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gentlelass · 3 months ago

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🌚 - Miss Misery - 🌝

A Lackadaisy fanfic by GentleLass

Prelude

It was a splendid morning. Wind gently blew, leaves slowly swayed and the sun shone up in the Italian sky. A wonderfully blue sky, that wonderful sky underneath which Marjorie had grown up and that she had loved so much. Just like she had oh so loved the green and blooming prairies, among which she now ran, happy, thoughtless as ever, without a worry in the world. She was just a five-year-old, her dress was but a white lace, and the only accessory she was forced to drag along herself were her golden eyes that perfectly reflected the fervent sun of her motherland. No shoes, corsets, girdles, bows or hats to hinder and weighten her movement. She was free, absolutely free to run and jump and sme and play, by her own rules. And indeed she ran and laughed in the flowers, sprinting like bats out of hell. To her right, a flock of swallows crossed the soft clouds, returning after a long winter to flee from another; to her left, hares jumped fast towards North, almost as if challenging her to a race. And Marjorie of all people certainly wouldn’t have backed from a challenge, so she started running towards their direction, faster and faster. But the closer she got, the more the sound of their jumps became loud, louder, loudest, deafening. Until she got so close she started to feel the ground shaking underneath her feet to the rythm of their furious jumping…

… the Ford Model T roughly steered again thanks to the rough driving of Nicodeme, and the dream ended. Marjorie returned to her 30 something years of age (you don’t ask that to a lady!) , she returned to the corset that was twisting her guts along the cars’ brusque movements, to the shoes that squished her feet and to the skirts hindering her movement. The sky, as blue as it had been, turned grey and threatening, and the clouds returned to thicken into dark hoards of smoke. The sound of footsteps on grass was replaced by squealing and derailing of wheels on wet mud, and the girl’s laugh were soon covered by the flurry of water. Ah, Missouri. The land of humidity and swamps and just… wet.

Wet, Marjorie thought with a grimace of displeasure. That wouldn’t get along well with her heels, if not for the length of them, then the cost. She didn’t do that often - no, not wearing costly shoes in the least likely of occasions, that’s something she always did, if only for some twisted form of sadomasochism, subconscious and mostly unknown even to herself, but very evidently much explored - I meant, grimacing. Changing expressions, or just emoting. Her mind and soul weren’t empty, just… mostly unknown, as said, and as such she knew her looks where the easiest way to get her own - ‘with a smile you’ll get to the world’s heart when you yourself don’t even own one’, her father used to say. And she took those words to her… whatever is it that beats inside her chest (Marjorie drunkenly laughed “Bolero’s the only percussion inside me!” more than once), wearing a smile like you wear an accessory, an accessory like any other, interchangeable, replaceable, and most of all, material and meaningless when it came down to what truly matters. And indeed, when she thought nobody could see her she let it down like it mattered nothing to her, because it didn’t. When she thought nobody could see her… Marjorie snapped her gaze in a violent way that clashed with the fluffy fluttering of eyelashes, immediately baring her fangs as if out of instinct - whether a violent one or something else, it’s up to you to decide: the smile of Marjorie Ford can be as much that sewed shut of a doll, as it can be that cackling and threatening of a hyena. She smiled, and for a second she believed that the person who could see the smile would think the same thing and smile back, too, and the interaction would be just that easy and would go down just that smoothly. Just two people politely smiling at each other, no commitment, just smiling for the sake of smiling.

But alas, it couldn’t. We don’t always get what we want, much to Marjorie’s dismay. The eyes that looked at her now were anything but polite; they didn’t have the sparkle of amusement and kindness that should accompany a smile, they were cold. They were unyielding. They were all that were Marjorie’s own and more, but they didn’t match hers. She saw it. She knew he was seeing it too. She felt it. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t. His face remained a mask of pure indifference. It seemed to mock her, mocking her with its icy, hard eyes, mocking her as his lips never curved into a smile. The smile that was so obviously forced on her own lips froze, and it faded reluctantly, slowly, trembling, and the collapse was much more natural and spontaneous than the raise of it. Mocking her, mocking her, mocking her with his lips that never rose from the stern line - no, no Sir, with those serious and even respectable looks, the ostentatious diligence he dedicated to his work, the spontainety of his frown, while she was constantly fooled by her own decievment and the illusion of beauty surrounding it, and it made her angry. And anger’s the ugliest feeling of them all, and Marjorie’s supposed to be the most beautiful of them all, because what else did she have to offer? No friends, no family, no prospects. Certainly not a husband. She was alone with her feelings and desires. No friends, no family, no prospects. That’s how it is, isn’t it? You’re alone, Marjorie, and alone you stay - the truth that is so deeply engraved deep inside your bones, like iron bars of a rib-cage around… whatever it is that beats inside your chest (“Samba and Rumba!”). So Marjorie smiled and it felt like a sneer instead, but she didn’t stop smiling. She kept the expression frozen as the car’s brakes screamed in surprise and the tires screeched and the wheels hit the ground, until the other person fell for it, or just got tired of watching her, and looked away.

Tired of her, tired of her, tired of her— —no, NOT again. It’s just not worth so much worry. Marjorie took a big breath, realising she had been holding it all the while, and sighed. Rolling her eyes and abandoning her head against the window, and letting the usual numbness overtake her, her natural state of mind just as vague, and dull, and bleak as the view outside opaqued by the rain.

Boredom is the most sublime of all feelings, as it afflicts only those with a sensible and refined soul, too selective to be swayed by small flashes of petty emotion.

Souls that inevitably end up disheartening and brutalising: out of boredom, in fact, one can commit actions that are vile and dangerous, or degrading and not very sensible. Marjorie knew a bit too much of it for comfort, on both accounts. She knew too much of the evils caused by human greed and the pleasures provided by selfishness. She knew enough, really. Enough to know she has no reason to expect anything better from life, enough to know that she has no need for any better, and the world will provide her everything, and everything only if there is no resistance on her part.

That’s why she didn’t say anything when she recieved that hard, and frankly uncalled for, stare, from the man sitting as distantly from her as he could in the relatively crampled space of the Ford Model T, just as intent as she was in drowning out the cackling and growling voices of the two hijackers on the front seats.

And to think he could have even made for an acceptable partner in crime, at least compared to those other two… animals… currently fighting for the steering the wheel… if only hadn’t he been so… so…

So Heller.

The bland interest aroused by Mordecai’s manner waned in a matter of seconds as Marjorie’s probing eyes lingered on the strict and austere mien, observing with a certain disgust the blatant disdain and unpleasant disposition he shamelessly displayed against all manner of common courtesy and efficiency in work interaction.

Not that she minded him being rude in the slightest; he was, after all, a fellow employee, and therefore beneath contempt, for the sake of her own making things easier and less committed for herself if anything. No. No, it was because she could see, she knew - the glint in the other’s eyes, the stiffness of his posture and the rigidness of his features, the scowl he bestowed upon her after the first glance, after the first few sentences - this man didn’t like her. At all. No, he probably disdained her as much as she disdained him, in fact. And she didn’t like it - Marjorie didn’t like the taste of her own medicine, but yet again, nobody does. That was something completely beyond her control, a reason more to not like it.

But also a reason to ignore it: again, this game was just not worth the candle. It doesn’t mean anything, because it never does. It was was a game. Life is just a game. A game of pretend and lies, a game she played over and over and over again, trying to fill her stomach with a fake satisfaction and a fake smile, hoping that it might fool someone into giving her whatever it is would actually satisfy her - what exactly, not even she knew.

WOAHHH hey there!!! I’m just publishing this prelude to my Lackadaisy fanfic - Miss Misery - here, because I frankly can’t be bothered to learn how to properly operate AO3. AS ALWAYS I lingered a little *too much* on whatever it is that is happening inside this madwoman’s head… I hope it isn’t too boring, and I swear I’m trying to put a little more action into the other chapters. Hope it gave a little insight into this PUZZLE of a woman’s thought process behind her chaotic and seemingly irrational way of acting and aroused your interest to soon read more.

Comments and constructive critique are more than welcome!

#lackadaisy #artists on tumblr #lackasona #original character #oc #marjorie ford #self insert #mordecai heller #tracy j butler #fanfiction #fanfic #creative writing

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realcatalina · 9 months ago

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I just found this portrait on mutualart.com

This is labelled there as unknown lady! When it is clearly Mary I as princess. Pri.Agl. Agl like Angliae?-latin for England

It is definitely her cross pendant with three pearls hanging, clearly her face, and she also tended to hold her hands this way in many portraits.

But obviously this is a copy and it has some innacuracies, few addons as well. Especially shape of her black dress seems off, as if somebody decided to just make up shape of her torso from scratch.

This is how i would imagine it was meant to look like:

Perhaps with black cloth girdle, hidden around waist by hands.

Link to the webpage, where you can see it in HD:

https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/PORTRAIT-OF-A-LADY/C822211B4025F85E

I looked further and italian webpage to do with same 2021 auction, has actually labelled it as RITRATTO DI MARIA I TUDOR.

Portrait of Mary I Tudor. I take it back, they know who it is!

I searched for Mary's portraits in Spain, Austria, Netherlands, USA...but Italy really nope...but that is my mistake. The assumption that portrait in 500 years couldnt travel to completely different part of Europe is simply unwise of me.

PS: Have you ever seen this one before, am i only one unaware of it?

#historical portraits #tudor history #mary i of england

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sunjaesol · 2 years ago

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#6 for the kisses prompt makes me think of engagement juke 😭

6. Wild, breathless kisses brought on by a heartfelt gift (princess x guard au)

*~*~* Solaria, 1845 *~*~*

Princess Julianna Molina of Solaria has never left the island. She spent most of her time inside the gates of the castle though rarely found herself promenading in the city to visit lords, ladies, ambassadors, or the orphanage. But beyond were strange waters and unknown worlds.

Her father said the sea creatures and pirates didn't like princesses, but still: at night, she wondered what else was out there.

Her lady-in-waiting, Kayla, came from the mainland Los Dédalo. She rarely spoke of her time there. All she knew of Kayla was the tragic history of her deceased father, the Marquess Caro, which led her to live with the court of Molina.

"It's colder," she once uttered, untangling Julianna's curls, "and the woods extend for miles and miles. They use brown brick instead of pale stucco for their houses." A gentle, foreign smile lifted on her thin lips. "And there's a lot of dancing."

A week after Kayla's quiet words, her father beckoned her to his study for news. A new batch of guards would commence on their grounds, of which one would become her personal guard.

Julianna frowned. "I have my chaperones and Lady-In-Waiting. I don't need more protection, father."

King Raymond shook his head. "You are seventeen years of age. Soon, you'll start attending balls and getting called on by nobility. I won't have your reputation be ruined because I was lenient with your protection."

The words made him perk up. "Attending balls? On the mainland?"

"Yes." She gasped. "But do not get your hopes up. The mainland has nothing on Solaria, the monarchy you'll rule over one day." A rueful smile twisted on his mouth. "Though I'm sorry your mother isn't here to guide you."

Julie placed her hand on her necklace, on heirloom from her mother, and tilted her head to the ceiling. "She's here, though. Don't worry."

Ray placed a kiss on her forehead and told her to go. Her large purple skirt ruffled around her as she went.

Twelve guards descended onto the island by ship the next day. Guard Lukas Patterson was assigned to her. He had a strong built, a kind smile, and no issue speaking to her whenever she allowed it. At first, it unnerved her to find a guard standing outside her quarters at all times, but soon he became part of the routine. Wake up, get washed and dressed, and greeted Lukas as she went to break her fast.

She was walking around the garden with her Lady-In-Waiting Kayla and Viscountess Flynn, when she peeked over her shoulder at Lukas shadowing them a couple feet back. Before she realised what she was doing, a question sprung from her tongue.

"May I ask how old you are, Guard?"

His brows raised in surprise. From her periphery, she felt the confusion of her friends. "Eighteen, Princess," he replied.

"Isn't that young to be a guard?"

"We start training at thirteen."

A curious smile lifted on her lips. Thirteen? At thirteen, she was learning Latin, Italian and Greek, was called a genius on the pianoforte by her governess, and had her hair trimmed for the first time in her life. She couldn't imagine a life so different from hers.

The conversation should end there, but instead she continued, her interest piqued. "Is it hard? Training?" She nodded at the sword in its sheath draped around his hips.

"Julie," Flynn whispered, gently reaching for her elbow. "Perhaps we should walk another lap."

The words had a sheen of warning. It wasn't a request. Flynn was perhaps the only woman of nobility that didn't oblige to every of Julianna's whims. The princess nodded and turned away from the guard.

Her curiosity was often chastised as a child. Princesses didn't need to know things that didn't concern them. Professors taught her politics, history and geography, but the moment she begged for personal anecdotes or an odd detail, the books slammed shut. At least she had her pianoforte. Then, she could escape into her own imagination and create the most beautiful compositions.

Later that evening, she sat alone in the grande library, curled into a velvet couch while reading with candlelight. But she couldn't focus. Outside the mahogany doors, Lukas stood still, alert and waiting for her to make a move.

Would it be improper to invite him inside? Nothing would happen. Julie just wanted to talk, listen to his years of training.

And so, she did.

Tiptoeing to the door, she craned her neck around the corner and caught Lukas' eye. He straightened up. "Is everything okay, Princess?"

"Yes," she said. A hesitant pause. She never broke the rules. "Would you... like to come inside, Guard Lukas? I still want to hear the story about your training."

His expression fell into an incredulous gawk, not at all like the cool gaze he usually sported. She withheld a giggle. Her guard was sort of cute. "Uh... I- I'm not sure if-"

"You won't get in trouble," she rushed. "I asked you, didn't I?"

Slowly, he nodded, lightly bowed his head, and entered the library. He sat down in the chair opposite of her, a little awkward, though seemingly in awe by the grandeur of the space and the buttery texture of the furniture. Her long hair was down and she wasn't wearing her gloves, but somehow, she didn't feel exposed.

"So, tell me about your training."

And so it began. Luke wasn't just her guard, but a confidante. He told her about his life before the Molina court. That he used to live in the uppermost province of Los Dédalo and joined the military to take care of his parents. That he made his best friends there, Reginald and Alexander, but that he called them Reggie and Alex, and they called him Luke.

Luke. It wasn't at all like the names people chose in Solaria. But she liked it. Short and sweet and it rolled off her tongue in a pleasant manner.

Meanwhile, balls had commenced across the islands and mainland. Julianna wore dresses dripping in gold and gemstones, her hair braided with pearls, silk gloves and glass, sunkissed skin. She was the vision of perfection; a wonderful dance partner, too.

Except much to her disappointment, she didn't match with any suitor. They called on her the days after a ball, of course, but none have her an easy feeling. There was no comfortable rapport.

All the while, Luke stood in the corners, the shadows, watching her.

One evening, Julie paced along the glass-stained windows of the sunroom in agitation, venting about the lack of ardent men on the dance floor. Luke listened while leaning against the wall, slight amusement on his face.

"I'll be frank: do you even like these balls?"

"I like the dancing," she conceded. "But nothing else. Not that my opinion matters." Julie sighed and plopped down in a rattan chair. "I know these are... quite luxurious problems, but it's still my life. And I want a love match, as silly as that might sound."

With a frown, he moved towards her. "It's not silly, Princess. I dream of a match like that, too."

That surprised her. If she was honest, she didn't think guards had dreams. Their lives were pre-determined, just like hers, unless they wanted to flee and be marked as a treasonous fool. "Really?"

The guard nodded, his eyes flitting from her to the lush gardens behind the glass. She wished to step closer, place her hand on his arm and ask what that fond look meant, but it was a risk too great to take. It was daylight still. A passing servant wouldn't be pleased seeing their easy relationship, and would no doubt gossip.

Pressing her hand in her side, she mustered a comment. "Do you want me to set you up with one of the kitchen maids?" she giggled. "Chef Gisela is a catch!"

Luke rolled his eyes. "No thank you, Princess."

"Please," she found herself saying, "call me Julie."

He paused. "J- are you sure?"

No, she wasn't sure. Her proposal screamed impropriety. Them talking in the sunroom like this, with him unguarded and smiling, shouldn't even happen in this realm of existence. But Julie never backtracked. With a raised chin, she uttered: "Yes"

Luke's green eyes shimmered in the golden light at her conviction. "Okay. Then Julie, please don't set me up with Chef Gisela." A smirk danced on his handsome face. "I don't really have a thing for redheads."

That night, she dreamt of Luke. Of that smile he sent her, of his eyes and kind voice, of his bold statement. What did it mean? She hadn't really thought about what she had a thing for. A man that connected with her on a soul-deep level, sure, but what else? Did she imagine a blonde or brunette by her side? Pale or dark skin? One with a culture similar to her own, or wildly different? She was woefully unprepared.

Tossing and turning, she came to the huffed conclusion that she had to speak to Luke further about 'having a thing'.

"You're not seriously asking me this!" he squeaked the next day. His hair was unkept, brown strands standing in all directions and curling at the nape of his neck. Something she should chastise, but it looked rather nice on him.

"I am," she stiffly replied. They were in the garden, away from the preening eyes of the court, and she busied herself picking flowers and placing them in a basket, in fear he'd see her plum blush and shy eyes if she faced him. "You don't have to indulge me, but I'd be grateful if you did."

He puffed. "It doesn't sound like I have a choice."

"You do." Julie straightened up and dared to lock eyes. Her hands folded together in front of her floral dress. "I'm asking this as a friend, Luke, not as a princess."

The guard sighed, looked over his shoulder to check they were indeed not being eavesdropped on, and uttered: "Okay... at these balls you attend, what catches your eye?"

"About people's countenance?"

"Sure."

"Well..." A zinnia twirled between her fingers, a pensive expression dancing on her face. "I like men that are taller than me."

"That's not hard," he jested. She stuck her tongue out.

She continued: "And... I like when they appear strong. And I suppose that I like darker features, like dark hair." As tangled as her thoughts were last night, as clear as day they were now. "Blonde looks so lifeless to me, for some reason."

Luke smirked. "Wasn't that Viscount Nick Dawson you spoke about a blonde?"

"Maybe."

"But there you go!" With a bounce in his step, he closed the distance between them and plucked the flower from her grip. Surprised, she looked up at his looming figure, her breath catching in her throat when he gently tucked the flower in her updo. "Now you know what you like. What your 'thing' is."

Her head tilted. "What's your thing? If it's not redheads?"

He smiled. She wondered if someone ever told him he had a perfect smile; the perfect ratio of lips and teeth and scrunch of the eyes. But then he dismissed her with a slight bow. "What I like is not important."

"It is! You said you wished for a love match!"

He took a step back. "We both know I'll be protecting Solaria until my retirement, whether as your guard, or at sea."

Right. His position as her guard wouldn't be forever. After she married, or went on her honeymoon, or the military needed reinforcements, or after her inauguration as queen — somewhere in that timeline, he would be gone. And no one would speak of him, as though a ghost, as guards weren't meant to be friends with.

Julie looked down, hoping to hide her sorrowful expression. "Right. You're right."

The following days were devoid of Luke. She didn't feel like talking to him. She never had to anticipate losing a friend before, and didn't know how to deal with it. And so, she spent her free time playing the pianoforte.

Her father noticed her mournful demeanour. "Don't fret, my Dahlia, more suitors will call on you when we host a ball."

Her fingers paused on the keys, a sharp sound piercing the quiet. A ball? The last one was a couple weeks ago, given the several engagements between nobility that had popped up left and right. Julie hadn't been there to celebrate, obviously, isolated on her island.

She frowned. "We're hosting one?"

He laughed. "Of course! And you'll be the diamond." His finger laid beneath her chin, his eyes boring into hers. "No one will compare to you."

"I don't think that matters, dad," she whispered, losing all decorum as hope sunk to her feet. "It's been months since the first ball, no one is interested. I'm not interested. I think I'll have to try again next season."

"At eighteen?" he stammered. "Your mother married me at sixteen."

"Lady Wilson married at twenty-one," she argued.

Father sighed. "Yes, and now she's across the world in a land with the coldest climate, away from her family. That is not a life I wish for you."

His voice was resolute. Don't fight, it meant. Without another word, she returned to the pianoforte, though her hands shook with frustration.

The night of the ball, Julie was a mess of nerves. The maids fluttered around her in the quarters, helping her into her purple gown and adding crystals in her hair. If her father's conviction she'd find a match at their ball, than he no doubt would chat up the mamas and papas with charming eligible sons. Didn't matter if Julie found them uninteresting. It was time for her to choose. To act like the princess she has trained for her entire life.

Kayla fanned her flushed face, concerned, to which Julie mustered a weak smile. "I'm just excited," she lied. "So excited."

The first dance had begun by the time Julie and Kayla padded down the luxe hallways to the ballroom. The double doors were closed, music and chatter and warm light bleeding through. God, she didn't want to go. She really didn't want to go.

"You can already go inside," she heard herself say.

Kayla appeared surprised. "Excuse me?"

"Enjoy yourself," she encouraged. "I just need a second to- to collect myself."

Her Lady-In-Waiting hesitated for a beat, eyeing the ballroom that lured her closer, before she sighed and nodded. "All right. If you're not inside in five minutes, I'll come and get you."

Finally, Kayla left. The servants opened the doors for her and she entered the ball. As they shut, with only servants that chatted amongst themselves, Julie had her privacy to take a breath.

"Princess."

Julie gasped. Twirling around, she found Luke standing in a dark alcove. Flitting her gaze to the servants, she ensured they paid no attention and picked up her skirt, rushing towards him.

He looked distinguished: a crisp white shirt and his gear polished for the party. Her heart skipped a beat when her eyes raked from his clothes to his imploring gaze. They hadn't spoken in weeks, but it felt like days, and yet, she had missed him.

Her conversation with Luke shot to the forefront of her mind. Her 'thing': that was what she should look for. A tall, strong man, with brown hair... and handsome features... and a sense of humour... and-

Oh. Her racing thoughts came to a standstill. Oh.

"You've asked me what my thing is," he whispered.

Julie blinked. That was why he called her? Glad the shadows hid her disappointment, she sought her voice. "I... yes."

"I just wanted to say that..." He took a deep breath. "It's girls with brown hair in pretty dresses."

Oh. "Luke..."

"I wanted to give you this." From his pocket, he revealed a strip of elegant white lace. At the ends, dried zinnias were sown on. Dainty and unassuming, but a fortune for a man like Luke. Tears welled in her eyes. Luke seemed flustered. "It's— I mean, I figured you could wear it as a bracelet, but—"

"I love it," she exhaled, "thank you. I—"

Surging up, she grabbed his cheeks and pressed a hard kiss on his mouth. He was frozen. Fear overtook her senses and she stepped back, about to exclaim okay, bye! when his hand gripped her wrist, mumbling a breathless wait and pulled her back in his chest. His lips locked back on hers. Relieved, her hands fluttered from his arms to his neck, settling there. His own touch rose up her back and stopped when his thumb grazed the skin of her shoulder blade.

Oh, no. Kayla.

Julie took a step back and found Luke chasing her, but she pushed him back into the dark. The servants would have his head if they saw.

"I need to go," she whispered in a flurry of excitement and nerves and elation. Her heart hammered in her throat. "I... I'll find you at the end of the ball."

Luke smiled. "Not if I find you first."

kiss prompts (closed!)

#i love anachronism so yeah julies dresses are 1840 to 1855 but luke has a late medieval style going on à la sean teale in rosaline (2022)#anyway #princess x guard my beloved !!#juke #julie and the phantoms #jatp fics #jatp fanfiction #i'm incorrigible

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themuseumwithoutwalls · 2 years ago

Photo

MWW Artist of the Day (2/13/23) Correggio (Antonio Allegri)(Italian, 1489-1534) Portrait of a Lady (c. 1518-19) Oil on canvas, 103 x 87.5 cm. The Hermitage Museum, Saint Petersburg

Antonio Allegri, called Correggio, was a renowned master of fresco painting and altar pictures depicting the Madonna and saints. He rarely turned to portraiture. This canvas signed by the artist ranks among the best works in the Hermitage collection of Italian paintings. The unknown lady is depicted under a laurel that is a symbol of poetry and hints at her poetic talents. The strict composition and the noble combination of white, brown, dark green and blue colours emphasize the cold beauty of the face. The sitter is shown wearing a mourning dress. Her brown robe and belt evidence that she belongs to the Franciscan Order. On the chalice there is a Greek inscription, a quotation from Homer's Odyssey, recalling the moment when Helen is giving a bowl of wine to Telemachus with a drink which brings forgetfulness and drowns sorrow. The tree-trunk wound around with ivy symbolizes faithfulness and eternal love.

For more of this artist's work, see this MWW gallery/album: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.464125917026116&type=3

#Correggio #antonio allegri #Portrait of a Lady #italian renaissance #portrait

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aarghhaaaarrrghhh · 8 months ago

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Wings (Крылья, 1906) by Mikhail Kuzmin - Part Three

They were sitting, the three of them, in a café on the Corso after Tannhäuser, and in the noisy, half-unknown Italian speech, the tinkling of plates and glasses with ice-cream, and the distant sounds of a string orchestra heard through tobacco smoke, they felt almost intimate, especially friendly about the impending separation. The officer sitting by the table with a whole rooster’s feather in his cap and the two ladies in black, yet loud, dresses did not pay them any attention, and through the tulle curtains of the open window were seen the streetlamps, the carriages passing by along the pavements and roadways, and the closest fountain on the piazza could be heard.

Vanya had, on the whole, a boyish look in civilian dress, seeming dandyish somehow, despite the complete ordinariness of the very pale, tall and thin person wearing it; Daniil Ivanovich, in his capacity, as he would laugh, as ‘the travelling prince’s tutor’, had accompanied his friend everywhere, and now chatted benevolently and patronisingly with him and with Ugo Orsini.

“Whenever I listen to the first scene in the second edition, the edition of a Wagner already having achieved Tristan, I feel an unheard-of delight, prophetic awe, like with Klinger’s paintings or D’Annunzio’s poetry. Those dances of fauns and nymphs in those open, resplendent, radiant, unprecedented, yet achingly, deeply familiar antique landscapes at the appearance of Leda and Europa; those cupids shooting from the trees, like in Botticelli’s Primavera, at the fauns dancing and dying in provocative poses – and all of this before Venus, keeping watch over the sleeping Tannhäuser with otherworldly love and tenderness – all of this is like a breath of the new spring, of a new passion for life and the sun, boiling up from the darkest depths!” And with his handkerchief, Orsini wiped his pale, smooth-shaven face that had begun to grow fat, with black, lustreless eyes and thin, crooked mouth.

“This was indeed the only time that Wagner touched on Antiquity,” remarked Daniil Ivanovich, “and I’ve seen this opera more than once, but without the reworked scenes with Venus, and I always think that it along with Parsifal are of one kind and are Wagner’s greatest inventions, but I neither understand nor want their conclusions: to what end is this renunciation? Asceticism? Neither the character of Wagner’s genius, nor anything else entail such ends!”

“Musically, this scene is not particularly in accordance with those written previously, and Venus is somewhat of an imitation of Isolde.”

“As a musician, you would know better, but the thoughts and ideas – those are the domain of the poet and the philosopher.”

“Asceticism is, in fact, the most unnatural phenomenon, and the chastity of some animals is the purest fantasy.”

They were given some strong ice-cream and water in large wine glasses with tall stems. The café was emptying somewhat, and the musicians were already repeating their pieces.

“Are you departing tomorrow?” asked Ugo as he adjusted the red carnation in his buttonhole.

“No, I’d like to say goodbye to Rome and not be separated from Daniil Ivanovich for a while yet,” said Vanya.

“You’re to Naples and Sicily then? And you?”

“I’m off to Florence with a canon.”

“Mori?”

“The very same.”

“How do you know him?”

“We were introduced by Bossi Gaetano, you know, the archaeologist?”

“The one who lives on the via Nazionale?”

“Yes. He’s really very sweet, this canon.”

“Yes, I can say properly: lettest thou thy servant depart; from hand to hand I pass you on to monsignor.”

Vanya smiled affably.

“Are you really that bored by me?”

“Terribly so!” joked Daniil Ivanovich.

“We will probably meet in Florence; I am going to be there in a week: my quartet is playing there.”

“I’m very glad. You know you’ll always find monsignor in the cathedral, while he will know my address.”

“And I’ll stay with the marchioness Moratti, borgo Santi Apostoli. Please, without any ceremony – the marchioness is lonely and glad to see anyone. She’s my aunt and I am her heir.”

Orsini smiled slickly with the thin mouth in his white, fattening face and with his black, lustreless eyes, and rings glittered in their bunches on his musically developed fingers with shortly trimmed nails.

“This Ugo looks like a poisoner, don’t you think?” asked Vanya to his companion as they walked home up along the Corso.

“What’s with this fantasy? He’s a very sweet person, nothing more.”

Despite the soft rain running in little rivulets downhill along the pavement, the museum had a pleasant and sought-for coolness. After a visit to the colosseum, the forums, the Palatine, all before their departure, they stood almost alone in the modest hall before “the Fleeing Youth”.

“Only that torso called “Ilium” can compare with this in terms of the life and beauty of a youthful body, where, below the white skin, you can see how the crimson blood flows, where all the intoxicating, mesmerising muscles are, and where the lack of arms and a head does not bother us, the moderns. The body itself, the material, will die and works of art, Phidias, Mozart, Shakespeare, let’s say that these too will die, but the ideas, the model of beauty contained within them, cannot die, and perhaps that’s the only thing of value in the ever-changing and transitory medley of life. And however crude the realisation of these ideas is, they are divine and pure; have not the highest ideas of asceticism in religious practices taken the form of symbolic rituals, wild, fanatical, yet illuminated by a symbol hidden within them, divine?”

Making his final exhortation before their going separate ways, Daniil Ivanovich said:

“You, listen to me, Smurov: if you ever you need spiritual consolation and the means to set yourself up without going to great expense, appeal to monsignor, but if money has completely departed you, or you need intelligent and sublime counsel, turn to Larion Dmitriyevich. I will give you his address. Is that alright? Do you promise me?”

“Is there really no-one else I can turn to? This really isn’t what I want.”

“I know of no-one more trustworthy; find one yourself, in that case.”

“What about Ugo? Can’t he help?”

“Hardly, he rarely ever has any money himself. I truly do not know what it is you have against Larion Dmitriyevich to the extent that you won’t even write him a letter. What happened to sufficiently explain this shift?”

Vanya looked at the bust of Marcus Aurelius in his youth for a long time without responding before he finally began, slowly and monotonously:

“I don’t blame him for anything, I don’t think at all that I’m in the right to be angry, but it’s unbearably regrettable to me that, having learned of some things not of my own will, I cannot treat with Stroop as before; it prevents me from seeing in him the instructor and friend that I desire.”

“What romanticism that would be, if it didn’t sound rehearsed! You’re of the conviction, like the damsels of past times, that the knights must think that maidens don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t sleep, don’t snore, don’t blow their noses. Every person has their own functions, which do not diminish him at all, no matter how unpleasant they may be to an outside viewer. Being jealous of Fyodor – that means you recognise yourself as being his equal and having the same significance and goal. But, sharp-minded as it may be, it’s all the same better than excessive, romantic attention to detail.”

“Let’s leave all this; if there’s no other way, I’ll write to Stroop.”

“And you’d do so well, my little Cato.”

“It was you yourself who taught me to scorn Cato.”

“Evidently, not very successfully.”

They walked along the straight path between the lawn and the flowerbeds, with their flowers unclear in the twilight, towards the terrace; a tender white fog crept along the ground, almost racing, it overtook them: somewhere, owlets cried; to the east, stars glared fuzzily and unevenly in the pinkening mist, and the windows in the façade of the building directly opposite them, lit from within, already had the unusual glare of the morning sky on the glass. Ugo finished whistling his quartet and silently smoked a cigarette. When they passed by the terrace itself, before their heads had come level with the bottom of the lattice, Vanya stopped as he overheard Russian speech clearly.

“So, are you going to spend much longer in Italy?”

“I don’t know, you see how weak mama is; after Naples, we’ll spend some time in Lugano, I don’t know how long.”

“I’ll be deprived of the ability to see you, to hear your voice for so long…” began a male voice.

“Four months,” a female one hurriedly cut in.

“Four months!” the first echoed. “I don’t think you’ll get bored…”

They fell silent as they heard Vanya and Orsini’s approaching footsteps, and in the morning twilight the figures of the seated woman and the not very tall gentleman standing next to her were only dimly visible.

As they entered the hall, where they were enveloped by the somewhat stuffy heat of the overcrowded room, Vanya asked Ugo:

“Who were those Russians?”

“Blonskaya, Anna, and one of your artists, I don’t remember his name.”

“He’s in love with her, it seems?”

“Oh, everyone knows that, as well as about his dissolute lifestyle.”

“Is she a beauty?” asked Vanya somewhat naively.

“Here, take a look.”

Vanya turned and saw a very thin, pale girl entering, with smooth, dark hair, combed behind the ears, narrow facial features, a slightly large mouth and pale blue eyes. Five minutes after her, a man, about 26 years old, came in quickly, hunching, with a sharp, fair little beard, brown hair and light, very convex eyes beneath thick brows the colour of old gold, with pointed ears, like a faun.

“He loves her and leads a dissolute life, and these are both known to everyone?” asked Vanya.

“Yes, he loves her too much to treat her like a woman. Russian fantasies!” added the Italian.

They went their separate ways and the fat ecclesiast, rolling his eyes, repeated:

“His Holiness tires, so tired…”

The rays of the sun glared harshly in the windows and the dull noise of carriages being brought could be heard.

“Well then, until we meet again in Florence,” said Orsini, shaking Vanya’s hand.

“Yes, I’ll be off tomorrow.”

They were all laying on the windowsills covered with colourful quilted pillows: the signore Poldina and Filumena at one window and signora Scolastica with the cook Sangina at another, when monsignor led Vanya down a narrow, dark and cool street to the old house with an iron ring instead of a bell on the door. When the first knock sounded, the shrieks and cries died down, signora Poldina alone continued to orate:

“Ulysses says, ‘I’m bringing a Russian gentleman, he’ll live with us.’ Ulysses, you’re joking, no-one has ever lived with us; he’s a prince, a Russian nobleman, how are we going to look after him? But whatever comes to my brother’s mind, he does. We thought that this Russian gentleman would be big, of full figure, tall, the sort of way that we saw Mr Buturlin, and instead here’s this little boy, so thin, such a darling, a little cherub,” and the senile voice of signora Poldina softened movingly in sweet cadences.

Monsignor directed Vanya to survey the library, and the sisters removed themselves to the kitchen and their bedroom. Monsignor ascended the stairs after hiking up his cassock, on account of which his thick calves were visible, clad in black homemade stockings and the fattest shoes; with spiritual affect, he read out the names of books which he thought would interest Vanya, and silently skipped past the rest, stocky and ruddy-cheeked despite his 65 years, joyous, stubborn and specifically didactic. Books stood and laid upon the shelves, Italian, Latin, French, Spanish, English and Greek. Thomas Aquinas next to Don Quixote, Shakespeare with a jumble of biographies of the saints, Seneca with Anacreon.

“Confiscated books,” explained the canon as he noticed Vanya’s surprised look, and further, took a small, illustrated volume of Anacreon. “There are a lot of books here, confiscated from my spiritual children. They can bring me no harm.”

“Here’s your room!” announced Mori, directing Vanya into a large, square room, blue with white curtains and a canopy on the bed in the middle; paperless walls with gravures of the saints and Madonne of Good Counsel, a simple table, shelves with books with moralising contents, beneath glass on the chest of drawers, a painted wax doll of St. Luigi Gonzaga, dressed in a hand-sewn enfant de chœur suit, an aspergillum with holy water by the door – these gave the room the character of a monk’s cell and only the piano by the door to the balcony and the vanity table by the window interfered with the totality of the resemblance.

“Kitty, ack, kitty, shoo, shoo!” Poldina threw herself at the fat white cat that had come to the hall for its complete triumph.

“Why are you chasing him? I love cats rather a lot,” remarked Vanya.

“Signor loves cats! Ah, sonny! Ah, my lad! Filumena, bring Mishina here with the kittens to show signor…Ah, my darling!”

They had been walking since morning around Florence, and in a loud, sing-song voice, monsignor was giving out anecdotes and details on the events of the fourteenth century as much as about the twentieth, getting across with equal enthusiasm and involvement a scandalous chronicle of modern times as well as a story from Vasaris; he paused in the middle of busy alleyways to develop his eloquent, and for the most part, accusatory periods, he conversed with passersby, with horses, with dogs, he laughed loudly, sang, and the whole atmosphere around him – with his simple, somewhat common politeness, uncouth tact, unthinking in his instructiveness as well as in his joy – recalled the atmosphere of Sacchetti’s novellas. Sometimes, when his stockpile of tales ran too low to fit his speaking needs, speaking figuratively, with intonation and gestures, made a primitive work of art out of a conversation – he returned to the oldest subject matters for novelists and reiterated them with naïve eloquence and conviction. He knew everything about everything and at every corner, the stone, whether it be Tuscan or sweet Florentine had its own legends and anecdotal historicity. He led Vanya around everywhere with him, taking advantage of his position as a person on his travels. Here there were marquises in the process of going bankrupt as well as counts living in decaying palazzos, playing at cards and arguing because of them with their lackeys; here there were engineers and doctors, merchants who lived simply, in the old fashion: economically and limitedly; musicians just starting out and aiming for the glory of Puccini, imitating him with their fat, beardless faces and their ties; the Persian consul who lived below San Miniato with six nieces, fat, important and benevolent; pharmacists; some delivery-boys; Englishwomen leaning towards Catholicism and, finally, m-me Monnier, an aesthete and artist, who lived in Fiesole with a whole company of guests at her villa, painted with delicate autumn allegories, with a view on Florence and the Arno valley, she was eternally cheerful, of small stature, chirpy, red-haired and unsightly.

They remained on the terrace around a table, where the plates on the pinkish tablecloth grew thickly dark in the already approaching twilight, dark red all around, like pools of blood, and the smell of cigars, strawberries and wine in half-finished glasses mingled with the scent of flowers from the garden. A woman’s voice could be heard from inside the house, singing old songs, interrupted now and then by a brief silence or by prolonged chatter and laughter; and when a fire got started inside, the view from the already half-dark terrace recalled the exhibition l’Intérieur by Maeterlinck. Ugo Orsini, pale and beardless, with a red carnation in his lapel pin, continued to speak:

“You can’t imagine the kind of woman he’s throwing himself away with! If a person is not an ascetic, then there is no greater crime than a pure love. While having love for Blonskaya, just you look at who he has sunk to: all that’s good about Cibo are those lecherous siren’s eyes in her pale face. Her mouth – ach, her mouth! – just listen to how she speaks; there’s no crudity she won’t repeat, and each and every one of her words is a vulgarity! With her, like with girls in fairy-tales, along with every word out of her mouth springs a mouse or a toad. The positives! … And she doesn’t let him go: he’ll go and forget Blonskaya, and his talent, and everything else in the world for this woman. He’ll die like a man, and particularly like an artist.”

“And you think that if Blonskaya … if he were to love her otherwise, he might break things off with Cibo?”

“I think so.”

Silent a moment, Vanya begun again, shyly:

“And you think that a pure love is not something he can have, don’t you?”

“You see what comes out of it? You only have to look at his face to understand this. I make no claims because you can never guarantee anything, but I see that his is dying and I see why, and this drives me mad because I love him dearly and value him, and because I hate both Cibo and Blonskaya in equal measure.”

Orsini finished smoking his cigarette and went inside the house, while Vanya, left alone, thought all about the young, slouching artist with light brown hair and a pointy beard and light, very convex grey eyes below thick brows the colour of old gold, sarcastic and sad. And for some reason the memory of Stroop came back to him.

Mme Monnier’s voice came in from the hall, garbled and affected.

“Do you remember, the Sagantini with the spirit with huge wings beside the lovers?[1] The lovers themselves should have the wings, all brave, free lovers should.”

“A letter from Ivan the Wanderer, sweet lady! He sends us Anatole France’s bow and blessing. I kiss your name, great teacher.”

“Yours? Per D’Annunzio’s word? Of course, it goes without saying, why didn’t you say anything?”

The noise of chairs being pushed aside was heard, along with the sound of loud and proud piano chords and Orsini’s voice beginning a wide, somewhat banal melody with a gauche passion.

“Oh, how glad I am! Uncle, say something? It’s incomparable!” prattled Mme Monnier as she ran out onto the terrace, all in pink, ginger, unsightly and charming.

“You’re here?” she stumbled on Vanya. “News! Your countryman has arrived. But he’s not a Russian, although he is from Saint Petersburg; he’s a very good friend to me; he’s an Englishman. Ah? What?” she threw out without waiting for a response and disappeared off towards the travellers arriving along the wide carriageway in the garden, already illuminated by the moon.

“For the love of God, let’s get out of here, I’m afraid, I don’t want this, let’s leave, without saying goodbye, now, right this minute,” Vanya hurried the canon, who was sitting with his ice-cream and looking Vanya squarely in the face.

“But of course, but of course, my child, but I don’t understand what’s got you so worried; let’s get going, I’ll just find my hat.”

“Faster, faster, cher père!” Vanya languished in this groundless fear. “Here, here, they’re coming here!” He turned to the side from the main road, where the rattle of hooves and the wheels of a carriage could be heard and at a turn down a narrow path in the moonlight, Mme Monnier unexpectedly emerged, very close to them, with several guests, and unmistakably, clearly illuminated in the moonlight, undoubtedly Stroop.

“Let’s stop,” whispered Vanya as he gripped the canon’s hand, who clearly saw how the smiling, restless face of his student was covered by a thick blush, noticeable even by moonlight.

They set out on a gig pulled by four donkeys from the gate of the house, built back in the 13th century, with a well on the first-floor dining room in case of a siege, a hearth that could fit a shepherd’s hovel inside of itself, a library, portraits and a chapel. In case of cold during the ascent, the servants brought overcoats and plaids, apart from those who had been sent ahead with provisions. Having arrived from Florence via the station Borgo-san-Lorenzo, then on horses past Scarperia, past Sant’Agata with its castle and its steel goods, they hurried to finish breakfast so that they would return from the mountains before dark, and in the absence of conversation all that was heard was the clatter of knives and forks, and at the same time, teaspoons in the coffees. Passing by vineyards and farms amongst chestnut trees, they ascended higher and higher along the meandering road, such that it happened that the first carriage was directly above the last, leaving the more southerly plants behind for birches, pines, mosses, and violets, where clouds were already visible down below. Without having yet reached the heights of Giovi, whence could be seen, it was said, the Tyrrhenian and Adriatic seas, upon turning around, they suddenly saw Firenzuola, which had the look of a heap of red-grey stones, the big, twisting road to Faenza running through it and an old-fashioned stagecoach in motion. The stagecoach stopped in order to give some time for one of its passengers to get out and attend to their needs, and the driver on his tall box smoked peacefully while he waited for the moment to get going on their way again.

“How reminiscent this is of Goldoni’s blessed memory! What rapturous simplicity!” exclaimed Mme Monnier in delight, cracking her red-handled whip. In a sooty tavern reminiscent of a bandit hideout, they were offered an omelette, cheese, chianti and salami and the innkeeper, a crooked and sunburnt woman pressing her jaw against the back of a wooden chair, listened how the jacketless man in a hat of felt going green, with black brows and big eyes, told the gentlemen about her:

“It’s been known a long time that Beppo is here at night-time … The carabinieri say to her, ‘Aunt Paska, don’t shy away from our money, Beppo will get caught anyway.’ She thought about it, she didn’t come to a decision… She’s an honest woman, just look… But fate will always be fate; once he came from a countryman’s wedding, drunk and slept lightly … Pasca had warned the carabinieri earlier and she whistled, but she’d taken the knives and rifle off of Beppo earlier. What could he do? He’s a man, signori…

“How he swore! He was tied up, he kicked over this very bench, fell over and began to roll around!” said Pasca in a husky voice, her teeth and her only eye gleaming as she smiled, as though she had just said the most pleasing thing.

“Yes, yes, she did well did Pasca, no matter how crooked she is! Another glass?” offered the bearded man, while patting the innkeeper on the shoulder.

“Smurov, Orsini, go back up top quickly, I forgot my umbrella, you’re the last ones, we’re waiting for you! Huh? What? My umbrella, my umbrella!” cried Mme Monnier from the first carriage, reining in her donkey and turning her unsightly, pink and smiling face with its fluttering ginger curls backwards.

The tavern was empty, the uncleared table and benches and chairs that had been pushed together stood as reminders of the guests that had only just been there, and behind the curtain, where the bed was hidden, only sighs and an unclear whisper could be heard.

“Who’s there?” hailed Orsini from the porch. “Signora left her umbrella here, have you seen it?”

Some whispering started up behind the curtain; then Pasca, pottering about with neither shawl nor bodice on, sorting her dirty skirt out as she went, sunburnt, thin and, despite her youth, frightfully old-looking, silently pointed out the umbrella standing in a corner, white, lacy, with a vague yellowing design on the top and a white handle. From behind the curtain a male voice cried, “Pasca, Pasca? Will you be back soon? Have they left yet?”

“Coming,” replied the woman hoarsely and as she approached the fragment of a mirror on the wall, she placed the red carnation forgotten by Orsini in her dishevelled hair.

They were almost the only ones in the theatre following Isolde’s outpouring at Brangäne with full attention, as they hardly noticed how the king entered with his queen the box opposite the stage, and after bowing awkwardly to the audience that greeted him with cheers, sank into a chair right up against the barrier with a bored and businesslike expression; he was small, moustachioed and big-headed, with a sentimental and harsh face. Despite the performance, the hall has fully illuminated: the ladies in the boxes, in robes décolletées and necklaces, sat almost with their backs to the stage, exchanging words and smiling; suitors with boutonnieres, boring and courteous, made visits from box to box. Ice-cream was handed out and the elderly gentlemen seated in the depths of the box read their newspapers, spread open wide.

Vanya, sitting between Stroop and Orsini, did not notice the whispering and noises around him, as his thought was wholly absorbed by Isolde, who thought she could hear the horns of the hunt in the rustling of the leaves.

“This is the apotheosis of love! Without the night and the death, it would be the greatest song of passion, and the very outlines of the melody and the whole stage are like unto rituals, how similar they are to hymns!” said Ugo to Vanya, who had gone completely pale.

Without turning, Stroop watched the box opposite theirs, where the fair-haired artist and a woman with wavy, bright black hair were sitting very tightly next to each other; she had huge, stuck-out and cloudy eyes set on her pale, unpainted face, with a large, thickly red mouth and she wore a bright yellow dress, embroidered with gold; she was noticeable, pretentious and had a chin that was vulgar and determined to the point of ludicrousness. Vanya absent-mindedly listened to the tales about the adventures of this Veronica Cibo, in which the names of various men and women who had died around her all intermingled.

“She is the utmost villainess,” Ugo’s voice reached him, “of the 16th century sort.”

“Oh! That’s too lofty for her! She’s just a rotten woman,” and the coarsest appellations were heard from the lips of the courteous suitors who had looked with desire upon that yellow dress and that face’s lustful siren eyes.

Whenever Vanya had to talk with Stroop, even the utmost simple of questions, he blushed and smiled, and there was the impression as though you were talking, having just reconciled after a violent argument, or with a patient convalescing after a long illness.

“I’ve been thinking all about Tristan and Isolde,” Vanya was saying as he walked down the corridor with Orsini. “Here we have the most ideal depiction of love, the apotheosis of passion, but if, say, you look at it from the outside and the end of the story, then is it not in essence ultimately the same as what we walked in on back in the tavern in Giove?”

“I don’t completely understand what you’re trying to say? You’re confused by the presence itself of the fleshly union?”

“No, but in any real act, there is the amusing and the embarrassing; Tristan and Isolde had to unbutton and take off their clothes, and were the coats and trousers as unpoetic then as jackets are for us?”

“Oh! What thoughts! That’s amusing!” laughed Orsini, giving Vanya a look of surprise. “It’s always like that; I don’t understand what you were expecting?”

“If the naked essence is the same, is it not all the same, whether it is reached by the cultivation of worldly love, or by animal impulse?”

“What’s with you? I don’t recognise canon Mori’s friend! It goes without saying that the fact of the naked essence is not important; what’s important is your attitude to it – and the most outrageous fact, the most unbelievable situation can be justified and made clean by your attitude towards it,” said Orsini seriously and almost pedagogically.

“Despite its sounding like instructions, that might be true,” remarked Vanya, smiling as he regarded Stroop, who was sitting next to him, attentively from side-on.

They arrived slightly early at the train station to see off Mme Monnier, who was departing for Brittany in order to spend a couple of weeks there before Paris. The orbs of the electric streetlamps glowed against the pale yellow sky, cries of Pronti, partnenza rang out, passengers fussed over which trains were earlier, and from the restaurant car came incessant orders and clatterings of cutlery. They drank coffee while waiting for the trains; a bouquet of gloire de Dijon roses lay on an open copy of Le Figaro next to gloves belonging to Mme Monnier, who was seated in a maize-coloured dress with light yellow ribbons, and suitors made witticisms about the political news that they had just read, while at the neighbouring table, Veronica Cibo appeared in an expensive dress with a lowered green voile, along with the artist with a garment carrier, and behind them their porter with their things.

“Look, they’re leaving! He’s finally going to die!” said Ugo after greeting the artist and departing for his own company.

“Where are they going? Does he not see anything? How low, low!”

Cibo lifted her voile, pale and provocative, silently showed the porter where to put the things, and placed her hand on her companion’s wrist as though taking him into her possession.

“Look – Blonskaya! How did she find out? I envy neither her nor Cibo,” whispered Mme Monnier, at the same time that the other woman, all in grey, quickly went to the artist who was sitting with his back to her and did not see her, and his companion, who stared motionless with her siren eyes. As she approached she began to speak quietly in Russian:

“Seryozha, where and why are you going? And why is it a secret to me, to all of us? Are you not a friend to all of us? It doesn’t matter, I know, and I know that this is your death! Maybe I’m guilty myself and I could set something write?”

“Set what right?”

Cibo watched motionlessly directly at Blonskaya, as though not seeing her, blind.

“Maybe you’d keep around if I married you? You know that I love you.”

“No, no, I don’t want any of this!” responded the other, brokenly and coarsely as though afraid of giving in.

“It can’t be that nothing will help here? It can’t be that this is definitive?”

“Perhaps it is. Too much is happening too late.”

“Seryozha, come to your senses! Let’s go back, before you perish, not just as an artist, but also in general!”

“What can I say? It’s too late to fix it, and then I want it so much!”

“No, you do not want it that much,” said Blonskaya.

“What, I don’t know myself what I want?”

“You don’t know. And what a little boy you are, Seryozha!”

Cibo climbed after her porter, who was carrying a suitcase, and inaudibly signalled to her companion; the latter stood up and put on his coat without answering to Blonskaya.

“So then, Seryozha, Seryozha, you’re going to leave, all the same?”

Mme Monnier, whispering loudly, bade her friends farewell and was nodding her ginger head out of her compartment from behind the bouquet of gloire de Dijon roses. As they started on the way back, they saw Blonskaya walking quickly, all in grey, led by her umbrella.

“We might as well be at a funeral,” remarked Vanya.

“There are people who may as well be at their own every minute,” replied Stroop without looking at Vanya.

“When the artist dies, that will be very difficult.”

“There are people who are artists of life; their demise will be no less difficult.”

“And there are things which it is sometimes too late to do,” added Vanya.

“Yes, there are things which it is sometimes too late to do,” repeated Stroop.

They entered a low little room, lit only by the open door, where an old shoemaker with round glasses like in a painting by Dawe was bent over a boot. It was cool after the sun out on the street, it smelt of leather and jasmine, a couple of branches of which stood in a bottle just beneath the ceiling on the top shelf of the boot cabinet; The apprentice watched the canon as he sat with his legs apart, dabbing at his sweat with a red foulard, and the old Giuseppe said in a kind-hearted and sing-song voice:

“I’m what? I’m a poor craftsman, gentlemen, but there are artists, artists! Oh, it’s not so simple to stitch boots according to the rules of art; you need to know, to study the foot you’re sewing for, you need to know where the bone is wider, where it’s narrower, where the calluses are, where the instep is higher than expected. No one person’s foot is like any other, you know, and you’d need to be an ignoramus to think that a boot’s a boot and it’ll fit all feet; ack but what foot there are, signori! And they all need to fit. The Lord God made it so that a foot should have five toes and a heel, and anything else is equally fair, you understand? Yes, if someone has four or six toes, then the Lord God himself bequeathed him feet like that and he needs to walk like other people do, so a master bootmaker needs to know that and make it possible.”

The canon was loudly swilling chianti from a large glass and, with his wide-brimmed black hat, he drove off a fly that had been crawling all over his forehead, covered in drops of sweat; the apprentice continued watching him while Giuseppe’s speech continued to ring out evenly and songlike, inducing sleep. When they were passing through the cathedral square in order to go the restaurant Giotto, popular amongst the clergy, they met the old Count Gidetti, in makeup and a wig, as he walked, practically dragged along by two very young girls with modest, almost grave airs. Vanya recollected the tales about this half-collapsed old man, about his so-called ‘nieces’, about the excitement demanded by the dulled senses of this old debauchee with his face painted like a corpse and his lively eyes, glittering with intellect and wit; he recollected his conversations, where out of his slurring mouth flew paradoxes, witticisms and stories, which were all more and more lost on people in our modern times, and he heard Giuseppe’s voice as he said, “if someone has four or six toes, then the Lord God himself bequeathed him feet like that and he needs to walk like other people do”.

“The bricks and the walls were blushing when the Count’s trial took place,” said Mori as he passed to the left into a room filled with the black figures of clergymen and a few visitors from the lay people, who wanted to eat Lenten food on Fridays. An elderly Englishwoman with a beardless youth was speaking in strongly accented French:

“We, the converts, we love more, we understand more consciously all the beauty and charm of Catholicism, its rituals, its dogmas, its disciplines.”

“A poor woman,” clarified the canon as he laid down his hat on a wooden settee next to him, “from a good, rich family – and here she goes to lessons, needy, because she has learnt the true faith and everyone has turned their backs on her.”

“Risotto! Three portions!”

“We were 300 when we went from Pontassieve, there’s always enough pilgrims to Annunziata.” Saint George! With him along with Archangel Michael and the Holy Virgin, you can’t be afraid of anything in life with such patrons! The Englishwoman’s accent was lost in the general noise.

“He was of a race from Bithynia; Bithynia is the Switzerland of Asia Minor with green mountains, little mountain streams and pastures, and he was a shepherd before Hadrian took him in; he accompanied his emperor on his travels, it was during one of these travels that he died in Egypt. Rumours floated around that he drowned himself in the Nile, as a sacrifice to the gods for the life of his patron, others insist that he drowned whilst saving Hadrian while bathing. In the hour of his death, the astronomers discovered a new star in the heavens; his death, surrounded by an aura of mystery, his extraordinary beauty, breathing new life into stagnant art, these things impacted not only the courtly milieu – the disconsolate emperor, wanting to honour his favourite, numbered him amongst the ranks of the gods, instituting games and building palaestrae and temples in his honour, and the oracle-houses, where at first he himself wrote the responses in ancient verses. But it would be a mistake to think that the new cult was widespread, only amongst the circle in Caesar’s palace was it official and it fell along with its founder. A lot later, almost several centuries, we encounter communities in honour of Diana and Antinous, defined by burial at the expense of the community members, collective meals where everyone contributed and humble worship. The members of these communities – prototypes of the first Christians – were people of the poorest class, and the complete charter of such an organisation has passed down to us. Thus, over the course of time, the divinity of the emperor’s favourite takes on the character of a nocturnal, afterlife deity, popular amongst paupers, without achieving a widespread propagation like the cult of Mithras, but one of the strongest examples of the phenomenon of an apotheosised person.”

The canon closed his notebook and, after taking a look at Vanya over the top of his glasses, remarked:

“The morality of the pagan emperors does not concern us, my child, but I can’t hide from you that the disposition Hadrian had towards Antinous was, of course, far from a fatherly love.”

“What made you decide to write about Antinous?” asked Vanya indifferently, whilst thinking about something completely different and without looking at the canon.

“I read to you what I had written this morning, but I generally write about the Roman Caesars.”

It struck Vanya as funny that the canon was writing about Tiberius’ life on Capri and he could not hold himself back from asking:

“Do you write about Tiberius as well, cher père?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And about his life on Capri, do you remember, the way it’s described by Suetonius?”

Mori, wounded, launched into speech with fervour:

“It’s terrible, you’re right, my friend! It’s terrible and out of that fall, out of that cesspit, only Christianity, holy instruction could lift up the human race!”

“You have more restraint when it comes to emperor Hadrian?”

“There’s a big difference there, my friend; here we have something sublime, although, of course, it is a terrible delusion of feelings, which even people enlightened by baptism cannot always fight.”

“But, in essence, is it not one and the same in any given moment?”

“You are terribly deluded, my friend. In each act, what is important is your attitude towards it, its goal, and also its motivation, its consequences; the acts themselves are no more than the mechanical motions of our bodies, unable to outrage anybody, much less the Lord God.” And he opened his notebook again on the spot marked by his thick finger.

They were walking along the rightmost road in the Cascine, where meadows with farms, and low mountains beyond could be seen through the trees; passing by a restaurant, empty at this time of day, they moved through an area that was taking on more and more of a rural appearance. Guardsmen with bright buttons were sat now and then on benches, and little boys ran along in cassocks under the supervision of a fat abbot.

“I am so grateful that you agreed to come here,” said Stroop, as he sat on a bench.

“If we are going to talk then it’s better to be walking, as I have soon come to learn,” remarked Vanya.

“Excellent.”

And they started to walk, now pausing, then starting amongst the trees.

“So why did you deprive me of your friendship, of your favour? Did you suspect me guilty in the death of Ida Golberg?”

“No.”

“Why, then? Answer freely.”

“I’ll answer freely: because of your history with Fyodor.”

“What do think?”

“I know what it is, and that you won’t deny it.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe I would have treated the whole thing completely differently now, but back then, I didn’t know much, I wasn’t thinking about it either, and it was very hard for me, because, I recognise now, it seemed to me that I was irrevocably losing you and along with you, every path towards the beauty of life.”

Having made a full circuit around the garden, they once again walked the same path, and the faraway children loudly, but distantly laughed while playing with a ball.

“I must go tomorrow, in any case, to Bari, but I could stay; it depends now on you: if it’s to be a no, write Go; if it’s a yes, Stay.”

“What is this no, this yes?” asked Vanya.

“You want to tell you in words?”

“No, no, there’s no need, I understand; only, why?”

“It has now become so essential. I will wait until one o’clock.”

“I will reply in any case.”

“One more effort, and you’ll grow your wings, I can see them already.”

“Maybe, only it will be very difficult when they grow,” declared Vanya, laughing.

They sat out on the balcony until late, and Vanya noted with surprised how he was attentively and nonchalantly listening to Ugo as though he would not have to give Stroop an answer the next day. There was a kind of pleasantness in that lack of definition of position, of feelings, of relationships, a kind of lightness and hopelessness. Ugo continued with fervour:

“It does not yet have a title. The first painting: a grey sea, cliffs, the golden sky calling in the distance, the Argonauts in search of the golden fleece – everything is startling in its novelty and unprecedented nature, and you suddenly discover within it the most ancient love and fatherland. The second is Prometheus, bound and punished: Nobody may behold clearly the secrets of nature without punishment, without breaking her laws, and only the father-slayer and he who commingles with his own blood may solve the riddle of the Sphinx! Pasiphaë appears, blind with lust for the bull, terrible and prophetic: I see neither the richness of colour of a discordant life, nor the harmony of a prophetic vision. Everyone is terrified. Then the third: on a blissful lawn, scenes from The Metamorphoses, where the gods took on whichever form for love; Icarus falls, Phaethon falls, and Ganymede says, Poor brothers, only I, out of those who took off to the heavens, remained there, because pride and children’s toys drew you towards the sun, while I was taken by a cacophonous love, incomprehensible to those who are dead. The flowers, huge like prophecy and fiery bloom into colour; the birds and the animals go in pairs and in the shivering pink fog, 48 examples of human couplings from the Indian manuels érotiques can be seen. Everything begins to rotate in two parts, each in its own sphere, in a bigger circle, faster and faster until all the outlines blur together, and the whole shifting mass takes shape and comes to a standstill in the vast, radiant figure, standing above a glittering sea upon woodless yellow cliffs below the unbearable sun, of Zeus-Dionysos-Helios!”

He rose, following a sleepless night, exhausted and with an aching head, and, after dressing and washing deliberately slowly, without opening the jalousie blinds, he wrote unhurriedly at the table upon which stood a glass with flowers, “Let’s leave”; after thinking about it, he added with the same, not yet fully awake face, “I’m coming with you” and he opened the window onto the street, flooded with bright sunlight.

The End

[1] L’amore alla fonte della vita, Giovanni Segantini, 1896

#my translations

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radicalrascals · 2 years ago

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The Sociopathic Vampire

Original Character | FC: Sacha Dhawan

!! This muse is a villain. I'm currently only comfortable writing villains in tandem with one of my other muses. Best suited are: Leopold, Nick, Miguel, Liam !!

NAME: Lysander Valentine

AGE: perpetually in his late 30s

SPECIES: vampire

PROFESSION: con-man / "entrepreneur"

Short Bio [Urban Fantasy Setting]

Valentine is a big question mark in an expensive designer suit. Peel away the first layer of lies, you'll find another and another and another. No one living knows his real name, how old he truly is and where he comes from. His latest persona, Lysander Valentine, has only been around for a couple of years and he's already made himself a name in the underworld. A big name. But that is never enough. Valentine is always hungry, lusting for more. Whether that is power or blood.

Relationships

Elian Rose > [Tag]

Ridley Monroe > [Tag]

Ben Hernandez > [Tag]

Aida Davtyan > [Tag]

Roy Barnes > [Tag]

Kinthos Quoits > [Tag]

Mike > [Tag]

Playlist

I Can't Decide by Scissor Sisters from Ta-Dah (2006)

Let's Kill Tonight by Panic! At The Disco from Vices & Virtues (2011)

Applause by Lady Gaga from Artpop (2013)

Die Another Day by Madonna from American Life (2003)

Detailed Profile

FULL NAME: unknown

KNOWN AS: Lysander Valentine, Valan Talwar, Valentino Morselli, ... (the list goes on and on)

NICKNAMES: Valentine, Val

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

SPECIES: Vampire

RESIDENCE: travels a lot

PROFESSION: con-man / "entrepreneur"

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

AGE: "died" in his late 30s

DATE OF BIRTH: May 22

PLACE OF BIRTH: unknown, presumably in the UK

NATIONALITY: as Lysander Valentine: British

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

FAMILY: unknown

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

FACE CLAIM: Sacha Dhawan

HEIGHT: 5ft 7 (1.7m)

NOTABLE FEATURES: His fangs - capable of retracting - are perilously sharp, while his eyes possess an eerie black hue.

STYLE: Always dressing for the occasion, Valentine doesn't have a particular style apart from a good understanding of how to fit in. Since his persona "Lysander Valentine" is an entreprenneur he's striving to always be the best dressed in the room; hence there is no such thing as "overdressed".

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

LANGUAGES: English (native), French (fluent), Italian (passable), Latin (passable), Panjabi (passable), Portuguese (broken, dated)

SPEECH MANNERISM: Valentine typically employs British received pronunciation to get his way, but is able to speak in a Glaswegian, Mancunian and a vague, nondescript "American" English accent. He's language savvy and uses speech as a tool to blend in or stand out.

STRENGTHS: drinking the blood of a supernatural creature allows him to channel a fraction of their powers; he's a brilliant liar and master manipulator

WEAKNESSES: direct sunlight sets him ablaze, he gets a rash from holy water and as far as traditional vampire myths go, he has to be invited into peoples' homes; he also has to consume blood in order to stay alive as he can't consume regular food

INTERESTS: always striving for (more) veneration and power

VICES: drinking the blood of intoxicated people or supernatural beings which allows him to gain their powers temporarily

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

NSFW

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: biromantic

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: asexual

PREFERENCE: dom | switch | sub

ROLE: top | vers | bottom

#Muse: Valentine #Muse

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rhaaclaws · 2 years ago

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ok hi here is Darling Nikki talking about her backstory to Jane Cuomo. Heart <3 [quite long so its under a cut]

"Well, I take you to know of the Italian Renaissance. If you didn't I'd be ashamed of your lack of education, but nonetheless. My mother was a courtesan- a prostitute if you want to be crude about it. But she was the damn best one in Venezia. Contrary to what one might believe, courtesans were respected members of society, especially if you were a high-ranking one. You could rival the aristocracy. But no matter what, you were still marked. you were still alienated. I was born in 1501, my father: unknown. She never wanted this path for me, and I didn't always understand why. I saw her wear these fancy gowns and accessorize with pearls, and I always thought she was the most beautiful person in the world. So I thought, 'why couldn't I be like her?'. With some time it was clear the reason why you are not seen kindly in this kind of work. Even then we had it easier than most, being able to even wear pearls were a symbol of status. My mother knew this, otherwise, she wouldn't have gotten this far. Because she knew the atrocities of people, she raised me to be an artist. She showed me paintings, poetry, writings, and music. We were in the best city for the arts, especially during the Renaissance. I learned to play the harpsichord, the piano, and the violin. I learned to paint, to write, both in prose and in verse. With that, she also taught me everything she knew.

The most important thing she taught, though, was knowing how to use my words. The art of the charm, if you will. If you know the power of flattery, you can rule the world. I'm sure you can tell she taught me well.

One time, I had been strolling down the street at night and met the second most peculiar man of my life. We only knew each other for a few minutes, but it completely changed me. He was sitting down in one of the cramped alleyways, and some sort of meat stew was in his hand. It was rare for a person out in the street to be eating meat, especially one who seemed to lack possessions. As I was staring, something captivated me about this environment. It felt as though death was near. He must have caught me observing, and spoke up. “Young girl, would you want some of this stew? It is warm and the meat is freshly harvested.”

I knew better than to accept something from a stranger, but it was tempting. I kept quiet, so he spoke to me again. “I understand your hesitance, will knowing the origins of the flesh soothe you?” He spoke too formally to be normal, it was as if he was waiting for someone to hear him. I nodded, and he craned his head as if to point with his lips. I cautiously got closer to see what he was pointing at and nearly gagged. It was the now-rotting corpse of a woman, with her dress ripped, and completely disemboweled.

I ran away then but I never got the image of that dead lady on the floor out of my head. I never told anyone about it, but it haunted me for years.

The most peculiar man I’ve ever met appeared to me after the death of my mother. I had not taken it well, she was the only person in the world who cared for me. I was hysterical, but who wouldn’t be? He was dressed in all black, with the only color on him being his bright red horns. His eyes were hidden away but still maintained an intense stare. That man, whose name I learned to be Matejka, offered me anything at the price of my soul. If I could beat him in a fight, anything I could’ve ever wanted could be a reality. And so I accepted his deal.

I was barely alive but I won. I wasn't the most proficient in fighting, but it was something vital for survival. I wasn’t prepared to lose but I also wasn’t ready to say what I wanted. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it must have been along the lines of “becoming an apex predator”. The last thing he told me was to stay out of the sun. That confused me, but when I tried calling out he was already gone.

I learned what he meant very quickly though. When I was getting up in the morning, some light from the window must have seeped in. The sun burned my back and it was the most unimaginable pain possible. I must have been writhing in pain on the floor for hours.

I had to adapt fast though. I realized I was no longer human, and now dealing with constant headaches and toothaches. I didn’t know at the time, but those were caused by me growing horns and fangs, respectively. I made multiple new discoveries, such as: no longer seeing my reflection in mirrors, I could walk on walls, having unimaginable strength and agility, and incredibly fast regeneration. But the most prominent discovery was insatiable bloodlust. I could eat normal food, but it did not nearly give me as much energy as it was supposed to. The memory of that man in the alleyway rose up again.

The first time I went out at night, I wasn’t necessarily trying to kill someone. It just became addictive. I shifted to a hunter of the night, and my legend was told. “Have you heard of the woman who hunts people at night?” was a common thing. I never planned to become this sort of creature, but the thrill of the kill fascinated me. And so I became an expert.

One night I tried eating a victim. That man in the alleyway had to do that for a reason, no? I was already drinking people’s blood, so perhaps flesh wouldn’t hurt to try at least once. And I was oh so right. Human flesh became my favorite part of each night.

I was once approached by a courtesan, and she was pleading for my protection. She must have been desperate, but who would I be to attack my own kind? More and more courtesans learned of me, and I became their protector. If you check the archive of every single person I have eaten, I have written out their professions. Not one is a courtesan.

When I first began killing people, it was mostly a quick attack but that began to bore me. That very same charm I learned, became my weapon. The fear in someone’s eyes after they placed their trust in me was like my alcohol. It gave me large amounts of power, and what my mother said about ruling the world with flattery was correct.

Sometimes I wonder if my mother would be proud of who I’ve become, but I’ll never get the answer to that. I know that I am wicked, but this is where I thrive. She would understand the measures I’ve taken. Jane, darling, if you were to ask me why I just told you the most intimate parts of my life, I would not be able to give you an answer. You are the first person in 500 or so years to learn of this. So consider yourself lucky.”

#lalala her mother is the only person she has respected #also stuff thats not mentioned in this. darling nikki usually 'hunts' around brothels #for the same protection stuff. shes 'kind' but only in this aspect #also the reaosn why she is constantly changing their name is bc their mother is the only one who was allowed to call her that #rhaa talks #Darling Nikki #cannibalism mention

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puckwritesstuff · 3 years ago

Note

23. “I can’t breathe in this dress, can we please hurry up.”

In the King Thor AU, during Loki's self-imposed exile on Earth. Sigyn and Loki are just as obnoxious about their relationship in front of their new Midgardian friends as they are back home.

Thank you for the ask!

---

Another evening, another function Tony Stark managed to con Loki and Sigyn into attending. It was some sort of reception for a summit or conference or something where Pepper was receiving yet another award for a business thing that Sigyn didn’t understand— not from lack of comprehension, but lack of interest. Pepper was wonderful, but Sigyn could not find her attention able to penetrate the minutia of American capitalism. On top of that, Sigyn was often forced into a dress by someone with some Italian or French name that didn’t allow her to move very much. The particular one she wore that evening had a boned torso that was extremely tight around her chest.

The advantage to these events was that they were often black tie, which meant getting Loki in a Midgardian suit, which Sigyn found irresistible. The cut of the suit he was wearing that evening emphasized the length of his limbs and the shape of his torso. He leaned against the bar as the bartender mixed drinks. He looked across the room at her and smiled. Sigyn couldn’t help but giggle as she felt her face get hot. She covered her mouth, turning away.

“You two really have it bad for each other.”

Bruce walked up next to her, drink in hand. Sigyn wasn’t love-blind enough to not notice that he cleaned up nicely in a standard tux himself. The bits of early gray in his hair from the stress of his condition distinguished him as well.

“Not sure I could take a thousand years of watching that before you got together,” he said.

“We’ve heard similar sentiments from our friends back home,” Sigyn said. “How it was blindingly obvious and tedious to watch us come so close so many times.”

“What stopped you?” Bruce asked.

Sigyn shrugged. “The usual things, I suppose. Not wanting to ruin a friendship, not being certain if the other person feels the same way, the fact that he’s a prince and I’m an adopted bastard of unknown parentage.”

“Right, usual things,” Bruce said. “How’d you get his parents to go along with it, if him being a prince is that much of a factor.”

“Well, his mother wasn’t terribly hard to convince,” Sigyn said. “There’s a reason you humans considered her a goddess of marriage. And his father was in the Odin-sleep for a little over a year, and had handed the throne to Thor, so he didn’t really have much of a say in the matter.”

“I thought he woke up,” Bruce said.

Sigyn paused. “Loki’s relationship with his father is… complicated.”

Bruce snorted. “Join the club.”

Loki came over with a pair of drinks— one, a basic, brown liquor in a tumbler, the other, a brightly colored drink in a martini glass.

“One bourbon, straight, for the lady,” Loki said, handing her the glass.

She smiled, accepting the drink. “Thank you, my heart.”

“Stark drag you here as well, Banner?” Loki asked.

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “But also to support Pepper.”

“Oh, of course,” Loki said.

The lights dimmed and a spot turned on over the stage.

“I think they’re getting ready,” Bruce said.

“I can’t breathe in this dress, can they please hurry up?” Sigyn said.

“Well, as soon as it’s done, we’ll go back to the tower and I can help get you out of it,” Loki said, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Sigyn giggled again and Bruce fought the urge to gag.

#prompt #fanfiction #loki #sigyn #bruce banner #logyn #mcu #Love Duty and Glorious Purpose fic

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nyotaliafan-pinkmermaid · 3 years ago

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My portrayal of nyo!Greece

Warning: This is based on real life Greek women and i'm not going to make her a Mary Sue or give her magical powers.

🇬🇷 She is a really happy and energetic person. Her voice is more lively and she's very expressive with her emotions.

🇬🇷 She prefers to have a healthy lifestyle. She mostly eats healthy food and is really active.

🇬🇷 She is such an amazing singer and dancer, even if she doesn't always admit it.

🇬🇷 She hates being called lazy. That girl actually works very hard.

🇬🇷 Everytime someone insults her culture, her family and her friends she will start getting mad. She may look sweet but she won't hesitate to kick asses.

🇬🇷 She can be a gossiper sometimes but no one hates her for that.

🇬🇷 She isn't fond of taking naps . She would rather daydream instead of sleeping.

🇬🇷 She loathes it when someone says that marriage is about "the woman becomes the mindless slave of the man", because she thinks that marriage is the union of two people who truly love eachother.

🇬🇷 She isn't obsessed with cats but still finds them cute.

🇬🇷 Just like her male counterpart she hates both Turkey and nyo!Turkey passionately but they won't try to kill eachother all the time. They are most likely to have strong disagreements.

🇬🇷 For her family comes first no matter what

🇬🇷 Show her respect and she'll respect you back.

🇬🇷 She has a huge passion about History , Philosophy and Art.

🇬🇷 She is close with Cyprus, the four Italians(N.Italy,S.Italy, Genoa, Seborga), Switzerland, Romania, Bulgaria, Egypt, Armenia ,France, Spain, Portugal, Serbia and their Nyotalia counterparts.

🇬🇷 She loves taking care of herself and dressing with elegant clothes.

🇬🇷 She usually puts the well being of others first.

🇬🇷 Many people who met her , told her that she looks a lot like her mother Ancient Greece.

🇬🇷 She isn't that so close with Japan or nyo!Japan but still they are good friends.

🇬🇷 She is so in love with Switzerland and her heart skips a beat everytime he is around. She is even dreaming of marrying him and having such a nice family together. (not in an obsessive way of course)

🇬🇷 She loves having wholesome sisterly moments with nyo!Cyprus(yes they are biologically related). They can talk about anything , helping eachother to solve every problem they may face. They even do other activities like going for shopping together.

🇬🇷 She is so excited seeing tourists coming to her home every summer. She gets to talk with lots of people and make new friends. She's very hospitable and generous towards them.

🇬🇷 That lady combines beauty and brains together.

🇬🇷 She even has amazing brother-sister bonds with Greece and Cyprus who make sure that nobody won't make her or nyo!Cyprus sad.

🇬🇷 She has natural beauty that she doesn't need make up at all. She will wear make up on special occasions but not that so much.

🇬🇷 She is fond of adorable things. She can't resist them.

🇬🇷 She mostly paints her nails with pink or blue shades. She rarely has them unpainted.

🇬🇷 She is such a big bookworm. Her favourite book genres are historical, mythological, encyclopedias and romantic ones. Her bookcase is full of them. She will even lend books to anyone who asks her politely.

🇬🇷 She looks like a princess ,but she isn't the damsel in distress.

🇬🇷 She never says things about the others or calls them names behind their backs. She always roasts people and tells everything in front of them. She loathes hypocricy , treason and lies more than anything.

🇬🇷 She loves music, but she loathes songs that talk about sex, money, drugs and these who make women seem like soulless objects that men can own.

🇬🇷 She hates prostitution , because she believes that it isn't honorific for a woman to have sex with men , who most of them are unknown, for the sake of money.

🇬🇷 She is thin, due to the fact that she mostly eats healthy. Her skin is olive but it can get tanned during summer.

🇬🇷 She only swears when she is really angry. She mostly pays great attention to what she says.

🇬🇷 She avoids smoking and drinks alcohol only in special occasions.

🇬🇷 Sometimes she is much stricter with herself, than she is with the others.

🇬🇷 She is scared of forest fires, because of the fact that many Greek forest areas are burned during summer.

🇬🇷 She is afraid of being forgotten and replaced. She isn't an attention seeker though.

#nyo greece #waifu #please respect my opinions as long as i respect yours #she is no way a mary sue or meant to be #don't hate me for this

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years ago

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To the summit in a skirt: Lucy Walker, pioneering Victorian Alpine mountaineer

The stories of women just weren’t written, so people tend to think they didn’t happen. There have always been women who have had the courage to step out into the unknown, and that’s what Lucy Walker did. The fortitude, the bravery, the commitment to the goal - women’s power was not invented yesterday.

- Rebecca A. Brown, Women on High: Pioneers of Mountaineering

Leaving behind a quiet life of croquet and cream teas, Lucy Walker became one of Britain’s finest early Alpine mountain climbers. Her climbing career spanned some 21 years, totalling 90 or so different summits, many being first ascents by a woman. Walker was the first woman to summit the Matterhorn and the Eiger - in a billowing Victorian dress no less - but she nearly vanished from history.

Her story as a female pioneering mountaineer has always inspired me in my mountaineering sojourns to the Alps and other mountainous places. During my time in the army flying combat helicopters I enjoyed free weekends that did come my way to take off to the Alps with like minded friends and climb together.

Mountains are so special; they have such magic to them. Maybe it is the fact they are can be so dangerous or maybe it is because they make us feel so small. Even if you don’t even climb them they call to you.You might find that all the problems in your life dissolve when you are around them or that life slows down a bit. All that I can tell you is that after spending time surrounded by them or climbing them you will feel the urge to come back.

Climbing a mountain is the furthest thing from easy. Long stretches of constant vertical climbing can be the most exhausting and hardest thing you do. Not only the physical difficulties but also the mental difficulties will also test you. Exposed and tricky climbing and route finding can get the best of your mental abilities.

The classic quote that tells you “not to look at the whole mountain take it one piece at a time” is something you will come to understand. You will learn to never give up; to know that the reward will be worth the work it takes.

Lucy Walker possessed great strength, endurance and determination and was an inspiration, especially for other women climbers. Indeed she paved the way for a wave of other - largely forgotten - women mountaineers to test the limits of their own mental and physical strength and courage against not only some of the hardest mountains to climb but also some the harshest social strictures against women seeking adventure.

Born in Liverpool in 1836, Lucy Walker was a British woman widely credited as being the first female alpine mountaineer. But this 19th century alpinist left behind no diaries, newspaper interviews, or personal accounts of any kind. And yet her presence haunts the annals of early mountaineering like a persistent ghost. Her serene, inscrutable face stares out from among men in Victorian-era expedition photos, and she lurks in a doorway in a renowned engraving of top 19th century alpinists - all male except for her. In journals, male climbers describe sightings of Walker briefly drying her sodden clothes at a hut or moving fast through deep snow and the astonishment of villagers after she became the first woman to climb the Eiger.

On Lucy Walker’s first trip to the Alps in 1858, she – unlike many people – was not content to remain in the valley but accompanied her brother and father into the high mountains. Whereas today climbers use cable cars or trains for the first part of an expedition, in the 19th century, several hours of steep walking was required. Lucy wanted to climb and at the sight of the Alps she began her life time obesession with mountain climbing.

Walker would go on to become one of the first and most prolific female mountaineers of the 19th century. Over the course of her 21-year career in the Alps, starting in 1858, Walker undertook 98 expeditions, including 28 successful attempts on 4,000-meter peaks. She holds first female ascents on 16 summits, including Monte Rosa, the Strahlhorn, and the Grand Combin, and a first ascent for either sex on the Balmhorn, which she completed in 1864.

But it was perhaps the Matterhorn ascent that gained her the most fame. The Matterhorn was regarded as the most desirable trophy by both men and women mountaineers. Lucy Walker was not the only woman whose dream it was to reach the peak. Various women attempted the ascent, most notably Meta Brevoort (1825-1876), a New Yorker who had settled in England. Just like Miss Walker, Meta was making a name for herself in the mountaineering world in the late 1860s. In 1869, Meta undertook her first attempt to climb the Matterhorn and, approaching from the Italian side, reached an altitude of just under 4,000 metres before being forced to turn back due to severe weather conditions.

Two years later, however, Meta Brevoort decided to give it another go, setting out for Zermatt with the aim of attempting another ascent. Lucy Walker was already in Zermatt though and, on receiving word of Ms Breevort’s intentions, quickly assembled her own group in order to begin her ascent of the Matterhorn, a feat that would make her the most famous female mountaineer of the era.

Long before dawn on July 21, 1871, Walker woke up in a hut on the northeastern flank of the legendary mountain, surrounded by men. She wore her favorite long dress and hobnail boots as she, her father, their guide, and several other climbers set off on snowy slopes in the flickering gloom of candle lanterns.

The mountaineers were probably nervously aware that six years earlier, four men from the first expedition to stand on top of this 14,692-foot spire on the Swiss-Italian border fell and perished on their descent. But Lucy Walker was determined that the American Meta Brevoort would not be the first woman to reach the summit. Walker fully intended to beat her to it.

As the sky brightened and smoke rose from breakfast fires in the village of Zermatt far below, the climbers ascended a skinny, ice-encrusted ridge with heart-palpitating exposure. One mindless step could have sent them plunging a thousand feet down to the valley below. But by midmorning, with willful determination and agreeable weather, they reached the summit. A tableau of rocky pinnacles, meadows, forests, streams, and villages unfurled in every direction - and Walker was the first woman ever to see it all from that iconic perch.

Meta Brevoort arrived just after Lucy‘s achievement to receive the shocking news that she had missed her chance to win the ultimate trophy. That very evening, the two women met each other in Zermatt. What Meta really felt on this occasion is anyone’s guess but contemporary sources state that “there were congratulations” – noblesse oblige.

This would be the only occasion that the two most prominent female Alpinists of the era would meet, somewhat unusual considering that they came from a similar background. Lucy Walker came from a wealthy merchant family in Liverpool and Meta Brevoort from a family of Dutch immigrants who made a fortune in New York as property owners.

Contrary to the strict notions of Victorian society, both women were outgoing and cheerful characters with a lively spirit. According to her obituary, Lucy was known for her “warmth, humour and buoyant personality” while, according to chronicler Cicely Williams, Meta stood out for her “astounding vitality and her exception gift of living life to the full”.

Walker’s other great accomplishment - amongst the many she already had achieved - was the Eiger. Mountaineers down the ages to the present will say hands down that it is the most dangerous of all Alpine mountains.

The Nordwand, or north face, of this peak in the Bernese Alps in Switzerland is an objective legendary among mountaineers for its danger. Reaching nearly 6000 feet, it is the longest north face in the Alps. Though it was first climbed in 1938, the north face of the Eiger continues to challenge climbers of all abilities with both its technical difficulties and the heavy rockfall that rakes the face. The difficulty and hazards have earned the Eiger’s north face the nickname Mordwand, or Murder Wall. Lucy Walker didn’t climb the north face but she did climb it all the same. Nothing daunted her.

At 10.15 am on 25 July, 1864, a group of 11 people arranged themselves gingerly on the narrow arête of the Eiger’s summit, and “proceeded to howl [themselves] hoarse” in celebration of their achievement. The merriment was more raucous than usual because 28-year-old Lucy had just become the first woman to climb the mountain.

Poor visibility, ice and difficult route-finding threatened to defeat them, but as fellow climber Adolphus Moore noted, in a typical example of middle-class Victorian pride: “A repugnance to abandoning an undertaking once commenced…appears to be naturally inherent in the breasts of Britons, male and female alike.” When the party arrived back in the village, Moore noted that “the astonishment amongst the people, collected at the inn, at a lady having performed such an unusual feat, was immense and entertaining.”

Lucy Walker was the person that made women visible in the Alps for the first time. She was the first woman to ascend most of the major alpine summits and crushed through the glass ceiling, making it easier for women to follow. And yet the details of Walker’s life remain largely unknown.

At the time, women were expected to stay out of the public eye, avoid celebrating their accomplishments, and conform to narrow notions of femininity that prized meekness and subservience. While newspapers glorified male exploits in the mountains, they often ignored or satirized women who climbed, painting them as weak and unfit—or sometimes just laughable eccentrics. Women mountaineers of the 19th century generally underplayed their accomplishments in letters and books so as not to appear unfeminine and risk ridicule. Many did not write about their expeditions at all. Walker might have kept quiet about her climbing so that she could continue doing it in peace, but she also didn’t let the inevitable jibes discourage her.

“In those far-off mid-Victorian days, when it was even considered ‘fast’ for a young lady to ride in a hansom, Miss Walker’s wonderful feats in the mountains did not pass without a certain amount of criticism, which her keen sense of humor made her appreciate as much as anyone,” wrote Frederick Gardiner, a friend and mountaineer who climbed alongside Walker up the Matterhorn, in an obituary in the Alpine Journal in 1917.

Over the course of her climbing career, Walker proved herself a model of both skill and endurance, climbing mostly with her father and brother and possibly, as some scholars have suggested, outperforming them. She ascended the tallest technical peaks in Europe, braved spectacular exposure with unreliable ropes, and pioneered long, difficult routes through the high cols. According to friends who wrote about her, Walker was witty and lively and had a penchant for hydrating with champagne.

She also went to great lengths to avoid offending delicate Victorian sensibilities and gender roles—at least until out of sight. While climbing, Walker would walk out of villages looking every bit the proper lady and then stash her petticoat behind a rock. Like a chameleon, she transformed from an elite athlete in the Alps to a prim Victorian Englishwoman at home in Liverpool, where her family ran a lead-dealing business. Walker tended to the family house; kept up with her needlework; read widely in French, German, and Italian; and hosted parties. (She chose not to marry, however, which would have been unusual at the time.) There are no records of her ever scaling a British peak or even partaking in any exercise more taxing than croquet.

Perhaps because she didn’t brazenly challenge social norms, Lucy Walker’s activities in the mountains were occasionally feted. International newspapers covered her Matterhorn climb, and the satirical English magazine Punch even published a poem celebrating her fortitude.

“No glacier can baffle, no precipice balk her,” it read. “No peak rise above her, however sublime. Give three cheers for intrepid Miss Walker. I say, my boys, doesn’t she know how to climb!”

Clare Roche, a historian on 19th-century women’s mountaineering, argued that this recognition likely encouraged other women to be more adventurous in the Alps. Katherine Richardson, Margaret Jackson, and Emily Hornby, three of the best women mountaineers of the late 19th century, started climbing within a couple years of Walker’s Matterhorn ascent. Meta Brevoort was also inspired by her example, according to her nephew and climbing partner.

Even before that time, however, Walker was far from the only woman in the peaks. After examining historic führerbücher, books in which guides kept client testimonials, Roche discovered that from about the mid-1860s, women ventured into the mountains on technical expeditions in much greater numbers than previously thought. In the second half of the 19th century, women completed nearly 60 first ascents on Europe’s high peaks and more than 100 first female ascents. These include Brevoort’s first winter ascent of the Jungfrau in 1874 and Margaret Anne Jackson’s first ascent of the east face of Weissmies in 1876.

Letters suggest that while there were rivalries, women climbers also formed a sort of sisterhood in the mountains and helped each other out, Roche says. Even though women weren’t allowed to file papers in the Alpine Journal until 1889 and were excluded from the Alpine Club until 1974, some of their male counterparts welcomed them in the high country. These wild areas afforded rare freedom in a time of stifling social constraints. In coed expeditions, women climbed and slept alongside men, a practice that would have been unthinkable in the valleys and cities. In the late 1800s, women even led men on expeditions without guides, which had been customary earlier in the century.

In later life Lucy continued to walk in the Alps and meet with friends, including Melchoir Andregg, who was the foremost Swiss mountain guide of his time and is still revered today. When asked why she had never married, her typically direct reply was: “I love mountains and Melchoir and Melchoir already has a wife!”

Walker continued to climb until her mid-forties, when a doctor advised her to stop for health reasons that are now unknown. She continued to walk in the Alps long after her climbing career and acted as a mentor to younger climbers, encouraging them to write about their experiences. Although Lucy was an extremely capable mountaineer, she was never allowed to join the male-only Alpine Club in London but did become the second president of the Ladies’ Alpine Club in which she was involved in the founding in 1907.

Most Victorian doctors advised gentlewomen to refrain from any strenuous exercise; the demands of mountaineering went way beyond strenuous. It is a measure of Lucy’s character that she clearly ignored medical diktats. She was an educated woman, spoke several languages, knew her own mind and was not prepared to conform to any convention if it meant restricting her mountaineering.

In the Alps, she regularly climbed for more than 14 hours a day, tackled some of the most difficult summits and slept in barns high in the mountains, often close by the men in the party. Home life in Liverpool could not have been more different. There she played croquet, entertained and led the respectable life expected of a Victorian lady.

Even on the mountains, she was keen to maintain a feminine appearance whenever possible, always wearing skirts, but removing her crinoline once outside the village. Dresses were arranged so they could be shortened easily on steep or rocky slopes. Trousers didn’t become popular with women until the 1890s, long after Lucy’s climbing was over. She later said how envious she was of the easier conditions women experienced in the early years of the 20th century.

Although Lucy wrote nothing about her climbing, others did, noting her penchant for champagne – a common tipple among mountaineers, especially those who made unprecedented climbs. Lucy would get through several bottles during the course of an expedition. She became a renowned personality in the Alps whom everyone wanted to meet because, as famous mountaineer Edward Whymper, claimed, “no candidate for election in the Alpine club… ever submitted a list of qualifications at all approaching the list of Miss Walker.”

Lucy Walker died, in September 1917, at 81. But in the century since her death, Walker has nearly vanished from the public record. How many other women quietly pulled off great feats of athleticism but fell through the cracks of history without so much as a whisper? Walker at least lives on in the words of those who knew her.

“Her energies were immense and she was a bold, inveterate and able sightseer,” wrote mountaineer Charles Pilkington in the Alpine Journal after Walker died. “We were often roused by her from our laziness and taken to some point of view or interesting place, which but for her insistence, we might have missed. Traveling in her company was always enlightened by her great vivacity.”

#lucy walker #walker #pioneer #mountaineer #climbing #alpine #alps #matterhorn #adventure #history #femme #women #british #society #outdoor sports #nature #icon #personal

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books0977 · 3 years ago

Photo

Portrait of a Lady (c.1520-1523). Domenico Puligo (Italian, 1492-1527). Oil on poplar panel. Royal Collection Trust.

The unknown Lady is shown at bust-length, facing half to the left, and looking at the spectator. She has pale brown hair under a grey turban-like headdress. She wears a yellow-ochre dress with a brown band across the breast and rose-pink sleeves over a white chemise, and a gold and black necklace.

#art #portrait #Domenico Puligo #Italian

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eveenstar · 4 years ago

Text

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒

𝙰 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚁𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝟸 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸𝙸

Summary: In 2031, a journal is found. It tells the story of a woman named Y/N L/N, who claims to be a time traveler from 2021. This is the story of her life.

Tags/Warnings: Nothing to add yet.

Note: Also, this is a Javier Escuella x reader. The reader is also female, sorry!

“What the hell?”

“Is she alright?”

“Don't just stand there, help the poor girl!”

I remember waking up on a bed, not soft at all, reminded me of a rock.

The rays of the sun made the girl groan and sit on the bed. Rubbing her eyes, she looked around and noticed the strange ambient she was in. A few people walking around, yet none of them noticed she was awake. The woman got up slowly, swaying on her feet, and took slow steps towards her bag left on the ground, until a small voice startled her.

“Mama, the weird lady is up!”

“Already?”

(Y/N) sighed, her head up, and watching as all the eyes were on her. Her mind was still processing the information from the past hours, time-traveling. Right, right, she knew what to do. At least, what she was supposed to do. Her body felt different, probably still adjusting to going through a portal, her mouth was dry and she could still taste a bit of dirt on her lips from the fall.

“Hey, lady, you good?” A silvery voice ringed, waking (Y/N) from her thoughts. Looking at the group of people surrounding her. The man wearing a sombrero got closer to her with a cautious look on his face. The girl didn’t answer, the shock beginning to take over her body. Only know did the poor girl realized what she had done.

“Javier, be careful. She could be…dangerous.” Another voice coming from behind him said.

Dangerous? Well, she kinda is, right? Being a skilled hacker and knowing her way on a gun, but that probably wouldn’t serve much in this era. The hacker part, at least. (Y/N) focused on the loud voices coming near them, they were arguing, and probably about her too.

“Why are we keeping her alive, Dutch? The woman came through that shiny golden circle on the sky and you decide to keep her here?” A blond man waved his arm towards her angrily. (Y/N) recognized him from the old picture the other woman had shown to her; Micah Bell.

“We can’t just kill her, Micah. We need to hear her first.” The other man, Dutch van der Linde, or the dude with fancy clothes, replied. Seemingly annoyed by Micah.

“We have far too many mouths to feed already. We can’t have another one.” A feminine harsh voice announced. “Who comes through something like that in the middle of nowhere? In our camp? She’s dangerous.”

The woman let out a heavy and annoyed sigh. Crossing her arms and looking to the gang, with her brows furrowed. She wouldn’t let them talk like that about her like she wasn’t there. Everyone quickly looked at her.

“If you let me explain myself first before any of you open your mouths.” (Y/N) could see the surprised look on a few faces, but an angry one on the others. Maybe having an attitude wouldn’t do her any good here, probably should get rid of that before causing any problems amongst the gang. After all, she needed to gain their trust.

“I’m sorry, Miss…?”

“(L/N).”

“I’m sorry, Miss (L/N), they can be quite suspicious about strange folks. Of course, we’ll let you explain yourself after…that.” Dutch spoke softly with an educated tune, being the calmest and reasonable of them all. The girl took a few steps back, stumbling on her words a few times, even mumbling in Italian. Everyone’s eyes were on her like hawks, most of them curious but suspicious. It wasn’t hard to understand them, a random woman popping out of a hole on the sky dressed weirdly would any person be suspicious and probably very shocked.

(Y/N) was taking too long. Hearing a click of the tongue made her straighten up and fixing her eyes on the wanted gang.

“Well, err, I am…from the future-“

“The future?! I can’t listen to that bullshit!” Micah replied almost immediately.

“Shut the fuck up I’m talking!” The sudden shout made their eyes widen a bit, but she could still hear a few mumbled laughs on the background. “As I was saying, I came from the future. I’m from 2021. Someone sent me here to…help you all before a big tragedy takes place.”

After seconds of shocked nonbelieving silence, a few loud voices were heard around. Mostly because they didn’t believe one single word she’d just said, others were questioning why Dutch decided to let her live and how they should just throw her on the river. But, one of the girls slowly approached her, more calmly.

“Why you?” The young brown-hair freckled woman asked, one of her brows up in a questioning way. She sounded so gentle when she spoke.

I adored Mary-Beth. I think she was the kindest and most gentle member of the Van der Linde gang.

“Oh. Well, you see….” (Y/N) gazed hesitantly to Dutch for the first time. He was watching her with his arms crossed, with a heavy brooding expression and eyes narrowed. The leader was wearing a black and red vest with a blue and white pinstripe shirt, with gold chains on his vest, with a smart black jacket and a black hat. He was taller than her and stronger; with a thick, black mustache and soul patch under his lips, he also has dark black, slick backed hair that curls at the end. Taking a mental note on his appearance, he seemed far more intimidating in real life.

I recall thinking “Damn, is that my great-grandpa? He’s hot.”. But in a serious note, he seemed to be so cold-hearted but at the same time, kind and trustworthy. He did look like a gentleman. He was an outlaw, and well, I guess it does run on the family.

What was she doing? Why did she take the stupid decision on going back to the past just because someone didn’t like how this gang’s fate ended? Many, many lives didn’t have a happy ending too. So why change only theirs? (Y/N) was already regretting the foolish decision she took, but hey, she still had that block thing to go back. Nothing was lost yet, she just had to justify herself and get the hell out of there before they decide to kill her or worse.

Hearing a forced cough woke the girl from her thoughts. Feeling embarrassed when she noticed she had been staring at him this whole time. Good, just wonderful.

“I’m Dutch’s…great-granddaughter.” The words merely escape her lips and heavens, how she felt like throwing herself out of a cliff after it. A burst of loud laughter was heard, coming from some of the men. A great joke, yes, that’s what this was. They didn’t believe her, not without proof, and she couldn’t honestly blame them.

“You can’t possibly believe this crazy woman’s words, Dutch. C’mon.”

“Miss, please elaborate on that.”

“Dutch? C’mon boss, she hit her head when she fell!” Micah shouted, not very happy with the leader deciding to hear her story before making any judgment. (Y/N) was glad for it, who knows what would happen if he decided to listen to that idiot.

She grabbed her bag and started to look for her phone, it probably wouldn’t work much there but if time traveling is a thing, maybe ghost WiFi was too. Who knows. Probably asking for too much there. (Y/N) took a few steps closer and turned it on, showing them the colorful wallpaper and the date, “2021”, proceeding to shows some pictures of streets and buildings she had on her gallery. It seemed to have worked, has everyone had a terrified look on their faces. Most of them were still a bit hesitant, and probably scared of the unknown.

The girl turned to the leader, she didn’t have any proof about being his great-granddaughter. Wait, she didn’t ask for it too. Damn it, did she just get fooled by that woman?

“I don’t have any proof, sir, but that woman told me I was…your granddaughter and needed me to save you all.” Before he replied, she added. “She did mention a one night woman you were with.”

“If what you’re telling us is the truth,” He began, slowly. Still watching her closely. “I guess you’ll have to stay with us.”

Giving the man a slight smile, the girl nodded. She heard a few angrily mumbles coming from behind them, some of the gang’s members weren’t very happy with that sudden decision. With a gentle pat on her shoulder, Dutch made his way to the middle of the camp and looked at everyone, rubbing his hands together with a serious, yet sympathetic expression.

“Family, Miss (L/N) will stay with us for the time being. I don’t want any complaints about this, she showed us proof of her story and if she’s here to help us, we should give her a home.” Nobody spoke, just silence. Maybe they didn’t want to oppose their leader. “Miss Grimshaw, please help Miss (Y/N) prepare a tent and show her around.”

The older woman nodded, looking at Dutch and then glaring suspiciously at (Y/N).

“Miss (Y/N), I would like to speak with you…privately.” Feeling a sudden jump of beat on her chest, the girl nodded. The serious tune on his voice addressing to her caught her by surprise, she didn’t like that tune coming from adults. Perhaps because every time that happened, they would blame her for something afterward and treat her like a child.

“Don’t worry, he just wants to talk to you about that great-granddaughter thing, ya know,” Mary-Beth said, giving (Y/N) a warm smile. “I’ll catch you later, ‘kay? Someone has to show you around and meet the other folks.”

“Thanks…?” The girl tilted her head a bit. That’s right, they didn’t present themselves yet.

“Mary-Beth. You?” The young woman replied. Her name fit her perfectly, she looked like the main character of a romance novel.

“(Y/N).”

“Oh, well, nice to meet you, (Y/N). It’s better if you go now, don’t wanna keep Dutch waitin’.” Mary said, already making her way to another tent. (Y/N) nodded in agreement, putting her brave face and walking confidently to Dutch’s tent. Alright, probably not that confident, but she couldn’t let the others think she’s weak or scared now. She had a role to keep! The thought about going back to 2021 was already in the back of her mind and probably would stay there for a very long time.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #dutch van der linde x reader #dutch van der linde #javier escuella #javier escuella x reader

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abbacchios-sunflower · 3 years ago

Text

Welcome Aboard Part 2

The second half of my collab with @dongiovannaswife ! Thank you so much again Lena for doing this with me, I had sm fun! <3<3 ^o^

*****

“Sooo, what’s he like anyways? Your boss? Giorno you said his name was?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, Giorno’s a fair guy, really smart, kinda scary to most people who meet him for the first time, but he’s one of my best friends, great guy,” Mista leaned back in his seat, arms folded, knees crossed as he looked to Marissa. “To be honest I don’t know why he needs bodyguards, his stand is probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Hmm, I see,” she looked out the window as they drove on what felt to be forever. “He’s kind of mad I got involved, huh? Is he even going to like me? I’d rather not get shot in the head for walking in on mafia business, you know?”

Bruno closed his laptop, tucking it away as they were going to be arriving soon, “Just like Mista said, he’s a very fair guy, we’ve known him for a long time now; he’s just very protective over his famiglia and doesn’t like civilians getting tied up in our business, doesn’t think it’s right. I’m sure he’ll be very welcoming when meeting you.”

“Yeah; exactly! It’s not like it’s your fault you almost got sliced up by that dickwad we were chasing!” Narancia interjected.

Fugo rolled his eyes, “Yes well, you didn’t have to be such a blabbermouth and tell her we were the mafia, Giorno has the biggest problem with you doing that if anything.” He looked across to Marissa as well, “he’ll probably ask questions about your stand, what your intentions are, you’ll be fine, try not to worry too much about it, all of us here got roped into the mafia at young ages and we did just fine,” the blond checked his phone.

Well, yeah, of course it was easy to tell someone not too worry when this has been your norm for like, ten years. The newcomer folded her arms, stretching her legs out in the back seat of the car. “Alright I guess.” Maybe she was starting to regret the decision to come. When her parents had said to “branch out and meet new people'', but this probably wasn’t what they meant, oh well she was kind of stuck in the situation now, might as well see where this all goes. Worse case scenario she probably would just go back home.

“Just be grateful you don’t have to do the lighter test to get your stand and we discontinued that kind of stuff; that was so nerve wracking, I thought I was a goner!!” Narancia rubbed his neck nervously.

“Lighter test?”

“It’s how things used to be done, though some of us already had our stands by the time we joined, you see,” Bruno had explained. “Mista and Abbacchio both had manifested their stands by the time I had found them, not everyone needs to pass the arrow’s test to get one. It’s a topic Giorno and his family are highly interested in actually.”

“Oh?” Marissa looked to Abbacchio who was sitting in the front seat. In the few days she had known these five men; it was probably him that she knew least of. He was even more closed off and disgruntled than Fugo, barely speaking a word to her unless they were bickering about something.

“Hey guys, maybe you shouldn’t be telling her everything about us, she’s still an outsider in case you forgot about that; I doubt Giorno would like you guys running your mouths more than you should, he’s already probably pissed,” the goth grumbled, looking back from the passenger’s seat.

Bruno has a teasing smirk, leaning back, “And since when you were so interested in obeying what Giorno says? Hmm? I thought you liked being difficult with him.”

“You’re just lucky he always trusts your judgment, Consigliere, or else he probably wouldn’t have even wanted to meet her,” Abbacchio sarcastically snapped back. Bruno had rolled his eyes.

“You’re still just sore that I didn’t tell you about why I brought him into Passione in the first place all those years ago,” Bruno chuckled, “but that’s a story for another time, perhaps Giorno would like to tell you himself,” the leader pleasantly smiled. “Now, we’re almost there,” he regained Marissa’s attention. “I don’t care what you’ve heard from any of us, you’re going to refer to him just as Don Giovanna, okay?” she nodded stiffly. “I take it we can trust you to be respectful?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, of course!!” she straightened up in her seat; the anxiety was definitely setting in now. This was probably— definitely a mistake. How did she always get into weird and scary messes with people?

*****

The estate was huge, yeah; surely the Don of the mafia and his most trusted men stayed there. Mista was the one to open the door first and stroll on in, followed by the others. “We’re baaaaack!” He loudly announced. “Oh Trishy? Did ya miss us?!” He confidently smirked as footsteps approached.

“I’ve been wondering when you would be back, I’m still bummed out I didn’t get to go…” a young woman with pink hair slowly came to a stop as she looked past the men, seeing the shorter woman with them. “Dio mio- when I said to bring me back a souvenir, I didn’t mean kidnap a local!” She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at the gunslinger.

“Relax, she just got caught up in our bullshit, she’s a stand user and Bucciarati was interested in her stand and thought Giogio would be too, said he wanted to meet her when we were on our way over!”

“Speaking of that, I already finished the reports from this job, we burned down the warehouse, not a trace of the drugs left, same with Emiliano,” Fugo held up a small folder.

The young woman’s face relaxed more as she exhaled, taking the file and extending a hand to the newcomer, “Trish Una, I know how it feels to get swept up into trouble by these assholes, they don’t bite though, I promise, well, maybe Abba will if you provoke him enough, but he’s a bit of a softy under the fangs,” she smirked when Abbacchio looked disgruntled by the use of the nickname and teasing in front of the other woman who was smirking back at him now.

“Abba, huh?” she raised a dark eyebrow, smirking as well.

“That’s just “Abbacchio” to you, brat,” he snapped back.

Rolling her eyes, she ignored the threat and took Trish’s hand, “Marissa, but uh, you guys can just call me Mar, all my friends do, it’s easier in my opinion,” she tilted her head back and forth. “So are you, like, a stand user too?”

“Got that right, most of us are,” Trish pulled her hand back, gesturing to follow her, “come on, they’re right this way! They’ve been expecting you!”

“They?” Mar blinked.

“Oh, of course, the Donna will be there too naturally, she’s a lovely lady, Giorno’s lucky to have her for sure. She’s very interested in you too; I’m sure you guys will be great friends if you’re to stay with us! Also, we better get you Italian lessons if that’s gonna happen, luckily a lot of us speak English pretty well too,” Trish stopped talking and turned to face a set of doors, knocking twice. “Don Giovanna, Bucciarati is back, Fugo already finished his reports.” She announced.

“And is she with them?” A male voice came from behind the door.

“Right next to me!” Trish replied.

“Well, send her in then.”

*****

Trish Una turns to Mar, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes directed on her way as she opens the door, holding it open for her. “Good luck.” She mouths right when Mar walks by her side, closing the door at her back.

The office looks like a lawyer’s would; bookshelves around the room are filled with all kinds of books; from astrology to philosophy, biology, medicine, math. All the knowledge the human race had cultivated through centuries seemed to rest there, in a silent office where only the light of the window pooled in, illuminating it just in the right amount.

“Please take a seat, would you like something to drink?” a feminine voice, soft and gentle, breaks the silence.

Marissa’s head snaps towards the source of the sound.

In the couch where the sunlight is gentler, a woman sits, a glass of liquor suspended between her fingers. Her short black dress hugs her figure in a comfortable way —and the dark purple cloak resting on her shoulders, huge and almost drowning her makes it clear the garment is not hers, both from its size and the cut.

Her red lips curl upwards in a genuine kind smile when Marissa and her make eye contact.

Nodding her head, her curls move along her head, strangely giving her that aura of mysteriousness. “Don’t be shy.”

“Sit down.” the male voice is there again, this time, coming from the desk. Just when Marissa looks on, a blond man stands up, all six foot six of him towering and blocking the sunlight from the window. As he moves on, his features and figure become clearer: short blond hair that reaches the nape of his neck, piercing green eyes and lips in a tight line, and a strong, imposing built. Hands inside the pockets of his burgundy suit —the black shirt underneath the suit jacket glistens with something underneath, a shape unknown to most —but to him, the rumble of the arrow lets him know this is a stand user standing before him.

“We were told about the incident.” He starts, not expecting an answer from her until he rounds the couch, coming to sit down besides his wife and circling her shoulders with one arm as the other extends forward, signaling her. “And we wanted to talk about it.”

Mar nods, quickly walking in and sitting down at the couch before the couple.

Their glances feel like an ice cube and a flame at the same time but even then, she still finds the courage to look at them in the eyes before centering her attention in a spot above their heads, where her voice doesn’t quiver when she speaks.

“I was the one who asked,” she starts, quickly correcting herself as her fingers fiddle with her clothes. “I wanted to know what it was —just a part, because the rest was obvious.”

Giorno hums, “First things first, what’s your name?”

Marissa gulps down, feeling the man’s gaze harden when her reply doesn’t come immediately; naturally, one would expect this question to be answered right there.

“Marissa.”

Giorno nods, curtly: all business. “Well then, nice to meet you. She’s my wife and the Donna of the famiglia —I suppose you already know who I am, don’t you?”

Lena nods, raising her glass shortly —making the Don tone it down. “Please make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Don, Donna.”

“Now,” Giorno doesn’t let silence settle in, “There is something we need to talk about first; we have a strong policy to not get civilians involved in our… Matters. You were a special case, and before we start, you’re totally free to choose and swear silence over this. If you do, you can go home right now, and you won’t talk about this —not the police, not your family, not your lover, no one at all. Is that what you want?”

Marissa opens her mouth to reply when Lena raises a hand up, her palm open and exposed towards her —perhaps a blind body language sign.

“Think about it. We won’t go anywhere.”

And this time the rest is silence.

As Marissa’s head spins with thoughts and questions, her eyes go back and forth between the couple and the literal library around them, the sound of birds chirping outside and the water in the fountain falling. The distant sound of male laughter and the following hush to it.

For fucks sake, she had come here without a purpose. It was all a mere impulse to go out and explore, find new things, meet people perhaps.

But the Italian mafia was a whole other level of her mom’s phrase. It was crazy.

“Listen,” she says, making the couple’s ears peek immediately as they look back from each other’s faces —their quiet conversation forgotten immediately. “If you’re trying to embed another question about my reason to be here I’m gonna be sincere with you, I don’t know what I want from this, but I’m not your enemy. Hell, I’m just a girl from a damn boring town.”

Giorno nods, tilting his head to the side slightly. “That does answer one question, but not the other.”

Marissa sighs, “I want to stay.”

“Why?” Lena shoots back, leaning forward to place her glass into the coffee table. The liquor left there is now ignored.

“I don’t know.” Marissa repeats, trying to bite back her annoyance —she had already said it.

Lena hums, a sweet smile making its way into her lips; the situation makes it feel like a venomous one. “Mar,” she stops for a second, giving her the time to correct her in case the nickname does not match her taste. “There is always a reason for everything; you want to stay, and there must be a reason for it. Everyone here has one.” She gestures around with one hand, recalling some of their most loyal men. “Loyalty, money, a lost cause, redemption, a golden heart. Everyone has a reason; and all of them are valid. As long as the interests match, then there is no way we won’t let you in.”

Giorno’s gaze comes back from outside, a solution on the back of his mind. “Let’s do something; we will proceed with your test,” if he noticed Mar’s stiff shoulders at the word ‘test’ he played an excellent act when he didn’t react to her reaction. “And by the time we’re done, the last question will be your reason to be here.”

“Sounds good,” Lena speaks up. “Shall we start, then?”

Mar hums, gulping down.

“What are your views on law and justice? Is it true or just another circus?” Giorno leans back, chest puffed out in pride.

Mar huffs, almost rolling her eyes. Now that she has found her physical reactions don’t seem to have an effect on them, the will to be herself comes back slowly but surely. “Money. If you have the money, then there is no way you’ll put a foot in jail; no one will be able to find out about your actions, unless you want them to.”

“And what if you don’t have the money and you are not the culprit but you find yourself in jail?”

“Then… Someone who doesn’t want you out there got you there with their influences.”

“I see,” Giorno nods, eyes falling into the window once again. Thoughtful. “What would you do to escape if you found yourself in that position?”

“Let’s be real, any person who knows about this kind of business will be killed in no time: the news and the police will say they took their own lives. But we all know the government doesn’t want to be seen as a traitor to the people they swore justice and truth to. So they will kill them and make it seem like a suicide, they will pay and eliminate anyone who dares say otherwise,” Mar looks up, almost as if looking into the white celling will give her the answers. “The only way to escape is paying, as I said before, anyone will do whatever they can to grasp a few more bucks into their hands, even if that means letting go someone important under the lie of an escape.”

Lena nods, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “But… Most people in the government are there because some of them have been put there by us.”

Mar nods, humming along. “And that’s why you’ll probably never find yourselves there, because those men are working for you. They owe you one, that’s it.”

Giorno turns to Mar, smirking slightly. “That’s right. Then, next question —Will you commit murder? Whatever your impulse is from these two; orders or will, never from liking —would you do it? And who would it be?”

Mar’s lips end up pressed together for a moment —her eyes go around the room until her sight falls outside; the sun is gone, hidden by grey clouds. Even the birds have gone silent. The only sound is the water fountain still working.

Looking on, Mar stares into Giorno’s eyes, then into Lena’s, replying in a firm, concise tone. “Well, as far as the rich and powerful that get away with horrific crimes? Anyone who takes advantage of the weak? I don’t care about what happens to them and I’d gladly set them on fire without thinking twice if given the opportunity.”

The couple before her don’t reply, turning to look at each other —right there, Mar can see the deep connection between them, as the simple glance into each other’s eyes proves to be enough to communicate; only a small smile from Lena and her nod, and Giorno turn to her again.

“That does actually match with our interests —you’ve got one point there.”

Lena nods, speaking up. “Next question, Mar, and this one is my favorite; are we born good or evil? Do we turn evil, or perhaps good, as time goes by?”

Mar nods to herself, replying shortly after —eyes going between them in a simple conversational gesture, out of nervousness or insecurity. Despite the topic, it already seems like everyone there is comfortable with each other’s presence. “As far as that whole debate, well, everyone has some kind of baggage; people are just people. You have to make the conscious decision every single day of what kind of person you want to be. People who come from bad homes either choose to rise above it and be ‘good’ or they’ll choose to use it as an excuse to hurt others because they were hurting. Regardless, yeah, at the end of the day, there’s always a choice that has to be made.” She shrugs her shoulders a little.

Giorno nods, humming low. The sound spark’s Mar’s attention.

But his last question is not expected.

“Usually, we ask more, but you’ve surprised us —last question; what is your will, if you ever form part of the famiglia?”

After a moment of hesitation, considering all the previous answers she had given, she looks back up, finally thinking she had a solid, cohesive answer to give. “To be honest I’ve been kicked around all my life, I was never taken seriously, I hated being ignored, and in turn I hate seeing others face injustice. I even considered a job in criminology at one point; my dad always thought I should have been a lawyer or went to work for some behavioral analysis unit, ya’know, FBI stuff,” she licks her bottom lip as she starts off. “But like I said earlier, it’s all corrupt at some level, the law, all the red tape and bullshit rules, that’s why I stopped trying to pursue the idea of becoming a profiler, it frustrated me to see people manipulating the system.”

Letting a few beats go, she continued on, “That said, one might say I have a moral flexibility problem and I don’t like playing by rules that are designed to protect the corrupt, my ideals of justice aren’t really what the government is interested in. Sadly, for me, that means I’ve never really fit in anywhere, never had much of a plan after I realized I couldn’t stick with a job I had thought I wanted.” She looked down at her feet again, “That’s why, when I ran into your guys pursuing that drug dealer this week, I guess I figured it was a sign that maybe there could be a place for me, after all, it doesn’t seem like any of you had much success being on the side of government or law enforcement.”

Folding her arms, she looked back at the Don of Passione, “I guess that’s why I want in; if you guys could find a place and purpose being here, why not me too?”

Giorno’s eyes bore into Marissa’s, cold and empty of anything but plain green pools accentuated with yellow bits.

The Donna leans back as a single chain enveloped in red energy emerges from her palm. It flicks, filling the room with the sound of clicking metal.

Rising a hand up just when one of the chain’s links rests there, surrounded by a brighter tone of red, turning orange briefly just when another hand, humanoid and clearly not hers, but her stand’s, touches the object, producing a creak that echoes and bounces around the walls.

And as soon as it came it’s gone; the sound, the stand’s arm and its glow, everything’s gone and now, in the Donna’s palm rests an insignia. She leans forward now, with Giorno’s eyes on both women as he watches the moment through proud and calm eyes.

“Welcome, Marissa. Wear this and serve loyally for our cause, which is just.”

Giorno speaks up just when Marissa leans forward to take the insignia, “You will be assigned to an area with a Caporegime, and will work for them, understood?”

Marissa nods, taking the insignia from Lena’s palm. “Understood, boss.” She looks down at the golden object —it’s not that heavy, but it does have a certain weight, taking in consideration it’s apparently made of pure gold; the arrow that crosses the small button has what seems to be an insect, whose form is palpable.

“Please, wait outside; we’ll send someone to lead you into an apartment soon. And Mar?”

Mar stands up, freezing and turning back to the Donna. “Yes, boss?”

“I can assure you you’re part of this now, you’re not an outsider anymore.”

Mar nods, sighing in something she can’t say —turning around, she doesn’t fail to notice the sun back again, the birds flying out the mansion’s garden and the fountain still there, functioning as if nothing happened. Where a world keeps going, her world seems to stop; or maybe time passes slower, she couldn’t know what was it, but everything felt different the moment she closed the door at her back.

#self insert #collab #dongiovannaswife #giolena #selfship #abbamar #the beginnings of it kinda still lol #i grow on him hehe #my writing #friends writing #lenaaaaaa i love your half so much aasdkjsalaskd #definitely wasn't happy stimming or anything while reading it /j #also since i'm also an abbacchio kinnie my self insert was almost pushed to go into a law enforcement route too #which i have a funny one shot idea for about our first date lol #but yeah more backstory for the fictional and way cooler mar lol

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