#of course i do think about lorraine doing this to henry especially as he gets older and gets random pains in his hands

[hawkeyeslaughter]

fuck it ! i AM emotional over someone kissing the 4077th surgeons’ hands as a form of love and not even giving it second thought

[carewyncromwell]

The Cinderella AU is back, and...ahhhh, my babiiiiies. *dissolves into a pile of happy goo*

The Winter Festival presented in Royaume is most strongly related to the celebrations for Saint Nicholas in French provinces such as Lorraine, which are held on December 6th and include lots of music and a parade led by Saint Nicholas (or Pere Noel, as he’s also called), the French alternative to Father Christmas and Santa Claus. Florence’s holiday likewise resembles Italy’s Feast Day, which is hosted on December 8th. 

Back in the olden days, dancing wasn’t just done for fun -- it was considered a standard form of socializing. Prior to the 19th century, it was far more common for Europeans to dance in large groups that then switched partners frequently, as opposed to being locked onto a specific partner, and this applies to both formal gatherings and more informal ones. Strict pair dancing really came more in vogue in the early 1800′s with the German waltz, so during the Renaissance, one could expect to see a lot more swapping of partners at parties than one generally sees in the modern era. There were couple dances at that time, of course, such as the lavolta -- they just weren’t as popular as dances like the waltz became at formal gatherings later on. Country dancing, or dances performed at informal gatherings, was generally seen as more lighthearted and easy for people to join in without being expert at it, while court dances, which were generally saved for more formal events, were much more performative and choreographed.

Carewyn’s dress in this sketch was strongly based off of this absolutely gorgeous dress, which was inspired by real Renaissance artwork.

Previous part is here – whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you enjoy! xoxo

x~x~x~x

With the arrival of winter, Carewyn found herself busier than ever. The King and Queen of Royaume had ordered that the palace be fully furnished with holiday cheer, so Carewyn and the rest of the staff soon had their hands full, putting gold-trimmed garlands around every banister and decking every hall with holly and ivy. Carewyn wondered how in the world the King and Queen could afford such finery when they still couldn’t seem to scrounge up enough funds to have the proper tools and supplies in stock for their staff, let alone to give them proper food rations -- but from what Bill and Charlie told her, this wasn’t too uncommon.

“It’s like this every year,” said Charlie, sounding very surly. “The royals and the court always pig out on the most sumptuous feasts, and then we have to pay for it after the fact. Just you wait until New Year’s -- the Queen always likes hosting a huge masked ball to ‘start the new year off right’ and the nobles end up leaving the worst messes behind...”

Bill sighed. “I don’t think it’s all selfishness on their part, really. I think it’s to try to lift the Prince’s spirits, more than anything. You know he isn’t allowed to leave the castle grounds...and I’m sure he no doubt hears all about the Winter Festival and all the other celebrations in town around this time of year, from the staff. The holiday season can’t be that much fun, when you’re forced to sit and watch from the sidelines...”

Andre did indeed seem to be in a forlorn mood. Whenever Carewyn caught sight of him walking through the palace gardens with her cousin Iris, he seemed to always be looking away, off into the distance, while Iris tried to engage him in conversation. Carewyn couldn’t help but feel sorry for him -- as much as his parents clearly were spending beyond their means, it seemed to be largely so that they could try to shield him from the War going on outside. It wasn’t a good decision, Carewyn thought, but a slightly understandable one...and more importantly, Andre himself had no hand in either the staff’s struggles or his own captivity.

One day Carewyn was polishing the floors in one of the guest suite, singing the song Orion had given her for the second time that day, when the partially ajar door was very quickly shoved open. Carewyn looked up just in time to see a ruffle of bed curtains, as if someone had leapt onto the guest bed and drawn the curtains so that they were hidden from view.

Carewyn opened her mouth, ready to ask who was there, only to be interrupted by a familiar voice echoing down the hallway outside.

“Your Highness?”

Iris?

Carewyn frowned deeply. She heard heels clapping down the hall, and sure enough, her brown-haired, slender cousin came into view through the open door.

Iris caught sight of Carewyn inside the guest suite, and her confused expression instantly turned ugly.

“Have you seen the Prince?” she demanded.

Carewyn raised her eyebrows innocently. “No.”

“Well, if you do, tell him that Lady Iris is looking for him,” said Iris waspishly. “And see that you don’t speak to him either.”

“I don’t quite know how I can tell his Highness that you’re looking for him, if I’m not allowed to speak to him,” said Carewyn rather coolly.

“You know full well what I mean,” Iris snarled under her breath.

Eying the almost completely polished floor, she rather pointedly strode right through the part Carewyn had just finished cleaning, dragging her heels to leave long, streaking footprints through it.

“Prince Henri might like using you as his little dress-up doll, but don’t think it means he actually likes you,” she whispered coldly. “Why would a prince ever be interested in a servant girl with no dowry or prospects?”

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon the streaks on the floor before flitting up onto Iris’s face with a very stony look. She was very tempted to remind Iris that she had no interest in kissing up to the richest man that would have her, and that a man and a woman didn’t have to be romantically interested in each other to engage in conversation...but, honestly, she didn’t see much point. She wouldn’t be able to soothe Iris’s jealousy no matter what she said, and Carewyn quite frankly liked the thought of Iris leaving far more than to try to make her feel better.

Satisfied that she’d gotten the last word, Iris picked up the skirts of her lavender brocade gown and strode quickly from the room and down the hall in search of Andre.

Carewyn remained on the floor for a moment, waiting for the sound of her cousin’s footsteps to fade away. Then she slowly rose to her feet, walked over to the door, and closed it, before she got back down on her hands and knees so she could start cleaning the part of the floor Iris had slid her feet through.

“Andre?” whispered Carewyn without looking up. “Is that you, hiding in there?”

There was a rustle. Then the bed curtains parted, to reveal Andre sitting on his knees on the bed.

“You knew it was me?” he murmured.

“I thought it might be,” said Carewyn, offering him a small gentle smile even though she didn’t fully look up from her work.

Andre looked almost guilty. “...Thank you for covering for me, Carewyn. I don’t mean to insult your cousin, I just...need some space.”

“It’s all right. It can be draining, not to have any time to yourself, even when you are around people you like. And really, I didn’t lie -- I hadn’t seen you, however much I thought I might know where you were,” she added with a wry smile.

Andre tried to smile, but it came out rather forced and faded very quickly. He glanced from Carewyn to the closed door and back.

“...Does she always talk to you like that? Iris?”

Carewyn paused in the work and looked up. Andre’s face was twisted in a very troubled frown.

The maidservant returned her focus to the floor so as not to look at him, scrubbing at a particularly dirty streak.

“Not always,” she said mildly.

Sometimes she says worse things.

Andre’s eyes narrowed slightly, becoming sadder still. “Carewyn...I had no idea. I mean, I understand your mother was estranged from your family and your father skipped town, but...Iris is your cousin. Even if she’s nobility and you’re not, the way you talked about your family, I thought...”

He trailed off. He felt incredibly foolish, for not having questioned whether Iris and Carewyn’s relationship was really that good. KC had even complained about her mother trying to matchmake her with Carewyn’s cousin, Arsen Dupont, hadn’t she? Did that mean that all of Carewyn’s family talked to her the way Iris did?

Carewyn, however, was very stoic in her response. “Please don’t judge Iris based on how she speaks to me, Andre.”

Grandfather would be furious if I were the reason Iris didn’t marry Andre. The only reason that Iris and Andre shouldn’t marry should be Iris herself, and her own stupidity.

“Good people don’t have to get along with everyone, not even their own family. The way Iris speaks to me is just as much my own doing as it is hers -- and truly, her words are just words. They don’t injure me. If you enjoy her company, then you mustn’t judge her too harshly for something like this.”

Judge her harshly for other reasons.

Andre didn’t look very comforted. He adjusted himself on the bed so that he was sitting on the edge with his feet on the floor.

“...To be honest...I don’t really enjoy it that much,” he muttered.

Carewyn looked up again.

“She’s amiable enough, I suppose,” said Andre uncomfortably, “but...well, I was curious to meet her because it sounded like she enjoyed fashion and might have some good ideas for me to try out. And she had a few -- I mean, I still don’t think ash gray suits you at all...but I ended up finding a rather nice shiny pewter fabric for your shoes, and -- well, you’ll see it when they’re done. I think you’ll like them. But even with that...it just feels like, a lot of the time, she’s only saying what she thinks I want to hear, rather than what she really thinks! Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike flattery -- but I already get that all the time at court. Especially around this time of year...”

He looked down at the floor, his shoulders dropping as he rested his arms in his lap.

“I have plenty of servants and subjects and...well, people who only want to be around me for my crown,” he said dejectedly. “I guess all I was really hoping for was...”

“A friend.”

Andre looked up at Carewyn in surprise. She’d put down her rag on the edge of her bucket, her eyes full to the brim with compassion.

Within seconds, the Prince’s face had burst into a delighted, relieved expression.

“Yes! Oh, I’m so glad you understand, Carewyn. Erika always says I shouldn’t complain so much...and I know she’s right -- I have a lot to be grateful for. It’s just...”

“You can have a lot to be grateful for and still be missing what you need,” said Carewyn very primly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do more or be more. It’s how you express that feeling that matters.”

Andre cocked his eyebrows curiously. “Express it?”

Unable to meet the Prince’s eye straight-on, Carewyn fixed her ponytail so that some of the hair coming out of it was restrained again.

“Well...to Lady Rath’s point, complaining about a problem, or wishing it would go away, never really solved anything. My mother used to say that ‘dreamers never make a dream come true’ -- if you want something to happen, then you need to act on it, not just sit around and wish that things might change.”

That’s why I can’t just sit back and wait for the War to end so Jacob can come home. If he’s out there on the battlefield, in pain and alone, I need to find out where and figure out some way to reach him.

Andre considered this for a long moment. At last his face split into a huge, blazing white smile.

“You’re right! You’re absolutely right, Carewyn...”

He leapt off the bed, bent down to get down on Carewyn’s level, and grabbed both of her shoulders.

“Will you go to the Winter Festival with me?”

Carewyn was taken aback. “What?”

“I’ve never been, not even once, even though I’ve always wanted to,” said Andre, his eyes bright with excitement. “Of course we’d probably have to be sneaky about it...but the courtiers will be plenty occupied all night here, with Mother’s ball. There are plenty of times I’ve been able to sneak out of the ballroom and no one’s ever found me, even when they were actively looking. I have the perfect purple brocade doublet I could wear...and I’m sure your new shoes will be stunning with the dark blue velvet gown I made for you...”

“Andre,” said Carewyn, a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm, “hold on. Brocade and velvet...those are hardly things to wear outside the palace, if you don’t want to be noticed.”

Andre blinked. “They’re not?”

“No,” Carewyn said very firmly, her eyes narrowing reproachfully as she slid out of his grip. “Only people of status and wealth wear those materials. People in town wear cottons, linens -- wool -- and they’re far simpler than even the uniform I’m wearing right now. You and I would stick out like sore thumbs, especially since all of the nobility will be at the Queen’s Ball. I doubt we’d last more than five minutes in town before we got caught.”

Andre deflated visibly.

“...I see,” he said, disappointed. “If only I’d thought of this sooner...I could probably have made us something else, if the Festival wasn’t the day after tomorrow...”

Carewyn bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t love the thought of going against the King and Queen’s wishes, and of course spending time with Andre was uncomfortable considering she was supposed to stay out of Iris’s way, but...well, she agreed with Bill. It had to feel pretty rotten, to be stuck on the sidelines, watching everyone else have fun and longing to join in, during the holidays. Carewyn had never really gone to the Winter Festival as a kid since her mother didn’t like large crowds and she’d preferred spending quiet time at home with her and Jacob...but Andre clearly wanted to go to the Festival so badly...

“...I could...always go pick something up, in town,” Carewyn said slowly, her eyes lingering on Andre’s shoulder rather than his face. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend at the castle gate around noon...I could always convince him to walk with me to look for some festival clothes for both of us. Then you could always tailor what I bring back, in case it doesn’t fit correctly...”

Andre looked like Carewyn had just presented him with a unicorn for a Christmas present.

“Oh, Carewyn...you’re absolutely brilliant, that’s what you are! Don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of money -- buy whatever you think is best -- ”

And that was how Carewyn got roped into going to the Winter Festival. But really, she knew she couldn’t in good conscience let Andre sneak out on his own...and despite herself, her heart was much too gentle for her to even think of trying to tell him not to go, however much trouble she knew both of them would be in if they got caught.

All the more reason to make sure we don’t, she told herself.

When she met Orion at the gate that day, she told him she had some shopping to do before the Festival. Orion had quirked an eyebrow when she had him hold up several peasant-worthy outfits over himself so Carewyn could examine them, but Carewyn refused to tell him who she was shopping for, merely that he was around Orion’s height.

“Can I take this to mean you’ll be attending the Festival after all, my lady?” Orion asked, his eyes trailing over her face with some interest. “I believe you told Ginny Weasley that you’d be too busy.”

Carewyn avoided his eye as she took the outfit he was holding from him and placed both it and a forest green and white dress she’d found on the counter so she could pay.

“I am -- but I’ve opened some time in my schedule for it all the same, at least in the evening.”

Something flickered in the back of Orion’s eyes. Was it curiosity, or was it disappointment? “The gentleman you’re shopping for must be someone special, for you to reschedule your plans.”

Carewyn couldn’t fight back a proud huff. “He’s special only in the way that he needs help, and I’m the person who can give it.”

She took the clothes from the cashier and started heading out of the shop. Orion followed along behind, his black eyes running over her face even while she refused to look at him and narrowing ever-so-slightly.

“...I see.”

Andre was pleasantly surprised by what Carewyn had brought back for them. Although yes, they were made of far less expensive fabrics than he was used to and lacked decoration, he was very pleased with the colors. He’d mentioned having a purple doublet before, so he wasn’t surprised she picked that color of tunic for him, but he was very happy when she picked out some very handsome emerald green trousers trimmed with gold embroidery to go with them, as well as some tall black leather boots with gold buckles. Andre hadn’t really put purple and green together much before, but he really liked how the shades looked together. Carewyn’s dress, however, he did make one large alteration to besides just the fit -- adding a rather pretty trim to the front and back of bodice and the bottom of the skirt made of thick silvery linen ribbon. (He claimed that it was to help the dress better blend with her new pewter gray silk slippers, but Carewyn also just suspected he couldn’t help himself, seeing how plain the dress she’d gotten was.)

The night of the Festival, Andre went down to the Queen’s Winter Ball. After going through the motions for a half hour or so to throw off suspicion, Andre slipped away, and -- after quickly changing into his peasant clothes -- met Carewyn by the gate of the palace. When he got there, he found Bill, Charlie, and their little sister Ginny waiting just across the street, ever so “casually” looking away from the castle wall as Carewyn carefully opened the gate and she and Andre slipped out. Once the gate was closed, the three Weasleys swooped down on Carewyn and Andre, Charlie grabbing Andre’s arm and Ginny grabbing Carewyn’s, and the group flooded into town to meet up with the rest of the Weasley clan.

From the moment they arrived, Andre looked happier and more laid-back that Carewyn had ever seen him. Carewyn couldn’t help but feel like just walking around the Festival, surrounded by ordinary people who had no idea who he really was, made this the best day of the young Prince’s life...and she had to admit, as much as she could take or leave parties, his enthusiasm was infectious. When Ginny suggested they go dance, Andre was absolutely thrilled at the thought of learning how to do a country dance, and pressured Carewyn to show him how. Carewyn hardly thought herself the best choice for this, but found it difficult to say no, seeing how excited he was. Once Carewyn, Charlie, Andre, and Ginny jumped into the fray, though, she did find herself having fun. The steps were actually pretty easy to follow along to, especially compared to the sorts of court dances she’d always seen her older cousins practicing at the Cromwell estate, before any private balls they were invited to.

It didn’t take long, though, for someone to spot Andre. In the middle of one of their dances, a hand came from out of nowhere and snatched a hold of the back of the Prince’s purple tunic, pulling him back out of line.

“Hey!” yelped Andre. “What are you -- ?!”

He looked up, to see the rather tall and foreboding frame of his fencing instructor.

Andre gave a very weak smile. “Aha...hi, Erika.”

Erika’s expression was very stony. Carewyn, Charlie, and Ginny immediately hopped out of line and over to them. Standing right behind Erika and dressed in a sapphire blue cloak that obscured her elegantly trimmed linen dress was KC.

“Lady Rath!” said Charlie with his best attempt at a winning smile. “KC! What a nice...surprise! Heh...”

KC raised her eyebrows coolly. “Hello, Charlie...Carewyn.”

Bill had rushed over too, sensing trouble.

“It’s not their fault, KC,” said Andre quickly, “I can explain -- ”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said KC, her arms crossing as she looked at Andre. “We know full well it isn’t their fault.”

“I say it is,” said Erika rather bluntly, her eyes flashing dangerously at Carewyn and the Weasleys, “considering they encouraged it.”

“It isn’t their fault because they wouldn’t have felt able to say ‘no’ to the Crown Prince of Royaume, even if they’d wanted to,” KC pointed out logically.

Andre suddenly looked very guilty. He glanced from the Weasleys to Carewyn, almost silently asking if he’d pressured them into any of this. Charlie, in response, spoke rather forcefully.

“Well, frankly, we did want to! Andre deserves a fun holiday, for once. Reckon it’s a helluva lot better than that stuffy old ball going on up there.”

He jabbed a thumb behind him in the direction of the palace.

“The Prince’s safety is more important than a fun holiday,” Erika shot back coldly, “as are the King and Queen’s orders. You’d do well to remember that, Weasley.”

“Erika, please,” said Andre desperately. “No one from Florence would dare come this far west of the border...and even if they did, none of them would recognize me, dressed like this. And you said it yourself, KC, it’s likely they won’t attack our forces anyway until after the 8th -- that’s when their winter holiday is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” granted KC with a frown. Her voice became much more thoughtful as she added, “Though if they wanted to be really clever, they’d strike on or the morning immediately after a holiday, when everyone’s got their guard down...”

Carewyn faced Erika with as much conviction as she could, even though she was completely eclipsed by the taller and stronger woman’s shadow.

“I realize the Prince’s safety is important,” she said in a very low voice, so as not to be overheard, “but if there truly was anyone who meant to target him, wouldn’t they be more likely to look for him at the Winter Ball, rather than here among the peasantry? And considering that the palace is only about five blocks away from here and he’s in the company in one of the castle’s most capable guards,” she nodded in Bill’s direction, “and both his combat instructor and our army’s chief military strategist...I’d say that he’s quite well protected.”

Erika gave Carewyn a beady look.

“People say you’re nothing like your family, Cromwell,” she said rudely, “but I think they’re full of it. You’re just as pretentious and fawning as the rest of them.”

She nonetheless released the back of Andre’s collar.

“I’ll stay for two hours only,” she muttered to him sourly. “When I go, you go.”

Andre beamed from ear to ear.

KC and Erika weren’t much for dancing, but they did loosen up in time, while sitting with the rest of the Weasleys and enjoying some of the fresh sugar-dusted crepes, mince pies, cocoa, and coffee. Before long as well, Andre had mastered the art of the country dance. Ginny was thrilled to have someone else who was just as excited to dance as she was, and -- bless her heart -- the twelve-year-old treated Andre with the same amount of cheer and respect as she probably would’ve anyone else, just like her brothers did. She even ended up giving Andre pointers about how to do the dances better. Carewyn soon found herself getting pretty tired, but Ginny, Charlie, and Andre all kept pulling her back into line with them, and she bit back her exhaustion if only to see them smiling a little longer. It had been a really long time since she’d been able to make anyone smile like that, while doing so little -- it made herself feel that little bit better about herself, and made her stand just that little bit taller.

While dancing to a particular song, the woman playing the fiddle sped up very abruptly, changing tempo. Soon everyone was rotating in chaotic, joyful circles, switching partners constantly. As to be expected in country dancing, a few people made mistakes that they had to correct, but nobody really cared. One mistake, though, was Carewyn losing her footing and tripping over her skirt. The new gray silk shoes Andre had made for her, as lovely and comfortable as they were, were more like slippers than any proper outdoor footwear and didn’t have great traction, so she would’ve fallen right off her feet if someone hadn’t suddenly appeared behind her and caught her with an arm gently looped around her back.

It was Orion. He was dressed in clothes that were nicer than usual, but still modest, including some brown suede boots and a handsome forest green doublet that ended up being the same shade as Carewyn’s dress, though he still lacked the high-collared undershirt one would usually see from a nobleman.

“Forgive me for catching you twice, my lady,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Carewyn couldn’t help but smile. “At least you weren’t hurt after throwing yourself under me this time -- ”

They couldn’t continue the conversation, though, without getting locked up in the midst of the group dance. Carewyn was forced to twirl in sequence, just to avoid another pair moving on through.

“Shall we?” she asked.

Orion suddenly looked oddly wary, like a foal learning how to walk.

“I’m afraid I’ve never done this before,” he murmured, just barely dodging another pair of dancers.

Following the sequence, Carewyn rested an arm lightly around Orion’s waist, steering him in a circle.

“Don’t worry,” she said, as she offered him an encouraging smile. “It’s only a pattern...no one will complain if you make a mistake. Follow me.”

His face betraying some hesitance, Orion nonetheless found himself letting go, mirroring Carewyn in stylized turns and spirals through the dancing crowd.

Orion had come to the Festival because he’d guessed that the mysterious “guest” Carewyn was shopping for was -- in fact -- the Prince of Royaume, and thus this would be the perfect opportunity for Orion to meet him and get a better fix on his character. But even with this goal in his mind, he’d found his inner balance oddly disturbed, when he caught sight of Carewyn. She’d always been a rather pretty woman, but in the company of her friends -- smiling with such pure, undiluted happiness, at the sight of how happy they were -- her blue eyes sparkling with such soft emotion, every time they laughed -- her ginger hair flying free as a flag behind her as she twirled around them...it distracted him. It was an unwelcome distraction, one he was quick to scold himself for, before trying to relocate his center and return to the task at hand. And yet, when Carewyn lost her footing, he found himself once again throwing away his own internal balance and laser-pointed focus in favor of turbulent, emotional chaos...and soon they were dancing, and Orion found himself surfing in that chaos -- relishing that wild, but liberating warmth he felt coming off of her. Was it some magical aura she had, that made him feel like he was dancing with a blazing, soothing fire even as the snow began to fall overhead?

Carewyn Cromwell truly was a remarkable woman, to divert the Prince of Florence’s focus away from his one and only goal...and yet, as Orion danced with her, he couldn’t help but think...oh, if their world could be but a world where they could dance like this anywhere...even in Florence, where everyone knew his face...

When the dance came to an end, everyone clapped, and Carewyn and Orion moved off to the side together to sit with Bill, Ron, KC, and Erika. Erika was very suspicious of Orion from the off-set, finding him way too “pleasant” for her tastes, but Orion wasn’t the least bit offended. If anything, he said with a wry smile, her aggressive aura in some ways reminded him of a good friend of his. After several more rounds, Andre, Charlie, and Ginny finally came to sit down with the others for a quick break.

“Whew! I’m parched,” said Andre. He brought a hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Here,” said Bill.

He offered the Prince a stein of apple cider. Andre gulped down about half of it before lowering the stein, his mouth stretched into a broad smile.

“Oh, Carewyn, thank you for this,” he said, reaching out a hand to squeeze hers. “If I’d had any concept just how much fun this was, I would’ve come years ago.”

Carewyn smiled, looking genuinely touched. “I’m glad you’re having fun, Andre.”

Orion glanced from Carewyn to Andre and back. His face was very unreadable, but his black eyes had widened noticeably.

This must be him, he realized. Prince Henri.

The thought was a club to the back of the head, knocking some sense back into him after having gotten so thoroughly distracted. Orion’s thoughts moved very quickly as he watched the two interact.

“I am,” Andre said fervently, his eyes squinting slightly as he beamed. “And I hope you know how grateful I am...”

Something grimmer flickered over his face.

“...I hope you know...Iris was wrong, about how I see you.”

Carewyn was startled. “Andre...”

“I don’t just see you like a little dress-up doll,” said Andre very seriously, as he squeezed her hand. “You’re my friend, and a good one, at that. And for what it’s worth...” he smiled broadly, “...I’d say any royal should be proud, to have you on their arm.”

Carewyn was clearly a bit overwhelmed by the Prince’s complimentary words. Her gaze had drifted down to the table.

“...Thank you, Andre,” she said very softly.

Although her face was demure, her sparkling eyes and voice betrayed some deep, genuine emotion -- and despite himself, Orion felt some warm pride welling up in his chest, at the sound of it. Catching himself, Orion forced himself to return to the task at hand and lightly cleared his throat.

“Forgive me,” he said politely, “but I don’t think we’ve met.”

Carewyn looked from Andre to Orion quickly.

“Oh -- yes,” she said, “Andre...this is Orion. Orion, Andre.”

Andre’s eyes lit up at the name.

“So this is the infamous Orion you’ve been telling me about, KC!” he said, shooting a bright grin over at his cousin.

Orion raised his eyebrows curiously. “‘Infamous?’ I must wonder what she’s told you, for me to have earned that title.”

KC grinned. “Just that you saved Carewyn from a bucking horse, pulled her out of a ravine, and climbed over the castle wall twice just to visit her.”

Ginny’s freckled face lit up. “Orion, you did all that? That’s so romantic!”

Both Orion and Carewyn immediately tried to correct the record, but no one seemed to care much. Andre was laughing most of the time.

“Are you well-traveled, Orion?” asked Andre. “Judging by the way your doublet is distressed, I’d guess you’ve been to the Islands in the Southern Sea -- I’ve only seen such fabrics as imports.”

“I’m...afraid I haven’t, actually,” confessed Orion. “Though I have been to the Southern Sea.”

Florence’s castle was actually positioned on the shore, right by the sea. It was one of the few things Orion could say in its favor, even though there were times it made him long to cast off and never return.

Everyone seemed interested in this.

“You have?” said Charlie eagerly. “What’s it like?”

“Did you sail on a ship?” asked Ginny.

“Were you ever attacked by pirates?” added Ron.

“Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid,” Orion chuckled. “I’ve only seen it, not sailed it...at least, not yet.”

Carewyn’s red lips turned up into a full, pretty smile. “It must be beautiful, though.”

Orion turned to her, his own mouth spread in a grin. “It’s breathtaking. A seemingly endless void of blue that nonetheless sparkles as green as jade and as white as pearl. It’s as translucent as crystal, and yet so deep and mysterious that ships have been swallowed whole by it, and no man could ever discover all of its secrets. Its waves whisper to you as it ghosts the shoreline, and yet it can also roar and ravage like a beast, without warning or mercy. It can hypnotize you, draw you in...make you long to drown yourself in it, while simultaneously wanting it to spirit you away, over the horizon...”

Like your eyes.

Orion caught himself staring in them. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he forced a soft laugh.

“Forgive me -- I’ve gotten carried away...”

“Not at all,” said Carewyn gently. She rested a hand lightly on top of his forearm. “It sounds wonderful.”

Orion found himself unsure of how to respond to her touch. He’d never really been around a lot of physical affection before, so he was at a bit of a loss of what to do in such a situation. Fortunately Carewyn withdrew not long after, and Orion tried to find his center of balance again by turning his focus back to Andre.

“...I must say, though...your attention to detail is impressive, Andre. I can see why you and Carewyn get along -- she also has an eye for hair and clothing pieces.”

“Of course she does,” said Charlie, sparing a playful smile in Carewyn’s direction. “Carey is our little lady, after all.”

Carewyn shot Charlie an attempt at a sardonic look, but it was foiled by the broad smile that had conquered her face.

“That she is!” Andre laughed.

“A lady with considerable grit, however,” said Bill, his mouth turned up in a wry smile not unlike Charlie’s. “I’ve never seen anyone else climb up onto a mantle, just to reach a chandelier.”

KC looked at Carewyn incredulously. “What? Why didn’t you get a ladder?”

“It wasn’t necessary,” said Carewyn primly, crossing her arms. “I had it under control.”

Orion’s black eyes sparkled affectionately. “I’d say even an experienced soldier in the field would hesitate before climbing over a steep cliff and into a briar patch at the bottom of a ravine...wouldn’t you agree, Andre?”

Andre nodded. “I daresay so! Though I’ve never been to the battlefield myself, or met any soldiers...I would dearly like to, though.”

Orion frowned. “Like to?”

“Well, yes,” said Andre, his tone becoming more serious. “We could use all the help we can get out there...I’d love to feel like I could really help the war effort on the ground, rather than staying at home. Especially when my comfort is built on the backs of those who are hurting.”

Orion’s gaze fell down onto his hands as they clasped together on the table.

“...Your conviction is inspiring,” he said softly. “But believe me...a battlefield is not a place anyone should like to visit.”

Not long after, Erika rather abruptly rose to her feet and told Andre it was time to leave. The group all left the festival together, though Carewyn lingered behind with Orion, so as to try to give Andre cover for getting back inside the palace without anyone noticing.

Once they were alone, Orion once again found himself off-balance. He’d acknowledged before that Carewyn indeed was a person to be admired, as well as a person who could be admired by anyone...even him. He did admire her. He enjoyed her company -- he found her witty and engaging -- he identified with her independence, resilience, and determination -- he was struck by her compassion and utter selflessness. She was like him in so many ways, and yet she was methodical and insightful, as well as braver than a bear, despite her size. Her voice was so soothing, and yet it rippled with a kind of deep passion and emotion that it truly rivaled the deep, dark sea. And tonight especially...tonight, he kept catching himself staring...but none of that mattered. None of it should matter, in the face of achieving peace for Florence.

“She’s not on your side,” McNully’s words returned to him. “She’s on Royaume’s. Just...mind that you use your head as well as your heart, all right?”

Orion couldn’t help but feel as though using his head would be easier if he could more easily tell which way was up.

“I’m glad you came, Orion,” said Carewyn. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better dance instructor -- dancing isn’t really my area of expertise.”

Orion’s black eyes sparkled mischievously. “Perhaps we shall simply have to dance again in the future, so that we might practice.”

Carewyn giggled. “Somehow I doubt either of us will be attending any grand balls in the future.”

Orion’s amused gaze softened as it trailed over her cold-kissed pink cheeks and along the snowflakes clinging to the ginger waves cascading down her back.

Carewyn tilted her head, her lips twisted up in a wryly questioning smile. “...What?”

Orion looked away quickly.

“Forgive me -- I merely...don’t recall ever having seen you wear your hair down before. It’s...different.”

Carewyn brought a hand through her hair absently. “Mm...yeah, I guess it would be. I don’t wear my hair down much, but...well, I figured for a casual event like this, it wouldn’t be a problem...”

“It’s no problem at all,” said Orion. He kept his tone as level as possible, even though he felt a flush creeping up his neck. “I was just thinking it was appropriate...to see you letting loose with your friends, the same day you chose to wear your hair free...”

He came to a stop, and Carewyn stopped too, turning around to face him properly. Orion reached out his hand and -- very tentatively -- took hers, holding it between their chests like a gentleman.

“...You should be allowed to feel like that more often,” Orion murmured. “Free.”

Carewyn scanned Orion’s face, her eyes lingering on his before dipping into the corners of lips. Orion felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He wanted to kiss her hand, but...did he dare?

“She’s not on your team.”

“You reckon little Miss Knight-in-Shining-Armor would take kindly to that, when she finds out?

“Mind that you use your head as well as your heart, all right?”

It was just too much. Orion couldn’t think, whenever his thoughts got too loud. Closing his eyes, he took several deep, measured breaths. Only once he’d brought his heart rate down did he open his eyes again.

“I should go,” he said at last, his voice coming out much more calmly than he felt.

His eyes flickered down to his hand holding hers again, but he’d already lost his nerve. He released her hand, even though his hand felt like it had chilled as soon as the contact was broken.

“...Good night, Carewyn.”

He turned to go.

“Orion.”

Carewyn’s hand enclosed over his. Orion stiffened, his heart pounding full-force once more, and he turned back around to face her, just as she raised his hand up to her own lips and placed a gentle kiss to the back of it.

Orion stared. She raised her head with a smile, releasing Orion’s hand with a kind of muted confidence even despite the pinkness of her cheeks.

“Until we meet again, Mr. Freeman.”

With this, she picked up her skirts and darted away up the street, in the direction of the palace.

Orion stared after her. He stared long after she was out of sight, his galaxy-like black eyes staring at the swirling snow without even seeing it. He tentatively took his own hand, trailing his thumb over the place her lips had grazed...and despite all judgment, despite all rational thought, he found his lips turning up in a smile of their own accord. He’d never felt so light and so off-balance in all his life -- was this what it felt like, to glide on a bird’s wings? And yet he knew, despite the weightlessness he felt, it was instead indicative that he’d fallen.

In the midst of using her to get intelligence about her kingdom...in the midst of him following the strategy he’d laid out to get the end of the War he wanted, by learning their weak points and using them to soften others to him...Prince Cosimo Orion Amari, heir to the throne of Florence, had fallen head over heels in love.

[sir-skarsgard]

You’re back!!! Could you please do the Bill’s with a girlfriend who is really shy and quiet, and everyone who meets her thinks she’s mute but she just hates talking to people? ☺️ thanks love

Word count: 1,025 

Warnings/contents: Fluff mainly 

Notes: I am back!!! Thank you so much for your request! 😊 Yes I can! This is super cute and I was thinking of doing something like this, so it’s perfect timing ☺️ 

Quick note: I need some feedback from my readers. I’m debating whether or not I should keep Bob in my preferences or stop writing for him. I feel like my shots of him are always so dull, and I’m not sure if anyone really likes him like they like the others. If you could drop a quick comment to let me know I would appreciate it, so I don't waste time writing preferences for a character people don't even read 😂 I won’t take him away if more than 5 people like him, but if it’s under that I will most likely be discontinuing his preferences 

<>~<>~<>~<>~<>

Axel found it hilarious when you would basically use him as a shield to avoid people; it was equally as funny to him when a person would talk to you and wait for a reply, only to get a small look of discontentment from you as you slowly scooted backwards. Axel always helped you out, typically going with a “she’s shy” but sometime’s he’d just go ahead and let people think you were mute. Hell it was hilarious when a person who spoke sign language came in. One time someone tried communicating with you that way and you closed your eyes. Needless to say his laughter hadn't stopped for about five minutes after that happened 

Bob was also very quiet. Socializing with either of you was something most people didn't even attempt; the weird clown from the circus and the seemingly mute girl were bad people to ask directions from. Though people who were passing through Derry and knew nothing of the two of you would occasionally see the two of you wandering the streets and ask a couple questions. Though he was shy, Bob would offer a small smile and help point out the destinations they needed while you stayed behind him in comfortable silence. Whenever someone spoke to you instead of Bob he would jump in quickly and go with whatever outlandish theory they had of you not speaking, so long as if wasn't cruel 

Henry had an advantage on everyone else in the department of talking to you, since he had known you since the two of you were very young. Back in the old social days of the young (y/n) he had met you, and ever since then you had been inseparable. When the two of you started dating everyone was shocked; quiet, sweet Henry and the unapproachable girl didn't seem like it would-- or could-- ever happen. Newer people, often times people just driving through town on the way somewhere else would assume she was mute. She sure seemed mute, the way she never spoke-- especially when people spoke to her. A few people had even attempted sign language to talk to the girl, however Henry was quick to cut in with a smile and help them out 

If Mark was being honest he liked it when you ignored people. He liked it when you would only talk to him, he also found it funny when you would look at the person who was speaking to you as if they were stupid. He loved the attention, and would usually wait a few minutes before he would intervene with the person and talk for you. He would brush past their questioning as to why you wouldn't speak to them and quickly take them back to the original subject while you stood nearly behind him and waited for them to leave so you could go back to your conversation with Mark 

Merkel typically found it very amusing to witness your eye rolls as people started talking to you, only for you to bluntly ignore them. Other times you might hide behind him, peeking out and giving a quick look to the person; most people asked if you were mute, and usually Merkel would just say yes. He knew you didn't like talking to people. He didn't really want you talking to the people he worked with very much anyways; it was dangerous, and it was usually easier to just agree to the mute idea. Occasionally he would say no, such as with Lorraine, and leave it up to you to decide if you wanted to associate yourself with them or not. If they were still confused and asked what he had meant, “she has to be mute, she hasn't spoken a word,” he would just shrug at them. Nothing more to do but move on 

Mickey was a loud, excitable goofball. You were a quiet, unsociable, kind of dull person. People either questioned how the two of you ever ended up together, or why you were still together; of course as quiet as you were in public the more talkative you were when it was just you and Mickey. Since you’d mostly been quiet all day around people you had a lot to share. Occasionally people would see you whispering something to Mickey and be a little shocked you weren't mute or deaf or whatever they had assumed when you didn't want to talk to them 

Roman was confused, at first, as to why you always used him as a human shield to avoid talking to people. Especially with the people he knew you didn't like. Once he figured out you just really didn't like talking to people and had only ever talked to him and Shelley because you were alone with them he went along with your antics to avoid speaking to people; he found it pretty funny when you were absolutely forced to talk to a person and put no effort into the conversation at all. He’d watch for a few seconds with an amused smirk before he cut in and saved you 

The Kid was also very shy and quiet, so when Henry introduced the two of you and basically begged for you to watch over the kid while he went and got some things arranged, the two of you were forced to adjust to each others presences. It wasn't too hard for the kid to adjust to your apartment; it was cosy, warm, and had cute little trinkets along the surfaces. He was confused as to why you were so quiet. You hadn't spoken a word to him in the full 15 hours he had been there, and he was worried you had hated him, too. Once he figured out you were just quiet like he was his worries subsided, but after a few days the two of you actually started to get along really well and he learned the trick to your personality. Though nobody really ever spoke to either of you so it wasn't necessary for him to cover for you, on the rare occasion you would typically just answer the question and move on 

[europeansdomusicalsbetter]

Beauty and the Beast is styled to the 1800′s not the 1700′s no I will not shut up

Today’s the day I’m finally salty enough to do this. It’s taken quite some time but finally the time has come. Now, general disclaimer - I have my degree in art history, not fashion history or military history, so I am aware there will be some mistakes. I own up to this, however.

All of this is under the cut

Everyone who does a “historically accurate” Belle always always styles her much like this painting of the Madame du Pompadour by Francois Bouchet painted in 1759 (on display in the Wallace Collection in London):

If you’ve ever seen one of those redrawings, you’ve seen this or something like it. Now, the Madame du Pompadour was at the height of fashion and witticism and learning etc (don’t come at me, I wrote a 10 page paper about how she chose her own codes of representation for herself to style herself that way) as she was King Louis XV’s mistress. So if you’re going to style a princess after the 1760′s, yes this is a good choice. But alas, Belle’s yellow gown looks nothing like it:

You put the two side by side and there’s really nothing there to insinuate Belle’s wearing a gown fit for a 1760′s princess (or mistress of the King as the case may be). Instead, it looks an awful lot more like this fashion plate published in Le Follet in 1863:

Oooh check out that bell shaped skirt, those bare shoulders and arms, and that hair styled down rather than up. That’s not a dress shape you’re gonna see in an era that uses panniers. To illustrate how wildly different skirt shapes are - here’s a 1859 illustration from Punch magazine:

and an actual pannier in LACMA’s collection:

So really, if Belle’s dress doesn’t go flying out at the sides like this, it’s not 1700′s.

But you may be saying, “You can’t base everything on Belle’s ballgown! That’s not fair!” Which is a very fair thing to say. So let’s move on to Beast’s outfit in the same scene, shall we?

Beast sure cuts a nice figure in his best clothes, doesn’t he? He would be wearing the latest fashions as well, if he wants to be on par with Belle, who he loves, and is trying to show that to, wouldn’t he? Great, now that we’re in agreement, let’s look at this.

Notice how his coat cuts back to the side? That doesn’t look at all like a 1700′s greatcoat. For reference, here is a 3 piece court suit in LACMA’s collection from about 1760, on par with the stylizing people usually give to Belle’s dress by way of the Madame du Pompadour:

Notice how this coat doesn’t cut back at all but just slides down on the same plane the whole way? Notice how highly decorated it can be? We have what’s called “The Great Male Renunciation” to thank for that, which came from French rejections of bourgeoisie dress styles of the Ancien Regime. In short, men’s fashion largely did away with all decoration as seen on the court suit from above (I say largely because of course we have the dandies who rejected that, bless them). Look at Beast’s clothes again, and now let’s look at tailcoats.

Dress styles from The Great Male Renunciation haven’t really changed much, if you go digging. There’s a little fussing about pants hems - should we stay with breeches at the knee or go full length? - but for the most part the lines are the same. Case in point, the tailcoat.

The tailcoat is what one wears for White Tie - which is the highest form of elegant dress. Black Tie is under that, now think about what a Black Tie event looks like. So, fine dress in the 1800′s, what does that look like? Well, here’s an 1805 illustration for the very beginnings:

And here’s an image of George W. and Laura Bush with Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh from 2007:

Notice how the tailcoat is still there? How it cuts back rather than slides down the same plane? Let’s look at Beast again, keeping this in mind:

Yup. That’s a tailcoat. In fact, look at those pants too. What do those look like?

Oh, right, tuxedo pants with a side stripe. Which did not exist before The Great Male Renunciation.

But again you may be saying “You can’t base everything on evening dress! What about the others?! What about Lumiere and Cogsworth?!” Okay, let’s look at them. Human form, of course.

Firstly, I don’t exactly know what Lumiere is wearing there, why does he think an open vest (let’s not even try to call that a waistcoat) over shirtsleeves is going to fly at a royal party, but hey, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt of being an inanimate object for ten years, he’s still not totally up on sartorial codes.

So, his breeches and cuffs, those don’t look 19th OR 18th century. In fact, those breeches don’t look like breeches at all, they look like trunk hose, seen here on King James VI and I of Scotland and England (r. 1567/1603-1625) attributed to John de Critz circa 1605 (on display in the Museo del Prado in Madrid):

The cuffs also look 17th century as well, in fact if that’s supposed to be lace, it looks like the cuffs on van Dyck’s painting of Henri II of Lorraine painted 1634 (on display in the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C):

Why does Lumiere look so antique, even next to the theoretical timing of the 1760′s? Probably the same reason this member of staff at Buckingham Palace is dressed for the 1700′s (excepting the hat) while helping Kate Middleton with her wedding dress in 2011:

Servants of royal households (especially footmen) don’t exactly dress for the times, as it were. They get their livery and they wear it. You’ll see footmen dressed for the 1700′s as much as for the 1800′s nowadays, but in the 1800′s? Your footmen were livered for the previous century no doubt about it.

Cogsworth, as Head of the Household, has a bit more laxity about livery than Lumiere who is...never given a title. He’s just Lumiere. Cogsworth is Head of the Household, rather like a butler, Mrs. Potts is Housekeeper, and Lumiere is...well he’s Lumiere. For arguments sake let’s make him First Footman to be approaching equal status as the others and leave it at that.

Now you may be saying again, “But! Servants maybe aren’t great indicators, sure, but what about the town?! What about Gaston?!” Well, okay.

No one looks like a weird 19th century re-imagining of medieval eras like Gaston, I guess. Look at that tunic and hose. Looks more like Phillippe le Bon, Duke of Burgundy than a 1700′s man:

(Granted, Phillippe here is wearing poulaines, a popular long-toed shoe from the 15th c. rather than boots)

19th century re-imaginings of the medieval era were very common (looking at you, Viollet-le-Duc re-imagining what Notre Dame de Paris should have looked like). Dressing like it, maybe not. But nothing about Gaston says “1700′s” to me.

(Though, neither do these two kids with a turtle outside the bookshop during “Belle” so maybe this is a weird medieval town?)

Let’s take a look at when he’s dressed up to the nines for his “wedding” shall we? Just to keep it fair. Maybe he’s having an off day, sartorially during “Belle.”

What’s that line in that wedding coat? It seems to move back into being tails like a tailcoat again. Let’s investigate further.

Yup. Sure looks like that diverts into being tails in this silhouette shot.

So Beast and Gaston are both dressed for the 19th century and Great Male Renunciation with those tailcoats, even if Gaston absolutely must keep to his color palette.

For the sake of covering all our bases, let’s talk about his gun for a second, too. Again, I am an art historian, not a military historian, so I’m not claiming to have full knowledge about all this, mind. But this gun looks like a blunderbuss to me.

Gaston’s gun

Ottoman Blunderbuss gun, Circa 1820 (private collection (Knohl Collection))

Notice the barrel shapes? You might even say Gaston’s is exaggerated for visual interest, but there was a very special gun auctioned off in 2016 by Woolley and Wallis, Auctioneers:

This is a “Fitzgerald patent flintlock signal trumpet, converted musket” that was “sold by appointment to Thomas Clio Rickman” by Willam Fitzgerald in the early 19th century and was patented in 1799.

Granted, this is not a common gun, it was patented, after all, but it does exist. And note the year of 1799, on the cusp of the 19th century, and certainly not the 1760′s. 

Now you may be saying “But the Beast is a Prince! So it must be the 1700′s or the Revolution would have happened!”

The French Revolution of 1789 was a big deal, of course, and yes it did execute plenty “aristos.” Let’s not forget, however, that no one knew the Beast’s castle was there, so the Jacobins probably weren’t beating down the door of the castle anyway and planting liberty trees in the middle of Belle’s “poor provincial town” (unless that weird medieval kid was actually wearing a Phrygian Cap........)

But here’s something to keep in mind. Well, quite a few things.

When can a man have the title “Prince” in France? Well, the Ancien Regime, of course, and even further back than that. Let’s say Frankia as a starting point c.800 for clarity’s sake, all the way through 1792.

“Why not 1789? That’s the Revolution!” Well, it was the start of it, yes. And it was the storming of the Bastille. But the Revolution began with a period of a Constitutional Monarchy. It wasn’t officially a Republic until 1792, once Louis XVI’s head was in a wicker basket.

Moving on, you could be a Prince as well under Napoleon’s Empire, under the Restoration and the July Monarchy, and Napoleon III’s Second Empire. And even when those fell, people kept their titles. They weren’t getting murdered for them, after all.

Beast being a Prince does not necessitate him to have been alive before 1789. There’s a reason the 1800′s are called the Long Nineteenth Century, a lot of stuff happened really fast all the time. This list doesn’t even cover that time that the city of Paris became an anarchistic commune and so the National Guard was sent out to murder between 10,000 and 20,000 people for it.

All in all, “Beauty and the Beast” is styled to the 1800′s. It’s just obvious once you start looking at it and comparing it to the supposed time it’s equated to. Disney making it into the 1700′s in the live action remake is buying into incorrect readings of it, just like how they made the egg seller sing “That’s too expensive” during “Belle” when the original line is sung by this guy buying a jug.

[thearrangment-phff]

LXXII.

April 2019  

On April 23, 2019, Jean, Grand Duke of Luxembourg passed away surrounded by his family at Berg castle. There was not a dry eye in the room, even Harry who had barely known Jean two years could not hold anything back. The older man was always kind to Harry and welcomed him with open arms from the start.

Jean was holding the hand of his 8-year-old great-grandson Count Leopold de Limburg-Stirum and the little hand of his day's old great-grandson Archduke Baudouin of Austria, Prince of Habsbourg-Lorraine. Just hours later the Belgian royal family and some Belgian nobility who were related to Jean poured into Berg castle to pay their respects.

In an act of grief, Isabella clung to Harry like never before as the nieces and nephews and their families of Jean came into the room to pay their respects. Isabella was broken and Harry could not help but worry for her, especially so close to giving birth in less than a month. To a surprise, 95-year-old Archduchess Yolande of Austria, Isabella’s grandmother, had come from Belgium to pay her respects to a man she had so many connections to.  

Isabella had grasped at the aging woman for dear life and cried, even more, leaving Harry to stand awkwardly with almost everyone else embracing each other. Several seconds later Maria-Stella with her sad eyes opened her arms to him so Harry picked her up and heard the little 5-year-old sniffling.

All of a sudden Isabella was struggling to stand up and Alexander had quickly grabbed her before she fell.

“Belle are you okay?” asked Alexander.

“I think I need to sit down,” answered Isabella.

Rodolphe let his youngest son on the ground and grabbed Maria-Stella from Harry. Gabriel just walked to his grandmother, Marie Astrid, while Harry helped Isabella stand upright.  

“You should go lay down.”

“I think I do,” whispered Isabella.

Just minutes later the family had been informed about the death of Princess Gabrielle of Bavaria, Duchess of Croy who was a first cousin of Jean. Gabrielle’s mother was Princess Antonia of Luxembourg and like many in her family, she married into the Belgian nobility proving the strong connections between Belgium and Luxembourg.

When Isabella was aware of her the death of the Bavarian princess she looked directly at Harry with a haunting look, “Charlotte was right. We have faced so much death and it’s only April.”

------

Isabella and Harry were supposed to stay in Luxembourg until the funeral but Harry’s prior engagements back in London had caused him to leave Isabella alone with their twin sons. While she was in the care of her family, the constant worrying over her and their children plagued his mind. Isabella’s siblings had families of their own so Harry felt guilty to ask them to take on more.

Guillaume and Stephanie were more than happy to help Isabella out while Harry was away. Stephanie was much more than a cousin’s wife, she had Ligne blood, thus making her family by blood. Bertie and Charlie had made things more difficult when they would not leave their mother’s side.

Harry had come back to Luxembourg to find most of Isabella’s family crowded around and were whispering. Eager to join the conversation, Harry had put himself by the large computer screen.

“Harry is it true?” asked Isabella.

All the attention was now on him, “What are you talking about?”

The area was cleared so Harry could look at the American news article. These rumors have been going around since Will and Kate started dating so Harry had no reason to think they were true.

“Are they right?” asked Isabella.

“Of course they aren’t,” replied Harry.

“The Americans are reporting on this,” said Kathleen.

“They’ll report on anything even if they have to make it up.”

“If the British press is silent about this and the American media to reporting-” stated Alexander.

“Like Wallis Simpson and the Abdication crisis,” interrupted Isabella.

“Those things are not the same,” fought Harry.

“But to a certain extent it is, right?” asked Isabella.

“You’ve seen the things they write about us Isabella. You’ve seen the crazy rumors and how far they are willing to go to get some clicks on a webpage,” answered Harry.

“We should just let this go,” suggested Maria Annunciata.

“Our grandfather died and we’re sitting here like school children gossiping about two little nobodies. Move on from this,” argued Josef-Emanuel. The young man was visibly upset and his eyes red ready to let his tears out.

Marie-Astrid, Isabella’s cousin, comforted her younger brother and everyone now looked around the room in agreement, “We should move on.”

Just like before Harry, the dozens of cousins returned to their own conversations. Despite 2 years of being married to Isabella, he still felt like an outsider in her family sometimes.

Time went by and monarchies all over the world started to announce who they were going to send to the funeral of Grand Duke Jean of Luxembourg. Everyone sent out condolences and Queen Elizabeth’s was the most personal.

“Your Royal Highness,  

I was tremendously saddened to learn of the death of your father Grand Duke Jean who served your country so well and for so many years. I have very fond memories of your father, including the time he spent in the United Kingdom during the Second World War. As you know, wishing to contribute to the liberation of his country, he volunteered for the British army, serving with distinction in the Irish Guards of which he was later to become Colonel of the Regiment. In recent years, our family have joined together through the act of marriage. The ties between our two countries will be remembered just as your father has.

Your father will be greatly missed, both inside and outside Luxembourg. Prince Philip and I offer Your Royal Highness and the people of the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg our most profound condolences. Elizabeth R.”

“Are you okay?” asked Harry.

“Sorry. I just can’t stop reading it.”

“I remember your grandfather when I was younger. If you would have told me I would marry and start a family with his Habsburg granddaughter, I would have never believed it. Yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” repeated Isabella.

“He loved you so much. I know because I love you and you were his granddaughter so that should mean more,” smiled Harry.

Isabella stayed silent going over his words, “Did you say you loved me?”

“I... did.”

“Do you really mean it?”

“I do. I just never wanted to say it before because well... we are not like other people.”

“We are not,” agreed Isabella.

“We are out of order.”

-----

May 2019

The funeral of Princess Gabrielle of Bavaria, Dowager Duchess of Croy was a unique event. The princess brought together an uncommon group of royals. Princess Gabrielle belonged to a generation of dynastic royals and brought forth another kind of generation that had one noble parent and the other a royal. The dozens of Bavarian royals came to pay their respects to a granddaughter of the last Bavarian King, Ludwig III & his Habsburg wife.  

While some were in mourning, a select few were thinking of marriages between the descendants of King Ludwig III, Grand Duchess Charlotte of Luxembourg, and Emperor Charles I of Austria. Wittelsbach’s, Habsburgs, Bourbons, and almost every Belgian noble came to the tiny Chateau to pay their respects to one of the last grandchildren of the last King of Bavaria.

Most attendees left after the funeral to Luxembourg to attend the funeral of Grand Duke Jean of Luxembourg the following day. During the time everyone was getting comfortable at the Grand Ducal Palace or Berg Castle but there was also a large number of royals who had to find lodging elsewhere.

Jean, Grand Duke of Luxembourg’s funeral was both a loving and somber event. Just 2 months earlier these same royals came together for the funeral of Princess Alix. Jean’s funeral was a larger event since he was a former head of state. Isabella, like many others in her family, was left in a visibly catatonic state of mind. Harry not only had to worry for his wife but also that of his in-laws who had just lost a great man.  

“Are you sure the two of you can do this?” asked Alexander.

“We are fine Alex,” smiled Luisa Maria.

“I’m with Alexander. You just gave birth and Isabella, you give birth this month,” argued Harry.

“The walk isn’t long,” commented Isabella.

“Belle is right. We’ll be fine. We’ll be sitting down most of the time for the service anyway.”

“Shall we go?”

The two couples followed to the entrance of the Grand Ducal Palace. The immediate family of Grand Duke Jean had met at the entrance to start the procession. The front would be the children of Jean, followed by the in-law’s, and finally the grandchildren by order. Because Isabella’s was one of the youngest children of Marie Astrid she was placed in the front of the procession of grandchildren but behind her elder siblings. Following protocol, the children of Grand Duke Henri were at the front as Luxembourg princes and princess.

The children of Princess Margaretha, Prince Jean, Prince Guillaume followed by order. All 23 grandchildren followed the casket and were join by Princes Noah and Gabriel of Nassau and Count Leopold de Limburg-Stirum the eldest great-grandchildren of Grand Duke Jean. Right as they turned the corner Isabella stumbled from exhaustion and her cousin Prince Josef-Emanuel immediately grabbed her to make sure nothing happened.

Harry panicked thinking she was in labor or hurt somehow but she smiled at him showing Harry that she was alright. From that moment Isabella had Harry on her left and Josef-Emanuel on her right. They remained that way until the got to the entrance of the church. Everyone bowed to the Luxembourg army before going into the cathedral. The heavily pregnant Isabella bowed and felt a sharp pain in her stomach.

Everyone around her noticed but because of the timing, everyone had to ignore it. The service lasted about an hour to which there was a small gathering after at the Grand Ducal Palace. It was then Isabella’s pains came back and everyone knew she was going into labor at her grandfather’s funeral.  

Several hours later doctors had said they were false contractions and Isabella should remain in Luxembourg in case she does give birth. Phones calls to London explained the situation and Isabella was now forced to give birth abroad for a second time. Charlie and Bertie had born at the Chateau de Belœil in Belgium and now their third child would more than likely be born at the Grand Ducal Palace in Luxembourg.

-----

Unlike the last time Isabella was pregnant, Harry was determined to be in the room as she gave birth to their third child. Except she didn’t want anyone in the room this time. Her family and Harry had to wait outside while Isabella gave birth at Berg Castle since they were moved from the Grand Ducal Palace to avoid people. Isabella had gone into the early stages of labor while being with her grandmother.

After hours of waiting outside, one of the midwives came out of the room, “Her Royal Highness is recovering well. You all can come in and speak with her.”

Harry and Isabella’s large family hurried into the room finding Isabella holding her youngest child in her arms.

“Oh, look at the little thing! Christoph, they’re adorable.” smiled Adelaide, Isabella’s sister-in-law.

“Thank you.”

“Hurry up tell up us what is the little thing,” urged Alexander.

“Alex! That thing is a baby,” replied Gabriella.

“Well it’s a girl if anyone is wondering,” said Isabella.

“Come on now! Out with the name.”

“Her first name is Mary Astrid in honor of her grandmother and great-great-grandmother.”

“It is a great honor Belle,” cried Marie-Astrid.

“What about the rest of her names?” asked Imre.

“She is Mary-Astrid Jeanne Zita Ingeborg Josephine Christine Diana,” beamed Isabella. Less than a month ago her grandfather had died, so by adding the name Jeanne to her newborn daughter’s name was Isabella’s tribute to him.

“What about Princess? Didn’t Philippe grant them titles of nobility?” asked Yolande.

“He has spoken to me about it. The Belgian government more than likely won’t agree since to be a Belgian noble you must have precedence and live in the country,” answered Isabella.

“It’s not like one of their grandfathers isn’t going to be the next King of the United Kingdom,” spoke Alexander.

“Alex is right, Belle’s children will one day become princes and princesses and besides who really cares for that,” added Christoph.

“I don’t think we should start this conversation,” interrupted Marie-Christine.

“Agreed. Not here, not right now,” said Carl Christian.

“No, no. Maybe we should bring that up now,” said Isabella handing off her newborn daughter.

“Belle, please don’t do this. Now right now,” begged Harry.

Isabella looked into Harry’s eyes and then his hands that carried their newborn daughter. Her father and mother were carrying her one-year-old sons in their arms, “Harry’s right. This is a discussion for another time. Too many little ones in the room.”

The room was tense now but Harry thought turning the attention on their newborn daughter would make things easier. All the children in the room were trying to get picked up by one of the many adults in the rooms so they can the newest addition to the family.

“I was thinking we could have the christening after July. Give me more time to think of godparents and recover,” spoke Isabella.

“More than fair.”

“I wanted to recover at Chambord until the christening. I would love to have you all for the company, god only knows there is enough room for everyone.”

“Is it a good idea to stay in France during this time?” asked Marie Astrid.

“It would give us more time to be alone with our children,” answered Harry.

“You agreed to this?” asked Carl Christian.

“It was my idea but Isabella thought it’d be best to have family around.”

“Looks like we going to Chambord!” smiled Alexander.

“What about godparents?” asked Gabriella.

“I planned much more with Charlie and Bertie. I have no idea about that. I was barely able to finish the names for Mary Astrid… god, that doesn’t even sound real. I can’t believe she is here.”

Yolande noticed Isabella start to tear up, “Alright let’s leave the new mother alone now. She needs some bonding time with her babies now.”

“Mama, can you stay?”

“Oh of course.”

Harry was handed Bertie from Carl Christian and he looked at Isabella with teary eyes, “Sorry.”

“I don’t whether you’re crying because you have another beautiful child or the fact you have three children under one,” joked Marie Astrid.

“I thought I was barely getting enough sleep before, now I have another newborn.”

“This pregnancy went so much better than the first,” commented Isabella.

“The first is always the hardest. Your body adjusts to pregnancies after that,” explained Marie Astrid.

“The birth was much smoother this time around.”

“Harry, is something wrong?” asked Marie Astrid.

“I’m going to call your father in. I need some air.”

Harry left the room and handed his son to Carl Christian before stepping out. Everyone outside the room watched Harry leave at a fast pace before looking into the room to see Isabella still holding her newborn daughter.

Marie Christine was nice enough to close the door and give Isabella privacy.

“Did I do something wrong?” asked Isabella.

“I’m sure it finally settling in that he’s the father of three young kids. It’s a scary thought that you are now taking caring and loving another person, someone who is half of you. In his case, a wife and three little ones who right now, rely on both of you for everything,” said Carl Christian in an effort to make sure his daughter didn’t cry.

“Could you give me a moment alone?” asked Isabella.

“Of course. I’ll call Gabriella to come get Mary-Astrid.”

-----

ARCHDUCHESS ISABELLA, THE DUCHESS OF SUSSEX HAS BEEN SAFELY DELIVERED A DAUGHTER

Her Imperial and Royal Highness Archduchess Isabella, The Duchess of Sussex was safely delivered a daughter at 5:15PM.

The baby weighs 7lbs and 2 oz.

The Duke of Sussex was present for the birth at Berg Castle.

The Queen, The Duke of Edinburgh, The Prince of Wales, The Duchess of Cornwall, and members of both families have been informed and are delighted with the news.

Her Imperial and Royal Highness and her child are both doing well.

-----

Isabella spent a couple more days in Luxembourg before going back to London. Mary Astrid was introduced to the rest of the British Royal Family and was reminded that she had a foreign name and was foreign-born. Isabella had been meeting with the Queen to work more and change the direction her charity work was going.

“Belle, we have some people you should meet,” smiled Christine.

“I was just about to go visit the Queen.”

“I wanted to meet your new team.”

“My new team?”

“We found some small implications on some members of your household before Charlotte passed away. We removed them and Charlotte and I were working on finding replacements but also creating an unofficial program.”

“Program? Why wasn’t I aware of any of this?” asked Isabella.

“You were grieving and then Mary Astrid was born. We didn't want to trouble you.”

“Okay. Then tell me about this unofficial program?”

“An internship of the sorts. Given to people you know-”

“Nepotism,” interrupted Isabella.

“You are not related to these people.”

“And who are these people we are talking about?”  

“Royals. Some you may be distantly related to but most of them you don’t know.”

“So letting people who already have an advantage and give them a bigger one,” said Isabella.

“No, nothing like that.”

“And what exactly am I suppose to do with them? You realize that my household is paid for by the public and the queen and prince of wales are the ones who agreed to everyone.”

“They will simply be like ladies-in-waiting.”

Isabella was hesitant about the whole thing, “Where are they?”

“The next room.”

“Well then let’s go see them.”

Isabella walked out of the room with Christine. The drawing room was quite full with different people of all ages, some of which she did know personally.  

“Belle, these people are Princess Sophie of Hohenburg, Countess Antonia of Holstein til Ledreborg, Princess Margarete of Liechtenstein, Infanta Maria Francisca Duchess of Coimbra, Countess Marie-Gabrielle of Königsegg-Aulendorf, Archduchess Elisabeth of Austria, and Duchess Pauline of Württemberg.”

“Thank you all for coming and accepting your positions. I am honored to have your help and support during these times. Forgive me for not having enough time today but I am meeting with the queen soon.”

“Belle we be sitting down with each of you tomorrow before we make our final decision on who will stay and who will go,” explained Christine.

“I’m much nicer than that last part made me seem,” laughed Isabella.

Isabella left the room but left Christine with the women in the other room. She stopped and turned around to watch Christine whisper to Princess Sophie of Hohenberg and Countess Antonia of Holstein til Ledreborg to follow Isabella as her senior ladies replacements.

[somewheremeantforme]

10 favorite female characters

Borrowing the tag from @pythionice because creating this list was surprisingly therapeutic. Although I now want to read everything on it again.

Tagging: anyone who would like to do it, but a gentle nudge in particular to @emberglows, @ciacconas, @lantur, @muffinworry, @imthemuthafuckingcricket, and @revenantmothling. No pressure of course.

1. Robin McKinley’s Beauty: my god, this was formative. Beauty and the Beast retellings are my bread and butter; along with East of the Sun, West of the Moon, it’s my favorite fairy tale. But this Beauty - bookish, practical, waspish, kind, achingly insecure, wonderfully strong - was everything to me. I was bookish and quiet too, and I’d never met a heroine with those traits until Beauty. (Yes, Hermione Granger is a bookworm too. No, she is not quiet. I liked her, but I could never relate. Such a Gryffindor.)

2. Sandrilene fa Toren/Trisana Chandler/Daja Kisubo: Yes, this is cheating, especially because their quartet isn’t complete without their foster brother Briar Moss, but I love these kids. Separately they’re gold, but it’s when they’re together that the best of them really comes out and I fall in love all over again. This was another formative influence. I first encountered these books when I was a year or so younger than the characters, and I grew up as they did. Also, quite frankly one of the best magic systems I have ever seen.

3. Tiffany Aching: Formative influence number three! She was my introduction to Discworld, though I actually read I Shall Wear Midnight first. What can I say about Tiffany Aching that hasn’t been said a thousand times before. I could never be her, but I would willingly be her sidekick, always and forever. That speech she gets against the Fairy Queen about selfishness? Dancing with the bees? Talking down winter? Literally life-changing. I get chills to this day.

4. Jane Eyre: last of the formative influences. I met her when I was thirteen, and I frankly worshipped her the way she worshipped Miss Temple. Now we’re more like friends. This article does a great description of her: “my favorite little creep in literature.”

5. Lyra Silvertongue: I never wanted to be her - I’m far too cautious and quiet, and I like it that way - but I would love to have a daughter like her. Lyra is a name I’m seriously considering for a future daughter.

6. Emma Bovary - Emma is selfish and impractical, yes, but also so starved and lonely. What really struck me, though, is how incredibly realistically her mental illness is written - and how much Flaubert hates her for it. I don’t think I’ve ever read another book where the author both understands and hates his creation so intimately. I loved her all the harder for that, and even more since I first met her when I was just starting to recover from mental illness myself.

7. Susan Pevensie: I wanted to marry her when I was fifteen. Tumblr (and to be fair, a lot of modern writers) tends to have a pretty fraught relationship with “the Problem of Susan,” and so did I for a while. I think now my stance is what Lewis himself set out in his foreword: “one day you will be old enough to read fairy tales again.”

8. Ley from Ruin of Angels: Ley is the bad girl every sapphic dreams of. Ley is the horrible ex everyone has nightmares about. Ley is an artist. Ley is manipulative, sharp as a scalpel, secretive and ferocious. I adore her.

9. The second Mrs. De Winter. I met her in my second year of college, when I was going through a rough patch and struggling with whether to keep studying for medical school or switch to ancient history (spoiler, I switched). Meeting this painfully shy, insecure girl and watching her grow into strength was one of the best things that could have happened to me. I cried. 

(As an aside, Max de Winter is my all-time favorite literary hero, second only to Henry Tilney. If you’re reading this and you have a feeling that this is meant to push you into reading the book, it is. You know who you are.)

(Natalie, I’m sorry, but I relate to Darcy far too much to ever want to marry him. He’s all yours)

10. Tullia Minor. “Although  younger, the fiercer of the two sisters.” Encourages a man known as The Arrogant to “greater heights of daring”. Obviously she and Tarquin are made for each other, but her father arranged her marriage to the wrong brother, so she casually kills her husband and talks Tarquin into killing his wife/her sister so they can get hitched. Has three sons and goodness knows how many daughters with him. Deposes her father with him. Is the first to hail her husband as king, to which he replies (again, a man known as The Arrogant), “Please go home, I don’t want you to get hurt.” Runs her chariot over her father’s corpse in the streets. Lady Macbeth, you wish you could be this cool. I am not entirely joking when I say I got my classics degree for the sole purpose of writing a novel about her.

Bonus: Elizabeth Sloane in the film Miss Sloane. I really do not like how her character arc ended, which is why she isn’t in the list proper, but the beginning, my god. Amoral and ruthless and absolutely sharklike. We need more women like her in media. Also, I would kill for her wardrobe (hers and Lorraine Broughton’s).

Bonus 2: Astrid Dane from V.E. Schwab’s Shades of Magic. Astrid as presented in canon ticks a lot of my boxes, but is missing something to make the whole come to life. The Astrid in my head - my Astrid - owns my soul.

Bonus 3: All the women on NBC’s Hannibal. All of them. I haven't finished the first season yet so I can’t say anything more concrete, but I would marry any one of them in a heartbeat.

[lindburgsreviews]

Goodfellas Movie Review

Goodfellas was released in 1990 and was directed by Martin Scorsese. It stars Ray Liotta, Joe Pesci, and Robert De Niro and tells the true story of Henry Hill’s rise and fall in the world of organized crime. It’s my favorite Scorsese film and some people even consider it one of the best movies ever made. I watch it at least once a year around Thanksgiving and I really wanted to review it this time around. I’ll be going in to some spoilers since it was released nearly thirty years ago; but also because there is so much I want to discuss in detail. So make sure you’ve seen this one before reading further!

Maybe the reason I like to watch this movie during this time of year is because it feels like consuming a three-course meal. There’s a little bit of everything from terrific acting to brilliant writing and rich camerawork. It also has a meaty two and a half hour run time, but its well-warranted because of the expansive story spanning three different decades. Most movie fans would agree that Goodfellas is the definitive film about the mafia. This isn’t a knock against the Godfather films people also hold in high regard, but rather a compliment to how Martin Scorsese masterfully directed this movie. The mob has been romanticized in America through different forms of media over the decades especially in film, but Goodfellas succeeds in depicting a life in organized crime as realistically as possible. 

This starts with the character of Henry Hill played by Ray Liotta. Though narration breaks the unwritten rule of “show, don’t tell” in film-making, the narration by Henry Hill actually enhances the movie. It makes you feel like he’s sitting across from you telling the story as it unfolds on screen. He’s also very interesting because although he’s a despicable person who does progressively worse and worse things in the movie, he is also easy to relate to. Hill didn’t become a gangster because he was simply looking for trouble, but for a variety of different reasons that actually make sense. He had a rough home life and struggled in school. But by helping the local mob bosses with small jobs and later hits and robberies, he was able to make huge sums of money as well as gain respect (and fear) from his peers. But at the same time, you can see in scenes such as the murder of Billy Batts and Spider, he begins to question what he has devoted his entire life to. I love it when a movie or TV show challenges commonly held morals and forces the viewer to think about what makes a person good or bad. Goodfellas is a perfect example of this theme being presented and explored through an interesting character. 

It would be irresponsible of me to not mention the fantastic performances turned in by Robert De Niro as Jimmy “The Gent” Conway and Joe Pesci as Tommy De Vito. Joe Pesci famously won an Oscar as the fast-talking mobster with a temper, but Robert De Niro also deserves credit for his respective role. He’s more restrained than Joe Pesci, but he still has a lot of gravitas and is always the coolest guy on screen. Jimmy and Tommy also provide important angles to the moral question of the movie. Tommy is virtually a psychopath, killing people without remorse. Jimmy is more collected and clear-minded, but will still engage in brutal acts of violence if it means keeping mouths shuts or making some money. Seeing two men from different ends of the emotional spectrum doing the same vicious deeds makes Henry even more conflicted than he already is. Lorraine Bracco is also very underrated in this movie as Henry’s wife Karen. She’s the only innocent character in the movie and you feel for her as she unknowingly gets swept up in to a life of crime and is continually hurt by the deterioration of Henry’s humanity. 

The aesthetic of this movie is also perfect. Scorsese is famous for using a diverse variety of music for the soundtracks in his movies, and Goodfellas is no exception. Songs from the 1950′s to the late 1970′s are represented and perfectly match the tone of each scene. This movie also does a really good job showing the passage of time through the apperance of the characters and capturing the feel of each decade from set design to costumes. I love it when a movie recreates an era, especially the Americana feel of the 1950′s and 60′s just like this one does. 

In the end, Goodfellas is a legendary movie. Its entertaining from start to finish, endlessly quotable, and has a lot more depth than people realize. It also has one of my favorite closing shots to of a movie of all time with Tommy shooting a pistol in to the camera repeatedly. It pays homage to an old western, The Great Train Robbery, where a cowboy does the same thing before the credits roll (I’ll include gifs of each scene below). By including this reference, Scorsese wanted to make the point that American culture has turned the gangster in to a folk hero, almost like cowboys of the old west without realizing just how many awful things these people did. It’s details like this and provocative messages in film that I love and this one has both, and I urge anybody who enjoys movies to give Goodfellas a watch.

Rating on the Lindburg Scale: 10 out of 10

The Great Train Robbery

Goodfellas

[bearsofair]

Full interview after the cut. ↓

Let’s get the tall bit out of the way first, shall we? Gwendoline Christie is a delicate 6ft 3in tall. I say delicate because, personally, I’m always struck by how dainty the Game of Thrones superhero is. She is all fine blonde curls and flawless porcelain skin. Feminine, girly, graceful are the words that come to mind when I think of the Gwendoline I have known for several years. Gosh, we have had some fun together, this elegant outsider and me. “The world is absurd, Lorraine,” she will often observe with characteristic wry humour, “and if you can’t find it absurd, then I don’t know how you’d get through.” Indeed it is — especially when you look at it from Gwendoline Christie’s perspective. The 38-year-old actress is a composite of opposites, if such a thing exists: an introverted extrovert, a soft strength, the most conventional unconventional person I know. She’s both intellectually intense and wonderfully silly. Time spent with the ever-so-polite and well-brought-up Gwendoline is like going to a spa for your mind: it’s never ordinary, even if it is just having a cup of peppermint tea, as we are for this interview. For most of her life, mostly because of her height, Gwendoline has been on the margins of what is considered normal. From being bullied at her local village school, to the relentless fruitless auditions she didn’t ever get through, she was continually told, as she puts it, “that your outside can’t come on the inside”. How demoralising, but also, perhaps, how wonderful, because if you can overcome those cruel obstacles, you develop a rare confidence that is unbreakable. Then, one day, you wake up and deliver to the universe the gift that is Brienne of Tarth, the one woman who is everything all women want to be. I don’t need to tell you how fantastic Brienne is — the defiant medieval knight, protector of kings and queens, slayer of evil men. One scene, her infamous fight with the Hound, took two months of intense stunt training (she is still seeing a physiotherapist twice a week). It is epic, no other word for it, and even if you are not a Throner, you cannot be anything but grateful that a character like Brienne has been imagined, written and brought to life so spectacularly well. She is, to borrow a phrase, a giant step forward for womankind. “I have loved doing Game of Thrones,” Gwendoline says. Season 7, the penultimate series, has just started on Sky Atlantic. “I’ll be devastated when it finishes. I’m so proud of that part and the way the audience created a connection with the character. Brienne is a different version of what we normally see. She is not just conventionally unattractive, she is unconventionally unattractive. This part was the reason for all my acting training. In a world where we have so much access to these sexy ideals all the time, this was such a subversive role.” Amen to that. But how do you follow Brienne? Captain Phasma in Star Wars was superb, if predictable, casting, but it is the junior detective, Miranda, in Top of the Lake: China Girl, a woman who is the polar opposite of the one Gwendoline has been playing for six years, that I feel will redefine her. Ever conscious of the need to test herself as an actress (she is rigorous in her devotion to the craft and has an accomplished theatre career), Gwendoline has created a new character who is physically and mentally fragile. She has done it with the acclaimed writer and director Jane Campion, with whom she has wanted to work since she was very young. “I asked the universe then — no, I told the universe nicely — to make it come true,” she recalls, after explaining how many buses she had to take across the Sussex countryside after lying to her parents about her whereabouts and sneaking into the cinema to watch Campion’s groundbreaking 1993 film, The Piano. Miranda is a broken, vulnerable, lonely and actually comic police officer who appears in the second series of Campion’s award-winning BBC2 drama Top of the Lake, on screens now. The role was written specially for Gwendoline, and she lived in Sydney for five months while filming it. I have seen the first two gripping episodes, and you are in for a treat — it’s addictive cinematic TV at its best. Elisabeth Moss reprises her role as the steely Detective Robin Griffin to investigate the death of an Asian girl washed up in a suitcase on Bondi Beach. The Oscar winner Nicole Kidman rounds out the cast. “It feels like Jane is always subverting form,” Gwendoline says, “and that’s exciting to me. In 2008, a friend of mine offered to introduce me to her because she felt we would get on so well, but even then I couldn’t do it. When I saw she was doing Top of the Lake, I wrote her a letter — I knew I had to be in it. I can’t tell you what I said, but I kept it for 18 months before posting it. I tried to keep it short, didn’t want her to die of boredom reading it, then she emailed me back about four months after I sent it. We spoke on the phone for hours and she told me she would create a lead part for me. I asked for a challenge and Miranda is a challenge. She is constantly destabilised, she fails at everything, she is on the outside and still continues to be on the outside. This is a new story for me to tell. “It’s great to be a hero, but the reality for many of us is that we feel like we are failing all the time. We’re all trying to find ways to deal with that.” If you watch one box set this summer, watch Top of The Lake — it will give you goose bumps. Everyone is playing the opposite of the characters you expect them to be, so it’s constantly surprising — just like Gwendoline herself. I was editing Elle when we first met on the fashion front row. We got on like a house on fire: she is more than a foot taller than me, though we have the same size feet; the physical comedy of us never fails to delight. Her partner is my friend the fashion designer Giles Deacon, and Gwendoline takes getting dressed as seriously as I do. “I have always been fascinated by clothes and their transformative powers,” she says. “I was about 6ft at the age of 14 — I was enjoying the process of youth, wondering what kind of human being I would grow into, what kind of size I would be, what the dimensions would be as I grew more. “A doctor had told me I would be lucky if I stopped growing at 5ft 11in, but I thought, why stop there? I thought it was brilliant being so tall, and they were quite shocked by that response. I didn’t see what was interesting about conforming to the rule when the rule seemed nonsensical. “I read a lot of fashion magazines as a child. I was fascinated by who the stylists and photographers were. The images were captivating for me. I used to scour second-hand shops for vintage clothes, and I delighted in the different proportions of my size. It doesn’t make sense to me not to embrace being outside the norm. I don’t want to feel inhibited by anything. “I like to experiment with scale. I used to dress up a lot. My male friends would wear women’s jackets, and I would wear massively oversized things I’d found in vintage places. I really enjoy wearing men’s clothes, and often still do. I also liked the way Courtney Love dressed at the time, all those 1990s dresses, but worn with a femininity that had a violence to it. It seemed inappropriate at my height to wear such floaty dresses, so I enjoyed wearing them. I am all for drawing attention to the differences between us and not hiding from them — it is good to be spectacularly different.” When we meet, she is wearing a black Chloé dress, carrying a brown Margiela handbag. She buys mostly designer: Giles, Henry Holland, Roksanda, bits of Marc Jacobs, Miu Miu and more recently Isa Arfen. Gwendoline is a very private person, and I can see interviews are a form of torture for her. She wants to be known for her work and questions about her home life are playfully batted away with humour. It’s understandable given the level of fandom surrounding her, thanks to Game of Thrones and, of course, Star Wars. Plus, she can never hide, never be anonymous in the street; she is someone you stare at, famous or not. Last year when I interviewed Giles for a book about London designers, I asked him what kind of women he designed clothes for. Someone smart, confident in who she is, different from everyone else and happy with that, spirited, unpredictable, a woman who is fun “and looks like she would be a bit of trouble on a night out”, he told me. I think he has described Gwendoline perfectly. And, if I had my way, she wouldn’t be the outsider — we all would.

[gloriousgwendolinechristie]

Press/Video/Photos: Interview - Game of Thrones star Gwendoline Christie

From Star Wars to the new Top of the Lake, Gwendoline Christie has become a screen heroine for our times. Lorraine Candy meets the unconventional actress who embraces the joy of being an outsider

    SUNDAY TIMES STYLE – Let’s get the tall bit out of the way first, shall we? Gwendoline Christie is a delicate 6ft 3in tall. I say delicate because, personally, I’m always struck by how dainty the Game of Thrones superhero is. She is all fine blonde curls and flawless porcelain skin. Feminine, girly, graceful are the words that come to mind when I think of the Gwendoline I have known for several years. Gosh, we have had some fun together, this elegant outsider and me. “The world is absurd, Lorraine,” she will often observe with characteristic wry humour, “and if you can’t find it absurd, then I don’t know how you’d get through.” Indeed it is — especially when you look at it from Gwendoline Christie’s perspective.

  The 38-year-old actress is a composite of opposites, if such a thing exists: an introverted extrovert, a soft strength, the most conventional unconventional person I know. She’s both intellectually intense and wonderfully silly. Time spent with the ever-so-polite and well-brought-up Gwendoline is like going to a spa for your mind: it’s never ordinary, even if it is just having a cup of peppermint tea, as we are for this interview.

  For most of her life, mostly because of her height, Gwendoline has been on the margins of what is considered normal. From being bullied at her local village school, to the relentless fruitless auditions she didn’t ever get through, she was continually told, as she puts it, “that your outside can’t come on the inside”. How demoralising, but also, perhaps, how wonderful, because if you can overcome those cruel obstacles, you develop a rare confidence that is unbreakable. Then, one day, you wake up and deliver to the universe the gift that is Brienne of Tarth, the one woman who is everything all women want to be.

I don’t need to tell you how fantastic Brienne is — the defiant medieval knight, protector of kings and queens, slayer of evil men. One scene, her infamous fight with the Hound, took two months of intense stunt training (she is still seeing a physiotherapist twice a week). It is epic, no other word for it, and even if you are not a Throner, you cannot be anything but grateful that a character like Brienne has been imagined, written and brought to life so spectacularly well. She is, to borrow a phrase, a giant step forward for womankind.

  “I have loved doing Game of Thrones,” Gwendoline says. Season 7, the penultimate series, has just started on Sky Atlantic. “I’ll be devastated when it finishes. I’m so proud of that part and the way the audience created a connection with the character. Brienne is a different version of what we normally see. She is not just conventionally unattractive, she is unconventionally unattractive. This part was the reason for all my acting training. In a world where we have so much access to these sexy ideals all the time, this was such a subversive role.”

  Amen to that. But how do you follow Brienne? Captain Phasma in Star Wars was superb, if predictable, casting, but it is the junior detective, Miranda, in Top of the Lake: China Girl, a woman who is the polar opposite of the one Gwendoline has been playing for six years, that I feel will redefine her.

  Ever conscious of the need to test herself as an actress (she is rigorous in her devotion to the craft and has an accomplished theatre career), Gwendoline has created a new character who is physically and mentally fragile.

  She has done it with the acclaimed writer and director Jane Campion, with whom she has wanted to work since she was very young. “I asked the universe then — no, I told the universe nicely — to make it come true,” she recalls, after explaining how many buses she had to take across the Sussex countryside after lying to her parents about her whereabouts and sneaking into the cinema to watch Campion’s groundbreaking 1993 film, The Piano.

  Miranda is a broken, vulnerable, lonely and actually comic police officer who appears in the second series of Campion’s award-winning BBC2 drama Top of the Lake, on screens now. The role was written specially for Gwendoline, and she lived in Sydney for five months while filming it. I have seen the first two gripping episodes, and you are in for a treat — it’s addictive cinematic TV at its best. Elisabeth Moss reprises her role as the steely Detective Robin Griffin to investigate the death of an Asian girl washed up in a suitcase on Bondi Beach. The Oscar winner Nicole Kidman rounds out the cast.

  “It feels like Jane is always subverting form,” Gwendoline says, “and that’s exciting to me. In 2008, a friend of mine offered to introduce me to her because she felt we would get on so well, but even then I couldn’t do it. When I saw she was doing Top of the Lake, I wrote her a letter — I knew I had to be in it. I can’t tell you what I said, but I kept it for 18 months before posting it. I tried to keep it short, didn’t want her to die of boredom reading it, then she emailed me back about four months after I sent it. We spoke on the phone for hours and she told me she would create a lead part for me. I asked for a challenge and Miranda is a challenge. She is constantly destabilised, she fails at everything, she is on the outside and still continues to be on the outside. This is a new story for me to tell.

  “It’s great to be a hero, but the reality for many of us is that we feel like we are failing all the time. We’re all trying to find ways to deal with that.”

  If you watch one box set this summer, watch Top of The Lake — it will give you goose bumps. Everyone is playing the opposite of the characters you expect them to be, so it’s constantly surprising — just like Gwendoline herself.

  I was editing Elle when we first met on the fashion front row. We got on like a house on fire: she is more than a foot taller than me, though we have the same size feet; the physical comedy of us never fails to delight. Her partner is my friend the fashion designer Giles Deacon, and Gwendoline takes getting dressed as seriously as I do. “I have always been fascinated by clothes and their transformative powers,” she says. “I was about 6ft at the age of 14 — I was enjoying the process of youth, wondering what kind of human being I would grow into, what kind of size I would be, what the dimensions would be as I grew more.

  “A doctor had told me I would be lucky if I stopped growing at 5ft 11in, but I thought, why stop there? I thought it was brilliant being so tall, and they were quite shocked by that response. I didn’t see what was interesting about conforming to the rule when the rule seemed nonsensical.

  “I read a lot of fashion magazines as a child. I was fascinated by who the stylists and photographers were. The images were captivating for me. I used to scour second-hand shops for vintage clothes, and I delighted in the different proportions of my size. It doesn’t make sense to me not to embrace being outside the norm. I don’t want to feel inhibited by anything.

  “I like to experiment with scale. I used to dress up a lot. My male friends would wear women’s jackets, and I would wear massively oversized things I’d found in vintage places. I really enjoy wearing men’s clothes, and often still do. I also liked the way Courtney Love dressed at the time, all those 1990s dresses, but worn with a femininity that had a violence to it. It seemed inappropriate at my height to wear such floaty dresses, so I enjoyed wearing them. I am all for drawing attention to the differences between us and not hiding from them — it is good to be spectacularly different.”

  When we meet, she is wearing a black Chloé dress, carrying a brown Margiela handbag. She buys mostly designer: Giles, Henry Holland, Roksanda, bits of Marc Jacobs, Miu Miu and more recently Isa Arfen.

  Gwendoline is a very private person, and I can see interviews are a form of torture for her. She wants to be known for her work and questions about her home life are playfully batted away with humour. It’s understandable given the level of fandom surrounding her, thanks to Game of Thrones and, of course, Star Wars. Plus, she can never hide, never be anonymous in the street; she is someone you stare at, famous or not.

  Last year when I interviewed Giles for a book about London designers, I asked him what kind of women he designed clothes for. Someone smart, confident in who she is, different from everyone else and happy with that, spirited, unpredictable, a woman who is fun “and looks like she would be a bit of trouble on a night out”, he told me. I think he has described Gwendoline perfectly. And, if I had my way, she wouldn’t be the outsider — we all would.

  Top of the Lake: China Girl, Thursdays at 9pm on BBC2

  Styling: Katie Felstead. Hair: John D at Forward Artists for Tresemmé. Make-up: Stoj at Streeters using Charlotte Tilbury. Nails: Marisa Carmichael

    I’ve loaded the beautiful photo shoot in the gallery. Check it out! I should be adding the scans to the gallery later today.

    Gallery Link:

Photoshoots > Photoshoots in 2017 > Photoshoot 011

  Press/Video/Photos: Interview – Game of Thrones star Gwendoline Christie was originally published on Glorious Gwendoline

[thepdvblog]

Dandelion - Chapter 5: Watching the Orange Lilies Bloom

Dandelion Directory

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Summary: If I want to feel special, it’s not because of something I didn’t choose.

Notes: Damn, this chapter is much longer than I expected (and much longer than the rest of this story). I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. I planned it to be the end of Lakanal Arc, but I guess this won't be happening today. Oh well. More story the better, right? It doesn't have as many flowers as I wanted it to be, so expect more flowers to come soon. Also holy shit, warning for intense depictions of dysphoria in this chapter. I don't guarantee you'll have a nice time going through Flo's dark thoughts.

AO3 version available here.

His first year of college goes by peacefully, as he is passing it with flying colours. He is one of the best elements of the class, the quantity of books he reads finally paying off when it comes to Literature essays. Latin is less glorious, as he does not put much effort into it, but it still convinces the professor responsible for it to grant him the points he needs to pass the year in the end.

The almost-tranquillity allows him to perfect his fake Parisian accent and speech. He has been copying his professors ever since the year started in the scope to remove every bit of his origins as possible. He needs to erase everything he once thought he was: a low-class girl with dreams too big for her little life. Removing his Lorrain accent, the one he got commented on by a few classmates upon arriving in Lakanal, is a way for him to get rid of his filthy past. For someone who was almost homeless and in the dirt of the situation, Florian sure looks fine.

 However, the tranquillity is never whole. His dysphoria is nibbling at him any way it can through the testosterone he has set up against it. The more his body changes, the closer he gets to be himself physically and socially, the more his anxiety rises in his veins. What if someone discovers he has been faking his crotch from the beginning? What if his roommates think he is a drug addict by finding the syringe and his hormones in his bedside table? What if they all find out he is not “like the other boys”?

The more he advances, the more he gets impatient. It always feels like it is not quick enough, not soon enough. The changes are slowing down: his voice is starting to get stable, not very low but still sounding genuinely masculine, his acne outbreak is on the slow side, his silhouette includes less and less hips. His new ID card, which he has painfully received through exploiting a few loopholes, is showing the right picture and sex. Finally.

 Inside the dorm room, everyone is slowly unveiling their secrets to each other. Henri confesses he dislikes his parents and decided to live in the dorms not because it was complicated for him to go to Lakanal every morning, but because that way he would get rid of them for most of the week. Christian tells them about his strained relationships with his former classmates who decided to either attend regular college or other Parisian preparatory classes, and Sceaux was a way to escape from them. Henri struggled with depression during high school, Christian has skin diseases still preventing him from having the confidence to engage in relationships.

Florian is surprised to learn both of his roommates are single. Henri comes out to them as homosexual, thus why he is struggling to find a partner: he is afraid of homophobia, remaining mostly closeted around their classmates, having difficulties finding someone to share his life with. Christian is plagued with a previous abusive relationship leaving him feeling like a broken boyfriend, and he is taking his time to heal. Florian himself has the issue of being transgender and not open about it. Who would want that?

 At times, his hand is about to write that name he used to have instead of his on tests and homework he needs to give back, but his wrist always spasms out of it and he writes the right thing instead. His professors are aware of his shady background because he had to explain before why it was impossible to get in touch with his parents, but he knows very well this is just the tip of the iceberg. It is better if everyone remains blissfully unaware.

Honestly, I still stand by this. Nobody but my close friends and family know about it. From everyone I currently know, I can make a full list of everyone who is aware: Chris, Henri, Rox, Eudes, Lilian, Julian… and you, of course.

 He adapts to it all habit by habit. He takes off his binder on the weekend, as told by his doctors, when Christian and Henri go back home for a couple days to see their family once the test is over and everyone who actually has a place to stay in goes back to. Going “back home” has become a foreign feeling, in fact: he has not gotten a real place to call home ever since he realized his parents were going to rob him of one someday, of the one he had always known. The flat in Colombes was at best a temporary solution, his dorm room just does not feel like home because of the restrictions and public nature of it all. It just does not feel intimate, knowing someone has been there before and that someone will be there after, every year, until the end of this dorm room.

He gets used to living on the weekend entirely on his own. He takes advantage of the breakfast on Saturday mornings and the dinner Sunday evenings the dorm’s cafeteria serves as two actual meals he does not have to worry about. The rest is split between groceries stocked in his closet and ready-to-eat lunches he can buy here and there. After all, it is a rare moment of almost complete serenity, the dorm barely inhabited during the weekends and especially the school holidays they get. It would be a waste of an opportunity not to profit from the odd silence.

 As such, his first year of college is split between a few different types of days. There are the class days, the presentation days, the weekend days and, most of all, the mock exam days. They are especially exhausting and, well, his weekend job does not make it easier. By the end of December and May’s mock exam sessions, he is glad to know he will be able to sleep off exhaustion once his Sunday shift is finished. The professors look either sympathetic or downright condescending whenever they stare at him and his dark rings during presentations, stuck between admiring a young boy’s efforts to maintain himself afloat in a difficult condition and despising the mere thought of a student of his kind having this piss-poor of a situation in the first place.

I’m pretty sure this would be called “classicism” in today’s times, but back then, we had no word for it. Perhaps I should have gone against these judgements, but it wasn’t really worth the added effort.

 And yet, Florian rises to the top of the class. His readings from high school to ignore the hard truth of his life and the way he winds up after shifts pay off. Serious, disciplined, mature, remembering easily, always open to criticism despite how hard it can get. He is defined as a model student on his semester bulletins, despite rising concern about how tired he looks. Most of them point out a lack of personality: a solid A-student, but without the punch needed to get into the prestigious ENS of Ulm Street.

I think it was the ever-growing idea that I was too bland and expectable at the entry exam that pushed me even further. My second semester’s appreciations were already more in my favour on that field, even if they kept pointing even more at a poor physical, and perhaps mental, condition. They weren’t wrong.

 The first year of college ends in a hot summer season, at the end of June. It is saddening for the three roommates to leave each other’s company next year. After all, it has a surprising good experience to him: he feels understood and respected, although privacy was scarce and limited on the weekends. When filling his dorm papers for next year, he gets asked by Christian and Henri if he would mind being with them another year. The usually secretive Florian answers with an overwhelmingly happy cry, an “of course I don’t!” his soul pours into his mouth.

It is just a goodbye. They promise to spend time together next year, even if they do not share the same room next year, as they put away their own belongings and leave with the help of their families. Christian has his siblings, Henri has his newly-found boyfriend and younger sister. Roxanne has come to help him too, but because of traffic jams in the region, he is left all alone for a few hours in the almost-empty room.

He feels empty too, now, but he shakes his head and think of summer.

 The summer break goes by in a heartbeat. This time, Florian has found himself a better holiday job for the next two months: instead of being a cashier, he is helping at a library during regular employees’ vacations. Being surrounded by old and newer books feels like paradise. People call him the right way: even if it would get old for anyone but him, the way mothers tell their children “Say thank to the boy right there!” or ask him “Excuse me sir, could you help me with something please?” makes him swoon on the inside. Perhaps the badge he wears on his shirt, given to him to signal the clients he is a helper at the library and not just a student reading something there, is also giving this out.

The fact he works there also allows him to read during his breaks and study right after work is done on the books for the next year. It almost feels like home, when he has to rent a flat for two months because Lakanal’s dorm closes for the two-month break. The other staff members are kind and helpful, giving him advice for his student life inside and outside of school, express how they are going to miss him and how much they would love to see him visit them from time to time if he ever has the opportunity to do so. Among these tips are some about reducing the cost of life, mostly about groceries.

 Despite the happiness he feels when working at the library, his summer break is also reminding him of what he has postponed for most of the school year: his medical appointments. Aside from the therapist he sees every month on a Saturday afternoon, he has to go to a few other specialists and doctors. Included in these is his gynaecologist, the very symbol of his condition.

The very idea of having to see a gynaecologist and not a proctologist is making him nauseous. Every time he puts a foot inside that waiting room, with its pinkish-purple chairs and pastel blue linoleum floor, he feels sick and out of place. It reminds him something is wrong inside of him, something he wants to get rid off but does not have the funds to go through with it. Since he has to wait, he remembers the sentence his Latin professor always tell them and which he cannot deny but applies to so many elements in his life: abstinere et sustinere, “abstain and endure”. He breathes in, breathes out and wait.

In itself, waiting for the gynaecologist to take him in for his appointment should not be this difficult. After all, it is easy to wait for anything as long as he has a fascinating book to read and take notes on. Usually, in a waiting room like this, he reads casually, with no notes taken. However, this is not any waiting room: it is a waiting room that asphyxiates him. He is surrounded by pregnant women, single or accompanied, all speaking among themselves about pregnancy, how many pregnancies they’ve had before this one, commenting on pregnancy-themed posters on the walls, complaining about pregnancy-related issues. And this is always the last streak before Florian feels like crying, rushing to the men’s bathroom to spill tears.

 “Young man,” one of these women asks him this year, “what brings you here?”

She is rubbing her stomach. He feels nauseous again.

“When there’s a boy this young here, it’s to accompany his girlfriend. Where’s yours?” a second woman adds.

He tries not to stare at them in disgust, hides his uneasiness behind a façade.

“Perhaps she’s in the bathroom,” the first woman says, realizing he is alone at the moment.

Florian hesitates on either lying, considering the opportunity given to him, or tell the truth. They arrived after him: he was on page two-hundred-and-five when he arrived, on page two-hundred-and-forty-two when they did. They will know the gynaecologist will not call for any girl, but for a “Florian Moinot”. Maybe he will see them again.

“I’m… I’m here for myself,” he replies earnestly, ready to delve back into his book and pray the MP3 player in his pocket his roommates bought him for his birthday works properly.

 The two women stare at him as if he has just said some irrational nonsense. To be fair, they have probably never met someone like him, someone with the wrong genitals having to suffer the consequences of having these. He is just “a man with a vagina”. This is not too difficult to comprehend, right?

“How come?” the second woman asks, either fascinated or disgusted.

“I just need to…?” he sputters back, hoping the doctor is going to call him in soon.

The first woman almost glares at him, eyes squinting shut enough to seem like they are analysing his entire body.

“Oh, then you can have kids too, right?” she says, a smirk creeping its way on her face as her eyes fixate on his abdomen.

“I wish my man could do that. It’d be easier,” the other woman comments with a similar glance.

 A sudden wave of nausea takes a hold of him, from his unwanted parts to his mouth, eyes watering beyond reason, glasses blurring. Those women are sickening, vile and disgusting. What they said was wrong to the point of bringing him to the limits of bearable dysphoria. He feels lightheaded from all the thorns suddenly appearing all over his body, squeezing the air out of his chest as if his binder was suddenly too tight. He hates getting reminded of all of this mess. He wants to be a normal boy. He wants to be anywhere but the one place to remind him of how bad this all is.

The door opens.

“Florian Moinot?” a masculine voice calls for.

If he could have, the boy would have taken the hand and ran with it.

 Why I feel like this should be told? I know this sounds very cliché and unnecessarily overblown, but I also feel like this needs to be said. I want people not to look at us and think, “oh, this person has the wrong set of genitals, that means they can do this thing and it’ll be exotic!”. It needs to get out there. I want it to get out there and spread the right information.

The discomfort of this visit made me realize something: I’d never be fully safe from being thought off as “exotic” or “special” by people who didn’t understand what it felt to be me. Despite all the supportive people I’ve known in my life, it’s always these two women who come to my mind whenever I get asked why I’m not openly transgender. This is why.

If I want to feel special, it’s not because of something I didn’t choose.

 He gets his driver’s license, but he does not have a car, so he just slips the little piece of pink paper in his wallet and hope to get a car soon enough, probably used, probably after he is out of khagne class. He lands a small job as a cashier again in a small shop near the school on weekends. His library job is too far for him to get it again just for days where he does not have classes, but he still knows it is better than having no money on hand.

This all feels like the “adult life” the teachers were speaking about in high school. The life they would not want later, why they should be enjoying being young and free, if not just to stop complaining about the lack of freedom given to teenagers more and more aware of the liberties of adults. Turning eighteen was an Eldorado to reach back then: the possibility to own a car, drink alcohol, buy whatever they wanted, partying hard and maybe vote.

 Inside his temporary place to call home again, yet another flat he will forget about next year, he feels like he has matured too quickly. He is merely nineteen and he senses most of his classmates are still happily unaware of how difficult living on their own can be. He cannot blame them: in fact, he envies them. He, too, wants to come home to a loving family on the weekend and being able to hug someone instead of a plushie he has kept ever since he was a child. No matter how much he loves Soleil, a pastel brown stuffed rabbit with a sunflower clipped to her left ear, she will never have the human heat of a sibling, a parent, a friend could have.

Roxanne is too far, Juliette even further, Lilian has stopped responding and all his college friends are now on vacation, so Florian just crashes onto his bed after work and tries not to cry from the loneliness. He will just satisfy himself with the relationships he has with temporary workmates, hoping it will be enough.

It wasn’t enough.

 The issue is, when he gets lonely like this, his mind often loops through negative thoughts. Studying all the books for next year, reading essays, writing notes and scribbling hearts whenever he likes something, working at the library, staring at himself in the mirror and realizing he will never be a “real boy” unless he seriously mans up in the eyes of an unforgiving society. He cries in his bed, whenever there is no author or thesis to be thought about and all is left is the toxic cocktail of solitude, blank-page syndrome and dysphoria.

There was always this part of me who was screaming to be soft and feminine in a time where I couldn’t afford being so. I would use being in a literary field as an excuse to be feminine, to excuse it to myself in a way I could brush off the feeling of “you’re not manly enough” as just societal codes. It really was society’s gender roles speaking against me, against the type of boy I was. In these moments, I almost thanked dysphoria for reminding me I was an actual man: just not a manly-man like so many people would want to be.

 In an attempt to calm down, Florian thinks of how far he has come ever since he realized it. He went from a girl not getting taken seriously, ignoring his true nature, to someone actually gendered correctly most if not all of the time. Moving to Sceaux, trading everything for something else, changing social spheres helped with it: his current classmates and professors have not known her at all. To them, he has never been her. To them, he has always been Florian; and that is what should matter beforehand. Not the past, but the present and the future.

He stares at his medical papers, disguised bills, as he calculates his August spending to determine a better trajectory for September. He has refused freezing his eggs before starting HRT a year ago: looking at a reminder of that is pleasing in a way he cannot describe properly. He gets reminded he needs to get some parts removed if he does not want hormone disbalance in three years at most. He does not have the money to afford it, so he writes it on a special diary he has kept hidden from anyone but Roxanne.

I almost threw the diary away, once I was finished with most surgeries, if not all. Yet, I kept it because you told me it would matter whenever I would feel like I’ve not made any progress. You were right. It is a keepsake for all these times of despair I’ve overcome.

 When the summer break ends, Florian is sure he is the only one happy to go back to school, as he tidies up his belongings again, ready to move back into the dorm and perhaps, just perhaps, find himself grouped with Christian and Henri in the same room. Books under the arm, head full of idealistic thoughts about the year to come and the end of his pitiful loneliness, he enters Lakanal’s campus with a smile and finds himself strangely, yet warmly, happy to see what is a prison to so many of his classmates.

To the happy few.

[jenmedsbookreviews]

Today it is my absolute pleasure to welcome the fabulously lovely Lorraine from The Book Review Cafe to the blog to share her #bookloves. I love Lorraine’s blog and she is a totally wonderful lady and supportive book blogger too. Here is a little more about the lady herself.

About Lorraine

My name is Lorraine and I love books and coffee so there was only one thing to call my blog. I love reading and always have a book or my kindle in my hand, and more often than not a cup of good coffee. I especially enjoy reading Crime and psychological thrillers and these are the books I mostly review on my blog.

I started my blog in late August 2015 when I was off work after suffering an injury at work, I was bored one day and decided to start up a book blog. I never really thought about where my blog would lead, and never in a million years did I think any one would end up reading it, let alone follow me! or that I would be in contact with some of my favourite authors

I work full time so my life is pretty hectic, but I always find time to read and review books, although I do get frustrated that I am unable to read as much as I would like. My dream job would be reading and reviewing books from home with a cup of coffee in my hand (not sure if such a job exists, but I did say dream job!)

You can follow Lorraine on Twitter, Facebook and on her brilliant blog The Book Review Cafe.

Childhood Sweetheart Favourite book from childhood

It would have to be the Ladybird books especially the well loved tales series. I used to read them time and time again, and years later I read them to my son. Every time I see a Ladybord cover I get all nostalgic.

First love The first book you fell in love with

I would have to say the Peter and Jane reading books (the more mature readers cough, cough! will remember these.) I learnt to read using these books and from then on I just read and read! Again every time I see one of these books I get all nostalgic.

Biggest book crush The book character you’re totally in love with

Hmmmm I’m not sure I’ve ever had a book crush on a character, does that make me weird? Now you’ve really got me thinking here I guess the closest I’ve gotten to a crush is Edward Cullen from the Twighlight series.

Weirdest book crush Well… duh

Again very different to my normal reads but I absolutely loved the Vampire Academy series by Richelle Mead, there were six books in the series and I read them back to back, I became obsessed with all things vampire 😂

Hardest break up The book you didn’t want to end

The Mountain In My Shoe Louise Beech I soooo loved this book it has so many elements that made it such a special read, characters, settings, the attention to detail, the workings of the foster system all make this book something extra special. Louise Beech describes both characters and settings with such conviction the pages of this story come to life, and it really was a book that I didn’t want to end.

The one that got away The book in your TBR or wish list that you regret not having started yet.

Sealskin by Su Bristow I really need to read this book, as I have only ever read glowing reviews about this book and it sounds very different to my usual type of read.

Secret love Guilty Reading pleasure

As any one who follows my blog will know I’m a huge crime and psychological thriller love and I would say 98% of the books I read fit this genre, but every now and then when I get fed up with serial killers and twists I always turn to the awesome Christie Barlow her books aren’t just your usual RomCom this author provides the reader with so much more, her books have hidden depth, the dialogue is refreshing and superbly written and her characters are so well developed they feel like old friends by the time you reach the end of one of her books.

Love one, love them all Favourite series or genre

You can’t beat a great crime series but there are so many that deserve a mention Robert Bryndza, Chris Carter, Angela Marsons, Peter James I could go on and on here…..they’ve all written fabulous series and all very different to each other. I’m a sucker for a good crime series

Your latest squeeze Favourite read of the last 12 months

A Suitable Lie by Michael J Malone I absolutely loved this book I wasn’t sure what I expected but this book blew me away. The author has written a book that is both profound and insightful and brings a very little talked about subject into the open. I don’t feel comfortable saying I enjoyed this book considering the subject matter, what I will say is it’s beautifully written, heartbreaking and very realistic.

Blind date for a friend If you were to set a friend up with a blind date (book) which one would it be?

It’s got to be Behind Her Eyes by Sarah Pinborough the book with #WTFthatending, it’s a book that seriously messes with your head, and I love that it’s one that can be hugely debated as you either love or hate the ending.

Greatest love of all Favourite book of all time.

I would probably have to say Papillion by Henri Charrière, as it’s one of the few books I’ve read again and again. It’s an autobiographical novel about a man who in 1931 was charged with killing someone and he was sentenced to a life of hard labor at a penal colony in French Guiana. Fascinating stuff!

…

Thanks Lorraine. Some brilliant choices in there but then I am eually as obsessed with all things crime and thriller so that’s probably not much of a shock now is it ;). You absolutely must read Sealskin. I think you’ll love it. And I remember the Peter and Jane books very well. Of course they were clearly a hand me down from my much older siblings …

What do you think folks? Agree with Lorraine’s choices. Was Behind Her Eyes your Marmite book? I personally loved it. What did you think?

Do join me next week when I’ll have more #booklove to share, this time from Louise Walters and Abbie Rutherford.

Have a brilliant weekend all

JL

#BookLove: Lorraine Rugman @ReviewCafe Today it is my absolute pleasure to welcome the fabulously lovely Lorraine from The Book Review Cafe to the blog to share her #bookloves.

[writemarcus]

James Baldwin's “I Am Not Your Negro” And The Revival Of The Black Arts Movement

by realmarcusscott

Community Contributor

The writing of civil rights icon and literary titan James Baldwin has recently experienced a renaissance, but recent media attention could also be signaling a revival of black thought.

In a televised interview with psychologist Dr. Kenneth Bancroft Clark, writer and social critic James Baldwin appeared in “The Negro and the American Promise,” alongside then-polarizing civil rights activists Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. and Minister Malcolm X to discuss race relations in the U.S. The New York Times would later describe the 1963 broadcast (itself the product of Boston public television producer Henry Morgenthau III) and particularly Baldwin’s segment, as “ television experience that seared the conscience.” Given the zeitgeist, whilst viewing Raoul Peck’s climacteric 2016 documentary film “I Am Not Your Negro,” the heart-pounding anxiety in Baldwin��s words in that interview seem to reverberate like an atomic bomb in an echo chamber.

“That’s part of the dilemma of being an American Negro; that one is a little bit colored and a little bit white, and not only in physical terms but in the head and in the heart, and there are days -- this is one of them -- when you wonder what your role is in this country and what your future is in it. How, precisely, are you going to reconcile yourself to your situation here and how you are going to communicate to the vast, heedless, unthinking, cruel, white majority, that you are here? And to be here means that you can’t be anywhere else,” Baldwin said. He continued. “I’m terrified at the moral apathy -- the death of the heart which is happening in my country. These people have deluded themselves for so long, that they really don't think I’m human. I base this on their conduct, not on what they say, and this means that they have become, in themselves, moral monsters. It's a terrible indictment -- I mean every word I say.”

What makes Raoul Peck’s “I Am Not Your Negro” an essential viewing on par with, say, “13th,” Ava Duvernay’s incendiary documentary about race and mass incarceration? Based on 30 completed pages of James Baldwin’s final, unfinished manuscript Remember This House and narrated by actor Samuel L. Jackson, Peck’s award-winning documentary truly shines when there is more emphasis on archival footage than the words of Baldwin’s partial script due to his death from stomach cancer at 63 in 1987. Peck spends considerable time highlighting celebrities and literary luminaries of the time who were active during the African-American Civil Rights Movement (1954–1968). Including found footage of glitterati such as Harry Belafonte, Marlon Brando, Sidney Poitier, Sammy Davis, Lorraine Hansberry, and diverging political activists like Charlton Heston. In his directing, Peck appears to make a clear and concise distinction between artists of the 1960s and the contemporary artists of the iPhone generation. But that’s about it. The film progresses at a crawl when it delves into poetics, as Samuel L. Jackson tries to capture the color of the fallen literary titan.

That is in no way a kiss-off of one America’s Greatest Writers, nor of Mr. Jackson’s work as actor, but a reflection on Peck, whose work on the film inspires more questions of interest around Baldwin, his politics and his bibliography. Footage where Baldwin takes center stage and articulates American imperialism is more appealing and more profound than Peck’s reimagining of Baldwin’s last words. But perhaps, that’s unfair. After all, Baldwin casts a tall shadow. Marking the 30th Anniversary of his death, Baldwin’s influence continues to towers over the Afropunk collective, the Black Lives Matter international activist movement, and what appears to be a revival of the Black Arts Movement via TV, film, modern art and of course, on the proscenium stage.

In Fall 2016, his influence saturated the DNA of genre-bending musicals like Stew’s The Total Bent (which he co-wrote with Heidi Rodewald and his band, The Negro Problem) and Party People by UNIVERSES, both performed at the Public Theater. Shortly after those shows ended, the year was capped off with Can I Get a Witness? The Gospel of James Baldwin by neo-soul progenitor Meshell Ndegeocello’s Afrofuturistic concert-sermon at Harlem Stages. Each one of these gems tackled contemporary issues (Trump and a divided Capitol Hill, Standing Rock, refugee crisis, domestic terror) while grappling with the state of white America, race relations, anti-blackness and the nature of protest and revolt. In a way, Baldwin’s body of work became what he accused militant Pan-African human rights activist Malcolm X of doing during that interview with Dr. Kenneth Bancroft Clark: “He corroborates their reality; he tells them that they really exist. You know?”

It’s no wonder why black songwriter-storytellers, especially those who have infiltrated the New York City theatre constituency and openly challenge the white hegemony of musical theatre, worship at the altar of Baldwin. The politics of his message—at odds with the militancy of Huey P. Newton and The Black Panthers, the political boondoggle that plagued Julian Bond and John Lewis of SNCC, the black supremacy movement of Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam—is an earth-shattering, life-and-death kiss-off to the whole establishment while appraising the perils of every black life in a system engineered and fueled by America’s white supremacist patriarchy.

Baldwin’s worldview was equidistant of two polarizing ideological extremes: A pariah of the integrationist wing of the Civil Rights movement, Baldwin believed in a unified America and agreed in the establishing peace through the nonviolent resistance of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his SCLC disciples. But he also believed equally in the deep-seated Pan-African radicalism of Malcolm X. Both incensed black intellectuals, unlike King, Baldwin and Malcolm X were unwilling to were to wait for white society to “solve” The Negro Question, and felt the dominant white culture in America was too toxic for black people and other people of color, considering the effects of systemic and institutional racism. In “The Fire Next Time,” his nonfiction objet d'art, Baldwin wrote: “Things are as bad as the Muslims say they are -- in fact, they are worse... There is no reason that black men should be expected to be more patient, more forbearing, more farseeing than whites; indeed, quite the contrary.”

For newcomers to the work of Baldwin, this may seem disorienting and discombobulating, but that is also what elevates his writing into the upper echelons of American writers. When L.A. musician Mark Stewart, better known as Stew, penned his genre bending semi-autobiographical 2008 rock musical Passing Strange—produced with the support of the Sundance Institute and The Public Theater—the book was purely inspired by Baldwin’s tesseract-warping writing style. Not only did the musical references the New Negro of the Harlem Renaissance, but one its central motifs involved the praise of black artists like Baldwin and Josephine Baker, who expatriated to Paris, France. Shortly after the closing of The Total Bent, in September 2016, Stew reported that he has begun to workshop a song cycle, Notes of a Native Song, inspired by Baldwin’s similarly titled 1955 non-fiction novel.

Other writers have also felt the effects of iconic writer: Pulitzer Prize winner Suzan-Lori Parks studied under Baldwin, who encouraged her to write for the stage and described her as “an utterly astounding and beautiful creature who may become one of the most valuable artists of our time.” Ending her post as a Residency One playwright for Signature Theatre Company this year, the various productions cherry-picked from Parks’ extensive bibliography echo Baldwin’s poetics. There’s also director-playwright Kwame Kwei-Armah. In Dr. Lynette Goddard’s “Contemporary Black British Playwrights: Margins to Mainstream,” Kwei-Armah explained that his plays mirror the ‘diasporic, black politics” influenced by the writings of Amiri Baraka and Baldwin. Journalist-author Ta-Nehisi Coates’s 2015 book, Between the World and Me, was inspired directly by Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, and lest we forget, the same book of essays also inspired the Fire This Time Festival, which has become a launch pad for early-career playwrights of African and African American descent. Diverse artists are also taking inspiration from Baldwin, like Pulitzer-winning Puerto Rican playwright Quiara Alegría Hudes, who wrote the book for the musical Miss You Like Hell, with help of her outrage in the post-election period and Baldwin’s poetry.

In a neoreactionary zeitgeist contaminated by Breitbart News-quoting white nationalist right-wing populists, and the ever-present tinges of anti-blackness, xenophobia, fear of immigrants, anti-feminism, proliferating ableism, and rampant homophobia and transphobia, Baldwin’s work may not only be the beacon of a Black Arts Movement revival, but a war cry for all diverse artists. To put it simply, Baldwin was a futurist. His genius—highlighted by unpatrolled mordant wit, piquant rue, spill-the-tea élan and unparalleled black boy voodoo—is a master class of artistry; regardless of context, his writing accentuates and deliberates not only the consistent struggle of black people but all of the colonized English-speaking nations of the world. Woah!

Contemporary artists have big shoes to fill. But given the state of the nation, we’re in good hands. Rest in power, Mr. Baldwin.