#but he was telling me some anecdote about a royal funeral

[skitskatdacat63]

I finally asked my prof who his fav Habsburg is and he was SO delighted 😭 I told him I've been researching and he was like "on your own???" 🤭🤭

[toasterwords]

Irena was chosen by lot to be the lindwurm's wife, after it devoured the third and last of the princesses. Prince Viktoras came himself to inform her.

Convenient, she thought, that the lottery had drawn Irena, from the lower city, poor and almost kinless. An only child, her mother dead, her father old and feeble.

And the bride-price that the crown prince brought with him was enough to support her father in comfort for the rest of his days. Irena could take it and be free of this house, of the burden of his care, of watching him slip away as he forgot her face more and more often. Or she could be carried away by the guards the prince had brought, and leave nothing behind to help him.

She had no power here, and she was wise enough to know it.

Her father, sitting at the kitchen table, stared mutely as the prince set the money on the table in front of him. Irena had to pick the box of coin up herself.

"I need time to make arrangements for my father," she said to the prince.

"Of course," he said. "You have half an hour to prepare yourself before we depart for the palace. Be sure you do not go more than a house or two away."

"I won't make trouble for you," Irena said. "It would only upset him more."

She looked Prince Viktoras in the eye until he looked away, and it satisfied her, just a little, to know that he was ashamed. Then she took the fine enameled box that held her bride-price, her blood-price, and walked next door with it. Widow Simoniene made the evil eye in the guards' direction, but took the money and the key to the little house and agreed to look after Irena's father.

Irena went back home with a heavy step to say goodbye.

"She thinks she'll move in, and rent out the big house," Irena told her father. "She doesn't need all that space, now that her sons have moved away. You won't be alone without me."

Her father wasn't speaking today, and Irena wasn't sure how much he understood. But he held Irena's hand tightly, looking over Irena's shoulder at the guards in the doorway. Irena clutched it back for a moment, then pried her father's fingers off and turned away.

She didn't look back as she left him. Her father had taught her pride, and she hoped that he still recognized it.

***

The walls of the castle loomed around her like the bars of a cage. She was received in state, like she was yet another princess. The king and queen and courtiers seemed embarrassed by her dress, work-worn, and her braid, falling down her back for lack of pins. But if they had wanted her to be more presentable, she thought, they should have given her more than half an hour to put her affairs in order.

After a hasty formal greeting, she was ushered away from the royal family and put into the hands of a half-dozen maidservants. They spread out the three dresses and two petticoats that she'd brought from home, and began discussing how to refine them by the morrow. Irena was deposited into a steaming bath, with one junior maidservant to help her.

A knock came on the door while Irena was still bathing. The maidservant rose to answer it, and returned with a bundle of fabric in her arms.

"The Lady Astrauskaite has sent you some of her dresses," she said. "And says that you may have them altered if they suit you, or do what you like with them if they don't."

Irena knew the name. Duke Astrauskis' daughter. Betrothed to the prince who had come to collect Irena. The betrothal that had sparked all of the princess-eating in the first place.

Was it sympathy, that had prompted the gift, or pity, or condescension? No doubt she had been at the blighted reception. But without knowing who in the crowd the lady had been, Irena did not know if the fuss had led her to flinch or to sneer.

She did not know, either, if Lady Astrauskaite had wanted to be betrothed to Prince Viktoras. If it pained her to see other women eaten because the king wanted his heir wedded to her, and the lindwurm demanded to be given its bride first.

"Is there a way for me to speak to the lady?" she asked the maidservant. "To thank her?"

The maidservant hesitated. "A note would be most appropriate."

"I cannot write," Irena said. "Is there no way to speak to her in person?"

She wanted to know if this was meant as a kindness. It might be easier to have someone write a note for her, and go to her death pretending that it was. But she would wonder, and it would niggle at her, and she did not want to go to her wedding and her funeral wearing a dress given to her out of condescension. She might be poor, and she might be trapped, but she had too much pride for that.

"Not that is proper, just to give thanks. But-" The maidservant's eyes were sad. "You are not scheduled to dine with the royal family tonight, and Lady Astrauskaite is not either. There would be nothing wrong with one woman extending an invitation to another, especially if they were soon to be sisters-in-law."

"Then I would like to do so," Irena said.

***

Lady Astrauskaite was taller than Irena, and much plumper, which meant that the borrowed dress Irena chose to dine in had to be discreetly brought in with pins. The lady's hair was bleached yellow, and her complexion hidden with white powder. She looked as uncomfortable as Irena felt.

"Thank you for joining me, my lady," Irena said, with a very cautious curtsey. The pins in the dress pricked her if she did not move rigidly and with care.

"Please, don't," Lady Astrauskaite said, which made the face of the steward following behind her pinch unpleasantly. "We are future sisters. After tomorrow. And after my wedding, of course. So you can call me Rugile, as a sister would."

"Yes, my lady," Irena said, unable not to look at the steward's sour face. "Thank you. You may call me Irena."

The table was small, for intimate conversation, which only made the dinner more awkward. The food was splendid, soft white bread and creamy cheese and rich meat-packed soup. It sank to the bottom of Irena's stomach like stones.

Within two courses, Irena felt sure the dresses had been a kindness, because everything that Lady Astrauskaite said was kind, and without sneer. She asked after Irena's health, and after that of her family, and she seemed genuinely distressed to hear about Irena's father. She diverted them after that to light anecdotes, tales of tutors and horses and amusing court mishaps, and winced anew with guilt whenever Irena lacked the grounding to laugh at a tale.

After two whole courses, Irena cleared her throat. "My lady, what can you tell me of the lindwurm?"

Lady Astrauskaite went still, then set her spoon down, looking Irena in the eye. "What do you already know?"

"That the queen was barren for ten years, and she went to a witch to open her womb. And that because the conceiving was unnatural, so was the birth, and while one child came out healthy and whole, the other came out as a lindwurm. And that it is confined to the palace, and horrible to look upon. That's all that we in the lower city know."

"It's not so terrible, once you get to know it."

"Except for the eating its brides."

"Yes." Lady Astrauskaite picked up her napkin, and began to twist it in her fingers. "It wasn't the witch's fault, you know. She told the queen to eat one of two flowers, and only one. Red for a boy, or white for a girl. And she ate the white first, but then she thought of her husband, and how he needed a son, and ate the red as well."

"And the queen told you this, my lady?"

"Yes. In confidence. The king would be furious if he knew."

There was a silent question in her gaze, asking if Irena would keep that confidence, and Irena nodded back. She knew of angry husbands and angry fathers, though her father had blessedly never been one. You never told them what you knew.

"She went back to the witch, she told me. After the lindwurm was born, and again, in desperation, after the second princess was wed and eaten."

"And what did the witch tell her?"

"The first time, that the lindwurm could only be made human if someone was found to trade their one skin for the ten it wore. And that of course was impossible, because who wished to be a lindwurm? The second time, she gave up another way, but it would require great courage from the bride."

She looked Irena in the eye. Another silent question, and again, Irena nodded.

"Tell it to me."

"As the queen told me that the witch told her, when you retire for the wedding night, you must have ready a tub of lye, and a tub of milk, and a stack of ten birch rods. And you must be dressed in ten layers of dresses. Then, when the time comes to undress, you must take off one layer at a time, and tell the lindwurm to shed a skin in exchange for each one. By the time you are both finished, the innermost part of the lindwurm will be exposed. Then dip the birch rods in lye, to beat it into the right shape, and bath it in milk, to give it a new skin. And last and most importantly, you must lie and embrace it the whole night through, as a woman embraces a lover."

"But there was the third princess before me," Irena said. "Did she not try this?"

"No," Lady Astrauskaite said, her gaze downcast. "I told her what the queen told me, and I had the tubs and the birch rods ready. But she had told me twice that she was not sure that she could embrace the lindwurm, that the last piece seemed the hardest. And at the wedding she tried to flee. The lindwurm gave chase, and she- she was caught and devoured."

Where had she thought to run, in this crumbling old castle? Maybe it had seemed less of a cage to a princess. But she'd been caught in it nonetheless.

"I will not run," Irena said. Clearly she could not. "And if the other choice is to be eaten, of course I will try the witch's spell."

Lady Astrauskaite smiled, worn and relieved. "The dresses I sent to your rooms should be enough to bring you to ten layers. I will bid the servants have the tubs ready in the marriage chamber, and the birch rods with them. They gave me no argument before, and will not now, though they might have looked askance at you."

Of course they would obey her. They hovered nearby even now; surely they'd heard everything. And surely they would snatch just as eagerly at a chance to be rid of the lindwurm.

***

Despite the hope that Lady Astrauskaite had offered, Irena could not sleep the whole night through. It was difficult to think about herself being eaten. But it was easy to think about her father waking without her, confused and distressed by her absence. Any explanation the Widow Simoniene made would confuse him more, or upset him if he could understand it.

Irena dressed herself in her ten layers, her own well-fitting dresses on the bottom, Lady Astraukaite's larger, more splendid dresses on the top. By the time she had put the tenth and last one on, the ones below padded it thoroughly, so that she seemed to fill it out the same way that a rich woman would.

The wedding was a thoroughly dismal affair. First there was a feast, tediously long, interrupted by faltering speeches between every course. Every speaker proposed a toast to the happy couple, and Irena, who had never had more than a single glass of watered wine in a night, had to struggle to keep her head from spinning.

She wasn't even seated close to her intended spouse, for the lindwurm had a table of its own, away from the grand one where Irena sat amid the royal cousins. Food enough for ten men went down the great creature's gullet. It was scaled like a snake in mold-colored grey, with stiff ridges along its spine. There were legs near the front end, powerful and clawed, and above that the head of a dragon.

Though the servants kept its table laden with steaming roasts and sweetmeats, it kept its eye on her, staring with unabashed hunger. Only when Irena met its gaze directly did it look away. No one else at the table seemed to acknowledge its presence. Nor hers, for that matter. Only Lady Astrauskaite tried to speak to her, and quickly was diverted.

If the feast was dismal, the wedding ceremony was more so. Prince Viktoras escorted Irena to the dais from one side of the hall, and the queen, pale-faced and stiff-backed, walked with the lindwurm from the other. The priest's hands trembled as he turned the pages of the holy book.

"Irena Kazlauskaite, do you take this-" He had to pause there, take a deep breath, and then continue. "-This lindwurm, to be your wedded spouse, your protector, to love and to obey?"

"I do," she said, and was proud that her voice sounded clearer and stronger than his.

"Lindwurm, do you take this woman to be your wedded wife, your helpmeet, to love and to protect?"

"I do," said the lindwurm. Its voice grated like stones rubbing across each other, and it still stared at Irena with nakedly hungry eyes.

She stared back, watching the restless twitching of its mighty coils, which could each trap a man within them, and the flex of its forelimbs, which had dragged its length effortlessly down the narrow aisle. It could tear the castle walls to pieces if it wanted to.

And why hadn't it? Trapped within these hallways, confined in rooms that must be entirely too small for it? For a creature so strong, the castle was no cage at all. Irena would have torn her way free and fled to the countryside long ago. She looked at the hunger in its eyes and felt an echo of it in her own heart, imagining how easily it, unlike her, could break loose from its prison.

Yet it stayed, pretending to princedom, dragging her into its farce of a royal wedding. She wished she could know why.

The priest finished giving his blessing. The young prince and the queen retreated, along with the trembling priest, from the dais. A forced, ragged cheer rang out from the assembled witnesses. She tore her eyes away from the lindworm's body, and saw it tear its eyes away from hers.

There was no glad chivaree for the newly-wedded couple, only a solemn procession to the top of an elegantly-appointed tower. It was well-furnished, Irena saw as they wound their way upwards, but the furnishings were all damaged, fabrics torn by claw and tooth, wood cracked and splintered by the lindwurm's terrible tail. The enormous bed was new-made, with fresh sheets, but she could see where it, too, had scuffs and scars on the bedposts.

By the fire, two tubs sat waiting. One was filled with yellowish lye, the other with fresh white milk. Ten birch rods lay in a neat stack between them. Irena glanced back at her grim escort, and caught sight of Lady Astrauskaite, who nodded to her from the rear.

Then they all left, and the door slammed shut, and Irena was alone with her new spouse.

"My wife," the lindwurm said, in its stone-on-stone voice, coiling up very near to her.

"My name is Irena," she said, looking up to meet the lindwurm's eyes. "As we are married, you may call me by it. And what am I to call you by?"

The lindwurm reeled back from her. "I have been given no name. I should have the mirror to my twin's, but they will not grant it to me, for the priests say a monster cannot be baptized."

Irena was trying too hard not to show her trembling to spare time for pity. But at that phrasing, she looked at the lindwurm anew.

"The white flower was to be for a girl," she said, remembering the tale Lady Astrauskaite had shared with her. "And the queen ate that one before the other. Your name should be Viktorija."

"Yes," the lindwurm said, drawing closer. "You know the tale. The misborn child of greed and folly, trapped in a shape that no soul desires."

Irena looked up to meet those hungry eyes, now closer to starving. "If you feel so trapped inside that skin, why do you not exercise what freedom you do have? If you do not want to seem so monstrous, you should not eat the women you marry."

The lindwurm turned her head away. "It is this form. In it, there are urges that I cannot resist. When I desire something badly enough, I am driven to devour it. I desired flowers, as a child, and I devoured the garden my mother planted for me. I desired books, when I learned they held knowledge, and I devoured the library when Viktoras took me to it. And I desire humanity, and the love that humans feel for each other, and so-"

"And so," Irena echoed. "I will tell you now, I may know a way to free you from that skin. But you must do as I ask, and it may hurt, very badly."

The way Lady Astrauskaite had spoken of it, Irena had thought that the key would be trickery. But she had not thought then of speaking civilly with the lindwurm. It was one thing to lie to a monstrous creature, one who would be a man and a prince at the end of it. It was a very different thing to deceive another woman.

"You do?" The lindwurm turned towards her with amazing speed, eyes wide, claws gripping the floor so hard they left grooves in the wood. "No matter how it may hurt, I will do everything that you ask."

"Then first, you must shed a skin."

The lindwurm sagged a gainst the floor, the joy going out of her. "It is not time for me to shed, and I cannot force it to begin. Even my own claws cannot tear this terrible hide."

Irena thought back to Lady Astrauskaite's phrasing. She would have to act as closely to the witch's words as possible, if she was not going to fall into the same trap as the queen.

"I will show you," she said, turning her back to the lindwurm and reaching for the buttons of the topmost dress. "I will remove this dress, and you will remove a skin in exchange for it."

The air prickled around her like there were invisible eyes in every corner. As she stepped out of the dress and turned back around, she saw the lindwurm shaking herself out of her skin. Only the uppermost of its layers, for it must have grown many to be so impenetrable; but the skin beneath it was less scuffed, and the ridges softer-looking.

"This changes nothing," the lindwurm said, and then she fixed her hungry eyes on Irena again. "But you wear another dress beneath it."

"And I will take that one off, too."

She watched, this time, as the lindwurm reached behind her head and fumbled with the ridge down the back of her neck, the same way Irena's fingers fumbled on her buttons. The skin fell away in one layer, head and forelegs and tail peeling off together. Irena could feel the magic, watching and listening all around.

And so it went, dress and skin, over and over another eight times, until at last Irena was standing naked in the center of the room. The lindwurm's skins, softer and more tender with each layer, were piled behind her. And she stood in front of that pile, a raw, skinless thing, pitiful and helpless. She was only vaguely human in shape, yet, with her face as long as a horse's and her lower limbs bound together by ropes of muscle and sinew.

She trembled and whimpered with pain at the wood of the floor and the heat of the fire, agony against bare and oozing flesh. But her eyes were still hungry, fixed fast to Irena. Hungry and full of hope.

Irena swallowed her disgust and picked up the birch rods, to dip in the lye. It seemed cruel, when just the air and the floor pained the lindwurm so terribly, but there was no other choice, unless-

Unless one was found to trade their one skin for the ten it carried.

She had not dwelled upon the witch's first answer, any more than the Lady Astrauskaite had, or the queen. For those who had power in their own right, only one of the ways the witch had offered seemed worth the dwelling. The way that let the lindwurm's shape, even now, be chosen and defined by another.

She could feel the magic even more strongly now. It prickled against her skin, nearly burning between her shoulderblades. If was as if there were buttons there, too, waiting to be opened.

Irena's own obligations were discharged. Her father was in safe hands, his dotage well-funded. All that held her in place now was the threat of force, the cage of the castle looming over her.

Behind the lindwurm, her skins lay on the floor in a thick and fetid pile. If Irena could step out of her own skin, and don those, no bond or obligation would ever tie her down again. For what walls, what force of arms, could hold the lindwurm?

Her heart full of hunger, Irena dropped the rods pressed her fingers against the back of her neck, to the place where the magic burned. But no seam or button came clear. The magic seemed to lean in closer, listening intently. It had waited, she remembered, for them to voice the exchange, each of the ten times before.

"Viktorija," she said, "will you make a trade with me? My one skin, for the ten of yours?"

"Yes," Viktorija answered, and her voice was small, and cracking, but full of joy. "I will make that trade with you."

Irena reached to the back of her neck again. Her skin came apart cleanly at her touch, without pain. She stepped out of it, as she had stepped out of the dresses, and cried out immediately at the feel of splintered wood on her skinless feet, and the draft from the fire against her skinless flesh. Viktorija was much stronger than she was, to endure them with only whimpers.

Walking towards her, Irena held her skin out, open all down the back. Viktorija reached out and took it, and it wrapped itself around her, splitting her lower limbs into two legs, remolding her face and her arms, imposing a woman's shape upon her formless flesh.

She stood, still trembling, and lifted up the first of her own scaled skins for Irena to step into. Irena felt her legs fuse together as they entered the tail, her flesh painlessly elongating to fill the space as the much-larger skin closed over her. Then the next skin, and the next, each layer of scales less tender, until the last one went on, and she was so encased in the lindwurm's armor that nothing in the king's whole armory could have broken through.

The skin closed, but the magic was still there, hanging in the air like a persistent damp. Irena felt her forelegs shaking, and her head was heavy; she looked at Viktorija, who was shaking too.

Stretching out her heavy coils, she fought exhaustion to wrap them around Viktorija. Then she crawled up onto the bed, pulling Viktorija up with her. Curled around her, on the soft, claw-shredded mattress, Irena fell swiftly and soundly asleep, embracing Viktorija like a lover.

***

They were roused in the morning by the creak of the door. The king and queen entered, fearful, and Prince Viktoras and Lady Astrauskaite walked in after, both downcast with concern. But they all looked in amazement at the bed, and who was in it.

Irena looked down at herself and Viktorija. Her own scales gleamed black, sleek and shining, instead of the mold-colored mottling that Viktorija had sported. And while Irena's own hair had been straight and dusty-colored, her skin weathered and her face thin, Viktorija was plump and noble-pale between Irena's coils, with a snub nose and a round face and chestnut hair falling in long curls.

"But," Lady Astrauskaite said, her eyes filling with tears. "The birch rods, and the lye, and the milk-"

"The witch's words were true. Here is your sister, my lady, Your Highness, and here is your daughter, your majesties. Last night she traded me her ten skins for my one, and we are both more comfortable in our new attire."

The king's hands worked at his sides, tightening into fists, then loosening when he looked again at Irena's coiling black bulk. "I would rather a daughter and her wife than a daughter and another lindwurm. I had been told you meant to save my child, but you have only traded for her troubles."

Viktorija was stirring now in Irena's coils, her eyes blinking open. She smiled at her family, and three of the four smiled back. Even the king's hard face softened.

"My father-to-be, be glad," Lady Astrauskaite said, sweet and coaxing. "You have a daughter, to please your wife with, and your son has a sister for the two of you to spoil. Irena has done this for us, as a loyal servant of the crown."

"Yes," the king said, drawing back his ire. He raised his gaze to meet Irena's eyes. "What do you want from me for this service?"

Irena unwound herself, gently, from Viktorija, then slithered off the bed. She dug her claws into the much-abused wood of the floor and gloried at her strength when it splintered and broke.

Her bride-price would keep her father fed for life, and she trusted the Widow Simoniene. There was not a feather's worth of weight upon her. "I want nothing but my freedom, Sire. And for you to treat your daughter well."

"I will make sure she is cared for," said Lady Astrauskaite, looking at Irena fondly, without fear. "For she will be my sister, just as I will still consider you."

Irena looked at her closely, trying to tell if there was any longing in her eyes. But there was only only relief and gladness in her, no appetite for claws and scales. And her hand was so firmly wrapped around the prince's that he was very clearly where her paltry human hunger lay.

"Yes," Irena said, to her and her alone. "Care well for her. She would have endured terrible pain to take this shape, and it would be wrong to let her suffer more now that she has it. As for myself, I will go into the countryside, and I will be free."

The king and queen stepped one way, the prince and his lady another, and Irena surged past them and through the open door. Winding her way down the staircase, she felt her tail bash against the walls, and delighted in the way they cracked with each blow. Half-walking, half-crawling, she emerged into the ruined garden at the foot of the tower and made for a gate in the wall.

It wasn't big enough for her full bulk, but that didn't matter. She pushed her head through, and thrust with her shoulders, and the masonry broke around her without even a strain of effort. Heart pounding more and more joyously, Irena slithered out through the hole she'd made.

The sky was blue above her, bright with morning sunlight, filled with the scents of earth and beasts and flowers. Irena paused for a moment to take it in, raising her head and twisting up and up on her own coils until she could see the rippling fields stretching away from the walls. As she lowered herself again, she saw a flock of birds in flight, winging their way over those fields towards a forest beyond.

Irena started after them. She would see what freedom tasted like, and savor it.

[jeannereames]

Hi Dr. Reames, thanks so much for relaying all these fascinating analyses (I have to say, I find myself back on your blog multiple times a week just to check out more cool bits of information). I actually have two questions, but please feel free to only look at one! My first is, what was Alexander’s relationship with Parmenion initially? We know he was loyal to Philip, he served somewhat as an advisor to Alexander too, and then Alexander killed him because of the Philotas plot. I mean, he was a senior officer and had served the Macedonian court for so long—might Alexander and Parmenion have had a decent relationship at some point? And my second question is, how come absolutely nothing survives from the time of Alexander? Did his “successors” try to destroy things related to him (they did kill his son and his mother) so they could protect their own ambitions? I really appreciate your time, thanks for checking out my questions! Again, please feel free to just look at one and not the other :D

First, I’m glad people are actually reading these. LOL.

The biggest problem with discerning Alexander’s true relationship with Parmenion prior to the downfall of Philotas are the inserted “Alexander vs. Parmenion” conversations. You’ve heard them, if you think about it. “If I were Alexander,” Parmenion says, “I would …” “So would I,” Alexander replies, “if I were Parmenion.” Meant as a put down. Parmenion is repeatedly shown as overly cautious and a bit of a fuddy-duddy. It’s a deliberate motif, and most modern scholars recognize these as later insertions.

They seem to have several purposes: first, they showcase Alexander’s dashing bravery and brilliance as opposed to Parmenion’s plodding traditional approaches. Second, they backset conflict between the two. Third, they suggest Alexander didn’t really need Parmenion’s advice; he could have won all those battles by himself.

We suspect this is the work of Kallisthenes (the official court historian) before his own fall from grace. The Page’s Conspiracy happened after the Philotas Affair. Ergo, it appears in a number of the later histories. Some (esp. Badian) have suggested that Alexander was just looking for a way to get rid of Parmenion, and either seized on Philotas’s culpability, or even set up Philotas in order to get rid of Parmenion (Badian’s article on the Philotas Affair suggest Alexander was keeping some sort of FBI-style file on Parmenion and his family.) They’ve point out that he left him behind in Ekbatana when taking off to Baktria, but that was a damn important position! And Parmenion was c.70, by then. I suspect he was moving him towards administrative positions, out of active combat. Phiilotas’s stupidly forced his hand. Philotas was his last living son (Hektor had died in Egypt, Nikanor at Gaugamela). He couldn’t trust that Parmenion wouldn’t feel honor-bound to retaliate for his death (it was a matter of timē). And Parmenion was sitting on Alexander’s all-important supply lines; he could cut off the entire army and leave them to starve. (This, btw, doesn’t justify murder, but does explain it.)

After that, he almost had to inflict a hatchet-job on Parmenion’s reputation. Murdering Parmenion would look even worse if everyone could read how much he owed him.

If one takes those A vs. P conversations with a grain of salt and looks more widely, it’s clear that Alexander owed his kingship to Parmenion—and Parmenion was compensated (so to speak) by the high appointments of his sons, at least the elder two, and his other family members. Although Philotas was older than Alexander, he wasn’t a senior general, yet he got the plumb assignment of commander of the Companion Cavalry. His younger brother commanded the Hypaspists—the whole thing, not just the royal unit. Parmenion’s brother, Asander held high positions, as did another relative (another Nikanor) in the navy. The boys, at least, leapfrogged over older men who may have been more deserving. And Philotas seems to have flaunted his position and relations. We’re told in a couple places that, while his father was beloved, he was not. Certainly Krateros couldn’t stand him, although being an enemy of Krateros may not have required more than being in Krateros’s way. Ha. Krateros was kinda-sorta Parmenion’s understudy.

Alexander often took a good deal of Parmenion’s advice. For instance, there are actually TWO verions of the Battle of Granikos, and they’re almost mutually exclusive. One appears to be a rewrite for drama…and to get in a dig at Parmenion. It’s the better-known version, where the battle takes place in the afternoon, at the end of a long march, and is a cavalry-heavy battle because not all the infantry had arrived. It’s one of the first A vs. P exchanges, where Parmenion advises Alexander to wait for the rest of the army, then attack at night or at least in the morning. Alexander tells him he “won’t steal a march” and brashly attacks the Persians before they’re ready. And wins (after a significant loss of Companions).

The other version is more or less exactly what Parmenion advised: he waited till morning. It was still mostly a cavalry battle and much of what happened is similar…but he did what Parmenion suggested. Yet in that version, he looks less heroic…but more level-headed.

Guess which one is probably the true version. 😉

Philotas, btw, got himself in trouble for asserting that Alexander’s big wins weren’t really his, but Parmenion’s (and Philotas’s). Philotas may have been a blowhard, but at least part of that was true. Alexander consistently gave Parmenion the difficult but absolutely crucial positions at Issos and Gaugamela. He knew damn well that if Parmenion fell on the left, it didn’t matter what he did. That’s WHY he didn’t chase Darius either time, but especially at Gaugamela.

However difficult Philotas was, we’re told that Alexander was close to Hektor, the youngest of Parmenion’s sons. When Hektor died accidentally in Egypt, Alexander was heartbroken and threw him a huge funeral. Hektor is among the boys I had with Alexander at Mieza in the novels.

As for what Parmenion thought of Alexander, I expect he saw him as his best friend’s son, and therefore felt some responsibility for him, after Philip’s untimely death. Parmenion and Philip appear to have been real friends. Philip and Antipatros, not so much. Antipatros had been a friend to Philip’s older brother, Perdikkas, who apparently had a more philosophic turn of mind. And indeed, Antipatros and Aristotle later were fast friends. There’s a funny story of Philip and Parmenion playing draughts (and drinking), when Antipatros entered the room. Immediately Philip shoved the game board under his chair, like some naughty boy caught skivving off. It’s hysterical (the anecdote comes from either Plutarch’s Moralia or, more likely, Athenaeus’s Supper Party). Parmenion was older than Philip, but closer to him in age than Antipatros. Also, Antipatros and Parmenion didn’t really like each other. And there’s Philip’s famous quip that the Athenians should count themselves lucky if they could find 10 good generals every year (their custom of electing generals is what he’s referring to). In his time as king, he’d found only one. Parmenion. (It’s obviously a dig at Athens for poor generals; in Philip’s day they had only a couple decent ones, Phokion being the best.)

Anyway, given Parmenion’s closeness to Philip, I’ve always assumed that he would have backed the candidate Philip wanted on the throne, and that was Alexander. As I noted elsewhere, Philip’s last child was a girl, not a boy. So Attalos had no skin the game anymore. Ergo, even if Parmenion had married his own daughter to Attalos, when push came to shove, he shoved him under the bus (had him executed) when Alexander asked him to. I expect he didn’t do it for “free.” That’s why Philotas and Nikanor had their positions. He could always marry his daughter to someone else, and did: Koinos/Coenus, which is why Koinos was so eager to help “question” Philotas, his brother-in-law: to prove his loyalty to Alexander.

As for why we don’t still have the original histories of Alexader, written by contemporaries? Simple loss over time. I seem to recall reading stats somewhere that only a quarter to a third of (known) texts from antiquity have survived. No, I don’t remember where, but the percentage doesn’t surprise me. How do we know about missing texts? From “testamonia” in surviving ones, especially collections, or books like Diogenes Laertus which contains the lives of famous philosophers and their bibliography. D.L. is how we know Aristotle wrote 4 books of letters to ATG, 1 each to Hephaistion and Olympias, as well as letters to Antipatros.

Some quick terminology: “extant” means “still existing.” So an “extant” text is one we still have. A “testamonium” is mention of a text or author in another text. And a “fragmentum” is a quoted section from another text, or a paraphrasing. Keep in mind that while ancient memories were generally better than ours, fragmenta (when we can compare) often contain slight errors and rephrasings. The major collection of these in Greek was compiled by Felix Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, often referred to as FGrH or just “Jacoby.” The original 1923 version was just in Greek, but New Jacoby is translated, and now available as Jacoby Online!

Another super important source of information on ancient texts, people, and places unavailable elsewhere now is the Suda [Suidae Lexicon], a mid-Byzantine “encyclopedia” of the ancient Mediterranean world. It has LOADS of info otherwise unattested in our extant sources. Visit the Suda Online.

Anyway, back to our texts. Popularity is one reason certain texts make it. The fact we have FIVE different histories of Alexander (however varying in quality) is actually extraordinary, the most we have for any single individual from antiquity. And it’s not only popularity in antiquity, but popularity later. Plutarch was very popular in the medieval and Renaissance, so we have a lot of Plutarch surviving. More copies…more likely something will make it.

So no, what we lack isn’t from any concerted effort to erase a text. The Successors penned their own histories (buffing their own reputations and skewering their rivals), but they didn’t try to systematically get rid of other’s writings. To do so would have been very difficult, if not impossible. Most of the contemporary histories were still available down into the early Byzantine era and probably beyond. We just don’t have them now.

[recentanimenews]

Memoirs Most Charming, Part 1

I’ve read a handful of charming memoirs lately, and more are on the way!

I’m a Lucky Guy by Frank B. Gilbreth, Jr. This was a reader suggestion from Anne!

Here, Frank B. Gilbreth, Jr. (writing without sister Ernestine, his sometime collaborator) recounts various happenings and misadventures from his early adulthood, beginning in 1929 when he’s headed off to college and ending somewhere around 1946, when he has returned from serving in the Navy and resumed his career as a newspaperman. These include things like going out for football whilst scrawny, being mistaken for a gun-toting gangster whilst attempting to hide booze (prohibition was still on) from the cops, pranking an odious professor (and, later, an odious superior officer), and repeatedly failing to live up to the standards of a demanding admiral to whom he has been assigned as aide.

On the whole, I found all of these stories entertaining, though the sole moment that made me laugh out loud was when Frank’s soon-to-be wife and mother-in-law completely excused the lascivious behavior of his friend, which a moment before had scandalized them, upon learning he was Methodist (their preferred denomination).

“You don’t think he’s a Ten Commandment breaker?” I asked. “Why, I’d trust him any place,” Liz said indignantly. “So would I,” said her mother. “I’ve always said that people shouldn’t be judged by circumstantial evidence.” “You’re so right,” I assured her. “Probably,” she continued, fishing around for a likely excuse, “probably—well, probably the doctor sent that girl over to your apartment to change the boy’s bandage, again, before he went to bed.” I was tempted to break into a high-pitched giggle, but I looked at Liz and caught a warning. “That’s probably just the way it happened,” I nodded gravely.

Unfortunately, it does seem Frank shares a little of the antipathy toward overweight people that his sister possesses. I don’t mind when he accurately describes a person’s physical characteristics—if a bosom is ample and an abdomen abundant, there’s really no getting around that—but when he makes comments about fellow student Sallye—whom he later proclaims to be “a real friend”—like no “male student in his right mind” would give her their fraternity pen, it’s just unnecessarily mean. True, Sallye has a tendency to be loud and overbearing, and I’m fairly sure that’s part of what he meant, but not the whole of it.

That criticism aside, I did enjoy this book and I’m glad I read it. Thanks, Anne!

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life: A Sortabiography by Eric Idle Initially, although it was an enjoyable read, I wouldn’t have classified this “sortabiography” from the Monty Python co-founder as charming. Idle recounts his childhood, school days, introduction to the world of comedy, the formation of Monty Python, the run of the original series, and the Python movies without a tremendous amount of detail. He does elaborate more about his independent endeavors, and I especially appreciated learning more about the creation of The Rutles. Using the song “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” as a sort of framework, Idle chronicles the various circumstances after The Life of Brian where he was called upon to sing it, ranging from Graham Chapman’s funeral to the Royal Variety Performance to the closing ceremony of the 2012 Summer Olympics.

As is common for a book of this type, there is a lot of name-dropping, but in this case a lot of the names were people I genuinely like, like Harry Nilsson, George Harrison, David Bowie, Stephen Fry, Peter Cook, Robin Williams, and Eddie Izzard. And, too, Idle toots his own horn rather frequently, which is admittedly justified when you’ve accomplished as much as he has, and makes sure readers know there were times in his life when he was having loads of sex.

Where he really shines, though, is penning touching tributes to friends who are no longer with us. My husband and I listened to Idle read the unabridged audiobook version together, and by the end of the chapter entitled “George,” we were both in tears. The chapter about Robin Williams is no less lovely. I cannot stress enough how wonderful these two chapters are; they alone are worth the price of admission. It does make one wonder why he doesn’t delve so deeply into the character of his comedy partners, and only makes a few mentions of Terry Jones’ dementia, but perhaps it is because they were all still living in 2018, when the book was published. I shall have to find out whether Idle penned any tributes to Jones on the sad occasion of his passing last year.

Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons by Shirley Jackson I’d heard such good things about these books, but my reaction to Life Among the Savages wasn’t what I expected. True, some of the “lightly fictionalized” anecdotes Jackson relates are somewhat amusing, like the family’s struggle to find a house to rent in Vermont, or insisting to the hospital intake person that her occupation is “writer” as opposed to “housewife,” or her son’s fascination with all the gory details after he gets hit by a car. But the vast majority of the stories involve her children behaving badly, and I had very little patience with these at all.

I imagine that other mothers sympathize with these episodes. Perhaps they see their own experience reflected, and so they laugh but also feel all warm inside, in a loving, maternal way. Not so me, I’m afraid. No, whenever the son showed arrogant condescension toward his mother, or her daughter became intolerably fixated on proper decorum, or one kid or the other was insolent and disrespectful, it just made me angry. In fact, I might have said “Shut the fuck up!” aloud a time or two. This is why it is probably a very good thing that I am not a parent.

Thankfully, Raising Demons contains less of that sort of thing (though significantly more than none). I really loved the section in which Jackson waxes nostalgic about her adolescent obsession with making clothespin dolls and her snarky description of life as a faculty wife (who is expected to have “hemming dishtowels” among her hobbies). The story of how she got a new refrigerator was a highlight, as well.

You’ll Never Believe What Happened to Lacey: Crazy Stories About Racism by Amber Ruffin & Lacey Lamar Having seen and adored whimsical clips from The Amber Ruffin Show, I was very excited to see that Amber Ruffin and her older sister Lacey Lamar had written a book together. Although the topic is racist incidents the sisters have endured (mostly Lacey, who lives and works in Omaha), the approach at least attempts to be light-hearted. These aren’t stories where someone gets hurt or dies; instead, they elucidate the kind of crap Black people are just expected to swallow or forget.

I did laugh a few times, particularly at Ruffin’s effervescent line delivery—I listened to the unabridged audiobook read by the authors—but after a while, the unrelenting wave of absolutely flagrant ignorance and hate becomes overwhelming. The commentary on the stories is funny, but the situations themselves are stressful and horrible and eye-opening in the most abject, despair-inducing kind of way. I have never been one to deny that racism exists, but I admit to being surprised and horrified by a lot of these stories, espcially the awful things done to kids. A beautiful drawing torn to shreds, a group of teens accused of stealing car keys when none of them is old enough to drive, kids threatened at gunpoint by a crazy neighbor but nobody calls the cops because who will the cops believe… I also feel terribly naive for being surprised.

I’m glad I read this.

Our Hearts Were Young and Gay and Nuts in May by Cornelia Otis Skinner Note: The former was co-written with Emily Kimbrough.

Our Hearts Were Young and Gay recounts the three months in the early 1920s that two young American women spend abroad in Europe, written when they are older (“Emily and I have now reached the time in life when not only do we lie about our ages, we forget what we’ve said they are.”) and nostalgic for more innocent days. It’s written in Cornelia’s voice, though Emily provides many of the details, and tells of the time their ship ran aground, the time Cornelia caught the measles and evaded quarantine, the time they met H. G. Wells and Emily made an embarrassing first impression, the time they mistook a brothel for a boarding house, the time bedbugs gave Cornelia a swollen lip “shining like a polished tomato,” the time their dogs piddled in a swanky Parisian restaurant, etc. For the most part, it’s quite amusing, but there are a few comments that expose the girls’ ignorant attitudes regarding people of other races and sexual preferences.

Rather than focusing on one particular adventure, Nuts in May is a collection of humorous yet unrelated anecdotes Skinner wrote for publications like The New Yorker. Topics include but are not limited to: actors being asked to lend their talents in aid of charitable organizations, a Protestant family’s audience with the Pope, people who laugh at anything, dizzying real estate transactions, and being interviewed by Dr. Kinsey. Occasionally, the tone turns more domestic and reminds me some of Shirley Jackson, such as in “Bag of Bones,” when Skinner’s son insists that the bones they find on a Colorado trail belong to a dinosaur, or “Those Friends of His,” about her son’s reticence on the origins of his friends who come to visit. The latter also makes reference to a car “teeming with hamsters,” which is a phrase and a visual that I adore. Indeed, there were quite a few giggles to be had, and I reckon I might seek out more of Skinner’s work in the future.

By: Michelle Smith

[swanslieutenant]

If the Stars Align - Chapter XIII

Summary: The Musketeers AU. Danger lurks around every corner in the French court and as a Musketeer in service of the royal family, Killian’s duty is to protect them from any and all threats. As his relationship with Queen Emma develops into something more than just friendship, threats against the queen escalate and put everything they hold dear into jeopardy.

Rating: M

Content warning for the story: violence, mature themes, minor character death.

Chapter warning: Some more violence in this one.

Art by @hook-and-star-ink​ , @acaptainswaneternity and @seastarved. Follow this to check all the pieces currently published and give them some love!  

Catch Up on tumblr: ch1, ch2, ch3,  ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12

AO3: ch13

The funeral takes place three days later. It’s a quiet affair, hosted in a local church with few guests. When the king learned of Captain Humbert’s death, he wanted to host a lavish funeral, with full military honours, but that wasn’t something the captain would have wanted. He was a simple man, honourable and loyal, and he would have wanted a quiet, dignified service instead of one full of people he’d never met.

At the church, squashed between a sniffling Will and a stony David in one of the pews, Killian is numb to everything around him. Lancelot’s eulogy and the priest’s words wash over him, an incoherent hum drowned out by the words on repeat in his mind.

This is my fault.

None of the other Musketeers have said anything of the sort, but he knows they’re thinking it. In the three days since Captain Humbert’s death, Killian can count on one hand the amount of times someone has made eye contact with him or said anything not related to their work duties. And, honestly, he can’t blame them – the words the Musketeers aren’t saying are the same words he’s been asking himself for three days.

Why didn’t you let Robin kill Regina?

Captain Humbert would be alive if you did.

Robin blames you.

Killian hasn’t seen Robin since Captain Humbert’s death, but he knows that one is the truest of them all. Will mentioned briefly that he’s staying at La Lune, too upset to be anywhere near the barracks right now, not with Captain Humbert’s belongings still there, not when three days ago, he was alive and well.

David and Will suddenly get to their feet beside him, others rising behind them, and the small church fills with a low, conversational hum. The priest must’ve finished the sermon, dismissing the mourners, and Killian gets to his feet too. Though the other Musketeers remain at the front of the church, talking quietly to the priest, Killian follows the crowd as they all shuffle to the back of the church, desperately needing some fresh air.

In the last row of pews, three women remain seated as the rest of the church files out. They are all dressed the same, black veils over their heads, simple black gowns with not a drop of ornamentation. No one pays them any attention, thinking them other mourners, but Killian pauses beside them – he would recognize that golden hair anywhere, even hidden under veil.

“You didn’t have to come, Your Majesty.”   

“Of course I did,” Emma replies, gaze over his shoulder on the closed casket at the front of the church, her voice solemn and quiet. “Captain Humbert was a loyal soldier, one who died in my service. I had to come and pay my respects.”

She glances to him, and though Killian thinks he’s kept his emotions pretty well hidden under a stony face, he knows instantly he hasn’t fooled her. She leans forward, resting a hand on his arm, squeezing his arm.

“Are you alright?”

“’Course.”

She frowns, unconvinced, but Killian is spared a further lie because Lancelot arrives at his side, bowing slightly at Emma when he realizes it’s her.

“We’re going out to the gravesite now.”

Killian and Lancelot return to the front of the church to help David and Will carry out the casket while Emma and her two ladies exit the church. The weight of the coffin is heavy, but nothing compared to the weight of the guilt, and he relishes the ache he feels in his just-healed chest wound as he shifts his weight.

He almost falters as he steps out of the church, his gaze focusing in on the freshly dug grave across the small cemetery. There’s a small crowd there, and they part as they bring the casket down the slope, lowering it with ropes into the ground.

The priest steps forward to speak once more, but his words are meaningless; Captain Humbert can’t hear the praises and compliments, can’t chuckle at the funny anecdotes, can’t do anything anymore.

And it’s all Killian’s fault.

The crowd starts to shift away, murmuring quietly to each other, but Killian doesn’t move. David notices, and claps him on the back, squeezing his shoulder.

“We’ll be at the barracks. When you’re ready.”

He nods numbly, staring at the gave and wishing, wishing he’d been the one shot by Regina instead, if only to not feel this enormous guilt and regret weighing him down like an anchor.

“He was a good man.”

The voice startles him out of his daze and he realizes Emma is there beside him, staring sadly at the grave. They’re the only two remaining in the cemetery now, even Emma’s ladies gone, their only company the sweetly singing robins in the nearby willow trees.

Killian nods and swallows deeply. “Aye. He was.”

He allows her to turn him away from the grave a few minutes later, and with no one else around and her veil still covering her features, she links her arm with his, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

She leads them away from the grave, the pair of them walking in silence. It’s not until they’ve reached the small path on the outskirts of the cemetery that Killian speaks, the words spilling out of him like wind forced from his lungs from a sucker punch.

“It’s my fault.”

“It is not your fault –” Emma counters immediately, but now that he’s started talking, the words keep coming, a relentless downpour.  

“It is. I stopped Robin from killing Regina and she turned right around and shot Captain Humbert. If I hadn’t stopped Robin, if I had just let him shoot her, then the captain would still be alive.”

Emma moves to stand opposite him, bracing her hands on his arms. “That’s because you are a good man too, Killian. Captain Humbert would be proud of you. You showed her mercy by not letting Robin kill her. It’s not your fault she’s a monster.”

“I didn’t do it for her,” he grinds out, shaking his head; he won’t let her try and talk him out of this. “I did it – I did it because we needed answers, and because ... because as much as he hates her, Robin couldn’t have lived with himself if he killed her. And now because of that, Captain Humbert is lying in the cold ground and it’s my fault.”

Emma rests her hand on his upper arm, squeezing his arm tightly. “Then you did it for your friend, Killian. And that is what good men do.”

He just shakes his head. He’s not a good man, not at all. He’s standing there, feet from the fresh grave with Emma, the Queen of France, who could die just like Captain Humbert because of him.

In the chaos and mind-numbing pain of the last week, Cardinal Gold’s dark comment and darker eyes had drifted to the back of his mind, ever present but lurking on the edge of his conscious. And now, with a moment of privacy and silence, he tells Emma what he heard.

She listens with narrowed eyes, and doesn’t say anything for a few moments when he’s done talking. Then she shakes her head, her grip tightening on his arm, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“I don’t know if Gold does suspect something from what you’ve said, but he doesn’t scare me. He’s never scared me. We’ll just have to be more careful when he’s around from now on, okay?”

“Emma, it’s becoming too dangerous –”

Her eyes flash, and she barrels right over him. “I don’t care what Gold thinks he knows or doesn’t. I’m not losing you, Killian. My whole life has been one of order and performing the wishes of everyone else, and I haven’t felt like myself in a long time … not until a good man treated me like I was just a normal woman.”

She steps forward, pulling the veil up and over her head, and cups his face in her hands. He wonders if he’s ever noticed how green her eyes really are, how they sparkle like gems in the sunlight.

“I love you, Killian.”

He stares back at her, stunned. Then he surges forward, capturing her lips with his, and she wraps her arms around his neck. He can taste salt on her lips, and he’s not sure if its her tears or his. He holds her around the waist, pulling her closer, both of them holding each as close as possible, as if they’re each the others’ lifeline, as if no one else in the world matters. Gold, the king, Death himself – they and their threats fall away, and it’s just Emma and Killian, time standing still around them.

He closes his eyes again when they break apart finally, leaning his forehead against hers and savouring this precious moment.

“I love you too.”

In light of Captain Humbert’s death, Lancelot is named the new captain of the Musketeers. There’s normally a ceremony of great pomp and circumstance, held at the Louvre itself, but this time the transition of power is quiet, the mantle passed on too soon and no cause for celebration.

A week after the funeral, Lancelot summons Killian, David, Will, and Robin to the office. Robin finally returned to the barracks a few days ago, eyes bloodshot and face thin, and he’s been quiet since, keeping to himself and talking to no one. In fact, the Musketeers have hardly said anything to each other at all, each grieving in their own way, and when Lancelot summons them, Killian assumes this meeting is going to be about how they’ll all have to move forward and leave their grief behind.

He and David are the last to arrive to the office, and Killian pauses in the doorway, taking in the room, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut. The office is full of Captain Humbert’s things – his jacket, his boots, his personal effects – and the sight of all of it, abandoned and left behind, makes Killian want to run in the opposite direction.

David nudges him forward and into the room, and Killian swallows those feelings away. Robin and Will are already seated, staring at the floor, and once they’re all seated, Lancelot begins. With seriousness dripping from his voice, he explains that everyone needs to trust each other, especially in the light of what has happened. Everyone needs to stop blaming themselves – here he glances pointedly to Robin and Killian – and focus on who really is responsible.

Regina.

The door to the office edges open, revealing a nervous recruit, and he steps into the room.

“Sir –”

“Not now,” Lancelot says shortly, frowning at the interruption. “I asked not to be interrupted.”

The young man doesn’t move. “I know, but sir – this is an emergency. It’s – it’s her. She’s here.” 

Killian has no idea who he means, but he takes in the young man’s clenched fists, teeth gritted together in anger, and he realizes only one person could cause such a reaction.

The others all come to the same conclusion, and everyone shoots to their feet, out the door in seconds and clambering over each other to look down into the courtyard from their place on the second level of the barracks.

Standing there, the recruits giving her a wide berth, with a sublime smile and dressed as if she should be attending a royal ball instead of a grieving soldiers’ barracks, is Regina.

Will lets out a roar of anger, and shoves the others out of his way.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

He jumps down the steps two at a time, hand already drawing his pistol. Killian is the closest behind him, and sees Will raise the pistol, but he doesn’t move to stop him – he saved this woman once already, and look where that got them.

David must sense Killian’s inaction, because he leaps ahead, grabbing Will’s arms and pulling him backs.

“Don’t kill her, Will,” he says, shooting Regina a deadly glare as he holds Will back. “We’re not murderers like her.”

Lancelot and Robin join them in the courtyard, the Musketeers fanning out in a line to face her. Robin stands stiffly, his eyes betraying nothing but a cold hatred as he surveys his estranged wife.

On her part, Regina surveys them all with a smirk, but Killian notices she’s missing her usual oomph. She lifts her hands up in surrender, and says, coolly, “There’s no need for violence, gentlemen. I come in peace.”

“You don’t know the meaning of peace,” Will snarls, pulling hard at David’s arms.

Regina levels a cold glare at him, and lifts her chin with a touch of defiance. “I know you all hate me, and you have every right to. But you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say,” Killian says, starting to feeling sick at her casual entrance into their barracks, as if she has no care in the world the man she killed used to live upstairs. “You’ve done enough.”

Her jaw tightens. “Be that as it may, you’ll want to hear this.”

Lancelot crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

She shakes her head, eyes flickering over Killian for a moment, and he really feels sick now.

“In private.”

It’s a tense walk back up to the office, and this time it’s almost harder for Killian to enter, to see Regina where Captain Humbert once lived. The others don’t seem to notice, and Will snaps, “Get on with it” the moment the door swings shut behind Robin.

Regina levels another cool, unimpressed glance at Will before her eyes flick to Killian. The bad feeling magnifies, cold and terrible and –

“The Cardinal knows there is something between you and the queen.”

The floor drops out from under him.

No, no –

He leans against the doorframe, winded. Robin’s eyes burn a hole through him, while the other three Musketeers stare at Killian, totally bewildered.

“What are you on about?” David demands. “The Cardinal knows about what?”

Killian doesn’t say anything. He can’t focus on thinking of a way to explain this to them, when all he can think about now is what he’s done, what he’s done to Emma, what this will do to the both of them.

Robin sighs angrily when it becomes apparent Killian won’t be saying anything. He too ignores the others, and glares at Regina.

“How do you know that?”

But before she can answer, Lancelot holds up a hand. “Wait – wait, there – there is something between you and the queen?”

Killian manages a nod, and the Musketeers gape at him. Lancelot looks like he’s been stunned after a brutal blow, David’s eyes are wide, and Will’s jaw drops open.

“You and the queen? The queen? Mate –”

“Now’s not the time to worry about your comrade’s bedroom affairs,” Regina snaps. “The cardinal knows and he’s going to use it against her. He’s going to arrest Jones and try to execute Queen Emma because of the affair.”

Execute.

Oh God –

“But how do you know that?” Robin asks again. He straightens abruptly then, realization dawning in his eyes. “It was him, wasn’t it? He’s the one who hired you to try to kill Queen Emma.”

The Musketeers turn their attention away from Killian, the room falling deathly quiet as they stare at Regina. She sighs, looking uncomfortable, and nods.

“Yes, it was him.”

“Why?” Lancelot demands. “Why would Cardinal Gold want her dead?”

Regina shrugs, as if it’s obvious. “He wants to be the pope.”

No one says anything, confusion settling over them, and Will lets out a barked laugh.

“Am I the only one not seeing any logic here? How is killing our queen gonna make Gold the pope?”

Regina waves her hand impatiently. “I know you lot are soldiers, but think for a moment about politics, okay? The Italians have their candidate for the next pope already, so to become pope, Gold would need the support of the Spanish cardinals. They won’t support him while the French queen is a Protestant, and well, they want one of their princesses as queen instead. If Queen Emma wasn’t around anymore ...”

“I don’t understand,” David says into the silence lingering after Regina’s sentence. “If Gold needs Queen Emma out of the way to be pope, why not make the king divorce her? Kings have done that before, and Emma wouldn’t have to die.”

“You’ve been hit around the head too much, haven’t you?” Regina says, rolling her eyes as if David is the biggest fool alive. “Catholics can’t divorce, remember? Last time a king tried that, all of England left the Church. Just ask your friend Jones here.”

His heart skips a beat as the Musketeers all look over to him again. The last thing he needs right now is his English heritage dumped out in front of him too, something he doesn’t know how Regina could possibly know about either.

“What?”

Regina sighs, and shakes her head. “Forget about that for now. We’ve got more pressing matters, yes?”

Though their eyes linger on Killian for a moment, they look away and back to Regina.

“Even if what you’re saying is true, that this – this affair with Killian is true, the king will never kill the queen,” Lancelot says, stubbornly.

“The cardinal has more influence than you think,” Regina replies darkly. “Why do you think you lot weren’t allowed near the Louvre for weeks after my bandits failed at St. Meissa? And now this – he’ll say it will be an embarrassment to let her live or for the king to allow her crime to be so lightly punished. He’ll manipulate the king into killing her, no matter what that idiot of a monarch actually wants. He’ll tell him it’ll be more secure for the Dauphin’s future if his mother is gone and no longer able to influence him, or something of the sort. Trust me. He’s got it sorted out.”

The room is starting to feel overwhelmingly hot, and Killian sinks against the doorframe even more heavily.

He needs to talk to Emma right now.

“Why the bloody hell should we trust you?” Will snarls. “You’re the reason our captain is dead. What’s to say this ain’t a ploy to get us all and the queen to boot?”

She straightens, her eyes turning icy. “You can either believe me, or not, but if you don’t, both your queen and your friend will die.”

No one says anything for a long while. Killian’s about to just leave them all here, turn on his heel and head straight to the Louvre, when Robin speaks again, voice wary.

“If you’re wrong –”

“I’m not.”

“Why tell us?” Lancelot demands. “This seems out of character for you.”

She shifts, now looking distinctly uncomfortable, and she glances over to Killian, eyes unreadable. “You saved me at Saint-Eustache. Warning you about this makes us equal.”

Killian stares at her for a long moment, arms crossed and eyes dark. She meets his gaze evenly, and though revulsion rises in him – this woman has tried to kill Emma multiple times, succeeded in killing Captain Humbert and Monsieur Gillert, she didn’t have to warn him about this. And yet, here she is.

Forgiveness or anything of the sort is nowhere in sight, but he nods tightly, accepting her word; he can recognize good form when he sees it.

He pulls away from the doorway, hand dropping to the sword at his belt, and regards his fellow Musketeers with a tight jaw, determination etching itself into his posture.

“I have to tell Emma.”

Emma takes the news as well as can be expected. She listens in silence to Robin’s explanation of the events, eyes dark and serious, and when he’s done, looks over to Killian. He’s sure she must see the fear in his eyes before he can mask it, and she turns back to the others.

“Can you give us a moment, please?”

The Musketeers don’t move, David crossing his arms over his chest, Will and Lancelot raising their eyebrows and looking between Emma and Killian with pointed stares.

Emma’s eyes flash, and she drops her hands to hips. “A minute please, gentlemen.”

Her voice offers no chances for arguments, and they shoot Killian dark looks as they skulk reluctantly through the west doors. As soon as the door shuts, leaving Emma and Killian alone and with the sound echoing up through the large hall, words spill out from Killian, unbidden.

“I’m so sorry, Emma, I never meant for this to happen. I’ll send in my resignation before he does anything, get out of Paris as quick as I can.”

Emma shakes her head vehemently. “You’re not going to resign. If you leave in a rush, it’ll tell Gold he’s right.” She takes his hands, holding them tightly. “This – this is the worst-case scenario, but we’ll figure something out, together. Okay?”

She stands on her tip toes to wrap her arms around him, pulling him tightly against her and pressing a kiss against his cheek.

The east doors fling open, so suddenly that they spring apart as if jolted by lightning. Cardinal Gold strides into the hall, spreading his arms wide in exclamation, with a cohort of Red Guards filing in behind him.

“Well, isn’t this precious. Caught in the act.”

Emma steps in front of Killian, twisting to push him slightly behind her, but doesn’t release his hand.

“What do you want, Cardinal?”

“I’m not here for you, dearie,” he says loudly, and his eyes slide to Killian, dark and triumphant. “You, Killian Jones, are an English spy, sent here by the English king to undermine the stability of the French court, and as such, you are hereby charged with adultery and high treason, and are ordered executed three days hence.” He flicks his head to the Red Guards, and they step forward automatically. “Seize him.”

His heart stops, and Emma fully in front of now, raising one hand and standing to her full height as the Red Guards advance.

“I forbid you to touch him. Do so, and you yourself disobey your monarch and I will have you charged with treason.”

Even though these are Red Guards, loyal to no one but Gold, they do hesitate, staring uncertainly between her and Gold.

The cardinal sighs, annoyed. “I had hoped to avoid any unpleasantries, but you leave me no choice.” He withdraws a scroll from his cloak, unrolling it and reading aloud: “By order of His Majesty, the King of France, you, madame, are to be confined to your chambers until such time the king has determined what a suitable punishment for your crimes of adultery and treason.”

The floor drops out from Killian the second time that day, and Emma’s shoulders stiffen. Her grip on his hand tightens, and she doesn’t move from Killian’s side.

“Did you know your lover was an English spy, Your Majesty?” Gold asks, voice quiet. “No doubt your whispered pillow conversations are already the daily dinner talk of the English court. Or perhaps you’re a spy with him too? After all, heretics tend to group together.”

Emma doesn’t even flinch. “You are a liar, Cardinal. This is an order from you, not the king.”

Gold laughs a demented giggle, sending chills up the back of Killian’s neck at the sound. “You can look at the warrant, dearie. But I assure you the royal seal is there. Let’s not waste our time with any more stall tactics you have up your sleeves. I have been authorized to use any sort of force necessary to comply with the king’s wishes; shall we move up the traitor’s execution date to right now, or will you both come quietly?”

Again, neither Emma or Killian move. Killian looks around the room, judging how long it would take for him to grab Emma and run to the west doors across the hall before the Red Guards could shoot them, and almost as if Gold senses Killian’s thoughts, the cardinal stiffens and gestures his guards forward.

“Arrest them.”

This time, the guards obey, marching forward and grab them both by their arms. Killian is pulled roughly away, his hand ripped from Emma’s, and he thrashes against their grasp. Two more descend upon him, pulling him back so roughly he nearly falls to the ground.

Emma tries to break free of her guards too, stomping on their feet and twisting her body out of their hands, but they pull her back, holding her still as Gold steps forward.

“This is what happens to people who get in my way,” he says softly, his voice is as cold as if the Devil himself was speaking. “I’d stop fighting if I were you, Your Majesty. Lest you want him tortured before I kill him.”

Emma’s eyes turn hard and stony, and Gold’s lips edge up into a mockery of a smile as she stops pulling at the guards. Smirking he turns around and flicks his hand at the Red Guards.

“Get the rest of the Musketeers when they come in. None of them leave here except in chains, understood?”

Guards head towards the west doors, and by chance one of the doors opens a crack, David sticking his head into the room to see what is going on.

“Get out of here!” Killian screams; he can’t take everyone down with him too.

The guards holding him punch him hard in the stomach, and he buckles over in pain. When he looks up again, gasping and panting, the Red Guards are just wrenching the door open again, exiting the room to chase after the Musketeers.

“Now, now,” Gold says, anger flashing in his eyes. “That’s enough of that. Take these traitors away, him to the Bastille, the queen to her rooms. Now!”

Killian is winded from the punch, but he still pulls furiously at the guards holding him as they wrench him upright. One of them punches him again, this time across the face, and his head snaps backwards, his cheek exploding in pain.

“Stop!” Emma shouts.

She’s struggling with her own guards, but there’s no chance for either of them. Her guards pull her out towards one set of doors, Killian’s to another, and her shout of anger and his shout of her name are the last thing Killian hears before the guard punches him across the face again, the world going black and silent in an instant.

[alexandreaiteiaabronia]

Personal relationships of Alexander the Great

The historical and literary tradition describes several of Alexander's relations, some of which are the subject of question among modern historians.

Contents

Relationships

Curtius reports, "He scorned sensual pleasures to such an extent that his mother was anxious lest he be unable to beget offspring." To encourage a relationship with a woman, King Philip and Olympias were said to have brought in a high-priced Thessalian courtesan named Callixena. According to Athenaeus, Callixena was employed by Olympias out of fear that Alexander was "womanish" (γύννις), and his mother used to beg him to sleep with the courtesan, apparently to no success. Some modern historians, such as James Davidson, see this as evidence of Alexander's homosexuality.

Ancient authors, however, see this and other anecdotes as proof of Alexander's self-control in regards to sensual pleasures, and accounts are also known of Alexander's stern refusal to accept indiscreet offers from men who tried to pimp him male prostitutes, among whom, according to Aeschines and Hypereides, was the renowned Athenian orator Demosthenes. According to Carystius (as quoted by Athenaeus), when Alexander praised the beauty of a boy at a gathering, probably a slave belonging to one Charon of Chalcis, the latter asked the boy to kiss Alexander, but the king refused, to spare Charon the embarrassment of having to share his boy's affections.

In any case, according to Plutarch, Alexander's only heterosexual experience before his marriage was with one Barsine, daughter of Artabazos II of Phrygia, but of Greek education. There is speculation that he may have fathered a child, Heracles, of her in 327 BC. Mary Renault, however, was skeptical of such a story:

No record at all exists of such a woman accompanying his march; nor of any claim by her, or her powerful kin, that she had born him offspring. Yet twelve years after his death a boy was produced, seventeen years old...a claimant and shortlived pawn in the succession wars...no source reports any notice whatever taken by him of a child who, Roxane's being posthumous, would have been during his lifetime his only son, by a near-royal mother. In a man who named cities after his horse and dog, this strains credulity.

Alexander married three times: to Roxana of Bactria, Stateira, and Parysatis, daughter of Ochus. He fathered at least one child, Alexander IV of Macedon, born by Roxana shortly after his death in 323 BC. There is speculation that Stateira could have been pregnant when she died; if so, she and her child played no part in the succession battles which ensued after his death.

Diodorus Siculus writes, "Then he put on the Persian diadem and dressed himself in the white robe and the Persian sash and everything else except the trousers and the long-sleeved upper garment. He distributed to his companions cloaks with purple borders and dressed the horses in Persian harness. In addition to all this, he added concubines to his retinue in the manner of Darius, in number not less than the days of the year and outstanding in beauty as selected from all the women of Asia. Each night these paraded about the couch of the king so that he might select the one with whom he would lie that night. Alexander, as a matter of fact, employed these customs rather sparingly and kept for the most part to his accustomed routine, not wishing to offend the Macedonians."

According to Plutarch in a non-historic work, Alexander once sought a sexual encounter with Theodorus's music girl, saying to him that "if you don't have lust for your music-girl, send her to me for ten talents."

Aristotle

He mentored Alexander from a young age, and taught him various moral and ethical lessons.

Hephaestion

Alexander had a close emotional attachment to his companion, cavalry commander (hipparchus) and childhood friend, Hephaestion. He studied with Alexander, as did a handful of other children of Macedonian aristocracy, under the tutelage of Aristotle. Hephaestion makes his appearance in history at the point when Alexander reaches Troy. There they made sacrifices at the shrines of the two heroes Achilles and Patroclus; Alexander honoring Achilles, and Hephaestion honoring Patroclus.

Alexander and Hephaestion were possible lovers, and their tutor, Aristotle, described their relationship as "one soul abiding two bodies," After Hephaestion's death in Oct 324 BC, Alexander mourned him greatly and did not eat for days. Alexander held an elaborate funeral for Hephaestion at Babylon, and sent a note to the shrine of Ammon, which had previously acknowledged Alexander as a god, asking them to grant Hephaestion divine honours. The priests declined, but did offer him the status of divine hero. Alexander died soon after receiving this letter; Mary Renault suggests that his grief over Hephaestion's death had led him to be careless with his health.

No other circumstance shows better the nature and length of their relationship than Alexander's overwhelming grief at Hephaestion's death. As Andrew Chugg says, "it is surely incredible that Alexander's reaction to Hephaestion's death could indicate anything other than the closest relationship imaginable". In the context of the nature of their relationship, one instance stands out as remarkable. Arrian says that Alexander "flung himself on the body of his friend and lay there nearly all day long in tears, and refused to be parted from him until he was dragged away by force by his Companions".

Campaspe

Campaspe, also known as Pancaste, is thought to have been a prominent citizen of Larisa in Thessaly, and may have been the mistress of Alexander. If this is true, she was one of the first women with whom Alexander was intimate; Aelian even surmises that it was to her that a young Alexander lost his virginity.

One story tells that Campaspe was painted by Apelles, who enjoyed the reputation in Antiquity for being the greatest of painters. The episode occasioned an apocryphal exchange that was reported in Plinor sources for the life of Alexander. Robin Lane Fox traces her legend back to the Roman authors Pliny the Elder, Lucian of Samosata and Aelian's Varia Historia.

Campaspe became a generic poetical pseudonym for a man's mistress.

Barsine

Barsine was a noble Persian, daughter of Artabazus, and wife of Memnon. After Memnon's death, several ancient historians have written of a love affair between her and Alexander. Plutarch writes, "At any rate Alexander, so it seems, thought it more worthy of a king to subdue his own passions than to conquer his enemies, and so he never came near these women, nor did he associate with any other before his marriage, with the exception only of Barsine. This woman, the widow of Memnon, the Greek mercenary commander, was captured at Damascus. She had received a Greek education, was of a gentle disposition, and could claim royal descent, since her father was Artabazus who had married one of the Persian king's daughters. These qualities made Alexander the more willing he was encouraged by Parmenio, so Aristobulus tells us to form an attachment to a woman of such beauty and noble lineage." In addition Justin writes, "As he afterwards contemplated the wealth and display of Darius, he was seized with admiration of such magnificence. Hence it was that he first began to indulge in luxurious and splendid banquets, and fell in love with his captive Barsine for her beauty, by whom he had afterwards a son that he called Heracles."

The story may be true, but if so, it raises some difficult questions. The boy would have been Alexander's only child born during his lifetime (Roxane's son was born posthumously). Even if Alexander had ignored him, which seems highly unlikely, the Macedonian Army and the successors would certainly have known of him, and would almost certainly have drawn him into the succession struggles which ensued upon Alexander's death. Yet we first hear of the boy twelve years after Alexander's death, when a boy was produced as a claimant to the throne. Especially since Alexander's own half brother Philip III Arrhidaeus (Philip II's illegitimate and physically and mentally disabled son) was Alexander's original successor. Alexander's illegitimate son would have had more rights to the throne than his illegitimate[15] half-brother. Heracles played a brief part in the succession battles, and then disappeared. It seems more likely that the romance with Barsine was invented by the boy's backers to validate his parentage.

Roxana

Ancient historians, as well as modern ones, have also written on Alexander's marriage to Roxana the beautiful [Persian] woman. Robin Lane Fox writes, "Roxana was said by contemporaries to be the most beautiful lady in all Asia. She deserved her name of Roshanak, meaning 'little star', (probably rokhshana or roshana which means light and illuminating) in Persian. Marriage to a local noble's family made sound political sense, but contemporaries implied that Alexander, aged 28, also lost his heart. A wedding-feast for the two of them was arranged high on one of the Persian rocks. Alexander and his bride shared a loaf of bread, a custom still observed in Turkestan. Characteristically, Alexander sliced it with his sword. Ulrich Wilcken writes, "The fairest prize that fell to him was Roxana, the daughter of Oxyartes, in the first bloom of youth, and in the judgment of Alexander's companions, next to Stateira the wife of Darius, the most beautiful woman that they had seen in Asia. Alexander fell passionately in love with her and determined to raise her to the position of his consort."

As soon as Alexander died in 323 BC, Roxana murdered Alexander's two other wives. Roxana wished to cement her own position and that of her son, unborn at that time, by ridding herself of a rival who could be—or claim to be—pregnant. According to Plutarch's account, Stateira's sister, Drypetis, was murdered at the same time; Carney believes that Plutarch was mistaken, and it was actually Parysatis who died with Stateira.

Roxana bore Alexander a posthumous child also named Alexander (Alexander IV), 2 months after Alexander the Great died. The child was never proven to be a legitimate child of Alexander.

Bagoas

Ancient sources tell of another favorite, Bagoas; a eunuch "in the very flower of boyhood, with whom Darius was intimate and with whom Alexander would later be intimate." Plutarch recounts an episode (also mentioned by Dicaearchus during some festivies on the way back from India in which his men clamor for him to kiss the young man: "We are told, too, that he was once viewing some contests in singing and dancing, being well heated with wine, and that his favorite, Bagoas, won the prize for song and dance, and then, all in his festal array, passed through the theatre and took hiš seat by Alexander's side; at sight of which the Macedonians clapped their hands and loudly bade the king kiss the victor, until at last he threw his arms about him and kissed him tenderly." Athenaeus tells a slighty different version of the story- that Alexander kissed Bagoas in a theater and, his men shouted in approval, he repeated the action.

The Roman historian Quintus Curtius Rufus was hightly critical of the relationship between Alexander and Bagoas, saying, that Alexander was sizes of Such desire by the eunuch, that Bagoas became de facto sovereign of Persia, Despositing Alexander's offections to make him persecute Bagoas' personal enemies, such as the Persian governor Orsines.

A novel by Mary Renault, The Persian boy, chronicles that story with Bagoas as narrator.

source: Wikipedia

Picture: Alexander and Hephaestion, by Develv on Deviant Art

[zigsexual]

Empiricals (maxwell x mc)

hey hi hello!!!! it’s me your friendly neighborhood thirsty gurl back with maxwell fic because like, do i need an explanation 

summary: this is a continuation of my last fic, hypotheticals (u can read it if u want that would be so nice!!! i think it’ll still make sense otherwise tho), which has wobbly roots in the real timeline BUT basically this is the day after beaumont bash feat. brunch, croquet, holding hands, whiskey, olivia??????, kisses

word count: 3300+

(also my MC’s last name is Aldridge so that’s what i used here)

Riley can’t stop thinking about it. 

For the entirety of the party, she had stood there thinking about it: about the way his hands felt on her skin, the way he laughed as he helped her with her dress, the blush of his cheeks as he smiled at her with his hair all tousled from her fingers.

The rest of it had been a daze; a half-dream coated in glazed over memories of stolen kisses, making it near impossible to keep up appearances as she stammered through conversations with Liam and Drake and the other girls.

She’s got no idea how she’ll be able to handle it all over again today.

There’s a knock at her door, but she’s barely just sat up in bed and doesn’t feel like answering. The comforter is still pulled up around her like a cocoon, her hair knotted in what used to be a bun. She blinks. “Yeah?”

The door slides open, and Maxwell pokes his head in. “Riley?”

“Yeah?” she says again, biting into her bottom lip. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him, and she notices that he doesn’t look entirely done up himself, which is a first. His hair is still a little disheveled and he looks soft, fresh from sleep in the same way she is.

He pads over to her bed and sits down close at her side, turning to face her. It’s so reminiscent of the last time they were on a bed together that she feels her face redden, not that it seems to give him any pause.

“So,” he says, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Riley blinks at him again.

“You’re supposed to, you know,” Maxwell rubs at the back of his neck, “tell me which one you want to hear first?”

“Great.” Riley leans back into her pillow, closing her eyes with a grimace. “Okay, bad news. Hit me.”

Maxwell sighs. “Well, the bad news is that Liam wanted to have a little get together before the rest of the festivities kick off today, so he arranged to have an enormously elaborate brunch this morning as a surprise to the suitors and it’s here in my dining room and also Liam is here in my dining room, too.”

Riley sits up immediately, eyes wide. “What? He’s here, right now?”

Maxwell nods, and she presses her palms to her face, dragging them down her cheeks in frustration. “Fuck. Okay. What’s the good news?”

“Good news is that Drake managed to intercept him before he could really go to town, and now Drake and I are coming to the brunch too! It’s a friends-and-suitors brunch.”

Riley stares at him. “Excuse me, how is that good news? That’s even worse news. That’s literally worse than the original bad news.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Riley groans and pulls her comforter over her head, trying to block out the reality of her life. Brunch — elaborate, royal brunch — with all three of the men currently in love with her. And all of the courtly ladies who want her gone. Awesome. Great. A fine example of the shitshow this trip to Cordonia has turned out to be.

There’s a rustle in the bed, a flurry of sheets, and then Maxwell’s head pops up and he is there too, under the comforter with her, inches away in the filtered light. She sits back on her hands and looks at him.

“I’ll be there,” he says quietly.

“That’s the worst part,” she replies. Because three guys in love with her? She can handle that. Certainly not ideal, but manageable.

The problem is the one that she is in love with. The one under the comforter.

Riley leans forward and kisses him, needy and soft, and he lets his hand come up to touch her cheek, and at the feel of his skin she presses forward just a little too hard and tumbles against him in a mess of crisp white bedding.

Maxwell gazes up from underneath her with a sheepish smile, and she lets out a ragged breath before propping herself up on her elbows. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “Just… you need to get dressed. For brunch.”

Riley smiles back. “You wanna help me?”

“God, no,” Maxwell rolls his eyes and sits up, pushing the tangle of sheets and blankets off of them as his feet touch back to the floor. “Sounds like the worst.”

“The worst,” Riley is still smiling, even as she watches him head back towards her door. “See you at brunch.”

“See you at brunch!” he calls back, and when he shuts the door, Riley collapses back onto the bed and kicks her feet into the air.

 —

“Do you want some cantaloupe?” Liam asks, holding out a bowl of fruit in her direction. “We had it imported so it would be ripe. Do you like cantaloupe? I didn’t know if it was a big thing in America, but—“

“Liam,” Olivia sighs loudly from her place across the table, “everyone has cantaloupe.”

“It’s okay,” Riley says, taking the bowl from him before Olivia has more of a chance to go off. “I love cantaloupe.”

Liam smiles at her, dazzling and smitten and terribly cute, and she feels her resolve waver. The brunch has been a so-far-so-good scenario, but any more of Liam’s doting and she might just crumble into dust.

Anyone would be so lucky to have him. Anyone but her.

Next to Liam, Drake is silent and sullen (or, more so than usual). He keeps avoiding eye contact with Riley, which is probably for the best, given that they still haven’t spoken about that time when he showed up and promptly confessed his affection for her before vanishing back out into the night.

Thankfully, Maxwell seems to be pretty much his usual self, carrying on the conversation with Liam even as Riley stuffs her mouth full of eggs (and cantaloupe) in an attempt to speak as little as possible. Sometimes his arm brushes against hers as he brandishes his fork for anecdotal punctuation, and she feels her heart warm.

The other girls have been chattering amongst themselves, occasionally filtering in on the conversation in an attempt to draw Liam’s attention. Olivia and Madeline are the only two making any real progress, and are perhaps the only two really trying, as the rest seem to have resigned themselves to their fate. Riley wishes Hana were sitting closer to her, so at least she could have someone to ground her, to be a constant.

As it stands, Liam had asked if she would sit near him at the head of the table, and of course she’d said yes, and of course Drake and Maxwell had followed suit, and now of course here she is, wanting to die again.

She takes a sip of her mimosa. It’s not really mimosa, more champagne with an afterthought of orange, but it’s exactly what she needs right now.

“I didn’t realize you’d pulled out all the stops for the party,” Liam comments, looking over at Maxwell. “I mean, the chocolate fountain, the horses, the ice sculptures… there really wasn’t a need to do that for me.” He pauses, glancing over at Riley with a smile. “Well, I shouldn’t take all the credit. Riley wasn’t at a loss either.”

“Hmm?” Riley chews through a mouthful of toast, eager to change the subject away from herself.

“Your new dress,” Liam says. “It was so you, and so you to debut it in the middle of an event, too. I think everyone else was jealous they hadn’t thought of it.”

Riley swallows. “Right. My new dress.”

Her mind flashes back to the day before, arguing with Maxwell while she stood in his room in only her underwear, hands thrown up in exasperation because why didn’t they have any dresses in this whole goddamn estate didn’t women ever visit like look a bachelor pad is one thing but a mansion?

Maxwell had crossed his arms and complained in a huff that it wasn’t just like girls were waltzing into his bedroom every other day and ripping their dresses so why should this even be his fault when clearly she was the one with the faulty clothing.

In the end, she wore one of his shirts as a dress and knotted a belt at the waist. It practically screamed ‘we just fucked in a back room’ (which was, unfortunately, not the case), but for some reason it passed off as chic. The timeless LBD and all that, praise the lord.

Maxwell coughs.

“Aldridge, ever the fashionista,” Drake rolls his eyes. “Thank god she’s got Maxwell to help her.”

“Don’t be rude,” Maxwell says sweetly, “You’re wearing double denim right now.”

Olivia has been watching Riley during this exchange, a bemused expression on her face. She glances between Drake and Maxwell, then says, “Right, the t-shirt dress.”

She takes a bite of omelet and chews for what seems like an eternity before speaking again. “Cute.”

When she smiles, it lacks all the comfort of warmth.

Riley focuses back in on her food, hoping that whatever god is out there, he will be a merciful one and let her go peacefully in her sleep tonight. They won’t even have to spare an expense for her funeral; they can just use the same flowers from the party. An ideal situation, really.

It’s only a moment later when she feels Maxwell’s hand brush against her knee. At first she thinks maybe it’s an accident, glancing over at him to find he’s still laughing with Liam. But then when she reaches down her own hand, his fingers find hers and intertwine together too quickly for it to be coincidence.

She feels a gentle warmth rise within her and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, barely suppressing a smile. Next to her, Maxwell is talking as though he doesn’t have a care in the world, as if this brunch is merely a formality and not a terribly intimate moment hidden beneath stained wood and tablecloth. She watches him, wishing.

Maxwell looks over at her, catching her in the act of her admiration. There’s a blush spreading up her face now, and she squeezes his hand, her smile finally breaking free. He squeezes back, smiling at her too, and for a moment she feels alight with anticipation. Something flutters in her chest, too delicate to name.

“What?” Olivia says, breaking the spell. She’s looking at them with one eyebrow raised. “You two talking shit over there?”

Maxwell snaps his attention over to Olivia. “Riley had egg on her face.”

“Thanks,” Riley mutters, just as Olivia replies, “When does she not?”

So things continue as they do: Liam is kind, Olivia is loud, Drake is sarcastic and Madeleine is cunning. Hana knows all the finer points of dining etiquette, Penelope is fussed over her poodles, and god knows what language Kiara is speaking. It’s not a surprise, really — after all her events with this group, Riley knows the drill.

And yet, the break from normalcy, the one piece out of place in this delicately crafted puzzle: her hand, holding his.

—

The cleanup is easy and swift; when you’ve got an armada of household staff, things tend to go quickly. Riley almost wishes she could have a moment to stand in the kitchen, hands wet with soapy water, and clean off a dish. Just a moment to do something routine, to clear her head.

Yeah, she misses dishwashing. It’s been quite the day.

They’re outside on the lawn now, playing croquet. The sort of thing noble people do, apparently, when there aren’t enough horses around to play polo. Liam’s met his match with Olivia, who won’t even let a prince win, and the other girls are doing their best to keep up.

Riley is sitting this round out, hiding in the shade of the balcony. She can already feel the sunburn on her shoulders, and besides, it’s getting too hard to play along with coronation chatter again.

“What’re you thinking about?” Maxwell says, sidling up next to her. She jumps, surprised, and he laughs, leaning forward against the railing with her.

“I thought you were inside with Drake,” she says, folding her arms up next to his and looking out over the lawn. Hana is laughing at something Kiara has said, and Madeleine has a hand on Liam’s shoulder.

“I was,” Maxwell replies, “But he’s been… extra Drake-ish, lately. Probably something to do with his mad crush on one of the suitors.”

Riley groans and closes her eyes. “Don’t remind me. I’m trying not to think about my love life right now.”

“You might be the only one,” Maxwell looks out at the lawn too, his brow furrowed. “Seems like it’s all there is to think about these days.”

Riley straightens up. “Can we just… go do something? Something normal? Is there anything inside to clean or arrange or like, take down? I just…” She sighs. “I don’t know, all this stuff is messing with my head.”

Maxwell glances back at the doorway. “I mean, Liam brought his people, so there’s really not much to do in there. But I’m sure we could find something boring.”

“Boring sounds great,” Riley answers. “Let’s go be boring.”

Unfortunately, it only takes one thorough sweep of the Beaumont estate to recognize its veritable lack of household chores whatsoever. Riley realizes Maxwell wasn’t kidding about Liam’s “people,” who have gone as quickly as they came and left not a speck of dust in their wake. The place looks too perfect, just like the prince is too perfect and the palace is too perfect. Perhaps she has made a grievous error in thinking that seeking out boredom would be the answer to all this.

“What do you think I should do about Drake?” she asks Maxwell on their third meandering round through the house. “Should I talk to him, or will that make it weird?”

“The real question is, what should any of us do about Drake?”

“I’m serious.” Riley stops in front of him, grabbing his arm. “What do I tell him? And, frankly, what do I tell Liam for that matter?”

Maxwell tilts his head slightly, surveying her. “What do you want to tell them?”

Riley lets out an exasperated sigh. “You can’t answer a question with a question. It doesn’t help.”

“Well, maybe I’m serious,” he says. “What do you want to tell them, Riley?”

She doesn’t even think before she kisses him, pulling him to her and pressing up on her toes just a bit, messy and chaotic and too fast, just like everything they do. His hands find her hair and she tightens her grip on his arm, willing him to be closer, wanting him to be nearer.

When he pulls away she lets out a tiny sigh.

“Riley,” he says, “we’re in the hallway.”

“I know,” she says. “But what if we weren’t?”

“Well,” Maxwell answers, “We don’t have to be.”

It takes them less than a minute to find a door, and Maxwell says, “It’s the study, no one ever goes in here,” and Riley is already pushing him back against it as the lock clicks and her lips find their way back to his. They’re frantic all over again, like every minute could be the last one, like they’re running on borrowed time.

Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline of it all: the way his hands trace her collarbone while she shrugs off her dress, the tremble of her fingertips as she undoes the buttons on his shirt, the whisper of kisses against exposed skin. The fluttery feeling has returned, threatening to overtake her this time.

She pulls back. “Max.”

“Mhmm?”

“Do you think…” She hesitates. “Do you think Liam would understand, if I… if I told him how I feel and, maybe if we—”

“Riley,” Maxwell sighs, pushing back his hair with a hand, “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“Why not?” She reaches for his hand, threading their fingers together. “I think we’re already there.”

He kisses her forehead, and she closes her eyes for a moment, breathing him in.

“Look,” he says, “It’s not that I don’t… that I don’t think those things, about… about you. I do, all the time, and after yesterday, I’m just not sure how to explain…”

She kisses him, her free hand cradling his cheek, murmuring against his mouth, “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it right now.”

It’s Maxwell who pulls back this time.

“No, you were right, we should talk about it,” He purses his lips, looking down at the ground, then back to her face. “It’s just that—”

Suddenly, he freezes. “Oh shit.”

Maxwell is staring over her shoulder, eyes too wide. And she knows, already, she knows, but she yanks up her dress and turns anyway, just to confirm.

Drake is standing there, behind the desk, an empty glass in one hand and his expression twisted in shock.

For a moment, no one says anything.

Finally, Drake manages a weak “you could’ve knocked.”

“I thought you said no one ever goes in the study,” Riley hisses, crossing her arms tight over her chest.

“Um.” Maxwell blinks. “I forgot that Drake sometimes goes in the study.”

Drake waves, expression still dumbfounded. “Hey. Drake. In the god damn study, right now.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Riley stares at him. “You’ve been in here the whole time and you couldn’t — I don’t know — cough for courtesy?”

“Well, when I heard the door open I figured it was just some random court hookup,” Drake says, “Not… you. So forgive me for being a little speechless.”

“At least you don’t have to tell him anything now,” Maxwell whispers to Riley. She glares.

“Jesus,” Drake folds his hands behind his head, pacing along the line of bookshelves. “Okay. Okay.”

“Drake,” Riley starts to say, “wait—“

“Nope.” He holds out a hand. “Put your clothes on, I’m not having this conversation with both of you looking like the first half of a low budget porno.”

“Low budget?” Maxwell scoffs.

Riley pulls her arms back through her sleeves, then steps forward tenuously.

“Listen,” she begins, “Drake, we can explain—“

“You’re a ‘we’ now?” He shakes his head. “Aldridge, seriously? This is like, more than a one time thing?”

“Technically,” Maxwell says, “It’s been a no-time-thing, what with the inhabitants of this house and their constant disregard for privacy.”

“How many times do I need to reiterate that I was in the fucking study first?” Drake lets out a frustrated sound, then pauses, narrowing his eyes at Maxwell. “Is this why you made that double denim comment at brunch?”

Maxwell looks at him incredulously. “What? No. I made that double denim comment because you were literally wearing double denim at a royal function.”

Drake frowns. “It’s coming back in style.”

“Good god—okay,” Riley shakes her head. “First of all, no, double denim is never coming back in style, and second,” she holds up her hand, “Let me just say that this is not ever how I wanted to start this conversation with you, Drake, but we’re going to talk now. I promise. I’ll explain everything.”

“No shit,” Drake sighs. “Well, the coronation is tomorrow, so you better get started.” He slumps down into the desk chair and looks at his empty glass. “Something tells me this is going to call for a lot more whiskey.”

[labourpress]

Carwyn Jones speech to Labour Party Conference

Carwyn Jones AM, Leader of Welsh Labour, First Minister of Wales, speaking at the Labour Party Conference in Brighton today, said:

 ***CHECK AGAINST DELIVERY***

 I want to begin by extending my thanks to Christina Rees, our Shadow Secretary of State for Wales. Sadly she can’t be with us this week as she’s nursing a broken foot.

 I don’t think there’s any truth in the rumour that she broke it kicking Alun Cairns around Parliament in the first week back, but we’ll ask her when we see her.

 We all wish you a speedy recovery, Chris.

 Secondly, let me say thank you to Jeremy for his continuing friendship and leadership.

Thank you, Jeremy for the dignity you showed in a tough general election campaign.

The Tories came after you in a personal and offensive manner, and you stood up to that onslaught and led the party with great determination and defied the odds.

 This time last year, the Tories thought they were marching to a 100-seat majority. Right now, they’re scared of their own shadows, let alone another general election. What a turn around that is.

 Conference, when I heard Theresa May was giving a speech in Florence, I thought how apt. Not so much in relation to the Renaissance, but more with a thought to the works of that great medieval poet, Dante. It has been clear to me for some time that the Department for Exiting the European Union regard the “Divine Comedy” as some sort of instruction manual. That masterpiece imagines in glorious detail the dark and terrifying journey through the nine circles of hell.

 Well, we’ve been going on our own journey for 15 months and still remain in the first circle of hell – limbo – a remarkable achievement. But, then Dante did have Virgil as his spiritual guide.

 David Davis has got Nigel Farage. The book really is worth a read as Brexit re-interpreted.  At one point, at the close of chapter XXI, Dante witnesses a demon mobilising his troops by using “an ass as a trumpet.”  Which goes to show that every century has its own Boris.

 Conference, this week in Wales we marked the 20th anniversary of the vote to establish devolution in our country.  It was a turning point for Wales, and a turning point for our Party. The list of achievements is one of which we can be proud – and it belongs not just to Welsh Labour, but to the whole Party and movement who made devolution possible.

 ·         Unemployment in Wales - routinely lower than the UK average. More jobs, better jobs – Welsh Labour delivering in Government.

·         Wales, the first country to move to a deemed consent model for organ donation in the UK. People owe their lives to that change in the law. Better laws, saving lives, Welsh Labour delivering in Government.

·         Free school breakfasts in primary schools. Giving children the best start to the day, giving parents a helping hand, giving teachers the attention they deserve in the classroom. Welsh Labour delivering in Government.

·         The attainment gap between better off and poorer pupils in England and Scotland continues to grow – in Wales it continues to shrink. A fair start to everyone in Wales, no matter where you’re born – that is Welsh Labour delivering in Government.

·         Our university students in Wales getting the best deal anywhere in the UK.

·         And who gets the best deal of all? Those students who can least afford university – that is Welsh Labour delivering in Government.

 But, it isn’t just about policy. It’s also about having a voice and someone to fight your corner. This week I gave a cautious welcome to the news that Tata Steel and ThyssenKrupp entered the first stage of a merger deal.  A deal that should safeguard sites and thousands of jobs in Wales.

 Does anyone honestly think that without devolution, without a Welsh Labour Government determined to take measures to save that industry, putting money on the table when others looked away, that those steel jobs would still be in Wales today?

Would the Tories have knocked down walls for the people of Port Talbot, Shotton, Newport or Llanelli? We all know the answer to that.

 With our colleagues in the trades unions, our MPs, our AMs and local councillors, Welsh Labour stood up for the steel industry – and we did what those banners and badges asked us to do – we saved our steel.

 Conference, we are proud to work with our trades union colleagues in Government.

Together we have built a genuine social partnership and together we are making Wales a Fair Work Nation.

 And Conference, earlier this month our Trades Union Act received Royal Assent.

That means that the pernicious attempts of the Tory Government to attack workers’ rights in Wales have been dis-applied, and, once again, workers in Wales have the protections we fought so hard to achieve. Protections everyone deserves.

That’s Welsh Labour delivering in Government.

 Devolution has given Wales a voice. And with Welsh Labour that voice speaks the language of social justice, fairness, good work, decent pay and thriving communities.

 Devolution has given us something else. A new-found confidence. It is something I see every day in young people in work, and in our schools and colleges. So where has that confidence come from? If you could personalise it, you’d have to give credit to my predecessor, Rhodri Morgan. As you know, Rhodri passed away earlier this year, leaving behind a fantastic roller coaster of a political career, a wonderful family and an ocean of anecdotes.  In May the Welsh Parliament held the closest thing Wales will ever have to a state funeral, and we gave Rhodri the perfect send off.

 It started late. It finished even later. In between there was a fantastic mix of poetry, politics, sport, laughter and tears. And at the end, no-one really thought about Rhodri the politician, but Rhodri as a big-hearted, intelligent and inquisitive man who loved his family above all else. A fine role model, who we all miss.

 Rhodri always said that Labour did best when it managed to mix together the mushy peas of old Labour with the guacamole of New Labour. Now, I’ve been in Rhodri’s kitchen and I can tell you that when it came to culinary combinations, Rhodri was not always the person you would go to – but on the politics, he, as so often, was absolutely right.  He was absolutely right about the need for our Party to reflect all sections of our membership, and all parts of this country.

 That was the key to our success in Wales in the last three elections.

 When the Party at UK level was under serious pressure, our unique and united Welsh Labour identity meant we remained relevant and competitive in the Assembly and local elections, when sadly others struggled. It was the unity that gave us success against the odds. And when in the last days of the general election the whole party surged, it meant we, in Wales, were starting from a higher base-line and, as a result, achieved 50% of the vote for the first time in 16 years.

 Our identity as a Party is robust, authentic and complementary to the UK Party as a whole. And, just as a country we will not countenance a roll-back of our devolution settlement; there can be no question of Welsh Labour’s long fought for, and hard won voice being diluted as we look to the future of our Party. I know that both Jeremy and Tom understand this, and I welcome their unwavering support for Wales. Thank you, both.

 Because Conference, we know Labour works best when we work together. Together, we fought a hugely successful general election campaign – not just holding on to what we had, but winning back seats for Labour.

 Vale of Clwyd – according to the bookmakers, Tories were 1/5 on to win. Result? Labour Gain. Gower – according to the bookies, Tories were 1/9 on to win. Result? Labour Gain. Cardiff North – Tories were 1/9 on. Result? Labour Gain.

 Working together we have exposed the Tories on broken promise after broken promise. On rail electrification in the north and the south – and we know what’s coming next – they’ll axe Swansea’s Tidal Lagoon.

 But, because Welsh Labour is in Government – there are things we can do. We are already delivering on our manifesto promises.

 ·         100,000 new good quality, all-age apprenticeships.

 ·         The most generous childcare offer for working parents anywhere in the UK.

 ·         And 20,000 more affordable homes.

 We can also deliver on priorities for the future of our NHS.

 There is no privatisation of the NHS in Wales – and whilst we have a Welsh Labour Government there will be no privatisation of the NHS in Wales. Only in Wales are ambulance crews hitting their targets – because we’ve worked with the service and designed a better way of working. And next week, the Welsh Government will publish new guidance for our pioneering legislation on safe nurse staffing levels in Wales.  

 Conference, Wales is the first country in Europe to legislate on nurse staffing levels. I am proud that Wales has taken the lead in this area, empowering nurses and ensuring the resources are there to care sensitively for patients. Legislation that the Party promised in the UK manifesto in May, already being delivered by a Labour Government in Wales.

 And working together we are making our communities better, fairer places to live.

When Carolyn Harris MP began her brave and dignified campaign to end child burial charges in the UK, we in Wales did not wait for the Tory Government to act. We said, yes, that is the right thing to do, and, as a result, the Welsh Labour Government has announced the abolition of all child burial charges in our country. That is what we can do when we work together.

 And the country needs us to work together more than ever before, as we fight the fundamentalists pursuing a hard Brexit. We are fighting tooth and nail against the Tory power grab, dressed up as the EU Withdrawal Bill. It shows up their Government as simply incapable of listening to other people’s views, or respecting their legitimate interests – in other words, as lacking the basic skills needed to negotiate successfully.

And looking at the way in which they are failing the country in their negotiations with the EU, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised.

 I’m delighted at the support we are receiving from Labour colleagues in Parliament at fighting this real threat to devolution as we have known it for the past 20 years.

I’m also incredibly proud of the work we have done together already – our team in Cardiff Bay has worked hand in glove with Keir Starmer and the front bench in developing our Brexit policies. As a result of that work, in Labour we now have a sensible, evidence-based, economically sound set of principles and ideas that can see this country through Brexit in an orderly manner.  

 Contrast that with the spectacle of the Tory approach. Sorry, correction – the various Tory approaches. Does anyone really know who speaks for them on Brexit anymore?

Where has the Prime Minister of this country gone? If,  before the general election, the country felt as though it had a robot for Prime Minister, we’d now be forgiven for thinking we have a hologram.

 She went to the country and asked for the support of our communities for a hard Brexit, the country said no. The country said no to some other things as well – our older people said no to being taken for granted. Wales said no to being short-changed. Scotland said no to independence. And crucially, our young people said no to being ignored. They said, through their votes, what we all feel - Britain deserves better than this. This country deserves a Labour Government in Westminster.

A Government that actually cares about the future.

 I know that the people of Wales need that more than ever. Under the Tories, we have had to take £1billion out of our public services in Wales. That’s the annual budget of the entire North Wales health board. Our communities are resilient, but they’re being unfairly punished. And with Theresa May and the Tories they will be asked to give yet more. To give up. To give up their livelihoods, their libraries, their leisure centres, and their right to a fair deal. To give up hope. Enough is enough. It is time for hope.  

 It is time for Labour, in Wales and in Westminster.  Standing up for Wales. Working for fairness. Working, together. Winning, together. That’s a future the country hopes for and that’s the country we can deliver. Together for Wales.  Together for Britain.