Travelling bards told stories of Good Queen Rhaenyra putting down her brother’s rebellion and striking a triumphant peace with the Dowager Queen Alicent, her late father’s wife. It had taken time for the Riverlands to recover - time when your stomach had felt hollow, and your father would have gladly sold the farm for a crust of mouldy bread - but aid had come when a peace was brokered. Food and seed from the Reach, timber from the North, builders from the Westerlands. It had taken time, but recovery did come, and your baby sister - born in the Year of the Dragon’s Peace - had never known an empty belly like you had.

So your steps were light as you made your way down the stony path from your father’s farm to the village. The evening air was warm and syrupy with the scent of summer blooms, and your lute bumped happily against your back. Up ahead, the village inn - The Fine Fool - was already buzzing with life, as tomorrow was a day of rest for most, and the townsfolk wished to make a merry start. You could hear a constant stream of chatter from the open doors as you approached the inn with its thatched roof and warm, glowing windows. You slipped inside and saw it was crowded already. The farmers and their farmhands had dirt under their nails and flagons in hand, smelling faintly of sweat from a day on the fields. The wives traded news and gossip, some with children underfoot or babes in arms. The innkeeper - a ruddy-cheeked man everyone called Good Beck - was yanking a wheel of presumably stolen cheese out of the hands of a wily boy with a grin on his face. You weaved through the villagers, smiling at all as you went, and a ripple went through the gathered throngs around you.

“The bard!” A man called.

Good Beck looked up at that, “Aft’noon, bard!” He called over the sea of heads to you as you made your way to the little raised stage in the corner. You tilted your head in greeting at him.

“The Bard of Riverbrook Farm!” A woman this time called, and you winced at the name a little. You were no more a bard than a peasant with a pitchfork was a great army general. Just someone born with a halfway decent voice and a mind for melodies, courtesy of your mother. And a lute, of course, courtesy of your father - a gift he’d bought when he’d been courting your mother. You’d picked up the lute when your parents’ evenings had become filled with tending to the baby, and you’d been left in want of something to do. When the villagers complained of the lack of musicians on the Riverroad these days with the terror of war still so close to memory, your father had let slip what a good player you were becoming, playing gentle tunes before the fire in the evening and softening the babe’s worst tempers with a lullaby. Good Beck had been at your door within the sennight, offering fair coin and mead on the house. Honestly, how could you refuse?

It had been a tremendous success so far - Good Beck had music livening his common room, you had extra coin in your pocket to help about the house, and the village was near as cheerful as it had been before, in the halcyon days of your childhood.

You took to your stage, avoiding the gazes of the onlookers as you always did. You always felt nervous when you were cold. You pulled your mother’s loot from your back, took a deep breath to steady yourself and block out the noise, and gently strummed and fiddled with the pegs for a second, finding the lute singing sweetly - just as you’d left it. You hummed as you tuned, feeling your throat warm. Good Beck sent a serving girl over with your first tankard of mead. He was good to you, and the honeyed drink was smooth in your throat.

Once you judged yourself ready, you took in the crowd. Some watched eagerly, and some carried on their conversations. The melody leaping from the strings hushed more voices as you sprang into a lively rendition of The Bear and The Maiden Fair.

Before you were three songs deep, the townspeople were singing along and setting up impromptu dancing sets. The ale was flowing freely tonight, you could tell, and you quickly set out your cap for any coppers the townspeople might throw your way. The sound of music drew in more spectators and revellers, and soon, Good Beck and his serving girl were fighting to keep up with the flow of thirsty patrons at the bar.

During a particularly ribald song, you looked out upon your crowd, and your eye caught on a group of men unfamiliar to you in a darker corner of the room. It was a small village and faces totally unfamiliar were quite unusual, but the berth the villagers were giving the men told you all you needed to know. Their clothing was shabby, their faces sunburnt - they were former army men, the sort who still wandered the Riverlands. Likely Aegon the Usurper’s, but it could be some of Queen Rhaenyra’s Northmen who had no wish to return to their frozen homeland when the fighting was done. Many had sustained injuries to their person, many more to their minds, and had nothing to return to from whence they came. So they wandered, eeking out a living by offering help on the farms or sites of construction whenever needed. It was a hard life, and you felt for them, but the wariness of the townsfolk made sense - such men were known for causing trouble when they had nothing left to lose.

One of them caught your eye, and you looked away in a hurry.

By the time your song was finished, you were huffing and puffing for breath, and the villagers were no better. Dancing sets had turned into barely contained circles of swinging, spinning, and chaos. Everyone was laughing, and the mood was high, but it was also growing desperately warm in here, with many a man or woman wiping sweat from their brow with a yellowed sleeve.

Time to slow it down, you thought, as you watched the patrons join the queue at the bar, desperate to quench their thirst. Good Beck looked flustered behind the bar - pleased but flustered - so it was time to allow him to catch up and rake in the good custom. You sat on your stool for a moment and took a long draw from your tankard of mead. Now was as good a time as any to try something new you’d been working on, one of your first original songs. If it went over well with the townsfolk, that was great, but if not, at least you weren’t killing the good mood but giving them a well-earned chance to recover before they spun into more dancing.

You cleared your throat and drew a breath, striking a chord that rang clear above the chatter.

The river runs red, my dear, can you see it?

High in your tower, the earth is bleeding,

The home burns, the water breaks

Upon the tomb at our love’s wake

Is it too late for us? Your beacon, my fire,

We were just children drunk on sweet desire,

Where did that go? What did we do?

What has become of me and you?

Save your prayers for your Gods, for I want none,

I only want the honeyed words on your tongue,

Fly with me now, stand with me at heaven’s gate,

Only love’s forgiveness can change our fate,

You trailed off in the soft, mournful ballad, for that was as far as you had gotten. There was a small round of appreciative applause around your stage, but most were more concerned about getting their drinks refilled. That didn’t bother you, though. You’d played it aloud now to someone who could offer more feedback than a squalling babe - as sweet as your sister was. It was time for you to take a quick break, and your mind buzzed with the possibilities of what you could add and change as you squeezed through the crowd to go and get some fresh air.

The sun had set outside and the sky was that soft purple it was before it was truly night. You stepped away from the throngs outside the inn and found yourself a quiet patch of wall to lean against and catch your breath. Your breathing slowed, and your heart settled as you took in the inky sky, the lighted windows in the village, the distant trickle of flowing water. On your leg, you tapped out the metre of your ballad and sang softly to yourself, thinking of the next words and the stories that had inspired them.

“I’d never heard that one before,” the accent was unusual for these parts - crisp - and it took you a second to realise the voice was speaking to you.

You looked up and felt your stomach lurch. One of the army men was approaching you in the quiet patch outside the inn you had chosen. His head was shaved to the scalp - probably lice - and his left eye was covered by a battered leather patch. He wore a sword on his belt - not unusual in these parts, but not exactly welcoming either. You didn’t want any trouble, and you certainly didn’t want any unwelcome attention.

“It’s mine,” you explained. It answered the question but didn’t invite more conversation.

“That explains it,” the man said. Your ears hadn’t been deceiving you - his accent was smooth, his tongue precise on the sounds. He wasn’t from here. He wasn’t from anywhere you had ever seen. “You have a talent for playing and for writing, then.”

His features betrayed no emotion, and you wondered if he was as insincere as he sounded or if you were just being paranoid. “You’re too kind,” you said in the absence of a better response.

“What inspired your work?”

The flinty look in his remaining eye was putting you on edge. “Stories,” you said, “from… real bards who have passed through. Their tales are a good inspiration. Otherwise, all my songs would be about harvests and plough horses. Not much going on around here, not much to keep a curious mind occupied.”

“You don’t have books?” He asked.

You scoffed like he’d just asked if you could fly. “What use are books if you were never taught how to read?” You asked. Who was this man, with his refined tongue, thinking that farmers have use for books?

He had the decency to look embarrassed at least, and the softening of his gaze, the flicker of his eye, and the way his cheeks darkened made you feel calmer. He wasn’t angry. Most men would be angry at being talked back to like that - your father had often warned you about it. Not because you tested his patience - he was a good man, a kind one. He just prayed his firstborn’s quick tongue wouldn’t cause more problems than it fixed. 

“That was foolish, I beg your pardon,” the man said, and you were so confused by his humility that you nodded your acquiescence without a second thought. He drew closer and leaned his shoulder into the wall by you. “My earlier question stands, however. What inspired your song?”

You raised an eyebrow. “A tale from a bard - the tale of the Dragon’s Peace,” you said. You swung your lute down by your side to trace your fingers over the strings, like a focal point for the frenetic energy you felt as the man asked his probing questions. “The tale is all over the realm - how Queen Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent came together to stop the war and the shedding of innocent blood. Words saved the day when swords could not - I guess I liked that.”

He raised an eyebrow. There was something deeply morose about him. His features betrayed no warmth - in fact, he was so still it was like he was cold-blooded. “It’s just that you… you sounded like you were singing of something more than just a peace accord.”

Obviously, you thought dryly, but you were still wary enough of this man not to provoke him outright. “A peace like that does not just happen. The two Queens were friends in childhood. I just thought… they could have been more. What if they were - still are - more? It must be a… special friendship to forgive what they have had to forgive each other of.”

His brow creased as his frown deepened. “Is such an unconventional… friendship not a dangerous thing to sing of? To even imply?”

You felt a heat rise in your cheeks. What a fool reason not to speak of it, to hide behind euphemisms and platitudes, you thought. “The only dangerous thing is forbidding certain loves for the form they come in. Love is the one thing, the only thing that ever saves us from ourselves.”

He hummed thoughtfully at that. It struck you as just another thing that was strange about him. Anyone else might have laughed, made fun or cursed you for an ungodly wretch. But he seemed to be thinking of your words with a deep seriousness. “Is it finished?” He asked. You must have looked confused because he clarified, “The song, have you finished it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m trying to find the words, the tune to express the betrayal but also the loyalty. The joy in spite of the suffering. I’ve only just begun writing my own songs in the past few moons - I think I’ll need to practice it.”

“If I am any judge, I think you have made a good start.” His eye looked almost purple in the dusky light, reflecting the soft hues of the sky.

“And who are you?” You asked, bold all of a sudden. “To judge, that is?”

He gave you a smirk like you’d just told him a slightly amusing joke. “Just a man with an interest in that tale.”

“Because you fought in the war?”

He was quiet for a second, and you wondered if it was because he was considering lashing out or fleeing. “Yes,” he said instead. “I did.”

You nodded. “And now you have… nowhere to go?”

“I have… somewhere,” he said, considering. He looked far away, far into his own mind. It was not an uncommon look on the men who had seen war. “It was just never truly home. And now I don’t know how to return or how to be that person again.”

“You can never go home,” you said. It came out blunter than intended, but it was something you had found to be true. “Not really. Figuratively speaking. I… home to me is before. Before the hunger and the bodies and the fear. That home no longer exists for us; you can’t go back.”

“So what do we do then if we cannot go home?” The moon had emerged and cast shadows on his face. He was beautiful, you realised, with a thud in your chest. With his long nose and carved cheeks and strong jaw cast in sharp relief by the flood of moonlight. You wondered what colour his hair was when it was not shorn. Maybe chestnut, like your father’s plough horse. Or golden, like wheat at harvest.

You wished you had an answer to his question, but you didn’t. “I don’t know,” you said truthfully. “I don’t know.”

He looked a little crestfallen but nodded like he hadn’t foreseen any other answer. “Maybe I should just start anew, then. Build a home, sow a field, fall in love.”

You smiled. It was all any of you could hope for - a chance to start again. It was all any of you dreamed of. “There’s many an empty croft and field around here, since the war. And many a girl who wishes for a handsome husband with a good sword arm.”

He smiled back. It wasn’t like the earlier smirks - icy and guarded - it was warm, liquid. It nearly reached his eye. Nearly. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

You took one last look at his face before you turned. It was high time you were back on stage. No sooner had you turned away than a hand caught your wrist. You looked back. Like a thrice-damned fool, you looked back.

“You need to finish the song,” he told you. His gaze was so sure, so serious you felt that he must know everything about you. Like your every waking moment could be felt through the joining of skin, the index finger he was tracing on the inside of your wrist. “If you cannot go home, you must at least finish the song.”

He raised your hand to his lips and kissed it.

Like he was a knight. Like you were noble. Like the words passing between you carried the bond of castles and gold and histories and dragons.

“I will,” you said, and your voice trembled just a little.

“I truly hope it is not too late for them.” He spoke of the Queens in the song. He spoke of himself. He spoke of you.

“I hope so, too.”

[the-arch-elf]

hi, Bernard! I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re doing amazing, even though it’s nearly Christmas and I’m sure you have a million things on your mind. Just remember to take a second to breathe every now and then!

💜, Alice

Oh! Why, thank you, Alice!

Santa is hours from flying out, and I don’t think I’ve stopped moving since I woke up this morning. This was the perfect reminder to get something to eat before the Kitchen staff start hunting me for sport.

And while I do that, I'll add breathing exercises to my to-do list!

Kindly yours, Bernard