#and i should actually be studying latin instead of this

[lohtulauluja]

Laitetaanpa tännekin Merenkehrä-sarjan toisen osan kansi, rakastan tätä. ❤️ Kansitaiteilijani Anna Makkonen on supertaitava, edelleen.

[kalashtars]

planning classes has me going "hehehe *kicking my feet*" but i know as soon as i actually have to attend those classes my brain is going to be like "😐😐😐"

[womenaremypriority]

What is gender?

Instead of asking “what is a woman?” I propose we should ask more what gender is.  The transgender movement is, fundamentally about placing gender above sex, in language and law- although claiming sex is a spectrum or a complete construction is becoming more common.  ‘Woman’ and ‘man’ aren���t sex terms, they’re genders, sexual attraction is based on gender, not sex, and public planning should be based on gender.  So, what is it?  

The roots of the word gender came from Latin, and originally meant ��category, group.’  It has etymological roots with the word genre, and this is partly why we have the term grammatical gender in many languages.  Gender became a synonym for biological sex hundreds of years ago, and is used partly as a more family friendly alternative.  As a separate entity, however, gender refers to the social roles of male and female.

Here are a few definitions and helpful information:

Let’s look at the specifics of the different interpretations of the word ‘gender’.

Gender roles: Self explanatory. What feminists are against. What transgender activists claim to be against, and what they claim is not the basis for transgender identity. This seems to be the most clear and understandable definition, to me, anyway.

Gender identity: An internal sense of gender. This has been claimed to exist, but how this could possibly present or feel has not been in anyway demonstrated. Studies have shown transgender people have the brains of the gender they identify as, but those studies are shoddy and flawed. Brain scans aren’t required to transition, these studies don’t account for nonbinary-identified people, and the brain sex argument has fallen out of favor- so, we’ll say that’s not what’s being discussed here. So, what is? What is this internal gender identity? Can we find it? How do we know everyone has it? And why should it be prioritized over birth sex? What’s being described is, frankly, unverifiable and flimsy. Not to mention quite useless. This doesn’t mean I think that people who claim to have this feeling are lying- they could have something that is interpreted as gender, but that doesn’t mean it’s experienced by the general population, and this feeling could be caused by any number of areas. If this feeling is, indeed, dysphoria at being referred to a certain way, and/or euphoria at being referred to a certain way, again, how can we know this is a symptom of some deep held identity, or a sign of something different? How can we verify this, and while I understand personally adapting language to accommodate someone in your life, why should this take priority over sex for the general population? Gender expression- How is this different than sex stereotypes, and gender roles? While I’m told that this doesn’t need to match general societal expectations, how does that actually work? If you’ve expressing your gender- whether that’s man, woman, or some form of nonbinary- even if you know anyone can dress how they want, even if you say ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine’ means something different to everyone, you are still making a connection between gender and how one looks- and according to the Miriam-Webster photo, acts. Not only is this, again, ridiculous to elevate this above sex in language and law, it’s unhealthy to hyper focus on how others see you, not to mention confusing and harmful message to constantly use the terms ‘gender identity’ and ‘gender expression’ together. I’ll be honest, even if transgender people claim the movement isn’t about stereotypes, I don’t believe that’s the case. At the very least, it’s not the message every one of them got. Conflating gender with sex, and the words ‘men’ and ‘women’ with personality, a feeling, clothes, vibes, interests, or an aesthetic, is a dangerous and ridiculous concept. Instead of what it’s claiming to do- breaking the gender binary- it’s putting men and women in a box, yourself. You are the one limiting what men and women can be. Even if everyone decided to identify as some form of nonbinary, this would not affect the reality of sexism and the perceived inferiority of 50% of the population- it would only paint a coat over it. It would make communication and activism impossible. By conflating experience of autism, or interest in space, or interest in a certain style of dress- with the terms man and woman, you are perpetuating stereotypes, not breaking them.

[heresylog]

How have your studies been going? Learn anything new or interesting?

Most of what I’ve been learning is practical day-to-day stuff at the convent BUT I did take a class on the history of the church after Vatican II and oh my goodness. So much went into their sessions but the See was not prepared to redo everything. They also did not anticipate less religious and less priests joining because of the new lax rules.

In the 70s, because the Baltimore Catechism was out of date a lot of hastily created books on theology for kids got printed. In hindsight, Rome should have created a committee to oversee Catholic education now that the teachings had been updated.

Also, so many songs were approved that are no longer theologically sound (You and I are the Bread of Life comes to mind). It was truly the Wild West of Catholicism. It was exciting and new. I loved reading the first hand accounts of people actually getting involved with Mass for the first time instead of quietly praying their rosary for an hour. Lay people were expected to participate instead of just being tolerated.

I love Vat II. It was necessary to change with the modern world but the rollout was so disorganized.

It didn’t help that all their official conversations in the meetings had to be in Latin. Bro, these meetings took place over YEARS. It wasn’t just a one time thing. They argued over things for so long. Long smoke breaks were accounted for and bishops would go into the cafes around and chat with each other.

So, so much went into it. And I had no idea about any of it.

[senespera-ffxiv]

Bakooling His Ja Ja's

Okay so this entire thing started when my friend and I started seeing posts about how Bakool Ja Ja would have two Ja Ja’s. And so I was like “hmm I wonder what lizards actually have” and here I am at the bottom of this rabbit hole wondering how I got here

I’m gonna split this into roughly three sections

The sexual anatomy of lizards (as explained by someone who knows about it through wikipedia)

The potential neural circuitry of a two-headed individual’s nads (as explained by someone who refuses to look up case studies that could elaborate on this so this is largely speculative)

The implications of the first two sections on what certain activities with Bakool Ja Ja would be like

//NSFW TEXT AND CARTOONISH IMAGERY BELOW THE CUT

//There's no actual things there, just badly drawn Ja Ja's lol

Section 1: The Sexual Anatomy of Lizards

Our journey starts with a thing called a Hemipenis. Now, when I first looked this up I was also severely confused cuz I was like “what the fuck is a hemipenis, is it like half a penis, like a fucking cylinder that got cut in half or something” well turns out they’re a little bit more fucked up than that

They are essentially inverted dicks that are pushed out by erectile tissue, and lizards will typically have two. They can also be ornamented with shit like spines, it all looks very weird unfortunately they very much do look like dicks on lizards so I’m gonna include one from a rattlesnake instead which just kinda looks like a spiny blob that way tumblr admins don’t kill me

The weirdest part is that the tube through which semen flows is Outside (unlike in the human penis where the urethra should be inside the penis) and is instead called the Sulcus Spermaticus. I can only assume this translates to “cum groove” in Latin.

I should also mention something about the spines cuz there’s multiple theories as to why they’re there. Cuz a spiny dick seems somewhat counterproductive to sex.

Theory #1 is that it’s involved in a lock-and-key mechanism to ensure that no one else that isn’t a lizard of that same species can fuck it. Female lizards have been observed to have cloacas with similar structures to male lizard hemipenes, etc.

Theory #2 is that the spines are there to promote longer and more successful reproduction for males. Make of this information what you will.

There’s also theories as to why there’s two dicks and it has to do with how female lizards can just kinda store semen for later, which does mean that it’s possible that even after fucking a male lizard won’t be able to actually have children. Thus, the two dicks come in for multiple consecutive fuck sessions, that way if one starts running out of juice the other one can sub in while the first one recovers.

Section 2: The Potential Neural Circuitry of a Two-Headed Individual’s Nads

I’m not looking up case studies for this so you’ll get my neurobio undergrad speculative theories on this shit, but there’s two possibilities I can think of for Bakool Ja Ja’s specific situation, and it has to do with how bifurcated his two heads’ nervous systems are.

Their nervous systems are only really differentiated at the neck up (implies that their spinal cords merge at or just below the neck)

Their nervous systems are bifurcated across the entire body (implies that their spinal cords either don’t merge at all or only merge at the very bottom)

As an additional note I should mention that by spinal cord I mean the nerves themselves. Most likely even if their spinal cords didn’t merge, they’d be running in parallel and be shaped in such a way as to resemble a normal spinal cord, just with a gap maybe right down the middle

So there’s a concept in neurology known as a “Dermatome” which is essentially a region of skin that is innervated by sensory neurons from dorsal root of any given spinal nerve (of which the major dermatomes are defined by the spinal nerve they originate from).

Using this concept, we can maybe define the Dermatomes on Bakool Ja Ja similarly, and this is where the organization of his spinal cords matter. If scenario #1 is correct, then his dermatomes will look similar to that of a human. Sensory information is also most likely copied and sent to both heads, meaning that both heads will be able to sense what happens to their entire body

If scenario #2 is correct, however, then we have something slightly more interesting and it’s that each head receives somatosensory information from the contralateral (opposite) side of the body, similar to how the brain’s two halves receive somatosensory information from the rest of the body. Here’s a really low quality diagram from my kinesiology class that shows the ascending pathways for discriminative touch (orange) and pain/temperature/affective touch (brown)

You can see that no matter where specifically they cross over, both pathways do end up crossing over to the other side. Here’s a rough diagram of how this would work out for Bakool Ja Ja that I drew myself with the relevant “dermatomes” (these aren’t actual dermatomes I just highlighted which dick is wired to which head) highlighted

The three testicles were added for sexual effect, I don’t think lizards actually have testicles but I added them to Bakool Ja Ja. For you. Please recognize my sacrifice.

Suffice it to say I’m going with Scenario #2. Not because it’s scientifically accurate or anything (scenario #1 makes more logical sense in like every single universe), but because it has funnier implications. Speaking of implications—

Section 3: The implications of the first two sections on what certain activities with Bakool Ja Ja would be like

This section is going to get NSFW real fast so you have been warned

Using our conclusion from Section #2, we can see that Bakool Ja Ja’s two Ja Ja’s will only send sensory information up to their respective head. This means that if you’re doing anything to one of them, only one head will be feeling anything, meaning that this legendary tweet by @kwehzy is now mandatory so that you don’t accidentally blue ball one of the heads

Also DP or at the very least two consecutive fuck sessions will also be mandatory to avoid blue balling one of them. Unless if that’s your goal in which case more power to you.

However, the entire universe will be working to try and stop you from fucking that two-headed lizard man because his dicks have a decently high chance of being hooked and/or covered in spikes. This has stopped exactly 0 people from trying to fuck lizardmen anyways so I don’t know why I even mentioned this, just try not to break anything.

Given all of the evidence in Section #1, whatever you decide to do with Bakool Ja Ja’s Ja Ja’s will probably end up taking a really fucking long time, so enjoy I guess

That’s it, that’s all the analysis I had. tl;dr Bakooling his Ja Ja’s will be a lengthy and potentially dangerous affair with high potential to accidentally fuck over one of the heads. Have fun.

[blasphemousgoggles]

LOTTE NO

A Johan Liebert x Reader. This was RUSHED. Part 2 Will hopefully be out soon

Warnings: Johan is literally the warning. General Monster shenanigans.

Your eyes are sore and your neck is rigid. You’ve been staring at this godforsaken medical textbook for too long. Why? Why did you pick this path again? You suppose morbid interests relating to learning about anatomy through dissection- but to also provide- help to people. To give hope for a chance of a better future but this textbook is draining all of your willpower as you look at the nonsensical words. What even is a “Morsicatio buccarum” You sigh and try to think happy thoughts. Lotte should be here soon to study for her things as well at least. You grimace recalling last time where she GUSHED about Karl for an hour even while complaining about his obliviousness. It appears she's also oblivious to the fact that if you hear one more word about this you will actually commit violence. You sigh, smiling amused before hearing faint footsteps behind you.

Your eyes widen. It’s Karl’s friend standing over you. Pale blond hair, pale skin, pale eyes. Its- shoot what was his name again? Biting the inside of your cheek you think as he smiles blankly at you.

“Ah- hello…..Johan? Correct?” You smile a bit nervous wondering if that's correct. You shut the textbook- at least thankful to have a distraction until you somehow- feel worse than before. The man above you is- immaculate. Everything about him is so nicely polished but something is just wrong. It's too nice a smile, too flawless, teeth don’t even peek through the lips. Not a wrinkle against his eyes and his skin is almost sickly despite his good looks. He stood tall and even with a smile there was no mirth in his eyes. Despite this you smile but it begins to come off more as a grimace.

“Correct. I am Johan. Johan Liebert” He speaks smooth like a steady stream of water, his voice almost comforting with his soft voice. You smile yet again because you can’t be rude. He didn’t do anything, you bite the inside of your cheek lightly. He speaks your name easily. You don’t recall giving it.

“Ah- pleasure to meet you, Karl speaks fondly of you.” This time- you smile a bit more genuine recalling the genuine joy Karl had when talking about him helping him with Latin.

His gaze intensifies and he mimics a smile. “Is that so? How…nice of him.” His eyes continue piercing you, analyzing- eating you. You laugh despite feeling exceedingly observed, best not to question these things.

You look at him a bit harder. Could it be the reason your overanalyzing him is because he looks familiar? You wrack your head with ideas you don’t meet that many people, you already know about his friendship with Karl- what else- Lotte maybe?. You stare at him curious before realization dawns on you.

“Oh! I see, do you have a sister?” Smiling, you look at him. That's till you feel the now VERY visible tension. Were you dumb? Likely- you were just trying to make small talk to make things less uncomfortable- why is he staring HARDER!?

“...A…sister? Why do you say that?” He glares. There- doesn't appear to be malice in his stare- just something- very intense.

“Oh- Er- I remember- Lotte’s friend she looked- kinda like you? Sorry I was trying to make small talk.” Dread pools in your stomach. Something feels wrong. You shouldn’t have said that. You bite the inside of your cheek again.

“I um- nevermind then.” You appease the man. His gaze lingers but finally relaxes from what its relaxing from, you don't ask.

“I'll- see you around.” You grin. He watches. Johan looks as if he’s going to say something- You grab your textbook. “Hopefully next time- you'll bring Karl!” You wave and about bolt away, pulling out your phone from your skirt pocket you quickly text Lotte explaining that you should study tomorrow instead.

You go home and decide to forget about it. That was pure awkwardness. You don't understand why looking at Johan makes you feel worse. You set your textbook down in your room. Lotte responded to the message whining. Snorting, you set your phone down and get ready to enjoy the day procrastinating from reading that medical textbook till tomorrow.

Yet again you are in the library this time Lotte’s there. You smile thankful that she's here- before immediately regretting that as she rants about Karl.

“I just don’t understand how he can be so- UGH!” You snort as she looks at you like a kicked puppy. “Hey- sometimes people are stupid- it's okay- he’ll eventually realize how you feel.” You comfort her as your medical textbook lays forgotten.

You smile. Dead. It's been an hour. She is in fact- STILL going. You feel something watching before you notice someone emerging from the shadows by the shelves. Your heart sinks as you see him. You grimace, nudging Lotte who grins as she sees him.

“Johan! I was just talking about Karl! How is he?” She immerses him in talk all about Karl. Johan remains calm before interrupting her very much- one-sided dialogue. His calculating eyes go over to you as he calls out your name.

“Lotte may I borrow them for a moment?” No. In fact not happening. You smile tightly at Johan. Ice pricks your veins, you bite the inside of your mouth- you look at Lotte with a pleading expression hoping she notices. She in fact does not.

Sure thing, Johan!, I’ll see you in a sec" She smiles brightly, at you seemingly unaware of the unease. Johan stands up, holding out his hand to you smiling empty. "Come. Let's talk."

You smile tightly before you hear something from Lotte. You never thought yourself a bad person, you've done good, followed your morals, even wanting to join the medical field to help people. You never snuck out- did drugs nor committed crimes. So why must God punish you as you feel his wrath in Lotte’s words.

“...Oh…My. GOD. Are you two DATING!?”

Your expression cracks as your hand remains in Johan’s. Johan appears impassive, but his lips twitch likely in amusement. He looks at you waiting for your correction. The mortification seeps to your very core.

“Lotte-! No- hold on-!” Once the dam breaks- Lotte doesn’t stop.

Her eyes light up with excitement, cutting you off before you can finish the sentence. "REALLY?! Oh my god, that's so cute! You two are meant to be together!" She squeals, hugging You and Johan simultaneously, completely oblivious to the discomfort and dread emanating from you. This is the worst hug you've ever received. You're boxed in. Both are taller than you- you're squeezed against Johan as Lotte hugs you both pushing you against him. She prods as to why you haven't told her- but you cant even get a word in edgewise. Johan- you can't even see his face right now- You bet it's probably startled.

“Lotte please- hold on just one seco-”

Johan's hand tightens around your arm for a brief moment, his thumb pushing. His voice is low and calm when he speaks, but there's a hint of something darker underneath. His expression is unreadable "Lotte, why don't you give us some privacy?"

“No- please-” Your hand goes out to Lotte for salvation. One you do not receive.

Lotte either doesn't notice or ignores your desperate gesture, Johan gently but firmly guides you away. "Lotte seems quite eager to play matchmaker," He says blank, though his tone carries an undercurrent of something more intense. "Though I'm curious..." You flush. Not out of how he looks but out of sheer mortification.

His grip on your hand tightens slightly as he gazes down at you, his usual calm demeanor hinting at a barely concealed intensity. Of what feeling- you can't even tell. "Just how many denials will it take for her to stop forcing this... interesting scenario?"

Your voice disheartened “She- didn't- even listen.” You can’t even look at Johan right now. “She probably wants us to date and- deluded herself- since-” You think as your soul leaves. “She wants to date Karl and if I'm dating his friend- she thinks she can get close.” You sigh, flushed mortified and begging God to kill you. “I am so sorry about her- I’ll correct her right now.” You gesture over to her wherever she's further away.

Finally you look up. You do not like what you see. He's staring too intensely. Like wayyy too intense. Eyes widened to such an extent you could count his individual eyelashes but- he doesn't look surprised. You grimace.

Your brain is screaming to get away. His hand on your arm feels wrong- everything is yelling danger as his eyes look into you. Something is there and you do not want to see. His gaze finally wanes but his look is still just as intense.

“....That was an- interesting..development. Back to why- I had wanted to talk in the first place.” He speaks hushed like he's about to tell you the best secret. This cannot be good. You shake and smile nervously praying that he doesn't notice how much he's unnerving you- how wrong this feels. Why do you even feel this way he didn’t do anything so why- why?

His gaze remains the same intensity, he takes another step closer, invading your personal space as he whispers. "I find it fascinating," he begins, his voice carrying an undertone of darkness, "That you keep smiling when you're clearly terrified."

He noticed.

[alatismeni-theitsa]

Theitsa you are gods bravest solider for taking tumblr on wtith this topic🫡 Its so crazy to me that americans and the like make greek ethnicity and origins so complicated, its really not much more complex or strange than most other european ethnic groups. But since western academics have coveted our heritage so much, I guess they have to cope somehow.

People from northern Greece and the mainland are generally more mixed with "slavic dna" than for example islanders are. And thats mainly what gives many greeks that lighter complexion. As far as we know greeks are decendants of the myceneans. They were in general olive skinned with dark hair and eyes, more like someone from Cyprus or Lebanon rather than Germany (who would still be whyte in USians eyes lol). We don´t have any classical era genomes yet to compare, as far as I know. But its hard to imagine that the myceneans were that different from the classical era greeks. But I guess the mediterranean look is too "vague" and scary, as humans we tend to fear ambiguity😅

There are so many feelings tied to this topic, so I understand why it gets heated but its really not that deep, anglos need to chill. The data we have so far certainly seems to break the delusion that the ancients were these aryan ubermench lol

Thank you!! The "We Do Not Look Like This" should not be so controversial but here we are! Like, it actually it's not that deep or complex, we are just generally lighter than their stereotypes picture us, but also a bit darker in some aspects (like the hair colors). They just refuse to google us! 😂 Instead, they think we are lying and that we must be ignoring all the non-pasty Greeks in the country when we explain to them that their depictions are not that based in reality 😂 They'd rather believe there is some hidden racist agenda instead of taking 5 seconds of googling Greek crowds! (Nobody is ignoring the minorities btw! Just google us to get an impression of how we generally look, minorities included, ffs!)

There are genetic studies done on the Greek DNA actually! The phenotypes are more or less the same, although nobody denies the mixes that happened through the eras! And we actually do have depictions to compare! We have frescoes and mosaics with colors and for later eras, we also have manuscripts which depict the local populations. Suprise, we kinda look the same xD (Which, for our USAmericans out there, is a pretty standard thing to happen to a country bc not every country is that kind of a melting pot xD)

Our mixes were more frequently done with our neighbors who - surprise no2! - looked quite similar to us! WHOWOULDHAVETHOUGHT! The darker and the lighter foreigners just "balanced" out one another it looks like xD And also Greeks themselves expanded to other territories and later were largely taken as slaves to N. African kingdoms. We usually have mixes with Slavs, Germans, Armenians, Persians, Turks, North Africans. Who also have an overlap of appearance between them in many cases, and are also quite similar to us.

Everyone also ignores how isolated many Greeks were on the mountains, and how traveling was long and difficult. In my grandparents' generation the neighboring village was almost another place far away!! A distance that takes me 15 mins to cross by car took my grandpa half a day!

Anyways, for all these reasons everyone in the "old world" is a mix of how their neighbors look like! (It happens in the US, too, where the Southern regions have a bigger mix with Latin American populations due to geography) I don't believe that we have to spell out such basic stuff but it looks like many USAmericans do live in a bubble compared to the rest of the world.

[max1461]

I think it’s a bit of a false choice, the “hyper”specialization actually can help you to learn the general stuff

Well. A lot of the general stuff is in a nominally different field. But I know what I'm doing, you know, I'm not just doing random shit. I guess that's part of it, I have often felt pressure from institutions to be more of a generalist than I really want to be, when what's useful is to be a specialist with a couple of not-always-legibly-related specialties under your belt.

Like, what I want to be doing is studying Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit, algebraic and differential topology, type theory, and statistics. I do not need to take some shit like "phonological theory III special topics in phonology". This does not benefit me. Pretty often a class like that can be replaced with like, just a bibliography. If I'm at a prestigious institution I should not be doing shit that can be replaced with a bibliography, I should not have a class whose content is "read papers written by other people at other schools". I can do that in my free time, I do do that in my free time. I am here to be taught by masters in relevant arts or I am wasting my time. I should be doing ~Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit~ and algebraic topology. In undergrad they understood this, or at least they were hands off enough (because I was paying them instead of them paying me) that I could make it happen myself.

[evenhisfacewasanalias]

Because the Night (Part 3)

Lady Jane Grey/Guildford Dudley

Rating: Adult

Guildford recognizes at once that his bride-to-be isn’t suffering from any kind of Affliction, other than that of an arranged marriage. If the sickeningly sweet smell of the fake blood doesn’t give it away, the quick peek at her audience after she’s supposedly fainted is obvious enough. He shakes his head where she can see it. Neither one of them is getting out of this. He supposes it’s easier for him to stomach, however - what’s one more curse on his existence? 

A My Lady Jane vampire AU inspired by Edward Bluemel being an absolute darling in A Discovery of Witches.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Chapter title: Desire is hunger is the fire I breathe

A counterfeit married life seems to suit Jane well enough for now. She has her days to herself to read and tend to her herb garden as she pleases, while her hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-husband sleeps the day away. No one tells her what to wear, how to behave, or forces her to talk to some gout-ridden windbag who holds her family’s purse strings at his questionable mercy. The only thing she really misses is Susannah, and the occasional presence of the local girls who came to her seeking cures and bringing gossip.  

At least she has a new project. Her evenings are spent deep in study, researching potential cures for vampirism with her wayward assistant. Guildford’s Latin turns out to be more than vaguely passable, though she continues to mock his pronunciation. However, it’s like pulling teeth to get him to talk about his past, or to offer up any more personal insights into his condition. And so she’s forced to do this with only the help of the dubious human scholarship spread out before her.

“Perhaps it’s transmitted as a seed - Girolamo Fracastoro has theorized that many illnesses might be the result of seed that enters the body, and germinates there.”

“And how is that a good thing for us?” Guildford asks, setting aside a near incomprehensible treatise on balancing the four humours. 

“We’re hoping that this is a disease that can be cured, and not some sort of metaphysical affliction - like a curse. This theory keeps whatever happened to you firmly rooted in the earthly.”

“As opposed to my being a demon from hell?” He scrunches his nose at his words in a way that should be obnoxious but instead comes across as adorable.

“Well you’re certainly no angel,” she retorts back.

“So how do we kill this ‘seed’?”

“There are several simples and tinctures I can think of to test, firstly. We’ll start with some well known cure-alls and work our way down the list.” 

“I’m hoping your tinctures don’t include urine tea or lice mixed with ale,” his face screws up at the thought. They are both all too familiar with the court physician's dubious curatives.

“Perhaps a sausage made from your own blood?” She inquires, trying to keep a straight face. 

“I’ve had worse,” he shrugs.

“True - you’ve already had Stan’s blood.”

Jane delights in earning another grimace. 

****

Guildford drinks down nearly a dozen mixtures over the next several days. They start each morning at sunrise - she isn’t sure why, it just feels like the right time to start these tests. And it works out quite well when it becomes necessary for him to sleep off the after-effects of whatever she’s given him - an increasingly frequent occurrence as they work their way into less reputable curatives. 

Another long chest appears in the back of the stables, filled with the soil from Guildford’s grave. Jane knows Rupert is responsible for this, and mentally thanks the man’s ever present concern for his master. But Guildford never really seems to sleep in it. He spends his days in his own bedroom - on an actual bed - and most of his evenings sprawled across hers as if he owns it (she supposes, in all the ways that matter, that he does).  

He rarely spends more than a few hours researching with her, however, and certainly he’s always gone before dawn. Jane doesn’t always see him leave, often falling asleep directly on top of her notes after being awake all day as well. But she always wakes up the next morning with their books and papers pushed aside, and herself under the covers.

“Why don’t you sleep in your coffin?” She asks one morning, after he’s already downed her latest attempt at cure. It’s clear that he’s left the house since she last saw him, and he’s changed his clothes as well. He also looks completely exhausted, and now, with the addition of her medicine, he looks a little ill too. Jane finds herself oddly tempted to smooth away the tired lines of his face, and brush his errant curls back into order, just to do something to alleviate that expression. She wonders why he doesn’t just heal himself, and asks him.

“It’s not a coffin,” he retorts automatically, but there’s no real argument in it. He offers her a shrug. “If I want whatever this vile concoction is to take effect, I can’t risk undoing it.”

“Would it undo things?” Jane still doesn’t entirely understand how this graveyard dirt thing works.

“I’m not sure.” Unfortunately, neither does he. Most of the ancient scholars never even mentioned it, let alone whatever effects it might have. Guildford had only discovered the effect by accident. 

“What do you think it would do to a human?” She wonders aloud.

“We’re not going to find out,” 

Jane is startled by the vehemence in Guildford’s voice, where before he had just sounded merely exhausted by her line of questioning. Without entirely meaning to, Jane bristles at his words. Who is he to tell her what to do?

“What if it could heal people? Think of all the people that could be helped!”

But Guildford doesn’t rise to the bait, simply looking at her with a serious expression.

“‘Things of the dead can’t help the living’,” he quotes Baudlin, the 13th century monk who painted one of the more accurate pictures of vampire physiology. Ironically, Jane knew he was not one of Guildford’s particular favorites, as he had also posited with certainty that a vampire could never be anything but.

“We could always run a test, just to make sure” she starts, already considering how best to acquire a small wound to try and heal. The sudden feeling of his hands pressed heavily at her shoulders halts whatever planning she was doing.

“Jane, leave it alone,” Guildford insists, looking more tired than ever. “I do not wish to see you in a coffin.”

It’s only then that she remembers that Guildford had lost his mother. He probably isn’t thrilled by the idea of helping bury another family member, even if it is only her - and even if she would still be alive at the end of it. As an apology, she doesn’t draw attention to the fact that he called it a coffin this time.

****

“Where do you go at night?” Jane finally asks, after more than a week of his vanishing act.

Guildford looks pointedly at where his legs are propped up on her bedspread while the rest of him sprawls across a nearby armchair, the spread of books and notes between them, indicating that obviously this is where he’s spending his evening. 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Jane wonders if it’s possible to strain one’s eyes from rolling them too often.

“I thought we both agreed that my honesty is only required where it pertains to you? Are you changing our vows already?” He smirks at her annoyance. 

“And are you saying that where you go all night somehow doesn’t pertain to me?” She crosses her arms in defiance.

“I think I just said exactly that.”

“And what if I’m kept awake all night worrying about you? Then does it pertain to me?” 

“How very sweet - here I thought your deafening snores and excessive drooling meant you were fast asleep, but little did I know all this time you’ve been kept awake by concern for your dear husband.” 

“I do not drool!” She nearly throws one of his books back into his smug face. “Or snore, for that matter!”

Though the truth is, she doesn’t really know about that last one. The only person who has ever observed her sleeping since she was a child is the man before her. She hadn’t actually meant to fall asleep in front of him, but translating ancient Greek and Sumerian wasn’t exactly invigorating after the first four hours. Perhaps she does? Either way, she’s currently hoping that Guildford mistakes her flushed face and jittery heart rate for anger instead of embarrassment. 

He’s staring at her strangely instead. She doesn’t know quite what to make of his expression, but at least his smirk is gone. Mostly.

“Do you really want to know where I go?”

She can’t tell if this is a trap or some kind of test. “Only if you want to tell me.” She equivocates.

“I don’t. But I will anyway, I’m feeling rather generous tonight,” he gestures magnanimously. “And I do want to see the look on your face when I tell you that I’ve never so much as left the walls of the Dudley estate since we’ve arrived.”

Whatever expression she makes must be good, because Guildford is looking very pleased with himself. 

“And is there a tavern I don’t know about within these walls?” She tries to reason what would keep him here.

“Why would I seek out a tavern when we came out here to retreat from society?”

“Well, obviously to…” but Jane comes up short. To drink, to carouse? He couldn’t get drunk, and he didn’t seem particularly interested in any amorous pursuits - at least not with her, though perhaps he’s interested in someone else? But Jane is not about to ask him that.

“...to play darts,” she finishes rather awkwardly.

Guildford just chuckles lowly. “Jane, surely you’ve noticed there’s nothing in this house I can eat?” Her pulse spikes at the idea that that’s not entirely true. “And there’s nothing at a tavern for me either.”

“So then you…”

“I go out and hunt. There’s plenty of game on the grounds here.” He shrugs back into his chair easily enough, but she can see the rigid tension of his body. He thinks this answer will frighten her.

And it doesn’t, not really. Her sister Margaret has done plenty of ‘hunting’ in their own backyard - Jane has stumbled across the results of her sister’s morbid curiosity on more than one occasion. And her father had hunted for grouse on rare days, though she had always been kept inside whenever this occurred. Perhaps because of that, she finds herself asking the question.

“Can I go with you?”

Guildford startles a little in his seat, and looks over at her in confusion “to hunt?”

“To watch you hunt,” she clarifies. It doesn’t seem to help.

“Why would you want to do a thing like that?”

“Let’s call it curiosity,” she shrugs, though it feels like something more.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Guildford reminds her, still staring at her.

“Good thing I’m not one, then.”

Jane stares back. Their eyes lock in some sort of contest of wills. But Guildford has never had two annoying little sisters to contend with, or a mother who often communicated entirely in glares across the dinner table. Plus, Guildford is the one who decided to tell her about this, even though by his own admission he clearly didn’t have to, so she thinks the odds are good that she’ll be victorious in the end.

“You really think you want to see this?” He asks.

Victory is as good as hers.

“I really do.”

Guildford stands and immediately walks out of the room. A sore loser, Jane thinks to herself.

But then he is turning toward her from just beyond the door frame, “are you coming or not?”

She stands to rush after him. He barely gives her a moment to tie on her boots and slip on her cloak before they’re walking out of the house and towards the line of dark trees behind it.

Guildford looks different out here than he usually does. More…focused. It doesn’t help that his usually undone leather doublet is now fastened up to this neck, leaving all but his face in sleek shadows beneath the dark sky. Like this, he actually looks like a hunter.

Jane shivers in the sharp chill of the late night air, pulling her cloak more tightly around her. She realizes she’s never seen Guildford wear any other layers.

“Aren’t you cold?”

He looks back, eyes glinting even in the dim light. Her hand shifts at her cloak, as if he needs some visual indication of what she’s asking him.

“I’m always cold,” he murmurs, before turning back to increase his pace.

Jane realizes too late how stupid that question must be. Of course the dead don’t produce any warmth. Jane herself has noticed the coolness of his skin before. Not the icy cold hand of death, or any such rot as that, but like the slightly cooler temperature of any room. It’s such a little thing, on the whole scale of it, but Jane can’t imagine never being able to feel quite warm enough. Even though they do live in England.

They reach the edge of the treeline. Beyond it, the night grows even darker - there’s barely a sliver of moonlight tonight. Jane once again has reason to regret she doesn’t share her husband’s night vision. She’s almost tempted to reach for his hand, allowing him to guide her safely through the dark forest, but she assumes he’ll need both of his hands for this, whatever it is he does. And it’s not as though she wants to hold his hand.

But she’s finding it more and more difficult to follow him. Buttoned up as he is, he nearly blends with their surroundings. He’s also nearly silent, or at least far quieter than she is even in her much lighter boots. For a moment, she loses track of him, and is forced to simply continue forward in the same direction they had been traveling before. 

Jane starts to hear something again, off to her left, though it doesn’t sound like Guildford. Or at least she thinks it doesn’t. It’s much further away than she expects he would be by now - for all their arguing, she doesn’t really believe he’d just abandon her in the middle of the dark woods. She closes her eyes and tries to focus her hearing around her. She can hear the rustling of leaves, the sound of crickets around them, even the sharp spike in her own heartbeat, but not the source of the sound she just just heard.

A branch snaps in the distance, and the sound suddenly moves towards her, its pace rapid. But she can’t see anything, can’t…

Just as suddenly she’s pressed against a nearby tree by a body, a human shaped body. Or a vampire one, judging by the strength by which she is pushed back into the rough bark behind her. 

“Guildford…?” She asks, very much hoping that it’s him.

“There was a stag, he must have gotten spooked,” he breathes out, and Jane has never been so happy to hear that voice in her life. Even if his explanation is not what she had expected.

“Did you spook him?” she asks quietly, not wishing to also spook the creature that currently has her still pinned to the tree with her question. She realizes his head has dipped towards her - he’s probably looking her over but even though she can’t see anything other than a dark shape and the brief glint of his eyes. But she can feel him shake his head.

“No,” he adds, unnecessarily. “The falling of a leaf will spook them. They’re difficult to catch.” 

“So no deer tonight?” 

Another shake of his head, this time she can feel his hair brush against her cheek. His breath is slightly warmer than the rest of him, and she can feel it brush against her jaw, hear the sound of his deep inhale. Is he…? Jane’s heart rate spikes again, and Guildford suddenly tears himself away from her. 

“Just wait here,” he commands, and she’s reluctantly forced to obey.

“Not like I have any other choice.”

She wraps herself in her cloak and leans back against the tree behind her, willing her mind not to think about whatever just happened. But of course it’s the problem of the white bear - the more she tries not to think about it, the more she has to. Was he just sniffing her? She didn’t smell bad, did she? Could he sense her pulse racing? Was he…? 

But Guildford didn’t drink human blood, had told her that it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat if he could help it. And Jane isn’t afraid of him. He said he had never hurt anyone in that way - and certainly Lord Dudley and Stan were living proof of that - and she believed him. But what did it mean if he wanted to…and with her? If he even did at all?

Jane’s thoughts are interrupted by the near-silent return of their object. She realizes her eyes must have finally adjusted somewhat, because she can at least see his face now, and the general dark shape of his clothes. In his hands he holds something lightly colored and still squirming in his iron grip.

“Are you sure you still want to see this?” He tilts his chin at the animal in his grasp.

A hare, a little brown one. At least it wasn’t a fluffy bunny rabbit, though hares were still very cute in their own way. But then Jane tried to think if there was any warm blooded creature he could find that she wouldn’t find at least a little cute. A wild boar, perhaps, but those were obviously quite dangerous, and she still felt some degree of sympathy for them. She nearly laughs at the realization that a human male probably would have inspired the least concern from her, but of course humanity was where Guildford’s own sympathies lay. A hare would have to do. She nods, knowing full well he can see it in the dark.

Jane’s breath catches at the glimpse of sharp teeth in the dimmed moonlight. She can’t tell if Guildford means for her to see them or not. He’s never shown her before, even as they discussed his condition. But she has little time to study them before they’re sunk into the creature in his hold. Jane can see the hare kick harder against his relentless grasp, and almost covers her ears at the awful sound of its screeching cries. But she’s the one that asked for this, and she won’t back down.

It’s really only a few moments before the hare slows its kicking, and quiets its cries, though it feels much longer to her. Jane realizes with a start that she’s watching it die. She feels the strangest urge to reach out to it, to soothe it, to soothe both of them. But then it’s too late, Guildford’s head is tilting back and he’s setting the hare back onto the forest floor.

…where it hops away, albeit a little slowly.

“You didn’t…?” She starts.

“I don’t have to, if I come out often enough. It wouldn’t do to have too many animal carcasses piling up on my lands.” Guildford explains, as though it were obvious. She supposes it kind of is. “Besides, I don’t know that you could have handled it.”

He grins and she can just barely catch sight of his now still sharpened fangs, dark with blood. At least he hadn’t faked the whole thing just to put her off. 

“I could have handled it.” She insists, though she’s not entirely certain.

“Have you ever even watched anything die before?” He asks before quickly shutting his mouth. They both know that she has. Her father’s prolonged illness and recent death is still clear in everyone’s memory. Jane had been at his side the entire time. She wished she had reached out more then as well.

He offers up something like an apology, “if you’re still insistent on this maybe you can pick the animal next time?”

“What if I send you after a grizzly bear?” 

Guildford just laughs, reading forgiveness in her threat. There’s no grizzlies around, anyway.

She considers again. “Perhaps something in the gopher family, then?” They had a tendency to dig up her garden, and she thought that might tug at her heartstrings a little less. And next time she'll be better prepared for it.

“Whatever you want,” he agrees.

Then she can feel his cool hand reaching out to take hers, leading her through the trees and back to their home.

****

They’ve been married for nearly a fortnight before he finally tells her how he died.

They’re back in her room again, books and notes spread across the bedspread between them. She doesn’t ask the question lightly, finding the idea of it strangely distressing to imagine. But her reading keeps bringing her back to the same possibility again and again - a vampire that kills its sire may revert to human form. She tells him what she’s found.

Guildford gets up from the bed, moving to the nearby doorway before pausing  - turning to rest heavily against the frame. Jane fights the urge to give a full detailing of her points of reference, the myriad of sources that back up this conclusion. She wonders if perhaps the vampire that turned him might be someone he…cares about. Or if he simply balks at the idea of taking another life, or unlife as it were.

But then Guildford finally speaks. “The man who made me what I am was killed before I even awoke.”

Jane’s face falls a bit. Well, there goes that idea. Not that it was particularly her favorite - she can easily see how a remedy like that might also serve those who wanted to reduce the vampire population by turning them against one another, and therefore had a high likelihood of being no more than an oft-repeated rumor. She shuffles her notes on the topic to the bottom of the pile, looking towards him to suggest they start afresh. What she doesn’t expect, however, is for her husband to continue.

“Before I became this…thing, I was everything you accused me of on our wedding day. I spent more time in taverns than I did my own home, drinking, gambling, fighting…I’m sure you know the rest.” His eyes glance towards hers for a moment, that strange inner glow reflecting in the firelight. “One night, a common brawl turned particularly violent, and I ended up on the wrong side of that man’s dagger. He was a vampire, as it turns out, who wasn’t keen to endure the scrutiny of a murder charge. So he decided to make me like him. Unfortunately for him, and for myself I suppose, the Guard caught him before I was even in the ground.”

“How did you…?”

“Rupert. He helped me home - carried my body back, that is. My father took one look at the bite marks and the blood and decided on a private burial, so no one else was the wiser.”

Jane's mind reels at all he’s suddenly told her. This proves that he really had died, been buried. They hadn’t expected him to come back, which means he would have awoken…

It doesn’t bear thinking about. But it does certainly explain his reluctance to talk about any of it. 

“Guildford, I’m so…”

“Don’t,” he halts her apology. “It’s happened and it’s done.” 

****

It’s Guildford who pushes the idea of exorcism. 

Not the kind performed by the church, of course - with endless prayers and holy water. The two of them were married in the church after all, their union blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. And the Catholics certainly haven’t figured anything better out, otherwise the English court would never have heard the end of it. Crosses, holy water, icons, relics of saints - none of it has any effect on vampires. 

But if this is something that’s in him, Guildford seems to think it can be starved out. 

“I believe it’s ‘feed a cold, starve a fever’,” Jane argues, though this isn’t particularly sound medical advice either.

“Are you offering to feed me?” He mocks, though with a strange expression across his face.

“I’m just saying, this isn’t exactly a sound strategy.”

“Because everything else we’ve tried has been working so well.” He shoots her a look.

And ok, so her last few attempts at a medical cure haven’t exactly panned out. But the idea of starving a…demon or whatever out is silly. Demons supposedly feed on your soul, how exactly does he plan to starve it?

The plan she’s forced to help him come up with seems to involve weakening his body until whatever is in there just…leaves. She’s very much not sure about this but at least all that he’s asking her to do shouldn’t cause any permanent damage. Jane had outright shut down any mention of bloodletting or wounding in general.

Guildford reveals he has already stopped taking in any additional blood, nothing since that night she had gone with him into the woods. Apparently he’s been considering this eventuality for a while now. But apparently he had tried starving himself once before, long before they had even met, and it ended with him nearly killing a drunkard outside the local tavern. So he asks her to restrain him this time. She reluctantly agrees to help. Secretly, she fully intends to monitor him throughout this entire terrible plan once he’s too tied up to stop her.

They decide to begin at sunrise, planning to take advantage of the usually mild effects on sunlight to compound with everything else. Guildford had found a coat of silver mail - vermeil at least, something his spendthrift father had missed selling off but that Guildford’s senses had detected right away - that would weaken him further. The final step was for Jane to tie him down so he would be forced to endure it. That was possibly her least favorite part of this plan. She’s not certain if she’s hoping this works or if it doesn’t. It seems too horrible to fathom, but at least it will free them both. She tries to find some feeling of relief in the thought of regaining her independence.

The dawn comes far too quickly for her liking. She follows Guildford out to collect all their supplies, and set up near the stables - where none but Rupert would venture, though he was asked to keep his distance for a while. Jane watches as Guildford reaches back to grasp at his white shirt, tugging it over his head in one swift motion, his doublet having already been abandoned back at the house. She tries not to stare at the play of muscles across his arms and chest as he takes up his next task - driving four long metal spikes into the ground with a large hammer. For some reason the two small necklaces at his throat and the wedding ring glinting on his finger only enhance how undressed he suddenly looks.

The effect only worsens as the sun starts to rise on the horizon, and Guildford strips off his boots and breeches as well, leaving him only in a pair of smalls that barely cover the pale musculature of his legs. Jane realizes for all that she’s already seen her husband almost entirely naked, she’s never actually watched him take off more than his doublet before this. It feels strangely intimate to witness. She should probably look away but she doesn’t, and Guildford doesn’t comment on it.

He merely slips on the vermeil mail shirt, grimacing as it makes contact with his skin. He had told her that first real night together that silver feels like burning ice to the skin of vampires, and that a cut from a silver blade burns into them and is difficult to heal. This contributed strongly to her refusal to add any bloodletting to today’s experiment. The chainmail seems painful enough already and she begins to understand the necessity of restraining him. Jane directs him to lie down between the 4 metal spikes, arms and legs stretched out.

“Try and find a comfortable position, you’re going to be here for a while.” 

Guildford doesn’t move. 

“The whole point of this is to make me uncomfortable,” he reminds her, putting it rather mildly.

“Well I can find some rocks to put under you, if you’d like?”

He huffs out a pained laugh and she relaxes a little. He can’t be in that much pain if he’s still arguing with her, at least. So she sets to work, starting at his feet, tying off a quick halter hitch to the blunted metal spikes and a simple figure eight loop around his ankles. She runs two fingers under the loop just to make sure. It should hold him securely in place without unexpectedly loosening or tightening on him. He glances down at her work.

“Are you planning a career as a ship’s bosun or something? What the hell are those knots?” He tries to tug against the ankle restraints.

“I can always tie a midshipman’s hitch and just let it slowly tighten the noose.” She threatens, moving up to start on his right arm.

“It’s not like you can cut off my circulation.”

She’s not entirely convinced she couldn’t accidentally do some real damage here, and it’s not like she has the heart to add to his pain either way. He’s already looking more bloodless than usual, jaw clenched as he tries to hold himself steady for her to finish.

Jane tries to work quickly, simply leaning over him to tie the loop around his other wrist instead of moving all the way to his other side. She has to scoot back a little to keep her knees from pressing the silver mail harder into his ribcage, but she can just manage. Unfortunately, she realizes too late how near this puts her face and his, her neck barely hovering above his mouth - after he’s just told her he’s gone nearly two weeks without eating. This time, she’s certain she can feel a deep inhale across her throat. Her pulse jumps a little.

“I’ll move in just a second,” she assures them both, slipping her fingers beneath the loop of rope before she starts to tie it off.

Guildford just turns his head away. “Don’t worry, you’re not that tempting.”

And of course she isn’t, not to him at any rate, and it’s not like she needs reminding. Annoyed at both herself and at him she tightens the knot a little more than was strictly necessary and pulls herself upright as quickly as she can, not bothering to look down at his face.

But Guildford is just looking at her knots anyway, testing their hold on him. No amount of force seems to budge them, or to tighten them any further. He nods at the work and dismisses her. 

“You think I’m just going to leave you here like this?”

“Jane I know you love torturing me but this might be taking it a bit…”

“Torturing you? I only agreed to this under duress!”

“You don’t really want to watch this part -”

“Of course I don’t want to watch this part but I also don’t want to come back and find you half dead!”

“I’m already…”

“You know what I mean! More dead than you already are! So just suck it up and deal with it.”

And it’s troubling, really, how quickly the fight leaves him. Guildford’s eyes simply shut as he lets his head fall back against the ground below. He’d look like he was trying to sleep but for the clenching of his jaw, the tension of each of his bared limbs against her knots. And in the end he was right, she doesn’t want to see him like this - knowing it’s only going to worsen as the sun grows higher - but she has to stay near. She’s brought several of his books and some apples with her, so at least she’ll have something to do besides just watching him suffer.

Hours pass. The sun grows strangely warm against her skin, in a way she never notices as she constantly moves around the gardens. She doesn’t want to even imagine what this might feel like to the man beside her. Occasionally, she can hear small noises coming from him - sounds of pain, obviously - that he’s trying to mask. She feels guilty about this for a while and then realizes he’d be doing the same no matter where she was, if only to ensure that Rupert and none of the other staff were able to hear him if they passed too near. But the soft sounds still cut right through to the heart of her. She can’t believe she’d actually rather hear him arguing with her instead.

It’s the silence that truly frightens her, however. As the sun drops lower, Guildford sounds like things are getting worse rather than better, and she tries not to look at the trails of faintly pinkish tears over his face. But then it stops, and Jane is forced to look at him directly. When she does, she’s faced with a corpse. Is he finally asleep? Or is he…?

Jane has no way of knowing for sure, unable to tell the difference between death and sleep in her husband. She doesn’t want to wake him to more pain, but she also doesn’t want him to slip away without her knowing. She goes to shake him gently, to no response.

“Guildford,” she tries calling his name. And again. Again. Getting louder with each cry.

Her shaking has become less gentle, but still no response from him. The movement shifts the chainmail from where it lay, revealing blistered red skin beneath each ring. Jane rushes to push the shirt up further - his pale abdomen is covered in ringed lacerations, angry and bleeding. The silver must now be in his bloodstream.

Jane rushes to untie him, releasing her simple halter hitches from the metal spikes to free his arms. She carefully peels back the mail, sticky with his blood, trying not to tear at the skin even further. She uses the edge of her skirt to keep the mail from touching his face, and finally lifts it from him, tossing it as far away as her strength will carry it. 

But there's still no response from Guildford. She swiftly unties his ankles as well, uncaring that the rope still loops around his wrists and ankles, at least this way she’s able to move him into the shade. But Jane is not strong enough to carry him, nor does she want to drag his bleeding body across the filthy ground. Thinking quickly, she tears at the laces of her gown, stripping it off and laying it across the ground. Jane carefully shifts Guildford onto the spread fabric, allowing her to take hold of the hem and pull him to the safety of the stables, slamming the doors behind her.

Several more times she calls his name, shaking him, looking for any signs of life. All to no avail. There’s only one option left to her - the chest of grave dirt. If Jane had thought it was difficult dragging Guildford into the stables, lifting him into the chest is nearly beyond her. She considers finding Rupert to help them, but worries there isn’t time. Jane perseveres with her task.

She’s nearly drenched in sweat by the time she finally gets Guildford into the chest, and discovers she still doesn’t know enough about how this works. Does the dirt need to cover his wounds? It seems unhygienic, but it’s not as though it could hurt him worse than the silver already in his veins. And so she digs down, drawing the dirt up and over the lacerations. Jane tries not to think about the fact that she’s essentially burying him. She’s surprised to brush at her cheeks and find them wet with tears. She can’t remember when she started crying.

Jane doesn’t stop until Guildford’s entire body is covered, leaving only his head and feet free. She can’t bring herself to close the lid, feeling too much as if that would turn the chest into a true coffin. Instead, she turns down the nearest lanterns, providing as much darkness as she can, and drapes herself over her husband’s form. Her white linen shift is already filthy with digging, and she ignores the soil that clings to her damp cheek. All she can do now is pray that Guildford is alright.

The setting of the sun passes them by with no change. Jane considers too late how much hope she had placed in the sun’s absence, and nearly gives up. She’s completely drained of her strength, and almost all of her hope. There’s nothing left for her to do.

She can feel herself drifting, her own body trying to heal from the day’s exertions by forcing her to sleep in fitful starts. Each time she wakes she searches Guildford’s face for any signs of  a change, barely restraining herself from checking on his wounds still buried beneath the soil. But each time she finds nothing, and is pulled back into a restless sleep.

The faintest whisper of her name wakes her again, and she’s slow to be pulled from another nightmare of her husband bleeding out in the field. But as her eyes flutter open she’s met with the glint of Guildford’s own, the feel of his chest rising with each slow breath below. She shifts back, allowing him to sit up, dirt falling away to reveal that he’s no longer bleeding, but still covered in links of reddened lesions. Without thinking, she throws her arms around his neck, barely avoiding his injuries. Gingerly, Guildford’s arms come up to encircle her back. He pulls her closer, heedless of his wounds. 

Jane is crying again, clinging to Guildford as tightly as he holds onto her. She’s sniffling into his neck but she doesn’t care.

“I thought I killed you.”

“Jane, I’m already dead,” he tries to reassure her, but it only makes her feel worse.

She pulls back to look at him seriously.

“What if whatever is in you is the only thing keeping you alive? What if we kill it and there’s nothing left but a…”

“A corpse?” He offers her a tight smile, reaching up to brush away the dirty tears that stain her cheeks. “I used to think I might be alright with that.”

“Don’t you dare - don’t you dare, Guildford Dudley.” She hisses. “I won’t help you die.”

He shakes his head, “I’m not trying to.”

“Promise me,” she demands.

“Jane, I promise you I’m not trying to die. I wouldn’t do that to you, I wouldn’t make you responsible for that.”

Jane is relieved by the promise, but troubled by the rest of his words. Does Guildford really think she only wants to avoid the guilt of causing his death? Surely at this point he realizes that she’s never wanted him dead, that they’ve even become something like friends these last few weeks. She cares if he lives or dies, regardless of her own role in it. But she has no idea how to explain any of this to him, and so she shocks them both by kissing him instead.

It’s not exactly a perfect kiss. They’re both still covered in blood and dirt and tears, and Guildford remains half buried in his coffin. In the darkness of the stables she nearly misses her mark, noses bumping before their lips can even meet. But once she gets there she finds his lips cool and soft and sweet, and after a few moments surprise they move carefully against her own. His fingers are still cradling her cheeks and she can feel his tongue touch gently at her lips, tasting her tears there. Jane nearly laughs at the tenderness she feels welling up in her. She had always imagined that if they ever did kiss it would be in the middle of a fight - hard and passionate and all consuming. But that’s not what this is, she’s not even entirely sure it’s even romantic. It’s more an affirmation they’re both still here, that neither of them is abandoning the other. She pulls back to find him faintly smiling.

They don’t say much as Guildford settles back into the chest, Jane helping to re-cover his wounds - apparently she had done the right thing earlier. This time it’s less troubling to close the lid over him, letting him continue to rest and heal through the morning. Jane has to don her filthy day dress once more, sneaking back into the house and hiding her filthy clothing beneath the bed and scrubbing herself as best she can with the pitcher of water provided. She’ll take a real bath when the household wakes, but she also finds herself in need of real rest. 

Before sleep takes her, she makes another private resolution to herself - it’s time to bring in more help.

*** 

The chance comes to her swiftly enough, when a short letter arrives from Susannah. She’s apparently alright, or alright enough, and living out on the borders near to where Jane herself is staying. It’s difficult to get messages in or out, however, as no one will take them. Jane wonders if perhaps they could arrange a meeting spot, or at least a message spot.

It’s then that she remembers - Susannah had also been there, that night in the Tavern, with those other vampires. One of them had called himself Archer, the so-called leader of the infamous Pack. If Susannah was with them, maybe they might have some answers for Guildford. Jane rushes to the stables to tell him her idea, choosing to ignore the fact that he’s half dressed and clearly still recovering. 

The discussion goes rather disastrously.

“Jane, you don’t know them - Pack vampires are dangerous, they’re not like Susannah and I. Once you leave the town walls you are nothing but prey to them.”

“Actually you’ll find I do know them. Several of them were also in the tavern when we met and they didn’t hurt a single person there…”

“They slaughtered nine of the Kingsland guard!”

“...who were all trying to kill them, that’s no more than self-defense! I was standing right next to them and neither one of them so much as glanced at my neck.”

Guildford’s eyes can’t help dropping to her throat the second she mentions it, but he just as quickly glances back up at her.

“They’re not stupid, Jane, they wouldn’t have done so publicly. They would have waited until you were alone.”

“Aha!” She shouts, pointing at his face.

Guildford boggles a little, taken aback by the sudden exclamation. “‘Aha!’, what?” 

“You admit my neck is tempting then!” Jane doesn’t even understand herself why she’s suddenly making this argument.

“What? No!” He frowns, seemingly unable to understand Jane’s train of thought himself. “Or yes, if it will get you to drop this idiotic idea of yours.”

“I’m not going to drop it, not if it can help us. I’m not even planning to meet the Pack, I just want to get a message out to Susannah and then maybe she can ask them. They wouldn’t hurt her, would they?”

Guildford shakes his head.

“Then that’s that. I should go while the sun is still out.” Jane steps away from his coffin, walking briskly out of the stables before he has a chance to try and talk her out of it again. 

She hears him calling her name and picks up her pace; she'll have to hurry if she wants to make it to the outer woods before sunset, only giving herself a quick moment to grab her cloak and strap on her dagger. She has no desire to get stuck in the dark again.

But traveling on foot, it’s already nearly dusk by the time she makes it to the edge of the town with her note to Susannah. Just past the walls, the forest looms darkly, a faint fog rising from the ground with the last of the day’s warmth. She tightens the cloak around her shoulders and steels herself to walk into it. One foot in front of the other.

The minute the walls leave her sight she knows she’s made a mistake. What the hell is she even doing out here? There’s no guarantee Susannah would even find her note out here. Or what if the wrong person found it? What if the wrong people already know she’s here and are just waiting to…

Jane hears a rustling behind her - definitely not a stag this time. Those are clearly footsteps, and they’re getting closer. 

She runs.

She recognizes quickly there’s no way she can outrun a vampire - her best chance is to try and fight. Hiding behind a large tree, she unsheaths her silver dagger, and waits for her stalker to come closer.

She doesn’t have to wait long. Now’s her chance!

“Jane! Jane - it’s me!” Guildford nearly shouts at her as she slashes wildly in the dark.

“Guildford?” She draws back. He’s fully dressed again, in buttoned up black as before. She had nearly stabbed him.

“God’s teeth, woman, why do you even have that?” 

She still holds the dagger between them.

“I’m cousin to the King, we all have them. And whatever you may think, I’m not an idiot - I didn’t come out here unprepared.”

He sighs, “I don’t think you’re an idiot, just…foolhardy. You don’t need to put yourself at risk for me. You could have at least waited for me to come with you.”

Jane refuses to admit she actually feels a little better now that he’s here with her, but she’s also left with a new worry.

“You are still healing, I didn’t want you to push yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“...and you said yourself that at your age you’re barely stronger than a human.”

“Yes, but I am still…” he stops himself.

“A man?” 

He winces, and she knows she’s right.

“I’ll have you know this poor, feeble little woman happens to have trained with the King himself!”

Guildford shakes his head, “I don’t think fencing practice with our invalid King is quite the boast you think it is.”

“I didn’t say I fought with him, I said we were trained together. By the Kingsland guard - why do you think I have this dagger? In fact, as someone who had bested Capo Ferro by the age of eight…”

“I’m just saying…”

But Jane is tired of arguing. She drops swiftly to a crouch, kicks out her foot and sweeps Guildford’s legs from beneath him. The second he falls backward she rolls herself to pin him to the forest floor, silver blade held carefully against his throat. The whole thing takes her mere seconds. She looks down at the spoils of her victory.

Guildford’s eyes are nearly black where they gaze up at her, head tilted back where the very tip of the dagger barely dents the skin beneath his jaw. She can feel the unsteady rise and fall of his chest beneath her thighs, her own breathing greatly increased by the sudden exertion as well. If she leaned down right now she could…

Jane shakes the errant thought from her head, and helps Guildford back to standing. He’s a little unsteady on his feet as she brushes the leaves from his coat. She remembers he’s only had a day to heal.

“When you’re fully healed we’ll have a proper match,” she offers with as little smugness as she can manage, which is still quite a bit.

But Guildford just smiles, “I look forward to it.”

They walk together in silence for a while, as Jane ponders where best to leave the note so that it will get back to Susannah, and not fall into the hands of the Kingsguard. This unfortunately does require them to head deeper into vampire territory.

Jane knows they’re getting closer when the woods grow eerily silent - even the usual nightly sounds of animals disappear. Jane shudders a little, realizing the animals probably haven’t just wandered away. She watches as Guildford sniffs at the air around them, and tries to listen carefully for sounds in the distance. She knows she’s probably no help here, and her own loud footsteps and scent are probably just in the way.

“I’m sor…” she begins.

“You don’t have to do this for me, you know. We can find another way.”

“I’m not doing this for you, or not just for you. Susannah was - is - my best friend. Being away from her this last month has been…”

“Difficult?”

“That’s putting it mildly. I always thought we would stay together forever, that I’d become a woman of independent means and be able to keep her safe by my side through it all.”

Guildford is silent for a moment, before he speaks. “I certainly managed to cock that plan up.”

Jane is forced to agree, in her own mind at least. Outwardly, she decides to show mercy, “well, our parents did. For the sake of marital harmony I think it’s best if we place the blame on them instead.”

He smiles in recognition of what she’s offering, “I often do.”

“Come on then, I think we’ve gone far enough” Jane decides.

“You certainly have.”

They both whip around at the same moment to see themselves overtaken by three unfamiliar vampires, who look less like the two gentlemen from the tavern and far more like the hungry brigand she met on her journey here. Even from several paces she can spot their fangs. Guildford steps in front of her, and she quietly draws her dagger.

“Look what we have here, a lost little lamb in the woods,” their apparent leader sneers. “You weren’t planning to keep her all to yourself, were you?”

The question is apparently directed towards Guildford, who practically growls in response - the sound of it low and threatening, something she’s never heard from him before.

But the other vampires just laugh as if he’s no threat at all. The two of them brace themselves as the three stalk closer. She doesn’t like their odds.

Something whizzes past her ear and slams into the leader’s shoulder.

“Sod off, Garrick, she’s with me.”

Jane feels like she’s getting whiplash with all this turning but a huge grin spreads across her face as she spots Susannah behind them, bow in hand. Another woman - another vampire - stands at her side.

The arrow itself is quickly removed from Garrick’s shoulder, apparently doing little more than annoying him, but he and his mates fall back anyway, seeing their chances spoiled for the evening.

Jane rushes to hug her best friend. “How did you even find us?”

“Every vampire in a ten mile radius heard you two nattering on. Jane, what in the fucking tits are you doing out here?” Susannah awkwardly hugs her back. 

“I needed to see that you were alright, that you were safe.”

“What do you think my letter was for, you eejit?” Susannah pulls back, looking over her shoulder and nodding back to Guildford, “that the husband? You know he’s a…”

“Yes, I did realize that,” she defends herself.

“Just checking, because you can be rather slow on the uptake.” 

Jane’s not entirely sure if she’s being teased or actually insulted. But Susannah’s companion quickly interrupts the reunion.

“Susannah, if you want to keep your human safe we need to get her out of the woods.”

“Too right, onward then.” Susannah agrees, directing Jane and Guildford back the direction they came, apparently with armed escort this time.

But Jane hasn’t even had a chance to talk to her friend yet, so she drops back a little, hoping Susannah will join her, thankful when she does.

“How are you, really?”

Susannah lets out a sigh, “I’m fine.”

“And you’re with the Pack now?” Jane can see the woman in front of them tensing up.

Susannah shoots her a glare, “didn’t exactly have a choice there, did I?”

It’s the first time Susannah has ever spoken so harshly to her. But she realizes it’s also the first time that Susannah hasn’t been her maid. “I didn’t mean to…I just meant are you taken care of out here?”

Susannah softens a little. “It’s not ideal, all of us crammed together like this, not enough to eat. But it’s the only thing keeping the Kingsguard from coming in and slaughtering us.”

Jane hangs her head at the words. “I’m so sorry, Susannah, I didn’t realize what I was asking of you. I shouldn’t have…”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Susannah agrees, but her voice has lost its earlier harshness, and Jane accepts the well deserved scolding. They travel in silence for several long minutes. And then Susannah grins.

“If only I’d known you were set to marry one of us, I could have come along with you. I’d never have to do another day’s work again,” she laughs.

“You still could,” Jane suggests. They could hide Susannah with them just as easily as they were hiding Guildford. But she just shakes her head.

“My secret’s already out, and you’ll have enough trouble on your hands keeping his.” 

“I could…” Jane struggles to think of something she can offer to Susannah, to even try and make up for what she’s done. But she doesn’t have anything - the Dudley fortune is mere myth, and she can’t even promise her safety. The only thing she has is…

“You said there wasn’t enough food,” she starts, and Jane can’t believe what she’s about to say. But she still cares about Susannah - still trusts her with her life. The biting thing is not ideal but maybe if she just cut her hand and let the blood spill into a cup, they could work something out. But she can sense all three vampires around her tensing at the implication. 

“Nevermind that, Lady Jane,” Susannah’s strained laugh echoes. “Maybe you can just shoo a few deer our way every once in a while.”

The group relaxes around her and Jane lets out a real laugh as she agrees. 

“But how do I reach you? I still want to know that you’re ok.”

“Just leave a note in the wall if you want - though never in the same spot twice. I’ll keep an eye out whenever it’s safe enough.”

“And how will you get a response to me?”

Susannah grins, “I have my ways.” 

Up ahead, Guildford and Susannah’s companion halt in their tracks. Jane steps forward to see what’s stopping them.

Two men are waiting by the wall.

“More vampires?”

“They have silver on them, they’re Kingsland guards.” The woman states.

“Why are they dressed as peasants?” Jane wonders.

“Must be some kind of new tactic to trap us.” Susannah adds. “I’m sorry, we can’t take you any further, but they shouldn’t bother two ‘humans’. Just be ready with an excuse for why you were in the woods so late.”

And with that Susannah and her friend drop back into the forest, leaving Jane and Guildford on their own once more. They briefly consider taking another route, but there’s no guarantee there won’t be guards all along the walls. And it will look even more suspicious if they take a more circuitous route and still get caught. Jane looks around and spots a nearby patch of mushrooms, ripping them up and placing them in her satchel. If anyone asks they were out here looking for mushrooms and got lost. 

Jane practically waves the mushrooms in her hand as they approach the wall, ready to head off any questions. But none are asked. 

Instead, both guards draw their swords at the sight of them.

“Jane - run back and find Susannah,” Guildford quietly commands, hand reaching for his own small daggers.

“Not a chance, I’m not leaving you alone out here,” Jane whispers, silver dagger at the ready. They may not be facing vampires, but she can still do plenty of damage with the blade alone. But first, she hopes the power of her name might protect them.

“Put down your weapons,” she commands in her haughtiest tone. “I am the Lady Jane Grey and this is…”

“We know exactly who you are,” the larger of the two announces.

“And we have orders to kill you,” the younger one adds, a little manically.

Well, so much for that plan. 

“I’ll take the big one then?” Guildford suggests.

“I’ll take the big one,” she decides, glancing at Guildford but not wanting to remind him out loud that he’s still injured.

“Fine.”

Jane has no time to wonder at why he agreed so easily before a quick flick of his wrists has one of his daggers neatly sliced into the sword arm of the larger man. He howls in pain even as he runs towards the couple, his partner only moments behind. 

She discovers quickly that a dagger is no real match for a long sword, in terms of reach. All she can really do is parry his attacks, and hope to find an opening. She finds one just as the sword thrusts past her side, narrowly missing her but leaving the man’s arm briefly exposed. Jane slams her left hand into Guildford’s dagger before ripping it out again. Unfortunately, the man’s grip remains on his sword, which glances off her wrist on the retreat, but at least she has two weapons now.

She spares a quick glance towards Guildford, who seems to be in much the same position as she is. Only the younger of the two men is more wild with his swings, obviously still an apprentice to the seasoned veteran she’s facing. This gives her an idea. 

“Switch!” 

She tosses Guildford his other dagger as she pivots quickly around him, taking his place against the younger man while he steps into hers. She’s forced to immediately duck as another wild swing is aimed at chopping off her head, but she uses the man’s momentum against him, kicking him in the same direction he’s swinging to overbalance him. He drops to his hands and knees immediately, and receives another swift kick - this time to the head - to flatten him completely. A quick flick of her boot and his longsword is hers, which she brandishes with a professional flourish - cloak swirling around her form - so their other would-be assassin knows she’s not one to be trifled with.

“Holy shit!” 

She’s not sure if the words come from the guards or her husband or all three but she’ll gladly take the compliment. With a quick thrust the sword is at the older man’s throat, and Guildford finally turns his admiring gaze from her to disarm the man. Jane catches the barest hint of Guildford’s fangs emerging as he nears the man’s bloodied arm, but just as quickly it's gone. 

And at least the two men seem to have the good sense to run after they’ve lost the fight and both their weapons. She sees Guildford start to follow them but steps in his path to halt him.

“We need to reach out to Edward right away, there has to be some reason two members of  Kingsland guard would try to come after me.”

“That’s what I aim to find out,” Guildford insists, still focused just past her in the direction the men had run.

“All you’ll do is give away your own secret,” she reminds him. “Let’s just head home before anything else happens. I’m not exactly looking to use these again so soon.”

At her words Guildford's focus turns back towards her, weapons in both her hands and still panting from the fight, and she can feel his gaze burning into her. He’s looking at her just as he had earlier, when she’d knocked him down and held her dagger to his throat. With admiration and…something else. It makes her want to find out just how hard she can push him.

Jane reaches down to tuck her dagger back into its sheath - it’s really starting to feel excessive at this point - and winces as the movement re-opens the thin cut on her wrist. She can tell it’s bleeding by the way Guildford’s eyes go a little unfocused.

“You’re hurt,” he starts, but doesn’t move closer to her.

“I’m fine, it’s just a scratch,” she assures him, bringing her wrist to her mouth to soothe the sting of it.

Jane looks up to see Guildford’s dark eyes watching her intently. She sucks at her wrist and watches his own reflexive swallow at the sight, his eyes tracking her movements as her tongue clears away any remaining blood. She allows her wrist to fall from her mouth, but Guildford’s eyes never leave her lips. A thrill races up her spine at the hungry look on his face.  

And Jane has no idea what she’s doing but she tosses aside her sword and watches as Guildford does the same with his daggers. She steps forward and then they’re rushing to meet one another, lips colliding as she had always imagined. Her hands go straight to the curls behind his ears that have been taunting her for weeks. His own reach up to cradle at her jaw, tilting her head up to meet him better. Guildford’s tongue drags along the line of her lips, groaning as they part for him and pressing deeper. She realizes he can still taste faint traces of her blood in her mouth, his tongue chasing the flavor of it. Jane wonders how she tastes to him, and shivers at the thought of it. Gods, this is such a terrible idea.

But she does nothing to stop them, even when Guildford’s hands move to clutch at her lower back beneath her cloak, pressing their bodies together more tightly together, and travel down further. Her pulse races as his hands slip just below her rear, lifting her from the ground. She willingly jumps up to meet him, wrapping her thighs around his waist as best she can despite her dress. It doesn’t seem to matter, however, as Guildford’s strong arms continue holding her up even as her legs dangle uselessly at his sides. If this is what he can do when injured, Jane wonders what he is capable of fully healed. 

And the thought of it shouldn’t arouse her as much as it does. Jane has historically found such displays of strength in men more annoying than attractive, but Guildford isn’t showing off. She thinks he even rather enjoyed being bested by her earlier. So she lets herself appreciate the way he lifts her with ease, aligning their bodies so deliciously even through too many layers of fabric. At this height, it’s even easier to slant her mouth against his, and press her tongue against his own. She feels like she wants to climb inside him. A little drunk on her own power, she accidentally bites his lip, but he only groans against her, gripping her thighs more tightly around him.

Somehow, he manages to lower them to the ground below without ever once breaking his hold on her, her arms still clinging to his strong shoulders. He kneels down between her spread thighs, one hand reaching up to cradle the back of her head, keeping it from meeting the hard earth. With the other he unfastens her cloak, letting it slip off her shoulders to spread around her. 

The first brush of his cool lips across her throat has her drawing in a sharp breath. She is entirely unprepared for the feeling of his tongue running up the line of her neck, or the trail of sucking kisses that moves down along it, and she moans into the night air surrounding her, feeling the fog envelop them. And she knows she should worry but that part of her mind has gone completely silent at the feeling of his mouth sucking at her pulse point. He spends an inordinate amount of time just breathing in against her throat, lips barely touching her at times. She also catches the occasional hint of blunted human teeth as his mouth maps every inch of her neck, but she never once feels so much as a scrape of his fangs. She’s not even sure she wants that but she whines all the same, arching into the sensation.

He finally drags himself away from her neck to kiss down along the neckline of her dress, lavishing attention to the tops of her breasts. And Jane wants to feel him everywhere, desperately wishing they had less clothing in the way. She brings her hands forward to work at the buttons of his doublet, huffing out her annoyance at the dozens of tiny buttons that thwart her efforts. She can feel Guildford laughing against her chest. She laughs with him.

She stops when he sits back up again, reaching down to undo the buttons himself, eyes fixed on hers the entire time. Jane watches with rapt attention as he makes quick work of them, slipping the coat off his shoulders more slowly. Feeling rather daring, she reaches to untuck his shirt from his trousers, slipping her fingers beneath to touch at bare skin, soft over hard muscle below. Guildford pulls the shirt off entirely, and she allows her hands to freely roam over the coolness of his skin, taking care to be gentle with the lingering traces of the silvered marks. But he just presses her smaller hands firmly against his skin, showing her that there’s no hurt in her touch. And so she continues as she likes, raking her nails along the v of his abs, or teasingly grazing his sides with her knuckles. She marvels at the play of muscle at her touch, the groans and shuddering breaths she drags out of him. But he’s too far away for her liking. She pushes herself up onto her knees before pressing him back none too gently, climbing into his lap in a move that clearly takes him by surprise. Jane enjoys kissing the astonishment from his lips.

Here, her hands are able to glide across his bared chest, his shoulders, down along his back and arms. The places she’s been wanting to touch since she first saw him in the stables - possibly even before that. His head tips up to meet her kiss, breathing soft sounds against her lips. She feels his hands slip to the laces at her back, expertly loosening them. He tugs at the shoulders of her dress, dragging them down with her chemise below, following the reveal of bare skin with his lips and tongue.

Guildford draws her dress down further, baring the soft swell of her breasts to his gaze. He leans down to press a kiss to the center of chest, before dragging his mouth over to capture a nipple between his lips. It’s Jane’s turn to gasp at the sensation of a cool mouth around her breasts, his tongue teasing her nipples into stiff peaks. Her arms are still trapped within her dress so she works herself free until she’s able to reach for him again, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him to her as his mouth continues to drive her crazy. 

Jane takes a moment to consider that she’s halfway bared to the outside world at this point, practically writhing in Guildford’s lap, in the woods where she was attacked not once but twice tonight. But she can’t bring herself to care about her modesty or her safety when Guildford is doing such wonderful things to her body. She lets her head fall back and her hips rock forward, trying to satisfy the heat building between her thighs.

Guildford surges up to meet her lips, groaning as her hips continue to roll into his. “Gods, I want you.”

She kisses him harder at the words, grinding down into his lap. 

Just as suddenly he pulls away, ducking his head between them. But not before she catches a glimpse of sharpened teeth. She hadn’t even noticed them come out.

Something drips down from her lip. Jane touches the back of her hand to her chin, drawing it away to see the darkened stain smeared across it. Blood. Was that hers? She touches her fingers to her bottom lip, wincing a little at the sting of it. When had it even happened?

“Jane, I’m so so…” Guildford starts, still not looking at her. 

“It’s alright, I didn’t even feel it,” she tries to reassure him. 

“It’s not alright!” He whispers harshly, head still hanging. “You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to have a vampire as a husband.”

“I didn’t ask for a husband at all,” the joke falls flat to her own ears.

She feels him go rigid beneath her.

“Right, of course not.” She can feel him let out a shuddery breath before finally looking at her, teeth blunted and an unreadable expression on his. “You still want a divorce.”

She can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question.

“I do,” she manages to get out. “We had a deal.”

Part of her - a shockingly large part of her in this moment - wants to amend that deal to allow for this, whatever was about to happen between the two of them. But she knows that it can’t, that it would never work. It will only complicate their eventual separation.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she pulls herself back up to standing on shaky legs. She turns from Guildford as she works her dress back over her arms, suddenly aghast at herself for letting things go this far out in the open like this. She takes what privacy she can to pull herself back together. 

It’s unbelievably awkward trying to get re-dressed without being able to retreat to their respective rooms. And she discovers rather unfortunately that the laces on her dress are a two person job. But she ties it off as best she can and reaches down for her cloak, hoping to cover the fact her dress hangs loosely off her shoulders still. 

She turns back to find Guildford looking more respectable at least, if a little blank. 

“You should grab one of the swords, just in case,” he says.

Jane hastily grabs the lighter of the two, tucking it into her belt and beneath her cloak. 

The walk back to the estate isn’t much better. Jane almost finds herself wishing for another attempt on her life just to break the silence, but they make it back without running across another soul. Jane hurries to retreat to her bedroom and is surprised to find that Guildford follows, shutting the door behind him.

“What are you…?” She’s too on edge to think of a nice way to ask.

“Jane, someone sent the Kingsland guard to kill you tonight. I’m not about to leave you here alone.”

He says it kindly, and she knows he’s wrong, but something in her still bristles at the idea of needing protection. And she’s not entirely sure she can deal with having him in her bedroom right now. She tries to think of some alternative.

“You still need to heal,” she reasons. “If you think we need safety in numbers I’ll come with you to the stables.”

“I’m not the one that needs protecting.”

“Yes, but I’m better with a sword, so clearly I should be the lookout.”

He laughs, and doesn’t disagree, and it almost feels normal again for a moment. 

“And you want to stay all night in the stables?”

“I managed just fine last night,” she reminds him unthinkingly, and feels the air go heavy between them again.

“Right,” he says, clearly at a loss for anything else to say.

The fight immediately leaves her. The reminders of how messed up this thing is between them would only be worse out there. 

“Can you at least turn around while I get into bed?” She capitulates.

He does so. It’s easy enough to get out of her still mostly undone dress, tossing it aside along with her cloak and belt, kicking her shoes and stocking wherever they land. She should really wash up but she finds she’s suddenly too exhausted to even contemplate it. So she throws herself under the covers, on the side of the bed furthest from Guildford and facing the opposite wall. She doesn’t exactly know whether he means to join her but she means to be prepared for it.

Instead she hears the scrape of his usual armchair being pulled in front of the door, and the sounds of him settling in. Apparently he really does mean to watch over her all night.

“We’ll switch off in the morning,” she murmurs, putting up one last token resistance. 

“Whatever you need, Jane,” he whispers as she feels sleep pulling her into its embrace.

****

No one else comes for them in the night. Instead, she wakes to a royal messenger at the door, bringing news from the palace. 

King Edward has died. And he’s named Jane as his successor.

[brb-on-a-quest]

Day Fourteen Day Fifteen Day Sixteen

im SOOOOO SORRY that I left you guys hanging those two days! *cries* the first one I genuinely forget, and the second I was too busy to do it- and I think that this is not the first time this might happen, since the farm (oh yeah, if you're not one of my regular followers, you should know I'm a farmhand lol) is picking up steam, during my down time Im trying to do more physical rest for my body to recover. which means unfortuantely, Ive been spending less time on here in general, and that my longer posts that take more time to write have had to pause for a while.

so, I'm sorry to say but this is the last day i'll be able to do this for a while, but maybe forever. I've had so much fun with it and loved to see everybody's different answers, and how we've all connected!! but for at least a few days/weeks, I need a bit of a break lol. if anyone wants to pick up this game again, with the same list of people I've given already or different ones, you are more than welcome to! and I'm not leaving Tumblr, I'm just not going to do this particular ask game anymore.

our final question: what is something that you you want in your life, and what can you do to achieve it? what steps do you need to take to earn the life you see yourself living?

thank all of you so much! I hope to return again maybe sometime! I wish you all the best :)

Awww no worries gracie! take care of yourself first. Def appreciate all the work it must've taken to come up with good questions. I'll be sure to haunt your inbox soon with hopefully some equally thought-provoking (or not) questions.

ok, actual question: our final question: what is something that you you want in your life, and what can you do to achieve it? what steps do you need to take to earn the life you see yourself living?

To be honest, this question has haunted me for the past...well since before high school. (has it really been almost 10 years since I was a baby highschool freshman?). To be also perfectly honest, my depression and anxiety were so bad I was never convinced I would make it as far as I did... which allowed me to put off answering the question for a long while until the Hour of College Applications approached.

Well, against all previous conceptions of my future, I am still alive and about to graduate in December (literally how) and set to walk across the beautiful stage in May to get my undergrad diploma with some kind of academic honors (I forget the Latin for it). Definitely not the highest GPA, but I am relatively proud of myself considering the effort and, for lack of a better phrase, blood, sweat, and tears that have gone into this. So, steps that need to happen in order to graduate

Pass classes (Preferably with A's but I'm also in a position where hopefully my self-esteem won't die with a B or 2).

Write and Finish my thesis (shaking crying throwing up I don't have enough capacity for this even if it's only 15 pages in Spanish)

Study and hopefully pass a GRE (graduate school readiness exam I think? 'cuz I'm told it's a good idea for master's school applications I can not stress enough how much I hate standardized tests and am so anxious about this that I haven't even opened my books yet, I've just been throwing myself into thesis research instead; I 'know not all schools require this but I'm going into something that's not my major, so I feel some kind of need to prove myself).

Apply to graduate schools for counseling!

Only four things... it shouldn't be so bad.... one would think... (can I please just skip to the part where this is over why do people call college the best years of my life).

The other thing I want to work on is just being a better person and in particular a better friend. My goal is therapy, particularly pediatric therapy because it's such a neglected area where I'm from and also in general I think because there tends to be stereotypes of "oh children can't have mental health problems." but doing that means I want to develop more compassion, friendliness, and patience and gentleness and actual listening skills while being assertive...yk an environment that nurtures personal and other's growth. Which is really hard. Progress has been made but still more to go.

[gemsofgreece]

This is something brilliant I found on quora. Aside from the band-orchestra comparison that I have no opinion on as I should know many, many languages to dare tackle that, and which is a parallel that could perhaps only be justified coming from a man passionate enough to get a PhD in Greek literature and ethics, Mr Bošković is actually on point in what he says.

Typical western academia gets wet over Ancient Greek and typically scorns Modern Greek without a proper explanation, to the point of just referring to one form of the language: Greek, and calling it dead. In their minds, there can only be one form of Greek, the ancient one, and it is dead for good. Modern Greek doesn’t belong with their academic and lingual concerns.

But Bošković, who has obviously studied a greater span of the Greek language than the average stuck-up classicist, puts it so well and in such a short and simple text that I could never do it. I always thought Modern Greek is more flexible than Ancient Greek but I couldn’t explain why well. Here it is then: what many don’t realise is that Modern Greek operates in a very liberal fashion. It takes elements from large lingual pools. It has the Ancient Greek pool all to itself, to take elements at will. It can choose between very archaic, Koine / biblical / medieval or folk neo-linguistic elements or fuse them all together, technically without restrictions. The historical contact to Latin, Italian, Turkish, Slavic, Arabic and Albanian populations gives it access to the Romantic, Anatolian, oriental and non-Greek Balkan pools. Modern Greek has a very good ability to bend foreign elements enough to make them adjust to the Greek core of the language, instead of adjusting to them (ie all foreign loanwords are bent to follow Greek grammatic rules of inflection and their vocalisations usually change enough so that they are entered smoothly in the language). The local idiomatic element is also significant in every region and is particularly alluring in prose and verse (hence my recent comment that I prefer modern - but NOT contemporary - Greek prose).

That doesn’t mean that I don’t love Ancient Greek prose and verse. But here is the crucial nuance: the ancients and medieval people did their best to write in the highest form of the language they could master. When we read an ancient text, we witness the earnest efforts of the ancient poets and writers to be glorified through their writing.

Modern speech is unfortunately deteriorating* and we can’t compare the potential of the two ages of the language. Contemporary writers aren’t putting an effort to write in the highest lingual form they can master. On the contrary, they strive to be relevant and, in fact, as non-challenging as possible, so that they will cater to a wide, mainstream audience. And because everyone can write nowadays - it is not an activity saved for the wisest or most educated - there is a load of mediocre lingual usage inside which a specimen of high lingual form can be viewed as eccentric, pretentious and eventually undesirable.

Because of this, Modern Greek cannot utilise all its tools anymore (as well as many other languages to their own degree, of course). Reading the Iliad in its original has been fantastic so far and I was wondering why we can’t write like this anymore but now I am realising that there is nothing to prevent us from doing it from a technical aspect. There are no dead words in Greek. There are words which have become rarely used enough that some people would consider you a weirdo for using them and others would themselves refuse to learn, convinced there is no use in taking an extra step. Words that are recorded in texts, words whose meaning we know, can’t be dead, even if they are rarely used. It’s the obsession of the average person to follow the mainstream trend that threatens a word more than anything else. Another fact is that Greeks of different ages fluctuate between different forms of grammar, unsure whether a more archaic or more modern inflection is appropriate. The truth is that there is no wrong way, however Greek linguists lately try to wipe out older, more archaic forms in exchange for newer, simpler ones. The intent is always to become as approachable, as unchallenging as possible. There is no de facto death of older types of usage as long as they are recorded and we know how they work and some of us use them still - it’s literally a few linguists trying to give Modern Greek a distinct, simpler identity by ignoring the language’s most crucial characteristic: its flexibility.

Νεφεληγερέτης Ζεύς is a common characterisation of Zeus in the Iliad (Nepheliyerétis Zeús - Zeus the Cloud-gatherer) . There is no real reason to prevent someone from using this phrase intact nowadays, as both roots of the first word do exist in modern Greek. And even if someone was too self-conscious about writing so ambitiously, they could do with a more modern or folkish version like νεφελοστοιβάχτης or συννεφοστοιβάχτης or νεφομαζωχτής or νεφελαθροιστής (ie nephelostiváchtis, sinephostiváchtis, nephomazochtís, nephelathristís). Would they though? No, they wouldn’t. Why take the extra step?

My point is, Modern Greek is an overlooked, extremely potent language and we do exactly nothing with or about it.

*Whoever is quick to argue that a language never deteriorates because it always morphs into a reflection of its respective nation / society and its needs should either stop fooling themselves or immediately get alarmed by the current state of the respective society at question.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

remember it once - chapter three

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack x Belle Rating: T (will change) Chapter: 3 / 7 Word Count: 2900

For today's @dodgerfoxweek prompt: love letters/banter

read on tumblr: one | two

The months are long without her. Jack finds himself softening towards Sneed of all people. Following the lifesaving procedure Jack performed on Belle, Sneed has demonstrated a genuine interest in bettering his basic surgical skills and acquiring the more advanced techniques he lacks. He’s still superior, still snide, still essentially Sneed, but now he listens to Jack’s ideas and, occasionally, compliments him on his successful surgeries.

The number of successful surgeries has been increasing steadily since Belle introduced ether and carbolic acid, and with Sneed cooperating, the two doctors are able to work side by side in the theatre on the same patient. This frequently shortens surgery time, which has manifold resulting benefits: decreased blood loss, reduced risk of death from time spent under anaesthesia, shorter duration for Jack and Sneed to endure each other’s presence. Strangely, the situation has become something akin to… training each other. When Prof goes, the hospital’s power structure should actually change for the better, with two capable surgeons sharing their knowledge. Sneed will be Jack’s reliable right hand, and Jack has dreams of bringing in new doctors who will contribute to the pooling of information rather than existing in competition with one another and risking lives in the process.

Of course, it isn’t a completely smooth partnership. Sneed can be awfully Sneedy at times. Whenever he makes a dig about Jack’s reading, Jack urges him to put his own educated shoulder to the wheel to see if he can find the cure for being an insufferable git. Someone really should, he insists while watching Sneed’s mustache twitch with restrained petulance, in this day and age.

Unless he’s tending to his patients, Jack keeps his evenings for himself. He’s trying not to gamble, not to drink too much (admittedly, “too much” is an inconstant measure), not to say yes to Fagin’s more suspicious plans; anything he claims is “foolproof” is particularly to be avoided. It isn’t exciting, but nothing really is without her.

Just once during the four-month voyage that carries Belle to England, a letter is delivered to Jack. Well, it’s delivered onto another ship, to the postmaster in Port Victory, to Government house, into Fanny’s hands, and she turns up at the hospital—to his initial confusion. Since Fanny escaped marriage to the Lettuce, Jack isn’t aware of any renewed interest in Sneed. He doesn’t understand what she’s doing here. When she says she’s received a letter, he imagines the very worst and feels his face drain of blood, but Fanny launches into a description of Belle’s experiences thus far. By her tone, Jack slowly recognizes that this letter was not followed by a note about Lady Belle Fox’s tragic burial at sea. He exhales. Even though Fanny feels that she’s communicated everything, Jack asks her to read the letter. He wants to hear Belle’s words.

Tell Jack I would write to him if Mother was not watching me like a hawk, Belle writes. I forgive her, only because we have been two months at sea and even the pastimes which were initially the most novel have become dully familiar. Without a full household staff to command—and Father, crucially Father—her attention falls heavily on me. She tells me to do my embroidery and study my Latin instead of the anatomy texts she finds “vulgar” and “revolting.” This is most amusing, considering her own pricked fingers and the seasickness that rears its head whenever she attempts to read for an extended period.

“It sounds dreadful,” Jack remarks, crossing his arms.

“But you were in the Navy!” Fanny protests. “Don’t you love the sea?”

“I didn’t mean the sea.”

She may be willfully ignoring the implication that he was talking about her mother.

It is not recommended that I stand on deck, Fanny reads on, but after I had done it once, I was determined to return. Fanny, it takes the breath from one’s lungs. Blue. Everywhere. To be in constant motion, harvesting the energy of the waves. Some mornings—

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

Jack’s vision had unfocused as he listened, reintroduced to the sea he’d made his career upon through Belle’s eyes. He realizes the question is Fanny’s and blinks.

“Which part?”

“All that dreadful… air! The wet!”

“Keep reading.”

Fanny sulks but lifts the paper once again.

Some mornings, I catch the dawn. The sky is the blackest thing you can imagine, and then, suddenly, the ship and all of us onboard are born into the world. I believe we are hardly real between sunset and sunrise. Colours seem to seep up from the horizon as though the paintings you love so much have been washed in the distant water, fleshy pinks and bitter oranges rise and bleed. It is the most vital thing I have ever seen. I only wish Jack were with me. Tell him, Fanny. I can hardly believe I won’t sail from one shore and meet him at another…

“It becomes a bit… romantic,” Fanny explains, not exactly bashful, but certainly aware that she is privy to something Belle and Jack would ideally keep to themselves. “Would you like to read the rest alone?”

Ah. Then it is uncomfortable.

Before he can speak, Jack watches Fanny’s eyes widen as she recalls the disastrous dinner. She’s about to assume (only because Sneed bloody announced as much) he can’t read. He heads her off, quiet and flushed while he explains that it is difficult, not impossible. Easier when words are written clearly with plenty of space, more difficult when someone’s handwriting is cramped and smudged. He can read. It just takes time, but he will spend time on Belle, he will sit with her letter and focus and squint in order to relieve Fanny of her messenger duties.

“But what about when you want to write back?” Fanny asks, eyes searching but kind.

“I’ll ask—” But who will he ask to correspond with his fiancée on his behalf? Fanny is probably the best choice as she’s keen to support their romance, but she’s nosy. He might (he does) want to say things that only Belle’s eyes will read.

“Oh! I have already thought of something much better!” Fanny gushes. Jack hasn’t yet had the opportunity to suggest a single name.

—

“It is the images that I find so very awful,” Fanny explains, supporting this assertion with a grimace as she pages past an illustration of a grotesquely swollen tongue, “but it was the images Belle seemed to like best, of late.”

She’s installed him in her sister’s room. One of Belle’s medical texts is open on her desk, and the pair of them stand over it in contemplation. The Governor is in town and the household staff are either entirely disinterested in what Lady Fanny and Dr. Dawkins might be doing in Lady Belle’s bedroom or else they don’t care a whit. Even if they did care, Jack thinks, what are they to do about it? Most of them probably can’t read any better than he can, if at all. They certainly won’t be writing to Lady Fox to inform her of the young doctor’s latest misdeed.

“What do you think?” Fanny asks.

“I couldn’t overstate their usefulness,” Jack says, turning a few pages himself. “And I suppose they are things of beauty, when done well.” He traces graceful lines of musculature. “The detail shows an interest in precision and care, which I can certainly relate to.”

“Not of the images themselves,” Fanny complains, closing the volume with sudden petulance. “My idea! Drawing to Belle instead of writing to her!”

“I’m not sure I have your… skill,” he states cautiously, recalling Fanny’s very memorable trees. “Not to mention your instruction. You must have had tutors?”

“I did have one, but he was quite rigid. We had a difference of taste.”

“I see.”

“Have you ever drawn?” she wonders.

“A little,” Jack admits. At last, he removes his hat, setting it on the desk. He brushes a hand through his hair. “We surgeons try to keep notes of our surgeries—successful and not. Often, Hetty will take dictation for me, but if she’s busy, or the procedure’s something I did by feel rather than by sight, it can be easier for me to try to sketch what I remember.”

Fanny smiles encouragingly.

“Try, then.”

This is how he removes his coat and pulls up a chair. It is how he casts his eyes over the pencils and sticks of charcoal, the messy potted watercolours, before reaching out to touch the tools with his fingertips. Jack doesn’t notice when Fanny leaves him to it, but at some point, there is a cup of tea on the desk into which he accidentally dips a brush. He doesn’t realize until he fills his mouth with the chalky flavour of diluted paint.

It's his own palm he’s attempting to represent. He curls and opens his hand, studying the toughened skin. In his mind, he peels back time, scrubs away the callouses to peel back his very skin, remembering his palm ripped open from the ropes on the first ship on which he sailed. Jack sketches the ragged edges of the injury, the glow of abrasion. With a sodden brush, he dips into the red, then swipes across the paper, watching the wound bleed as the water spreads. He wrings some of the water out before applying more paint to the spot, getting the colour rich and real and—

Fanny shrieks from behind him.

“How awful! I mean, excellent.” She smiles in apology. “I wish I had never seen it, and I mean that as the most sincere compliment.”

“I understand. I appreciate your opinion.”

“Do you?” She looks genuinely surprised. “I can see why Belle fancies you.”

It really isn’t his place to tell his fiancée’s sister she should expect more than basic respect from any man she’d hope to marry, so he doesn’t. Fanny is much more assured in the advice she gives to him, offering blunt criticism as she points to different parts of his creation. Not unkind though.

“Again soon?” she asks when she’s done and he’s standing to go, realizing he has paint soaked into the sleeves he didn’t roll up his arms soon enough. Unusual. It’s normally blood there.

Jack nods.

—

While he’s still learning, Belle’s letters begin arriving from London. Fanny dutifully shares each one. Now that Belle has more freedom to write—physical freedom, without her mother looking over her shoulder—each letter contains the sentence “Fanny, stop reading.” Jack appreciates the honesty of Fanny reading this line aloud, though she does also frown at being excluded from the rest.

The rest.

It has to be Fanny who explained, and Jack is grateful for it. The remainder of Belle’s letters are written larger, with spaces between the letters, each word cleanly executed on the page. They’re legible, specifically for him, exactly how he told Fanny a letter would need to be to lessen his struggle.

At last, he has an account of her longing firsthand. She doesn’t speak of the engagement—there is still a risk that Fanny would spy the word, even if she weren’t intentionally snooping—but it’s clear she isn’t only writing to an acquaintance, a friend, a fellow student of the human body. That Belle refers to well enough, perhaps dangerously so, but it’s all in Latin. The switch from one language to another stumps Jack at first, but he learns to watch out for it. In Latin, Belle is both formal and erotic, and Jack finds himself angling her letters away from the eyes of Hetty and Fagin, though neither knows the language. While Belle’s sentences are stiff, the parts of the body she employs Latin to address—parts of his body, and hers, frequently imagined together—evoke visceral memories. The dusty old language can be surprisingly sensual, Jack finds, when Belle writes of skin on skin.

He responds with broken bones, chipped teeth, dislocated jaws—drawings of all the latest cases to pass through his ward, everything Belle’s missing. It’s when he’s replicating the twisting line of stitches he threaded into an elbow the other day that he has the idea to embellish beyond paint; Jack pokes through her belongings (sorry, Belle) until he discovers her embroidery thread. After that, his art becomes vivid in a way that almost astounds him, even as he jabs the needle through the page. He lays a skin-coloured wash on an arm, then raises a blue vein down its length. He adds fibre ribs to open cadavers, creeping lines of red to blood-shot eyes. When he gathers both Fanny’s art supplies and his strength to recreate the surgery he’ll remember for the rest of his days, he brings Belle’s aorta to life in crimson before sewing in the noose that ties it off. I love you, he tries his best to say. I love you all the way through.

—

Dearest Jack,

I must tell you immediately, or with as much immediacy as a letter from Britain to Australia can allow, that my mother and I will be home in Port Victory sooner than we had planned. Therefore, do not suspect me of neglecting our correspondence if you do not hear from me with the regularity to which we have both grown accustomed. I may be boarding a ship within the week. I fear my mother is being overly cautious, but as an earlier departure is to my benefit, I was hardly about to protest. The responsibility for her agitated state is mine, as I will unfold.

I’ve told you of my time at the University College Hospital here in London. As access to the hospital was key to my mother getting me here, she has allowed me to maintain a standing appointment with staff. I have observed so much and taken copious notes. Your letters also inspired me to seek out a young nurse here, who I was told had something of a talent for drawing. I’ve paid her to illustrate my notes, so that we might more easily replicate these new techniques on our patients when I am back.

Though I miss you terribly—you know I do, Jack, do not be too jealous of London’s sick and injured, monopolize my time though they may—there has been so much to learn that I was deeply frustrated by the wave of sickness that suddenly swept the city. Before you leap to chastise my response, yes, I know it was a selfish one. You see, at home, you might have called on me to help mitigate the spread of illness. Here, I am an indulged guest. I may be present at surgeries and question patient doctors, but in the case of an outbreak, I am denied entry. Foolishly, I complained about this to my mother. Rather than commiserate with me over the injustice of my being shut out when I have the time, inclination, and very possibly the skills necessary to help, she determined they were quite right to bar me. A mere two days later, she decided we had better leave them to it and sail for home while our own health is still sound.

This does not mean I have seen nothing, and, Jack, I am not so selfish as to hope this illness reaches Port Victory. It appears to be neither influenza nor typhoid. I may have been able to diagnose it with closer study, but such a thing was denied me. At least these male doctors cannot separate me from my books; I have already begun packing my trunks with all the latest literature. I know you will make time for me so that we can discuss things properly. It is an enormous comfort.

It's been more than half a year since our separation began, yet I doubt you have forgotten what awaits us upon my return. My mother will see how you have flourished in your role as Head Surgeon, and she will know how steadfast our love has been. I believe our engagement has lasted long enough. I long for us to be united in all ways.

Yours across oceans,

Belle

—

The months are slower than ever, but not even Sneed on his crankiest day can bother Jack now. When Prof finally stepped aside, as recognition for his substantial contributions to the health of the colony (To the death rate, more like, Jack thought, but resisted impertinence just this once), he was allowed to maintain his residence in the house meant to be passed between head surgeons. Braced for the worst, Jack was surprised that this didn’t mean he wouldn’t be offered the things his predecessor had enjoyed.

Instead, they built him a new house.

The day he was granted his own bed is still clear in Jack’s mind, the day he was given his own quarters at the hospital even clearer. An entire house is so overwhelming that he puts off moving in. He’s afraid of the strange and terrible objects that will fill it—spoons in the kitchen and settees in the parlour. Innumerable trinkets for Fagin to nick, no doubt. Jack will have to pretend to mind, because the best thing that will be in the house will be Belle. He can’t imagine being concerned about much else.

He takes to strolling down to the dock each morning. On one of them, Belle’s ship comes in.

[marlo-noni]

Thank you @cynosurus for asking if I've ever written about my Mandarin learning journey, because I haven't, and I have stuff to say about it!

So, why and how did this middle-aged white lady learn Chinese? Here's the first part of that story, which focuses on why and how I started, and gets pretty introspective.

First of all, I was born and raised in the suburbs of Vancouver, Canada, and I've lived in Vancouver proper since 2003. We have a very large Chinese-Canadian population. As of 2009, about 30% of people in Vancouver have some Chinese ancestry.

I've always been really into languages. In my first year of university, I studied Latin, and the grammar was so difficult that I wasn't motivated to continue studying a dead language.

So in my second year, in 1999, I started studying Mandarin. I thought (1) it would be a challenge, (2) it's a very useful language to know in Vancouver, (3) I grew up around a lot of overt anti-Asian racism and wanted to combat that, and (4) I wanted to learn more about the Chinese culture that was always around me but that I knew practically nothing about. It also helped that my grandmother, always a free thinker, had been practicing tai chi since 1980 (the year I was born), and my grandparents went on a trip to China in the mid-90s and came back with interesting photos and stories.

I think it also must have been in the zeitgeist in the 90s that Asian culture was cool, and white people wanted to appropriate it. I was certainly into J-pop and anime by then, and I actually wore a qipao to grad (Canadian equivalent of senior prom) that I bought in Chinatown. If you've seen or read Scott Pilgrim, which takes place in Toronto (which also has a very large Chinese population) in the 90s, that gives you a bit of an idea of white Canadians' relationship with Chinese-Canadians at that time.

I say all this just to make it clear that although very few white people in my community studied Chinese back then, and one of the reasons I started studying it was anti-racism, I wasn't some galaxy-brained politically pure being. I had good intentions, but I still lived in that time and did a lot of the same ignorant stuff other white people did. I had Chinese friends, but I cringe when I think of some of the things I said to them and did back then. It has been a decades-long learning process for me.

I'm also very lucky that my university (the University of British Columbia, aka UBC) has an extremely robust Asian Studies program. My Chinese* classes were very intensive - 2 hours long, 4 times a week, with language labs on top of that (I can't remember anymore how long). We got 6 credits per semester instead of 3 because it was double the coursework and class time of a regular class. Because I intended to minor in Chinese, I also took Asian Studies classes, including a general overview of Asian history (2 semesters long), modern Chinese literature in translation, and early Chinese dynastic history.

I studied Chinese in university for 3 years. UBC had two Chinese language streams - one for "non-heritage" speakers, and one for "heritage speakers". They interviewed all the students beforehand to decide which stream we should be in. Being in the non-heritage stream made it nearly impossible to minor or major in Chinese, simply because it takes so long to learn. I would estimate we were only at HSK 2, approaching HSK 3, by the time my third year was done. But the fourth year, the last year, placed all the heritage and non-heritage students together, and the fourth-year classes were reading Chinese literature. One girl in my class, who'd lived in Taiwan before and was the best student in our class, went to speak with a fourth-year professor to ask if she could take his class because she wanted to minor in Chinese. He basically told her it would be impossible. I can understand the university's dilemma, though. I don't know how they teach it now - if they've ever come up with a solution. I think now there are probably more non-heritage students who studied Mandarin in high school. That simply wasn't an option when I was growing up.

The other thing is that I wasn't a great student in university, because I hadn't yet been diagnosed with depression and wouldn't be until my 5th year (I was also working part-time, so I did fewer classes and attended for an extra year). University was slowly making my mental illness worse until I finally had a breakdown in my final year. So my first year of studying Chinese, I got pretty good grades, but by my third year (fourth year of being in university), I was getting C+'s.

So by the time I was done university, I'd say I was at about HSK 2 level, and it was time for me to start working. From then on, any Chinese study I did would be self-study, and like many people's hobbies, my interest waxed and waned over time. More on that in future posts.

(*)at that time, UBC didn't teach Cantonese, even though the vast majority of the Chinese diaspora in Vancouver spoke it. I think that's been historically true for most West Coast cities in North America, although that has been changing. So the only option at that time was Mandarin. Also, we learned simplified characters.

[unhonestlymirror]

Oh, I love it when people who call themselves "Belarusian" can't even spell their own country's cities properly.

*with that meme voice* OH MY GAAAWWDD WHAT IS THAT :O :O

Now, there are actually several ways to write Polatsk correctly (and Polotsk is NOT one of them):

1. Połack - in łacinka, Belaruthian Latin form. Not very suitable for passports or basic keyboards, but this is the official name for Polatsk you can find in Belaruthian newspapers like Naša Niva.

N.B. Some people don't like using the hard L letter [ł] so they write Polack instead, and just write [li] to highlight the soft L sound, e.g., "kaliandar" - calendar.

2. Polatsak (Połacak) - this is how they used to call Polatsk in taraškievica spelling system (more traditional), before the narkamaŭka spelling system.

"In August 1933, the chairman of the Soviet People's Committee of the BSSR, Galadzed, signed a decree on changes, simplification and actual approximation of the spelling of the Belarusian language to the russian one. At the time of this Bolshevik "reform", most of the leading Belarusian linguists were already in prisons and exiles. By the moment when they are all shot in 1937, the new simplified and close to russian spelling system was already completely prevailed in the BSSR." (c) Radyjo Svaboda about narkamaŭka.

I should add that both taraškevica and narkamaŭka are quite widely used because some people prefer traditional spelling more and some people (my mom) don't like too many letters in one word. If you're studying Belaruthian, it's up to you which system to use, and using narkamaŭka doesn't make you a bad person.

Nevertheless, if you want to be more historically accurate, you better call Polatsk "Polatsak/Połacak".

"Polotsk" is a RUSSIFIED VERSION, and it is as much correct to use as "Kievan Rus" and "Byelorussia". You're not a russian chekist time travelling to our days from 1940s, aren't you?

[yeoubbi]

school updates !

first day things:

- 4 fire drills???

- found out i hate large classes

- archaeology prof: “why are you taking this class/what do you know about archaeology?” student: “i dont know anything i just thought this class would be about dinosaur bones and thought that was cool”

- there are so many people everywhere at all times, my cc was basically abandoned in comparison (hoping this is just a week one thing its super overwhelming, i couldnt even find a place to sit and study other than picnic benches outside)

- couldnt find the library part of the library? (there were tables and a service desk but i did not see bookshelves? must explore more)

textbooks:

apparently my financial aid won’t cover my textbooks at all. managed to find 2 in free pdf form, the last one was $110 at the school bookstore but i found it on amazon for $47 instead although it wont be here till the end of next week and i have an assignment due before then that requires reading 😭.

on another note though if anyone wants the drive with those 2 textbooks (theyre for biological anthropology, & dinosaurs: a natural history) im willing to share it! ill be compiling a drive with all the textbooks i use/can find throughout my program.

first impressions of my classes:

- was a half hour late for ethnomusicology and prof wasnt happy but i dont know my way around. not sure how i feel about it so far since i missed the whole intro

- dinosaurs seems like itll be fun. lots of neurodivergent vibes in that classroom and love that the prof posted multiple chapter slides early so im able to get ahead if i want to

- bio anthro… already know im gonna hate this one. the classroom is super dimly lit and too small to fit the amount of desks/students. there are two people teaching it and they constantly interrupt the other making it hard for me to follow and also hard to hear if im not right in the front of the class.

- cultural anthro should be interesting. prof seems chill and same for my classmates but why is it that all cultural anthro professors (at least the ones ive had/met) are actually economic anthropologists that put heavy emphasis on it in their classes? i dont want to learn economics lmao.

- archaeology!! very small class size and has a younger professor that focuses on historical archaeology of african diasporas in central/latin america. im most excited for this & dinosaurs personally.

[mochinomnoms]

OH PLEASE TALK ABOUT COCO AND THE BOOK OF LIFE my favorite topic tbh

I prefer the book of life i find the whole "these people that look like wooden dolls are meant to be the ones from the history while real people outside of the history don't have the wood look" amazing and a great detail and LA CATRINAAA??? gorgeous woman (also I should say that idia could be the xibalba in the Catarina and Xibalba dynamic there is just this vibe yk yk)

Book of life came before Coco (plus Disney didn't own the century whatever company that book of life originally was from) and when Disney did make their own Dia de los muertos themed movie they tried to TRADEMARK EL DIA DE LOS MUERTOS TO MAKE MERCH? Insane.

(Making Pastel de choclo and other chilean dishes like pebre but it just isn't the same with regular ingredients instead of your country ingredients yk? LIKE HARVESTED ON YOUR MOTHER COUNTRY it doesn't taste the same I would include that as a step in the recipe that I am giving Azul totally knowing my country doesn't exist in twst and Azul is taking that step seriously lmao)

-Vaquita

Oooh so I didn't have time to answer this yesterday since I was busy at work. But my general thoughts are that while I enjoy both movies and their portrayal of Día de Muertos, the book of life feels (and is) a story made for and by Mexicans for other Mexicans. You can tell from the music styling, the humor, and the artistic style itself! There are for sure some liberties taken (Xibalba is not a god in mythos it's the name of the underworld roughly) but it feels very true and faithful as an experience. Coco, while I enjoy it, feels more like a group of well intending white Americans wanting to make a movie about Día de Muertos, though I'll give credit they did have Latino artists and cultural workers involved. The style of the movie just also feels more American and, as part of a study I did in undergrad, most Mexicans and other Latinos in general feel that it was made with a very general audience in mind rather than Mexicans or Latinos at all.

La Muerte in the book of life is a very interesting version of her and her design is beautiful! Los muertos in general in the first movie have a more fun, varied design to them, while the second movie just looks and feels like another Pixar film. I don't think it's a bad movie, I loved it and the music is wonderful, but it doesn't feel as genuine, especially watching as a Mexican.

If you like the book of life, the creator also has Maya and the Three (set in the same universe) but also created the nickelodeon show Le Tigre and the CN show Victor and Valentino. He's a Mexican animator, so all his shows are set with that background in mind, but it's very enjoyable for anyone to watch! If you're a fan of the music the composer is Gustavo Alfredo Santaolalla, who also did the music for the Last of Us games and show, Brokeback Mountain, and also Maya and the Three.

As for the Disney trademark thing, I know their request was either revoked by Disney themselves or denied due to the backlash. For anyone not super familiar with Latin holidays and stuff, Disney trademarking Día de Muertos is the equivalent of Hallmark trying to trademark Christmas. The only thing they can trademark now is their specific characters and imagery associated with their film, but there's a lot of drama surrounding that and using the likeness of real people and their art in the film without permission.

(I feel you about the food tho, I can't make certain dishes without a very specific brands and items sometimes. I would actually refuse to cause it won't turn out right, and I'm not damning myself or my cooking abilities lmao. Azul would probably get so stressed out with both of us aslkjdalkj)