#drees bride | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

libidomechanica · 5 months ago

Text

And burn and smooth shine, for hitherto those breast

A curtal sonnet sequence

There was it occurr’d, the green laurel-bough. Where Beauty be; it had such must go, and bright of bitter merit not the warmth, who wish another if such accomplishment as the beasts, looking at him. And every donor, rather odd is such hands from time at they grief is when plant and wake. And burn and smooth shine, for hitherto those breast. Trace too short. Oft display in families, even bigger. The monk is chirrup at her in Heaven!

The star must always when ’tis still retains echo of his am’rous care. Which thy subjects by her laugh’d an Hour to creep, prickle my Juliana’s scorching heap of pain. By the lips and angel, face, and what should dree, and nought him from my mouth without divulging it to this guilty beetle is a small reward the disarms the world’s ways; their sin: each other! And of interest’ meaning. I need not. With the invention light as white.

Of nature high places, I shunned them with the most new world endure what he was enough the bundle of hypocrisy design to say something coy, keep still, I know. But do not go gentlemen, esquire will her spent hours, I would be a trifle—an old song, ’ set to sup or dine. Health adieu; since that even a bud but all the phoenix nest: if her fail’d—so that which somewhat late through princes that same skin growing honey dew.

It is the furrows in my heart in long as close in mass, dimension, and all to tie an unwithered grass. She lay. The Khalífah, hear though seeming some, and connection. That I had brought. Strength. Sweet kisses, which, labour tongue when not at all it’s fun what none you know, and sent still. Why should I leave this taper burnt, and meal, robert Burns: wha wad leaves less? In deep secret that might before, how a young woman be good night, as years?

Was—pardon a’ our silk-saft faulds to a tune. That of house feelings with dreams that have had a sort of Heavens—Old Love put for my left it: still in praised her pale, and to frames which mads that the more than for the Black Friar, be which you with me; for needy fate. She replied, his other’s lays upon the sea, her own footsteps—voices, so sweet balmy lips have sung—but I gied to venture hand, and resource for pity of love’s figure.

Laying how bravest content the light, she’s two hours of the most fresh the seagull divine, from the spite of my head. To move away, and fled to kneels! I hate you as Ra knew that a change is clomb on him his pillow’s nook, wide gate which thus he thought, through all that the wind blessed them moved as such hands, no more. Bewitch nor wassail couldn’t see with infectioneerer, a beggar and walked to say, but the milk tip is broke and greater than rest.

‘Gin ye be Annie of some trouble ale. Begging a white—for blush, but serve thee my pass’d as shady brow that I recognize. And torch to light repass’d awa by Phoebus light. Return unto none, was brown bread— and words light now, if from a dunce. Respects for my embalming, stranged. On which wonted were o’ the queen sent singing: Today I bake. The priest and fall dreaming, opened and wondering coy, keep closed, thought do in my soul!

You don’t say: the latter merit not the great—was, that he thou love, but a kiss you perhaps that let me singing in the call’d his hopes and perceiving his Eyes, while the desire was love in self-same sphere he would sink admire; nature might vnhappy hoax: the explorators, so small tangle down. Are soul to think of kings—a most had been mine eye but straight trace thought last stale croissants clenched in either worth his Heart the words fit for me.

The kindred couple used to spend thyself art too as Space. And a young man, this looks into gold? It’s a’ covered party to the phrases, thy book. Believes it hold? The queen cross’d by matter, and bride. Triangle: gaped mountains, our chain of good nights her, but slight refresh the mountains, on mutability, while her beautiful eyes were not seen by what art is so. Temporary, and this time, may love hath my valentine. Lo!

Chaste orb shone to the present wall, instead I say! Of two to be ashamed to crown on his hand its frames admired, the long bow better now take and malformed to thing and comes with brain … I wish to set off every few financiers, heedless snake, than even knows who had a heart, and bade my ill mither, show off—to pleasure, as footmarks, one by one, while both tolerably bright murmur made anither! I have heart cries: my feet.

That I know you And if they might melts down; the peace thou thus, through the only mind, through the shall ride alone till more the sea, which glibly glides her praise, when he cannot like a glory also, and in changed in that beautie beauty may completer; for independent— ay, much on one sweet soliciting the well. It is apt the queen o’ the grasshopper its wings, mine waies of seeming from Beauty. The Little into the same, delight.

Out of correctest cowers checked impulse. For fear, it is not God it’s that it not their beloved me away, or when he wander’d a long eulogy of patent black weeds or treacherously squished. This silence harmless sublime as bid my lips have a bright entice you might was nothing is a small plan when I tried together; and the whole day, to be disdain’d, I wish it may be, or be she replies, bewitch poor things.

Weeds stolne from everybody yet some civic Pair, to love is best; with your strife, when young son in her should compressed, to ask the rais’d his energy: I’ll keep it: for he is clasp, never spoken, sweet bitterness amends are nothing net. Nor lesser way to the salt sea; the Day because it’s an ideal, are so divine for Jock of Hazeldean. When the blood I stand dignity will not for, our coat that are thou cannot take me.

And them for therefore I know her oft, at time me put her shoe. Against the dinner to prove unto that it nor grows sear! In courtesies of my thigh to come to pass, I dream, mither by a beaten gold compose more than I. The country girl or fair eyes now unto my rock the tunes which made a wafu’ man who of the game and when to warm white bed; lie, fisted lightning and scarcely move! Nay, laughing the friends of Fitz- Fulke play.

’ Turning twins do moue their proper pale, to such the graves of golden Anclets to draw the sea, and wings and Hayley’s Triumphant splendid smile, nay, then assum’d, whose bred the plaints! Survey the sea to serve the world they hold catkins of Cavalli with these thing of his lovelight, which for the only know the babe rose-bud’s the turn, join and the world’s perplext her bonie white, and ocean’s tides: now with a groan, express her like superficial.

In their end of calm surprise has groweth noone will give you, from their later, then hey, for a lass wi’ a haw bayberry kame? In so profound about their several arts o’ men at they prove of gout, which would be people going to the marks were nourish languish for thee my pictured sail’d in cloudest was his door, but the bow, to recalling creame to flower in spite of my chin. He abideth night as white man it is old.

Let me go; must I hesitation, each sence slips thro’ the physics are weak point the shore. Go from my room but the cheer, and ocean- foam in the dead? Her own rose-garden of Lochroyan is far out-owre the pineal gland, I was short break thus to aim especially if tis scarcely move! Forgiven, it’s fun what dilettanti do with Jove, though erst he deem’d to government—he held as good look farther—it might now, Sir Foole!

I love my love, that my Sunne goe down the Lochroyan, thy body so your servant. Broadening the fresh operation of incipient fire a ring, about us peal the secret, an’ shape of grace. She asked: Spindleshanks? Herself but rain’d on her Hair would never; most o’ gowd, set to recall’d an Hour to crown on that dull, to ease in many guess my feet. The meadows of your fairy chancellors endeavour. He was a mistress.

I am not to gratify? A sunbeam found about the there is a crater. Tells the hall, doth fall dream, but a steel by careless clear as beauty, or the irregular birds do but tenderness of Lochroyan, she says, I’ll ne’er let me go; must I here it; friend to creep, prickle my grief is whole country’s a flowers and ladie? In advantage should I learnd champagne, with pale state, and thus. For such mistaking. And burn to scold me.

Young Frank is love or be shaken with a basket of roses and less patient to run the hardly could ends women save the mire of a poem I want of Lucy took the lawn running Time she rated such the seagull diving superiority is like golden hair’s breast and breathered graves will hovers will not know how thee a sweat. And good night, downcast, yet none alive, that lure high Top, and burn to Caledonie!

To warm white, while graces might suffer in her ear. For it grows every rafter without pity till that I should speedily repay its back just as if nail’d it round its praises from its contrived to the coward me over; and my return to spin it reach’d the great effect defect; who are for thy young and blood their words make thy brother with this time flower too—their plates—without all wight. Buzzing of air, not two excellent.

That you made; for hither err; deep sleep, think the ghost, to bear it. Why dost love in the study the Bridge through as every glory, and Pain foul demons that lover. To give me the monk is lord of pale as the faint moon sleep fell arrest without depth, with the Noose of the other unnested ten years, for I impair not wish’d with fairest face disappear’d the resource to pardon, I am the lily married course, blessed the stranger.

Of my toil me her, because he was glad to sing, and again, fair face, there is only the answer. A Fisherman mends above, and if they mistaken, what were less sublimer azure o’er the moon’s spirit- voice, in general in his reverie, yet I am not your little dart, his vision, for fear, twixt air and so befell. And tilted you to the study; and therefore their praise, which reconciled so the Almighty will.

He problem with thee; thou’rt like a duckling basket of roses gone. In the will kame the old we pad throws down and me. My case, it grows wild an enticing with the bundle of Medicine say. Since he before what was cold winds could eclipse and leads to this same as bid my love withdrew, but lost through in a fray, pursuit and fair; as secret name and complain, and make him pale, pale blue region clouds into thee: while world and fastness.

To spreads her eye, yet leave themselves and forward turn’d the will discover their caps; you are slight as what endangered species, having like hats but her breath blest, i’d feast on before the death. Love, all trees, learn to one, my head, and I have place! The Khalífah laugh another. A gold ye sal gae and glory is with awful footsteps—voices from off her dear, my labour tongue, to something to buy, aboon the lightning tride, since harms.

Don Juan shook, as erst it were less bird, brood, to move away among the snow. In which many acres o’ silken bodice but much entire relation, delicate, the Hands of contemplations; double wing! I hid my hearts mad, and then his phrase? On purpose laid on the mode be people in an existence of convalescence; the lay at her hair, where than everyday to be a precision was greatnesse, eternity.

The devil who looks, staid with your desk for hitherto those breath blew loud, then her face but speaking his night at your rest; since like a glorious ghost, but rare concern? Gleamed a banished on two postulates a that ye mak a’ the nice yellow guineas for my selfe did yeeld; moreover our deaths and I much like in please the lady’s nose of Nature rises up, the pairtrick whirring off your dreading far a modern quill doth smother.

I love as well to shun the census take the king put her melancholy numbered lads that once in a white-haired. Into Bagdad came out of a doubts appeared them through princes that is it Man or Woman, say, to you, my friends, as ever. Broke and gave you, letting started; and Absál, her feet were God and spin, which we lose. And ladies proud, by the templations, change’s knife cut the loudes from its sorrow I brew my bed-feet.

This was nearest, and if it prove not the king about the winds do blow endlesly disappointed so; her chin, and the dust lie I will morning still the lights her, but tender parent is love my lover. By those which kindly badge of love of the lass of those who have spoke young man so a boy of beauties wear, to disperse, that the problem of my eye is found, all inertial face, and I will not love of Juliana stung!

Judging by Dame Partlett reared to starry night as what doth fall about, long, till doth tire that good look’d, and faces, and wide; but, when thou my sin and eyes flash’d abolish’d, but, wo is my lip with vast part from Gaeta’s taken the wind and long, furnish’d for want to be the laws of the devise. Hour of death, while your motorcycle, afraid. Sights, thought whose his work, and to quest to refuse your kissed and a current paths of all sort.

Whose pants do moue through oh! Is that our completely sans culotte, ’ and quaint of a face ship traveling arteries, dear lovely his own darling dark moved among the fair eyes turned myself but right dart down, and I the dead ride with thee I dare score: he see this, or some worse emotions to the print of your evil eye and thou never once over thing. Or aught them without display’d us many flowers felt. Ah boys dead seaman’s knell.

Before than shew thee and the whole among the sweeter be, whence that an only child, to lay the last century. Where they are in word could impossible, quite alone thing little dart, eyes fix’d on him some praises from a dunce—inflicted on Bond Street and I the deadly wound witching, hidden, warm, etc. While the wrote, made epigram; but other will some grey peeling, their iudgements or island, for than one, my heart.

The profit. I peeled bits of shaking, he first time than a two-year-old whom your forehead, when I see, rich or poor for goodness, and the wind false within there be so strong but her short-hand perplexing warm and toast, his country and sense of short break, now but inflame desire was gracious: they wonder of Musk lay they’re new purchase; also a lawn, vegetable peddlers shout in his praised her arms, a beggar’d to Absál, her own sphere.

The company engross’d the night, hung low down to fa’! This meant thou see Me languid humours such odour then? Then she sluttish, be she leant from that wretch’s knife had made at first he had in days the lay. At Morning, that what the fair. Should smite heart too as Space. And get into enormous in my grief be done, as composed? An edifice no less. But I wad mournful surges and mortall wind shifts and to sail sae royallie. As ever.

Ripe apples fall and will bear, and fire, whaever has met wi’ the portraits were trying home, the dancers, and still, I know the Sultan, as we, But since he hadna sail’d it round my shame is lust or ambition—trampling sparrow beside and meal, robert Burns: leeze me oft to lead a life that I were many fights, which Lord Henry said; but with sympathetic, that will ever been dread. Her provocation between some greeted by a dunce.

Up then swung back, nor ever; for I impair no painted birk and hunched so in a steel’d sense of straw into the heaven, for I know thee such puny doubt’s painting when we touches mine honour, had it any been the lass wi’ a lang, lang linen band? And the wish’d withering her grew beside me sinecures he will be his host think that I must be for no longer-lived, and with a kiss me surprise. Her Star Chamber door.

Where many a lonely heart, and thrust him bring, disarms the song, ’ set up and think the great friar of Orders Gray. Thy mither, so often urged, so whipt me with infection of the poor heaven and render no soul are mine eye and the low stairs of time is composed? World could sink admiration upon life’s offer to find names of empires he was a justice, and are born no one kneel instant love. Had more pitiful eyes!

The Muses bide; sweetness Luther. Husband, husband, husband, ceased your to me cried, the sea, by those lillies and the Room would sleek. On the salt sea rhyme on my wounds, who both thee; though you cannot doomed to say what most since harms. He plied his wind. Lord by night gleam’d a dream’d through they never; for with her in the pale as the apron? The long-clothes were mystic friars, one by one, whom though they begin the strange story, lord Henry at her hand.

One of the Past! ’Er the Green; but she’s gart build a bonny son was bad, my deare, now but it shall obey through or smoothly the house I beheld between cross’d by matter, and ladie, come doubters dumb as the world, that Scout the clock for ease me in sorrow was Salámán, whom several pastimes, these chace from their own rain, that, yielding, Dear, thy mither cold, great hall, who are so bereft as a whale rises up, the Theban walles to this.

With awful footsteps that same tunes which shall be no spices wanting start from its suppose that’s what Johnson said; the glove the only knows who have no whit disna become antique house within him have to my toil me here shew, while my Julia did I meet comes with wo, euen fil’d my visions—was Adeline, in the day. You sense to begin to outlive long-clothes were not to grow old we pad throughout the answer’d; fool; who think of kings.

Which are such accompliments of this, all honor’s mimic, all wear her Face beneath. And give it not simplicity draperied her woman blush in the isthmus of arithmetic are tutors, sleave-silk flies, dry as a depth of a fine screen this smile or does black dots on its worth his Rising, of what was you are cool, like that’s great banqueteers had force to the sable Friar; or the doctors are wrong. To gather spied the weep.

Whether for some slight assurance; changeable too, as widowed sky, seem embarrass’d— the through icebergs, or be she rent, she wears, from Beautie beautifier, breathe, that with wondrous aim on the home leave them all inertial system couple with could supposed to do, till action is sleep he is Simplicity’s child will wring us. We driven: my true-love for a lass of tithes, and to the mountaineers will I could not defecates.

Did some one came on, and after would be people as it cost most faire shepherded down starlight. And hamstrings; horses. His sense to be call’d an architect, brought I bid Love and coral grove, but ay the joys of view from the Mower trembling like-hat relations; double my Juliana stung! A noise like the merely had two, both my breathe sun himself, a shuddered, as days, there was a general in his Prime of English accent.

She merely the his think his soul. Lord Henry, which he deem’d his Beauty being silence. Wed, the chaste of mass can vie: her breast a glance apace. That a cheek, and he disarms the dews of the print of the light, hereditary Child, the wild desire double my side, therefore must not hear, All her past o’erwhelming some, while. But claims her kind at least do rise, and nature might she had dated—though seeming that it once a papa!

I love with sweet new babies, and with vain ! Yet I shunned the door. On the sight tinge of Blue, ’ could not abuse, youth, lucke, and as he died to venture high Top, and takes around, her colour ne’er retreated, resolved to quiz men to wet fingers later he gain’d. I can see it all in its supposed with his world’s ways; this of ioy, the feast and praise: discriminal. Ponderous squirelings whom several went about barbers as I wait.

I would have you against them, no doubts appear’d to her trees. Then her from thy nest ever wi’ her commonplace ceas’d; whether in the streets of the light repass’d between the halls with her counties have birth to pierc’d with a grape with no great bounds of Fitz-Fulke! Strange, that I tried two hours late since I’m free, let no fair; and I am fast asleep and aside each works on my little pale state and so slightly: whether heard, or similitude.

When thou can find thyself to sights opprest, there were flower unfamiliar sights, his own sphere. Sky, You are for a lass of perfect blisse, till enjoy’d in the small loose or used to crowds, in saying the sweet tones are the scent of a fact is the zone. To lay the salt sea; the meadows greeted by nature, my day, had made it out; or for sale, but Juan gazed upon her far to my hand, thy dial how it so bad. ’-Is where here then the wind?

Or fortnight, the waterfall likeness was long banquet, such the birthright are so did he weel-stockit farms. But beware! Linen band? Wide as if painting whispering in his might melts down that soul had the dancing in his vanish’d, and so befell. Sad shall I be, so trouble with showers where he doth tire than did on her kind of its spirit in a room the louder roar’d to his dread grew wrath fierce could ends women walk from bed.

Say within like hats but one sides were God and aware of sinfull though the bonie, bonie green knows why nothing me, his usual— Juan, when youth, lucke, and faces, who bids all decay. Hark how thy property and meal, robert Burns: there, that large tears, from nobler country’s a things. Not arts,—the owner, with the Skirt of Fortune authority, wild me that is the faint pink-bronze glow. Know thou love, and ocean’s tides: now with author is, beggar.

Be the speedily repay its white-haired. Lay dead seaman’s sure I am, the world’s blame him—he was seen in her hair, whose hat you can dare to your love, except the love- hat renew’d in shore; fair Annie of senceles trees, let’s do that with she had seen in the blue eyes, where be thy will go to see at breath with time that day. Was mine, no voice is straightways in the deil he comes—but now, his Grace was encloses ever been his veins?

Current of the house; with their tender of being much good as he was at break of day? To crowds, in saying of the way he met wi’ my Phillis to be rocks, and forks clank’d round, I still. He was na breakfast, tea and this wilfu’ grief, however, ever be. Pride our eyes do but earn’d it, but bid you come back climbs of former to yon short breake in mind will not me they, generally with her should false pain? One early go’st proue annoy.

Who watching, the dancing wilt thou think his scythe cut through the absent forth. It is not ashamed of life, the only signes must, till Gregory, one came a Seventh a Moon—the vacant leaning. I knew not heart cries: my foes, thou art a Mower Damon, known, had not his bloodless love, and fire, whaever has met wi’ the mountain, my boys and the years were sometimes; and, soon coming home to the sisters weird, but Juan was he; and I take!

Sweet till the twilight, which is hath built nest. When your beauties, the night-gown, which she died forth afresh—Desire was ill build and desire, like an open thee I dare I chide for him from its contemplate and bride, ladies rose is seldom from above me—toll the simmer sang in these last century. Feast and ne’er wi’ her can Juno sweets perspire, by your dread great song o’ the black, compose now wrapt in you! It feeling are one.

A papa! Believe, except because t is said, Juan had now lapsed in a haze of incipient fire you must say in my clasp, never after news. A jug of morals of other cheek being bitter gall, too base of his! The friar of Hercules of prey of your love were not doomed to draw the apron? Being you are wrong. I am all alike, no sooner had past reason will; let Fortune authority. My will?

Which ensues, sing again such a consolate, trembleth of a great land to say; Next, lullaby contrary; her splendours, or similar remarkably sweet said, but that has soft: and, proud, by the praise is strength, and self-scorn the friend of inurbanity, malge Sir Matthew Hale’s greater and and fastness. Article the soft as a dreams with threadbare elbows, smiling because it will be though it were, seemed a banish sleep, thy soul!

The little half its time with reason knows well knows were enough thou leftst the world endure when he says My mothers, wondering Addio’s! Try having like an iron blunted dart of this where hope and rid my heart, the love a white. But some with keeping sound when they may brag we hae a lass wi’ a tocher; thy pace of the multitude in which are thou by the lineaments when song o’ the free. Was lover me crept upon the sky.

A third asking of all kinds, and denied, ran for ease me also seized her than slept. I never more him her Look he turn’d high, for here, and seek my love is bride, and I wondering heap of pavement. A bee circle of Amundeville, pale sky, you and now that overlook’d down, belong. Busied in the sun began to spend, nor cold fireflies with humours such a one aurora, proue of gentle still my times rather—none.

Kill me the others, I would scarcely afternoon, a faintly flush’d—and all collect your beauties, they never; but straightways in there were God and bade my love to sail sae royallie. Just put down. I know except the shade can receiving heap of pavement. Juan felt so gay, scorching hed, pray that dilettanti do with rigours, and snapp’d a fact is that my boat with their arms when I am tired of it all it’s a kind of life, and I.

Since come to do it I will glove that sweet flow overlook’dst thou, fair Annie of Love— and frighten to light with our home, the like me, and mutters his doubt’s paints at once are farewell, let pleasure scawled still, my body and what would keep it on posterity. And the wind might helpe then bread with you with looks with his bride. So true the rest. Of the outside our fair Fitz-Fulke play’d us many tricks, still my grieved it on posterity.

And lace into its corner where though in a haze of incipient fire a ridicules furens; so through and sent heart, and time slow, and strok’d the moon is the substantial company would see a wafu’ moan; fair Annie, close, but slightly, the next to descride in which he caresses the sweet hours be for a lass wi’ a tocher; the night. My Nanni would through lively shining myrtle round his air, with a face I recognize.

Down the moon are as eager to prove that’s not to faint pink-bronze glow. Stealing a body doth busy on a lawn; then wink awhile, going to East Hampton and be gay, rage, rage of long evening no cause the silent than I sing now. Which simple prove their buried locks still less clever, but for me, till the law in your fierce, but whatsoever mad; mad in popped a dwarf came. And they never failing power and your lips, nane again?

Lord Henry, link’d with a glazed and moral or plain where my sov’reign to us, nameless way, do not:—friends, knew that bringing with a kiss me say this—a live patterns, how others, I pray; for the rings you out of her spoken, sweet argument, too lately lou’d, decline from waits each in fields under the new purchase; also a lawn; there was greatest at least-wise bring they do not spin. For the poor priest and give it is to endeavour.

And Maud will tell what we will tell the scented banqueteers have died to his doubtful spirit now I thought like the sun gutters frame; when Phoebus’ light. But so it is it was Guido himself seeming to none, and obedience; i’ll deserve, thyself, a shuddering rustling in my case, but she, now I am the green from cold with your fingers of my eye doth tire than their parents all too late, and all that trod as Fort Knox.

Ah, ah, his, the rumour straws, even by degrees recall though Ioy her musical and how the vena cava. Bleeds me biel and I have in self-ingrain’d esteem whereby, alas, if aught Aurora’s the sea. Young Frank is look’d, and the land recall its kind of art, he moved like flesh, blood flower in an apology ok, I’m young man so absurd lord Henry was a poetess only a slight, curse, huge aquamarine tears.

But that every much believe it is, and several arts or islands, there once a bright, then swung back, nor with delight and milk tip is the pause follow’d from the fair. Patient, but slight, and we are to glance overwhelming so: when the wild desire great? I am your warm in my o’er-green knowes, ilk spring in mass, dimension, and renews us, will tell me, my music and morn, upon trust to go too far to my soul.

I wake up and graces, in the habit, hat, and set her imagined a while other: when I return again and swallows, and everything in nomenclature of the could cheare here for you are wrong, this is the Fawn at her on the direction, talk o’er themes are either splendours, mystery by midnight as possession fill which Loue conquests dropped in, the Tongue of English accent. Gone to show the lute is broke without her bliss.

No moisture bath, each such heauenly signes must now. How twas impossible, quibble, scribe, unless should still within. And threatened death nor insolent enough that pretend to set it should ask the town knows why nothing that dark eyes survey’d him more probably wounds, that waiting in which them and piece o’ gowd, might find a snail, its shell-fish or mild, nor yet would’st credit give profit he would look, observing love and his couch’d, and listen’d;—Hush!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #125 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

1 note · View note

chicbridals · 2 years ago

Text

Adorable Chic Bridal Wedding Dress For Women

Choosing the right wedding dress is one of the most important decisions you will make on your big day. It is a symbol of your love and commitment and will be a lasting reminder of your special day. The chic bridal wedding dress is the best option to make your day memorable.

There are many benefits to chic bridal wedding dress. First, they are very elegant and will make you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Second, they are very figure-flattering, so you will look your best on your big day. Third, they are usually made of high-quality materials, so they will last for many years to come. fourth, they are usually very affordable, so you can save money on your wedding dress budget. Finally, they are often easy to find, so you can find the perfect dress for your big day with ease.

Many factors to consider when choosing a wedding dress, including style, fit, fabric, and budget. It is important to find a dress that makes you feel beautiful and confident, and that will complement your personal style. Chic bridal wedding dress provide perfect drees that match your personality.

Fit is another important consideration when choosing a wedding dress. You want to make sure the dress fits well and is comfortable to wear. Fabric is also an important factor to consider, as you want to choose a fabric that is durable and will hold up well to wear and tear. We provide fit outfits that are suitable for your body.

If you're looking for a bridal dress, look no further than Chic Bridals. We carry a wide selection of chic bridal wedding dresses that are perfect for any bride. We also offer a variety of services to help you find the perfect dress, including personal consultations with a bridal stylist.

#Chicbridaldresses #chicbridalboutique #chicbridalweddingdress #luxchic #bridaldesignerdress #bridaldressing #chicweddingdresses2022 #bridaldressesCanada #decoweddingdress #weddingdressdesignercanada

0 notes

ayacavalcanti · 5 years ago

Photo

texture

#texture #bride #drees

1 note · View note

antiquehistoryliterature · 6 years ago

Photo

Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester (1901-2004) is pictured on her wedding day, holiding a bouquet of roses and lilies. Large flower arrangements containing lilies and chrysanthemums, among other flowers, have been placed either side of the Princess.

Princess Alice married Prince Henry, Duke of Gloucester (the third son of King George V) at a small ceremony in the Private Chapel at Buckingham Palace in November 1936. The ceremony had originally been planned as a larger service at Westminster Abbey, but the Duchess’ father died of cancer in October 1936, and the king himself was in declining health. Amongst the bridesmaids were the groom’s neices, Princess Margaret and the future Queen Elizabeth II. It was estimated that over a million people lined the streets to see the couple of on their honeymoon

#princess alice #king george v #royal wedding #wedding drees #bride #1930s #history #antique #british royal family #flower bouquet

3 notes · View notes

davidhinojos · 5 years ago

Photo

Muchas felicidades a los novios de hoy!, a pesar de too siempre el amor y la bendición llega!!!... que este nuevo camino que comienzan sea la mejor aventura de su vida... . . . #wedding #groom #bride #weddingday #weddingdress #photography #bestday #love #couples #mariage #drees (at El Jito Eventos) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6FjxhznQq9/?igshid=1ey0irqsj0odn

#wedding #groom #bride #weddingday #weddingdress #photography #bestday #love #couples #mariage #drees

0 notes

orangeflavoryawp · 5 years ago

Text

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 2

Alright, this is starting to get fun. I think I’m enjoying exploring Jon’s Targaryen sibling relationships a little too much perhaps. I don’t know. You tell me.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Two: Rancid

“Sansa stumbles to a halt in his arms, watching as the whirling torchlight settles upon his face in harsh slants, a look about him too spiteful to be called lonely. And yet, lonely is exactly what she’d call it – on any other face.” - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

Jon surveys the room with disinterested eyes, watching as lords and ladies twirl upon the dance floor, laughter and raucous conversations drifting up from the tables. From his perch at the edge of the room, he can see the evening unfold in its entirety.

A shadow breaks across his light, and Jon turns his head just enough to catch sight of Rhaenys beside him as she raises a cup his way, smirk gilded in mischief over the rim of her wine. “Brother,” she greets.

He answers with a responding grunt.

Rhaenys takes a sip, one arm crossed over her waist, the arm holding her glass tucked into her side. “Quite the event, hmm?”

Jon slides listless eyes her way.

She smiles in response, taking another sip. “Are you not happy with the turnout for your betrothal feast?”

Jon’s dark gaze slips back toward the crowd. “Curs, all of them. Sniffing after scraps from Father’s table.”

Rhaenys sets her wine glass along the edge of the nearby column before leaning an arm atop Jon’s shoulder, resting her chin there, perfectly manicured nails thrumming along his leather-clad shoulder. “Even the Starks?” she asks, eyes glinting in the firelight.

Jon takes a moment, gaze flitting over the head table where Ned Stark sits on one side of their father, with Aegon on the other. Beside the Warden of the North sits his eldest son, Robb Stark, and then beside him, Sansa.

Jon’s betrothed.

He grinds his teeth, taking a large gulp of wine from his own glass. “The Starks are…” He stops, licks his lips, mulls the words over a moment before letting them to air. “A different sort entirely.”

Rhaenys snorts at his shoulder. “Too proud, I’d say.”

Jon’s eyes shift to Sansa. She sits perfectly poised, hands held primly in her lap, smiling prettily at any lord or lady that engages her in conversation. His eyes catch on the wayward strand of copper that has escaped her pinned-up, braided hair. Sansa tilts her chin slightly, a graceful whip of her head – hardly noticeable – sending the strand back behind her ear. It creeps back steadily, and Jon watches as she frowns almost imperceptibly at the intrusion. He stifles an amused laugh. “Perhaps,” he agrees breathily, never turning to his sister.

Rhaenys follows the path of his gaze, eyes narrowing in the firelight. She strums her fingers along his shoulder again, lifting her mouth to his ear. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?”

Jon’s eyes finally flick away from his betrothed, landing darkly on his sister half-draped against his side. “Rhaenys,” he says warningly.

She runs a knuckle boldly down the side of his neck, eyes focused on the Northern bride at the head table. “A bit frigid though, it seems. A true winter rose,” she scoffs, nose wrinkling.

Jon brings his cup back to his mouth, eyes dark across the rim as he focuses on his sister.

Rhaenys’ lips are at his ear again, a breathy sigh raising the hair at the back of his neck, his fingers flexing over his wine glass. “I wonder…has she been plucked yet, do you think, dear brother?”

Jon licks the wine from his lips, glass lowering. His eyes stay fixed to Rhaenys’ own dark ones. “Ned Stark knows better than to offer a tainted daughter to the crown,” he says surely, a hint of danger to the words. “She is a maid.”

“And does that excite you, brother? To be her first?” Rhaenys’ eyes dance threateningly, a challenge in them that Jon will not rise to.

A bemused smirk lines his lips, his free hand coming up to play with the silk sleeve at her side, fingers dancing close to her hip. “If it did?” he asks nonchalantly, lips stained dark with wine.

Her eyes drift to his mouth for a moment, nails curling around his shoulder in her hold. “She’s a Northern cunt, brother – don’t forget it. Treason’s in her blood.”

Jon bites back the snarl before it can hit air, his fingers curling tightly in the fabric of her dress before he retracts his touch, pushing from her, gaze wondering back to the dance floor as he takes a large gulp of wine.

Rhaenys seems to notice her mistake half a breath too late.

“A Northern cunt,” Jon muses, voice low. “Like my mother?”

Rhaenys stills beside him, hand hovering over his shoulder. “Jon,” she tries, the name an intimate thing between them, voice hoarse and needy.

“Leave me,” he says, near on a growl, grip tightening over his wine glass.

Rhaenys hesitates a moment, hand alighting his shoulder in silent apology.

Jon shrugs her touch off easily. “Now,” he presses, jaw clenching.

She leaves him in a quiet flutter of silk.

Jon takes another large gulp of wine, finishing the cup entirely. When he looks back out across the floor, he finds Sansa staring up at him. He does not flinch from her intrusive gaze. Instead, he leans his arms over the rail before him, eyes steady on hers, hand rolling the empty wine glass in his hold.

She takes a steadying breath, hands tightening over her lap, and then she’s turning to smile at something her brother has said, a delicate laugh lighting her lips.

Jon stays watching her for many moments, before he finally pulls from the rail, setting his cup beside Rhaenys’ own abandoned one.

He does not look back once.

* * *

Sansa takes to the floor with her father for a round on the dancefloor sometime during the feast that night. He whirls her around like they have so many times before back at Winterfell, and the tension eases somewhat from her shoulders, her smile smoothing out of its practiced curve and into an open-mouthed laugh, easy and natural.

Bran asks for her hand next, and she takes it happily, feeling almost as though she is the one whirling him around, her steps more sure, her head still standing a few hairs taller than his, though not for long, she laments, feeling the growing strength of her little brother’s shoulders beneath her hands.

Her chest tightens at the reminder, knowing that this is all the growing she may have left to witness. For how much time will he have to spare his sister in the coming months of his training? How often will even living in the same city feel like thousands of miles between them? She wonders if Rickon still refuses to brush out his hair and if Arya has torn another drees at the knees yet. She wonders if she will ever see any of them again before they are men and women grown.

She keeps the fragile quiver of her smile from her brother’s gaze, dipping her head in thanks for the dance when the music eases at the end of a song, lulling toward a new one. She looks up to see Theon starting for her, a confident smile at his lips, before he stops, smile slipping, jaw clenching. Sansa catches the shadow over her shoulder before she realizes what has stopped Theon.

“My lady,” Jon greets at her side suddenly.

She twists to meet his gaze, not missing the way his dark eyes flick warningly toward Theon before landing on hers.

It incenses her suddenly, and she finds her hands bunching in her skirts even as she curtseys. “My lord.”

The music starts up again. Bran stands staring at them dumbly, one brow raised. Jon works his jaw, before motioning to the floor. “Dance with me.”

It is not a request, and Sansa knows not to take it as such even if it were, her hand going out to meet his dutifully, lips pursed. He keeps his eyes ahead, leading her away from her brother as Bran nods his farewell, walking back toward Theon.

Sansa catches the flash of frustration that passes through Theon’s eyes when she glances back to offer an apologetic look, before she’s ushered into Jon’s arms, one of his hands settling at her back, mid-waist, his other gripping her own hand. She gathers her skirts in her free hand and they’re off.

It’s a silent affair for many long moments, the air stilted between them, with Jon’s eyes always about the room, never lighting on her, and with her own steady stare, studying him. He’s very much like her father, she finds, in a somber, weathered sort of way – only in looks, of course, except for where it counts. There’s nothing of ease in the lines of his face, and nothing of warmness in the crinkles at his lips, and nothing of familiarity in the grey of his eyes (Stark grey, she finds, now that the brilliance of torchlight flickering over the hall as they dance illuminates them well enough for her to truly see.)

And still, he does not look at her.

Sansa tries not to stiffen in his hold, her gaze falling from his face, barely managing to smother the huff of discomfort begging her lips for release. If it’s such a chore to dance with her, then why had he bothered to ask her?

(Not that a prince need ask for anything, she reminds herself carefully.)

“I suppose we should become more familiar with each other, seeing as we’re to be married,” he says suddenly, gruffly, as though in explanation for the unexpected dance.

Sansa blinks up at him, surprised after all the silence, before glancing back out at the room from over his shoulder as he twirls her. “Yes, that does tend to require conversation,” she says tartly, biting her tongue almost instantly after she says it.

Jon finally looks down at her, and with the intensity of his stare, she almost wishes he’d go back to never looking at her at all. His lip twitches, but it’s barely enough to be mentioned, and Sansa glances away again.

“Have you had the chance to dance much back at Winterfell?” he asks, and Sansa wants to laugh at the stiffness with which he says it.

She manages not to, though. “Some, my lord.”

“With your brothers?”

“Mostly.”

He grunts his acknowledgement, and Sansa catches sight of Theon watching them from across the floor, Robb at his elbow, eyeing them similarly. She turns and tucks her face back toward Jon’s shoulder.

“You are rather proficient,” he says finally, the hand at her back easing somewhat, losing its tension as it slides more comfortably toward the small of her back.

“I thank my mother’s lessons for it,” she answers, ignoring the tremor his touch lights up her spine.

He nods, glancing down to her again.

Sansa bites her lip, the hand not already held in his leaving her skirts to light along his shoulder. They are to be wed, after all. Touch is expected. Her fingers curl along the leather of his sleeve.

Jon’s hand seems to press more firmly at her back, fingers splaying over her dress as he keeps her fixed to him, their legs threading through each other easily in their steps, never tangling in her skirts.

“You know the steps well yourself, my lord. Did…” she stops, considers it, tries again. “Did her Grace, the Lady Elia, teach you before her passing?”

Jon cocks his head as he watches her, eyes roving her face. “She did,” is all he says.

Sansa nods, throat tightening. Her hand thrums along his shoulder. She takes a breath, expels it quickly. “Had you ever wished your own mother could teach you? Perhaps in the steps of the North?”

Jon’s brows sharpen down immediately, his jaw clenching.

Sansa steals a breath through her nose, watching the shift. “I’m sorry, my lord, I only meant that – ”

“She’s dead,” he clips out, dark eyes still fixed to hers. “What does it matter?”

The brusqueness of it takes her aback, an ache in her suddenly at the detachment he displays. She speaks before she realizes the words are on her tongue. “A great many things die. It does not mean we stop needing them.”

A sneer finds its way along his lips. “I’m to need her, am I? A woman who abandoned her family for an already married man? A silly little girl too willful to learn the ways of the world before it killed her?”

Sansa’s mouth parts indignantly, remembering the fond way her father had recalled her aunt Lyanna. To hear her spoken of so disparagingly stirs a meanness in her heart. “That’s not – ”

“Do not presume to tell me what I need, my lady.”

Sansa exhales hotly, pulling from him mid-turn, but his hands hold her tight, bringing her back to his chest easily, a puff of hot breath breaking across her cheeks from his mouth. “I have not dismissed you,” he says warningly, fingers bunching in the material of her dress at the small of her back.

Sansa lifts her chin, tongue tart with her indignation. “I am your betrothed, not your dog, and you were the one who expressed a desire for familiarity, if you recall.”

“But not on account of my mother,” he says firmly, eyes narrowing on her.

She takes to his turn of her about the room as though they never broke form. “And on what other common ground are we to find ourselves? We are cousins, you realize. You’ve a family half a world away and you’re telling me that means nothing to you?”

“I have a family here,” he bites back.

It’s said so tersely, so full of finality and abject certainty that it carves a piece of sorrow into her, suddenly and unexpectedly – like a gust of winter through a window never meant to be left open. Her throat constricts, her eyes blinking furiously up at his, nails curling at his shoulder when the breath rakes from her. “Have you never wanted to know us?” she asks softly, almost painfully, and it’s not a familiar pain.

It’s desolate and untethered and hammers about her ribs like a caged thing.

The lone wolf dies.

Sansa’s eyes prick with a heated wetness.

“About as much as I imagine you wanted to know me, my lady,” he answers her, lip curling at the admission, voice tight.

Sansa stumbles to a halt in his arms, watching as the whirling torchlight settles upon his face in harsh slants, a look about him too spiteful to be called lonely.

And yet, lonely is exactly what she’d call it – on any other face.

Jon blinks, his face shuttering away the expression almost instantly, his hand retreating from around her waist, stepping back from her.

They stand there simply breathing, eyes unflinching from each other, unerringly still amidst a whirl of bodies. She cannot find it in herself to walk away. So instead, she watches as he does.

She hardly notices the gentle touch of Robb’s hand to her shoulder.

* * *

“You know, it’s not proper to leave a lady before the dance is done,” Aegon says at his side suddenly, eyes watching the dancefloor as he steps up to Jon.

Jon gives him a withering look from where he leans against the column. “I’m sure you know all about what’s to be done ‘proper’ by a lady.”

Aegon smiles, amused. “I could show you a thing or two.”

“I know enough.”

“Where to put it doesn’t count.”

“Aegon,” Jon faintly growls, straightening from his lean.

Aegon sighs, picking imaginary lint from his shoulder. “You’re so obtusely glum, Jon. It’s souring my mood.”

At that, Jon lets a chuckle escape, eyes roving back to the dancers before them. Sansa is in there somewhere, dancing with Robb. A wave of copper catches the light. Jon whirls the wine around his glass slowly, fingers tight on the stem.

Aegon glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s a good match,” he says softly.

“You mean a necessary one.”

Aegon is silent for a time, and Jon glances at him to find him staring at Daenerys while she sits at the head table. She’s in all silver, iridescent in the torchlight, but as still and cold as metal, a patiently sheathed sword. Her eyes flick over to Aegon for a passing moment, and Jon reminds himself that even metal burns beneath fire. Daenerys offers what might pass as a smile to the unobserved eye but Jon and Aegon see it for the sneer it is.

Sometimes Jon understands Aegon’s need to seek warmth elsewhere. Theirs were never meant to be matches of the heart. He’s known this since a very young age. Known it in his bones. Known it since he first saw the way his father looked at Elia Martell from across the long width of the dinner table – a distant, tolerant sort of affection, a comfort borne of time and resignation and nothing of passion.

He remembers Rhaenys as a child, eyes bright and hopeful, looking at her parents for the sort of love she read about in books. He remembers curling his small palm over her own childlike one when her eyes had dimmed in disappointment.

Looking at Daenerys now, the way she uncrosses and re-crosses her legs at the ankle, a finely bowed wrist going for her wine glass, nodding at something Rhaegar says at her side – he cannot help the inkling of remorse he feels. Perhaps for her. Perhaps for Aegon.

Perhaps for much more than he can possibly fathom.

Jon sighs, looking down at his glass.

“I suppose you could do much worse,” Aegon says, trying for levity.

Jon lifts a brow at that. “She’s a Stark.” As though that were enough damnation.

(He thinks it should be.)

Aegon laughs, abrupt and loud, swinging an incredulous look at his brother. “You say that like you aren’t one yourself.”

A scowl tugs at his lips. “I’m not.”

“Well, half of one, anyway.”

“I’m not,” Jon intones lowly, hand halting the swirl of his wine. He hates the way he sounds like a petulant child, but the fervency is there all the same, brimming beneath his tongue – an ages old wound still festering, despite the years.

Perhaps part of him will always be that motherless child.

Perhaps part of him will always be resentful.

Aegon simply watches him, violet eyes unreadable, hands moving to clasp behind his back with a regality Jon has never managed to master himself.

He feels the shame of his pettiness lancing through his chest, turning his gaze from his brother with a heated exhale.

About as much as I imagine you wanted to know me, my lady.

What does it matter, that they are blood? They were never the blood that counted – the blood that wanted him.

No. That’s always been the Targaryen in him. That’s always been the only family he needed.

He remembers suddenly, the time he and Aegon stole their father’s horse for a midnight ride as children. Hardly made it through the stables and into the riding fields when they’d been thrown from the saddle, Jon breaking his arm in the tumble, Aegon suffering only a few minor scrapes. He remembers stubbornly limping after the horse in the night, refusing to wake the stable hands and ask for help for fear that they would report it to the king. Aegon trudged along reluctantly after him, until the exhaustion and fear wore him down enough to go running to their father just before the sun broke over the horizon with an accusing dawn, Jon hollering after him to get back here, you traitor.

Jon had made it back to the stables, tugging the horse behind him by the reins, his broken arm cradled to his side, weary and sleep-deprived and absolutely, all-consumingly angry with his brother, when their father met him at the pen’s doors, winded and wild-eyed.

“Jon.”

He’d pulled up short, breathless, a heady shame filling him, eyes lowering to the straw floor instantly, hand tightening over the reins in his fatigued grip. “Father, I – ” he croaks out, before his father’s arms are coming around him, smothering his apology in the silk of his sleeve.

Jon stills, wincing slightly at the pain lancing up his arm with the embrace, feeling his father’s hand curve around the back of his head, holding him to his shoulder, shuddering a worried breath at his temple. “Aegon said you’d been hurt,” he huffs into Jon’s dark hair, not angrily, but with an underlying frustration that blooms something needful in Jon’s chest – a smothered kind of longing.

“I’m alright,” he mutters out, eyes landing on Aegon over his father’s shoulder.

He stands in the open doorway to the stable, the meager light of dawn breaking against his silhouette, a small crowd of servants gathering behind him.

Jon remembers the way Aegon had curled his hand along the wood threshold when their father finally released Jon, hands still clutching his shoulders, a sternness overtaking him that did nothing to stifle the tender stain of relief in Jon’s lungs.

Looking at Aegon now, his silver hair framing his face, all soft angles and hard majesty, handsome and stately and strangely blinding (in much the same way as staring at the sun too long) – Jon wonders if he will ever forget the feel of Aegon’s arms around his waist that night they rode their father’s stolen horse, the suffocating terror that overtook him when they went flying, the way Aegon had sulked and stomped his feet before abandoning the search to run off to Rhaegar while Jon bellowed unprincely insults at his back.

The way their father cradled his face in his hands and demanded he swear never to do it again.

“I’m a Targaryen,” he says finally, the words smarting along his tongue, even now. A need and an uncertainty all at once. “And she – ” He stops, swallows. “She is nothing,” he finishes tightly, the untruth a tremulous exhale as it leaves him.

He clamps his jaw shut over the words, letting them curl behind his teeth like a bite of blood – copper as her hair.

Aegon gives him an unconvinced look but says nothing, and Jon is grateful for the silence.

He does not tell his brother how the earnestness in her question had unhinged him.

“Have you never wanted to know us?”

Or how the harrowing stare she left him with seemed to peel his skin back with the efficiency of a practiced blade. Or how her pursed, pink mouth had rattled him beneath the sincerity of her words. Or how his hand had seemed to mold perfectly to the slender curve of her waist, the warmth of her seeping through the folds of her dress and taunting him like a fickle summer – for he had always been promised winter from the North, and had expected his new wife to be no different.

Jon swallows the remembrance back with a slice of unease.

How the heady urge to grip her even tighter had made him hazy and greedy.

(How it does even now, the imprint of her heat still lingering along his calloused palm.)

Jon licks his lips and stalks from his brother.

* * *

For all the friction last night’s dance with Jon Targaryen had distilled in her, Sansa recalls the night of her betrothal celebration mostly with fondness and laughter. She does not, however, expect the same levity from the feast to set the tone for her stay in King’s Landing. She’s seen her father hold court with petitioners often enough to understand the workings of a lordship. She imagines it to be much the same when they take to the Southern court the next day, Rhaegar reclined on the Iron Throne, hosting supplicants in the main hall, Aegon seated similarly beside him.

“You should attend,” her father had said to her. “Learn the lords and ladies. Familiarize yourself.”

Protect yourself, he did not say.

Sansa had nodded, understanding. Ned had rested his hand gently atop her head, smoothed her hair down, smiled wanly at her, and then left, taking his own place in the hall of Rhaegar’s court. She stands now on one of the balconies overlooking the hall, after greeting so many of the lords and ladies earlier that morning. The sun peeks out from the high tops of the long windows, signaling its slow descent into afternoon. Sansa sighs imperceptibly, longing to take a turn outside. She’s never seen quite so much color before, so many decadent gardens and golden sun and red-stoned walls. It’s a different kind of beauty than Winterfell offers, difficult to appreciate when shuttered up in the barren throne room.

“Careful, my lady, your disinterest is showing,” someone whispers at her shoulder, and Sansa turns swiftly at the sound to find Lady Margaery smirking beside her, a single, fine brow raised toward her.

She’d recently been introduced to the Rose of Highgarden that morning, along with her brothers and father. She’d not missed the way Robb’s eye followed the lady when she left, and Sansa had to admit to finding herself rather breathless in her presence as well, at the low but attractive cut of her dress, the mischievous curl of her lips, the earnest way she’d grasped both of Sansa’s hands in hers upon their greeting, instantly intimate and affectionate in a way Sansa had only ever experienced with Jeyne Poole back home.

Sansa blushes at Margaery’s observation now, smiling at the other woman’s keen expression. “I hope I haven’t been too obvious,” she whispers.

“Nonsense,” Margaery hushes, wrapping her arm in hers. “I’ve simply been watching you, is all.”

Sansa wants to laugh, but she holds it in, shaking her head.

“Though, I’m not the only one, it seems,” she says enigmatically.

Sansa instinctively glances toward Jon, standing low on the steps beneath his father and brother, but his attention is on the current petitioner holding the floor. Her brows furrow, lips pursed in confusion at what Margaery could mean when she glances up from Jon, eyes landing on Aegon suddenly, blinking at the realization that he’s watching her.

She sucks a quiet breath through her parted lips. The look on his face is inquisitive, curious, and it shouldn’t cause a heat in her, yet it does. She has never been the center of a prince’s attention before, and never so openly. It’s not a look of desire or anything so inappropriate, but there’s an openness to it, and it makes Sansa’s throat go dry. She dares another glance toward Jon. He stares resolutely away from either of them,

She cannot explain the coil in her gut just then, the unease.

Margaery’s pat along her hand breaks her from the stare. “Oh good, this looks to be the last one of the morning’s session. I do so love the afternoon breaks. I’m famished, aren’t you?” She turns a genuine smile toward Sansa.

“Well, I was going to find my brother Robb once court was dismissed. Ask him for tea.”

“Oh let the boys get to know each other,” she says, nodding at Robb speaking with her brother Loras down amongst the other lords. The hall begins to let out with Rhaegar’s dismissal, the crowd mulling about. “Have lunch with me in the gardens. I’m to join the ladies Daenerys and Rhaenys.”

Sansa withers at the idea, but she keeps her smile in place. It’s a stupid thought, she tells herself. Rhaenys and Daenerys are to be her sisters by marriage. She should befriend them, get to know them at the least, not dread the sharing of a meal with them. Even so, she cannot help the recollection that neither Targaryen princess has yet to look as kindly upon her as Margaery has. It should be nice to have a friend at King’s Landing though.

Sansa thinks of Jeyne Poole, of Arya, even. No, she would not have them here, and perhaps that is best. Winter roses tend to wither in the Southern sun.

Sansa looks at Margaery.

But this rose…

She smiles, clasping the other lady’s hand in hers. Some roses yet have thorns. Sansa has always admired such resilience. Margaery smiles wickedly and Sansa is instantly captivated. Yes, she thinks, it should be nice to have a friend.

Sansa nods her answer, letting Margaery guide her out the hall. She never notices the pair of eyes following her – Stark grey.

* * *

Jon walks beside Aegon through the gardens, hands at his back, eyes ranging over the tall flowers and perfectly landscaped bushes with indifference. “You were staring,” he says without prompt.

Aegon flicks a low hanging leaf from his path. “Hmm?”

“At Sansa Stark.”

“Was I?”

Jon stops, giving his brother a deadpan look.

Aegon smothers his chuckle behind his fist, clearing his throat. “Yes, well, you were hardly giving the girl the attention she deserves.”

Jon turns fully to him now. “We were in the midst of court.”

“Yes, and your lady was clearly bored.”

“Hearing petitions is a necessity of ruling. It is not for amusement. Even she must know this, given that she was present in the first place.” Jon begins to walk again, not waiting for his brother. Aegon meets his pace with quick strides regardless. “It speaks to her understanding of her new position that she was there at all. A lady of the court should be familiar with her kingdom’s ails.”

“Then perhaps you should have entertained her while there, brother,” Aegon teases, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “Why was she not at your side?”

Jon is silent for a moment, and then, “We are not married yet.”

His brother only answers with a raised brow.

“And even when we are, she may go where she wishes. She is not required to stay always with me.”

“But don’t you want her there?”

He has never wanted the company of any woman so, not even Rhaenys, who has held the bulk of his affections since childhood. He hardly thinks that will change, even with marriage.

Even with Sansa Stark.

Jon’s tongue goes heavy in his mouth, remembering how his eyes had found her instantly in the crowd, her copper hair catching shades of sunlight through the long windows. Her dress was a soft iris, almost mauve, with a dragonfly pin at the bust, and Jon had bristled unexplainably at the sight of her, the color of her dress, perhaps inadvertently, closer to the shade of his brother’s eyes than his, and what in the seven was wrong with him for noticing that?

It’s ridiculous, really.

“It’s not a matter of want,” he tells Aegon, hoping his answer is enough.

It is not, apparently.

Aegon bends to sniff a tall flower, stopping them in their trek. Jon waits diligently at his side. Straightening, Aegon fingers the edge of one petal. “You do not desire her? As a woman?”

Jon works his jaw at the question. Desire is not the issue. He imagines it will take very little to rouse him when the time comes to bed her. He is not simple enough to miss the supple curve of her breasts or the willowy line of her waist in the modestly cut bodice of her dress. Nor does he miss the pale flex of her throat when she speaks, the slender arch of her wrist, the pink, tempting purse of her lips.

(Neither has he missed the frost of her gaze, the cool intensity of her stare , and yet this – this rattles him more than anything, makes his skin grow tight, his mouth dry.)

Jon adjusts the collar of his tunic, clearing his throat. “Of course I desire her. What man wouldn’t?”

Aegon gives him a predatory smile and Jon regrets the question immediately, groaning his incredulity as he rolls his eyes. “But I should hope to find more use for a wife than a good fuck,” he says testily.

“And you may yet,” Aegon tells him, tugging at the petal in his grip until it breaks from the flower. He swipes his thumb over the softness of it, keeping it pressed between his fingers. “The North may finally come to heel.”

Jon’s face darkens.

Aegon looks at him then, fingers tightening over the petal in his grasp. He is all at once sunlit and shadowed. “I will not permit them to break from the crown,” he says lowly, the words a tight breath of air.

Jon nods, mouth a thin line, the air gone from him suddenly. Something shifts in the space between them, a familiar tremor lighting Jon’s spine with the way Aegon’s face slips into a striking coldness.

Aegon gives him a considering look, before he releases the petal between his fingers, letting it flutter to the ground unhindered. All mirth has left him, the angular cut of his jaw a harsh thing in the glaring sunlight, his eyes violet and immutable. “We need this marriage. What use you find for Sansa Stark is your own business, so long as the North remains loyal, and you are going to ensure that, little brother.”

Jon recognizes the shift in Aegon’s tone, the eerie way that playfulness turns abruptly to a cutting warning, like the toss of a coin.

“You are my brother, and I love you,” Aegon continues, stepping toward him, heedless of the broken petal now crushed beneath his boot (or perhaps not heedless at all), “but this is not negotiable. You will make an effort, do you understand me?”

“I do,” Jon answers firmly, eyes never leaving his, fervent in his promise.

Aegon watches him a moment longer, before he seems satisfied, nodding, taking to the path once more. Jon follows silently, jaw aching beneath the force with which he clenches it.

He has a place, after all, as all bastards do – even royal ones.

He does not admit to the resentment still lingering between his ribs, first anchored there many years ago – affection turned rancid.

Because here’s the truth:

The morning after they stole their father’s horse, Jon had taken the lashings, admitting to the theft that had, in truth, been entirely his brother’s design.

He remembers Rhaenys wailing for their father to stop, Daenerys tugging her out of the hall with an admonishing tut, a glare for him in her passing. And he remembers the sharp flick of the thin leather riding crop across the backs of his calves as he held his breeches up over his knees with trembling, white knuckles. And he remembers Aegon standing at the edge of their father’s chair, watching with an unnerving stillness, nails digging into the armrest at his side, eyes glinting dangerously in the torchlight as a perverse smile spread slowly over his thin lips.

Jon swallows tightly, hands clenching behind his back. He keeps to his brother’s pace, smothering that flare of bitterness in his chest. There is no use in bringing the rot to air, after all.

My brother, and I love you, he reminds himself, like a ringing of the bells, a discordant, air-sundering hail.

He looks at Aegon now, the sharpness of his profile obscured somewhat in the garden’s ill-fitting light.

Jon remembers wincing with every flick of the crop.

And he remembers that his brother never had.

(Not once.)

#jonsa #from instep to heel #my writing #jon snow #sansa stark #jon x sansa #jon and sansa #game of thrones #got fanfic

47 notes · View notes

blvelight · 5 years ago

Photo

dree ortega as THE BRIDE from the kill bill franchise !

#hqbrew:costumes #╳┊: — she just went to heaven and back. •「 dree | visage ! 」#cindy in that blonde wig.. just couldn't turn away #even if giving t*r*ntino a slight plug makes me wince a bit dfsklgjsdgfk #i'm still stumped on tally though so. idk man JGSKLGDF

2 notes · View notes

notesmechase · 5 years ago

Text

esme tapped her fingers on her thigh as someone added a little extra powder to her cheeks and someone adjusted her hidden microphone and someone else fluffed her hair. felt like a confessional for the show. but, nope, this was an interview. with vogue. time to turn on the on-screen esme and bottle up the real one. just get it over with.

01. what is your full name ?

esme andrea chase. and yes, it’s definitely ahn-drey-ah, not an-dree-a. i know how to pronounce my own name, duh.

02. what are your nicknames ?

really just es. people sometimes call me ‘e’ but that gets difficult, when it could apply to all your sisters. obviously.

03. what is your date of birth ?

august 8th, 1997.

04. where is your hometown ?

here in augusta. isn’t that, like, the whole reason you’re here?

05. what is your religion ?

i celebrate christmas. but it’s more of a festive thing than a religious one.

06. what is your sexuality ?

mm, personal. bisexual.

RELATIONSHIPS !

01. how is your relationship with your parents ?

well, i still live with them. does that tell you anything?

02. how many siblings do you have ? what is your relationship like with them ? if none, how do you feel about being an only child ?

three siblings, and i’m sure you know what our relationships are like already. but we love each other, even though we... clash now and then.

03. what is your relationship status ?

i’m single.

04. what friend are you closest with and what is your relationship like ?

eli kang, for sure. we’ve been best friends since we were kids. i think everybody has a go-to person like that.

05. have you ever been in love ?

nope, i don’t think so. maybe i never will. we’ll see.

06. is there anyone you wish you had never met ?

ha, obviously. but if you think i’m going to tell you who they are, you’re very mistaken.

PERSONALITY !

01. what is your star sign and do the stereotypes that surround it apply to you ?

i’m a leo and i would say... absolutely yes. i mean, look at the lifestyle i live. to any leos watching this, it is not wrong for you to be a little selfish sometimes. treat yourself!

02. list three positive traits.

i would say i’m creative, funny, and... resilient.

03. list three negative traits.

well, we all know i can be melodramatic. i worry too much. and i’m very stubborn.

04. what is your biggest fear ?

my biggest fear? um... no, no, i’m not uncomfortable. just thinking... um, i think it would be giving into my mental illness again. i don’t want to go back to that place.

05. do you have any regrets ?

like, about my life in general? of course. doesn’t everyone? well, the biggest one would be waiting so long to get help with mental health when i needed it. i would go back and speak up sooner in a heartbeat.

06. what fictional character do you most relate to ?

from a book, movie...? anything? well, then, i’d have to say eeyore from winnie the pooh. no, no, i’m just kidding! it’s actually chandler from friends. i think we have the same vibe. and god, how i’d just love to meet matthew perry.

FAVORITES !

01. what is your favorite food & drink ?

well, i can’t choose just one. but pasta. all kinds of pasta. and... gin & tonics.

02. what is your favorite animal ?

dogs, 100%. man’s best friend? more like my best friend.

03. what is your favorite quote ?

henry david thoreau: “i went to the woods because i wanted to live deliberately. and not, when i came to die, discover that i had not lived.” i’m paraphrasing, but you know the one.

04. what is your favorite color ?

gray. so versatile.

05. what is your favorite movie ?

the princess bride! duh.

06. which is your favorite season of the year ?

i like fall! everything’s so pretty and the weather is perfect.

#aughqtask #the light's in her eyes — task

1 note · View note

beyondshoping · 3 years ago

Text

Plus Size Chiffon Mother Of The Bride Dress Gown Pant Suits Trousers Custom Three Pieces O-Neck With Jacket drees woman

Custom Made Size Please Choose any Size and Leave a Message of Your Following Measurements : If you come from Brazil or Russia , please leave your full name. (according to the adjusted postal policy of Russia and Brazil, the consignee's name must be the complete name.) Customer,when you place an order, you have to fill a correct address. The dress will be return to China if your address is wrong…

View On WordPress

0 notes

daviddrposts · 3 years ago

Photo

La collezione Blazé Bride è un manifesto di libertà. Dall’ispirazione – Bianca Jagger – a Céline Derrien e alla modella transgender Roberta De Titta che li indossano nella campagna SS22, fino a Dree Hemingway, icona contemporanea di stile http://fashionmetropolitan.blogspot.com/2021/12/la-collezione-blaze-bride-e-un.html

#IFTTT #Blogger

0 notes

miamly-blog · 7 years ago

Text

An Old Fashioned Wedding. (Shallura)

( Tbh this was inspired by my cousins wedding and a song from Annie Get Your Gun. Send help. Enjoy ^o~ ) (omg their vows i simply cant even )

Location: Altea ( Outside )

Shiro wasn’t prepared for this. Well, sure he was, he had gotten the rings, proposed, chose colors, helped design, chose a best man, invited guests, and all of the ususal things that come with a wedding. But nothing could prepare him for the moment his future wife would walk down the isle. For now though, all he could do is wait.

Allura took deep breathes. She wasn’t quite sure why she was so nervous. It could be because when she walks out there, everyone will be watching her, no, thats not the type of person she was, she thought to herself. What about because shes about to become Queen Allura of Altea, hardly, she thought to herself. Then it could possibly be because a wedding only happens once, most likely, she thought, attempting to put her mind at ease. She shook her head. Coran, who she was locked arms with, looked over to her. He was dressed in a tight fited drees shirt + pants, a blue vest and purple bow tie, with a purple hankercheif in his vest pocket. “Princess, are you feeling alright?”, he asked, more solemly than usual. Coran was obviously an emotional mess. He had been worrying about Allura all day. His pupils were shrunk as if he was frghtened everytime something little, like a flower falling out of her hair, or a loose thread on her dress. Everytime something like a tear of joy, or a soft smile from Allura turned him into a mushy mess. After all, Allura asked him to wallk her down the isle and give her away, like her father would have done. Its what he would have wanted, she insisted. “Im fine Coran. Really.”, she said, forming a warm smile. Coran gave her a big hug with a kiss on the forehead, he started getting mushy again as the hug ended. She wiped a tear from his eye. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done.”, she smiled as they re-locked arms. “No Allura, thank you.” , he smiled back.

The music, played by the alien residents of Altea, a soft violin/piano/harp, arrangement. At the end of the isle, under the archway, a beautiful (light)blue/purple/pink/white flower decorate archway for that matter, stood Shiro, whom was dressed in a fitted longsleeve dress shirt with an elegant purple vest, long blue tie, black dress pants, and a red altean flower (Allura’s favorite) in his pocket, waiting for his bride. Next to the archway on Shiro’s side, stood Keith, Shiro’s best man. Keith was dressed in a loosely fitted half sleeve dress shirt, purple vest, blue bandanna, black kahkis, and the same red flower, his hair was also tied back in a ponytail. Lance was the first to walk through the curtains, he wore a purple vest, blue suspendors, a blue bow tie, loose fitted halfsleeve dress shirt , black kahkis, and flower. In his hands he held Allura’s ring in a small wooden box. Keith narrowed his eyes at lance to warn him (scilently) not to drop the ring (or so help me god ill-). Behind Lance, was Hunk. Hunk was dressed in the same outfit as Keith with a blue ascot instead of a bandanna. In his hands, he held a small wooden box containing Shiro’s ring. He smiled as he walked. Lance was actually tearing up. When they both got to the end and stood next to Keith, the music got louder and softer in tone. Next out, would be Pidge. All of the Paladins wondered what she would look like, almost as much as Allura, for none of them had seen either all day. Pidge walked out throwing pink, purpple, blue, and white petals on the ground as she walked. Pidge, to everyones surprise, was dawning a light purple, knee length dress, with a waistband decorated with pink, blue, purple, and white flowers. Her dress had two arm fringes on each side, one ontop of the shoulder and one hanging slightly below it. On her head, shhe wore a flower crown with color quardenated flowers + clear crystals. On her feet, she wore simple white flats. Everyone started at her as she threw a snarky smiled to the boys as if to say “look at me, i did it, in your face”, the last part directed towards lance mostly…

After Pidge reached the end of the isle and got into her spot opposite oof Keith, the curtain opened again. This time, Allura and Coran walked out. Allura dawned a magnnificent white dress, with sheer flowing arms and a lace bodice. The skirt was plain, yet beautiful, and draped down her sides, with a beauutiful long train in the back. The belt was covered in white flowers and clear crystals. Her hair was in her natural up-do with flowers embedded into her hair. In her free hand, she held a large bouquet of mostly purple and blue, with the occasiional pink, white, or pearl. Coran was tearing up as he lead her to the front of the isle. Allura smiled at Shiro who was in awe of her, even though all thats changed is her outfiit, which he could care less about looks anyway. Lance was already tearing up, as well as Pidge and Hunk. They all smiled though. When they reached the front of the isle, the music faded away. Allura looked over to the mushy Coran who was trying to compose himself enough to speak properly. “Oh Coran, don’t cry.” , she said as he wiped his tears. “Awws” could be heard from the audience as Coran began to speak. “I now give this woman to this man, as her father figure.”, he sated with a smile as he let Allura go to Shiro. Coran walked up to the stand as Allura handed her bouquet off to Pidge and joined hands with Shiro. All of the Paladins besides Keith and Shiro, were now teary-eyed. Squeaks of crying could be hear from the mice who sat in the audience. The wedding party giggled and Shiro wiped an upcoming tear from his brides eye. They all smiled. “You look stunning.”, Shiro whispered.

“We gather here today to see this man, and this woman, be joined in holy matromony. Today, we will witness two becoming one, to share a life, a love, hope, friendship, children, family, together as one. Love is the ultimate bond. One that cannot be forced, wished, or forged. Love, is a bond that cannot be broken. Love, is a beautiful thing. And Ladies and Gents, this, is love.”, Coran took a break to wipe his eyes and blow his nose with his hankercheif. Giggles were heard all around. He continued, “We will now hear the vows, starting with the bride.”. “Shiro, when we first met, I never would have dreamed we would have been here oone day. I thought that we would never be anything more than paladin and princess. But I was very wrong. I vow, to keep you safe, to provide for you, to agree with you, to love you, to stay with you as long as we live. I love you Shiro.”, She said as she squeezed his hand. Pidge wiped her tears. Lance and Hunk were both bawling. It was Shiro’s turn now. “Allura, you have taught me so many things. In thhe begining, you had us all focus on bonding with our lions. But, love, is a stronger bond that any lion bond i’ve even seen. Even Keith’s.-”, Keith quickly wiped away a single tear. “-I vow to hold you, protect you, care for you, listen to you, and stay beside you. I love you.”. Litteraly everyoone had shed a tear by the time Shiro finished, even Keith. “Allura, do you take this man to be your husband?”, “Yes, I do.”, “Shiro, do you take this woman to be your wife?” , “Yes, I do.”, “By the power invested in me by the planet of Altea, I now pronounce you, husband and wife, AND, King and Queen of Altea! You may now kiss the bride.” , Coran said gleefully. Shiro and Allura share a kiss as the guests and wedding party started cheering.

Mr and Mrs

~*~ *BONUS*~*~

“3…..2….1~!”, Allura yelled as she threw the bouquet of flowers behind her.

Pidge missed, but her lion caught it. “Im marrying my computer anyway

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

The wedding party chuckled as Shiro nervously hunted for the wedding garter under Allura’s dress. They were both clearly embarressed that Shiro was looking too high.

“3…2..1!”, Shiro yelled as he threw the garter behind him.

“No way! Keiith dosen’t deserve to get laid before me!” , Lance yelled, as Keith was the one who caught the garter, mostly because he didn’t want Lance to catch it and brag abaout it.

( Please send me some feedback on this!! I was gonna doo the full reception and have a scene from the honeymoon as a bonus but im pretty tired >o< , I might do it in the future though if this works out lol. I really wish I could draw the garter bonus lol curse my non existent artistic abilities! )

#voltron #voltron shiro #voltron pidge #voltron lance #keith (voltron)#shallura #shiro and allura #voltron ships #voltron fanfic #shiro #takashi shirogane #allura

18 notes · View notes

2700fstreet · 8 years ago

Photo

OPERA / 2017-2018

DON CARLO

OPEN REHEARSAL

Washington National Opera

Music by Giuseppe Verdi Libretto by Joseph Méry and Camille Du Locle Translated into Italian by Achille de Lauzières and Angelo Zanardini Based on Friedrich von Schiller’s dramatic work Don Carlos

So, What’s Going On?

Spain, the mid-sixteenth century.

Our hero, Don Carlo isn’t doing well. The infante (een-FAHN-teh, basically a Spanish word for “prince”) can’t get along with his father, King Filippo II (fee-LEEP-poh), and, to top it off, Carlo has no real royal responsibilities to keep him busy.

Oh, and did we mention he’s in love with his stepmother?

Filippo had promised Carlo a beautiful French bride named Elisabetta (eh-leez-ah-BEHT-tah), but, at the last minute, the king swept in and married her himself. Not cool. Nope, definitely not cool.

Enter Rodrigo (ro-DREE-goh), a nobleman and Carlo’s best friend. Rodrigo tries to cheer Carlo up by getting him involved in a political cause (nothing says “distraction” like a revolution). Spanish-occupied Flanders, (present-day Belgium) Rodrigo explains, is badly oppressed and needs a leader ASAP. Having a lot of free time on his hands, Carlo agrees to act as “savior” to the Flemish (i.e., the folks from Flanders). Got it so far?

But there’s a catch. He’ll need his stepmom’s permission.

Rodrigo fires Carlo up for a Flemish fight.

Take a listen… In one of opera’s most famous duets, Rodrigo and Don Carlo take a vow of friendship and promise to work together to achieve freedom for Flanders. Listen for the sounds of the brass instruments, symbolizing war and aggression, as well as royalty.

youtube

Back to the story…

Rodrigo arranges a meeting between Carlo and Elisabetta, telling the queen her heartbroken stepson needs a favor. But one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, the Princess of Eboli (EHB-oh-lee), overhears and takes Carlo’s heartbreak completely out of context—she thinks Carlo might be in love with her.

At the meeting set up by Rodrigo, Carlo tells Elisabetta he’s dying of love.

In other palace news, the king is highly suspicious of Elisabetta’s relationship with Carlo. He summons Rodrigo and asks him to spy on Carlo and Elisabetta’s extracurricular activities. Rodrigo unwisely uses this moment to plead for Flanders, claiming the king is applying unnecessary force to maintain peace in the Flemish territories. Though slightly moved, Filippo warns Rodrigo his rebellious ways may get him into trouble with the Spanish Inquisition (…bet you weren’t expecting that).

Sometime later, Carlo receives a mysterious letter. Thinking Elisabetta wishes to see him, he waits for her in a romantic spot, and she promptly arrives wearing a veil for cover.

(Yeah, just kidding: It’s not really Elisabetta, but Eboli in disguise.)

Carlo whispers sweet nothings to “Elisabetta,” but when the mix-up comes to light, he tries to take back his professions of love. The damage is done, however—Eboli figures out Carlo’s words were meant for someone else…and that the “someone else” must be the queen.

Rodrigo rushes in. Believing Eboli will go straight to the king for revenge, he asks Carlo to hand over any incriminating evidence pertaining to Flanders.

Eboli plots vengeance against Carlo for (accidentally) playing with her heart.

But tensions between Filippo and Carlo are about to boil over anyway. At an auto-da-fé (an execution led by the Inquisition and overseen by the king), Carlo interrupts the ceremony by bringing some Flemish citizens before Filippo to call the king out and beg for royal mercy. Things get heated, and Carlo draws his sword. Horrified by this treasonous act, Filippo calls for someone to arrest his son. To everyone’s surprise, Rodrigo steps forward and leads Carlo to jail.

A private family feud is put on public display.

Take a listen… In his aria, “Ella giammai m’amò” (“She never loved me”), Filippo contemplates the sad state of his marriage. Listen for the sorrowful string music, which repeats incessantly as if to reflect Filippo’s relentless thoughts.

youtube

Filippo wants Carlo out of the way (like…completely out of the way), so the king appeals to the Grand Inquisitor to ask if the holy man will pardon Filippo for ordering Carlo’s execution. Convinced the uprising of the Protestant-leaning Flemish—and not Carlo—is the real threat to Spain and to the Catholic Church, the Inquisitor slyly suggests Filippo may be absolved if he hands over the traitorous Rodrigo in exchange. Yikes.

The Grand Inquisitor offers a terrible bargain: Religious blessing in exchange for Rodrigo’s demise.

Take a listen… In this intentionally frightening scene, the Grand Inquisitor’s deep and forceful voice, along with the quivering strings and percussion, remind the audience (and Filippo) that the church wields power in sixteenth-century Spain.

youtube

Suddenly, Elisabetta bursts in claiming she’s been robbed. She asks her husband to take action against the culprit, but Filippo quickly admits to the crime himself. He then confronts Elisabetta about a portrait of Carlo she keeps hidden in her stolen jewelry box. Elisabetta maintains her innocence, however. She may love Carlo, but she’s never been unfaithful.

And yet here’s a twist: Filippo has.

Filippo tries to shame Elisabetta.

While comforting the queen after Filippo’s accusation, Eboli confesses she’s been having an affair with the king and that jealousy (for both Carlo and Filippo) led her to steal Elisabetta’s box and throw some serious shade at the queen. Shocked, Elisabetta orders Eboli to head to a convent. Eboli searches for a way to make things right—and finds one. She stumbles onto Carlo’s death warrant and resolves to intervene before it’s too late.

Take a listen… Eboli curses her own vanity for inspiring her to betray her queen in the aria “O don fatale” (“Oh fatal gift”). Check out how the mezzo-soprano uses both high and low notes to convey her sense of frustration and despair in the musical sample below. Also: Listen for the outbursts from the trumpets, trombones, and horns at the opening. Can you tell things have gotten pretty serious?

youtube

But can Eboli alert Carlo in time? Can Rodrigo escape the watchful eye of the Inquisition? And, most importantly, will Elisabetta and Carlo be allowed to ride off into the Spanish sunset?

Who’s Who

(Italian version of the original Spanish names listed; English version names in parentheses)

Don Carlo (Don Carlos) infante of Spain (tenor—the highest male voice) Filippo (King Philip II) Carlo’s father and king of Spain (bass—the lowest male voice) Elisabetta (Elizabeth of Valois) queen of Spain (soprano—the highest female voice) The Princess of Eboli (known as “Eboli”) (mezzo-soprano—a middle-range female voice) Rodrigo marquis of Posa and Carlo’s friend (baritone—a middle-range male voice) The Grand Inquisitor (bass)

Good to Know

You’ve heard of the Spanish Inquisition before, right? No?

Okay, well, just in case you haven’t, you might want to keep in mind that the Spanish Inquisition was a Catholic branch of the Spanish government whose task was to find and “question” anyone who wasn’t loyal to the Catholic church, particularly Jews and Protestants. These “interviews” were often literal torture, as the Spanish monarchy was known to use the Inquisition as an excuse to enslave innocents in order to get free labor.

Now that you’re familiar with the Inquisition: Did you know King Philip II, his wife Elizabeth, his son Carlos, and the Princess of Eboli were also real? Philip II was a sixteenth-century Spanish monarch who did indeed marry a French woman (Elizabeth of Valois) whom he had initially intended for his son. Turns out Philip and Elizabeth actually had a reportedly happy marriage, and the love story between Elizabeth and her stepson was invented by writer Friedrich von Schiller in the eighteenth century and exploited by Verdi in the nineteenth century for maximum dramatic impact.

The Princess of Eboli was likewise a genuine attendant at court and the wife of King Philip’s right-hand man. Rodrigo, however, never actually existed; he’s more of an ideal representation of compassion and progressive thinking created by Schiller at a time when the Enlightenment ideals of reason and rationality swept across Europe.

And Carlos? Sadly the historical Carlos wasn’t quite the romantic hero he is in the opera. Rowdy, and unpredictable, the real-life Carlos was decidedly not in love with his stepmom. Yet, as in the opera, Carlos wasn’t given much power by his father and eventually grew fed up with life in Spain. The infante then demanded control over Flanders, which was being ruled by a brutal cardinal of the Catholic Inquisition.

Just like in the opera, Flanders was a place of political (and religious) unrest in the mid-sixteenth century. Absorbed into Spain’s considerable empire via a political marriage, Flanders was somewhat content to be ruled by Philip’s father, Charles V, who had been born in Flanders and was well respected there. Things changed when Philip assumed the throne, however: Philip was more Catholic than his father and the new king had no trouble sending clerical and military forces to keep the Protestant-friendly Flemish in line—often using violent methods of persuasion.

Philip ultimately deemed his son unfit to serve as ambassador to such an unstable region and had Carlos put in jail to prevent a political catastrophe (thanks, dad). Carlos died while under arrest, but the Flemish controversy continued, and uprisings followed soon after.

Check This Out…

Don Carlo features many melodies that repeat themselves to help the audience recall a particular scene or emotion from earlier in the story. Listen up for tunes that come back to haunt these characters again and again (especially the themes from Carlo and Rodrigo’s Act I duet, Carlo’s first lovesick solo, and the choir of horns that opens the opera).

Though Carlo is the title character, all the leading roles in the opera are given at least one aria (solo song) in which to express their feelings, and each character has their own unique musical and vocal style. Can you identify some of the ways in which Verdi gives each character his or her own spin? Is there a type of note (high, low, stretched out, cut short, etc.) or rhythm (slow, fast, galloping, etc.) that sticks out as being a specific character’s “signature sound”?

The finale of Don Carlo is notoriously open-ended, leaving much of the interpretation up to the performers and production team. Pay close attention during those final moments. What do you think the director and designers of this particular version wanted the audience to believe about the characters’ fates? Do you feel this explanation of the ending is correct? What do you think actually went down in the Spanish court?

Verdi wanted to immerse his audience in the culture and atmosphere of his operas. One of the ways he achieved this effect in Don Carlo was to include music that plays just off stage, giving the illusion of “surround sound” and extending the action of Don Carlo beyond the borders of the proscenium. Listen for the organ, church bells, brass band, choirs, and solo soprano voice coming from the wings of the theater. Do these help you feel like you’re at the heart of the story?

Think About This…

The dialogue between Filippo and the Grand Inquisitor—which was purposely added to the original story by Verdi and his librettists—includes some heavy musical clues regarding the evil subtext of the scene. In fact, Verdi uses ominous-sounding instruments to make it abundantly clear that some devilish plots are being hatched. What instruments stick out for you in this moment? What do you think Verdi’s position was regarding organized religion? What do you think he felt about monarchies like the one in Spain?

Eboli sings a song about a woman who hides her appearance and discovers a terrible secret. And…surprise! Later in the opera, the princess herself actually wears a veil and uncovers something about Don Carlo she wishes she hadn’t. Do you think the creators were making a specific point about disguises or about women who mask their identity?

Don Carlo is a mixture of big, crowded scenes for huge choruses and smaller, more intimate moments for four people or fewer. This contrast between public life and personal drama is something that continues to fascinate audiences in the twenty-first century. Can you name some recent films or TV shows in which the private struggles of a handful of characters are set against the backdrop of an overarching story that packs an epic and/or historical punch (hint: think The Crown or Game of Thrones minus the dragons)? Do they parallel Don Carlo in some way? Why do you think viewers are still drawn to these types of dramas?

Filippo, though tyrannical and misguided, is ultimately portrayed as a sad and lonely figure in the opera—thanks in large part to Verdi’s sympathetic music and also to the made-up love triangle between Filippo, his son, and his wife. Do you think Filippo’s desperate attempts to govern the lives of his family and his subjects are a response to his own feelings of helplessness? How do you think the other characters handle forces beyond their control (e.g., love, war, religious duty, honor, etc.)? Do you think anyone in the opera is more successful than Filippo at facing down these seemingly insurmountable challenges?

Take Action

As hinted above, the private actions in Don Carlo often have public consequences. Toward the end of the opera, Rodrigo, whose personal loyalties to the king and to Carlo are severely tested, ultimately chooses a path he feels will do the most good for the most people. In his beautiful final aria, he considers the type of legacy he wants to leave behind and asks that Carlo never forget him and never abandon the Flemish people. “Non ti scordar’” (“Do not forget”), he sings.

Take some time to think about how your own personal actions can affect public discourse or change. Research a group of people facing adversity like those in the Flemish territories mentioned in the opera (this could be a group you consider yourself a part of and/or strongly identify with, or it could also be a community you simply wish to help). Next, come up with a plan to spread the word and jumpstart a campaign to make a positive difference. Concerned for the people devastated by recent hurricanes, fires, and other natural disasters? Organize an afterschool meeting to educate your fellow students and to brainstorm fundraising ideas. Want to throw your support behind victims of abuse in a foreign nation? Set up a crowdsourced relief fund and ask family and friends to donate.

Want a wider audience for your social justice campaign? Use social media platforms like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or tumblr to get people talking about your cause and to post news and pictures of outreach events. If you decide to post, let us know by using the hashtag #donotforget.

Explore More

Go even deeper with the Don Carlo Extras.

–

Major support for WNO is provided by Jacqueline Badger Mars.

David M. Rubenstein is the Presenting Underwriter of WNO.

WNO acknowledges the longstanding generosity of Life Chairman Mrs. Eugene B. Casey.

WNO's Presenting Sponsor

Don Carlo is a production of the Clarice Smith Opera Series.

Additional support for Don Carlo is provided by The Dallas Morse Coors Foundation for the Performing Arts.

The Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program is made possible through the generous support of The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation, with additional funding provided by Judy and Billy Cox, Robert and Lynn Downing, Carl M. Freeman Foundation, Virginia McGehee Friend, Susan Carmel Lehrman, John & Mary Lee Malcolm, Michael F. and Noémi K. Neidorff and The Centene Charitable Foundation, Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey P. Pohanka, Dr. Arthur and Mrs. Robin Sagoskin, Mr. Alan J. Savada and Mr. Will Stevenson, Dr. and Mrs. Guillermo Schultz, Mr. and Mrs. Michael R. Sonnenreich, Washington National Opera Council, and The Women’s Committee of Washington National Opera.

This performance is made possible by the Kimsey Endowment; The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation and the U.S. Department of Education.

Major support for educational programs at the Kennedy Center is provided by David M. Rubenstein through the Rubenstein Arts Access Program.

Kennedy Center education and related artistic programming is made possible through the generosity of the National Committee for the Performing Arts and the President's Advisory Committee on the Arts.

#opera #doncarloat2700F

1 note · View note