#i love that dress a lot i even considered it for vittoria - but when i saw cherry in it i was glad i went for another lol

[notjustabooksims]

Cherry Kingston

Lila was kind enough to send Cherry over for the wedding. I’m sure she’ll get along swimmingly with Echo.

By @thesimperiuscurse

Previous | Next

[auroras-blend]

I'm curious about the easter eggs in these recent chapters 👀

*rubs hands together like an evil little fly* I’ve been waiting for this & have been keeping notes 😂 

Chapter 15 (You Should’ve Just Listened)

Leo remembers Silvio forcing him to eat the food he messed up until the point of vomiting…well Marilyn will remember vomiting after she messed up her math.

In another history repeating itself scenario, Leo flung Snowbell outside and considers himself quite generous given Silvio flung Antonina’s cat down a well.

Leo really doesn’t want to be Silvio as a father, but…he’s too damaged to see that he is.

Chapter 18 (Buon Natale)-

Marilyn remembers the song Hard Times Come Again No More, that Patience’s mom sang to her and would sing to herself when she needed comfort. She overheard Patience sing it to herself because Patience never thought to sing it to her own daughter.

Leo made a jab at Patience and “mistakingly” said, “I’m sure she’s looking up at us,” implying she’s in hell.

Like Patience’s first Christmas at the mansion, Sawyer is also there to ruin Marilyn’s mood.

Petty Patience still exists in her daughter who released the ants into Sawyer’s coat.

Chapter 19 (Operation Be My Valentine)-

I love the Disney movie references (if you can't tell) so Pinocchio gets a brief mention between Leo & Marilyn

Referenced the time Leo arrived in Italy & his upcoming 40th birthday 😓

Silvio and Vittoria are brought up, even though their names aren't said.

Chapter 20 (Boys are the Worst)-

Leo referred to the dress with the diamond bodice and 12 ft. train he was making Patience when he was describing their “wedding” to Vittoria.

Did you see all of the Andrea references? Yeah, that hurt me to write 😢.

Legit took this joke from an ask that you received. I couldn’t help it, because it was so funny 😂. I changed a couple of lines around though.

Vittoria followed in Leo’s footsteps and went for the ankles to keep Emilio from getting away.

Aww, look at little Marilyn swear like a sailor and make her Mama proud by wounding mens’ pride. So proud of her!

Chapter 21 (Girl Time)-

Her name via Leo is revealed as Vittoria Maria Charlotte Antonina Borghese. He named her after his mom and Antonina who has died by this point 😢

Last time (at least for now) she’ll be referred to as Marilyn

Nixon expunged Leo’s crimes, which will allow him to apply for citizenship. Since the story is told from Marilyn’s POV, she won’t know exactly what happened and it won’t be stated explicitly to her.

Chapter 23 (There Goes My Innocence)-

"I know I'm named after Mama's mommy." Oh, honey, you're named after your father's too. Her family has a mommy fixation.

Family photo of her, Patience, Leo, & Principessa Snowbell. Someone's obviously missing 😢 But she drew the opera house scene with her parents in front of it.

About the last line, ooooof! She's got the Winslow luck. It's laughably bad.

Chapter 25 (When Will it Stop Hurting?)-

“Well, I think it’d be easier to get to the moon,” Mrs. Palmer corrected. This flashback takes place in 1967-1968, a few years prior to the moon landing.

And there's Marilyn's homophobia, courtesy of Patience.

Chapter 26 (The Funeral)-

“Angel, you wound me. And I’m sure your father wouldn’t like to hear that,” he [Costa] tutted. Costa refers to her as Angel, a reference to her father being the Angel Don.

Leo going into overprotective dad mode and demonstrating his vicious streak in his heart-to-heart with Marilyn.

The little Patience in her is ready to shoot Costa. Her Mama would be proud.

Leo’s gained some weight. It’s not an easter egg but I think it’s funny 😂 

Like Sal, Nicolletta's parent's have fun sniffing "flour"

Her fear of communists & Russians is courtesy of Patience

Chapter 27 (Playdate)-

Awww, little Marilyn found one of her Papa's torture devices and used it as a jump rope. How cute!

Marilyn says, “Put on your smile, Papa,” which is a direct callback to what Leo said to her in Chapter 20 (Boys are the Worst), “Put on your smile,” he instructed. This time, she was the one who was looking forward to the playdate.

Leo gets to suffer the long-winded conversations with the talkative Sig. Mazzeo, the high-pitched squealing of little girls and nursery rhymes playing on repeat. Again, not an easter egg by I think it’s funny 😂 

I've never known anyone who's been in jail before! 😂 😂 Oh, Marilyn, he's in the next room.

Sig. Mazzeo is mentioned to have known Silvio & worked with him.

My favorite reference: Little sleuth Marilyn Flora Winslow sneaks into her father's office to make a call & gets caught. This is supposed to pay homage to Patience's sleuthing skills and when Patience called Michael in Ragnatela but got caught.

Marilyn looks through her father's address book to find Charles Sawyer's name (she looks under 'C' for Charles) and finds names like Bianconi and Cardinale, two of the four dons from Ragnatela. Their numbers aren't quite useful anymore 😬

Chapter 28 (Trust)-

Leo spills the tea about his mom & his trauma regarding asylums shines through

Leo kept her ornament and hangs it in his office 🥺

Leo left her because he’s waking up early to work out, because of Sig. Mazzeo’s comment about his weight really got to him.

Chapter 29 (Art Date)-

This chapter marks the first time Silvio’s name is dropped into the story

Silvio’s appearance and likeness to Leonardo is mentioned, as well as his work as a tailor

Leo mentions that he studied photography and sculpture, and there are several points where you can see his studies paid off. Yes, he also mentions he was good in “all areas” at school 🙄 

“Did you make the statues in our garden?” she asked is a direct reference to what Patience asked him when she was there in his mansion in Chapter 36 of Ragnatela. Leo notices it and is unsettled by it.

Patience burned him beyond the grave by saying artists are poor and useless.

Garland City is name-dropped as the place they’ll be moving back to. She confuses it with the Emerald City/Wizard of Oz Reference.

Another callback to chapter 36 with their “art date” taking place in the rock gardens, which was Patience’s favorite place in the mansion.

Short Patience reference

I wanted to contrast the appearance of the mansion from when Patience first went there and it looked like a model home to what it is now with Marilyn living there. It’s a lot more “homey” and it’s evident that people live there with the personal touches.

Thank you for this ask and sorry it’s so extra! 

[agent-cupcake]

Beastie and the Bard

Fire Emblem Three Houses - Dimitri x Reader (Chapter 3)

A symphony has four parts so does this, but it’s split because I’m lazy and didn’t anticipate the minuet to give me so much grief. Sorry for the wait, life is a lot all the time all at once, you know? 

Symphony Vittoria Opus 3, No. 1 I. Allegro A whooping shout echoed across the canyon, catching like fire upon a pile of dry leaves as the joyous sound spread across the triumphant troops. The bandit chef had fallen to Professor Byleth’s blade. The Blue Lions had won the battle of Zanado.

You felt dizzy, mentally dampened, and a bit confused at first.

“We won?” you asked nobody in particular, voice raised above the din of a few dozen voices talking at once. The man closest to you was smiling, nodding, speaking. You were slow in catching up, but you managed to make out his answer after a moment of focusing. Won, you had won. And then your ears were filled with the deafening sound of relentless noise and rushing blood, a roar of excitement that grew from within your own self.

You had won!

It didn’t happen in a steady turn, but in a sudden, jolting twist as all your focus and combat oriented energy changed to a joy for victory. It made you giddy, practically drunk on jubilance as the tension left your frame. Your head spun with a tipsy sensation of dizziness, a disconnect between mind and body. Some of it must have been the fatigue casting a haze over your mind as you emerged from the focused state of fighting. Past the overwhelming joy, you were aware that exhaustion had crawled deep into your muscles in a way it hadn’t during the practice battle, or even through your vigorous training exercises. It left your limbs in a loose and rubbery state, but not yet burdened with the aching pain you’d undoubtably face later. It made every sensation you experienced spark with particular interest to your racing thoughts, voices made that much louder and the blow of a cool breeze through your sweaty hair that much cooler.

It was similar to the high you felt after managing a difficult piece of music or finally pulling off a tricky sword technique, a swell of pleasant and overwhelming joy. A feeling too big to be contained within your limited body. A wild giddiness.

Oddly, the sun had barely descended past its watchful position straight above. It seemed impossible that hours hadn’t passed since you set out upon the canyon considering all that had happened. Then again, your mind recalled the entire battle as nothing more than a blur, a flurry of sword strikes and shouted commands slipping by in a matter of minutes.

There had been the cold and prickling anticipation as Professor Byleth performed his final inspection and gave orders, a shuddering dread as you lined up against the bandits with weapons that had never tasted blood, the fluttering anticipation when the charge was called, and then a surge of energy, strength filling your body as all you had learned in training took over and you fought your first battle with everything you could.

And now, victory.

You didn’t think about what to do next, sheathing your sword and beginning to move contrary to the tide of men. Towards the front line, searching the dissipating crowd for familiar faces. Or, really, just the one familiar face. Your expression split into a bright smile when you saw him, heedless of the exhaustion. Dimitri’s blond hair was messier than you’d ever seen it, even while training. It caught every drop of sunlight, shining gold even when sticking to his head with sweat, several bits swept away at chaotic angles. There was blood on his armor, his cheeks were spotted with a red flush from exertion, and his expression was a bit worn. But, most importantly, he was unharmed.

Right then, in your half mad mindstate, you felt a blind rush of affection. Excitement. Victory. Skipping on feet that felt lighter than air, you rushed past the few scattering ranks of your small force. Dimitri saw you, opening his mouth to say something, but you cut him off by throwing your arms around his shoulders, tilting onto the tips of your toes. Luckily, he was used to moving with a spearman’s firm stance, which was the only thing that stopped both of you from toppling to the ground. The recklessness of the action hardly registered. Impulsive and excited and bubbly with the vigor of life itself, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. It happened so quickly that the sensations barely registered; a whiff of the musky masculine scent of his sweat, the smooth warmth of his cheek against your lips, your hand brushing the back of his hair when your arms met around his neck; and then you were dancing away, smiling with a mouth on the cusp of releasing a bout of delighted laughter.

“We did it!” you said, uncaring of the childish sound of your victorious words. The fact that you had fought and won was more than the victory of battle, serving as solid proof that you were meant to be among the knights and students, that you were right in choosing your own fate. It meant that your father had been wrong. It meant you were supposed to be here. At Dimitri’s side, maybe. “I can hardly believe it. I was so nervous at first, but we did it! I did it!”

“That you did,” Dimitri said in a slightly stiff voice, a measured contradiction to your manic excitement. He had pressed his hand to his cheek, right over where you had kissed him. Was that displeasure you read in his widened eyes, or disgust? Maybe surprise, being attacked was an awfully good reason to lose composure. And more, was his face that red before, or had the color darkened his fair complection further? His hand dropped, being used in a casual gesture towards you. “And with energy to spare, I see,” Dimitri teased. Although he still seemed a little flustered, his blue eyes twinkled with laughter.

You giggled in response, a giddy and nervous sound. The situation was beginning to sink in. Firstly, it probably broke a dozen different rules of etiquette to have thrown yourself at him, and that was before you factored in the unspoken rules of friendship and boundaries his status afforded him. Not to mention the battlefield you stood upon, or the uncomfortable weight of the gazes of the remaining soldiers who lingered, or the fact that Professor Byleth stood nearby speaking to a knight, or that not even a dozen feet away laid the unceremoniously fallen corpses of the bandit chief and his main guard in puddles of drying blood-

No. You forced yourself not to look at them, unwilling to consider the dead in conjunction with the way you felt now. Instead you focused on Dimitri and the thread of enthusiasm that had brought you to him, refusing to allow embarrassment or doubt to make you fold now that you had already committed.

“I’m just so happy that we won!” you said as way of justification. “I never thought that I’d be able to do something like this… And I wouldn’t have been able to do it without your help so I wanted to thank you because if it hadn’t been for all that training I think I totally would have choked, but because of you I didn’t, so...” You let the thought drop there, your disorganized words rushed together just as badly as your thoughts. And then, what else was there to say? The jittery excitement was still thudding in your heart and making your hands shake. You wanted to apologize, but you also didn’t feel sorry, so you chose instead to settle for the middle ground. “Anyway, I… I should probably go back and help.” You gestured vaguely behind yourself, smiling like a fool for all that you should have at least tried to feel shame. “Um, see you, Dimitri! And you, Professor!” you called with a jaunty wave before turning on your heel. If eyes followed you, or if either responded, you didn’t know, and you were far too shy to check as you hurried up the steps to the top of the canyon where  the horses and knights were all congregated.

Embarrassment was easy in coming, but found little traction in the thrill that filled you as well. Victory was exciting in a way no song had ever properly described. Maybe more than any song could. And then there was the way your body buzzed, the warmth tickling your lips, and the way your heart pounded when you thought of how bold you’d been.

Victory truly was sweet.

Symphony Vittoria Opus 3, No. 2 II. Adagio

Victory, as it turned out, could hurt.

When Lord Lonato fell, it was with an awful, hollow stillness that came in the stead of fanfare or glory. This did not feel like victory, or at least any sort of victory you could be pleased with. Ashe waved away any of your attempts to console or help him, returning to the town alone to find his brother and sister. Even though you desperately yearned to, you didn’t dare follow him alone, knowing that you would be rejected as the enemy.

In the eyes of the townspeople, you were the enemy.

So you watched Ashe go, heart heavy and aching. It wasn’t Ashe’s rejection that stung, not exactly. What hurt the most was the knowledge that you, right then, were useless to him. Nothing you did or said would be able to help him, your words would fall on ears made deaf as they strained to hear the voices of the dead. Nothing you could do would ease his pain or set his world back to rights.

Just like your mother. You could picture her clearly right then, standing in a beautiful black dress above your father��s grave. Weeping because of her true, singular love for the man and the gaping emptiness in her heart that would never be filled without him. Like Ashe, your mother hadn’t wanted your help. To her, you had been nothing more than a reminder of what she could have had, what she was going to have before he died. That day, you lost your mother, too.

Would Ashe be the same as she had been? Would you be a symbol forever reminding him of the death of the man who raised and cared for him? Would he stay in a state of frigid misery, bound by the lingering hold of the dead and unable to move forward? You had only known him for a few months, yet the idea made your eyes hot and teary, a terrible feeling clenching in your chest.

No. You would figure out a way to prevent that from happening, you would not fail again.

Or so you swore to yourself, right then.

Turning away from the empty forrest road and that tremulous silent promise, you set out to find Dimitri. You didn’t know why. Certainly not to ambush him with a hug and kiss on the cheek as you had at the end of the last battle, or anything resembling any sort of excitement. For comfort, maybe. Maybe to ask for advice about Ashe. Then again, you weren’t sure you really wanted to supply a reason for desiring his company. More and more you’d begun seeking it out unprompted. You were friends, and that was definitely sacred and worth pursing. He shouldn’t have been special beyond that, but he was. And you didn’t like to think of exactly why that was, so you didn’t.

The knights were all packing up to make the return trip to the monastery, not losing a second of daylight in their meticulous routine. It struck you as horrifically callous. The church with all their men and might will come to kill your fathers and brothers and then leave within the hour, leaving naught a trace behind. But that was foolish, a childish fancy given teeth as you tried to reconcile what had happened with what you wished would have happened. It was kinder and more pragmatic to leave as quickly as possible and allow the people to grieve in private.

That was the reality.

You were better off with the indignant stance that Lord Lanato was the one at fault for the deaths. His own foolishness was at the cost of the men you had killed. But in the same breath of that scorn could you smell the blood, feel it flaking off of your hands like flakes of rust.

No.

You didn’t want to think about that, you couldn’t let yourself. A knight didn’t weep for those they killed if it was necessary. Those words were a lesson from your sword teacher in Fhirdiad, a knight who had retired after partaking in one too many of the ugly skirmishes that had popped up in the wake of King Lambert’s death. His eyes were haunted when he told you that it was important to know when to care, and when not to.

Another thought that was best left alone.

So you focused on your search efforts. Unfortunately, while dodging through the collected chaos you realized that Magdred Way’s tree lined paths weren’t great for visibility, even without that supernatural fog. Not only was your heart heavy with thoughts you cared little to entertain and you couldn’t find Dimitri, but everybody looked so sad as well. Your friends who should have been proud of themselves for achieving victory without any casualties were wearing grave masks and curled postures with slumped shoulders, the knights grim faced and terse. Professor Byleth was the only one seemingly unaffected by it all, pointing you in the right direction to find Dimitri without expression or comment, trailed by an especially and uncharacteristically severe-looking Catherine.  

Probably, you should have been concerned by that sight alone. But you weren’t, not really, because once you knew where to look Dimitri was easy to spot. He was tucked in the shadow at the edge of the trees, sitting on the convenient seat of a rock with his head bowed and hands folded in something like reverence. The cheerless image brought you up short, the words you had intended to use to call to him dying on your lips.

Pain clung to him, weighed him down with something more than than the cheap sorrow you’d been fighting off. You could easily recognize the way it crowned his head in invisible lead and sank deep and heavy into his bones. It was, after all, a familiar sight.

Holding completely motionless a yard or so away from him, you briefly considered turning around and leaving Dimitri be. People who looked like that had never fared well with your intervention. But you couldn’t. He just looked too sad and lonely. So you approached him with soft steps, feeling the hesitancy of regret before you even spoke.

“Dimitri?” you asked softly, uncertain. “Are you all right?”

He tensed up at hearing your voice, his posture straightening out with a snap as if to cover for the momentary weakness. Red rimmed his eyes, although you thought it was more of an effect of fatigue than tears. It complimented the bluish shadows beneath.

“Yes, of course. I was just resting a moment,” he told you, his expression and voice carefully controlled. “Did you need something?”

Any person in the world would be able to tell that he was feigning indifference. Pain was stretched thin in the forcibly casual tone of his voice like pottery held too tightly, seconds away from cracking. It hurt, strangely, that he would put on an act around you, but you didn’t dare think too hard about that sharp stab of pain or why you’d feel it. More than anything, you were worried, your heart set aching anew as you realized that his sorrow far overcame your own.

“No, I don’t. You looked...” Despairing. Agonizing. Like the weight of the world was crushing you and I don’t understand why. “Upset,” you said lamely. An underlying awkwardness edged your voice, created by your influx of emotions you suddenly had no idea what to do with. “I can… I can go if you want to be alone.”

“It’s not that-” Dimitri began with more false pretense, only to cut off whatever else he was going to add and let out a heavy breath, rubbing a hand over his face and allowing his posture to relax. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I wanted a moment to collect my thoughts.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you asked.

“No,” he said firmly. Then, a moment later in a softer tone, “I don’t know.”

“This battle was… It was hard,” you said, an understatement if there ever was one, but Dimitri seemed to understand all the same.

“It was, and I know that what we did was necessary, but... I can’t help but wish that we could have handled that differently, that there was a different way to settle things without such violent measures.” His voice lowered even further, head bowing. “But if it wasn’t necessary, then what we did...”

Dimitri allowed the silence to speak for him.

“I think I understand,” you said, although you weren’t quite sure if you did. A part of your mind rebelled at the idea that violence wasn’t a way resolve conflict, although another wondered what such peace would look like. “But… We just have to keep going, don’t we? Maybe there’s another way, but this… We can’t let it define us, we just have to keep going forward and try to do better in the future, right?”

“Don’t you find it wrong?” Dimitri asked, his question given passion and intensity as he suddenly stood. The louder voice as well as the dramatic physical shift pulled you up entirely short, sending you a step back. “Does it not bother you to indiscriminately take the lives of those opposing us without even questioning if we could achieve the same goals without death?” All of the dispassionate pain you had seen before was gone, lit to a blaze in the soft blue of his eyes.

“I… I hadn’t thought very much about it,” you answered. The words came honestly in the face of being so startled, along with the pang of guilt that hit you from the accusatory nature of the question. “If it’s asked of me and my loyalty… No-” You hesitated, trying to think of a better way to phrase your thoughts, a prettier way. “If something I’m doing is protecting the lives of those I care for, I… I believe that it’s right,” you told him carefully. But, beneath the searching weight of his gaze, you wondered if that was only something to say. Like a poem or song. In truth, you hadn’t given the nature of battle or what you did to your enemies any sort of deeper thought. You didn’t want to. A hero couldn’t be a killer, even if they killed. And wasn’t it the same for you? For him? You had to believe that.

“What if the enemy believes the same?” Dimitri pushed urgently. “If all they’re doing is defending the people they care for in a conflict they have no say in?”

That gave you further pause, your eyebrows furrowing and chapped bottom lip retreating between your teeth as you tried to find an answer. You saw his argument, felt it just as clearly in the conflicted pain in his eyes. Doubt was poisoning him. Comprehension was sharp in that moment, an understanding of something you had been missing in the months you had known him. Dimitri’s capacity to care, something you admired so much, was a double edged sword. Great strength and great vulnerability. Of course it was. You’d seen it before, the agony of caring just a bit too much.

“I’d be glad,” you finally responded, slightly indignant in your desire to stand against his questioning. “If I died because of something I believed in, I would not regret it. I hope that anyone I fight feels the same.”

“And the ones they leave behind?” Dimitri asked, his voice softer, the rigidity of anger gone from this question. You met his eyes. Pure, perfectly pigmented powder blue. The color of reliability and honor, but also the color of melancholy and cold. Now they were needful. Looking for an answer you didn’t have, that probably didn’t exist. “What of them?”

You had heard that question before.

Any and all desire to argue against him bled out of you, leaving the overwhelming swell of post-battle exhaustion and anguish to hit you in full force, so stark it was nearly physical. “I don’t know,” you answered, your voice even softer than his own.

Dimitri’s eyes closed as he turned away, dissatisfied with your answer. “There really is no answer, is there?”

“Maybe there is,” you said, a weak attempt at hopeful optimism against his stormy despair. Dimitri didn’t disagree, but he didn’t have to do anything other than allow the words to deflate and disintegrate in the relative silence of your little bubble on the edge of the trees. And with them, an argument you couldn’t help but feel you had lost terribly.  

“We should return to the others. Professor Byleth will want to speak to us all when we return, disturbing news had been discovered.” Dimitri said, his eyes opening and posture straightening out. The voice he used now was firm, but empty. Closed off once more. He did not wait for an answer before brushing past you, or look to ensure you were following.

“Right,” you agreed reluctantly, uselessly, following him on wooden legs.

[bellatrixmalfoy]

Phoebus managed to disappear in the time it took Bellatrix to kiss Vittoria goodbye and see her off. The boy inherited his father’s patience, much like many other things. 

She wasn’t angry, she hadn’t told him to wait. Though it did sting that he didn’t seem keen on staying with her. She had been away longer than she’d originally planned, maybe he was upset with her and didn’t want to tell her... She sighed, shaking the thought before calling out.

"Where did you go?” her voice echoed through the stone walls as she peeked into each room she came across, seeing no sign of her son. It was a few minutes before she heard the response to her call.

“Mummy? I’m in Papa’s potions room!” 

“And who said you can be in here by yourself?” she crossed her arms as she stood in the doorway, though the hint of a smile tugged at her lip. The excitement on her little boy’s face was contagious. 

“Papa told Nanny Tori that I can play here, and he said I should try making this if she watched me!’ he took the piece of parchment on the table and ran across the room to show her. 

“I see” she she chuckled, rolling her eyes. of course Lucius just gave their eight-years-old reign of the bloody Apothecary office. Bella knelt down to be more at eye-level with him and take the parchment. Bella looked over Phe’s shoulder to see the simmering little cauldron on the table. At least Lucius had the sense to keep the open fire to a minimum... “how far did you get then?” 

He was already taking her hand and ushering her to the table before she’d finished her question. Thankfully Tori had been here--this worktable wasn’t in as bad of a condition as she was anticipating. He’d kept it pretty neat actually, his mortar and pestle already wiped clean and most ingredients were resealed into their jars. Phe’s hands flew over the table, brushing some of the debris away as he talked quickly. 

 “Well I had to have nanny Tori help me open some of the bottles--they had charms on them, and she lit the fire. But i read all the steps myself! And she says now I need to watch it, I have a little longer left! I just didn’t want to mess it up--I’m sorry Mummy” he squeezed her hand, now realizing why she looked a bit sad when she found him, “I should’ve taken you with me, but you were saying goodbye for so long and my potion--” 

She kissed the top of his head, squeezing him to her for a moment. “It’s okay my sweet boy, but next time just tell me, I can run really fast when I want to” she ticked his ribs, causing him to squirm and laugh as he pulled away from her. 

“okay...mummy, will you check it? does it look okay?” 

Bella eyed the instructions--Cure for Boils seemed a bit advanced for Phe, but considering this was his first time making it, and the fact that he’d made it this far, he was doing pretty well. it also helped that Lucius had simplified a lot of the verbiage...had he made the little drawings or had Phe? 

 Bella made a show of looking between the cauldron, Phe, and the parchment, and it took Phoebus’s leg to start bouncing before finally answering his question. “It looks great sweetheart! I’m so proud of you! Let’s read the next step then...”

~*~

“Mummy! Phephe! We’re home!” Esmeralda’s high voice rang through the parlor, making three house elves pop into view and nearly run each other over while picking up the massive shopping bags placed on the floor by little girl’s father. 

“See to it that the purple bags go into the other closet, and the contents of the little blue bags must be gift wrapped and placed on my bed by the time dinner is over. Also I’m expecting dinner to be ready in twenty minutes.” Lucius called over his shoulder to the elves as he lead Esme down the hall

“Mummyyyyy! Pheeeee!” continued Esme, now cupping her hands around her mouth, “Papa, where are they?” she pouted. 

“Wherever they are, I’m sure their eardrums are intact.” He murmured to himself, “They’re probably in papa’s potions room, do you think Phe got lots of help from nanny Tori?” he asked, looking down at the now skipping six-years-old. 

“Oh noooo Papa, Phe doesn’t like help!” she answered simply, making Lucius throw his head back to let out a proper guffaw. 

it didn’t take long before they found the other half of their family. Bella stood next to Phe while he carefully ladled the finished potion into a vial. Bella looked up to see them enter the room, a grin spreading on her face at the sight of her husband and her daughter. Lucius had to take a small moment before speaking, and frankly, he had to clear his throat to fight back the smallest lump forming there. The sight before him was certainly one he’d have to save in the Pensieve later. “Hard at work then?” he asked, making his way to Bella, as did she to him. 

“Hello Darling” 

“Hello yourself Bells, I mi--” 

“Hi mummy! Hi Phephe!” Esme was faster though, running to Phe’s other side to kiss his cheek.

“Hi Esme--hang on” Phe made a kiss noise when he felt her little peck, though his eyes didn’t leave his vial. 

Bella detoured, getting Esme in her arms and a whole three feet away from Phe’s concentration in no time, smothering her little girl with kisses on both her cheeks. Esme squealed, hugging her mother tightly despite squirming under the attack. 

“How’s my sweet girl? I missed you!” she asked, finally putting her down as she watched Lucius take over her spot next to Phe. 

“Oh mummy, I missed you too!” Esme stroked her mum’s cheek, “We went to the shops today! I got lots of pretty dresses, and Papa got so many shinies!”

“Did he?” she asked, turning to him with a curious eyebrow

“What did I tell you Esme?” Lucius sighed 

“Oh! It’s a surprise!” she grinned, it took a solid three seconds before her grin disappeared and little hand went to her forehead “ohhh...sorry Papa”

“Don’t be sorry sweetheart, Papa should’ve known better, because you always tell mummy everything don’t you?” 

Esme’s grin returned as she nodded, holding Bella’s waist as the woman returned to her earlier target. 

“Well done Phe!’ Lucius sighed proudly, hugging the boy to him and kissing the top of his head 

“Does it look like the proper one Papa?” he asked, hugging him back as he looked up at his father. 

“What do you mean? That is the proper one, you’ll be doing third-year Potions before you even get sorted into Slytherin” He grinned down, his hand how fluffing the boy’s curls, pushing them from his face. 

Phe let go to take the now sealed vial to his sister, “look Esme! I did it!”

“Oooh! Well done Phe” she beamed, letting go of Bella to run to him, she peered at the container for a moment before asking “What is it?”

The two children continued their little conversation, not noticing that their parents were engrossed in one of their own.

“I was saying I missed you so much I could hardly stand another minute.” he murmured into her hair, embracing her to tightly her feet were grazing the ground. 

“Missed you more. much much more...” she whispered in his ear, her fingertips rubbing the back of his neck. 

They pulled back enough for their lips to meet, both sighing like they’d had their first drink of water in days. Bella’s feet were now inches off the ground, their arms unable to decide where to settle. Lucius felt her nails even through the fabric of his cloak, and he realized he needed to rip himself away before they traumatized their children.

“Esme, look away” Phe placed his hand over his sister’s eyes, shaking his head as she 

“Why are they always like this?” she asked, not bothering to remove Phe’s hand. 

“Because we love each other” Lucius answered, now merely holding Bella’s waist “You should be lucky to be this in love one day.” 

 Esme made a face, sticking her tongue out and shaking her head. Phe just laughed, removing his hand and rolling his eyes.

Bella leaned into her husbands shoulder, grinning as she looked between her two children for a moment before speaking “Come on then, you both have some cleaning up to do dinner is ready” 

They went to the hallway after Phe labeled and placed the vial right in the middle of Lucius’s shelf. Together they made their way to the stairs, where a few day’s worth of catching up awaited them.

[girlonthelasttrain]

the first Italian translation of "The Lord of the Rings" came out in 1967. It was done (in just a few months of work, apparently) by Vittoria Alliata di Villafranca, between the age of 16 and 17.

this first translation, though done at the best of the translator's ability, was not really a professional one, and it has been slightly revised several times over the years (most importantly in the 70s). It's quite remarkable that it lasted long as it did, even revised; it's the version of "The Lord of the Rings" that I myself read twenty years ago.

Until 2019, no other re-translation of the novel had been published in Italy; just the original translation with several revisions was available.

obligatory context clarification: Tolkien's work was for decades not considered worth much by the Italian literary and academic world, and still sometimes get dismissed as unimportant and 'morally shallow'.

worse, in Italy the popularization of "The Lord of the Rings" has been for decades mostly under the purview of right-wing and explicitly neo-fascist writers and "intellectuals". For these people, popularizing the novel meant 'delve into the search for the cultural and sacral roots of the European Tradition' (just translating this makes me gag, ngl).

in 2018 the Italian publisher that holds the right for "The Lord of the Rings", Bompiani, decides, on a suggestion by Associazione Italiana Studi Tolkeniani (founded in 2014 with the goal of connecting Italy to the international academic research re: Tolkien, and also to take away Tolkien's oeuvre from the hands of fascists - or at least not letting them being the only ones who claim authority over it) to re-translate the novel in its entirety. AIST also suggests to the publisher the name of Ottavio Fatica, who had already translated Melville in Italian.

AIST suggested this new endeavor in order to cement "The Lord of the Rings"'s image in Italy as a 'classic' of English literature, a novel that can therefore get multiple translations over time. And since it had been more than 50 years since the first translation, it seemed a good time to finally do so.

I have to point out here that everyone has, even now, only words of appreciation for what Alliata did in her teens and in a very short time. Her translation has flaws, but given the circumstances everyone recognizes that the results are commendable.

nonetheless, Vittoria Alliata hears about this and proceeds to make all the noise she possibly can over the new translation, which she seems to consider a betrayal by the publisher. She throws accusations of all sorts around, claiming that the new translation would be 'yielding to the politically correct' (actually, I believe she's under the impression that any new translation would be a surrender to progressive forces). Representatives of right-wing parties and organizations heed her call immediately (they did develop their love of Tolkien through her translation after all), and that's why she's interviewed many times throughout 2019 to express her outrage (there even is a public debate over this in the Senate's library, organized by infamous right-wing senator Maurizio Gasparri). In one of these interviews she says that the new translation will be a 'dressing up of "The Lord of the Rings" in lgbtq fashion, in deference of newism (?)'. No, I have no idea what she meant with this either, besides a word salad of right-wing talking points.

Alliata, btw, keeps claiming that her own translation had been read and approved by Tolkien, even if there is literally no proof of this. But in very Italian fashion, as long as you keep screaming something very loudly it might as well be true. You'll see a lot of people online still taking this as fact when it is not demonstrable in any way (and very likely false, as Alliata made several mistakes while translating that were very similar to what Tolkien had already pointed out as wrong in the Spanish edition).

The situation escalates throughout 2019. Vittoria Alliata starts claiming that Bompiani isn't paying her the royalties for her work; the publisher replies by saying that they tried to contact her two years prior, when the previous contract expired, and they never heard back from her. Furthermore, journalist and writer Loredana Lipperini had interviewed on the newspaper "La Repubblica" the new translator Fatica in 2018: the interview apparently makes Alliata so mad (but like, only many months later??) that she files a complaint against Lipperini, Fatica and the then director of the newspaper Mario Calabresi for libel. (A judge recently dismissed Alliata's complaint entirely.)

Eventually Alliata sees no other alternative but the nuclear option: at the end of 2019, citing her expired contract, she breaks any connections with publisher Bompiani and orders them to stop selling her translation, plus destroying any copies they might still have in their warehouses. It's definitely a big monetary loss for the publisher, and this means that the only translation that they're able to sell will be the one by Fatica. She, of course, does this as publicly as she can.

However, I'm not sure that Alliata realized that this meant that her translation would no longer be sold anywhere. Bompiani is the only publisher who is authorized to bring Tolkien's work to the Italian market.

and with this, we seemed to have reached the end on what has been dubbed in Italy as 'the war on Tolkien'. I personally believe all the uproar was based on nothing but the Italian right-wing propaganda machine (what better cause than accusing people of 'perverting' a beloved classic like "The Lord of the Rings"?) and Alliata's own big, bruised ego. On the plus side, you can take Alliata's reaction to the new translation as like, an upper bound of horrible reactions to criticism (as in, no one ever criticized her work at all, but the mere hypothesis of a new translation made her go ballistic to the point of damaging herself!)

I keep wanting to make a post about the (now old) Italian translation of "The Lord of the Rings" and how fucking wild the whole thing is but... it's too much I don't know where to begin

[auroras-blend]

I Hate It Here

Summary: Vittoria gets used to her new church in Garland City and Leonardo finds he not as welcomed as he once was.

Note: Occurs after chapter 33

“Vittoria, step out of the car,” Papa demanded as he held the car door open for her.

Vittoria shook her head. “I don’t like this church.”

“You haven’t even been inside yet,” Papa reasoned, “Stop embarrassing me and get out.”

“I want Sg.ra Giordano,” she protested, crossing her small arms.

Papa sighed heavily, “We’ll return one day and you can see her, but for now, this is our church.”

“No.”

“What do you think God will think of you if you refuse to go to church on His day?”

Vittoria frowned and a potential offense to God made her step out of the car. She’d never want him to think she didn’t love him. Her little black mary-janes pattered onto the asphalt as she slid off the leather seat. She had resisted the entire time, decreeing that the Cathedral of the Holy Virgin was not her church. Then Papa told her no church belonged to her, but to God and that shut her up. Still, I miss our old one. People were nice to me. I liked our priest.

Papa held her hand as she smoothed out her dark navy blue dress, afraid the wrinkles would offend God and Christ. Papa had dressed her up, pinning her hair into a braided bun and clasping the diamond cross around her neck even though it brought up painful and bitter reminders of Sg.ra Bianchi. Whenever she thought of something sad, she talked to God. She talked to him a lot more now, the only voice she heard at night when she was left alone with her thoughts.

Her eyes drifted up to the imposing building. Like her church back home, it was grand and opulent, a marvel of architecture. It was a sterile white with statues carved into the face of the marble, a true sight as it towered over the buildings around it. Churches should be bigger than other buildings. The domes and spirals were erected so high, it looked like they were trying to reach God and heaven itself. Of course, like the cathedral back at home, the inside was as marvelous.

Rows of polished redwood lined the inside of the church, the number of pews taking up enough space to seat the massive amount of congregants filing inside. The pulpit is so big, but, “Where are the pictures?” she asked.

“The what?”

“The one at home had pictures of Jesus behind it? Where are the pictures-,” she began before a glittering light caught her eye.

Her green eyes widened in awe at the stained glass containing vivid colors, some portraying biblical scenes. Oh, there they are. They cast brightly over the wooden floor, which felt warm and like she was basking in holy light. It’s warmer than the one back in Italy. Vittoria noticed that her hands and legs weren’t cold. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

Papa led her to a pew as she was distracted by the grandness of the church, so distracted that she didn’t notice some women sliding away from him with wary eyes. But Papa noticed. He pulled her closer. “Principessa,” he whispered with a friendly and fatherly smile, “It’ll be in English today, except for the usual Latin.”

He handed her a Bible as she pulled out her favorite red rosary, “Really?”

“Yes, so you better pay attention because I’m going to ask you plenty of questions when I’m done,” he said in good nature.

She smiled back at him. “Sg.ra Lisi said I’m really good at answering questions.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said before gesturing to the dark-haired priest who came out to begin the service.

Vittoria, for some reason, felt her ears were mildly shocked by the English the priest was speaking in. It was her first language, but for some reason, it felt harder to follow along. Usually, at this time on Sundays, she was straining to hear some familiar words and heard herself thinking in Italian, as she desperately tried to program her brain to recognize his English. Eventually, she did and was as transfixed on the priest as her father was.

During the service there were eyes on her and Papa, making her squirm nervously in her seat. One young woman, in particular, had her eyes analyzing her body, as if trying to find something wrong. Papa didn’t notice and she dearly wished she had because the young woman glared at him with repulsion and distrust before she corrected herself with a smile when she saw Vittoria look back at her. As if she was trying to say, you’re not the problem. Vittoria shyly averted her gaze back to the pulpit and priest, trying to ignore the congregants who were as nosy as the ones in Summerfield.

Thankfully, the service seemed to go a lot faster and it ended as quickly as it began. Perhaps because it didn’t take her as much work to follow along and it kept her interest. Well, as much as a service could do for a nine-year-old. Papa helped her out of the pew before offering his hand and a friendly smile to an older woman who huffed and moved past him anyways. This is why I didn’t want to come back. American people are rude. What do they have against single parents?!

Vittoria frowned at her Papa who stepped out of the way and led her from the pews before smiling again as he caught sight of someone whom he must’ve known before. “Ah Mr. Howard,” he grinned, “It’s so nice to see you!”

The man pulled a face and looked ready to turn before he caught sight of Vittoria and decided to put on a facade of politeness. “Mr...Mr. Borghese,” he stuttered before being forced into a hug, “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” Papa smiled, “And Mr. Borghese? When did you become so formal? You can still call me Leonardo.”

The man shifted on his feet uncomfortably, tugging at his collar that Vittoria could hardly believe was choking his skinny neck. The man was small, well smaller than her Papa, and only reached up to her Papa’s shoulders. He had sandy brown hair and blue eyes that reminded her of Pastor Marks. “Yes...well…” he glanced down, “You have a child.”

Papa smiled down at her and pulled her front and center. She wished he hadn’t. She hated strangers. “I do. Would you like to introduce yourself, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart? Not principessa? “Hi,” she said in a small voice, giving a tiny wave.

The man, or Mr. Howard, gave a strained smile. “Well hello,” he greeted, his demeanor becoming less stressed and friendlier, “What’s your name?”

“My name is Vittoria,” she said shyly.

It didn’t escape her Papa’s attention that prying eyes were on her, the little girl who walked in with the formerly beloved by all, Leonardo Borghese. There was something entirely innocent and non-threatening about him having a daughter. “Well, that’s such a pretty name. And how old are you?”

“I turned nine in December,” she said, wishing she could already leave.

“Wow, so you’re a big girl now, huh?”

“Not as big as Papa. He’s a giant,” she said quietly.

Mr. Howard and her Papa gave low laughs. “Leonardo,” an older woman approached with a thick accent that she couldn't recognize except she knew it wasn’t Italian, “You come back and you don’t introduce the girl?”

Papa smiled at the woman who had previously snubbed him. After all, how could he be terrible if he had a small daughter who loved him? Who looked at him with religious reverence and complete undying trust. Then there were the others who glanced over at the child with wariness, protectiveness, and apprehension. Fearful that she was in a monster’s presence, but she found they didn’t linger too long or approach her at all. Apparently, the young woman from before didn’t care enough to check on her; she’s probably going to gossip about us later.

The longer she and Papa stayed, the more people crowded her and asked her questions. Mainly the elderly who had much more faith in her father than the younger churchgoers. Old women spoke with Papa in Italian and Vittoria adorably responded in the same language, earning her pinches and smothering hugs into their breasts. WHY?! EVERY TIME?!

“It’s so nice to see you settled down,” a white-haired woman cooed, “She’s so sweet.”

They always talk about me. Never to me. “She was such an angel during the service. Some parents here just can’t control their children,” an old man scoffed.

“Well, she’s a good Catholic,” Papa praised.

That made her feel a little better. I try to be. “If you’re interested, St. Agnes’ is a lovely Catholic school for primary-age children. Well, girls. It’s an all-girls school,” a woman with a breathy accent smiled, “My nieces went there.”

“I’d consider all girls,” he smiled, “She hates boys.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said defensively, causing everyone to laugh.

Her face reddened in embarrassment as dread filled her chest. I wanna stay home with him forever. I don’t wanna go to another school. Vittoria liked being close to her Papa, and only with her Papa. I wish he’d hurry up so we can go home and play kingdom together. He promised we could play kingdom!

It was her very favorite game where she was the princess and he was the king. He’d build a castle fort with her, they’d sit for tea, go up on the balcony to wave, and dance. They didn’t do everything, but the game made her feel special. Vittoria tried focusing on planning the agenda and what they’d do for the kingdom game while he kept talking because he’s taking foreverrrrrrr!

***

The trip to the car was long. She felt relieved when they left the church, but all they did was move to talk outside. And she dearly wished they had gone home because they finally asked about the one topic that brought her agonizing pain and memories. Mama. “She passed away,” Papa said, softening his eyes as if he were devastated.

Light gasps sounded and she could feel her nose begin to sting. Vittoria retreated back behind her father. “Well bless you, for doing it all by yourself. I can’t even imagine,” an old woman exclaimed, her hand pressing against her chest.

Mama did it by herself and no one was nice to her. “How are you going to balance work and fatherhood?” one woman asked, “Childcare is a financial nightmare. I remember this one time…”

Oh my gosh, I just wanna go home! Vittoria grew restless and was about to sprint to the car before Papa was finally able to bid them all farewell. Well, not before they pinched her cheeks as a goodbye. Why do strangers think they can touch me? She had gotten used to it after a while in Italy, but it was always odd that everyone was so physical with her. Papa never minds!

The whole ordeal sent her into a distressed state and after her Papa inspected the car and buckled her in, she began to weep. Papa sighed when he sat in the driver's seat. “They touched me,” she cried, “Please don’t make them babysit me, Papa.”

I never want a babysitter again! Her Papa sighed, “Principessa...I’m going to have to go back to work eventually…”

“Then let me come with you,” she begged, “I’ll be quiet and good. I can even help.”

I can decorate his office and sort papers into folders! I can do all types of things. “I’ll even do it for free!” she offered.

People like free things.

“That’s very sweet Vittoria, but I can’t take you to...work with me. We’ll figure something out, okay?”

Papa had already decided she wasn’t going to a real school yet. Vittoria could hardly handle a grocery store; it’d be a nightmare at a school. No, he was hiring tutors again. That worked so well last time. He started the car and he began the drive home while she continued to cry.

“We’ll have lunch when we get back, but after that, you’ll take a pill,” he said in a ‘no arguments’ voice.

“You worked from home before. Why can’t you do it again?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Things are different now…” he explained without explaining.

“I hate it here,” she pouted, “I hate Garland City and I hate America.”

“Vittoria,” Papa hissed, “Never say that again. I don’t care what you think, but you’ll keep those thoughts to yourself. Do you understand?”

A pout was stuck to her lips but she begrudgingly agreed. I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I hate it here...