#dido graves

[thiziri]

On 10 February 1973, Princess Anne visited Asmara War Cemetery, Eritrea, during a two-week tour of what was then Ethiopia and The Sudan. 

In 2004, Princess Anne visited Malta to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the island’s independence. During her trip, she visited the CWGC’s Malta Memorial, Floriana, where she laid a wreath and paid tribute to the nearly 2,300 airmen who lost their lives during the Second World War. 

The Princess Royal was the guest of honour as they opened The CWGC Visitor Centre in France. The princess took a tour of their new site, seeing the hard work of their teams and meeting some of the key staff involved in bringing the visitors centre to life, in 2019.

Princess Anne visited Etaples Military Cemetery in celebration of the 100-year anniversary of King George V’s ‘King’s Pilgrimage’, in 2022.

Madra's War Cemetery, India, 1985.

Khartoum War Cemetery, Sudan, 1985.

Fajara War Cemetery, Gambia, 1990.

Sai Wan War Cemetery, 1997.

Port Moresby (Bomana) War Cemetery and Memorial, Papua New Guinea, 2005.

Kranji War Cemetery, Singapore, 2005.

Simon's town (Dido Valley) Cemetery, South Africa, 2012.

Jawatte Cemetery, Colombo, Sri Lanka, 2024.

The Commission’s Headquarters, Berkshire, 2024.

Princess Anne, President of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission ✨

[u2fangirlie-blog]

Good Omens Aziraphale's Sad Bastard Breakup Playlist

After the breakup, Aziraphale has a new job in heaven, having taken Gabriel’s vacant position. Aziraphale is haunted by sad music reminding him of his time with Crowley. The songs are dramatic, tragic, melancholic, angry, wistful, romantic, and sentimental. How does he listen to music at his new job in the head office? Are material objects allowed? Does he keep a secret stash of tea, cake, and records and a phonograph player in his office? Does he have a celestial radio that can tune in Earth radio stations? Does he sneak off to Earth to hang out in record shops and bookstores? Or more dramatically and emotionally torturously, does he remember every note, every nuance, every feeling, of every song and replay them in his mind? He's stuffing his face with angel food cake and tea while crying and listening to sad bastard songs and hiding from Michael and the Metatron.

See note after list on song selection process.

Songs include:

“Lacrimosa” – Mozart, Requiem in D Minor, Vienna Mozart Orchestra

“Commendatore” – Mozart, Don Giovanni, Amadeus film soundtrack

“Ja, tot katoramu vnimala” – Rubenstein, The Demon, Nicolai Ghiaurov

“D’amour l’ardente flemme” – Berlioz, The Damnation of Faust, Maria Callas

“Liebestod” – Wagner, Tristan and Isolde, Waltraud Meier

“Ach ich fuhls” – Mozart, The Magic Flute, Gundula Janowitz

“Thy hand, Belinda … When I am laid in earth” – Purcell, Dido and Aeneas, Janet Baker

“E lucevan la stelle” – Puccini, Tosca, Placido Domingo

“Celeste Aidia” – Verdi, Aida, Mario Lanza

“Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen” Mahler, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau

“Der Wanderer” – Schubert, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau

“Love is a Plaintive Song” – Gilbert and Sullivan, Patience, D’Oyly Carte Opera Company

“I am a Courtier Grave and Serious” – Gilbert and Sullivan, The Gondoliers, D’Oyly Carte Opera Company

“The Gentleman is a Dope” – Rodgers and Hammerstein, Allegro, Blossom Dearie

“A Hymn to Him” – Lerner and Lowe, My Fair Lady, Rex Harrison

“Could I Leave You?” – Sondheim, Follies, Alexis Smith

“We Do Not Belong Together” – Sondheim, Sunday in the Park with George, Bernadette Peters and Mandy Patinkin

“On My Own” – Schonberg, Les Misérables, Frances Ruffelle

“As Long as He Needs Me” – Bert, Oliver, Judy Garland

 “Stranger in Paradise” – Wright and Forest, Kismet, Richard Kiley and Doretta Morrow

“A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” – Sherwin and Maschwitz, Vera Lynn

“Night and Day” – Porter, The Gay Divorcee, Ella Fitzgerald

“I’ve Got You Under My Skin” – Porter, Born to Dance, Shirley Bassey

“Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” – Rodgers and Heart, Pal Joey, Sarah Vaughan

“They Can’t Take That Away From Me” – Gershwin, Shall We Dance, Fred Astaire

“Mon Deu” – Dumont and Vaucaire, Edith Piaf

“Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” – Dumont and Vaucaire, Edith Piaf

P.S.: Aziraphale likes Les Mis because it reminds him of that time Crowley rescued him from the Bastille. Don't tell anyone. It's a big secret.

P.P.S.: “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” reminds him of the time he and Crowley got drunk in the backroom at the bookshop the day the anti-Christ was delivered to Earth. Basically, this song reminds him of every time they went out for drinks or stayed in and drank.

P.P.P.S.: “I am a Courtier Grave and Serious” was the song Aziraphale planned to play when trying to tempt Crowley into learning the gavotte. It reminds him of the ball in the bookstore when he finally danced with Crowley.

P.P.P.P.S.: “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” is as close as Aziraphale can get to telling the world and Crowley to eff off. He has no more effs to give. Or at least he’s trying to convince himself he no longer gives a f***. He’s going off to his new job at the head office and Do Good.

Note on song selection:

I selected songs that thematically fit with the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley. I think the songs tell a story of Aziraphale’s struggle to reconcile his conflicted motivations. They reflect Aziraphale’s fears and desires. He fears being hauled off to hell for disobedience. He fears Crowley’s death and being alone in the world. He desires to be emotionally intimate with Crowley. (Dare he risk physical intimacy with Crowley?) He feels self-righteously indignant, but he’s soft and squishy and weepy and misses his best friend.

I don’t have much knowledge of opera or musical theater, but I have some experience with choir and solo performance. I did a lot of research into opera, art songs, musicals, showtunes, and standards to create a playlist on YouTube. Selections were based on availability, popularity, and sound quality. My big question was whether or not Aziraphale is a strict originalist or if he likes different versions of songs. In some places, I chose newer versions over original versions due to the sound quality of the recordings. I tried to keep selections accessible to a wide audience with varying degrees of musical knowledge. You may not like my choices, so your mileage may vary. You can make your own playlist.

You can listen to it on YouTube.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

A Pirate's Life for Me Chapter 3

Summary:  Captain Bucky Barnes and his crew on the Armored Star are the most fearsome pirates in the known world.  They’ve given the British fleet a run for their money as they try to free the enslaved and take from the rich, but they could have never guessed how the British empire would retaliate against them.  When a new pirate ship appears and lays waste to all in its path, will Bucky and his crew be ready for the wrath of a woman scorned?

Warnings:  piracy, pillaging, sexual assault, death/murder, blood/gore, violence, smut

*manbo:  voodoo priestess

Previous chapter Next chapter

The Armored Star sailed along another shipwreck.  It was the third British ship they’d come across in the last week.  The charred remains of the ship were sticking up from out of the sea, some parts of it still on fire and smoking.  It looked like the ship had been torn in half, and British sailors’ bodies were scattered along the ship and out into the water, staining it red as sharks circled.

“How the hell?” Steve, Bucky’s first mate, breathed as they stared at the two halves of the ship.

“Multiple guns?  A double attack on either side?” his second mate, Sam, ventured a guess.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at the splintered wood that had what looked like claw marks etched into the planks before they ripped.  “Whatever it was, let’s steer clear,” he said, moving back to the wheel and steering them away.

The crew watched on in curiosity and worry as they headed further away from the watery grave.  As they made it into deep sea territory their barrelman, Peter, called down to Bucky.  “Captain!  A ship following us sir!”

Bucky looked up at him in confusion then looked behind, back from there they’d come.  The ship was still a long way off, but the fact that they were following them wasn’t a good sign.  “How long?” he yelled back up at Peter.

“At least the last mile,” Peter said.  “I had to make sure they were actually following us.”

Bucky took out his spyglass and walked to the furthest point of the helm, bringing the glass up to his eye and looking at the ship.  Steve walked up next to him as Bucky stared for a long while.  “Emerald hull with a mermaid figurehead,” he said under his breath to Steve.  “I believe we’ve finally run across Dido’s Lament.”

Steve hummed.  “Well, they’ll have a hard time catching up to the Star, sir.”

“Either way, keep an eye on them,” Bucky said, giving Steve the spyglass.  “From what I’ve heard they only attack the British, but let’s be wary if we’re the ones they choose to change their minds about.”  He turned to the crew who was waiting down below for instructions.  “Ready the cannons!  Stock the guns!  Arm yourselves!  We don’t know what we could be facing if they catch up!”  The crew immediately sprang into action getting everything ready.  He felt an anxious pull in his gut, but tried to ignore it.  Surely Dido’s Lament wouldn’t catch up to them quickly.  They still had the wind on their side, and the sun was setting, so they could change course in darkness if need be.  

Hours later Peter had lost sight of the ship as night fell, and Bucky felt they were in a good place to change course, heading further north than they normally would.  They usually tried to steer clear of Barataria Bay, but he wanted to make sure they lost the ship.  Not everyone knew where Barataria Bay even was with how small it had been, and now it was a mere ink blot on the map.  In the early morning hours as the sun arose over the horizon Peter couldn’t find any trace of the ship, and Bucky thought they were safe, until he heard an eerie creaking sound.

“Is that us?” Steve asked, looking down at the ship.  

“No,” Sam said, looking around.  The entire crew was baffled, looking around themselves.  A few of them looked over the railing, down at the water.

“It’s…coming from beneath us,” Steve said, looking at Bucky in shock.

Before Bucky could say anything there was a rumble that made the entire ship vibrate and shake, then a huge swell of water surged high in the air next to them, dousing the Armored Star and everyone on it.  It knocked the ship sideways, Bucky gripping the wheel as the ship righted itself before toppling over.  He looked to where the swell came from and his eyes widened, his mouth falling agape.  It was Dido’s Lament emerging from the depths of the sea, the ship twice as large as the Armored Star.  At the front the mermaid figurehead he saw wasn’t a mermaid but a siren, her upper body looking like it was going to spring from the ship, her long taloned hands outstretched and her mouth open wide, with sharp teeth and angry, menacing features.  As water poured from the emerald green hull a lone figure appeared at the helm, staring across the short distance of water at them.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed at the figure that climbed up onto the railing, holding onto a rope as they peered back at him.  The figure started singing:

“The king and his men stole the queen from her bed…”

Bucky ran to the side of the ship when he heard the voice.  It couldn’t be.  The figure had their head down, their hat and hair covering them.

“And bound her in her bones…the seas be ours and by the powers, where we will, we’ll roam.”

The figure looked up and showed their face, making Bucky gasp.  It was Y/N.  Multiple other people started to show up along Dido’s Lament’s side railing, and Bucky recognized them as the crew member’s wives and lovers they all thought long dead.  Steve let out a pained cry when he saw his wife, Peggy, the other crew member’s starting to call out to them.

“This can’t be real,” Steve said, running his hands through his hair.

All the women started singing:

“Yo ho, all hands, hoist the colors high.  Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die!”

As they finished the phrase their voices got louder until they were screaming, and another swell of water arose from the depths.  Bucky covered his head as it doused the Star again, then he felt a hard smack to the side of his body.  He went flying back into the helm, looking up to find an actual siren crawling its way toward him.  She looked just like the figurehead on Dido’s Lament and he scrambled back, grasping his sword and standing as she reached him.  He tried to swipe the blade at her, but she merely dodged it then grabbed his hand and twisted it, making him cry out and drop the sword.  There were shouts and sounds of swords falling to the ground, a few guns going off with accompanying screams that were unearthly.  The siren he was facing forced Bucky to his knees, her long tail wrapping around his lower half so he couldn’t move, wrenching his arms behind his back with an iron hold.  Bucky looked around as best he could to see his other crew members either fighting or being forced into the same position with a swarm of sirens flopping around the deck, their otherworldly hisses and noises filling the air as they overtook them easily.

The siren holding him used one of her webbed hands to grasp at his jaw and make him look up as Y/N and her crew members boarded the Armored Star.  Y/N slowly walked over to Bucky as the other women went and found their husbands  and lovers amongst the crew members.  She looked down at him, a look of pure disgust on her face that he’d never seen before.  Her gaze left him to look at the siren.  “Thank you, Mira,” she said, reaching a hand out and caressing the siren’s face.  “Whoever doesn’t have a woman next to him, you may take.”  She leaned over Bucky to the siren and nuzzled her nose on hers, the siren making a chittering noise in her throat before releasing her hold on Bucky.  He fell forward on his hands as the siren moved away and spoke in a language he couldn’t understand to the other sirens aboard.  They all spoke back to her then released the men they were holding except for seven of them, who they started dragging off the deck.  The men screamed, begging for help before the sirens holding them launched themselves overboard, diving back down into the sea, the remaining sirens following them with strange laugh-like sounds.

Y/N suddenly kicked Bucky backwards, taking his gun and the knife he had hidden in his boot and throwing them as hard as she could overboard.  The women on the deck followed her lead, then they all took their own guns and pointed them at their husbands.  Y/N took out her gun and pointed it at Bucky’s face.  “Hey Captain,” she sneered at him.

“Y/N,” he whispered, trying to reach for her.  “My treasure–”

Y/N backhanded him with the gun, making him cry out and fall back.  “Don’t call me that!” she yelled.  “You lost your treasure the day you left!”  She stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar and dragged him from the helm down the stairs to the deck, throwing him near the captain’s quarters.  She was surprisingly strong and he felt like he was in some kind of weird fever dream.  “Do you wanna know what happened after you left us?” she called out to all the men.  They each had shocked faces as they stared at their wives holding them at gunpoint, glancing at each other and at Y/N and Bucky.  “The British came two days after you left,” she said loudly, pacing back and forth as Bucky wiped at the blood falling from his brow where she struck him.  “Just as I thought they would.  Just as I TOLD YOU THEY WOULD!” she screamed in Bucky’s face, making him wince and cower before her.  

“Y/N please,” he begged, trying to reach for her again.  “We didn’t know.  I didn’t know!  The scouts checked–”

“SHUT UP!” she screamed.  “Do you wanna know what they did to us when they came?”  Bucky shook his head, afraid of what she was going to say.  Y/N pointed at Peggy, who was already crying as she stared at Steve in pain.  

“They raped us,” Peggy said loudly.  Steve looked at her like she’d stabbed him, his face crumpling in sorrow.  “They raped us…over and over again, for weeks.  Said it was our punishment as lovers of pirates.”

“They killed the children!” another woman called out, pushing her gun against her husband’s forehead harshly.  “All of them!  Left their little mutilated bodies all over the village.  I found our son in pieces!  All your babies are DEAD!”

Bucky cried heavily as woman after woman recounted what happened those days after they left them behind.  The British had tracked them without them knowing or realizing, the scouts somehow not seeing what Y/N had seen, and attacked their families as retribution for their piracy, then set the Bay ablaze, abandoning the remaining women.  After they all said their piece, Y/N leaned down to Bucky, gripping his jaw tightly and shoving the gun against his temple as she got closer to his face.  “You said you would never let anything happen to me,” she whispered, blinking back the tears building in her eyes.  

“Y/N–”

“You said we were safe,” she grunted, shaking his face in her hand.

“Please–”

“You said we would be fine!” she yelled, slapping him hard across the face.  Bucky’s head whipped to the side and he cried harder.

“I know I did, I thought you were safe,” he said, peering up at her pleadingly.  “We came home and the Bay was in ruins.  We thought you all died.  We’ve been mourning you all for the last year!”  He grasped the lower hem of her jacket.  “Please, lovey, I’m so sorry!  If I had known I would have never left–”

“I TOLD YOU!” Y/N shouted at him incredulously.  “I begged you to believe me, and you just laughed.”  She looked at the women around her.  “He laughed!”

The women all started screaming, their sorrow, pain, anger, and grief manifesting as they each stared at the men in front of them.  The men all winced, some of them covering their ears.  The screams rivaled the noises from the sirens.  It was the worst thing Bucky had ever heard.  

“The sea heard our cries and answered the call for vengeance,” Y/N said.  “The sirens came to us.  And we have used our newfound power to sacrifice all those who hurt and killed us to them and the sea.  You hurt us.  You hurt me.  Why should I give you, any of you, mercy?”  

“You’re right, I didn’t believe you.  I didn’t trust your judgment.  And I’m sorry!” he cried.  “Please, my love, have mercy on me, on all of us.  I have suffered pain like I never could have imagined since we saw the Bay was destroyed.  My guilt has been my punishment, and will forever be until I die.  I told you I love you until worlds end,” he said.  “And I meant every word.  If today is my world's end, so be it.  But please, don’t let this be it.”

The other men all echoed similar sentiments to their wives, pleading and crying with them for mercy.  “Peg please,” Steve begged next to them, bending down and kissing her feet.  “My sweet Peggy.  Knowing you're alive is enough, and if you decide to punish me to death at sea, I will accept my fate.  Just know I love you, and if you can forgive me, I will never leave your side again.”  He started to slowly stand up, cupping her face in his hands.  

Peggy paused as she looked up at him, her gun still pointed at him, but then her hand shook, and she sighed heavily before pointing it downward.  “Steve,” she cried, and he quickly hugged her.  

Y/N watched in disbelief and frustration as the other women around her all forgave.  She looked down at Bucky, and he could see the war in her eyes.  There was a deep anger and abandonment, but a hesitation in her full wrath and fury that he most rightfully deserved.  Bucky held his hands up in surrender as he slowly stood.  “My treasure,” he whispered, taking a step closer to her.  She flinched, one foot stepping back and she raised her gun again, nudging it into his forehead.  “I’m sorry,” he continued, and let his hands fall to his sides.  “Whatever you choose, please know I love you…until worlds end, and beyond.”

Y/N started to cry, her hand holding the gun shaking.  She shook her head, her teeth gritting as she glared at him.  Peggy then came and stood behind her, then another woman, then another woman, then another, until a small group of her crew were surrounding her.  Peggy slowly lifted her hand and gripped Y/N’s shoulder.  “We’ve done what we set out to do.  The sea helped us avenge ourselves.  Now it’s time we heal,” Peggy whispered to her, leaning in and kissing the side of her head.  “Come away dearest,” she said, glancing at the gun, “come away…”

Y/N started breathing heavily, shaking harder, until she screamed then dropped the gun at Bucky’s feet.  She folded in on herself and Peggy and the other women caught her before she fell, helping her to sit on the deck as loud wails and choked cries fell from her mouth.  As she clung to Peggy, Bucky kneeled before her, reaching a hand out and touching her knee.  “Y/N,” he called to her.  She peered up at him from where she’d buried her face in Peggy’s collar.  He let go of her knee and held his hand out to her in offering.  Y/N looked back and forth from his hand to his face, then looked up at Peggy, who nodded in encouragement at her.  She looked back at him and slowly sat up, extending her hand out to him.  He didn’t move, letting her take her time.  She hesitated, still afraid and unsure, but took his hand.  Bucky let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and smiled at her.  “My treasure,” he said, his lips trembling as he kept crying.  He leaned down and kissed her knuckles, and she stifled another loud cry.  Bucky slowly started to stand and helped her stand up, the women around her getting up with them.  He stepped closer, and this time she didn’t step away or flinch.  She stared at him with a look of hurt and yearning.  

He lifted his hands and cupped her face, watching her carefully.  Y/N’s hands held his wrists tightly as he slowly leaned in so his forehead was pressed against her forehead.  “I thought you were dead,” Bucky whispered.

“I did die that day,” Y/N whispered back.  “I don’t know who was born in my place.”

Bucky smiled at her.  “A pirate,” he answered her.  

Y/N’s eyes flicked back and forth between his eyes, and a small smile started to grow on her face.  “A pirate,” she repeated.  

Another rumble came from the sea beneath them, and they all braced themselves.  An ear-splitting horde of screams reverberated through the air as sirens surged from the depths to Dido’s Lament.  They ripped at the ship, the splintering wood flying as they shredded it.  Y/N walked to the side railing as the siren from earlier, Mira, looked back at her as Dido’s Lament cracked in half and started to sink, the torches on board breaking and setting fire to the parts still above water.  Mira chittered at her, and Y/N chuckled a watery laugh and blew her a kiss.  Mira tapped her chest then spoke to the sirens, and they all dove back into the sea, the ship humming under the pressure as the ocean bubbled and swallowed it whole.  The pact was broken, the call of vengeance appeased.  

Bucky joined Y/N at the railing, watching Dido’s Lament sink with her until he reached a hand out and caressed the side of her face.  Y/N looked up at him, and they stared at each other for a moment as the sounds of sweet rendezvous behind them drowned out the unsettling sinking ship in front of them.  Bucky’s other hand joined the first and he traced the features of her face, memorizing her.  Her eyes fluttered at his soft touch, and after a moment she leaned her head into his palm, closing her eyes as she let him feel her.  “Can I kiss you, treasure?” Bucky asked quietly.  “I still can’t quite believe you’re real…that you’re here.”

Y/N inhaled deeply at his request, still looking hesitant.  Bucky knew it was going to take a long time for her to fully trust him again, and he was willing to wait, to be patient, but he hoped she would say yes to just this one thing.  She nodded.  “Yes,” she whispered.

Bucky smiled softly, then slowly dipped his head, nuzzling her nose with his nose first, then kissing her gently.  The kiss was healing for him, melding together the fractures in his heart and his mind.  Y/N barely moved, her lips kissing him back but not with the same fervor or passion she used to.  It hurt Bucky, but he knew it would take time.  He pulled away and smiled at her, kissing the tip of her nose.  “Thank you, lovey.”

[siriuslysmoking]

No One Was Saved | Chapter 2

(The Year Everything Flipped Upside Down Masterlist)

—Eleanor Rigby Died in the church and was buried along with her name Nobody came Father McKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave No one was saved— -The Beatles

Y/n was sitting in the lunchroom waiting for Chrissy to show up, she had made it known that she needed to tell Y/n something so here she waited, in the lunchroom. But no Chrissy. None of the cheer girls had seen her, so they were no help. Jason was her last resort. She didn’t necessarily like talking to him, but when she had to, she had to. She walked over to Jason’s table, it was all the basketball players.

“Hey! Jason!” she spoke as she got close to their table, he hummed as he looked up. 

“Oh, it’s you.” he looked disappointed.

“What, not the person you wanna see?” Y/n questioned.

“Not particularly.”

“Dido, now, do you happen to know where Chrissy is?” She questioned, crossing her arms across her chest.

“No, why would I know?”

“Because she’s your girlfriend.” she shrugged.

“No, sorry princess, I don’t know.”

Y/n rolled her eyes getting ready to walk away when a voice from across the room called out. “As long as you’re into band or science…” Eddie Munson. “Or parties.” standing on a table, once again making himself known. “Or a game where you toss balls into laundry baskets!”

Y/n’s eyebrows were raised as she watched the 20 year old man -who was still in highschool- with the long curly hair, his black jeans, his leather jacket with a jean vest above it, and of course who could forget his Hellfire t-shirt. Hellfire: a Dungeons and Dragons club, that Eddie was like the leader of, Y/n didn’t know much about the game except that it was a fantasy role-play game. To be honest she was quite intrigued by it, Y/n always thought about learning more about the game that others called a ‘satanic ritual’. That was all bullshit though and she knew it.

“You want something, freak.” Jason stood up, he was so defensive, so willing to stir the pot. Eddie’s response to Jason was to imitate a demon, his pointer fingers pointing up on his head, his tongue stuck out and he made growling demon-like sounds. Eddie smiled as Jason pulled a disgusted face, it wasn’t until Eddie locked eyes with Y/n (who was still standing next to Jason) she noticed the side of her lips were turning up. She immediately forced her face back into a neutral expression, but Eddie had already seen it. 

He turned around on the table, “it’s forced conforming. That’s what’s killing the kids.” he stepped off the table as he shouted, scaring a group of girls that were passing his table. He saw a pair of cheerleaders and motioned for them to walk past him. “That’s the real monster.” this time he spoke much lower.

When Y/n realized she was staring she turned and walked out of the lunch room, frustrated and concerned, where the hell is Chrissy? She continued her search, Y/n had a free period for next class and so did Chrissy so she continued to look for her blonde friend. Not twenty minutes later she walked outside because some people ate outside on the picnic benches, that’s when she saw Chrissy. 

“Hey, Chrissy!” she shouted as she ran over to her friend. “I was looking for you everywhere. I thought we agreed to meet in the lunchroom.”

“Oh-” Chrissy flinched as Y/n rested her hand on her shoulder. “Uh, yeah, I just got distracted.”

“Are you okay?” Y/n asked slowly, removing her hand from the girl's shoulder.

The blonde nodded, “Yeah I just want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Y/n nodded as she walked with Chrissy towards the football field. “What’s going on?”

“I- uh-” she trailed off.

“You can tell me anything, you know that right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Okay, then what’s going on?”

“I feel like I’m going crazy.” Chrissy rushed out.

“Don’t we all?”

“No like, I’ve been getting nightmares and headaches and bloody noses…” she trailed off. “I’ve been seeing things.”

“What kind of things?”

“You’re going to think I’m going insane.”

“I promise I won’t, to be honest, I’ve been getting headaches and bloody noses. I had a headache today. I could barely see.”

“Okay… today in the bathroom it was my mom, talking about a dress and then her feet, they-they were like I don’t even know how to explain it… not human.” Y/n nodded. “The lights flickered, the voice was so scary.”

“Wait- did you say the lights flickered?” Y/n stopped her.

“Yeah…” Y/n nodded and continued walking.

“So, where are we going?”

“To the woods, I’m meeting with Eddie Munson.”

“Wait- why?”

“To see if he has anything that can help.”

“Are you sure drugs are the answer?”

“I’m willing to do anything that can help.” Y/n nodded at her friend as they made their way across the field and behind the gate. As they were walking through the forest they came upon an old picnic table that was littered with cans and other trash. Y/n climbed onto the bench sitting on the table when she turned she saw Chrissy facing a tree.

“Chrissy?” Y/n questioned, the blonde didn’t turn around, she just started to back up. Y/n stood up stepping towards her friend, until another body crashed into Chrissy making her scream.

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey.” It was Eddie, “sorry.” he chuckled, “didn’t mean to scare you.” Chrissy looked like she had seen a ghost. “You okay?”

Chrissy looked towards the tree again, “Chrissy?” Y/n called, that’s when Eddie noticed her. Y/n stepped forward, calling out once more, before she could reach out to her friend she quickly turned around and put on a false smile. 

Eddie waved his lunch box and walked toward the table, the two girls following, Y/n kept trying to meet Chrissy’s eyes but her head remained low. Once they two were seated Eddie took off his leather jacket and tossed it on the table. He eyed Chrissy who looked pretty shaken, “There’s uh- nothin’ to worry about. Okay? No one comes out here.” he tried to reassure Chrissy. “You’re safe.” 

Once he was seated he flipped open his lunch box, “I promise.” his stupid lunch box that didn’t house food but instead housed drugs. He put his arm on the table resting his chin on his hand. “So, how does this work, exactly?” Chrissy asked.

To be honest Y/n had no idea why she was here, she just kinda sat there awkwardly by Chrissy’s side. “Aw, just like any other old sale, except, cash only, and for obvious reasons, no receipts.” Eddie explained.

“I’ll do you a half ounce for uh, twenty. What do you say? Plenty bang for your buck. Should last you a while.” Eddie held up a plastic baggy, there was a snap of a branch behind the girls and as Chrissy gasped and turned, Y/n raised an eyebrow. Something was going on.

“Hey, uh, we don’t need to do this, just give me the word and I’ll walk away. Okay?”

“It’s not that. I don’t want you to go.” Chrissy stopped the man who started to close up his lunch box. “It’s just- do you ever feel like you're losing your mind?” 

Eddie cocked his head to the side, “Uh, you know, just… on a daily basis.” He smiled at the two girls. “I feel like I’m losing my mind right now doing a drug deal with Chrissy Cunningham and Y/n L/n, the queens of Hawkins high.” 

Y/n noticed that Chrissy was getting more comfortable, no longer so tense. “You know this isn’t the first time we’ve all um… hung out.” Eddie says to the two girls.

“No?” Chrissy asks, Y/n cocks her head in question.

“You don’t remember?” Eddie asks, looking at the two cheerleaders sitting across from him.

“I’m sorry. I-” Chrissy pauses.

“That’s okay.” Eddie shakes his head, and messes with his finger until he makes the executive decision to stab himself in the chest with an invisible knife, falling on his back off the bench and onto the leafy forest floor.

Chrissy gasps and Y/n let a snort leave her lips as she tries to stifle her laughter with her hand. “I wouldn't remember me either. Honestly, do I have stuff in my hair?” he stumbled onto his feet, brushing his hands off and running his hands through his leaf infected hair. The two girls laugh as Eddie finishes fishing all the leaves out of his hair, he turns back to face them.

“You don’t remember me?” he questions the girls, Y/n starts racking her brain but to be honest after these past few years she's been trying to forget about everything from her past.

“I’m sorry.” Chrissy laughs, she turns to her friend and raises an eyebrow in question, Y/n shrugs in thought.

“Middle school, Talent show. You two were doing this cheer thing. You know…” he raised his hands shaking them as if he had cheerleading pom poms. “the thing you do. It’s pretty cool actually. And I was with my band-” the two girls cut him off, saying it in sink.

“Corroded Coffin.” they spoke, Eddie started clapping and did a little turn. Y/n’s brain thought of the much shorter, buzzed hair, little boy who played the electric guitar during a middle school talent show.

“Corro- you do remember!”

“Of course we do! With a name like that, how could we forget!”

“I don’t know, you’re a freak.” Eddie teased.

“No you just…” Chrissy trailed off, “you looked so…

“Different?” Eddie asked. “Yeah. well, my hair was buzzed and I still didn’t have these sweet ol’ tatties yet.” he pulled down the top of his shirt revealing his chest that was littered with tattoos.

“You played guitar, right?”

“Uh-huh, still do.”

“You know.” Chrissy continued, she looked over to Y/n. “Y/n here plays guitar too.”

“Bass, I play bass.” she corrected, Eddie looked at her.

“Never would’ve guessed.” he spoke.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. You just don’t give me the, ‘I play an instrument’ vibe.” he shrugged, “you know, you should come see us play. We play at The Hideout on Tuesdays. It’s pretty cool, we.. we get a crowd actually, of about five drunks.” Chrissy laughed as Y/n smiled at the brunette boy.

“We should.” Y/n agreed.

“It’s not exactly the Garden but you gotta start somewhere, right?” he started playfully punching a tree. Y/n took in his appearance, his dark jeans, his ‘Hellfire’ baseball tee-shirt, his belt chain, different rings, a black bandana hanging out of the back of his pants, and his long curly hair.

“You know, you’re not what I’d thought you’d be like.” the blonde trailed off.

“Mean and scary?” Eddie asked, he grabbed a piece of his hair and covered his mouth with it.

“Yeah.” Chrissy nodded.

“Yeah, well I actually thought you’d be kinda mean in scary, too.” Eddie walked back toward the table and leaned into the two girls.

“Us?” the two girls spoke, looking at each other curiously.

“Terrifying.” He sat down and grabbed his lunch box, setting it back on the table top. “Good news is flattery works with me,  so…twenty-five percent discount count for the half. Fifteen bucks.” he places down a baggy in front of the blonde. “You’re robbing me blind here, you know.”

Chrissy looked down, “do you have anything… maybe.” she stopped, “stronger?”

“Chrissy?” Y/n asked, for all Y/n knew this was her first time doing anything so going stronger would be a push. “Don’t you think you should start off slow? Ease into it?”

She shook her head, “no… I’m sure.”

“I… uh- don’t have anything on me but I can meet you tonight with it.” Chrissy nodded.

“After the game, we can meet at my trailer.” Eddie spoke.

“Yeah, that works.” Chrissy agreed.

“I won’t be able to come.” Y/n spoke to Chrissy, “I have to drop Dustin back at his house after his thingy.” Y/n remembered the promise she made to Mrs. Henderson didn't want her son to bike home in the dark so she asked Y/n to do it. Of course she said yes, after school she'd go back home then take her car back for the game.

“That’s fine. I can go alone.” Chrissy spoke to Y/n, Y/n nodded hesitantly, looking back to Eddie who was putting his jacket back on.

“Okay.” She looked over to Eddie’s hand and said the time. “We have to go to class.” she said standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Alright.” Chrissy turned to the boy. “See you after the match in the parking lot?” Eddie nodded and Chrissy turned following Y/n out of the forest and back onto the football field.

--

--

I hope you enjoyed the 2nd chapter! Reposts, comment, like so others can enjoy this story as well! it's super appreciated! Updates every sunday!

Comment if you wanna be added to the tag list!

[remusjohnslupin]

Thanks to @daniellarussos for tagging me! 💕

Rules: Spell your url with song titles and then tag as many people as there are letters.

R: Rhiannon — Fleetwood Mac

E: Edge of Seventeen — Stevie Nicks

M: Million Reasons — Lady Gaga

U: Une Belle Histoire — Michael Fugain

S: Serenade — Steve Miller Band

J: Jillian (I'd Give My Heart) — Without Temptation

O: Oats In The Water — Ben Howard

H: Here With Me — Dido

N: Nevet Let Me Go — Florence + The Machine

S: Sara — Fleetwood Mac

L: Laugh, I Nearly Died — The Rolling Stones

U: The Unquiet Grave — Sarah Calderwood

P: Poison — Alice Cooper

I: In The Street — Cheap Trick

N: Nomads — Joe Banfi

Tagging: @tastethesetears, @anotherbluesunday, @thcrin, @beautyofattolia, @yenneferthemage, @frodo-baggins, @diamantdog, @lotrlorien, @kvtnisseverdeen, @pendovah, @persephoneed, @cosmic-lullaby, @therulerofallpotatos, @penelopwgarcia, @wednesdayandherhyde.

[spindrifters]

Tag Game

ty for the tag @sliebman10 xx

Three Ships: Wolfstar, Lyra/Will, Jongritte (but specifically the teenage dirtbag version from the books)

First Ship: Idk probably Moses/Tzipporah from The Prince of Egypt or something. They're hot, what can I say?

Last Song: Here With Me - Dido (this is the random Apple Play song my Bluetooth chooses to hit me with every time I start the car, but it's such a banger that sometimes I just let it play out)

Last Film: Probably It's a Wonderful Life. I haven't really been watching anything lately.

Currently Reading: A grave mistake, the shape and sound of god, Please Set Me on Fire. In terms of tradpub, the sexual tension between me and the unread copy of Babel sitting on my nightstand is tense.

Currently Watching: The Last of Us

Currently Consuming: Dried mango

Currently Craving: A fucking ube bun but the only place in my city that has them is still closed until Friday.

Tagging @soloorganaas @impishtubist @jennandblitz @mxlfoydraco @melodramvs @crushofdoves @sweetpeasandlilies and open tag.

[gaymars97]

So I wanted to share another part of Eridian overrun with y’all

New siren powers

So EO develops siren powers pretty far

Siren ghosts

When a siren dies, they can appear as a « ghost » to the inheriter of their power. The ghost can only appear when the siren first get their power, when the siren uses their power or when the siren personally calls the ghost. However, the ghost isn’t forced to appear, and if it does, it can stay a little bit longer in the mortal world. Siren ghosts have powers such as being able to manipulate the living siren’s actions (only if it’s with extreme will tho) and appearing to a limited amount of people other than the siren. However, if the power was amplified when the siren died (ex. Leeched vault monster), this power will be taken to the grave, making the ghost more powerful.

Bonus: siren queen Dido desing

Vault monster power

So basically, we learn in this au that each siren power has a link to a certain vault monster. The links are:

Walk - Traveller

Lock - Sentinel

Shift - Warrior

Trance - Rampager

Leech - Destroyer

(Steele’s power?) - Graveward

By visiting the monsters vault and coming in contact with the monsters energy, the sirens can use this power to gain a temporary « vault power form »

Basically, this form is a humanoid mix of the siren and the monsters appearance. They’re pretty tall, obvs, and they have limited control of the monsters power

Im going to show y’all the vault monster forms at some point. I was scared I wouldn’t be able to make the monster forms human enough but I did a pretty good job I think

[mikelogan]

context for each song below the cut and here are some gifsets of most moments.

The Sugarhill Gang appears in JD's fantasy about his Sugarhill Gang alarm clock and sing a version of Rapper's Delight.

Cary Brothers performs his own song, Blue Eyes, when Elliot and Molly go out to a karaoke bar.

JD goes over to Elliot's apartment with makings for a romantic evening, including a Dido CD and proceeds to sing Thank You.

One from A Chorus Line plays as Neena Broderick, medical malpractice lawyer and soon-to-be JD's girlfriend, struts down the hall, knocking out anyone who gets in her way.

Back to You by Jeremy Kay plays as it's revealed that Turk is being sued by Mr. Corman, with Neena as his lawyer. This complicates things for JD as he is sleeping with her.

Murray's dad plays guitar and sings Cat's in the Cradle while musing about his difficult relationship with his son (Matthew Perry).

The Janitor lies about being in an a capella group and accidentally enters into a battle against The Worthless Peons. He begins to panic, but he and his group launch into a rendition of Barbara Ann to impress Elliot.

Clay Aiken sings Isn't She Lovely for the talent show that ultimately saves his character's job at the end of My Life in Four Cameras.

Collide by Howie Day plays as Carla is joined by Turk at her mother's grave, showing hope for their relationship after a difficult first year of marriage.

Half by G Tom Mac is the season finale's final song, showing Elliot moving forward, JD moving into his own apartment (and having his ceiling broken by a bathtub from the floor above), and Turk and Carla deciding to have a baby.

[manmetaphysical]

In the chart of the time of his death by the river estimated at around 6pm, 30th May, 1997, in Memphis, Scorpio was rising. The Sun opposed Pluto and the Moon opposed Mars which had just edged into impulsive Aries from Pisces by 1 degree. The Moon is conjunct the South node and Mars is conjunct the North Node. This opposition squares Venus in the Eighth house to form a T-square. Chiron was in the 12th house square to Neptune which was at 29 degrees of Capricorn. To contrast this to his natal chart reveals that  transiting Mars  in ? was conjunct his natal triple conjunction of Pluto/Mars/Uranus so it was triggering some of those impulses buried in his turbulent self value. Uranus was also transiting the Moon in Aquarius. 

In 1995 Elvis Costello invited Jeff to sing Purcell at the Meltdown festival in London.  He had done Benjamin Britten on ‘Grace’ so it seemed he was capable of dramatic soprano style of ancient music. ‘Dido’s Lament’ (1683-8) contains the lyrics “Remember me, Remember me, but forget my fate.” The fate was that Dido stabbed herself and then put herself on a funeral pyre when Aeneas left her.  Singing this aria to a rock audience astonished many people as it also ominously hinted at Jeff’s early accidental death. The words are ‘Remember me,  Remember me, but ah, forget my fate’ at the Meltdown in 1995.  He said in an interview that people should probably forget him, but at least remember the music.

Jeff Buckley’s body was found in the Wolf river days after his disappearance, apparently near Beale Street, home of the Blues. His close friends said there was something sacrificial in the disappearance of Buckley in the river in that day. One said that there was something cathartic and cleansing about it. He died in the water in twilight, swallowed by a large wave.  Since then the story of lost potential has grown and spawned many songs and a film, and collections of live performances some curated by his mother who said he was still a fun guy to be around sometimes, but that the music inspired awe as to where it came from no one knew.

In keeping with eighth house matters, where the psychic veil is thin, Dave Lory, one of his road managers who was very close to Jeff tells an interesting story. For months after Jeff’s death, he could not talk about it, he was so choked up with emotion, but he did visit a psychic just outside London, confirmed that it was an accident and recognised the bracelet that Jeff had given Dave.  The message was to not blame himself as  it was not his fault. It was as if Jeff was speaking from beyond the grave.

Make of that what you will but his death immediately created a kind of cult around this other-worldly voice that was now lost and here we are in Greek myth territory again- the lost father, the self-destructive urges, the son who repeats the father’s narrative while trying to avoid it. It doesn’t get more mythic and dream-like. Can a life lived take a tragic end in order to perform a function for the collective? To restore that connection with the eternal.  He had huge potential and that was cut off yet news spread by word of mouth and by the many live recordings attest to the virtuosity of his singing.  You might say his voice has a ‘transformative’ effect and his death too was a kind of message.  This underscores all the Scorpio themes that threaded through Jeff’s life and were most fully expressed by his death.

[allisongreenlee]

Dido: The Historical and Mythical Founder of Carthage and Symbol of Female Leadership in Ancient Times and Beyond

“Remember these Romans, Hannibal. For the time being, we must ally with them. But the day will come when we will have our vengeance upon them, as we will upon the demons of Harappa. Never forget that.” The boy’s voice was grave. “I’ll remember.”― Jennifer McKeithen, Atlantis: On the Tides of Destiny Dido, the historical and mythical founder of Carthage, holds an important place in ancient…

[sunriseoverastorea]

Ebonhawke is silent and still in the wee hours of the morning. Marea can see the entire city from the deck of her ship, spread out below her like a massive dollhouse, sleeping in the shadow of the mountains where the Crooked Kestrel is docked. A single figure here and there, darting through the sulfur-yellow glow of a streetlamp, likely up to no good. She shapes her right hand into a gun and points it at each of them, softly saying ‘pew, pew’ under her breath. She can barely hear herself over the idling hum of gears and steam and shifting wings, keeping her perpetually afloat, a gentle lullaby of mechanical voices. But she couldn’t fall asleep here, even if she wanted to. Nor on the bomb-splintered roof of her apartment, alongside her pets, or in the tall, whispering tree out in the Iron Marches, that has grown over Rajya’s grave.

She sits down less than gracefully on the edge of the deck, still adjusting to her bad knee. Her legs swing over the side, kicking chipperly through the air, and to her left she lays out her work for the night: a new cape, shoddily handsewn and almost completed, and a large plain sketchbook, accompanied by her box of scribing tools. She briefly runs the coarse wool of the cape through her fingers, feeling nothing, but imagining it to be soft and fluid, fuzzy and scratchy, all at once. Then she takes the hefty book and plops it on her lap, opening to the first page. 

“Don’t fuck up, Marea,” she murmurs, hunching deeply, getting her face as close to the page as she can. Her braids slip over her shoulders and hone in on her peripheral vision as she takes a black pen from the box and carefully pricks the end of it on the paper, licking her lips. “You don’t wanna tear pages out of this. It’s a record of your progress. If it’s shitty, it’s shitty forever.”

She begins to sketch along the top margin of the page, a smooth, elegant array of curving vines studded with leaves and blossoms alike, mimicking the flowers of Grothmar Valley. Her trip there seems like a world away, now--everything from before the Dominion came into existence does. In some cases, literally, in her year of barding in foreign taverns where odd variants of humanity with thick, musical accents listened to her tales of Ascalon, a fabled land with fabled cat people and legendary sorrow and beauty. But even since she came back--Raigar gone, then finding him a changed man from the one she left behind. Finding herself changed, a stranger in places she once romped about without a care, an alien in a world where everything is loud and angry, and she was loud and angry, and sometimes she still is, but other times she’s forgotten how she’s supposed to feel, supposed to react. 

Everything is different. She can never go back to a time when Tyria was her whole horizon. The closest she can get is her memories with Rajya, when she was child. Days moved slowly, and the world was a story, a tapestry of love and suffering that she could read before bed. It was easier that way. 

But even back then, she knew it was a sham. That real life was visceral and painful, and would beat her down at every opportunity. And now is no different--she has new friends, a lover, an airship, and a new place that she calls home, at least by name. And in the midst of all this, the concept that she’s built her heart around, like the vines climbing up the trellis on the page of her sketchbook, is crumbling into shards and splinters. 

She leans forward, letting her forehead rest against the cold, rusty metal of the deck’s railing. She grits her teeth, eyes narrowing, metal hand gripping the pen in a fist so tight that the plastic casing cracks nearly in half. And then the pen is flying off the airship, out over soot-darkened rooftops, and shreds of torn sketchbook paper are hurled after it, though they only sail a foot through the air before they begin to drift downward, spinning and lilting on the breeze like feathers. She bangs her head against the railing, again and again, and even in her anger, she doesn’t feel like shouting. She doesn’t want to be loud. 

What’s the point? she thinks, Why should I keep trying? Why did I return? Why do I still care? 

She takes a long, shuddering breath, wiping hard at her eyes with the back of her hand. It’s a poison. A disease. Tyria is in her blood, and it will always call her back. 

--------------------------------------

Over the snow-capped mountains and across the fields and forests of Kryta, Cara returns to Shaemoor. Her tiny room at the top of the farmer’s mill is just as she left it, if covered in a significant layer of dust. Even her favorite cat is snoozing on the bed, though it does nothing more than open one eye in greeting. She’s not staying the night here. It will take a couple hours to meet up with Jack and the others in the swamp, so it’s best that she gather what she needs, and leave. No fanfare, no sentimentality. It shouldn’t be difficult; this is a place where she despised herself, spent years trapped in a pit of despair and self-loathing. There is nothing of worth here, except her gear, which she came for. 

She rounds up her weapons first. With her greatsword and rifle already strung across her pack, she adds a large hammer, an axe, a sword, a small shield, and a spiked mace to the array. Some of them go in the pack, others are tied with straps to hang from the sides of it. She flips through her stack of unopened letters, which she suspects has grown in the last year, nosy farmers delivering her backlog of family correspondence straight to her desk. Then she takes them all and shoves them under the mattress, out of sight, out of mind. Like they never existed. 

Despite a fine peppering of dust, her armor still gleams, silver surface reflecting halos of gold in the candlelight. She stares down at her hard face, reflected in the chestplate, on the emblem of the Vigil so exquisitely molded into the metal, and she feels ill, as if her stomach is forcing its way up her throat. There’s no time to let petty, irrational weakness distract her--she grits her teeth and, piece by piece, removes her armor from the stand, and goes through the familiar motions of putting it on. Even after five years, the preparations that she has rehearsed since she was a child come naturally, easily, her second skin that she had planned to live the rest of her life in. Fight in battle, die in battle. With strength, honor, and justice. 

It’s heavier than she remembers. She untethers her greatsword from her pack, and experimentally swings it through the air, a simple upper-cut slash. Her breath quickens, her stance wavers, she feels stunted and instantly yearns for her arms to move freely. But is it really the smooth range of motion that she craves, or the panting from her chest that she fears? 

She’s lost muscle mass. It happens. She sits on the edge of the bed, untying the binding on her chestplate, and carefully lowering it to the floor. She didn’t want that, anyway. Baring that lie on her chest. She’s isn’t Vigil, and she never will be again. There’s nothing to be done about the rest of her armor, most of it in uniform, but at least it doesn’t scream from the highest hilltop in the same way the chestplate does: I’m a traitor! I’m a failure! I am disgraced, and I deserve my isolation.

Isolated no more, she has Jack. And the rest of the gang, though she’d hardly call them close companions. Still, in the moments when she is away from her lover, left to what few meaningful thoughts she has, she remembers what it’s like to be completely alone. There’s a part of her that believes she should’ve stayed that way, as penance. And another that’s learned not to care. She is no longer a soldier, no longer honorable. And she’s never lived her life half-heartedly. 

She pulls a storage bin out from under the bed, and unveils a thick norn-style shirt, made from a mix of hides and fur, a gift from Kylan many years ago. It will do in place of her chestplate, unrecognizable to any familiar faces she may encounter at the war front, further enforcing the idea that she is not Cara, not even human. Even in her shame, she isn’t ready to be associated with the charr-killing mongrels she’ll soon be fighting alongside. Especially if the sack-hoods come out.

She stands in the doorway, saddled with armor and weapons on her back. She looks at the cat, who at some point circled the bed and settled down with its tail to Cara, face tucked away out of view. 

“Goodbye,” she says in her flat, commanding tone, startling herself a little. The room had been dead silent, her footsteps dampened by the dust. She waits for the cat to reply--and it doesn’t, so she moves on. 

----------------------------------------------

Dido sits at her desk in her apartment in the Western Commons, busily scrawling away with a pencil. Trisha, take care of Kennedy; Sara, finish the dress for Elizabeth--she scrolls through the mental list of clients in her head, and when the letters are all written and addressed, she puts them on the table by the door, to be dropped in the mail on her way out. No noble lady will be left unattended, futzing and complaints should be minimal. She opens her little pantry, peeking in the back corners of each shelf in search of perishable food, when a tinny, subtle crackling in her ears grabs her attention. 

Abruptly, she straightens up, and goes to the window, leaning her head out just enough to appear as if she’s enjoying the cool evening air. She gently taps her finger on the tiny comm, tucked safely in her ear. “Yes?” she answers crisply, voice even and smooth and pleasantly indifferent, an automaton of grace and sinuous charm. She falls silent, listening to the reply, and tilts her head out just a bit farther, trying to abate poor reception. 

“I know, I know. Look, it’s not a vacation,” she says, keeping soft and low so that she doesn’t disturb her neighbors. “I--yes, I’m going to be with my sister, I never denied that. But we’re also going to an active war zone, so I’ll be working at the same time… Yes, of course I will keep you updated on everything I see. Every last fallen pine needle--who? Right, I’ll keep an eye out for them.”

The tinny voice in her ear drones on, a cloud passes by overhead, revealing the moon, and she dips back inside her apartment, a little more clarity coming through the device. She half-listens as she boxes up her sewing machine, shoving it under the bed and out of view from snooping eyes, and rolls up and folds her patchwork of fabrics spread across the sewing table. 

“I understand,” she says gently, but firmly. “You know I take this seriously. And that I can multitask. Or I wouldn’t have the right to call myself tailor by day, agent by night. Sometimes the reverse. I like being kept on my toes.” 

Goodbyes are exchanged, and the comm crackles and closes the connection. For a moment, she considers removing it from her ear; just a little peace and quiet, without her mentor butting in on her thoughts all night and all day, would be a sweet relief. But she leaves it in, just in case. Duty calls. 

Tomorrow--in the morning, duty calls. She lies down on her bed, swallowed in her plush comforter. She will have plenty of time to catch up with Cara and Jack when the sun sits high in the sky, warm and bright, and a fascinating, unprecedented adventure awaits them. A charr civil war, Jormag looming on horizon. She’s living through history, and her keen eyes are drinking in every minute of it. 

[emeraldgreaves]

liefred & linden 

gentle acoustic fading into dreamy indie pop for two nerdy mages who definitely still like each other.

(a fanmix for Shepherds of Haven)

tracklist / lyrics:

the 1 / taylor swift // in my defense, i have none for digging up the grave another time. but it would've been fun, if you would've been the one

alaska / maggie rogers // and i walked off you, and I walked off an old me; oh me, oh my I thought it was a dream

i don't miss you at all / finneas // all but forgotten about those eyes; a shade of green that if he'd seen would make f. scott fitzgerald cry

real estate / adam melchor // running out of real estate; tryna make all the right moves; i don't wanna hesitate; i would bet the house on you

bloom / the paper kites // shall i write it in a letter? shall i try to get it down? oh, you fill my head with pieces of a song i can't get out

apple pie / lizzy mcalpine // home is wherever you are tonight.

let's see what the night can do / jason mraz // And we'll stand in the Canyon alone, singing our favorite songs; and wait for the words to return in the echo, echo, echo, echo, echo

one and only / teitur // so you wanna be my friend, so you wanna be my lover? with you i do confess i can't be one without the other

everything has its place / young mister // just like the ocean pairs well with the sand, i go with you

white flag / dido // i promise i'm not trying to make your life harder or return to where we were. but i will go down with this ship

human / dodie // paint me in trust, i'll be your best friend. call me the one, this night just can't end

home / bruno major // i don't need to build a house of stone. wherever you are is where i call home

harvest moon / neil young // because I'm still in love with you, i want to see you dance again

golden hour / kacey musgraves // 'cause you're my golden hour, the color of my sky

pretty places / aly & aj // these open skies, leaving the past behind; i would, for all the pretty places

out of my league / fitz and the tantrums // 'cause you were out of my league, all the things I believed; you were just the right kind; yeah, you were more than just a dream

talk too much / coin // you know I talk too much; honey, come put your lips on mine and shut me up

beginning middle and end / leah nobel // five years later and I'm still yours; ten years later and I'm still yours; fifty years later and I'm still your beginning and middle and end

i will spend my whole life loving you / kina grannis, imaginary future // oh believe me, i've been counting my stars. cause I will spend my whole life loving you

the golden hour / louie zong

[authorgraves]

Christopher Marlowe

(Christened Feb. 26th 1564-May 30th 1593)

Brief Bio: Marlowe was born in Canterbury and baptized at St. George’s Church two months before the birth of William Shakespeare. He received a formal education and pursued a career as a poet, translator and playwright. His blank verse plays were enormously successful. He has been speculated as being a spy, atheist, and homosexual. In 1593, amidst a scandal surrounding his political and religious beliefs, he was murdered. Due to a lack of reliable evidence and conflicting witness statements, the circumstances surrounding Marlowe’s death remain shrouded in mystery.

Notable Works:

Dido, Queen of Carthage

Tamburlaine

The Jew of Malta

Doctor Faustus

Edward the Second

The Massacre at Paris

The Grave:

Marlowe’s remains were laid to rest in an unmarked grave in the churchyard of St. Nicholas Church in Deptford.

St. Nicholas Church

Deptford Green, London

SE8 3DQ

Surrounding Area:  

The nearest transit stations are the Deptford stop on the National Rail, and the New Cross station on the Overground.

Further Reading:

Marlowe Project Gutenberg

The Marlowe Society website

The Marlowe Studies website

St. Nicholas Church website

"You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.”

[passionate-reply]

Great Albums is kicking off Pride Month with a special feature on one of the weirdest and wildest queer artists of the New Wave era: the one and only Klaus Nomi! Combining glam, synth-pop, and opera, of all things, Nomi’s tragically short career is nothing short of mystifying. Check out the video or read the full transcript, below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! In this installment, I’ll be looking at the self-titled debut album of one of the most unique, incomparable, and unforgettable artists in music history: the one and only Klaus Nomi. What is it that makes Nomi so noteworthy? Perhaps the most obvious thing is his background as a classically trained opera singer. While a lot of pop vocalists have some degree of classical training, it’s rare to find one who worked so hard to bring ultra-mannered, literally operatic lead vocals into an otherwise pop context.

The other thing I should mention is that Nomi’s voice part was the “countertenor,” giving his vocals an even more unusual dimension. Countertenors are men who sing in a high range usually covered by women, and even in the operatic tradition, they weren’t necessarily all that common, particularly since the rise of opera coincided with that of the infamous castrati--male singers who were castrated to preserve their prepubescent voices. The combination of partially electronic, New Wave compositions with these bizarre, but ultimately “traditional” vocals results in something that sounds simply otherworldly.

Music: “Total Eclipse”

“Total Eclipse” is probably Nomi’s best known track, due in part to being featured in the seminal concert film Urgh! A Music War, which sought to capture the diversity of the early 80s New Wave scene. Like a lot of classic songs of this era, it tackles the subject of nuclear annihilation, albeit with a nearly depraved, gleeful tone, that makes it feel like more of a party. For the verses, Nomi adopts a sort of rhythmic speak-singing, which was much more par for the course for “New Wave” music, only to shockingly explode into a powerful operatic rendition of the refrain. It reminds me a bit of how, in musical theatre, tension builds through spoken dialogue, before characters are so emotional they feel compelled to burst into song--or, of course, how recitative blossoms into arias in opera. In the context of this particular track, it’s easy to interpret it as an embodiment of how “cold wars” can suddenly burst into flame. While “Total Eclipse” was a new composition, written specifically for Nomi by Kristian Hoffman, this album also features several covers of past hits, such as “You Don’t Own Me.”

Music: “You Don’t Own Me”

Nomi’s covers of the Midcentury pop ditties “Lightning Strikes” and “You Don’t Own Me” repeat the structure of “Total Eclipse,” showing that this signature pattern of increasing tension leading to increasingly mannered vocals is just as effective when retroactively applied to pre-existing compositions. What’s also significant about “You Don’t Own Me” is that it was originally written for a woman, Lesley Gore, and its defiant assertion of self-confidence has long been associated with women’s liberation. Being openly gay, Nomi sees fit to leave the lyric “play with other boys” just as it is, and could be interpreted to be deliberately emphasizing that last word, intentionally queering his rendition of the song. Nomi’s ability to sing in a traditionally female voice range, combined with his eccentric, gender-bending personal aesthetic, makes the interrogation of traditional concepts of gender an integral part of his art. Some of the other covers on the album are even older than the Midcentury, coming from the golden age of opera, such as “The Cold Song.”

Music: “The Cold Song”

Also known by its opening lyrics, “What power art thou?”, “The Cold Song” is a rare operatic aria that was actually designed for the countertenor voice part. It was written by the English composer William Purcell, a noted fan of countertenors who lived outside the influence of the Italian castrati, for his 1691 opera King Arthur. Well, King Arthur is actually what’s sometimes called a “semi-opera”: not all characters sing, and those who do often tend to be supernatural entities. “The Cold Song” is sung by a winter spirit called the Cold Genius, when reluctantly awakened from icy slumber by Cupid. His lines are sung so as to stutter, as he shivers from the freezing cold of his surrounds. Unlike the pop covers on the album, the arias are actually played pretty straight, almost as if they serve as evidence of Nomi’s actual chops doing traditional opera the old-fashioned way. “The Cold Song” is certainly a great fit for Nomi’s unique stage persona, which presented him as a fey or elfin non-human visitor from some mythical Otherworld, or perhaps an extraterrestrial from outer space. This theme is addressed most directly by the one track on this album composed entirely by Nomi himself: “Keys of Life.”

Music: “Keys of Life”

“Keys of Life” is the album’s opening track, and perhaps serves as Nomi’s personal introduction to the people of our realm--a sort of musical “we come in peace” message. Its lyrics seem to portray Nomi as a benevolent visitor, but one with a dire warning for mankind: we need to get our act together soon, for our actions now are of great import, as we humans “hold the keys of life.” Perhaps Nomi’s mission is to prevent climate catastrophe on Earth, or, given the context of “Total Eclipse,” a nuclear apocalypse. With its warbling synthesiser backdrop, and Nomi singing fully in the operatic style throughout, “Keys of Life” is arguably the most experimental piece to be had on the album, and putting it as the very first track certainly pulls no punches.

It is, of course, difficult to fully address the significance of Nomi’s persona without getting into his visual identity. The cover of Nomi’s self-titled debut features his most iconic outfit: an oversized plastic tuxedo, with hugely exaggerated shoulders, and a pointed hairstyle with a bit of Streamline Moderne flair. I mentioned earlier that Nomi’s work seems concerned with gender, and in that context, I’ve often interpreted this look as a sort of caricature of masculinity, parodying men’s formalwear and calling attention to Nomi’s receding hairline. There is certainly something absurd about a high-pitched, perhaps feminine-coded voice emerging from a ludicrously masculine sort of character. The use of thin, shiny, reflective plastic, and the aforementioned Midcentury feel of the hairstyle, make me also consider interpreting it as less of a parody, and more of an alien’s bad attempt at adopting the appearance of an “ordinary,” upstanding, conservative human male in attire, using space-age materials to cobble it together.

The oversized, geometric appearance of Nomi’s garb reminds me of the great Dada poet, Hugo Ball, founder of the legendary Cabaret Voltaire. Ball was the inventor of what he called “sound poetry,” and enacted lively readings of poetry that consisted of entirely nonsensical words. He did this while wearing a strange, cylindrical-shaped cardboard suit, said to restrict his movements so much that Ball needed to be ceremoniously carried off stage when he was finished reciting. Given their shared German heritage and cabaret avant-gardism, I can’t help but wonder if Ball’s striking costume was something of an influence on Nomi here.

This album is, of course, self-titled, but that, too, is an artistic choice that can be analyzed. The artist was born Klaus Sperber, but adopted the stage name “Nomi” for his creative endeavours. In the context of the track “The Nomi Song,” the name is often used punningly in comparison with the English phrase “know me.” Nomi’s choice of stage name is almost a dare or a challenge, a request for us to attempt to know and understand this seemingly inscrutable being before us. As with many other portrayals of queerness as alien or otherworldly, the messaging here seems to be that Nomi may seem different at first, but his intent is ultimately benign, should mere mortals like ourselves be kind enough to give him a chance.

Nomi’s follow-up to this debut album was 1982’s Simple Man, an album which is much more similar to its predecessor than different. It has a wider variety of contributing musicians and different instruments employed, but it’s got a similar overall feel, and mix of tracks. You’ll find more covers, like “Falling In Love Again” and even “Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead,” more original compositions, like the Hoffman-penned sequel to “Total Eclipse,” entitled “After the Fall,” and even some more arias, like this stunning rendition of another work of Purcell’s. Referred to here as simply “Death,” it comes from Purcell’s Dido & Aeneas, and is sung by the titular Carthaginian queen, Dido, as she prepares to commit suicide. Also called “Dido’s Lament” or “Thy hand, Belinda,” its darkly descending melody is as captivatingly ominous today as it was when it was written, over three centuries ago.

Music: “Death”

Sadly, Nomi became gravely ill at around this time, and his own untimely death was just around the corner. He died of complications of AIDS in 1983, at the age of just 44, leaving behind an unfinished opera of his own creation, Za Bakdaz, which would go unreleased until 2008. That, and a posthumous live album released in 1986, would be the only other works under Nomi’s name. As with all artists who die tragically young, we will always be left wondering what else Klaus Nomi might’ve accomplished in the ensuing decades. I find it hard to imagine a timeline in which this sound ever became particularly mainstream, but anything else Nomi came up with would have undoubtedly been fascinating.

My favourite track on Nomi’s debut is “The Twist.” Yes, this is indeed Chubby Checker’s “The Twist,” another one of those Midcentury covers that Nomi was so fond of. But compared to the rest of Nomi’s covers, this one is much more of a deconstruction, perhaps even a “piss take,” featuring a sparse instrumentation, centered around a lethargic bass guitar, and the overall pace is slowed to a crawl. Add in Nomi’s piercing vocals and some nearly demonic, chittering laughter, and you’ve got a track that turns a fun, light-hearted dance craze into a surreal nightmare. As difficult as it is to be the strangest track on an album like this, I have to give that honour to “The Twist.” That’s all for today--thanks for watching!

Music: “The Twist”

[dwellordream]

“…When the two lovers meet after Parliament's decision, Criseyde offers Troilus the opportunity to "ravish her" as her uncle has suggested. She begs for his aid, crying "Help, Troilus!" (IV, 1150) and falling into a dead faint. For once, she wishes that another would take control and make decisions for her. Not realizing that Troilus has relapsed into an impotent, emasculated state, Criseyde expects him to interpret successfully her intent and to act boldly in order to rescue her from her terrible plight. Troilus, however, is no longer the valiant, empathetic young man transformed by Criseyde's love; consequently, he fails to play the role of the manly hero. He does not seize this moment to carry the maiden off; instead, he convinces himself that she has died and poetically beseeches the heavens to hasten his own demise (IV, 1191-1211).

His behavior contrasts greatly with Criseyde's when he had fainted. She roused herself to action, doing all in her power to revive her lover, who, like Criseyde in this later scene, seemed at the precipice of death. Criseyde begins to argue eloquently upon the advantages of biding her time behind enemy lines only after she awakes to discover that Troilus has not heeded her cry for help. A careful reader would recognize, how ever, that she still yearns for her lover to prevent the exchange, for she interrupts her own argument to assure Troilus "what so ye me comaunde,/ That wol I don, for that is no demaunde" (IV, 1294-95). In arguing in favor of removing to the Greek camp, Criseyde tests the extent of Troilus's affection. …Criseyde thought that surely a man willing to slay himself for her would be willing to risk ruining his reputation for her love, but Troilus finds himself incapable of performing such a heroic feat.

When Troilus fails to make even the slightest attempt to rescue his ill fated lover, Criseyde realizes that she must bring about her own salvation. As she spins out her plan, she gains more confidence in her abilities to effect her own rescue. Sheltered within the walls of Troy, Criseyde knows little of the true horrors of war, only what she has gleaned from gossip and from the books that she has read in her cloistered garden. Her overconfidence stems both from her ignorance concerning the actual situation facing her nation and from her earlier successes in effecting her will.

In contrast, Troilus has been out in the trenches, and he should recognize the implausibility of Criseyde's plan of action. His attempts to dissuade her, however, seem half-hearted at best. Indeed, he feels relieved that she seems to exonerate him from taking any rash action, for such a view accords with his own and enables him to rationalize his impotence as simply a chivalric attempt to uphold his lady's desire: This Troilus, with herte and erys spradde,/Herde al this thyng devysen to and fro,/And verrayliche him semed that he hadde The selve wit. . . (IV, 1422-25) Although Troilus finally does argue with Criseyde that they should elope (IV, 1503), he does so only to determine the extent of her loyalty, for he beseeches her "That of hire heste he myghte her trewe fynde" (IV, 1439).

For nine stanzas he dwells on his potential desolation should Criseyde forsake him and displays little concern as to whether she might suffer from the trade as well (IV, 1436-98). He does not want Criseyde to abandon her plans but only to assure him that she will remain stead fast in her love for the Trojan prince. Troilus now behaves like Percival's maid, arguing against his lover's bold plan only to make her more resolved to carry it out. He succeeds, for Criseyde dismisses his worries, assuring him that she can achieve all that she has set out to accomplish. Thinking of the state of her city that "hath now swich nede / Of help" (IV, 1558-59), she chides Troilus for wanting to abandon his home, reminding him that he plays a vital role in his city's defense.

Concern for his city, however, does not motivate Troilus in his insistence that he and Criseyde run off; rather, his hesitancy to allow her to leave stems from his hitherto unwarranted fear that Criseyde will prove untrue. After Criseyde's eloquent argument, which included an impassioned declaration that she would remain constant in her love (IV, 1527-54), Troilus still asks her to leave with him: "But for the love of God, if it be may,/So late us stelen priveliche away;/For evere in oon, as for to lyve in reste,/Myn herte seyth that it wol be the beste." (IV, 1600-1604)

After listening to this plea, Criseyde finally experiences an awakening, realizing that her lover does not hold the values that she herself cherishes. She recognizes his plea stems only from jealousy and not from any noble concern for her or for their country's grave situation. Sighing with exasperation, she once again defends herself against the charge of infidelity: "I se wel now that ye mystrusten me, For by youre wordes it is wel yseene./Now for the love of Cinthia the sheene, Mistrust me nought thus ca?seles, for routhe,/Syn to be trewe I have yow plight my trouthe." (IV, 1606-10)

Criseyde now recognizes that Troilus, who had shunned jealousy during his earlier blissful state (III, 1805-6), has relapsed into a suspicious suitor, one who holds little faith in his love's sincerity. He has forgotten that the last time he questioned Criseyde's trustworthiness he nearly lost her favor (III, 1054-85). Troilus's hypocrisy at Criseyde's departure serves only to alienate her further and to make her resolve to return to Troy begin to evaporate. The Trojan prince not only refuses to heed Pandarus's advice and openly declare his love; he also feigns joy at the arrival of Antenor (V, 77). Even if he believed that openly expressing his love for Criseyde would imperil her, he need not seem joyous concerning the exchange. Criseyde does not mask her emotions so easily but instead weeps piteously as Diomede leads her away (V, 82). She feels distraught not only because she must leave Troilus and Troy but also because she now recognizes that she has misread her lover's nature.

Troilus's behavior undercuts the narrator's contention that the young prince refuses to act only because he fears some harm may befall Criseyde: But why he nolde don so fel a dede,/That shal I seyn, and whi hym liste it spare:/He hadde in herte alweyes a manere drede/Lest that Criseyde, in rumour of this fare,/Sholde han ben slayn; lo, this was al his care./And ellis, certeyn, as I seyde yore,/He hadde it don, wi thou ten wordes more.(V, 50-56) These assurances concerning Troilus's desire to behave valiantly seem to reflect anxiety on the part of the narrator, who suspects, perhaps, that he recounts not the tale of a hero but of a coward.

W. A. Davenport believes Troilus's poetic apostrophes to his lost love as he waits for her in Troy indicate that the young prince's despair is primarily a pose. Troilus's letters also reveal that he continues to play a role. These solipsistic missives to Criseyde seal his fate, for they leave no question that Troilus remains a courtly lover. He does not consider the needs of his auditor, for instead of tender, solicitous queries concerning the hardships she must have endured, he stresses his own affliction. Cox comments that "Troilus sings of his woe with little regard for Criseyde, . . . and his letter, . . . full of fin’amors platitudes, blames her for going to the Greeks."

As in Book I, where he allowed his misery to paralyze him, Troilus has succeeded in making himself overwrought. It is as if the communion he experienced with Criseyde in Book III never occurred, for the Trojan prince once again acts like the lovelorn suitor of a lady he scarcely knows, whom he can address only in the most artificial, contrived manner. Troilus pens his letter ostensibly to convince Criseyde to return to Troy. Such a demand, however, is absurd, and he knows it. He, who remained completely passive while the Trojans forced his love to leave, now expects Criseyde to risk her life by rushing across the battlefield to return to him. Even if she succeeded in reaching Troy, Troilus knows his father would send her back to the Greeks.

Troilus does not really expect Criseyde to reunite with him; rather, he expects her to behave like a proper lady and die for her love. One can speculate that he wants her to act like the nondescript tragic heroines in the Legend of Good Women, to pine away like Ariadne or to commit suicide like Dido. Such behavior would prove a fitting end for the object of Troilus's desire, enabling him to compose tragic lays about the death of his beautiful, beloved dame. Criseyde sees through Troilus's importunate letter, and, instead of playing the expected role of the bereft lady, she assumes the role of a courtly lover herself. As Davis notes, "when his [Troilus's] thou becomes an it, it rightly opts out." Criseyde might have risked her life or wasted away for the valiant Troilus of Book III, but she deems this poseur unworthy of such deep, abiding affection.

John McKinnell contrasts the structure of Criseyde's letter to Troilus's, noting that her epistle flows eloquently and follows the rules of artes dictamen. Criseyde's controlled prose reflects her nature; she will determine her own actions and certainly will not be dictated to by a man whose own convoluted letter displays an utter lack of composure or self-discipline. The time for impulsive behavior on the part of Troilus has passed. He should have displayed such passion when Criseyde was taken from him; he should have acted rashly when such behavior would have proved effective. Now his raving falls on deaf ears, and his former lover tersely retorts "Nor other thyng nys in youre remembraunce, / As thynketh me, but only youre plesaunce" (V, 1607-8).

In abandoning Troilus and accepting Diomede's suit, Criseyde behaves like a male lover jilting a woman with whom he has grown weary. Criseyde knows that men behave in this manner, for prior to accepting Troilus's advances, she complains about the faithlessness of men: "ek men ben so un trewe,/That right anon as cessed is hire lest,/So cesseth love, and forth to love a newe./But harm ydoon is doon, whoso it rewe:,For though thise men for love hem first torende,/Ful sharp bygynnyng breketh ofte at ende."(II, 786-91) Criseyde follows the consummate courtly lover's, Pandarus's, advice to Troilus, an act that leaves both uncle and lover astounded. Her behavior provokes Pandarus's violent exclamation "I hate, ywis, Cryseyde; / And, God woot, I wol hate hire evermore!" (V, 1732-33), as well as his wish that she will die soon, a desire to which Troilus, by not gainsaying, seems to give his silent assent.

Criseyde's unconventional behavior confounds the narrator as well. He cannot quite grasp why she gives Diomede Troilus's brooch, for instance, despairing that there "was litel nede" for such a deed (V, 1040). The narrator cannot admit that Troilus deserves to be abandoned by Criseyde, for to do so would be to recognize that he has recounted the story of a dithering, self-consumed man. By giving Diomede her brooch, Criseyde sends Troilus a clear message that no matter how much he rants and raves she no longer will accommodate his desires. She lets him know that not only does she refuse to return to Troy; she also refuses to waste away for love of him. Criseyde never wanted to involve herself in an affair constrained by the rules of courtly love, and she takes up with a new lover, who, like her, eschews such conventions.

Diomede's desire for Criseyde does not emasculate him, and he never complains of her cruel heart or hints that she causes him great pain. Instead, he treats her as his equal, engaging her in an intellectual conversation concerning the siege and seeking her opinion about the war: He gan first fallen of the werre in speche Bitwixe hem and the folk of Troie town;/And of th'assege he gan hire ek biseche To telle hym what was hire opynyoun. (V, 855-58) Diomede understands Criseyde's nature, for he recognizes that she is a woman interested in much more than silly love games. Instead of harping about himself, as Troilus tends to do, Diomede at least feigns empathy for Criseyde's plight, telling her he has noticed her sorrow and wondering if she laments a lost love (V, 871-82).

His concern indeed may be motivated merely by lust, but compared to Troilus's self pitying posturing, it strikes the Trojan beauty as a welcome change. In Criseyde's estimation, Diomede now seems much closer to the ideal she seeks than the Trojan prince, for Diomede pretends at least to admire both her beauty and her intellect. Indeed, Chaucer hints that Diomede may prove a much better match for feisty Criseyde than the young, oversensitive prince. The poet reveals that the Greek warrior and the Trojan beauty share the same pragmatic philosophy. Determined to court Criseyde, Diomede reminds himself that "he that naught n'asaieth naught n'acheveth" (V, 784). His words echo Criseyde's own, who, while contemplating Troilus's suit, mused that "'He which that nothing undertaketh, / Nothyng n'acheveth, be hym looth or deere'" (II, 807-8). Troilus, significantly, does not subscribe to this self-sufficient view.

Readers should not scorn Criseyde for turning toward Diomede. After being so bitterly disappointed in Troilus, who proved himself incapable of transcending the conventional, Criseyde continues to believe in the possibility of attaining the ideal in love. She may not remain loyal to a man who has failed her, but she does remain loyal to the notion of a healthy, wholesome love, a love based on mutual desire and a meeting of minds. Her passion for Troilus has changed her; she does not revert back to the cynical young widow of Book II, who regarded love as little more than a trap set by men. For one fleeting moment, Criseyde found her affair with Troilus liberating, because it enabled her to express and to sate finally her own desires. She embarks on a relationship with Diomede yearning to recapture the bliss that she once felt with her Trojan prince. Diomede, she hopes, will prove a more worthy recipient of her stalwart heart.

Troilus also finds himself altered by his love affair with Criseyde, but his transformation occurs only after his death. His demise releases him from the courtly love conventions that he found impossible to escape while on earth. In Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi describes the metamorphosis that occurs when her female students remove their mandatory black robes in the sanctuary of their professor's apartment. Freed from these black garbs, symbols of the repressive Iranian regime, they indulge in the luxury of laughter. Upon his death, Troilus finds himself similarly released from the strictures of his society. He can now shed his pose as a courtly lover, and, looking at the world from his heavenly perch, he too can laugh, both at his weakness in constantly allowing the values of the majority to dictate his actions and at the temerity of the woman he once loved, who refused to do so.”

- Mary Behrman, “Heroic Criseyde.”

[theotherjourney7]

“(As of today October 5th 2020), I was gonna do another The Week In Tory but, try as I might, I could not find a thing they’d done wrong since Friday.

No corruption. No ineptitude. No lies. No hypocrisy. Just a solid 96 hours of honest, decent and reliable governance.

Only kidding: it’s an absolute shit-show...

1. A report found the “Eat Out To Help Out” scheme cost £500m and didn’t do a single thing to improve the economy of the UK’s hospitality sector

However, it did help to double the number of infections, although they forgot how to count, so didn't notice

2. As infections spiked, the government briefly woke up and introduced local lockdowns

But predictably, the local councils responsible for implementing the new plans were given literally (not making this up) 5 minutes warning and no additional resources whatsoever

3. It was revealed absolutely not a single penny of the £1.58bn “Arts Rescue Plan” announced to great fanfare in July has actually been handed out to the artists or venues relying on it

So unsurprisingly, the country’s largest cinema chain had to close, costing 5,500 jobs

But thankfully Work and Pensions Minister Thérèse Coffey was on hand to reassuringly tell them they can all become Care Workers with "very little training" (I'm sure nursing is a doddle)

Slight problem: in June the government froze millions in funding for training care workers

But it’ll be fine, won’t it? I mean, who needs to train care workers? We have plenty, don't we? Oh, hold on: this week it was revealed care workers are caring for 2,400 families each, which is 10x the recommended number

4. Good News for UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson, as a poll of Tory Members found they think Gavin Williamson is even shitter than the Prime Minister.

Bad News: they think every other Conservative MP is better than the PM, and only 28% of them think he’s up to the job. And that’s his fan-club.

5. So UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson went on a charm offensive (and did both), and promised to build 40 new hospitals

Seemingly he had forgotten – or hoped we had – that he also promised to build 40 new hospitals a year ago, and then … how can I put this? … didn’t

The 40 new hospitals have £3.7bn budget

Unfortunately, 40 new hospitals would cost at least £24bn

And there's backlog of £6bn in maintenance and repairs, so the day it was launched the “new hospital fund” was £2.3bn short of building a single Lego Hospital

6. Last week Boris Johnson said the Covid rules were simple, then forgot them, then said they were complicated, then said he’d fine people breaking them, then didn’t fine his own dad

This week his own dad broke the rules for a second time and [tumbleweed]

So 6 days after the PM went on TV to assure us the lockdown rules were simple, the govt has announced it will announce some simplified rules. But not yet. Soon. In a bit. First we need another few levels of announcements about announcements, because there’s no rush fellas.

7. I always try to find a supportive and approving quote about Boris Johnson from an star-struck anonymous Tory MP: this week, I have an embarrassment of riches

“It’s like ‘carry on coronavirus’, with Boris as Sid James and Matt Hancock as Kenneth Williams”

“I find myself bewildered at the clownish lack of professionalism in Downing St”

“If you drop something which is entirely ornamental [meaning Boris] it tends to lose its appeal”

“We’ve gone from eat out to help out, to drink up and piss off”

8. The Tories called loudly for the firing of the SNP’s Margaret Ferrier for travelling by train after being found positive for Covid

No word yet about them calling for the removal Tory MP Peter Gibson, who travelled 250 miles by train with Covid symptoms

Peter Gibson is part of the new “Red Wall” intake of Tory MPs, so presumably was keen to return to his constituency to inform them that 1/3 of them would be £1000 a year worse off due to government cuts

9. It was revealed that 5 years after Tories pledged to end money laundering with the announcement “there is no place for dirty money in Britain”, absolutely no action has yet been taken, and the legislation has been gathering dust since 2015

10. But thankfully, non-corrupt ministers like Robert Jenrick, who takes “donations” (which are apparently different from bribes) from housing companies, are still doing the right thing, such as unlawfully overruling his own officials to grant a £50m tax saving to a donor

And a legal challenge was launched over a £580k contract to friends of Dominic Cummings, with no competitive tendering

Oh, and Health Secretary Matt Hancock takes “donations” from the horse-racing fraternity, and excluded the highly profitable Cheltenham Festival from the lockdown

The former Chief Scientific Advisor said Cheltenham Festival “probably helped to accelerate the spread” of coronavirus

11. Not that we’d know, because it appears a mere 227 days after the first case, the govt still hasn’t learned to import data into an Excel Spreadsheet

Any IT manager would tell you Excel is not the way to store the data of up to 67 million people – it is spreadsheet software for a max of 1 million records

16,000 tests were lost, and over 50,000 potentially infectious people may have been missed by contact tracers

12. On 2nd June, Boris Johnson announced he would take “direct control” of Covid

So 125 days later, he couldn’t tell us the social distancing rules, how many records had been lost, or explain why 4 different lockdown regimes exist in Greater Manchester alone

13. But human spork Health Secretary Matt Hancock rushed out to say NHS Test and Trace are working hard, neglecting to mention the slightly awkward truth that NHS Test and Trace is not run by the NHS, but by a private business under the guidance of the effortlessly terrible Dido Harding

Highly effective private business Serco do our contact tracing, which is why some of its tracing staff report being so under-occupied they have managed to watch 3 entire series of The Good Place and play computer games all day for months, while 60,000 Britons died

14. I have no idea if the Queen has noticed her government’s honesty, but this week she said “having trusted, reliable sources of information is vital”

We enter flu season under a government you can trust, but who accidentally failed to send the flu vaccine to GPs for over a month

15. And the average hours for teachers increased from 53 to 70 hours per week, as they attempt to cope with endlessly shifting instructions

Teachers are also having to be cleaners in schools, as there is no additional money for adaptations to keep staff and students safe

16. As the government prepares for 4 million unemployed in 2021, Treasury Secretary Rishi Sunak said he would introduce “job coaches”, and said 4 million of us being coached for *up to* 2 hours to do jobs that don’t exist would be “the first time that people will realise government could be helpful”

17. A report found “trust between ministers and staff is being severely eroded” by a 7-month delay in the bullying inquiry into Home Secretary and horcrux, Priti Patel

She then made a speech in which she voluntarily opted to define herself as opposite to those who “do good”

18. Possibly to distract from this, health minister Lord Bethell rushed out to claim Covid 19 would make us as proud as the Olympics

Covid 19 has killed about as many as you can fit into an Olympic Stadium, so maybe that’s what he meant

A quick detour into the magical, spinning world of gaffe-hamster Lord Bethell: last week he tried to distract from govt student cockups by claiming Covid 19 was predominantly caused by “late-night intimacy” and not by, for example, failing to trace infections

Earlier, Bethell tried to distract from govt A-Level cockups by claiming him failing A-Levels didn’t prevent him hustling to his lofty position (momentarily forgetting the hustling assistance he gained when his dad, the 4th Lord Bethell, hustled his way into a grave)

19. And finally, in an image that will haunt you, Health Secretary Matt Hancock announced he would only snitch on his neighbours if he was “watching them having an Animal House-style hot tub party”. Watching. He said watching. Matt Hancock. Watching.“-Russ