#pre-1894

[nthspecialll]

Arthur's love stories and the overlap

I need a cannon story line pre game, specifically because I want to know how Eliza and Mary connects since their timeline makes little sense... Unless.

When Arthur talks about Eliza he says "he was such a sweet kid, she was too I guess," hinting at the fact that he did not see her as a kid when they were together, meaning he was either around those 19 years as well or younger.

There is also a dialouge where Arthur compares issac to Jack so we can assume Isaac was around four years old as well when he died.

I can follow this far. That would mean they met sometime around 1882, five years later 1887, they die, that would place Arthur at 24 years old.

But now I question when Mary comes in, because they met at "an early age," the majority of people even say when they were teenagers. I would definately say that compared to the fact Arthur is 36 in 1899, 24 years old is not that early.

Also he does not look 24 years old. (Personal opinion)

Now we could go ahead and maybe say Mary was first, it would match with the fact that he was young and it would match with the fact that they hadn't seen each other for a bit, but now we face another problem.

Abigail knows Mary, all the camp girls does (except Sadie) and Abigail joined in 1894. Jamie also knows Annabelle and Bessie whom have been dead a while.

(Added!) Abigail does not just seem to have heard about Mary, but also seen her from this dialogue she can have with Arthur "I remember you and Mary used to play dominos together" "Yeah" "I always liked her."

Isaac and Eliza has also been dead a while, meaning it couldn't have just happened withinthe last couple of years.

Now with none of the time lines matching up, I do think he slept with Eliza while "courting" Mary. Back then courtship took forever and it was a process that included parental agreement and with the heavy purity culture and the fact that loyality was only really seen as something after marriage, I don't see why he should not.

(Tags: @pinescent-and-gingerbread @photo1030)

[uwmspeccoll]

It’s Fine Press Friday! 

Today we’re leaning into the drama with a 1910 edition of Poems from notorious bohemian and (unofficial) Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (PRB) member Christina Rossetti (1830-1894). This vellum covered, gilt stamped, 369-page tome was printed on Unbleached Arnold paper by the Villafield Press in Glasgow and published in limited run of 350 copies in London by Blackie & Son under the art direction of Talwin Morris. It features a praiseful yet cutting introduction from fellow poet, critic, and suffragist Alice Meynell (1847-1922) along with a wealth of illustrations (70 plates) by Florence Harrison (1877–1955) , an Australian illustrator of poetry and children’s books who worked extensively with Blackie & Son. Harrison’s style was inspired by the Romantic Era and the nature-worshipping, hedonistic values of the Art Nouveau and Pre-Raphaelite movements of the time. Fittingly, she also illustrated the works of fellow PRB poets William Morris (1834-1896) and Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892).   

While many of the poems included are overtly devotional and express themes of purity, motifs of romantic love, limerence, melancholy, and death permeate the mood of the text as a whole. The Rossetti family, particularly Christina’s brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) (poet, illustrator, painter, translator, and co-founder of the PRB) and Elizabeth Siddal (1829-1862) (artist, iconic art model, poet, and Dante’s longtime partner, muse, and eventual wife), are known for their exploits, excesses, creative legacy and influence on the culture of the era. Christina published her first poem at only 16, and Siddal posed for Millais's Ophelia at 19. The radical, passionate nature of the philosophies and lifestyle they embodied was as much a product of the intensity and privilege of their youth as of the Renaissance ideals and Victorian mores they rebelled against.   

For a deeper dive on the Rossettis and their generation, check out this recent exhibition at the Tate Modern.  

View another Christina Rossetti post

View another Dante Gabriel Rossetti post

View another Pre-Raphaelite post

View more Art Nouveau posts

--Ana, Special Collections Graduate Intern

[solitablvd]

Se Nos Acabó El Ratito

**Minors DNI**

Pairing: Javier Escuella x Female Reader

Parte 2 & Parte 3

Summary: “I came to America because I killed a man in México. A powerful man. I knew if I stayed, everyone I love would die. I ran, not for my life, but for theirs." ** In 1894, you are the wife of General Velasco, a powerful figure in the Mexican Army. One fateful night in Punta Orgullo, you cross paths with Javier Escuella.

Warnings: pre-video game, eventual smut, headcannon asf, more tags to come, romantic Javier idc, female reader

Word Count: 4k

AO3 Link

Parte 1:

Punta Orgullo, Nuevo Paraíso, México 1894

El amor, como una rosa, tiene espinas.

That’s what you always said— love, like a rose, has thorns.

Until you met him. Javier. The name alone could make your head spin.

You met him under the stars, amidst the sound of joyous music. You had snuck off into the night, hoping to catch a glimpse of normalcy.

Far away from the agave fields and into the deep night, you found life. Your very own treasure awaited just down the hill from your home, at the heart of Punta Orgullo — a small pueblo by the name of Escalera.

You kept your head down and veiled by a long mantilla. The music filled the small plaza, and you marveled at the resilience of a community that could face so much hardship in the day, but still find moments of joy in the night.

With your back against a wall, you watched the people dance. That’s when he approached you.

His eyes were knowing. He wore a well-maintained baby blue charro suit with golden accents that reminded you of the clear sky on a sunny day. His hair, though mostly concealed by his matching sombrero, peeked through, framing his elegant features and neatly tied in a small ponytail.

"Excuse me," he said, a hand resting on his belt and the other holding a lit cigarette. He put it out with a flick, letting it fall to the ground before snuffing it out under his boot as he drew nearer. Removing his sombrero, he held it to his chest and gave a short bow as a sign of respect before continuing, "I noticed you from across the plaza. I haven’t seen you here before."

“Ah, yes.” You kept your head down, your mantilla shining brightly under the pale moonlight, “This is my first time in the plaza,” you admitted softly.

“Well,” He began, a gentle smile forming on his lips, “would you care for a dance?”

You looked at him with contemplation. The faint scars on his face told stories; a man with a history. His eyes held truth, but more importantly virtue. Would he be asking if he knew you were General Velasco’s wife? The trophy wife of a powerful man so disgustingly corrupt that the mere thought of it sent a stabbing pang through your stomach.

Noticing you were stuck in thought, Javier bent over, using his sombrero to pretend to sweep the sandy floor at your feet. A playful glint danced in his eyes as he then extended his hand in invitation, “One dance. Just one.”

You couldn’t hold back from smiling sincerely at his charming gesture. Unsure of what was to come, you took a leap of faith and accepted. With your hand placed delicately in his, he led you to the swirling crowd of dancing bodies at the center of the plaza.

As you danced slowly, he whispered sweet lyrics of the boleros into your ear. He held you close and tenderly. The two of you danced as if you had known each other forever. In his arms you felt alive.

When the night drew to a close, Javier, in his ever so gentlemanly fashion, insisted he walk you home. His persistence was admirable, but it was then, under the blanket of stars, that you confessed you didn’t reside at the lower levels of the small pueblo. Rather, you lived in the grand villa at the top of the hill, surrounded by other haciendas where only the grossly powerful and corrupt resided.

You feared he might feel betrayed, but he looked at you silently and thoughtfully before gently taking your hand and walking you home anyway. You told him everything about your arranged, loveless marriage. He told you about his mother, sister, and even about his life as a bounty hunter. Under the night sky your fingers remained interlocked as you snuck up the trail to your home.

He helped lift you atop the white stone wall that surrounded the villa. As you sat on the wall looking down at him, he removed his sombrero once more, this time taking out a singular red rose.

“This is for you.” He whispered, extending the rose up to you. You took it delicately, the rose was unarmed, as if he carefully snipped each thorn off one by one.

Just like his love for you from that point on, sin espinas.

You saw him twice a month after that. As ironic as it was, you’d pray just to find a chance to sneak off from your home and find him. You found solace in his presence.

It had been months since that fateful day, yet here you were, still in the confines of the villa.

In the courtyard you continued to tend to the plants, using the large clay pitcher to carefully water the greenery as you overheard your husband— General Alejandro Velasco’s — conversation. He was standing beside the large center courtyard fountain with whom you recognized to be Capitán González.

They ignored you, but you preferred it that way, it gave you the opportunity to listen in.

"Then find them, drag them out there and make them work. They don’t get to make demands." Velasco's voice was filled with fire. He had been growing more and more frustrated with the lack of complete obedience from the people of Punta Orgullo.

"They need to feel our presence. I want patrols doubled in the village. No one walks alone. Any whispers of revolt must be silenced immediately.” He demanded.

Your breathing hitched with his words, but you remained composed. As demands for fair wages and better treatment among the workers and general public intensified, military presence in all of Punta Orgullo had only grown heavier. As word of revolution began, Velasco’s iron fist seemed to grow heavier as he tried to ‘maintain order’ as he put it.

“I can have Cabo Diego and a few others find out who’s starting these whispers.” González replied dutifully.

“Yes. Find them.” Velasco approved, “It’ll be an example for the rest.”

González nodded firmly before turning to depart the gate of the villa and head out into Escalera.

Velasco turned to you, knowing you had been listening in, and cleared his throat to get your attention, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?” You prompted casually not taking your eyes off the foliage before you.

He sighed heavily, the medals on his suit jingled lightly as he stepped closer, “Look, they’re going to get more aggressive. These are not people we can have conversations with. Rebellion is a disease. I have to put an end to it early.” He placed an arm on your shoulder, willing you to understand. You looked back at him with contempt before subtly shrugging off his touch.

“I’m going to tend to the horses,” was your terse reply before you turned and walked towards the main headquarters of your home. Velasco made no move to follow; this conversation had become all too familiar.

You changed your dress into one more suitable to blend in with the outside world and draped your long mantilla over your head before heading out towards the stables. As you arrived you scanned the area, ensuring no one would be the wiser as you took a detour towards pueblo.

Entering the lower levels of Escalera, you kept your gaze low, luckily the soldiers seemed preoccupied with other matters. Down the white, sandy road you could see two men being grabbed by soldiers and thrown onto the ground. They wore the garments of those who worked in the agave fields, but typically they would be working until the sunset.

Maneuvering expertly through the alleys, you made your way to the pulga.

The pulga was unique in that it was almost a sanctuary free from military surveillance. The gatherings in the plaza that were once joyous events free from soldiers, were rare now that the military had begun to focus on “maintaining order” as they called it. However, they never bothered to stop the pulga as it was the means for a lot of people to live.

The instant aroma of baked bread and leather goods hit you as you entered. Colorful textiles hung from the different vendor stalls. Bodies brushed past each other as people walked around the market with the intent to buy, sell, or trade. This afternoon the pulga seemed unusually crowded, as it was just buzzing with activity.

You heard his smoky laugh before you even saw him. It was a sound you’d come to recognize anywhere. With his back turned all you could see was his guitar strapped to his back and his sombrero hanging low on his head. He stood in front of Doña Lupe’s stall, where she sold handmade jewelry as well as any other miscellaneous items she could get her hands on.

You approached the stall, the older woman greeted you first. Doña Lupe was one of the few people that knew about the whole ‘married to the general’ situation, but Javier trusted her and that was enough for you to trust her too. She was a kind older woman; she couldn’t do much physical labor anymore, so the pulga was her means of getting by.

As Javier heard the woman’s sweet greeting towards you, he turned with a beaming smile, “Hey! You’re here.” He took your hand and pressed his lips gently to its top, kissing your skin dearly and making everything else in the world seem to fade away with his touch.

“I just saw you last week, didn’t think I’d see you again this soon,” His slanted smile reappeared as he returned his cigarette to hang from his lips, “Not that I’m complaining.” He added with a playful wink.

“I needed to get away.” You admitted. His smile faltered and his eyebrows filled with concern for half a second before Doña Lupe interrupted.

“Well, we are glad to have you,” She smiled, her eyes shifted towards Javier. “Javier was just getting something detailed.”

Javier cleared his throat, “Ah yes. Well, after pleading with the workers all morning, I had some free time.” Javier chuckled at your puzzled look as you wondered if that had anything to do with the amount of people at the pulga today.

“I finally convinced them. None of the jimadores are working until they get the fair wages they deserve.” He explained, you nodded in understanding, though a pang of worry stirred within you as you remembered the conversation you overheard this morning.

“I heard them today,” You began in a hushed tone, “Said they’re going to double the patrols… They want to find the people organizing the revolts and make an example of them.”

Doña Lupe gasped and quickly looked at Javier with concern. His eyebrows raised at your words, then he clicked his tongue with displeasure.

“We’ll all be okay.” He reassured the both of you. “Nothing to worry about. They already gathered some people who were still in their work clothes, if one of them talked we’d know by now.”

You nodded in understanding, hoping he was right. It was no secret that Javier was one of the people spearheading what Velasco would call rebellious acts and revolution-driven conversations. Many respected him for it, many expressed their gratitude for his courage, but you couldn’t help but worry for his safety.

“We should leave,” You suggested, “We can go by the river.”

His gaze met yours before happily agreeing, which you were grateful for as you didn’t want to stay here and wait for him to get caught. The two of you gave Doña Lupe an earnest goodbye before moving to the other stalls to buy bread, then heading North towards the river.

You had to move quickly and quietly to leave the pueblo. Javier took the lead, holding your hand and leading you down the labyrinth of white alleys to avoid patrolling soldiers.

“Aguas!” He whispered urgently, “Hold on.”

He halted, pressing against you firmly to have your back against a wall and both his hands braced on either side of you. You could feel the warmth of his body as he peered around the corner of the building cautiously.

“Is someone there?” You asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“No,” he replied with a playful grin, turning his attention back to you, “I just realized I hadn’t done this yet.”

He brought a hand down to gently cup your face. He leaned in, pressing his lips softly against yours. You melted into the kiss, having missed the sensation since the last time you saw him. You both stood there against the building, lips passionately connected. Your smile grew against his lips, wishing to cherish every moment with him. He let out a happy sigh as he pulled back, taking your hand to continue leaving the area.

The San Luis River was desolate and surprisingly calming. It was like a mirror of stillness, reminding you of all the times Javier and you sought moments of peace here. The gravel crunched beneath your feet as the two of you stepped closer, finding a spot to sit in the sun along the cool water.

You removed your mantilla, glad you didn’t need to hide now that you were away from the village. You sat shoulder to shoulder, your head rested against his shoulder as you stared out into the flowing river. Javier didn’t bother looking at the water as his eyes were solely focused on you.

“So,” He began, breaking the comfortable silence, “about earlier — you said you had to get away, what’d he do this time?” Javier asked, ripping a piece of bread to hand to you before popping a piece in his own mouth.

You took the bread from his hand, fiddling with it as your gaze averted to the gravel beside you, “It’s just what I told you before.”

He hummed and nodded in understanding, thinking quietly before continuing, “I’ll be fine.”

Your heart tensed with a wave of melancholy, his words sounding like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince you.

Your sorrowful gaze met his, and he chuckled quietly, “Mi dama perfecta, mi diosa,” He murmured between the kisses he was planting around your cheek, “Preciosa, you have nothing to worry about.”

A warm smile crept across your face at his affectionate words. Despite your lingering doubts, you chose to let the matter rest. “I was thinking about you earlier,” you said softly, “about how we met.”

Javier began to laugh heartily, “Qué buena suerte that I changed to that suit last minute, no? I almost showed up in this.” He gestured to his very worn, black pants and brown blazer, making you laugh along with him.

“I always think of you,” He winked as he kissed the top of your hand once more, “Sueño de tu belleza.”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder again before looking out into the water with a contented sigh. You felt true joy in these stolen moments with Javier. Away from the relentless demands and pressure from your daily life.

“To think, there’s a whole other country out there, just across that river.” Javier gestured his head to the land on the other side of the San Luis River. You could see the red rocks and cacti of New Austin shimmering on the horizon.

“We could go,” You muttered barely audibly. Part of you knew it would be impossible, but the other part of you wished it to be true. A sense of longing swelled in your heart. If only it were that easy to leave. Your stomach began to sink. His silence was deafening.

Javier shifted beside you and gulped lightly before letting out a short chuckle, “I– um… I have a lot of work to do here,” was all he could muster to say.

You glanced at him, and he to you. You caught each other’s gaze for only a split second before he turned back to the water, picking up a stone and chucking it into the river. But in that split second you saw the weight of duty in his eyes. You understood. He had a responsibility, he felt, to the people of Punta Orgullo. He had purpose and a place here, and most importantly he was a man of virtue. It was one of the things you appreciated most about him— his commitment to his community— but when you looked out into the horizon, you couldn’t help but feel a longing for a life with just the two of you.

You continued to sit beside each other in a comfortable silence, both seemingly thinking of what could be.

Javier shifted to bring his guitar in front of him before beginning to quietly strum. Your eyes were fixated on the glowing horizon. You wondered what life could be across that water as he hummed along to the boleros he played, muttering a few words here and there.

A few minutes passed and as the sun began to kiss the horizon you knew you should be heading home. Though Velasco was never one to question your whereabouts, considering he would often disappear into the guest chambers with strangers, you felt a nagging responsibility to be there for when he decided to eventually call it a night in your shared bed.

You walked back carefully together, keeping any conversations lighthearted as if to avoid the weight of the conversation from earlier. On the way back you both decided to stop by Javier’s shared home to drop off the extra bread you bought them from the market.

His home was rather humble; a small building made of white stone. Though it appeared only a quarter the size of the villa you called home, the inside radiated a warmth far surpassing anything your own home could offer.

As you stepped inside you were immediately greeted by the voices of his family members. His mother rose from her kneeling space in front of their altar to greet you warmly with a tight hug. She was a kind woman, Dolores. She spent most of her days in front of the altar, though you could never tell if she was praying for the present or for the past. You just know that every so often she’d mutter the name Emiliano, the name of Javier’s late father.

“You’re home,” she turned to Javier, giving a warm smile as he set his belongings near the door. “I was starting to think you’d gone off bounty hunting,” she joked, nodding toward you, clearly noting that he had chosen to spend the day with you.

Javier chuckled, greeting his mother with a kind hug before shaking his head, “Not today. I told you I had to speak with the jimadores this morning. I think the demands are going to work.” He finished with a hopeful tone.

His mother let out a stiff sigh, but Javier ignored her discontent, “Then I got distracted.” He smiled cheekily at you.

“Javier…” His mother replied, ignoring his cheeky comment, clearly concerned, “They beat multiple men today. You’re lucky no one was killed because of what you did.” You winced slightly at the words.

“Ya basta amá,” Javier replied, trying to deflect her concern.

“There were more soldiers walking around today than ever before.” She admitted, “I just don’t want things to get out of control.”

“They’re already out of control.” Javier replied tiredly, this conversation seemingly a common one between the pair.

You retreated into the kitchen, dropping off the bread at their table where his younger sister, Carmen, was seated.

“They came looking for him.” She stated nonchalantly, ripping off a piece of bread before popping it into her mouth, similar to the way Javier had done earlier.

You froze at her words, a cold shiver sneaking down your spine, “What?”

“One of the Cabos,” She explained, “Him and two soldiers knocked on our door looking for Javier. That’s why amá is mad. He’s lucky he wasn’t here.”

“Did they say what they wanted?” You asked, anxiety threading through your voice. Your mind had already begun to race with the unsettling possibilities: What if someone had spotted your excursion and informed Velasco? What if a worker had revealed that it was Javier who convinced them to halt work until fair wages were met? What would they do with him? Would they try him with treason?

“No,” Carmen shook her head, “They didn’t say.”

You nodded and turned on your heel back into the main room. Javier’s eyes darted towards you, knowingly. He had just been given the same news, albeit much harsher, from his mother.

Javier nervously ran a hand through his hair, “I think…” He hesitated, searching for the right words, “I think it’s nothing to worry about. It could be anything.”

Dolores gave a judgemental hum before retreating to the altar, murmuring a prayer.

You bit your lip nervously, “I think I should walk home. Alone.”

“No,” He shook his head immediately, “There’s more soldiers now.”

“I’ll be fine,” You reassured him. He gave in, knowing there was not much else he could do. He pulled you into a hug before planting a tender kiss against your forehead as he bid you goodbye.

Under the night’s shadow, you made your way sneakily through the rows of houses as you climbed up the hill, avoiding the staircases as they were more likely to be populated. You eventually lifted yourself over the white stone wall and into the villa with a small thump.

You dusted off your dress and took off your mantilla. To calm yourself you took deep breaths, making your way into the main headquarters. Nothing seemed particularly out of order. Matter of fact, everything seemed eerily normal. You grabbed a cup of water, trying to calm your nerves before heading into your shared room.

When you opened the door, you let out a sigh of relief seeing that Velasco hadn’t made his way there yet. You swiftly changed into your nightgown, readying for bed, hoping you could fall asleep before he arrived.

As fate would have it though, the door creaked open as you covered yourself with the blanket.

“Ah, here you are.” He announced as he entered, closing the door behind him. “I was looking for you earlier.”

You silently nodded, “We must’ve missed each other.” You lied easily, this wasn’t the first time you had to deceive him.

He entered the restroom to change into his night clothes and prepare for bed, still calling out to you. “Look, I know earlier you were… upset. I thought about it, talked it over with some of the other men and I think a conversation with the rebels might be beneficial.”

You were thankful he was in another room, as the look on your face was filled with confusion, this is not what you expected the conversation to be.

“Oh,” was all you could say, cautious of what he would say next.

“I had Cabo Diego find the men who are at the root of these discussions of revolt.” He continued, now re-entering the bedroom. You were holding yourself up with your arms to meet his gaze, hoping your eyes weren’t giving anything away.

“And?” You prompted.

“And I invited a few of them for dinner— well the ones I could find.” He shrugged, sliding himself into bed beside you. You shifted over, uncomfortable with his proximity, a feeling you had come to accept but could never fully reconcile with.

“There was one the men couldn’t find, but I will send him an invitation first thing in the morning. They must all be here for us to come to an agreement on where things are headed.” He explained matter-of-factly. Your stomach twisted, knowing exactly who they were looking for.

You nodded in understanding, slowly sliding your arms to lay yourself in bed properly, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

He looked at you puzzled, “Of course. I thought you of all people would prefer it this way.” He blew out the candles beside your bed, turning himself over to sleep, “Well, it’s settled now; they'll be here tomorrow.”

[resplendentoutfit]

Shades of Victorian Purple

Louis Machard (French, 1839-1900) • Jeune femme en tenue de soiree assise pres d'un bouquet d'hortensias

Left: House of Worth afternoon dress • 1872 • Metropolitan Museum of Art

Right: Designer unknown (American) • Purple silk and velvet bustle gown • c. 1880 • Silk faille and velvet

Frans Verhas  (Belgian, 1827–1897) • The New Bracelet • Between 1850 and 1894

[stuckypodficarchive]

Hi!! Not sure if this page is still active because I know stucky isn’t as popular anymore but I was wondering if you knew of any pre-war Podfics where they’re navigating their feelings for eachother and overcoming internalized homophobia and such? :))

Hi! Thank you for your Ask. This blog is still active, and hopefully will be more active in 2025. <3

These two podfics comes to my mind when I think of pre-war Stucky, or not yet Stucky:

You'd be so nice to come home to, written and beautifully read by @emilianadarling.

The Portal (Sunlight) 1894, written by @hansbekhart, read by @laheylupin.

And this one, not really but somehow pre-war:

The wrote and the writ, written by stewyonmolly, read by @quietnighty.

Do enjoy!

[pinkysberg]

ok fine i'll share my personal vandermatthews/pre-rdr2 timeline under the cut!!!

i wrote this a while back so whether the years and ages are super accurate, i don't know. but here have a bunch of ? headcanons i guess.

1875

- Dutch (21) & Hosea (32) meet

1876

- Platonic bond transitions into a queer-platonic partnership (unspoken but both seem to be aware of where they stand with one another without hard lines drawn)

1877

- Dutch (23) & Hosea (34) meet Arthur (13)

1880

- Hosea meets Bessie

- Hosea and Dutch “break up”

- Dutch meets Susan

1881

- Hosea and Bessie leave the life behind

- Hosea asks to take Arthur (16) with him and Bessie to lead a normal life. Dutch refuses.

- Hosea and Bessie marry

- Dutch meets Annabelle

1882

- Hosea and Bessie miscarry

- Hosea returns to the criminal life

- Dutch and Hosea make an effort to repair their relationship.

1885

- Dutch (31) takes in John (13)

- Arthur (21) meets Mary Gillis

1886

- Arthur (22) proposes to Mary

- Their engagement lasts a while

1887

- Arthur (23), Dutch (33) and Hosea (44) manage their first major robbery

- Later that year Mary breaks off the engagement.

- That same year Arthur meets Eliza and they have a one night stand.

1888

- Arthur (24) receives a letter from Eliza that she had a son, and does not expect anything from him but figured he should know

- Arthur vows to do what he can

- Dutch makes a partnership with Colm O’Driscoll

1889

- Tilly (16) is taken in

- Dutch and Colm have a falling out that results in Dutch murdering Colm’s brother

- Annabelle is killed

1890

- Bessie dies of pneumonia

- Hosea becomes quite dependent on alcohol to cope with his grief

- Dutch begins to accumulate more gang members (Uncle, Pearson, etc.)

1891

- Dutch admits to Hosea that he feels quite strongly for him

- Hosea does not return the sentiment, and it results in strife.

- They manage to work through it.

1892

- Arthur goes to visit Eliza and Isaac and does not return for weeks - the longest he’s ever been gone

- After a month, Hosea finally goes looking for him, only to find him a few miles from the town Eliza and Isaac resided in, drunk and alone at a camp in the woods.

- Arthur tells Hosea that they were murdered in his absence

- Arthur, like Hosea, becomes dependent on alcohol to cope with the grief - and guilt

- Hosea manages to get him to return to camp

1894

- The gang is growing exponentially, taking in new members frequently

- Hosea and Dutch rekindle their bond

- Dutch admits he’s in love with Hosea

- Hosea does not return the feeling, but tells Dutch he loves him in a way he’s never loved anybody. Dutch is willing to accept this

1895

- Jack is born, John (22) refuses him.

1896

- After insistence from Abigail, Hosea, Dutch and even Arthur to take responsibility, John leaves the gang.

- Arthur begrudgingly takes on the brunt of paternal responsibility for Jack in John's absence without being asked.

1897

- John returns

- Dutch and Hosea seem to have more frustrating days than good ones, causing strife.

1899

- Dutch meets Molly and she falls in with the gang

- Hosea never makes comment about it (Somewhat to Dutch's frustration)

[mythological-art]

Hero

Artist: Edward Burne-Jones (British, 1833–1898)

Genre: Mythological Painting

Date: 19th Century

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Description

Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898) is considered the most important and accomplished painter of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. He didn't have any formal academic art training and consequently developed his own very distinctive approach, using medieval models as his template but invigorating them with a completely fresh and modern look. His subjects were drawn from a wide range of legends, myths, and spiritual stories; he greatly admired the early Italian Renaissance painters like Botticelli, da Vinci, and Michaelangelo, from whose work he took a great deal of inspiration.

He was a friend of William Morris from their time at Oxford, and later of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and John Ruskin. He designed stained glass and tapestries for Morris' firm and was also a gifted book illustrator. Between 1864 and 1870 Burne-Jones worked principally in watercolour, afterwards concentrating on oil painting. He was created a baronet in 1894, and was also a recipient of the Légion d'Honneur, as his work was extremely popular in France, and in Italy as well, from a relatively early date.

In Greek mythology Hero was a priestess of Aphrodite at Sestos, on the shores of the Hellespont. Her lover, Leander, lived at Abydos, a town on the opposite, Asian, side, and at night would swim across the water to join her, guided by a beacon which she lit. One stormy night he was drowned, and Hero, in despair, threw herself into the sea. The story is told by the Greek poet Musaeus and by Ovid in his Heroides, a source which often provided Burne-Jones with subjects. The picture shows Hero lighting her beacon with dead leaves, the dark blue background suggesting the depths of night.

[alicole-sideblog]

Ranking Pre-Raphaelite Lady and Knight Paintings according to Alicole-ness

Top Tier

These paintings include plot-points and details specifically tailored to Alicent and Criston. All it would take to make it Alicole fanart is slightly reworking the facial features to better resemble the actors.

The Dedication (1908) by Edmund Blair Leighton They're in the chapel praying together. She's wearing a green dress. What more could you ask for?

St George and Princess Sabra (1862) by Dante Gabriel Rossetti This is literally exactly Alicent: green dress; chestnut curls; crown; looking just so exhausted, so done. Very sweet how she's leaning on him in her weariness, and how he looks like he's about to try to handle things for her.

Paolo and Francesca (1894) by Frank Dicksee Another green dress. The position — kissing the final phalanges of her hand — looks like he's saying, "oh your poor cuticles."

Lancelot and Guinevere (c. 1895) by Herbert James Draper He just won a tourney and he's crowning her.

High Tier

These are less specific to our couple — they're a lady and a knight, but they're not outright our two. The details are a bit off, but it has excellent vibes; it feels like them.

The Meeting on the Turret Stairs (1864) by Frederic William Burton The elbow kissing is chaste and ravenous, and it makes me insane.

The Accolade (1901) by Edmund Blair Leighton A straightforward, formal depiction of their power dynamic: a knight kneeling at his lady's feet, and her the clement queen bestowing status upon him.

La Belle Dame sans Merci (c. 1901) by Frank Dicksee A more kinky depiction of their dynamic. This feels like The Knight of the Cart, Guinevere jerking Lancelot around. (One time she asks him to loose a tourney just as a test, just because she enjoys watching him submit to her.)

Mid Tier

Nothing wrong with them, but they don't stand out. They contain neither specific details, nor vibes that particularly speak to me.

God Speed (1900) by Edmund Blair Leighton A lady giving a knight her favor is always good, but it doesn't stand out to me.

My Fair Lady (1914) by Edmund Blair Leighton The "loyal waiting attendant" thing is good, but it doesn't stand out to me.

Nah Tier

These are too overtly sexual. It's not the right vibe.

These two are both iterations on "knight rescues lady who was sexually victimized by someone else." That notion is not wrong for our couple per se, but this feels off. The painter viewed it with horny eyes, and that's all I'm getting. It doesn't communicate how our characters would approach that same situation.

Chivalry (1885) by Frank Dicksee

The Knight Errant (1870) by John Everett Millais

These three are iterations on "lady tries to seduce knight in a forward, overt way." That's not our pair.

Lamia (1905) by John William Waterhouse This is the closest one from this tier. The "I'm begging you" pose has vibes I could almost see with Alicent assigning Criston a task. She's half actually desperate, half just trying to make him feel like she is so that he'll be all protective and loyal. But the horny shoulder is Not Them™.

La Belle Dame sans Merci (1893) by John William Waterhouse

Knight and Maiden (c. 1860s) by George Frederic Watts

[egypt-museum]

Girdle of Princess Sithathor

Middle Kingdom, 12th Dynasty, ca. 1897-1878 BC. Tomb of Princess Sathathor, Funerary complex of Senusret III, Dahshur. Excavation by Jacques de Morgan, 1894 Now in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo. JE 30858

The girdle of the Princess Sithathor is made of eight gold, half-open cowry shells. The ones at each end have flat reverses, and were joined by means of grooves to serve as a clasp, fastening the girdle when they slid one into the other.

The shells are separated from each other by rhomboidal polychrome beads of carnelian, feldspar, and lapis lazuli. Gold cowry shells were imitations of the real cowry shells that had been used in belts, bracelets, anklets, and necklaces since the pre-dynastic period. People thought that cowry shells possessed powerful magical properties and increase female fertility.

Read more

[hotshotblackburn]

On the People of the Third City, and the power of transformative fandom

Warning: self-indulgent rambling, reflection, and hope for writing spurred by the desire for writing that is not present.

I'd been an amateur scholar when it came to Mesoamerican history: just enough to know how much I didn't know. I knew the Third City was Mesoamerican, though I knew not where. I believed, as many, that it referring to a city called Hopelchen (nevermind that Hopelchen was named several centuries after the Third City was supposed to have fallen, and that it was only proposed as a candidate because of the "five wells" sidebar snippet). I personally have interpreted it as Chichen Itza in the past, but I have also heard compelling arguments for Tikal and even perhaps a pre-Nahautl Teotihuacan (and to this day, I still find it amusing, in a frustrating way, how much we know the identities of the Second and Fourth Cities and yet the Third, the one New World city, is still the subject of debate). I knew it was associated with the God-Eaters, and the story of Seeking Mr Eaten's Name.

But as a fan, this was the text that grabbed me first and foremost about the Third City:

Rebels who will not rise The revolutionaries of the Third City sleep here, fifty-five of them. They would have made their republics in the tomb-colonies. It was not permitted. Their enemies must have hated them, to lay them here to rest where they would never be remembered - The Catafalquerie, Cave of the Nadir

From this text, interest: what were the revolutionaries of previous Fallen Cities like?

And then, 2016: Election 1894, the first of it's kind. If you chose to back the Jovial Contrarian - and as a revolutionary character, of course Hotshot did - you could choose a Reactionary Tomb-Colonist as your free item for the election. And if you did...

Something old His bandages run black with ink. Words are scrawled over his wrappings, like the husks of spiders. Not all of it is English. Giddily, he points out choice fragments – "Here, the schematics for a Fourth City catapult we never got to use. This one's the lessons we learned from the Galleries. And here – everything the Contrarian has ever published. I have made a study. This time, for sure." Between the bandages, his dessicated eyes smoulder like spent coals. "Things shall be as they were once and should be again."

Words not all in English? Mentions of the Fourth City weapon "we never got to use"? Evidence on how old this colonist was?

In retrospect, the text was more likely just referring to an old tomb-colonist of the Fifth City. But at the time, to me, it felt like it could point to something else: a rebel who escaped the fate of his colleagues, a revolutionary who continued to fight the Masters and the God-Eaters even long after his city was submerged into lacre.

And from this, Itza Matul was born.

I share the sentiment that the Third City, in canon writing, is almost entirely tied to the God Eaters and Seeking like an albatross around it's neck. What little we get of the one New World city in the Neath, a city from a place whose peoples were horrifically genocided and colonized and thus from which we have enormous holes and gaps in the histories, and it always seems to be related to this one story of betrayal, sacrifice, hunger, and monstrous priest-kings.

I am still not impressed with the idea that the one example of a tomb-republic we have in lore, the same kind of republic as mentioned in the text above, is Tanah-Chook. A Third City tomb-republic, named after a fictional English character whose creator backed at a high enough kickstarter tier.

I have tried my hand at alternatives, using what Yucatec dictionaries and sources I could find that seemed at all reliable for tomb-colony names, people's names, an equivalent to "free citizen". I have tried light speculation on what it might have been like for the people of the Third City, what kind of Neath they might have lived in, how the survivors have adapted as their City was drowned and their peoples displaced and the eventual realization that on the Surface, the place they once called home was overrun centuries later by the colonial empires of Europe. It is not sufficient, but it was what I could contribute.

And all of this is to say...you can do that too. It may not be canon. But it can be something beyond canon. To write in a version of the Neath where the Third City is more than the God-Eaters and the Betrayal, where people lived and struggled as more than just fearful subjects to a monstrous priesthood. And if in the effort to do it justice, you are driven to read more, learn more about the people whose descendants still live in the world, realize how much has been lost and yet how much has not been lost...

I have never regretted realizing I wanted to know more.

[mayamidnightmelody]

Aubrey Beardsley

Aubrey Beardsley (1872–1898) was a distinctive and influential English illustrator and author, whose career, though brief, left a significant mark on the Art Nouveau and Aesthetic movements. Born in Brighton, England, Beardsley showed an early aptitude for drawing and music, but his artistic talents truly blossomed in his late teens.

Early Life and Education

Beardsley's early life was marked by bouts of illness; he was diagnosed with tuberculosis at a young age, a condition that would affect him throughout his life. Despite these challenges, he attended the Brighton Grammar School and later moved to London, where he briefly studied at the Westminster School of Art.

Artistic Style and Influences

Beardsley's work is characterized by its striking black-and-white contrast, intricate lines, and elaborate, often grotesque, imagery. He was heavily influenced by the Japanese woodcuts that became popular in Europe during the late 19th century, as well as the Pre-Raphaelites, particularly the works of Edward Burne-Jones and Dante Gabriel Rossetti. His art often depicted themes of decadence, mythology, and eroticism, blending the macabre with the beautiful in a unique and provocative manner.

Notable Works

One of Beardsley's most famous works is his illustration for Oscar Wilde's play "Salomé" (1894), where his dramatic and sensuous drawings perfectly complemented Wilde's scandalous text. The illustrations were controversial for their explicit content and intricate style, establishing Beardsley's reputation as both a brilliant artist and a provocateur.

Another significant contribution was his work for "The Yellow Book," a quarterly periodical of the 1890s that became associated with the Decadent movement. As the art editor, Beardsley's illustrations became synonymous with the magazine's avant-garde and often controversial content.

Beardsley also illustrated "The Rape of the Lock" by Alexander Pope, "Le Morte d'Arthur" by Sir Thomas Malory, and numerous other works that showcased his distinctive aesthetic.

Personal Life and Legacy

Beardsley's personal life was as colorful as his art. He was known for his flamboyant personality and was part of the bohemian circles in London. His relationship with Wilde and the scandal surrounding Wilde's trial for gross indecency further cemented Beardsley's reputation as a key figure in the Decadent movement.

Despite his deteriorating health, Beardsley continued to produce a prolific amount of work until his death at the young age of 25. His final years were spent in France, where he converted to Catholicism and reportedly asked for the destruction of his more erotic drawings, a request that was largely ignored.

Influence and Modern Appreciation

Aubrey Beardsley's influence extends far beyond his lifetime. His bold, innovative style paved the way for modern graphic design and illustration. Contemporary artists and illustrators continue to draw inspiration from his work, appreciating his ability to combine beauty with the bizarre in ways that challenge and captivate audiences.

Beardsley's work remains a powerful testament to the creative spirit of the fin de siècle, reflecting the complexities and contradictions of an era obsessed with beauty, transgression, and the boundaries of artistic expression.

[madeleineengland]

Evelyn Pickering de Morgan (Flora, 1894).

Pre-Raphaelites exhibition at Forlì (Italy)

[skyriderwednesday]

November 15th Quick Chronology

I've moved things again! So in quick fashion... (bold titles changed, see bottom for notes)

GLOR - Summer 1875

MUSG - Spring 1879

STUD - Jan to Mar 1881

SHOS - May 1881

RESI - Oct 1881

YELL - Mar 1882

SPEC - Apr 1883

BERY - Feb 1884

LADY - May 1884

CHAS - Winter 1884

HOUN - Oct to Nov 1885

COPP - Spring 1886

GREE - Summer 1886

VALL - Jan 1887

REIG - Apr 1887

SIGN - Jul 1887

CARD - Aug 1887

NOBL - Oct 1887

SCAN - Mar 1888

STOC - Jun 1888

NAVA - Jul 1888

SECO - Jul 1888

CROO - Aug 1888

FIVE - Sep 1888

BOSC - Spring 1889

TWIS - Jun 1889

ENGI - Summer 1889

DYIN - Nov 1889

IDEN - Sep 1890

REDH - Oct 1890

BLUE - Dec 1890

FINA - Apr to May 1891

EMPT - Apr 1894

WIST - May 1894

NORW - Aug 1894

SILV - Sep 1894

GOLD - Nov 1894

REDC - Dec 1894

SOLI - Apr 1895

3STU - May 1895

BLAC - Jul 1895

BRUC - Nov 1895

VEIL - Early 1896

MISS - Feb 1896-7

ABBE - Feb 1897

DEVI - Mar 1897

SIXN - May or Jun 1898

DANC - Jul 1898

SUSS - Nov 1898

RETI - Summer 1899

PRIO - May 1901

THOR - Oct 1901

3GAR - Jun 1902

ILLU - Sep 1902

BLAN - Jan 1903

MAZA - Summer 1903

3GAB - Summer 1903

CREE - Sep 1903

LION - Jul 1907

LAST - Aug 1914

Notes:

LADY, moved to May 1884: Lady Frances Carfax originally disappeared (sorry) in Spring 1901. After discussions started by LFW reaching it, I've decided it makes more sense pre-Hiatus and early(ish) in the canon.

COPP, moved to Spring 1886: The Copper Beeches originally sat in the spot now occupied by Lady Frances in Spring 1884. I shifted it ahead by two years because Holmes needs more time to get sick of young lady clients.

SILV: Please do not @ me about Silver Blaze. It's my chronology and I only care about publication dates when it's funny/historical.

REDC: I'm still unhappy with The Red Circle being in December 1894. If anyone has any better ideas for when it takes place, I'm all ears.

[solitablvd]

Se Nos Acabó El Ratito

**Minors DNI**

Pairing: Javier Escuella x Female Reader

Read Parte 1 & Parte 2

Summary: “I came to America because I killed a man in México. A powerful man. I knew if I stayed, everyone I love would die. I ran, not for my life, but for theirs." ** In 1894, you are the wife of General Velasco, a powerful figure in the Mexican Army. One fateful night in Punta Orgullo, you cross paths with Javier Escuella.

Warnings: domestic violence, pre-video game, headcannon asf, romantic Javier idc, female reader

A/N: Thank you for reading and joining me on this journey.

Words: 3.4k

Ao3 Link

Parte 3

“Get up!” You jolted awake at the sound of Velasco’s booming voice.

You instinctively backed away as he neared you, grabbing you by the wrist and holding up your hand.

“What is this?” He questioned angrily, his words thick and unsteady as he shoved your ring clad hand back into you. You couldn’t tell if it was the dying, reflective glow of the candles, but you could’ve swore you saw fire in his eyes. You moved the hand behind your back, as if that could undo what had happened. You stammered a response unsure of what to say.

“A ring, that rose,” Velasco began, turning your attention to the rose laying on your window sill. His words were slurred and as he got closer to you, you could smell the mezcal on his breath.

“You think I didn’t notice how you looked at that revolutionary?” Your heart sank, heavy with sudden dread at the mention of Javier.

“Was he in here?” You began to tremble. Your eyes glossed over with tears. You had been caught.

“Answer me.” He finally demanded through clenched teeth. You opened your mouth to speak, but a forceful blow silenced you, sending a wave of pain and fear through your body.

You yelped at the stinging sensation, instantly holding your cheek with your hand. His looming body stood over you as you cowered lowly, choking back a sob as tears began to stream down your face. Without facing your assailant, you bolted towards the door.

His shouting echoed behind you, but in his drunken state he was no match for your swiftness. You ran through the courtyard, the cold night air hitting your skin and causing the stinging on your cheek to intensify. The gate would be locked, so you climbed the crates as you had done plenty of times before. In your rush, you lost your footing, hitting the floor with a thud as you scraped your limbs. Even so, you ran.

The pueblo was silent, but your own heavy breathing and sobs filled the night’s air. You didn’t bother with being quiet. All you could focus on was getting to Javier’s home. Once there, you knocked rapidly on the door, seeing the light of candles coming from inside.

It was Dolores, Javier’s mother, who answered the door, peeking slightly. Her eyes widened as she saw you, letting out a curse before quickly getting you inside. She pulled you in for a brief hug, and it was in her arms that you let yourself unravel.

“Desahogate,” She comforted soothingly.

She let you cry against her before holding you at arms length to look you up and down. “Are you okay? What happened? Javier!” She called out before you could answer.

In the heat of everything that was happening you didn’t realize that you could hear a multitude of voices coming from the kitchen. As you peered in from where you stood, you saw various men surrounding the dinner table as you heard Eduardo’s familiar voice speak to them all. The view was covered by Javier entering the main living area as he heard his mother’s call.

He froze at your sight. “‘Ta madre,” was all he managed to mutter. He rushed over to you, his eyes filled with concern. Your shoulders fell as he pulled you in, feeling relief in his touch.

His lips were tight as he carefully examined your swollen cheek. A pang of shame filled your body as he got a closer look, delicately holding your chin to keep you in place.

“Get a wet cloth.” He told his mother, who dutifully headed into the kitchen. With his attention back to you, Javier tenderly brushed your cheek with his fingertips. At your flinch he instantly backed his hand away.

Javier’s anger was bubbling just beneath his calm exterior. His gaze met yours as he spoke, “Stay here tonight.” You nodded at his words.

He looked at your tear-stained, swollen cheek once more before whispering plainly to himself, “I’m going to kill him.”

His threat loomed in the air. Before you could say anything you looked down at his clothes. He had his usual black pants and brown blazer; however across his chest was a bandolier and hanging from his waist was a gun belt adorned in weaponry. It was what he typically wore when he went bounty hunting. Suddenly, things were beginning to piece themself together.

“What’s going on?” You asked intently, looking back up to him.

“Eduardo— well, he and I have been planning something for a while. After the discussion we had today with… you know…” He trailed off. Your stomach tightened at the mere alluding to Velasco. “We decided to speed up our plans. We’re burning the fields tonight.”

Your mind raced as you tried to fully grasp what he said. At the same time, Dolores re-entered the main area, placing a cold, wet cloth on your cheek, making you wince in pain.

“I told him it was a bad idea.” Her tone was full of warning as she kept her eyes on your cheek.

“I’ll be fine.” Javier insisted, repeating the phrase for good measure, “We’ll be fine. Just stay here.”

You looked at him with worried eyes, but before you could say anything the men entered from the kitchen area, adorned in their own weaponry and carrying jugs of what you assumed was a flammable liquid.

Eduardo looked at you with quick concern before addressing Javier, “We need to go.”

Javier nodded, pressing a soft kiss against the ring on your hand before following the group of men out the front door and into the dark night.

You stayed with Javier’s mom and sister, unable to shake your worries as you sat on their couch. The moon was still bright in the sky. Anxiety ate at you as you thought about what Velasco was doing. Would he send soldiers to find you? Were they already looking? The fear that Dolores and Carmen could be hurt because of you twisted your chest.

Javier.

The name that could once make your head spin, only made your stomach turn. Would he be okay? Is he still alive?

Dolores remained at her kneeling space in front of their altar. This time not only muttering Emiliano’s name, but also Javier’s. Carmen paced the home, distracting herself with different tasks to keep busy as you all waited for any news. You remained frozen on their couch; your head in your hands as your thoughts began to consume you.

Suddenly, Dolores sighed, “Carmen, are you cooking something?” At Carmen’s gentle denial, she continued, “Then what is that smell?”

You looked up, and with a sniffle the burning scent became clear. Carmen caught on at the same time you did, running to the door and flinging it open. Smoke began to seep into the home. You jumped from your seat to look out the door. The thick clouds of smoke were covering the moonlit sky, in the distance you could see the bright glow coming from the direction of the agave fields. They had done it.

You followed Carmen outside, coughing slightly as the thick smoke enveloped the area like a blanket. Other villagers must have noticed as well, coming out of their homes to see what was happening.

From the other side of the village you heard a faint scream. Gunfire crackled from the direction of the fields. The sounds of hooves pounding on the sandy ground pulled you from your frozen trance as men raced by. Soldiers, on horseback and on foot, moved through the pueblo, some heading toward the fields while others dealt with the growing battle within the pueblo itself.

Dolores followed the two of you, but was immediately thrown into a rough coughing fit as the smoke hit her aging lungs. She fell to her knees, holding her chest as she wheezed. Carmen moved to help her quickly, bringing her to her feet and walking her back into the house. You moved to follow, but as the shouting increased around you, you turned at the increasingly chaotic scene before you.

Soldiers and revolutionaries clashed fiercely, but the situation worsened as soldiers began attacking innocent villagers who, like you, had now become entangled in the conflict. Amidst the chaos, the sounds of distant gunfire and shouts filled the air. The dark night mixed with the thick smoke made visibility nearly impossible, with only the moon's faint glow and the distant light of the burning fields offering any hope of sight.

The soldiers seemed to be gaining the upper hand, as they dragged different bodies to beat into obedience. The smoke had finally reached your lungs, throwing you into a violent coughing fit exacerbated by the sand being kicked up all around the pueblo. As you tried to turn and head back into the house, a soldier seized you by the arm.

“Get over h—” He growled.

You turned to look at the soldier, seeing it was Cabo Diego. His anger faltered when he recognized you, and confusion crossed his face, “You? What are you doing here?”

You remained silently distraught as he looked you up and down. Your breathing was unsteady from the smoke and sand filling your lungs, you had scrapes tainting your skin, and your cheek was still swollen and tear-stained.

He must’ve come to his own conclusions as his look turned into one of pity, “You were caught in the attack?”

“What?” You asked, still completely distraught with all that was happening around you. Cabo Diego shook his head before taking you by the arm and pulling you away.

As he dragged you through the village, you saw Javier’s home become smaller and smaller until it was completely out of vision. He shouted orders at other men as he rushed you up to the top of the hill.

The villa was empty, but not because the revolutionaries hadn’t gotten to it. The sight was jarring; the villa in obvious disarray. You stepped over the soil and ceramic pieces from the fallen planters as you followed Cabo Diego into the house. In the kitchen, you both approached Capitán González and Sargento Flores.

“I found her.” Cabo Diego began, gesturing towards you and interrupting the conversation the men were having, “She must’ve been grabbed by revolutionaries during the attack.”

He spoke as if you weren’t there. You didn’t say anything. Afraid of what Velasco could’ve told them and of what their next move would be.

Capitán González looked at you with sympathetic eyes and a deep sigh, “Alejandro— General Velasco, he’s… been killed.”

The sensation of your heart sinking felt disorienting. Part of you expected to feel relief, but instead, you were overcome with an unexpected pang of sympathy for the man. You didn’t expect to feel it, but it felt instinctual for the man who was your husband for so long. You took a deep breath, unsure of what to say to the men who were looking at you earnestly.

Capitán González cleared his throat, signaling Sargento Flores and Cabo Diego to go back to their duties before speaking with you privately, “The revolutionaries. They burned the fields. We went out there, but your husband never made it. Apparently, it was a distraction. There were men waiting here, they killed him.”

Javier. You knew it was him. You let out a deep sigh, the weight of the news feeling heavy on you.

“We have an idea of who it was. The men who were here for dinner. They would’ve been the only ones who knew how to get into the villa and where to find him.” He explained, “Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll find who did this.”

You remained staring at him numbly, giving only a tiny nod. What could you possibly tell him? That you hoped he’d never find the man responsible?

He cleared his throat uncomfortably before continuing, “We will have patrol around and inside the villa. I suggest you begin packing your things, señora. The Velasco family will send a stagecoach for you at sunrise.”

You finally got the courage to speak up at your newfound confusion, “Send for me?”

He nodded, “Yes. You will need to leave Nuevo Paraíso immediately and head down to Veracruz. They will take care of you there.”

You stood dumbfounded. It hadn’t occurred to you that this would be their next step. González bid you a stiff goodbye and gave his condolences once more before leaving the villa, assumingly going to attend to the chaos that was filling Punta Orgullo.

You made your way towards your room. You were going to pack your things, but not for Veracruz and not to be with the Velasco family who’d you’d only met once at your wedding.

No, rather, you were planning to stay with Javier and his family. There you would be—

You gasped as you opened the door into your once shared room. His body wasn’t there, but the bed was stained with the blood of your now former husband. The deep red sight lit only by candles made your stomach churn.

You moved in a hurry to pack your things, throwing everything in the trunk at the foot of your bed, which you were purposefully avoiding looking at. In your mind a million different worries raced. You began to feel overwhelmed, tears welled up in your eyes. You were packing to leave with a man who you weren’t even sure was alive, while seeing the blood of another draped across the bed.

You went to the window sill, the unarmed rose Javier left still laid there. As you picked it up delicately every emotion you had felt finally caught up to you, making you double over in a weary sob. You felt emotionally exhausted.

The door to your room swung open, and González’s eyes widened at the sight of you. He moved to check if you were alright, unsure of how to comfort you, “Señora, we’ve caught them.”

He reached his hand to your shoulder, but you only jumped away from his touch, looking at him with bewildered eyes.

“What?” you choked out.

“The men— who killed Alejandro. The revolutionaries are retreating. We’ve captured their leaders.” He spoke as if his words would be reassuring to you. “They will be hanged at sunrise for their crimes against México.”

His words only deepened your agony. You buried your head in one of your hands, the other holding onto the rose as your sobs grew more intense.

To anyone, it might seem as though you were grieving your deceased husband, but each tear was a silent tribute to Javier. Your mind was flooded with the idea that come sunrise he would be gone.

González called out for help as he lifted you to your feet, saying something about having someone pack for you while you rested. He walked you downstairs, sitting you on a couch before leaving to direct more workers.

Javier was to be hanged at sunrise, for treason and assassination. You wanted to stop it; you needed to stop it, but felt helpless to the situation as the villa was full of soldiers patrolling and helping pack up your deceased husband’s belongings to be sent to Veracruz, along with you.

As dawn crept up, the world seemed to hold its breath, caught between night and day.

You hoped sunrise would never come. You felt exhausted, but were unable to sleep; the sheer worry kept you up. You listened in to different conversations in the villa, but were unable to gather any information on where Javier or the others were being held. You desperately asked to see the lead revolutionaries, but were denied each time, coming off as a weeping widow.

As the sun inched up, the air became crisp and cool. You moved out into the courtyard, your hands growing cold as you held onto the thornless rose, the last Javier would ever give you.

As the sun rose, the sky transformed into a delicate pale pink. It would’ve been comforting if it didn’t signify the most unforgiving fate. The men were being executed in the plaza, a haunting joke from above, as it was the exact spot you had met Javier. There was absolutely nothing you could do to stop the execution.

At sunrise, you were helped into the large stagecoach sent by the Velasco family. Your eyelids were heavy with exhaustion as you sat in the velvet seat, the dim morning light filtering through the frosted windows. You closed the curtain as the driver and guard had hopped off the front to head inside to speak with Capitán González and gather everything that was coming to Veracruz with you.

You laid your head back against the seat in a tired defeat. The tapping on the window snapped you from your drowsy state.

You pushed the curtain open and jumped from your seat at the sight of Javier. Without any hesitation, you threw the door open to pull him inside, bringing him into a tight embrace.

His body was warm, just as it always was, but felt especially so in comparison to the cold you had been feeling both internally and externally. Tears welled in your eyes once more as relief, fear, and hope somehow all enveloped you. You clung to him, and when he cupped your face to kiss you for a split second his eyes that once held only virtue and dignity, held fear and sorrow.

He kissed you deeply as if he were savoring every inch of you. You kissed him back desperately, overwhelmed with emotion at his touch. His warmth enveloped you and you knew then that you never wanted to feel another touch again.

“You’re alive,” You beamed with tears in your eyes, still holding him close. He nodded happily, the similar tears swelling in his eyes.

“Yeah,” He breathed out, giving a sniffle before continuing, “I- I got out, but… Eduardo and Gael… they killed them.” He spoke lamentably, his voice shaking slightly as he recognized what was supposed to be his fate alongside his companions.

“They’re going to hunt me down,” He whispered shakily, “I have to leave.”

“I’ll go with you.” You nodded, completely ready to abandon the stagecoach and go anywhere as long as it was with him.

But he shook his head at you softly.

“I’m sorry mi vida…”

Distraught by his words you shook your head, “What? No. I’m going with you.” You insisted.

He sighed heavily, “I can’t have you come with me. They are going to hunt me down and kill me the second they have the chance. I need you safe… and that means away from me. I’m not leaving for my own safety; I’m leaving to ensure yours. You deserve a long, fulfilling life. You’ll be safe wherever they’re sending you, and I’ll be alive once I head North.”

“North?” You asked softly, “To America?”

He nodded somberly, “I already said goodbye to my mom and Carmen…”

You looked at him. The guitar and sombrero on his back, the clothes covered in dirt and dried blood: this was his last stop before leaving.

This was his final goodbye.

He took your hand, delicately intertwining your fingers, “Where are they taking you?”

“South to Veracruz…” You muttered, filled with despair.

“Veracruz,” he repeated, as if committing the name to memory.

You both remained silent, overtaken by the sorrowful energy of your final interaction. His finger continued to brush over your ring, delicately tracing over the engraved roses as his heart filled with a deep remorse.

“I love you,” He reassured you, “We’ll see each other again,” pressing a tender kiss against your lips. But your hope was long gone.

Still, you nodded and muttered against his lips, “I love you too.”

With a final sigh, he slowly exited the stagecoach, struggling to let go of your hand. He stood outside the stagecoach as you leaned out the window, wanting to hold onto him for as long as you could. He kissed where the gold band rested on your finger tenderly.

“I’ll see you soon, preciosa.” The now orange sky burned in his eyes as you tried your best to keep them in your memory.

With those words, he let go of your hand. Backing away, he committed your own gaze to memory. At last, he turned to leave covertly. As you watched him head North towards America and into the horizon, you knew you’d never love again.

[tasmiq]

Jumu'ah Sohbet: 13 September 2024

This Sohbet will take you on a proverbial flying carpet through the past, present, and future. With Allah, we go, Bismillah!

#1. We are living such turbulent times in our modern era!:

However, intellectuals Mehdi Hassan and Rob Delayney advised those of us deflated by man's state of affairs: "Don't be pessimistic about the future because this is your moment to relive history." Implying that at some point in our history, this sense of apocalyptic demise has been experienced before. Look, despite COVID, Climate change and War, they are continuing to make my accident old news 😅

Spiritually, Hazrat Jalaluddeen Rumi (RA) says: "Lovers find secret places inside this violent world where they make transactions with beauty." I couldn't agree more because what keeps us grounded, apart from the maddening crowds, is our spiritual connection through our Tariqa (spiritual school) that keeps us conscious of the truth and reality of La ilaha illalah (There is no god but God / Allah)! We are therefore programmed to see the positivity and beauty of Allah, no matter how much human ugliness is projected around us. Shukran Ya Allah (Divine gratitude)!

#2. We just passed the 6th of Rabi ul-Awwal which marks the Wisaal (Divine meeting) or Urs (Divine wedding) of the spirtual monarch of our country, Hazrat Shaykh Sayed Ahmed Badsha Peer (RA). His resting place was round the corner from where I worked pre-accident, and at a particularly sad time in my life, his spiritual solace carried me through it! In the middle of Durban's humble inner-city within a multiracial cemetry during a racist passage of South African history itself. Subhana'Allah (Divine glory)!:

Hazrat Badsha Peer (RA) arrived in Durban from South India as an indentured labourer in 1860 and was recognised by the British authorities as a spiritual personality and discharged of his duties. I remember telling visitors that his legacy as an indentured labourer was that his plot of sugarcane was always harvested at the end of the work day, without him having to sweat, were some of his mystical abilities. He passed away in 1894 in the precinct of the Grey Street Juma Masjid and buried in the Brook Street Muslim Cemetery. He was from amongst the Majzoob category of Sufis, who are totally drowned in the love of Allah, making them unaware of their own physical conditions. Due to this, people never recognised his spiritual position! It was in 1895 upon the arrival of Hazrat Soofie Saheb (RA) that in pure Sufi ethic, he first went to pay homage to the great Awliya (Friend of Allah) of this country. And, in doing so, located the grave of Hazrat Badsha Peer (RA), making it known for the first time that here lies "BADSHA PEER" (A King amongst Spirtual Guides)! [Chishty Sabiree Jahangiri Khanqa and Research Centre]

This was at a time when I was not even a Sufi murid (follower). As the Sufi adage goes, when the student is ready, the teacher appears. Shukran Ya Allah that he did, in the form of Shaykh Taner Ansari of Allahistan! It is also where your Mimi's Ummi is laid to rest with Allah in this world. Allah blessed your Mama and me with Mimi's blessed presence in our lives where she sought me out at the nearby offices and spiritually enlivened my consciousness of the blessing round my corner. Allah, if Hazrat Badsha Peer (RA) was involved in the spiritual mechanics of keeping me alive after a 2-month coma as it was while I still worked there, please convey Your love and eternal gratitude on my behalf:

Ya Shakur Ya Wadud!

#3. Anne (our spiritual mother) asked us to contemplate on the English translated version of Sura 89 of the Chronological Edition of the Qur'an as renewed by our Tariqa, Al-e Imran (The Family of Imran). I couldn't stop the outpouring of insights and awe within me towards Allah's words in those 200 verses. For example, I will just share 3:

- V4: Allah as the mighty establisher of consequences. (Yes, us human beings with free will must be made to feel the consequences of our choices!)

- V7: Some messages of the Qur'an are clear, but others are allegorical. Allegorical means containing a moral or hidden meaning. (As a past Qur'anic Arabic student herself, I had felt that the Qur'an is either too simplistic or too deep which drove me to keep trying to connect to it or altogether evade it! Until, unexpectedly and gloriously, did our Tariqa delve into it as richly as it did, where at virtually every other verse I am compelled to contemplate!)

- V86: The community of disbelievers who reject truth after it has come to them! (Like extremist Jews and extremist Christians that firmly hold onto their forefathers' practices! But, Islam was the most recent of Abrahamic religions, which affirmed their paths and with reasoned caveats. Another reason the community of the middle path [ummatan wasatan] makes more sense, if you ask me):

In conclusion, we enter Yuwm un-Nabi, which is an annual celebration of the birth of Rahmatul lil 'Alameen (Mercy of the worlds), our beloved Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)! Insha'Allah, it is a well-executed success as planned, which unites us deeper:

Ya Ghalib Ya Azim (Yearning Allah's ability to succeed)

Ya Wadud Ya Salaam Ya Jami Ya Nafi (and Allah's love, peace and unity in goodness)

[saltlickmp3]

angel tapestries by edward burne jones for william morris 1894. coloured wings. pre-raphaelite tapestries are wonderful and i love teh colours. the faux medieval-ness. the craftmanship