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kumeko · 2 years ago

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A/N: For the Mystical Songstress zine! Dorogrid is such a knight x maid ship, I love it, especially since Ingrid is an absolute disaster and Dorothea has to steer the ship.

…

Of the things Dorothea expected in that gap between class and dinner, in the waning hours of sunlight while she carefully painted her nails, a knock on the door was not one of them. She glanced at the small glass at the top of the door. The pink sky confirmed her confusion: it was late.

Far too late for any gentlemen to visit, at least. A scoundrel though? Well, considering all the dates she had been on recently, she wouldn’t be surprised if she’d found a bad apple. Even a prestigious school like this was bound to have several—even more so considering all of the arrogant nobles around her.

There was another firm rap. Dorothea gnawed her lip. If she shouted, Petra and Caspar were sure to come. Hell, even mentioning Edie’s name would be enough to scare off any man foolish enough to not take a no. There was little to fear. Steeling herself, Dorothea set aside her nail polish and opened the door.

However, instead of a brutish man, she found a contrite Ingrid at the door, her posture overly rigid, her hands tugging on her sleeves. It was ridiculously earnest. It was adorable. “Sorry for the late call.”

Immediately, Dorothea relaxed. She smiled softly, shaking her head. “I always have time for you, Ingrid. No matter how late.”

Ingrid briefly smiled back before growing serious once more. Jaw tense, she said, “Still, I—actually, may I come in?”

“Of course.” Dorothea giggled, stepping back. While this was unexpected, it wasn’t at all unwelcome. This wasn’t the first time Ingrid had come with a problem, after all. “What is it this time, more boy trouble?”

“No!” Ingrid flushed, as she always did whenever Dorothea brought it up. She stomped in, looking a cross between annoyed and embarrassed.

Still laughing, Dorothea closed the door. “Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t tease.”

She lowered her eyes, remembering Ingrid’s latest engagement and the trouble he had given them. Without the professor, who knew what that scoundrel would have done to Ingrid? Hopefully, Lord Galatea had learned his lesson and wouldn’t be arranging any more matches for his daughter. Dorothea sat on her bed and patted the spot beside her. “So, what is the matter, Ingrid?”

Ingrid bit her cheek, looking oddly hesitant, before perching on the very edge. Their knees bumped and Dorothea felt hot where they touched. It was a good thing she had been in the opera for so long, or her feelings would have been clear on her face. As it was, her back stiffened slightly as she both tried to lean closer and stay away.

If her crush grew any bigger, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.

“I wanted to thank you,” Ingrid finally said, turning slightly to look her in the eyes. In the soft light, there was something noble about the cut of her jaw, the strength in her expression. Her fingers dug into her thighs. “If you hadn’t come to save me from that proposal…”

As Ingrid trailed off, Dorothea reached over and squeezed her hand. “Of course I did. That guy is an utter jerk, and you deserve better. Much better.”

Ingrid smiled, turning her hand to squeeze back. “You do too, you know.”

That caught her off guard. Dorothea stared at her blankly. “Huh?”

“I-I mean…” Ingrid’s flush reached her neck now, a soft strawberry red. She rubbed her knee awkwardly. “I’ve seen some of the men who’ve courted you. They are nobles, sure, and some of them decent men, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you truly happy around them. You don’t have to settle. You can find someone who’ll make you happy.”

“Have you been watching me?” Dorothea felt utterly warm and cozy at the thought, like she was in the spotlight on the stage, like she was reciting the lines from her favourite script. She half-wanted to kiss Ingrid.

“N-no!” Ingrid stammered, looking even more embarrassed. She was a terrible liar; Dorothea tried not to chuckle. “A-anyways, hopefully my father will have learned his lesson from this and I won’t have to deal with any more suitors for a while.”

Dorothea’s laugh died on her lips, her heart twisting at the thought. Lord Galatea was serious about marrying off his daughter—she had seen the letters Ingrid had received. Unless something miraculous happened, he might even succeed within the year. “I hope so too. He should listen to you.”

“He’s twice as stubborn as I am.” Ingrid sighed, put out. After a moment, she shook her head and looked serious once more. “Still, that’s not why I am here. I want to repay you.”

“You—oh.” Chuckling, she dismissed the whole matter off hand. “There’s nothing to repay. I’m happy to have done it. Like I would let that jerk lay his hands on my Ingrid.”

Lips pressed in a flat line, Ingrid shook her head solemnly. “No, you did me a great favour.”

“Ingrid, really, it’s fine.” Dorothea reached over and squeezed her hand. “Anyone would have done the same.”

Ingrid’s gaze flicked from Dorothea to their clasped hands. Her frown grew deeper. “Anyone could have, but you did. I can’t let a debt remain unpaid.”

There was something utterly charming about how insistent she was, about the nobility in her confident gaze and her square shoulders. Dorothea had seen the men around her wear honour like a badge, but Ingrid embodied it. She turned it into something real. Something to be proud of.

It was also utterly annoying at times like this. Ingrid lacked flexibility, always pushing for more.

Dorothea tried again. “It isn’t a debt. I didn’t do this to get something back.”

“Then why?” Judging by Ingrid’s widening eyes, she looked surprised she had asked the question. Still, she plunged forward anyway. “Why did you help me? We have talked a handful of times before this. Your advice has always been sound and I enjoy our friendship, but is it worth risking your life over?”

“That…” For once, Dorothea wasn’t sure what to say. Her teasing died on her lips as Ingrid’s straightforward gaze pierced her.

Ingrid pressed on. “I know you don’t enjoy fighting. You could have let the professor handle it. You could have just let me handle it. You could have even told Sylvain and Felix about it, or his highness.”

Dorothea leaned back, her fingers almost brushing Ingrid’s but not quite. That was the gap between them, she had found. Ingrid was right—for all of their conversations, they were just more than acquaintances, slightly less than friends.

Yet, that couldn’t explain the panic that filled her when she had realized just who was after Ingrid.

“I…” Dorothea gripped the bedsheet. She remembered watching Ingrid soaring through the air, as gallant as a hero of old, her hair golden in the sunlight, her expression one of pure joy. She remembered walking past the training grounds as Ingrid practiced on a training dummy, her spear clenched tight in her fist, her eyes clear and focused. She remembered Ingrid awkwardly sitting on the bed, staring at foundation as though it was written in a foreign language, intimidated by this new world but exploring it nonetheless.

The reason Dorothea helped was all of those things. They might have only talked a dozen or so times, but Dorothea had been watching her for much longer. It scared her, to think about how long this crush had grown within her, to wonder if it really was just a crush.

She had only come to this dorm for one purpose, after all: to marry rich.

The Galateas determinedly were not that.

Dorothea kept her gaze fixed firmly on her lap. Softly, she half-lied, “I also know what it’s like to be restrained. For others to make decisions for you. I couldn’t leave you be.”

Ingrid bridged the gap between their hands, clasping it firmly. When Dorothea looked up, she was rewarded with a soft smile. “Then that’s how I will repay you. If you need help breaking free, I’m right here.” She squeezed their hands. “Anytime.”

It wasn’t fair. The way Ingrid acted, the way she spoke, all of it wasn’t fair. Dorothea had listened to enough pretty speeches from her time in the opera. She had thought herself immune to them. It seemed she just hadn’t heard them from the right person. Quietly, she repeated, “Anytime?”

“Just call and I’ll be there.” Ingrid nodded, squeezing her hand once more. “It doesn’t matter why or where.”

“A girl could get the wrong idea,” Dorothea replied weakly, already feeling her defenses crumble.

Immediately, Ingrid reddened. “T-that reminds me…” She withdrew, fidgeting with her hem as she looked anywhere but at Dorothea. If before she had been a knight, now she was just a schoolgirl. Quietly, she mumbled, “What did you mean earlier?”

Dorothea could just make out the words. Bemused, she raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Back when my father gave Lúin, and just now. You-you said-” Ingrid stuttered over her last few words, her face beet red. “When you said ‘my Ingrid’, what did you mean?”

“Oh.” Dorothea stared at her blankly for a moment, before laughing. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“I’m being serious here!” Ingrid snapped, both embarrassed and angry.

Now that the shoe was on the other foot, Dorothea slipped back into her comfort zone. Brushing a stray lock behind her ear, she leaned forward. Their shoulders bumped. Her hair brushed Ingrid’s nape. This close, she could hear the poor girl’s heart run a marathon, feel her nervous breath on her skin. This close, she could see the blue and gold flecks in her green eyes.

Ingrid turned redder at the proximity but didn’t pull away. Utterly vulnerable, she stuttered, “W-what?”

Dorothea smirked. The reaction made things too easy. “What do you think it meant?” she purred, voice low.

For a split second, something akin to desire ignites within Ingrid’s eyes. Then, it disappeared as Ingrid went through every possible shade of red in a second. “D-Dorothea!” Ingrid spluttered.

“Sorry, couldn’t help it.” Dorothea giggled as an increasingly flustered tried to pull herself together. Honestly, whether or not Ingrid had realized it, she had already helped her already.

It had been easy when Dorothea could have passed this feeling off as a crush. It had been only marginally harder when she’d realized how impossible her goals were otherwise. One after another, Dorothea had given herself excuses to not pursue her own heart.

It was a dog-eat-dog world. No one could blame her.

Yet, despite all of that, Ingrid wouldn’t (or perhaps, couldn’t) hide her feelings any more than she was about to tell a lie. For all of her denials, Ingrid’s face gave away her real feelings and desires.

Their knees were still touching. Their shoulders bumped. Ingrid’s skin was hot wherever they touched. This close, all Dorothea had to do was close the gap. This close, all Dorothea wanted was for Ingrid to do the same.

“It’s all your fault, you know,” she murmured. Ingrid’s pretty speeches stirred up a hope within herself, a want for more. More than the songstress of the Opera House. More than a cushy life as some trophy housewife.

She wanted happiness.

She wanted love.

Dorothea didn’t so much as lean closer as she fell. Ingrid’s lips tasted of freedom, as that intoxicating rush Dorothea felt whenever she saw Ingrid swoop through the sky.

Ingrid stiffened before clumsily kissing back, her fingers nervously flitting up and down Dorothea’s sides. Their noses bumped, teeth clanked, and it had to be the worst kiss she’d ever had.

Dorothea smiled the entire time. I’m sorry, Edie, she silently apologized.

It looked like she was changing houses.

#dorothea arnault #fe3h #dorogrid #ingrid brandl galatea #dorothea x ingrid #fanfic #ingrid hitting all the knight tropes #and dorothea and i love it #especially how awkward she is #how dare the game give us that side quest #but no other material

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guiltyonsundays · 10 months ago

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In defence of Will Ladislaw

George Eliot's characterisation of Will Ladislaw is one of the few aspects of Middlemarch that is not universally praised, with no less a person than Henry James commenting in 1873 that he lacked “sharpness of outline and depth of color”, making him the novel’s “only eminent failure.” And while Will's character is certainly not as clearly defined as some of the other characters in the novel, I believe that this was absolutely intentional on Eliot's part. Middlemarch is full to the brim of characters who believe they know exactly what they want—not least among them, our two protagonists, Dorothea Brooke and Tertius Lydgate, whose ardent ambitions and inflexible attitudes lead them into catastrophic errors of judgement and unhappy marriages.

By contrast, Will's lack of strongly defined goals and his changeability are almost his defining character traits. He's aimless and pliable, prone to rapid mood swings and drastic career changes, with even his physical features seeming to "chang[e] their form; his jaw looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light."

Will’s inscrutability is closely tied to his ambiguous status within the rigid class structure and xenophobic society of Victorian England, with his Polish ancestry and “rebellious blood on both sides” making him a target for suspicion. He is repeatedly aligned (and aligns himself) with oppressed, marginalised, and outcast populations—Jewish people, artists, and the poor.

He serves as a narrative foil for characters like Lydgate and Edward Casaubon, who prioritise specialist expertise above all and are consequently incapable of broad knowledge synthesis. He critiques Casaubon's life's work as being "thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world." By contrast, Will serves as Eliot's defence of the value of a liberal education. One of the first things that we learn about him is that he declines to choose a vocation, and instead seeks to travel widely, experiencing diverse cultures and ways of life. He has broad tastes and interests, trying his hand at poetry and painting before eventually pursuing a career in politics.

He also functions as a narrative foil for Dorothea. Will is initially apathetic to politics, whereas Dorothea initially professes herself to be disinterested in art and beauty. This is perfectly encapsulated in their exchange in Rome, when Dorothea declares, "I should like to make life beautiful—I mean everybody's life. And then all this immense expense of art, that seems somehow to lie outside life and make it no better for the world, pains one", to which Will replies, "You might say the same of landscape, of poetry, of all refinement [...] The best piety is to enjoy—when you can [...] I suspect that you have some false belief in the virtues of misery, and want to make your life a martyrdom.”

By the end of the novel, Dorothea unlearns some of her puritanical suspicion of sensual pleasure, whereas Will becomes more serious, compassionate, and politically engaged, dedicating his life to the accomplishment of humane political reforms. They are both flawed individuals, who ultimately become more well rounded through their relationship with each other. Admittedly, Dorothea's influence on Will is more significant than his on her—and once again, I believe that this was intentional on Eliot's part.

In my opinion, the negative response to Will Ladislaw at the time of Middlemarch's publication (and in the centuries since) was and is profoundly informed by gendered expectations of masculine dominance in romantic relationships. Will's marriage to Dorothea has often been described as disappointing, with many readers and critics viewing the ambitious Lydgate as the embodiment of the ideal husband that Dorothea outlines at the beginning of the novel—a talented man engaged in important work for the betterment of humanity, to whom she can devote herself.

However, one of the central themes of the novel is that people are often mistaken in their beliefs about what they want, and Dorothea's marriage to Edward Casaubon certainly demonstrates that she would not in fact be happy living her life in submission to a man who does not respect her opinions. I firmly believe that Lydgate's misogynistic attitudes and expectations would have made it impossible for him to be happy in a marriage of equals with a woman like Dorothea. He is explicitly drawn to Rosamond Vincy because she has "just the kind of intelligence one would desire in a woman—polished, refined, docile."

By contrast, George Eliot made a deliberate choice to pair Dorothea with a man who is not ashamed to be influenced by her, and indeed looks up to her as his moral superior. Through Dorothea's influence, Will discovers his life's work. In turn, by marrying Will, Dorothea is able to pursue her true passion. As a result of their influence on each other, these come to mean the same thing—reform. Thus, George Eliot grants Dorothea Brooke a subversively feminist, politically progressive, and profoundly cathartic ending: a life of companionate marriage, sensual pleasure, and meaningful work, in which Dorothea can devote herself (within the limited means available to her as a woman in the 19th century) to the achievement of just and compassionate reforms that "make life beautiful" for everybody—herself included.

#PUT SOME RESPECT ON HIS NAAAAAME #hello please enjoy this fucking essay that I wrote #I haven't cited them here bc I'm not insane but I did in fact read several academic articles while writing this post #so if you wanna see my sources/ do some further reading let me know #i love pouring all my fandom energy into content that no-one gives a shit about #(girl who just posted an Alias Grace fic that noone will ever read and is currently working on a Middlemarch fic noone will ever read voice #Middlemarch #George Eliot #Mary Ann Evans #Will Ladislaw #Dorothea Brooke #Edward Casaubon #Tertius Lydgate #classic literature #19th century literature #classic lit #books

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