#historical inaccuracies

[nebbyy]

I have a request, if youre taking them.

Baldwin's wife sneaks into the battle in 1177 with sixteen year old Baldwin, his reaction and what not. make it your own, just thought this would be cool

King Baldwin x reader - My archangel

A/N: I absolutely LOVE this idea! I've never thought of a scenario like this before, so thank you so so much for the suggestion<3

Sorry if this took so long btw, I haven't been active lately because of school and work😔😔

As always, painting is "The Crown of Love" by John Everett Millais (it's so funny to me for no reason, it just makes me think of how Baldwin would be physically dragging you out of danger).

Summary: During the most importante battle of his life so far, the last person king Baldwin expected to see on the battlefield was his newlywed wife

Warning: war, but it's more of a background thing, mentions of injuries and a hint at misogynism

Word count: 5433

It had been decided. Jerusalem's knights and soldiers would be riding towards Saladin's army at dawn, led by their king, King Baldwin IV of Anjou. Your Baldwin.

The mere idea that tomorrow your husband would find himself fighting face to face against the most fearsome of his enemies terrified you, especially knowing that you could do nothing to protect him. He had expressly said he did not want you or his sisters anywhere near the battlefield, it was too risky. You should have waited for his return, for him to be victorious astride his steed, now lying lifeless on a black bed.

You closed your eyes, begging your mind to spare you from the projection of that macabre image in your head. But you could do nothing against these emotions, which were tearing at your mind and spirit. You could not remain still and impassive, obedient and elegant as you always were as a young princess, then as a wife and now as a queen.

No, that image of you had to slumber, if only for a while. You did not have your kingdom on your mind at that moment, only Baldwin and the overwhelming desire to be close to him.

You cursed your nature for making you a woman, for not having had the opportunity to learn the art of arms and war. You cursed your long robes that prevented you from any daring movement, and your limbs because even if they were able to move freely they would not have the strength to even wield a sword.

As Baldwin fell asleep in your arms, exhausted by the fatigue that this imminent battle was costing him, and you held him close to your heart as if to compel him eternally into your embrace, you weaved a plan in your mind. A plan not to leave him alone at dawn, to stay as close to him as possible.

Because even if it was the day God would claim your husband's soul, at least you wanted to be near him as he took his last breath.

How selfish you were, not even death would have been left for him. But then again, poets have been saying it for centuries, love is the gravest form of madness.

You woke up in an empty bed, the spectre of a kiss floating on your bare shoulder where Baldwin's lips had rested a few moments before, when he had to arouse himself to lead his army into battle. And despair pervaded you almost immediately, when when you woke up still no idea had come to your mind to stay by his side, after you had hoped that sleep would grant you a solution to your problem.

Unable to hold back tears of frustration and despair, you summoned your favourite handmaiden, your nurse, old to almost retirement but cunning as a mischievous child. You wept on her welcoming lap, clutching the fabric of her robe in your fists.

"Oh Agnes, how unfair is my fate as a woman. I am asked to stand by my husband's side all my life and yet I am denied a place beside him in these dark times. And they tear him from my arms and leave me here, alone and helpless, these monstrous Saracens!" She looked at you with sympathetic eyes, stroking the long hair that fell from your shoulders, which resembled the waves of the sea as they shook slightly from your sobs. "What can I do, Agnes? You who always have a quick tongue to give solutions to my every worry, tell me what I can do, before his horse and troops are too far away to be seen."

She, like a mother consoling a child who has injured himself while playing, took your face with one hand, inviting you to turn your gaze towards her. As she wiped the tears that streaked your cheeks with her thumb, she spoke softly to you, although her tone had a hint of her typical mischief in it: "My lady, weeping over your fate does not suit you. Instead, I propose you run. Make haste to the armoury, there you are sure to find armour left behind by some lord. Do you follow me? Well, you will simply have to put on the armour, carrying a pair of your husband's breeches underneath. And keep your helmet tightly closed, so that it cannot be seen that beneath the armour there is not a brutish knight, but a beautiful queen.

Go out of the palace through the servants' passages, and buy the horse of the first man you find. Not yours, in the royal stable they would notice his absence. And then all that remains is for you to ride, ride as fast as you can, to reach the Christian encampments as soon as possible, which by then will have been set up. Remain aloof, and reveal yourself to your husband only. And do so at night, in his tent, where no unwanted eyes can see your unexpected encounter. Is it all clear, my lady?"

You merely nodded frantically with eyes wide in wonder and relief. You practically leapt into the air, quick to grab the first slip you could find and a pair of cheap shoes that you could ruin with all your impending travels. You were about to leave the room, but stopped for a moment at the threshold, before turning back to Agnes to hold her tightly in a warm embrace.

"What would I do without you, my dear. You are even better than a guardian angel, I wouldn't be surprised if one day you left some white feathers behind!" The woman squeezed you affectionately before pushing you away playfully, urging you to get out and go and do whatever she directed. "It is the job of a nurse, to solve a child's problems in the same way as a mother. But hurry now or the battle will be over before you have even found a helmet!"

You laughed lightly as you wiped the dried tears from your cheeks, wasting no more time in rushing to get what was necessary to implement your plan. You rushed in front of the crate containing Baldwin's clothes, tossing robes and shirts in the air until you found breeches fit for a ride. You hastily donned them, then dashed down the long corridors of the palace.

Once in the armoury, you began to spin like a wheel, desperately searching with your eyes for any armour. You weren't picky, anything would have been more than enough: you'd have been fine with just a breastplate, chain mail, simple shoulder straps,… But most of all, you needed a helmet. And that you found almost immediately in your mad search. It was crudely moulded and already bore a few dents on the sides, but you paid no attention to it, it was enough to conceal your identity.

You also found a breastplate, and that was all you needed. You considered taking a sword with you too, but quickly changed your mind: it might be foolish to most, but you hoped that if an enemy found you unarmed, his honour would prevent him from challenging you to a fight.

And then, your focus on your sword quickly faded as you remembered that you still had no horse to reach the battlefield. Running awkwardly, like a child ambitiously trying on his father's far too large armour, you stepped back into the corridors, this time frantically searching with your eyes for a servant to follow towards the back exit.

It must have been a hilarious scene from an outside observer, a burly swineherd looking perplexed over his shoulder as a half-armed knight los eguiva like a tin puppet through the narrow corridors. But the scene was short-lived, for after a couple of turns you finally reached the palace exit, and emerged into the crowded streets of the city.

I had to move my helmet slightly above my eyes to better see the road around you, scanning the area for any horse. You could only see two camels, a few cows, a hen with her small flock of chicks, but no horse in sight. But just when you were about to give up hope, a mysterious force swept over you.

More than mysterious force, you were almost overwhelmed by a horse held on the bridle by a dirty, smelly man. "Out of the way, kid!" Looking at the man with wide eyes, taking good care to make sure your helmet covered your features well, you strained to speak in the most naturally deep voice you could muster, attempting to fool the yokel into mistaking you for a mere boy.

"Sir how much… how much are you asking for your horse?" He laughed, opening his mouth wide and exposing his few remaining teeth, yellow and frayed, and looked at you with a look of paucity and mockery, "You're going off to war without even a horse? The Saracens will impale you like a spit, son. Not that the battle would do you any good either way, with the child king we have, they will all be wiped out. before they even reach those bloody Arabs!”

You clenched your jaw so tightly that you thought your teeth might blow out from the pressure, so hard were you trying to suppress your anger at that disrespectful commoner. Breathing slowly, trying to calm your nerves, you spoke in stiff, icy words, "30 shillings. And you leave me the saddle" The man's eyes widened, incredulous at how much a young man was willing to pay for his old, shabby horse. But he wasn't complaining at all; in fact, better for him if the thirst for war drove the youth of today to such lengths. If only he had known that it was not the bloodlust of a daring young man that was before him, but instead the affectionate madness of a desperate wife.

He did not even answer, stretched out his open hand in front of him where a moment later a bag full of coins fell. He opened it for good measure, making sure the hefty sum was true. When he was satisfied, he slowly handed you the bridle, dazed by the small fortune he was holding.

You hoisted yourself awkwardly onto the horse, and it was not a quick operation as it seemed almost impossible for you not to fall off the horse, so much was the armor restricting your every move and weighing you down. After a few minutes of tribulation, you finally steadied yourself in the saddle and with a firm gesture of your leg, spurred the steed, which galloped off in an instant.

At a gallop, the city didn't seem nearly so big. Nor did the streets seem so crowded, perhaps because the people spread out like the sea in front of Moses as you passed, trying to escape the unpleasant fate of being swept away by the running horse and its mysterious rider. You felt as if you were sailing through the waves of the sea, with people's heads bobbing up and down, a current of movement pushing you closer and closer to the city gates. No one paid much attention to you as you crossed the threshold into the kingdom of heaven, most just thought you were a careless rider who had fallen behind, perhaps this was your first battle. Whatever your problem was, it was not about the wall guards. And so your figure disappeared from the sight of the remaining citizens in the city, vanishing into the vastness of the endless desert.

You did not know quite how long you rode, how many hours it took you before you began to locate even the slightest trace of the passage of the army of Jerusalem. At first it was only small details, marks left on the ground, mainly trinkets possibly dropped to the soldiers during the ride. Then the signs of their passage became more prominent, when around a small oasis you even found a few abandoned spears, probably forgotten back by some careless soldier.

And you stopped there for only a moment, as thirst would have prevented you from going any further. As you drank from the body of water, your mind travelled in thought to your husband; who knows if he too drank from this spring? And if so, how long has it been? Will he be far from here? What would he say when he saw you retracing the passage he and his troops were tracing? At that last thought a shiver ran down your spine, most likely he would not be very happy to know you were so close to danger. You shook your head, trying to rid yourself of the image of the look that Baudouin would give you if he saw you at that moment, alone, barely armed in the vast and merciless desert, with no escort to protect you…

You only hoped that the surprise and joy of seeing you at such a tragic moment might cloud his mind from any concern he might have for you. In the meantime you had quenched your thirst enough. Regaining the reins of your horse, and after a series of ministrations to remount the saddle, you resumed your ride towards the battle with the unknown outcome.

As you rode with the wind blowing in your face, with nothing to entertain or distract you, your mind could not but return again to Baldwin. You could not help it, for fear for his fate had been tearing at your soul for days without respite, ever since it was announced that a battle would take place.

Baldwin was too young for all this. He was barely of marriageable age, he could barely reign without a regent at his side, he was hardly considered more than a child, many nobles even refused to call him an adult! And then there was his illness, which although not yet crippling, had already begun to expand its deadly effect on his body, numbing his nerves and making it impossible for him to wield his right hand properly. It was really unfair, that a man in his condition should lead an army to what everyone considered certain death.

Death at the hands of the Saracens, who were rumoured to be as many as ten times the number of the army of Jerusalem. A sob escaped from your mouth, followed by a faint stream of tears that ran down your cheeks, but they were short-lived on your face, the dry desert wind dried them in no time.

Only an instant seemed to pass, time to bring a hand to his face to wipe away the dried saline tears. Yet when your gaze focused again on the landscape in front, you saw a few hundred metres away a series of white tents, a few faint rows of smoke rising in the air, a massive cross set with precious gems, leaning against a rough wooden construction. It was the camp of the Jerusalem army.

Getting off your horse, you advanced hesitantly through the camp. Looking around, you noticed the stunned gazes of soldiers and horsemen watching you, some intrigued by your unkempt armor, some confused by your clumsy way of moving. But although the attention of their gazes made you stop breathing, fearing that you had been discovered, but fortunately it was short-lived, all the men were too tired from the exertions of the journey to investigate even this oddity. Taking you for an inexperienced little boy, they looked away from you and proceeded to drag their aching limbs back to their respective tents.

But although no one gave you more than the attention you give any stranger on the street, your heart would not stop beating furiously in its cage. You quivered at the mere thought of seeing your husband again, who although he had recently separated from you, already felt as if you had not seen him for an eternity. And your soul screamed at the idea that this might be the last time you would see him alive, and urged your legs to move faster. From hesitant strides, your gait grew brisk, impatient, and faster and faster until you burst into a frantic run through the expanse of white tents.

You scanned one, two, ten, a hundred, so many that by now they seemed to you an endless bundle of the same white cloth. But although your hope gave no sign of existing from your mission, your legs were beginning to give out under the constant strain you had subjected your body to for endless hours. You had no choice but to stop to catch your breath, resting your hands on your trembling thighs as you gasped for breath. And it was in that very instant, while you neither heard nor saw anything but the roar of your heart echoing in your ears and the rough ground flattened by the heavy footsteps of the soldiers, dark because of the blurred evening light, that you heard it. That voice.

"We will discuss this tomorrow, now I need the rest" "Certainly, my lord." The dialogue was followed by a knight of high lineage who came out of the tent in front of which you had pulled up to rest. He did not even dignify you with a glance, and you could not care less, for it was not him you were interested in. He was the first man to speak who had captured your complete attention, making the whole world fade away around you. It was a jovial voice, full of life despite obvious tiredness. It was a boy's voice. It was Baldwin's voice.

You sidled up to the curtain of the tent and, before opening your mouth, breathed slowly, tending not only to ease your nerves but also to modulate your voice to make it more masculine, deeper. The deception was to be revealed only when you were alone in the tent, away from prying eyes.

"My king, I know you are now bereft of strength, but grant me a brief interview with your majesty." You could visualize him rolling his eyes, puffing silently and running his good hand over his eyes, as he was always wont to do when any courtier demanded his attention while he was already lying in your arms. And as whenever this familiar event took place, similarly Baldwin made an effort in this case to stand up and mutter a reply, unaware that the subject behind the cloth was not just any boy, but his beloved wife. "I'm afraid I'm in no condition for a meeting at the moment. We will discuss whatever you need tomorrow." Panic grew in you hearing him so indisposed. After all, you should have expected it; he had more to think about than granting an interview to an anonymous soldier. In an instant, however, you changed your strategy, if you couldn't convince him you would have to bait him, "Please, sir, give me a few minutes! I bring with me a great surprise, a gift that I know will fill your heart with joy and restore your energy!"

He paused, as if weighing his options. At least that was what you thought, but in truth Baldwin was wondering if he was going crazy. If he had only dreamed, due to exhaustion and fatigue, that the voice speaking to him from outside the tent was not any young man's, but a disguise meant to hide the angelic melodic voice of his beloved wife. Were it really her, Baldwin would not have wasted a moment in throwing open the door for her, taking her into his arms and carrying her to his momentary abode, where her presence alone could be savored by him.

But he knew it could not be possible: you, his beloved wife whose image constantly pervaded his mind, were thousands and thousands of feet away, safe within the walls of your palace, as you had promised him. It was just not possible that you were the one hiding outside the tent, his hopes were just a cruel game of his mind. But by now his attention had been caught by the stranger so eager to talk to the king, to give him this phantom gift. Perhaps there would have been cause for concern, for thought of possible deception or assault by an enemy spy, but Baldwin did not give the thought more than a second's attention, before sighing softly and turning away, gazing back at the white fabrics of the tent. "Very well, come forward then. I hope this surprise you tell me about is really that formidable."

You came close to slinging yourself into the tent, throwing yourself into Baldwin's arms in an instant, and never letting go. But you still couldn't do it; it was too risky. You merely placed a hand on the side of the fabric that closed the curtain, pulling it to go through and letting it fall back behind you. And there you stood, facing Baldwin, clad in that armor far too large for your size, your heart pounding wildly from both the fatigue of the journey and the excitement. And he slowly, with a phlegm as elegant as the waters of a stream, turned to reveal the identity of his mysterious visitor, and you had already freed your face from the tortuous confines of the helmet you had worn for endless hours.

His eyes widened, wide as never before. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Baldwin could say he was truly, truly surprised. A thousand emotions passed from his face, from astonishment, to joy, to anger, and then to sadness, and then to astonishment again. For a moment he seemed about to open his mouth, but he stopped, opting instead to run to you, putting his arms around you, holding you tight and lifting you off the ground so tight was his grip. "My affection, how can you be so foolish! This is no place for you, so far from home, close to the enemy… You promised me you would stay safe, let me go, let me protect you! How could you do something so rash, you who are always so wise? Alone through the desert, what if the enemy had met you before I got here? What would I have done if your lifeless body, tortured by the Saracens, had been brought to me?"

His voice was exhausted, worn out by weariness and emotion that blocked his throat and threatened to make hot tears fall from his white cheeks. His words were harsh and stern, but devoid of any reproach: it was his fear speaking, his fear of seeing you the next day among the stacked bodies of war victims. And as he spoke he held your arms, shook you lightly, and in the process interrupted himself to place chaste kisses on your face, as if through the touch of his lips he was trying to convince himself that you were really there, standing before him. That it was not a mere illusion, a game of his mind.

Gently, with a touch as light as the morning wind, your hands went up his chest to his beautiful face, which you lovingly cupped. "I swore before God that I would not abandon my place at your side until the breath leaves my body. I have enjoyed with you wealth, pomp, and good fortune. But what you have granted me to witness is only half of the aspects of a nuptial union. Poverty, sickness, and the misery of war are the woes that touch every human being, and which two spouses are expected to face together. So now, my king, I beseech you, do not deny me a place at your side as you fight for the honor and freedom of the Holy Land, do not deny me a duty that has been mine since you and I were joined in eternity. It is unjust what you have subjected me to, to have to watch you ride away from me, toward the worst of dangers! And how could you think I would let you go just like that, without opening my mouth? Now we are even, I have retraced the path you yourself have traced, as bereft of safety as you were bereft of my presence. And now together we face this mortal danger, which, however, will never hold a candle to the pain that distance from you brings me!"

Baldwin's eyes softened, though they had a melancholy note in them. He inhaled with shuddering breath, and his grip became softer on your body, his hands descended from his arm to your waist, always holding you as close as physically possible.

"I was always told that silence honors women. This does not suit you, for depriving you of speech robs you of the royalty that makes you my queen. I ask your forgiveness, my angel, for leaving you alone in such a dark time. But try to understand my choice, how self-centered would I have been to ask you to come with me, in the midst of the greatest danger? It was simply too much for me, my beloved, the burden on my heart, begging me to do all that was permissible to keep you safe, even if that necessitated keeping you away from me. You are too far away now for me to send you back to the palace with an escort, and my heart could not bear to part with you for even another hour. You will stay here, ruling your people as you should. But please do not do me the wrong of setting foot on that bloody battlefield tomorrow. If even God decides that tomorrow my hour has come, and I fall lifeless on the bloody ground, do not move a step, do not show any sign of weakness. Don't follow me into the afterlife, don't even think about it: I know full well that I will never have the honor of lying eternally by your side, I am not worthy of it, so don't jeopardize your precious life in the name of an eternity by my side."

You did not respond, and silence fell. Squeezing together for another moment, you broke away shortly thereafter only to move to the bed set up in his tent, not as luxurious as his usual palace bed but certainly far more comfortable than the hay bunks in which soldiers elsewhere rested. Clinging to each other, you remained silent for a few moments. Or maybe it was hours, neither of you knew. Nor did you care, knowing how much time had passed, how much more separated you from the inescapable fate that awaited you the next day. Silent tears streaked your faces, sobs and sighs filled the air of the room. Then, you took courage to open your mouth, your voice soft and melancholy, weakened by weeping. "How unfair is our fate, affection. How bitter is my soul, knowing that tomorrow I must witness such a slaughter, an open-air slaughterhouse in which you yourself may become yet another victim."

As your first response you heard a snort from your husband, who squeezed you tighter for a moment, as if to secure you beside him, engulf you in his body. His lips pressed against your temple, placing a gentle kiss there, and they remained resting there even as he began to speak, "I know, I know my angel. I too wish things were simpler, that I could retire from this world, go and live with you, away from all this chaos, all this violence. You don't know how much I would have liked to abdicate, to leave the throne to Sybilla and her husband. They would have been good rulers, if only dear William had not passed away so soon. And so we have only to live like this, my beloved. To live perpetrated by the duties and horrors that mankind is capable of, all in the name of God's affection," a pause, a look that said a thousand silent words, and then resumed, "in the name of my affection for you… Tomorrow it will be an honor for me to fight, for like the valiant Lancelot, who fought to his last breath in the name of beautiful Guinevere. I do not care if my life will be endangered, if I return wounded and maimed more than leprosy is already reducing me. No, I don't care, because at the end of the day, whether my heart still beats or not, I know that I will return to lie in your arms.

And that makes up for all the injustices I will have to face." The last words were whispered, softened by a deep affection that numbed the senses and made everything as graceful as the clouds in the sky.

More tears streamed down your rosy cheeks, but you tried to conceal them by hiding your face in the crease of Baldwin's neck. The tone grew sterner for a moment as he resumed speaking, intimating you to listen with a grip on your shoulder. "Just promise me that, in case the battle goes badly, and I am dead and defeated and my whole army with me, promise me that you will escape, as far away as you can. Find shelter at the dwellings of those who have abstained from this conflict, find asylum in churches and in any sacred place you can find. Do whatever you can in order to protect your life. Protect what has always been dearest to me, your life."

"I will, I promise." You would have liked to retort, or much less say what he wanted to hear without really thinking it. But deception did not suit you, not toward Baldwin at least. And the mere thought that that might be his last will, which made you want to throw yourself to the ground and cry every tear you had in your body, also made it impossible for you to disobey that simple request, which after all was the request that you care for your own body and soul.

Whether Baldwin had taken your word for it or not, you were not sure, it was hard to say. It didn't matter, both of you were too tired to linger talking any longer, contrary to your usual routine of endless discussions on all kinds of topics. He whispered something to you in his native tongue, and although the language was vaguely unfamiliar to you and fatigue clouded your mind, you could still discern a sweet "I love you" among the words he spoke.

The next day your awakening was similar to the day Baldwin left Jerusalem: alone in bed, the place where your husband lay still warm. Outside the men were shouting orders and the horses were pawing in irritation at the din. In the distance you could hear the cries of the Saracens approaching, and the horns of war echoing in the air. You tried to peep your head out of the tent, but a guard surprised you right in front of the entrance. "My lady, his majesty has ordered that you do not leave the tent until the battle is over." The tone was authoritative and gentle at the same time, but his spear was stretched across the opening of the tent, an admonition far more direct than his words. You obeyed, as you had promised Baldwin that same evening, and without protest you retreated back inside the small temporary dwelling.

And so you stood there, alone and unaware of what was unfolding beyond the white tent. The last sound you were able to discern was your beloved's voice inciting his men to battle, before the din of war produced such a cacophony that it was impossible to understand a single sentence spoken. They rode for a few hundred meters until they reached the place where the battle would take place. They rode so far that the din they caused as they passed became muffled, barely audible. And perhaps it was for the best, for the distance muffled the atrocious sounds of war, of slaughter.

And so you waited there, within the four fabric walls, white as snow, that you feared at every moment might be stained with blood, friend or foe. You waited for the outcome of the battle, dumb with fear, with tension. You awaited Baldwin's return, dead or alive, victorious or defeated. And you did so by standing there, closer to him than was possible, exhausted and restless at the same time.

A/N: Yallll this was LONGGGG. i really really like how this turned out, and i hope you do too! I'm really sorry for how long it took me to write this piece, but I promise the following ones will take much much less🙏🙏🙏 Anyway, now I gotta go start working on those, feel free to leave a comment or feedback about this fic<3<3

[artist-ellen]

Historically inspired Ningguang

I based this semi-historical fashion for Ningguang on images of Empress Cixi. I know it’s usual to not draw Ningguang in a qipao but I wanted to base her look on a real woman in history in a position of power if you will. Ningguang is a powerful leader and important player in the commercial success of Liyue. Also the very long nail/finger guards are very iconic for both.

I am the artist! Do not post without permission & credit! Thank you! Come visit me over on: instagram.com/ellenartistic or tiktok: @ellenartistic

[artplague]

year old sketchbook dump of these lovely man shaped ethereal/occult beings.

happy pride from the queerest non human codependents who only realized a year ago that they've been dating for the last 6000 years (they don't have much competiton for that title)

a/n: the Eucharist comic was the result of a two hour Google search I have forgotten most of. but as someone who grew up Protestant in America, learning about transubstantiation was wild

[sleepy-hyperfixations]

Bucky: So Buck, about that text you sent me last night-

Buck: Curt and Hambone convinced me to have a drink and it was mostly autocorrect.

Bucky: Autocorrect wrote, 'You're so hot I'm in love with you please suffocate me with your thighs'

Buck:.....it's very advanced John.

[cadotoast]

Chapter 1- Jousts and Announcements

Minors DNI please.

About 5k word length

Content warnings:

Lances readied. Visors lowered. Steeds pawing the earth. The crowd holds its breath.

The thunder of hooves! The jangling of armor! The collective gasp!

You stand on your toes, heart in your throat as you watch your brother's lance shatter, his body swaying in the saddle. His opponent thunders past towards the other end of the list field, dirt flying from his horse's hooves. The crowd lets out a cheer, and you exhale, albeit a tad shakily, as your brother stays in his seat. He guides his mount to where his squire stands ready with another lance, sparing a glance over to where you stand on the sidelines, hands clasped at the front of your breast in anxiety. His grin is free, comforting, and you smile back at him, wishing him luck. He taps a small cloth tucked at his neck, your token of favor to him being your personal handkerchief.

"How exciting!" Your attention is momentarily pulled to your best friend, Jenny, who is clinging to the fence post in front of her. Her eyes practically have hearts in them as she stares at your brother, her cheeks flushed with the anticipation and thrill of the moment. "I always knew your brother would make a wonderful knight. He is proving himself true, in witness of the royal family no less!"

At the mention of the royals, your gaze flickers up to the raised dais where the king, queen, and crown prince sit with the rest of their court. They seem to be enjoying themselves just as much as the commoners that mingle in the stands and on the fairgrounds below them.

"He is doing very well." You agree, leaning gently against the fence in front of you, tugging lightly on the sleeves of your dress. "I was worried when he told me he would be joining the tourney. The Kings' Men are participating, after all."

"But that's not a Kings' Man." Jenny points to where your brother's opponent is readied once more, silver armor gleaming in the light, the emblem of a crimson griffin his standard.

"You don't need to be a member of the kings' inner circle and guard to be a formidable foe," This voice comes from behind you, and you glance over your shoulder to smile at your father. His eyes twinkle at you as he squeezes your shoulder gently, before looking to the knight in question. "That man there is Ser Mathis. He's a shoo-in for King's Champion in a few years."

The next run has started, and you lean forward with bated breath once more as the two knights thunder towards each other. The harsh clang of lances meeting shields accompanies the surprised yelp your brother lets out as he is launched from his saddle, landing heavily on his back in the dirt.

"Jonas!" You leap onto the lowest rung of the fence, heart in your throat.

"Relax! He's fine, see?" Jenny grabs your arm to prevent you from hiking up your skirts and vaulting into the arena. Sure enough, among the cheers of the crowd, Jonas is getting to his feet, greeting his squire as the young man runs to attend him.

Ser Mathis is heading off in the other direction, surely to rest up before the next joust with whichever opponent in the tourney bracket he would next be facing.

"Who is jousting next?" Your father asks, looking up the field to where standards and flags wave in the summer breeze. You cast back in your memory, trying to remember the roster.

Before you can speak, two more knights are approaching the listing field, their standards held aloft. Your father makes an impressed sound in the back of his throat.

"This is going to be a good fight," Jonas has rejoined you, his squire Richard at his side. "That's two of the Kings' Men, Sers John and Kyle."

You look between the two knights, comparing the stature of each. Ser Kyle is slimmer than his opponent, but both are similar in height. You watch as Ser Kyle waves at the crowd, his expression jovial, before he places his helm on, lowering the visor. Ser John appears more somber, his eyes narrowed slightly, his frowning expression framed by a rather becoming set of facial hair.

"Ser Kyle Garrick was the squire of Ser John Price." Jonas says with a smile. "We started as Pages together. I am sure the student is looking forward to unseating his master."

Both knights have acquired lances, and now Ser John's face is obscured by his visor. The men salute the King, and then ready themselves. You lean once more against the fence, eyes darting between the combatants.

The fight is indeed thrilling. Both knights' lances shatter on the second pass, and suddenly there is a ringing of steel as Pupil and Teacher go sword to sword. You find yourself cheering as long with the crowd, caught up in the excitement.

"Put him in the dirt, Kyle!" Jonas roars.

The swords engage and disengage, the horses rearing, their masters urging them onward. But in the end, Ser John proves the better, looking down at where Ser Kyle lies winded on the dirt, sword knocked from his hand. The crowd erupts in cheers once more as Ser John dismounts and helps the other up. They embrace and slap each other on the back, ignoring the armor apparently, as men often do. When they lift their visors, both are grinning at each other, and you can't help but recognize the older's handsomeness when he isn't scowling.

"Ser John is one of the commanders of the King's forces." Your father remarks, leaning against the wooden rail next to you. "It would be telling of his aging if he was bested by his former squire so soon." His eyes twinkle as he glances sideways at you. "It was a close fight, though. I think the commander has some old war wounds that bother him."

You hum thoughtfully, eyes trailing the knight has he leads his mount off of the jousting field, making room for the next set.

Your face is red from the sun and sweat is collecting in your hairline and along your back when the jousts finally finish, emerging with a Ser Simon Riley as the victor. It's not surprising, seeing as he is a mountain of a man all donned in black-polished armor. You and Jenny leave your father, Jonas, and Richard to discuss the jousts, choosing instead to wander the fairgrounds, examining various wares from vendors as you make an attempt to cool down from the unforgiving summer sun.

"Did you hear that there was supposed to be some sort of special announcement done by the King in the evening?" Jenny asks as she examines a glass bauble. "I wonder what it could be?"

As a matter of fact, you have not heard of this, at least not yet. You purse your lips thoughtfully, counting the silvers in your purse as you contemplate buying a necklace with a charm that claims to offer the wearer good luck and protection from evil spirits.

"Maybe he is lowering the taxes for the townspeople?" You offer, handing over your silver coins to the merchant in exchange for the charm. "It has been a good year so far, and we aren't at war. Maybe he will ease some of the burden of the lower class."

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?" Jenny sighs, a bit wistfully. Her own purse only holds a few coppers, the most she could spare from her laundry washing earrings. You pass her a silver coin, which she tries to give back. You refuse.

"I never got you a gift for the winter feast. This is my late gift to you, buy something for yourself." You make sure that no sound of pity escapes from your voice, and keep your eyes on your friend's face, and not the worn, patched clothing that she has to call her "Sunday Best" Jenny gives you a sheepish smile, and then hands over the silver piece to the merchant, a small glass figurine clasped gently in her hand.

The two of you continue to wander the fair grounds, admiring the young men in their armor and the pretty ladies vying for their attention.

"Would you ever want to be married to a Knight?" Jenny asks you as you watch a group of young women surrounding a dashing Knight with a rather peculiar haircut. He wears a plaid kilt around his waist instead of the traditional armor of the knights of the kingdom.

"I'm not sure," you confess, beginning to walk over to where the local tavern has set out tables outside, drinks and food being sold to the festival goers. "With them having to go out and lead armies for the King, I would be worried that he would never come home."

"Even commoners like our fathers can be called to arms at times of war," Jenny reminds you. "How is that any different?"

Leading the way to an empty table, you ponder the question. "I suppose in the grand scheme of things, they are quite similar." You tuck in your skirts around your legs as you settle on the worn, wooden chair. "Maybe I just think that having a knight for a husband would be aiming above my class. My status." Never mind the fact that your brother is a knight himself. "We need no rumors spreading that I am simply looking for a higher rank in society."

"Hmm..." Jenny settles across from you, flagging down a young woman who is carrying a tray of pints. You run a nail along the grain of the wood, turning to people-watch those wandering the town square. The queerly-dressed man has been joined by Sers Simon, Kyle, and John. All have changed into more comfortable garb, but Ser Simon has his face covered with a black cloth so that only his eyes peek out. They all seem in high spirits, and the kilted man stretches up to place a flower crown on top of Ser Simon's clothed head.

"All four of them are in the Kings' Men." Jenny says, her gaze following yours. "The man in the kilt is Ser John MacTavish. Though I hear that his close friends simply call him 'Johnny'."

The men in question move as a group under the shade of a tree nearby, settling at a table. You watch them subtly as they banter and laugh, your attention only diverted when a tankard of chilled cider is set in front of you, along with a plate of hearty stew and a thick crust of bread. You thank the tavern maid with a smile, and take a sip of the soup. It's delicious, as to be expected from this particular tavern.

You find your attention drifting more and more to the table of knights, your stew cooling and your cider warming in tandem. It takes several repetitions of your name, and a harsh kick to your shin under the table before Jenny can pull your attention back to her and the conversation. "You're staring," She says bluntly, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. "Which one of them's caught your fancy?"

Your face floods with a heat not caused by the summer sun, and you take a hasty gulp of your lukewarm cider to chase away the mortification stuck in your throat like a dry piece of bread.

"It's nothing," You deflect. "My head was in the clouds is all."

Jenny raises a skeptical eyebrow at you, then tosses her long brown hair over her shoulder with a snigger. You in turn glare at her playfully, before ducking your head to eat some more of your meal. Your ears, however, stay piqued towards that particular table.

"How are ye feelin' after that joust, Captain? I hope I didnae batter ye too badly," It's the kilted man who is talking. His accent is thick and foreign, exotic, you think. I bet it's barely understandable when he's deep in his cups.

"If you think I'm huffin' and groanin' after a few bouts with you lads, then I might as well turn in my sword today," Grumbles Ser John, but his expression is playful. "I ain't in the grave just yet."

"I'll say," It's Ser Kyle this time. "I'm going to be sore until next summer. You sent me flyin' with that lever you call a lance." A chorus of playful jeering erupts, and there is some shuffling as the men push and shove each other in their banter.

With a meaningful clearing of her throat, Jenny draws your attention back to her. You blink at her a bit owlishly, a sheepish smile turning the corners of your lips. Jonas is standing above the two of you, wearing a cheeky grin.

"Searching for a suitor, darling sister?" He drawls. You try to glower at him, folding your arms across your chest.

"Not at all, Jonas." You try for a cool and collected tone. "Just observing. One must stay vigilant at all times."

"Vigilant of all the eligible, dashing knights, that is," Jenny's wearing a wicked grin.

"You are one to talk," Your gaze cuts momentarily to Jonas, and then back to Jenny's face. Her eyebrows furrow slightly as she narrows her eyes at you, and you simply beam at her, the picture of benevolence and Innocence. Jenny huffs, rolling her eyes, as she gets to her feet.

"Jonas here was going to take me to see the stables, do you want to come along?" Something flashes in her expression, and you have to bite your lower lip to suppress a grin.

You shake your head, waving both of them off. "I'm just going to stay here and cool down. Don't let me ruin your fun." The responding smile is answer enough to your unspoken query, and you watch as Jonas, ever the gentleman, lends Jenny his arm as he leads her through the crowded fairgrounds.

Now alone, you find yourself feeling a bit awkward. You fidget with the new charm around your neck, pressing the cool, smooth glass to your lips. The tavern maid refills your cider and takes your empty bowl, as well as a few silvers for the meals you and Jenny ate.

You're contemplating getting to your feet to wander the fair once more, when a loud scream sounds from behind you. Startled, you jump to your feet and spin on your heel, searching for the source of the commotion.

A heard of horses, which had presumably been picketed at one point, have been spooked into a stampede, still tied together by lead lines. The crowd is scattering, some getting out of the way quick enough, some not. And just to your luck, the herd veers sideways and right towards you.

Cursing in a very unladylike fashion, you rush to escape the horses' path, but your skirt snags on a split in the wooden log that makes up the bench, and you tumble over it to the ground, landing with a pained grunt. Winded, stuck, and in the path of a deadly stampede, you're frozen in place, watching your demise trample towards you.

You barely register the ripping of fabric as two strong hands wrap themselves around your upper arms and pull, jerking you free and dragging you backwards over the dirt. The herd of horses blunders past, shrieking and whinnying as they crash into tables and benches, and overturning barrels of mead and ale.

A rushing in your ears drowns out most sound as you stare at the spot where you had previously been lying, now deluged with hoof prints. The scrap of fabric from your skirt is pummeled into the soft ground. Belated in their arrival, a troop of guards runs in the direction the horses have fled to, shouting orders and trying to clear the way of injured townsfolk.

"Are you okay?" A deep voice sounds in your ear. You're leaning back against a warm, broad chest, its steadyness contrasting to the trembling of adrenaline shaking your body. With a deep, shuddering breath, you pull your gaze from what would have surely been your early grave, to look into the face of your rescuer.

Ser John looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed low in concern. He wears a frown, his brilliant blue eyes looking you over, assessing you for damage. "Are you hurt, my lady?"

"I think I'm okay..." You absently run your hands over yourself, feeling for anything amis. "Maybe a little bruised." Your shin smarts from where it had collided with the bench.

"Looks like your skirt took the worst of it, lass," On your other side kneels Ser MacTavish, his own gaze wide with concern. "Tha was a narrow scrape ye had there."

Ser John assists you to your feet, and supports you while your knees tremble. After you have gained stability, you step cautiously away from the knight, turning to face him as you brush grass and dirt from your skirt to the best of your ability. Sers Kyle and Simon watch from their table, the former's gaze twisted with concern.

"Thank you so much Ser," You say to Ser John, lowering your gaze respectfully. "Without your help, I would surely be injured."

"You're sure you're alright?" The man in question asks, his gaze roaming your body in a cursory examination. "Did I hurt you at all?"

Your hands rub your upper arms where the man's hands had nearly swallowed you, a phantom heat lingering. "No, Ser, you did not hurt me."

Ser John straightens as he looks down at you, hands on his hips. He gives a soft grunt of acknowledgement, settling down in his seat only after giving you one final once over.

"You're Jonas' sister, aren't you?" This question comes from Ser Kyle, who has gotten to his feat and pulled up a seat for you. It seems rude to refuse him, so you settle in the chair, mournfully fingering the rip in your skirt.

"Yes, I am." Your lips curl up at the corners. "He mentioned that you and he were squires together, Ser Kyle."

"What a lad," Ser Kyle beams, his teeth shining on contrast to his darker skin. "One of the best in our group. I don't understand why he ever declined the position."

You blink. "The position? What position?"

"Ye dennae ken?" Ser MacTavish stares at you. Heat wells in your cheeks self-consciously. "He was offered a place in our ranks as a Kings' Man."

The table falls silent as you process that information, watching absently as the tavern keeper rights some of the tables. You note your spilled pint of cider and mourn its cool refreshment silently.

"He never mentioned it," You finally admit. "Granted, he doesn't like to talk about his work too much when he comes home to father and I. Prefers to stay on lighter matters, I suppose." You glance once more at Ser Kyle. "He was supposed to be a Kings' Man?"

"I was second pick for the opening when Ser Richard resigned to his manor by the sea. Your brother was the first pick, the King asked him to join pretty much as soon as he earned his title and standard."

You chew on that for a moment, curiosity itching at you. "He's a rather modest man," you say. "My guess is that he probably thought he wasn't up for it. That someone more capable should take his place."

"Not that I am ungrateful for the position," Ser Kyle glances at his former Knight-master, "but it should have been Jonas."

"If I had to take my guess," Ser John is the one to speak, his sentence broken as he takes a sip from a pint of ale. "He declined it to stay closer to you." At your confused expression, he pushes onward. "Even as a page and a squire up at the castle, he spoke of you often. More often than not, actually. He desired to be able to support you, especially after the passing of your mother, and with your father becoming more elderly and declining in his health. He wanted to provide for you until you wed, and even then, to be close by if you ever needed him. Us Kings' Men are sent all over the realm to do the work of the King. If he had taken the position, he would not have been able to remain as close to your side."

You don't know whether to be embarrassed by your brother's apparent coddling, or touched by his thoughtful nature. Gazing down at the grains in the table, you run a finger over your lower lip in thought, turning over the Ser's words.

"Ae, sounds like somethin tha lad would do." Ser MacTavish agrees.

"If it is as you say," You muse, a smile gracing your features, "It seems rather fitting of him."

"Speak of the Devil," Ser Simon speaks up, looking over your shoulder. You glance behind you, grinning when you see Jonas, Jenny still on his elbow, walking in your direction. Jonas is wearing a flower crown of daisies, which Jenny keeps grinning at, a bluish sitting high in her pale cheeks.

"Heard I missed some action," Jonas calls, his gaze roaming over you. Despite his cheery expression, you can see the worry in his eyes as he takes in your rumpled condition. "Is everything alright around here?" The underlying question about your welfare rattles in your brain like a gong.

"The Tavernkeep might be needin' to seek out the carpenter, and the las's skirt might need some mendin'," Ser MacTavish replies, leaning back to pull up a few more chairs for the new arrivals. "but as far as we can tell, she is no worse for wear. Ser John here kept her out of harm's way."

"And for that, I thank you, Ser," Jonas dips his head to Ser John, a respectful look in his gaze. He then looks to you once more. "You are uninjured?"

"A little rattled," you say with a smile. "But my pride, a bruised shin, and my skirt are the only casualties."

Jonas leads Jenny to her seat, right beside the rather imposing Ser Simon. Jenny gives the large knight a rather nervous look, taking in what features were not hidden by the face covering he wore, and managed a small smile as she gathered her skirts around her. Jonas sits easily in his chair, his arm slung over the back of Jenny's.

"We were just discussing your promotion to knight," You tell your brother, raising an eyebrow. "Why didn't you tell me the King offered you a position in his guard?"

"Wasn't for me," Jonas replies instantly. "I do my best work close to home. There is plenty for me to do here, I'll let the other more adventurous knights such as our present company go gallivanting around the kingdom."

The other men chuckle good-naturedly, and Jonas calls over the tavern maid to order a round of drinks for the table.

"Hey Jonas, did you hear about Prince Aldous?" Ser Kyle suddenly interjects, his expression conspiratorial. Jonas leans in immediately, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"What about him?"

The other knights groan in synch, and you and Jenny look at each other in interest. The crown Prince is a good-looking, but rather pompous young man. Despite his attitude, many women in the kingdom seem to be falling over themselves to get his hand in marriage if possible.

"He failed out of his test of Knighthood."

"Again?!"

"Again," Ser Kyle can't seem to keep a mirthful tone from his voice. "That makes three times."

"Must be a record," Ser MacTavish chuckles.

"Careful," Ser John admonishes, his voice a low grumble. "He is still the Crown Prince."

"Well the Crown Prince is a--" Jonas' words are cut off as you kick him sharply under the table, eyes flashing in warning. He gives you an embarrassed sort of smile, then clears his throat. "well, he leaves something to be desired," he finishes, albeit a little lamely.

"He's still young, there is time to learn." You say, drumming your finger against the wooden table, smiling at the tavern maid as she sets a fresh pint of cider in front of you. Ser Simon makes a noise of agreement into his ale.

"He's only a year older than yourself," Jonas reminds you with a smirk. "Maybe you should try for his hand."

A flush fills your cheeks, and you shake your head adamantly. "Me? A Princess? No thank you."

"You'd be a Queen, too," Jenny's eyes glitter. "When he takes the throne. I think you would make a wonderful Royal."

You merely shake your head again, taking a sip of your cider to cool the flush in your cheeks. "No, I don't think so. Too much attention, for one thing."

"The royals are always under constant scrutiny," Ser Kyle says with a nod. "It is a lot of pressure. Not everyone is fit for it."

"Maybe you should try for his hand, Jenny," You tease, knowing full well her answer. She narrows her gaze at you, pursing her lips at your grin.

The conversation flows easily, and time speeds by as the sun descends towards the horizon. As the sunset approaches, Sers Simon, Kyle, MacTavish, and John excuse themselves from the table, begging pardons, but they have to return to their duties as Kings' Men. Not long after, you can hear trumpets sounding from the festival grounds.

"That's the call to assembly," Jonas says, stretching. "Whatever announcement the King is going to give is going to happen there, we will probably want to be there."

Jonas takes the lead in heading towards the festival grounds, clearing away through the crowd for you and Jenny to pass through safely. You keep your eyes peeled for potential troublemakers. As vigilant as the local guards are, instances of pickpocketing and sudden brawls are not exactly unexpected on festival days.

A large crowd of people are gathered on the green lawn, facing a large wooden podium set up underneath a pair of ancient oak trees which provide a natural canopy. The King, Queen, and Crown Prince sit on makeshift thrones up on the podium, flanked by some now-familiar knights. Ser John stands almost directly behind the Crown Prince, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. Sers Simon and MacTavish are behind the King and Queen, with Ser Kyle standing off to the side with a handful of other knights belonging to the Kings' Men, whose names you can't recall at this time.

Jonas picks his way to the side of the crowd, where a small copse of trees offers some shade to some lower-level knights who shelter there. They greet Jonas with friendly waves, and don't protest when you and Jenny settle in the lush green grass.

"How were the horses?" You ask Jenny, settling your skirts around yourself modestly.

"Oh they were wonderful!" Jenny giggles, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Jonas took me to see all of the knights' mounts, including that bay he rides. Her name is Anika. She likes carrots, daisies, and chewing Jonas's tunic." You both giggle at that last bit, and you turn to examine your brother. The shoulder of his shirt does appear a little gnawed-on. Jonas himself is chatting with the other men, gesturing exaggeratedly with his arms.

"He probably forgot to take a bath, and that was Anika's way of telling him he smells," you joke, biting your lower lip as you chuckle. Jenny snorts quietly, shaking her head back and forth.

"His Majesty, the King!" A herald shouts, and the buzzing of the crowd dies down to a hush, raptly focusing on the podium. King Cassian Godfrey is a handsome man, dark haired and tanned skin. His eyes are a dark brown, almost black, that demand the attention of everyone around him. He is a good king, though the graying along his temples reflects his age, and the promise of his son someday taking the throne is a rather daunting one. His Queen, Helen, bares a remarkable resemblance to their son, her fair blonde hair shining like gold in the dying sunlight. She is known to be kind and philanthropic, a mother of the realm, so to speak.

"I come before you today with a joyous announcement for our Kingdom," The king says, his voice projecting across the lawn. "My son, the Crown Prince Aldous, has come of age. After much discussion, it has been decided that he will be allowed to pick a bride of his own choosing." A murmur ripples through the crowd, mixed with some gasps from some women in the crowd. Aldous looks rather bored up on the dais, turning a ring over on his finger and watching it glint in the dying light.

"Every eligible woman will be sent a summons to the palace where they will be required to present themselves before the prince. He will then make a selection of ten women with which to court for a period of time. Of those ten, he will chose his bride."

"A summons?!" The word slips out of you, hushed and shocked. Your sympathies seem reflected by those in the crowd.

"We always knew the family was a bit eccentric," Jenny murmurs, worry in her gaze.

The buzzing of the crowd has risen slightly, emotions melding together in a mixing pot as the realization sets in to the citizens. A mandatory summons. That means equal possibility for all of the eligible women in the kingdom to potentially win the hand of the Prince. But that also means that the initial summons are not optional. Weather or not you are interested in becoming royalty, you are required to present yourself to the prince for his approval or dismissal.

"All unmarried women of eligible age will receive a date of which to present themselves. If they are selected at the end of the first presenting, they will be offered accomodations at the palace for the rest of the courting season."

A headache starts to develop behind one of your eyebrows, your previous words from the evening slamming against your skull like Athena prying herself from Zeus' skull. "Me? A Princess? No thank you."

"Summons will be delivered to those eligible beginning next week. The first presentations will begin the week following. To the families of the ten selected women, a monetary stipend will be paid to cover any loses of income should the women in question be employed to support their families." You and Jenny glance at each other, both thinking of the meager jobs you have managed to acquire to assist your families.

"What if someone who is selected for the ten women does not wish to be?" Someone in the crowd yells. The King pauses, looking in the direction of the speaker.

"It is the belief of the royal council and of myself that it is a service to the country to be accepted to this position, and that any women selected should be honored to do so."

"So in other words, its not optional. You can't decline." one of the knights behind you says in a hushed tone. Jonas grunts, glancing down at where you and Jenny are sitting.

"I suppose if one didn't want to be selected, they would just try to appear as unappealing as possible," Your brother muses, but there is a dark lilt to his tone, and his jaw clenches.

The crowd murmurs among itself, the mixed sentiment evident.

"Thank you for gathering and enjoying the festivities today." King Cassian finishes, before stepping down off of the podium, his family and the King's Men following him.

You sit there on the grass, gazing down at your clasped hands, your heart beating out what seems to be your funeral dirge as reality sets in.

You are unmarried.

You will be presented.

[eyesfullofsttars]

— I can't decide if it's a choice getting swept away, I hear the sound of my own voice asking you to stay. . .

sypnosis; the beginning of the relationship between duchess abigail and the new viscountess ellie seems complicated by their own prejudices against each other, causing animosity. although, as they get to know each other better, they may be able to find a middle ground, right?

notes; just finished the second season of bridgerton (way too late...) and got totally obsessed, so i ended up here writing a little something about the beginning of the relationship between these two in a similar universe... (even though none of them wear dresses, i dunno why, but i just can't picture ellie or abby in those dresses!!!)

warnings: none! just historical inaccuracies

The beginning of their relationship sparked a genuine scandal, with Abigail brimming with prejudice toward Ellie's poor manners and defiant nature, never fearing to question everything, excessively abusing her newfound position as a newcomer to the Miller family.

Ellie, on the other hand, proudly rebuffed Abby's feigned courtesy, fully aware of her true sentiments. After all, it was the prevailing opinion when eyes scrutinized her from head to toe.

Thus, their relationship evolved into a constant competition at balls, where they vied to invite more ladies to dance, paying more attention to each other than to their own partners. (Even if Williams detests dancing with her life)

Ellie would purposely brush past Abby, aiming to test her patience, yet she couldn't help but stare whenever Anderson rolled up her sleeves and flexed her muscles, though she would never admit it aloud.

Abigail would murmur uncertain rumors about Ellie in the company of her friends, relishing in how Williams had mastered the skill of lip-reading to uncover secrets and complain about it.

"God! I can read her lips from here and tell she's speaking ill of me," Ellie comments to Dina, completely outraged, rolling her eyes and letting out an annoyed huff, unable to believe it.

Dina simply looks at her curiously. "Why are you even looking at Anderson's lips?" she questions teasingly, causing Ellie to release an even more exasperated sigh.

Though the Anderson dukes' family maintained a cordial relationship with the Miller family, who held the title of viscounts, Jerry often accompanied Joel on hunts, enjoying long evenings discussing business and their families, both having daughters in their legacy.

Thus, in the summer, while in the countryside, Ellie and Abby found themselves forced to spend even more time together, much to their horror, competing in croquet matches in the vast gardens. Ellie used every turn to distance the ball as far as possible from Abby.

However, Anderson returned the gesture, using her strength to push her away, taking up more space than necessary, blocking Williams' view for her next strategic shot, ruining the few occasions Ellie decided to focus on herself.

"It was my turn!" Ellie exclaims, utterly indignant, continuously tapping Abby's shoulder to get her attention. "Move!"

"Miss Williams, you're only going to use your turn to sabotage me, aren't you? Leave me alone," Abigail replies, rolling her eyes and not even paying much attention, too focused on calculating the perfect shot.

"You're tricking. How low you've stooped, Anderson," Ellie mutters under her breath, defeated, crossing her arms and stepping back to judge her with her gaze. "Unfair..."

Ultimately, the supposedly friendly match ended with both arguing, demanding the other to surrender, but neither would yield to the absurd, pathetic victory of a simple family game aimed at improving their relationship.

That seemed impossible until one night, when Ellie, unable to sleep, wandered through the grand corridors of the country house admiring the artwork, she encountered Abby, who seemed to be in the same predicament.

That night, they argued again, but this time not about each other, but about their views on the art talent reflected in the paintings, with Ellie contradicting Abigail, who reluctantly gave her the floor knowing she was an artist, albeit ashamedly denying it.

"You're much more intellectual than I am..." Abby whispers that statement near Ellie's ear with a slight smile on her lips, which the latter isn't sure whether to interpret as genuine or playfully teasing.

"Not at all." Williams quickly shakes her head, her hand moving to tuck a strand of Abigail's blonde hair behind her ear deliberately and effortlessly. "You're not so bad yourself..."

"Shut up." Abigail responds teasingly, letting out a small laugh, her warm breath brushing against Ellie's freckled cheek. Without hesitation, she leans in to accept the touch she offers. "Accept the compliment, will you?"

"You're so irritable, Miss Anderson." Ellie retorts with the same tone, not backing down but also not feigning any innocence about her own words.

Well, it seems they can't even agree on that!

And although they tried to ignore it, that night they both went to bed with a shared complicit smile. Ellie continued to compete relentlessly with Abby, who never seemed to be beaten, willing to play along without any annoyance, but rather enjoying it.

Upon their return, the rumors about Williams ceased within society. And if anyone dared to spread misinformation, Anderson would swiftly intervene, considering it unnecessary to mention Ellie's surname, not because he liked her, but because it was... repetitive.

Thanks to that encounter in the countryside, perhaps Anderson softened towards Williams. They spoke sparingly, but always about specific topics, something they found difficult with others. In Abby's case, it seemed everyone agreed with her due to her position, while with Ellie, no one seemed willing to listen.

And what better than two intellectual women arguing over tea time, where tranquility was supposed to reign? There they were, contradicting each other, but no longer with the desire to feel superior or with pure malice derived from dislike, but rather finding pleasure in the discussion, spending hours without reaching a conclusion.

Over time, Ellie and Abby's discussions became a regular ritual, a moment awaited by both to exchange ideas and opinions on various topics, from politics to art, literature, and science.

"You can never grant credence to such thoughts. It's illogical," Ellie argues with a smug smile, leaning back in her seat with her legs comfortably spread, albeit not in a very ladylike manner. "They should revoke your right to speak."

"And yours to partake in society," Abby retorts wryly, tapping her foot against Ellie's ankle to prompt her to sit upright and formally, even if they were alone.

"Oh, please," Ellie sighs exhaustively, rolling her eyes and ignoring Abby's indirect commands. "I've seen you sit the same way countless times."

"Not that I can recall," Abigail counters, shaking her head slowly, adjusting in her seat similarly, sitting rather ungracefully with her knees apart, her arms resting there, holding her chin with one hand.

Williams, once seen as an intruder, was now a necessary companion in Abigail's life, sought after at every gathering, dance, or event, for a chat, even if only for a few minutes of silly, sarcastic banter. It seemed Ellie was able to amuse Abby like no one else.

Ellie, on her part, was more than pleased to leave behind her indifference toward Abby. Now she greeted her without hesitation, with a smile on her freckled face, offering her hand with the need to maintain minimal contact. She always found herself standing by Abby's side at balls, no longer seeking other dance partners.

[ungodlysai]

Thetis: Why do people think I have distaste for you, Patroclus?

Patroclus: Because it was easiest to paint you that way. You’re a Nymph who was bound to mate with a mortal man. It was easy for them to spin that into hatred for me, hatred for humans.

Thetis: They have me mistaken. I love most humans. Some of you do some… questionable things, but then again, so do the gods.

Achilles: Everyone’s kind of messed up in their own way, aren’t we?

Patroclus: it’s what makes us unique. Even so, I thank you Thetis, for being supportive of your son and I.

Thetis: You mellow him out. You help him. How could I not support you?

*we love supportive mom Thetis here.*

[highlynerdy]

This scene made me lose my shit laughing.

"I see you're having trouble carving this very special flower for your friends funeral but don't worry, I embroidered/appliqued this extremely detailed piece of "silk" gauze in like two days instead of the weeks it should have taken, and also had access to a serger to finish the edges off like that. And don't worry this definitely didn't cost the price of a small kingdom with all the gold and silk thread either. Anyway. Here you go."

There were no designers/costumers/textile artists on set to at least hide. the. overlocked. edges?? None?

I know this is silly to 95% of you and it's just my textile artist brain being absurd. And I don't expect hand sewing or historical accuracy in cdramas. But damn, y'all could have at least tried to hide how obviously not handmade this was if you were gonna closeup zoom it. 🫠

(ETA: I have said this before, but my education was very much in western textile history and I'm only learning more about eastern textiles on my own the last few years. I do however know the value of silk and the value of textiles/labor was high EVERYWHERE.)

[name-s-are-not-important]

(Flanagan's) ✨️fatphobia in RA, heavily projected into Halt makes no sense ✨️

In the Middle Ages, not being skinny was a sign of prosperity, wealth and security. If someone's bones weren't showing or they weren't made up of only muscles, it meant they didn't have to fight to survive, they didn't know hunger or poverty and they didn't fight their way up the social ladder, they were just born into abundance.

If anyone, Halt, being of noble birth, should know this.

From the series: cultural and social idiocies in books styled to take place in the Middle Ages that annoy me. (The series is a very long one and I will share some of it here for sure because COME ON)

[lemony-snickers]

happy belated smuttiversary to me, i guess! (and apologies to the rest of you for subjecting you to my nonsense for 730+ days.) i posted my first-ever smut fic i missed you on 3/16/2021 and now here is this for some reason.

Title: Love. Honor. Duty. Summary: When your parents throw a party to welcome a potential suitor, Kakashi must walk the fine line between his honor as a samurai, his duty as your guard, and his love for you. Word Count: 7,810 Warnings: 18+ only, (eventual) NSFW, gn!reader, references to Sakumo's suicide, blood and injury, fellatio. historical/royalty/samurai au. honestly might not actually be e-rated, leaning more m, but you get the idea. no beta (or proofreading) we die like my dignity. .

A migraine throbbed behind Kakashi’s eyes as he stood guard outside your chambers.

That today would be difficult had always been a given, though Kakashi had perhaps underestimated precisely how difficult it would be.

The great house buzzed with activity, everyone zipping this way and that as they finished a slew of last-minute preparations to ensure the impending formal gathering would be perfect.  Receiving dignitaries was always stressful, but receiving them as potential suitors intent on wooing the only child of one of the most powerful Shogun in Fire Country?  Far more so.

(Read More on AO3)

[nesiacha]

I repeat one of my comments posted on Youtube

If I had my say on the way Suleiman's children were portrayed, because like a lot of people, I didn't like the way it was written in Magnificent Century, that's what I would do. ( In my eyes, Mustafa was seen as a pure white sehzade, which therefore made him in my eyes more stupid and less interesting than he actually was. Mehmed was practically erased of his personality and seen as a pure Gary Stu like his half brother. Cihangir, who I adore, yet in the series was too naive. Selim is seen as evil, etc...)

I would respect the historical point of view more. I propose an alternative version, I would have added Suleiman's children he had when he was sehzade with his other concubines before he became Sultan and met Hurrem and then had them die of the plague as it was historically.

Sehzade Mustafa - I would keep his childlike personality, except he is not close to his siblings (because of the fratricidal law), and I wouldn't put him close to Ibrahim at least until he becomes an adult and allies himself with him. I would let his mother take care exclusively of his education. A young man who craves recognition and attention from his father, who often neglects him in return over his other children due to the fact that Mahidevran is the Sultan's least beloved concubine. The more he becomes an adult, and especially a father, the more he resents his father because of the way he treats his mother and him. He does not really understand his father and therefore his fears due to the fact that he did not grow up close to him. I would keep his efficient heir personality because he performs very well despite his father never teaching him well because of his mother who is a very good advisor. Instead of doing something for his military glory or showing off his harem too much, I would focus on how he improves the lives of common people exhausted by too much conquest. I would make his guilt very ambiguous, at the start it is clear that he wants to wait for his father to die to have the throne and restore his mother's honor, however, he realizes that his father lets his vizier lead his life impossible to see even encourages him, does not hide that he preferred to have a son of Hurrem on the throne no matter what Mustafa will do. Following this, the sehzade wants to have a second plan like his grandfather in case Suleiman wants to abdicate in favor of another of his sons which would put him in danger (which could explain the Venetian correspondence, others say that it was a plan to prevent his brothers from escaping if one day he became Sultan) but hesitates to actually carry it out, then after some hesitation goes to his father's tent and gets strangled. Instead of doing Atmaca, I would focus on Mustafa's son-in-law, Nergissah's husband who started as Rustem's ally and becomes his most loyal supporter ( it seems that it is more a legend than truth, but I didn't remeber well as I didn't have on me my books of historian like Halil Inalcık) . So I would avoid making a treacherous Sehzade, his mistakes would be understandable, but he wouldn't be a pure white Sehzade.

Sehzade Mehmed: it's more complicated for him because he died without having proven himself in a complicated province like Amasya, so it's quite difficult to make a comparison with Mustafa. But I would make sure to give him a real personality: initially close to some of his brothers like Selim and Bayezid, he becomes, despite his mother, more distant towards them because of the fratricide (Mehmed II had therefore legalized it there is not much way to escape from it at the time unlike MCK) although he is very close to Cihangir and his sister. Unlike Mustafa, his father trained him in the regency of the palace and he did very well by dint of advice and practice. When he is sent to the provinces, he often listens to his mother's advice when she visits him. Knowing that he has the support of the statesmen against Mustafa he realizes knowing his father better than his half brother that he will have to play the role of the obedient sehzade not interested in politics although deep down he prepare for it. He has the happiness of being a father but dies immediately afterwards.

Mihrimah Sultan- I would make sure to respect the historical Hurrem who wants her daughter to have a marriage of love and happiness. However Suleiman prefers Rustem, and she accepts him immediately because she will do everything to save her brothers and convince her mother to accept this marriage. I would rather show her as a politician as well as her diplomatic relations. However, I would underline the unjust side of Suleiman, he had Mustafa executed and condemned Mahidevran to poverty but refuses to punish Mihrimah by banishing her because she would have helped Bayezid financially during his rebellion. Their relationship would be cold for a time before reconciling. She will be reconciled with her brother Selim because basically they only remain and will be an ally of Nurbanu.

Sehzade Abdullah- I would have included him even if he died very young.

Sehzade Selim- Initially a cultured young man very focused on charity work like his mother and sister and very sober. Nevertheless it is often sad due to the law of fratricide. When Mustafa dies, he realizes he has a chance to escape it and he will fight in a wicked way especially for his son Murad because he knows that Bayezid's temper will put him in danger besides fratricide. He knew how to recruit powerful and efficient state members. He is on the whole an obedient sehzade but who is disgusted with his father's treatment of Mahidevran (after all she is no longer a threat to him she no longer has a son) and who will take risks to her by helping her financially. As the hardships go on, his depression increases he drinks more and more especially after his sister takes the part of Bayezid, that his brother Bayezid dies, and the fact that he is obliged to make other sons in the case where Murad dies without an heir which means that he knows that his other sons will be condemned to death. He has become a broken leader although he makes sure there is effective governance.

As a Sultan he must face his father's mistakes, including the way he led the Empire, including too many wars and unnecessary conquests in Europe. ​

Sehzade Bayezid- Him complicated. Due to his explosive temper he is the black sheep of his siblings (Mustafa does not count since he is a half brother, they do not even know each other) and the most incompetent of Suleiman's sons and Suleiman is worried because he has inherited the worst faults of Selim Yavuz like being angry easily (without having had his qualities). Yet deep down he wants affection and that's why he has several children even if it's irresponsible, his mother favors him because she's afraid for him because he has too impulsive nature . Mihrimah comes to his aid only in memory of his mother, because deep down she prefers Selim, Bayezid knows this, which means that he hardly listens to her. She only helps him financially as a last resort because she couldn't convince him to call off the rebellion. Suleiman was more lenient to his mistakes that Mustafa (we could once again underline the unfair side of Suleiman again with this) until the point that he took refuge to the Shah.

Sehzade Cihangir- A cultured young man very close to his parents and very sick. I would make him a supporter of Selim because although he is close to him, he also knows that he is his only chance of survival because he is not close to Bayezid at all. He often sends information from the Palace to Selim to better aid him in managing his province and at times advises him to be more ruthless in his quest for the throne while remaining an obedient sehzade. It would therefore be a good adviser for Selim (and it would give him more personality). He cannot therefore be limited to the role of a simple supporter but also of a valuable advisor.

And that's how I would portray them if I were in the place of the screenwriters. They are all very nuanced (we avoid all white or all black), we can freely pick a favorite without trying to favor another sehzade at all costs, and I try to be consistent with what we know about them and try to explain why they did mistakes or make sucess.

[romanov-family-photos]

The 1997 Anastasia movie, while most likely being most people’s introduction to the Romanov Family and their history, was incredibly inaccurate.

Here are some of those inaccuracies

In the first opening moments, of the film we see the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna boarding the carriage to go to the ball. The footman greets her as Your Highness. In fact, the Dowager Empress addressed as Your Imperial Highness (there was a huge difference as Princess and Princesses were only entitled Your Highness.)

The Romanov Tercentennial was in fact 1913, not 1916.

In 1916, as the movie claims, Anastasia is 8. In fact, Anastasia was born in 1901, making her actually 15 at the time of the ball.

When we see Anastasia greet her grandmother at the ball, Marie Feodorovna wears a wedding ring on her left hand. In Russian Orthodoxy, the wedding band is worn on the right hand.

When the ‘evil’ Rasputin party-crashes the ball, Nicholas tells him he is a traitor. In the time Rasputin spent with the family, there was never any evidence that he betrayed them. He offered them his support, albeit for questionable reasons, but was only sent away for a short time by the Tsar under pressure from his ministers.

The raid of the Winter Palace occurred well into 1917, not 1916 as portrayed in the film. By this time, Nicholas had already abdicated (March of 1917) and they were imprisoned first at the Alexander Palace, then in the Governor’s mansion in Tobolsk, before being moved to the Ipatiev House in 1918, where they were ultimately murdered. The murder of the imperial family did not happen until two years after the ball in the film.

When Anastasia runs back to her room to retrieve her music box, we see the room to be rather “royal-looking” with a single large bed in the corner. Anastasia shared a room with her older sister Marie for all of their childhood, and their beds were in fact camp-beds; hard and not as luxurious as other royalty’s of the time.

Ten Years Later, 1926, Anya leaves the orphanage for a job at the fish market. When Anastasia reaches the fork in the road, the sign says Saint Petersburg. During the Great War, St. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd, a less German-sounding name. After communist leader Vladimir Lenin died in 1924, it became Leningrad, when it did not become Saint Petersburg again until 1991. Throughout the film this inaccuracy is repeated, most significantly in the song Rumor in Saint Petersburg. One would think even the peasants would be accustomed to a new name of their city after 10-15 years.

When Anastasia reaches the train station, the station guard wears the red cap with the Soviet crest. This crest wasn’t used in fact until the 1930s. It was only 1926.

A number of times, the peasants and Dmitri call her The Princess. In Russia, this would have been a great offense to her title, as Anastasia had always been, a Grand Duchess. The title Princess ranks significantly under Grand Duchess

Anya, is in fact a Russian nickname for Anna, not Anastasia. Anya was the name of her mother’s lady-in-waiting and close friend Anna Vyrubova. Anastasia’s nickname was Nastya, Nastia or shvibzik “imp”.

In 1926, the Catherine Palace was being used as a museum and its park area was open to the public, not quite as run down as in the film. 

It wasn’t also the Imperial Family’s home, as suggested; they preferred the comfort and privacy of the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, a little while outside the city.

When Olga, Tatiana and Marie come down to dance with their sister during the song, they all look to be around the same height. In truth, Anastasia was much shorter than her sisters. Tatiana was the tallest in the family, standing at around 5’9

The same mistake was made with Nicholas. When he and Alexandra come out of the portrait, he looks to be much taller than Alix; he, like his daughter, was actually rather short, only about 5’6, and stood around the same height as his wife.

When Bartok watches Vlad, Anastasia and Dmitri leave the ball room, he says All the Romanovs are dead. This simply wasn’t true.  In 1919, around 30 Romanovs managed to escape via various methods, including the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna.

On the boat to France, Rasputin attempts to force Anya to jump off the side of the ship. She dreams she sees her father, sisters and brother playing in water. Nicholas calls her “Sunshine”, which was actually the nickname of her little brother, Alexei.

In this same dream, Alexei jumps from the top of the cliff down into the water. It was well-known that Alexei had a severe type 2 case of hemophilia, and there was no way Nicholas nor any of the sisters would have allowed him to make such a dangerous leap.

When the gang are journeying to Paris, they hope to meet the Dowager Empress. In 1926, Marie was actually living in Denmark, after the death of her beloved sister, Queen Alexandra of England the year before.

When Anastasia meets Sophie, she is asked how she likes her tea. Anastasia tells her she doesn’t like tea. But there have been many anecdotes of the real Anastasia drinking tea in the mornings and afternoons with her sisters and parents. (This of course may have changed as she aged).

When Dimitri refers to Anya and the Dowager Empress as ‘your grace’ this title is also incorrect. “Your Grace” was commonly used only amongst non-royal dukes and duchesses, and archbishops of the United kingdom.

When Vladimir announces ‘we have found the heir to the Russian throne’, this is completely innacurate. Even as the closest surviving member to the last Tsar, Anastasia would, sadly, have no right to the throne. There were around 30 dynastic members of the family surviving in 1926, and many available males. In Imperial Russia, the line of succession was strictly male-primogeniture; the eldest son would inherit the throne. In 1926, by law, this male would be the Grand Duke Cyril Vladimirovich.

The Dowager Empress could not have possibly had the means to offer a 10 million ruble reward for the return of her granddaughter. The Romanov fortune had all but disappeared and she largely relied on the charity of the English and Danish Royal Family.

The biggest inaccuracy, however, was that Anastasia survived. She, along with the rest of her family, were murdered by the Bolsheviks in 1918

[fraieiles]

probablt the stupidest thing i’ve ever madde

[dougielombax]

So.

I’m not Jewish. As you know. (I was raised Catholic if you’re curious. But that’s not strictly relevant to this post)

But, speaking as someone who has a degree in history and who has read up a LOT about the Holocaust (and the Armenian Genocide).

I can’t help but find The Boy in the Striped Pajamas to be a shameful piece of work.

(I like how the kid refers to Hitler as The Fury but that’s it)

Now I have no issue with writing fiction about a genocide. None at all. The Forty Days of Musa Dagh by Franz Werfel springs to mind as well as Maus, among others.

That is not the issue here.

Rather it comes from other aspects of the work.

(WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE AUTHOR WROTE A SEQUEL????????!!!!!!!!!)

For one, there are quite a few historical inaccuracies. Normally I can look past such things in fiction, but NOT when it comes to subjects like genocide or persecution.

Doing this risks spreading disinformation, misconceptions or LIES!

As well as a false equivalency between the victims and perpetrators of genocide.

It fuels the disgusting myth that the German people were completely in the dark about the Nazi persecution of Jews (and others like Romani people), they weren’t.

Sure they didn’t have all the facts but they knew for DAMN aside that Jews were being sent away and killed somewhere.

In turn this feeds the myth of the German people bearing little to no responsibility for the genocide and that they were brainwashed.

Endearing sympathy to them in turn. Which isn’t a good idea in my mind. Oh no. This leads to absolving them of any blame.

While there was propaganda and indoctrination the fact remains that many people were more than willing to be complicit in such atrocities. (No I wouldn’t, get off your high horse!)

These myths and misconceptions have become QUITE widespread and have done immense harm to Holocaust education and perhaps even to genocide studies as a whole.

And one can’t forget how the book tries to make one feel sympathy for Nazi SS officers and prison guards. BAD idea!

And no I’m not calling for anyone to harass the author of the book. That’ll only lead to trouble.

I just felt like I had to say this much.

Again I’m no expert.

I’m just working with what I know.

I’ll leave a few articles below sharing my sentiments, they might articulate my points better.

Feel free to reblog.

[lothiriel84]

For Richer, for Poorer

AU. Yet one more variation on the 'Margaret has no living relation who might take care of her after her father's death' scenario.

A North and South ficlet. John/Margaret.

Margaret was distantly aware of being spoken to – very softly and kindly, as one would with a child – yet she could not seem to make sense of the words addressed to her.  

Above all, she felt so very tired; worn in body and mind alike, as if aged well beyond her years in the space of a fortnight. She was all alone in the world now; all her relations, everyone she had ever cared for, they were with their Maker now.  

“It was Edith’s dearest wish, always,” Henry Lennox pleaded earnestly, clasping her trembling hand between his own. “And the solemn commitment I gave to your aunt as she lay on her deathbed.” 

Margaret shivered, as if Death itself had just walked past her, and swiftly snatched her hand away from Henry’s grasp.  

“No,” she heard herself speak in faltering tones, which sounded nothing like her own. “I know you mean well, Henry, but I – cannot.” 

“Margaret, my dear,” Mr Bell intervened, his voice and manners laced with heartfelt commiseration for her plight. “I won’t pretend to even remotely understand the magnitude of your loss. However, we must think of securing your future – Mr Lennox here is acting with your best interests in mind, and as your legal guardian it is my duty to strongly advise you in favour of accepting his application.” 

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss,” came Dixon’s familiar timbres, like a lifeline to reel Margaret out of troubled waters. “There’s Mr and Mrs Thornton come to see you – I told them now was not a good time, but they insisted I took the message to you.” 

“Show them in, Dixon,” she replied with sudden animation, braving the disapproval of both gentlemen at having their plans for her immediate future thus disrupted, and by a mere tradesman no less. “You see, Mr Bell, there is no need for me to marry Henry – I have friends here in Milton, they will assist me in finding a suitable situation.” 

“You would consider seeking employment rather than consenting to be my wife?” Henry seethed with indignation. “I cannot, I will not allow you to dishonour the memory of your aunt and cousin in so careless a manner.” 

“There shall be no need for Miss Hale to seek employment of any kind,” Mrs Thornton stated with a touch of asperity as she preceded her son into the room, her chin raised in that imperious manner Margaret was well enough acquainted with by now. “I gave my word to Mrs Hale that I would care for her daughter as if she were my own, and I intend to honour that promise.” 

In the general bewilderment that followed, Margaret was only aware of an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude. The ghost of a smile, pale and quivering, touched her lips and then was gone, unnoticed by all save Mr Thornton – his eyes meeting hers for just a moment, before they each averted their gaze.  

“Very well,” Mr Bell conceded at length, albeit reluctantly. “If that is what Margaret wishes, she shall have her way – for now, at least.” 

Henry bowed very formally, then quit the room without so much as a farewell. Margaret leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to be fully consumed by her grief once more.  

.

“Does it ever get better?” The question slipped out without any conscious decision on her part; had there been any room left within herself for anything but her sorrow, she would have wished the words back the moment they left her lips.  

Mrs Thornton sighed, and put her embroidery work to one side. “In some ways, it does. Employment is the best medicine in such cases as these, Miss Hale. Besides, I had John and Fanny to think of – grieving is a luxury a mother can seldom afford, and the circumstances of my husband’s passing made it even more imperative for me to work hard every moment of the day to provide for them.” 

“Your son and daughter do you credit, Mrs Thornton,” Margaret murmured with quiet conviction, fingers poised on her needlework; she knew she was doing a very poor job of it, her hands made clumsy by her fatigued mind and soul. “My mother, she also had a son, Frederick – he put himself in danger for her sake, and it was all my fault for encouraging it. He is lost to me now, and I have no reason – oh, if poor Papa could hear me now, he would scarcely know me for his daughter.” 

“There is always a reason,” Mrs Thornton corrected her, her faith immovable as mountains. “I know of your interest for the poor in Princeton – perhaps that is your calling in life, after all. And perhaps in time you might find a good man more suited to you; someone you might wish to marry, and bear his children besides.” 

A now familiar feeling of regret stirred in Margaret’s chest, buried deep amid her many grievances. “You are kind; children are a blessing, to be sure, yet one I will never know for myself. I have long made my peace with that,” she added, sensing that Mrs Thornton was about to argue the point.  

“Have faith, Miss Hale,” Mrs Thornton admonished her instead, picking up her work once more. “It is not for us to question God’s plans on us.” 

.

“Is it so very bad?” she dared to ask of Mr Thornton, once his mother and sister had announced their intention of retiring for the night. Mrs Thornton had looked as if she was about to protest the impropriety of Margaret lingering behind with her son without anyone to play chaperone, but in the end, she had merely shaken her head and wished them both a good night. 

“I’m afraid it is, Miss Hale,” Mr Thornton acknowledged with something akin to resignation. “Nothing short of a miracle could save the mill now. You need not worry for your future – I will see to it that you are taken care of, and Mr Bell will of course be happy to assist me in such an endeavour.” 

Margaret hesitated, wary of revealing the full extent of her prior indiscretion. In the end, her concern for his wellbeing won out over her natural reserve, and she pressed on regardless of how this might sink her even further in his opinion. “Mr Thornton, I beg you to understand it was never my intention to listen in on a private conversation between your mother and yourself; but if there truly is anything that could be done to prevent the shutting of the mill, I urge you to consider it.” 

Mr Thornton went perfectly still, the lines on his face hardening in one of his stern frowns. “Miss Hale, perhaps you are not aware of the exact terms of Mr Latimer’s business proposition; you have once accused me of thinking only in terms of buying and selling, but in truth, both my conscience and my honour prevent me from offering marriage to a young lady of good family for material considerations alone.” 

“Oh,” was all the response Margaret was capable of summoning. Somehow, in all the months she had spent as a guest in his home, it had not occurred to her that he would likely soon marry, as was only natural for a man of his age and position in life. “Miss Latimer is – quite accomplished, from what I have heard. She would make a very good wife, I think – better than most, I dare say.” 

“I am sure of that,” Mr Thornton conceded with a small, self-deprecating half-smile. “Just as I am sure you, Miss Hale, will understand my repugnance towards entering a marriage without the smallest hint affection on my part.” 

Margaret’s face fell, and she struggled to hold back her tears. “I am sorry,” she breathed at length, wishing she could open her heart to him, as he had once done with her. She knew she could not have accepted him back then, just as he would never again offer for her now that his affections were but a thing of the past; it still seemed cruel that those tender feelings had all been for nothing, and that they were destined to love past each other right from the beginning.  

“Do not be,” he told her, his voice and manner as kindly as he always was with her. “It is for the best. I count myself fortunate that I have no wife who is to suffer from my personal failures. I will see that Mother and Fanny are taken care of, of course – Mr Watson might offer for her yet, and if she was willing to have him before, I can see no objection to her marrying to secure her own future now.” 

“You are a good man, Mr Thornton,” Margaret smiled, somewhat wistfully, tucking her feelings away where they would not risk offending him. “I trust you will get your just reward someday.” 

.

Miss Thornton’s wedding was a much more subdued affair than the bride herself would have preferred it to be; still, she looked more radiant than ever in the bridal gown Mr Thornton had had made especially for the occasion, and perfectly happy in her choice of a husband.  

In all the whirlwind of preparations, Margaret’s mind had often drifted to Edith’s wedding, and it was with a heavy heart she now accepted Mr Thornton’s arm as they prepared to leave the church. In three days’ time, Mr Bell would come to collect her; she would leave Milton for good, never to be back again. 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Hale,” Mr Thornton excused himself, as if overcome with some strong emotion. “My mother will be glad to see you home, I am sure.” 

“Of course,” she nodded, head bowed in something akin to despair. If only she had not been seen out with Fred that evening – but no, she could not blame the loss of his regard on that incident alone; the harsh manner of her rejection surely had seen to it, and besides, she did not have a penny to her name that might aid him in his current circumstances.  

“Thank God Fanny is taken care of,” she heard him whisper to himself, even as she tore herself from his side. 

.

“An express came for you from London this morning, Miss Hale,” Mrs Thornton informed her once the wedding breakfast was over, and the new Mrs Watson finally packed into the carriage that would take her and her husband to their wedding trip. “It is from Mr Lennox.” 

“Henry can have nothing to say to me which has not been said already,” Margaret stated mutinously, and made no move to open the letter. “I could not accept him before, and I most certainly will not accept him now.” 

“Surely you must see that your chances of happiness with him would be as fair as with any other man,” Mr Thornton pointed out, as calm and collected as he ever was. “And his prospects are good, you said so yourself.” 

“What are his prospects to me?” Margaret snapped, pushed at last past the limit of her endurance. “If you think material considerations would sway my decision on such matters, then you do not know me at all, Mr Thornton.” 

“I do beg your pardon,” he seemed to deflate all at once, his hand coming to rub tiredly across his face. “It has been a tiresome day, and there is still more paperwork that needs to be seen to before Mr Bell comes to inspect his properties.” 

“Miss Hale has been a great help with the household ledgers, John,” Mrs Thornton cut in, much to everyone's amazement. “She’s very sharp with numbers, I will give her that – perhaps she might be willing to assist you, if it is not too much trouble?” 

“Of course,” Margaret agreed, almost despite herself. “If Mr Thornton does not mind my meddling in his personal business, that is?” 

“It will not be my business for much longer,” Mr Thornton replied slowly, his brow furrowed in no small confusion. His mother bore his piercing gaze with remarkable composure, and in the end, he gave a half-hearted shrug and turned towards Margaret. “Come, Miss Hale – Mr Bell will be pleased to know his goddaughter takes his financial matters much to her heart.” 

.

“We cannot marry,” Mr Thornton murmured despite everything, but Margaret would have none of it. After yet another lengthy period of silence, he spoke again. “I will not condemn you to heaven knows how many years of miserable poverty, Miss Hale; nor would Mr Bell consent to it, were I so foolish as to form such a reckless scheme upon your future.” 

“As of last week, I am of age,” Margaret protested, her hand still tucked safely in his. “Mr Bell has no say in anything I do, and Dixon might testify to it that I am not afraid of hard work.” 

“You know not what you speak of, Miss Hale –” 

“Margaret,” she corrected him, sweetly, and more delicious silence followed between them. “I will never consent to be parted from you again, John.” 

“Margaret,” he repeated after a time, his smile so sudden and so bright as to light the entire room. “My Margaret.” 

.

“Well,” Mr Bell shook his head somewhat perplexedly, looking at his goddaughter as if he were seeing her for the first time. “If your heart is set irrevocably on Mr Thornton, my dear, there is very little I can do to prevent this marriage from going ahead. However, I wish to make sure you understand the consequences of your wedding a failed manufacturer who might one day find himself unable to provide for you and your children.” 

“Mr Bell, let me assure you there is nothing I would not do to see to the comfort of my family,” Mr Thornton began with considerable hostility, relenting only when his betrothed stepped forward to rest a placating hand upon his shoulder.  

“I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, Godfather,” Margaret addressed him with perfect serenity. “I will have you know I trust Mr Thornton completely, and I am prepared to seek employment for myself, should the need arise.” 

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Mr Thornton cut in, in a manner much reminiscent of his mother’s. “Already I have been offered a good position at Hamper’s; it will provide us with more than enough to live on, and keep my mother in the comfort owed to her age besides.” 

“Very well,” Mr Bell sighed. “Now, Mr Thornton, would you be so kind as to offer the use of your personal study – there’s a wedding settlement to discuss, and I would have the details of it set down at once so that I may send all the papers to my lawyer first thing in the morning.” 

Margaret frowned in no little confusion at so extraordinary a pronouncement. “Surely there is no need for a wedding settlement when all I have to my name fits neatly into the trunk I keep in my room?” 

“You would think so, would you not, Margaret dear?” Mr Bell smiled genially, signalling for a somewhat baffled Mr Thornton to lead the way upstairs. 

[ungodlysai]

Patroclus: The man I love was prophesied to die after killing his rival…

Younger Patroclus: Who was his rival?

Patroclus: The man who killed me.