#principal young royals | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

skamenglishsubs · 1 year ago

Text

Subtext and Culture, Young Royals, Season 3, Episode 2

Episode 2 starts days or maybe a week after episode 1. The curfews and phone ban is in place, so Wilhelm and Simon make the most of their one hour of phone sex talking.

Blink and you miss it: Wilhelm snapped a quick instant picture of himself and Simon at the palace in the last episode, using the camera we saw on his desk. The heart is still on his hand, so maybe it's the next day, or maybe he's been filling it in every day.

Cinematography: Intense red light typically symbolizes their mutual love, and this scene is overflowing with it.

Lost in translation: They both finish the phone call with "puss", which means kiss, but not exactly. It's more platonic, something you can say and do with your parents, or your kids, or end phone calls with. The other word for kiss, "kyss", is more romantic/sexual, and would be super weird to end a phone call with. Simon is using that word when he says he would kiss Wilhelm's collar bone birth mark.

Subtext: Of course Vincent doesn't believe anyone was bullied. He's the biggest bully, but what he does is just a joke, or the other guy deserved it. This is gonna be a recurring theme™ in this episode, how various characters look back on and remember, or choose not to remember, what happened to them.

Subtext: If you didn't pick up this meaningful glance, you're blind. The initiation porno was totally real, and Nils and August clearly remember it, and weren't as flippant about it as Vincent.

Culture: In Sweden, inner city schools are typically better and have richer students than the poorer schools out in the suburbs. This is the exact opposite of the typical US school demographical pattern.

Subtext: Wilhelm avoids Farima's question by evading it. Note that it does make sense that she doesn't know what's going on at these schools since she's an employee, she's not upper-class herself. Wilhelm's parents know though since they attended Hillerska, but they would of course never admit it either.

Culture: Ironically, this is exactly how the real-world Danish royal family handled the Herlufsholm scandal in 2022 involving prince Christian. Only when the media storm in Denmark got too intense did they pull him out of the school, while furiously denying knowledge of the abuse or that he was involved in any way.

Cinematography: We're in the cursed music room, but the light is soft and golden, and the scene is just cute. No fight this time.

Subtext: We're touching the theme™ again, but from Simon's perspective. He has the same outsider perspective we have; speaking up about abuse is always good, and if the school's closing because of it, that's an obviously good thing. There's plenty of scenes in this episode showing that most Hillerska students don't share this perspective, they really love their school, as fucked up as it is.

Subtext: Although it sounds like a rehearsed PR line and Felice is thinking about her girl group here, it's gonna come true for her and Sara.

Subtext: Yuck. No further comment.

Cinematography: The immediate cut to Felice getting her aggressions out in gym class shows us exactly what she thought of what the principal said and how much it pissed her off.

Blink and you miss it: Simon audibly sniffs Wilhelm's hair.

Blink and you miss it: Micke made dinner for both of them, but in her depression, Sara ignores the cooked food (Pyttipanna, btw), and makes herself a cucumber sandwich instead.

Subtext: Micke is a man on a mission, and he is constantly steering the conversation towards helping Sara get her driver's license. For him, it's a way to make up for having been a shitty parent.

Culture: Sweden has long been a holdout of stick-shift cars, and if you don't do your practical test in a stick-shift, you'll get a restricted license, so it's not out of the ordinary for Micke to be teaching Sara how to drive one. However, automatics have seen a sharp rise in the last decade, and in 2024 automatics will finally overtake them.

Culture: The green ÖVNINGSKÖRNING sign is compulsory in Sweden if a car is being driven by someone on a learner's permit, with a parent or friend as the instructor. There's also a red version of the sign, which indicates it's a student driver with a professional instructor in a dual control car.

Cinematography: The room is filled to the brim with things to do, there's a bazillion board games, they have books, magazines, fidget thingies, they're drowning in stuff, and yet the girls are still soooooo boooored just because they don't have their phones. Except Madison, who is knitting.

Subtext: Here comes the theme™ again, and Fredrika is firmly in camp denial. Everyone else is just lying and exaggerating! The wheels are starting to turn in Felice's head though.

Subtext: Nils and August are finally talking about the initiation without Vincent being present, and they can finally be honest about what they actually thought about it. It happened, they didn't like.

Subtext: Their idea of fixing it however is not to go out publicly and talk about it, but to just quietly stop the tradition, hoping they'll be the last ones. (Since there are no second-year students in the show, we have no idea what happened to them, so we're just gonna ignore that.)

Subtext: And here comes the reason that August wanted to put a stop to it. He was completely humiliated by it, and he doesn't want anyone else to know that he was humiliated, because that just makes it worse. This is also the reason that traditions like this keep on going, no-one wants to blow the whistle on it, because everyone was abused, everyone was a victim, it's hard for abuse victims to speak up.

Cinematography: The talk with Nils triggered an anxiety attack for August, and being inside his small room doesn't exactly help. Him going so close to the camera that he almost bumps into it really shows how he feels like the walls are closing in on him.

Culture: This, kids, is a standard Swedish landline telephone jack. For the longest time I thought phone jacks looked like this everywhere, but it turns out that this particular design was only used in Sweden and Iceland(!?!). You won't find these in newer buildings because landlines are pretty much dying out, and if there are phone jacks they'll probably be using the much more common RJ-11 standard.

Culture: This, kids, is an Ericsson Diavox phone. The former government phone monopoly in Sweden, Televerket, only allowed certified and approved phones to be used on the network, and they only approved a very small set of phones, so everyone had pretty much the same phones in their homes. However, in the 1980's the market started getting flooded with "illegal" phones from other countries, so the monopoly simply stopped enforcing the rule, and you could finally, finally, plug in that novelty Garfield phone that you always wanted.

Blink and you miss it: Sara is studying for her driving test, and she's reading about driving in the dark.

Subtext: We're gearing up for the main plotline of the season, dropping more hints that maybe Wilhelm's image of Erik wasn't complete, and what August says sows some seeds of doubt in him.

Subtext: This song is objectively not very good, please don't kill me, but it is very sixteen-year-old-boy-just-singing-from-his-heart, not thinking about the text.

Subtext: Simon isn't wearing anything purple, but just after he posts his song video, he picks up a purple shirt, drops it immediately, and then the camera lingers on it. Colour theory goes brrrrrrrr. He thought about Wilhelm, and then stopped because his music is more important to him or something?

Subtext: Unlike Simon, Wilhelm immediately understands how problematic the text is for him, and how people will interpret it...

Subtext: ...but since he doesn't want to hurt Simon's feelings, he lies about why he thinks the song was a very, very bad idea. And he cushions it by telling Simon that he thinks the song is jätte-jätte-bra. Giant-giant-good.

Subtext: Yes, but also no, and someone from the court really should have given Simon some media training and explained to him why he has to be very careful about what he posts. But it's drama fuel, which is why this disaster is allowed to happen.

Subtext: A nice little throwback to season 1, this is exactly what Erik told Wilhelm in the first episode, about making sure that their public image is carefully curated.

Subtext: That's some on-the-nose foreshadowing there, since Felice is one of the main causes for the school ultimately closing.

Subtext: We're back to the theme™, Fredrika is saying pretty much the same thing as Vincent. It didn't happen, and if it did, it wasn't that bad.

Subtext: However, Felice isn't playing along this time, she's starting to speak up about the issues, and the result is a long, awkward silence, because her friends are not willing to do the same.

Subtext: Wilhelm and the rest of the rich kids are of course all wearing pretty expensive high-end hiking gear, in contrast with Simon who is simply wearing one of his usual hoodies and his usual winter jacket that we've seen before. That's a damn fine jacket from Fjällräven, btw, the same company that makes the weirdly globally popular Kånken backpacks.

Blink and you miss it: Henry is getting dragged for his actually quite reasonable objection to the tent groupings.

Subtext: Felice physically distances herself from her friends, and joins Simon and Wilhelm, in a nice little foreshadowing of the show's ending.

Blink and you miss it: Did you miss the line in last episode where Ayub said they were also gonna go camping at Talludden with their classmates from Marieberg? Well, here they are, because they pitched their tents nearby, and decided to go check out the Hillerska camp. It's not just Rosh and Ayub randomly walking through the woods.

Subtext: In season 2, we learned that Stella has a crush on Fredrika that she thinks is one-sided, but Fredrika sure has some kind of reaction to seeing Stella being close with Rosh. Jealousy, perhaps? Not clear at this point in time.

Subtext: Read the room Fredrika, for fuck's sake. At least Wilhelm has started learning to recognize privilege. The other rich kids probably recognize their privilege, but they're mostly just enjoying how much better they are than the poor regular kids.

Subtext: But Wilhelm's still got a lot more to learn. Yes, technically he is forced to spend his summer studying, and technically it is a kind of work, but the underlying reasons are completely different. If he skips it or fails, nothing bad will happen to him, unlike the Marieberg kids who rely on their summer jobs to have any sort of spending money.

Lost in translation: Wilhelm's dad says that the queen is going to be "sjukskriven", which is more serious than someone deciding on their own to take some time off or to use some sick days. It means that a doctor has evaluated you and decided that you are not fit to work, and that if you're a regular person, you are eligible for sick pay for the foreseeable future.

Cinematography: Yeah, mommy is really sick and Wilhelm is feeling the weight of responsibility, but take a look at that sunrise! It's so pretty! Wilhelm is completely in shadow because trouble whatever, but look at how that light just pops, with the sky and the water and the sun on the trees! Beautiful!

#young royals #young royals subtext #young royals analysis #young royals season 3

306 notes · View notes

theroyalsandi · 3 months ago

Text

Danish Royal Family - The Danish Royal House released a new portraits of Princess Isabella in celebration of her upcoming 18th birthday on Monday the 21st April 2025. Also included an itinerary for the Princess' birthday celebration. (Photos were taken by Steen Evald) | March 06, 2025

HRH Princess Isabella’s 18th birthday On Monday, 21 April 2025 (Easter Monday), Her Royal Highness Princess Isabella turns 18 years old. The birthday will be marked officially on 11 and 15 April in Aarhus and Copenhagen, respectively, with celebrations that pay tribute to the communities of the young generation with culture, creativity, sustainability and volunteerism as the principal elements. The following official events will take place in connection with the 18th birthday of The Princess: Friday, 11 April 2025 14:00 at Aarhus City Hall → The City of Aarhus hosts a birthday event at Aarhus City Hall that will be a tribute to the city’s many young talents in the creative fields such as music, sport, cuisine and design. Young, Aarhusian designers present a fashion show with a focus on sustainability and future materials, upcoming musicians entertain on the stage, elite dancers in training put on a performance and students from the vocational education programmes offer birthday cake. Among the invited guests, there will be approximately 100 young people from local youth organisations and educations. In addition, another 50 young Aarhusians with companions will get the opportunity to participate in the event via a lottery. Tuesday, 15 April 2025 19:30 The Royal Danish Theatre’s Old Stage → The Princess and The Royal Family attend a birthday performance on The Old Stage of The Royal Danish Theatre. The Royal House of Denmark, in cooperation with The Royal Danish Theatre, invites the young generation to entertaining, exciting and varied performing arts that are both classical and modern. The theatre will be filled with a young audience, as more than 1000 young people ranging from the ages of 17 to 24 from the whole Realm will have the opportunity to get tickets to the birthday performance via a lottery. Details about the lottery can be accessed on The Royal Danish Theatre’s website: www.kglteater.dk. DR will broadcast the birthday performance. In connection with The Princess’s 18th birthday, new portraits of The Princess taken by photographer Steen Evald in Frederik VIII’s Palace at Amalienborg are published today. The portraits can be downloaded from The Royal House of Denmark’s media bank on kongehuset.dk. The guidelines for use of the portraits appear on The Royal House of Denmark’s website. News media information concerning Princess Isabella’s birthday will be announced at a later date.

79 notes · View notes

fromchaostocosmos · 1 year ago

Text

In the war between Israel and Hamas, there have been far too many casualties—thousands of innocent civilians have died, primarily in Gaza. But this war has another less visible casualty: the hundreds of thousands of Jewish immigrants to Israel from the Middle East and North Africa known as Mizrahi, whose history is being erased from the popular narrative about Israel. My community is among them.

When angry protesters hurl charges of apartheid and colonialism at Israel, they are, knowingly or not, repudiating the truth about Israel's origin and the vast racial and ethnic diversity of its nation.

I was born and raised in Iran in a family of Jewish educators. I came of age during the tumultuous years of the Iranian revolution, just as Ayatollah Khomeini rose to power in 1979, and soon thereafter, annihilated his opposition—feminists, leftists, even the Islamic Marxists who had long revered him as their spiritual leader. Until 1979, if anyone had told my observant Jewish family that we would someday leave Iran, we would have laughed. In fact, at our Passover seders, the words "next year in Jerusalem," were always followed by chuckles and quips, "oh, yeah, sure, Watch me pack!" all underlining our collective belief that we were exactly where we intended to remain. We loved Israel, but Israel was a Nirvana—a place we revered but never expected to reach.

The 30 years preceding the Islamic revolution had led the Jewish community to believe that the dark days of bigotry were behind them. And for good reason! When my father was a schoolboy in the late 1930s, he was not allowed to attend school on rainy days. In the highly conservative town where he grew up, in Khonsar, his Shiite neighbors considered Jews "unclean," or Najes. They barred them, among other things, from leaving their homes on rainy days, lest the rainwater splashed off the bodies of the Jews and onto the Muslim passersby, thus making them "unclean," too. Yet, that same boy grew up, left the insular town, attended college in Tehran, earned a master's degree, and served in the royal army as a second lieutenant. (To his last day, my father's photo in military uniform was among his most prized possessions.) After service, he became the principal of a school, purchased a home in what was then a relatively upscale neighborhood of Tehran. The distance between my father's childhood and adulthood far surpassed two decades. It was the distance between two eras—between incivility and civility, bigotry and tolerance.

Yet, as if on cue, the demon of antisemitism was unleashed again. The 1979 Islamic revolution summoned all the prejudices my father thought had been irretrievably buried. One day, on the wall across our home, graffiti appeared, "Jews gets lost!" Soon thereafter, the residence and fabric store my aunt and her extended family owned in my father's childhood town were set on fire after a mob of protesters looted it. Within days, she and her family, whose entire life's savings had burned in that fire, left for Israel. As young as I was, I could see that the regime was indiscriminately brutal to all those it deemed a threat to its reign, especially secular Muslims. But the new laws were specifically designed so that non-Muslims, and women, all but became second-class citizens. Members of religious minorities, especially the Baha'i, could no longer eye top jobs in academia, government, the military, etc. Restaurateurs had to display signs in their windows making clear that "the establishment was operated by a non-Muslim." In a court of law, members of religious minorities could offer testimony in criminal trials, but theirs would only count as half that of a Muslim witness. Jews were once again reduced to Dhimmis—tax-paying citizens who were allowed to live, but not thrive. Then came a handful of executions of prominent Jewish leaders in the early months after the revolution, which sent shockwaves through the community. Jewish schools were allowed to operate, but under the headmastership of Muslims who were officially appointed.

Within a few years after the rise of Ayatollah Khomeini to power, the Jewish population of Iran, which once stood at 100,000, shrank to a fraction of its size. Today, of the ancient community whose presence in Iran predates that of Muslims, only 8,000 remain. For centuries, Iran has been home to the most sacred Jewish sites in the Middle East outside of Israel. But those monuments have either fallen into disrepair or are targets of regular attacks by antisemitic mobs. Only last week, the tomb of Esther and Mordecai—the memorial to the heroine and hero from the Book of Esther who saved the Jews from being massacred in ancient Persia, was set on fire.

How is it that the 90,000-plus who left Iran, many for Israel, are now deemed as occupiers? How do Iranian refugees fleeing persecution become "colonizers" upon arrival in Israel? These families, my aunt among them, were not emissaries of any standing empire, nor were they returning to a place where they had no history. For them, Israel was not a home away from their real homeland. It was their only homeland. The vitriolic slogan that appeared across my home in 1979 demanded that we "get lost!" In 2024, once again, the same Jews are being called upon to leave, this time Israel. Where, then, are Jews allowed to live?

Iranian Jews were not alone. Jews from Iraq, especially in the aftermath of the 1941 pogrom called Farhood, similarly fled their homeland. So did the Jews of Yemen, Tunisia, Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Morocco, Algeria, Ethiopia, Afghanistan, etc. All, destitute and dejected, they took refuge in Israel. Today, they make up nearly 50 percent of Israel's population. To call such a nation colonial GRAVELY misrepresents the facts about Jews and Israel.

In his timeless essay, Looking Back on the Spanish Civil War, George Orwell said that in the Spain of 1937, he "saw history being written not in terms of what happened but of what ought to have happened according to various 'party lines.'" With the alarming rise of antisemitism around the world, and in light of the bloody attacks on Israel by Hamas on Oct. 7, the greatest massacre of Jews since World War II, 2024 bears an uncanny resemblance to Orwell's 1937. But perhaps in no way more ominously than the way truth has been upended to serve an ideological narrative—one in which Jews, who have lived uninterruptedly in that land for more than two millennia, are cast as white non-indigenous interlopers, with no roots in what has always been their ancient homeland.

A public scholar at the Moynihan Center (CCNY), Roya Hakakian is the author of several books including, Journey from the Land of No: A Girlhood Caught in Revolutionary Iran (Crown, 2005).

#jumblr #antisemitism #leftist antisemitism #mizrahi history #erasure of jewish history #erasure of mizrahi history

226 notes · View notes

flamingoofeathers · 10 months ago

Note

Hello, I would like to request a request, young maleficent and fem reader, I apologize if I wrote something wrong, English is not my first language

𝗗𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗖𝗘 || 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗧

pairings: maleficent x fem!reader

summary: The VK's getting in detention after their attempt to steal the book from Merlin's office was supposed to be unbearable, but the presence of a certain detention monitor made it all more bearable for Maleficent.

genre: fluff with a bit of angst

one-shot; wc: 2.2k

main masterlist maleficent masterlist

a/n: it’s like 1:54 a.m here and i’m tired but i cant sleep and i really wanted to get this one out before sleeping, this isn’t proofread so i apologise in advance for the mistakes

After getting caught sneaking inside Merlin’s office, Maleficent and the rest of the VK’s were sent to detention the next school day.

The crew begrudgingly made their way into the far corner of the school, it isn’t the first time they’ve been sent to detention, but that fact doesn’t make it, this god awful room any bearable.

Strangely enough, the detention room was unusually quiet that day, it would often be filled with villain kids who got themselves in trouble. Uliana continued to bitch about the unfortunate results of their failed plan to embarrass Bridget during Castlecoming.

As they sat inside the room, they waited for whomever was going to keep an eye on them, waiting to make that person’s life a living hell for the next 2 hours.

“Ugh, I couldn't even wear the gorgeous dress I bought for the dance, ugh” Maleficent complained.

“No one even asked you to go with them, so why bother?” Hades countered, rolling his eyes.

“Well, for your information, I don't care about the company...asshole. I just wanted to come and ruin some girls' dresses, set stuff on fire…or something to make that boring ass party any bit interesting.” Maleficent fired back.

“Oh please, you wanted to go there just to gawk at the goody goody” Hook interfered, tired of the bickering happening between the two.

“I beg to differ-” Maleficent was interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

“And speak of the devil” Hook sighed leaning back on his chair, plastering a fake smile towards the smiling girl.

“Good Afternoon! I will be your monitor for today!” The girl, Y/n, said flashing everyone a smile making them dread the next 2 hours, except one horned girl.

“Just today?” Maleficent inquired, changing seats to be near the girl. The royal blushed slightly and stuttering “well- i-” she cleared her throat “i am not sure who will be with you tomorrow” she said staring into the black haired girl.

“Well, that’s a bummer, and here I was hoping we could spend more time together. '' Maleficent feigned disappointment, knowing that the girl is too soft hearted to let the matter go.

“Oh! rest assured that i will ask the headmaster to be on duty tomorrow, if that will make you happier” The girl said smiling towards the girl who silently clapped her hands, muttering a small ‘yay’.

The two girls stared at each other before getting interrupted by a cough coming from Hades.

“Hellooo, we’re here too, but if you want the room all to yourselves we can arrange that” Hades said sarcastically, ignoring the burning glare coming from Maleficent.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, I just got a bit ... .uhh….distracted.” Her cheeks tinted red “But, as much as i’d like to let you leave, the headmaster said that you must write” the girl paused before reaching towards the stack of book, before pulling out a piece of paper and turning towards the blackboard and writing:

“I mustn’t sneak and steal from the principal's office”

“...this for at least 4 pages....front and back” the girl still smiling, her positive nature never falling off, not even noticing the sudden drop in atmosphere.

The VK’s looked at the girl as if she had grown 2 heads.

“4 pages!?” Uliana screeched.

“Front and back….what the fuck” Morgie continued.

“Yes and no magic” Y/n said, showing anti-magic cuffs given to her by the headmaster.

“No magi…you’ve got to be kidding me” Hook scoffed, even if he himself didn’t have magic, the others could’ve done it for him.

The horned girl simply shut her mouth, not wanting to say anything rude towards the sweet girl she’s been after for months. Maleficent took a deep breath before plastering another smile and standing up, approaching the lovely girl that stood in front of the class.

“Darling?” Maleficent said, tucking a piece of hair that had fallen from the royals perfectly styled hair.

“Yes?” Y/n said shyly as her cheeks returned to the red hue it held before except this time, much darker.

That small action from the girl she had a crush on made her forget about the others in the room and simply stared at the girls captivating green eyes, that is until a piece of paper was thrown at them along with a “get a room!!” coming from Hades. Maleficent glared at her so-called friend, raising her hands to curse but Y/n had grabbed it whispering “No magic allowed” Maleficent resigned slowly putting her hand back down, but looked at her friend with a fiery glare.

“Darling, as i was saying, do you think maybe just for today you can spare us and let us…use magic” Maleficent said using her flirting skills.

“This is actually disgusting me so much” came from Hook but the two girls ignored him or simply didn’t care enough to listen to him.

“Uli are you seeing this?” “I don't care.”

“Well, i’d get in so much trouble if the headmaster were to find out i let you use magic” the girl reluctantly said, torn between following the rules and impressing her crush.

“What he doesn’t know won’t him, right, Darling?” Maleficent pushed.

“Well…” the girl was still conflicted between the good and the bad.

“If you let us, then maybe you and I can go on a date this weekend?” Maleficent said, trying to convince the girl. It was cruel to use this to convince the girl but, whether she let them use magic or not, the girl would’ve still taken her on a date.

“A date?” Y/n’s eyes widen looking down, her whole face turning red.

She was fully considering it this time, but inside there was this disappointment that her crush would only be willing to go on a date with her for the price of something else.

Y/n looked back up at Maleficent this time her smile was sad and the red hue on her cheeks were gone.

‘Have i said something wrong?’ Maleficent said.

“You don’t need to worry about the date, Maleficent, you can use magic this time and i won’t tell the headmaster” Y/n said with a new found professionalism in her voice.

“Please, sit back down and progress to the task at hand Y/n said before pushing past Maleficent to get to her own seat, opening a book and starting her own work. Meanwhile, Maleficent stared at the girl with a sad and confused look on her face, but she still went back to her seat, continuing to stare at the girl.

“Nice going…Mal” Hades said from behind her.

“I swear to god, I will curse you to eternal sleep if you don’t shut up” Maleficent said, turning to grab Hades' collar and threatening him. Hades raised his hand in feign surrender holding in his chuckle.

“Ugh. Whatever” Maleficent groaned before magic-ing her pen to start writing.

“Mal! Mine too!” she heard Hook said gesturing to his own paper. Maleficent waved her hands and Hook’s pen started writing on his own as well “Thanks!”

That night Maleficent had stayed up all night long ranting about Y/n to Uliana, the sea witch forced to stay awake and listen to her friend complain about her ever so tragic love story.

“I just don’t get it, Uli, why did she suddenly become cold earlier, I was about to score a date!” Maleficent stressed.

“Well, you basically-” Uliana started only to get interrupted by the girl, who was, by the way, walking back and forth their dorm waving her hands around.

“OH MY GOD!! MAYBE I’VE BEEN READING THIS ALL WRONG AND SHE DOESN’T LIKE ME!” Maleficent yelled, turning and looking at her friend, horrified.

“Jesus Christ! Mali, you basically implied that you’d only go on a date with her ONLY if she allowed us to do magic, not because you actually like you.” Uliana explained finally rising from her bed and approaching her distressed friend.

“But I do like her” Maleficent muttered.

“Yeah, but does she know that?”

“I suppose not.” Maleficent sighed, defeated as she plopped down her bed, Uliana following along, comforting the horned girl.

“How about you ask her out, for real this time” Uliana comforted as she let the girl rest her head on her shoulder.

The next day in detention, Y/n had kept her word and was there on duty, but only this time she didn’t utter a word to them, just giving them their task of the day, which is extra homework of Virtues and Values. Today no one complained about the work as they were weary of Maleficent's temper that day, so they just sat and did the work, well, except for Uliana who made Morgie do hers.

Once Maleficent finished her work, she neared the girl who was, quite obviously, avoiding her.

Y/n, noticing someone approaching her desk raised her head, only for her to put it back down.

“Maleficent! If you’ve finished your work, you can just put it down here and you’re free to go” Y/n said with her head still down, refusing to look at Maleficent.

When she was met with silence, Y/n looked up and saw Maleficent’s eyes filled with hurt and hesitancy as if she wanted to say something.

“Are you feeling alright?” Y/n rose to her feet and rounded the desk to touch Maleficent’s face, checking for fever.

“Oh my god, Maleficent! You’re burning! We should get you to the Medical wing!” The now worried girl said as she gathered her things.

The VK’S in the background laughed at the situation but Maleficent didn’t care as she stared starstruck at Y/n.

“Mal!” Uliana whispered-yelled to her friend, signaling to the frantic girl.

“Wait Y/n! I’m not sick, don’t worry!” Maleficent grabbed the girl's forearms, stopping her from panicking.

“But you have a fever!” Y/n insisted.

“I don’t…i don’t” Maleficent reassured, but the latter wasn’t convinced and tried to touch Maleficent’s face once more but got stopped.

“Uhhh…that’s what's making me burn up” Maleficent chuckled as she distanced herself a bit from the girl.

There was a continuous chuckling in the background from the boys.

“What?” Y/n said confused.

“Yeah…don’t worry about it”

“Are you sure?” Y/n asked wanting to be sure, her fri- schoolmate was ok.

“Yes, but there is one thing you can do for me, Darling.” Maleficent said with an unusual insecurity in her voice.

“Oh! Anything!” Y/n urged the girl to tell her what she can do to help her feel ok.

“Go on a date with me” Maleficent breathed out, her tone hopeful.

At that, the other girl's demeanor deflated.

“Oh…umm, I really can’t let you use magic today, Maleficent, I can't risk the headmaster finding out, I'm sorry” the royal apologized as she moved past Maleficent.

Maleficent felt heart broke at that, she knew how she worded it yesterday wasn’t really…ideal, but it still hurt.

“I don’t mean it like that, Y/n.” Maleficent hurried to explain “Would you like to go on a date with me this saturday?”

Y/n stared at the girl, dumbfounded by the sudden turn of event, her cheeks getting back its red hue.

“Are you serious?” The girl asked, fully turning towards the black haired girl “This isn’t a prank? Or a way for me to let you use magic during detention?” The girl wanted to clear her confusion, as she didn’t want her heart broken in the hands of someone she really did like.

“Non no, none of that, i’m asking you on a date because i’ve liked you for so long and i thought i made it obvious but apparently not, so here I am, officially asking you out” Maleficent said as she walked closer to the girl and held her hands.

“What?” The other girl was dumbfounded.

Maleficent chuckled at the reaction “ Would you, Y/n L/n, like to go on a date with me this saturday?”

“Oh my god, I would love to!” Y/n replied, hugging the girl. Maleficent stumbled back a bit, not expecting the hug from the girl but once she gathered herself together, she hugged the girl back tightly.

The sweet moment lasted for a second, before the sound of applause covered the room.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking with me” Maleficent said, irritated at the interruption. Meanwhile, the other girl had completely forgotten about the presence of the rest and grew embarrassed at her actions, so she hid behind Maleficent.

The applause suddenly stopped when Uliana grabbed Hook and Hades by the ears and dragged them out of the room with Morgie following, handing Y/n their homework at the exit.

“I’m so sorry about them” Maleficent apologized, facing the girl who had looked at her with a furious blush on her face.

“Oh, you look so cute, Darling” Maleficent cooed at the girl, causing her whole face to turn red.

“I really really like you, Maly” The girl suddenly said.

Now it was Maleficent's turn to blush.

#descendants: the rise of red #descendants #rise of red #descendants x reader #maleficent #maleficent x reader #maleficent descendants #young maleficent #wlw #fluff #angst #x reader #x fem!reader

126 notes · View notes

ballet-symphonie · 4 months ago

Note

Hello and happy new year!

I have a question about dancer and the fit to a company style. Do you think that the best principals at major companies (Bolshoi, Royal Ballet, Paris Opera, Mariinsky, NYCB etc..) would all reach that level if they were at a different company with a different style. I can see some that I feel would make it anywhere, and also some companies (though maybe less these ones, more a slight level down) where it feels anyone could thrive - but then there are some dancers that feel they are so well suited to one style that they might not shine at a very different company - particularly where the company style is more set/distinctive. Would love your view on this and who you think would work well across (and could be really exciting to see in a different context), who is maybe perfect where they are but wouldn’t transition across well and which companies you think have the most fixed style that you need to conform to to make it?

Thank you!

I think Renata Shakirova would be everywhere if she was at the Royal Ballet. The artistic staff at the Royal does such a wonderful job of coaching a wider variety of body types and bringing storytelling to the forefront of their dancers' intentions. I think Renata could really blossom here from new insight on how to harness her power and energy instead of Mariinksy trying to shove her into molds of dancers that just don't fit sometimes.

I want Vladislav Lantratov at the Royal. He's such a powerful actor and has such great command of the stage, I want to see him in all the male-heavy MacMillian rep. Him in Mayerling, THE DRAMA? YES PLEASE.

I also think Kristina Shapran could do great things at Paris Opera. The exceptional cleanliness of her pointe work and her style of expression would mesh well with the crystalline imagery of ONP. Seymon Chudin can go with her and dance with more people who can actually do 5th position.

I actually think Ekaterina Kondaurova to ONP would be interesting, mostly because she's so wonderful and in my opinion has been woefully underused and I would love to see her stretched in a bigger variety of contemporary repertoire. She's absolutely not a French-style dancer, but her in Crystal Pite's work? Or Mats Ek? I want it yesterday.

Paul Marque could kick ass at Mariinsky, with his fluidity and classicism. I think he would be flying up the ranks even with Mariinky's glacial pace because they need competent men and he is exceptionally gifted. And I would like to see him dance some of the big classics in a version that's not Nureyev's overly crowded hodgepodge.

Melissa Hamilton to the Bolshoi, she's got the legs and with her stellar competition career, I think she would have been quickly promoted at Bolshoi. It would be interesting to see her in big dramatic Grigorovich productions...or Carmen!

Sae Eun Park and Fumi Kaneno can both go to the Mariinsky, you can't tell me this wouldn't be a stellar cast of Legend of Love or Corsaire or they can take turns in Scherezade.

Potentially controversial but I don't think Marianela Nunez would have been as successful at Mariinsky or Bolshoi, especially under the current administrations' aesthetic preferences. At Bolshoi, there is such pressure to be soloist level right at 18-19 or you just get buried. If you watch young videos of Marinela, she's obviously very talented but has nowhere near the finesse that she possesses now. And not that the Bolshoi is renowned for finesse and cleanliness but she would have lacked that, plus the hypermobility, plus the body type....I'm not sure it would have gone well for her.

I don't think Oksana Skorik would do as well anywhere outside the Mariinsky. She's most comfortable dancing at Mariinksy's slow (sometimes dirge) tempis and she's a very internal dancer. I don't think her strengths would resonate at Bolshoi or Royal which both demand stronger theatrical presences.

There are some shorter ROH dancers that I think would struggle to find success at Russian companies, primarily the men, but that's not super interesting to discuss stylistically.

And there are certain principals and leading soloists at Bolshoi I don't think would make it into the corps at ROH or ONP...I'll stop here, this was a fun question.

#too many to tag #ballet #ballet ask #ballerina #royal ballet #royal operahouse #mariinsky theater #bolshoi theatre #paris opera house #opera national de paris #paris opera ballet

28 notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 4 months ago

Photo

Bartholomew Roberts

Bartholomew Roberts, aka 'Black Bart' Roberts (c. 1682-1722), was a Welsh pirate and one of the most successful villains of the Golden Age of Piracy. Roberts plundered over 400 ships on both sides of the Atlantic during his infamous three-year career, far more than any other pirate of the period.

Known for his flashy wardrobe, provocative Jolly Roger flags, and being a stickler for discipline, 'Black Bart' Roberts commanded one of the most powerful of all pirate ships, the Royal Fortune which had at least 40 cannons. Keen to avoid the hangman’s noose so many other pirates had felt tickle their necks, Roberts was shot in the throat resisting capture by the English authorities in 1722.

Early Career

Roberts was born in Pembroke County, Wales, in 1682, his real first name being John. John Roberts went to sea around age 13, and he grew into a tall, deeply-tanned, and weather-worn chap that resulted in his later nickname 'Black Bart' Roberts (or 'Black Barty'). An alternative source of this moniker was that Roberts often tortured his captives - especially French ones - to find out exactly where they kept their valuables. In one notorious episode in October 1720, Roberts ordered his men to cut the ears off a group of Dutch captives, some were hanged and their bodies used for target practice. So, then, either way, 'Black Bart' Roberts certainly lived up to his name.

As a young man, Roberts served as second mate on the Princess of London, a slave ship that plied the route between the coast of West Africa and London. Then, in February 1720, he joined, either by force or voluntarily, the crew of the Welsh pirate Howell Davis who had captured the Princess. It was at this stage that Roberts changed his Christian name to Bartholomew to make it more difficult for the authorities to discover his identity. When Davis died in an engagement with the Portuguese authorities on the Island of Princes (Principe Island) off the West African coast, Roberts was elected by the crew to take over. Captain Roberts swiftly launched a revenge attack on the fort of the Island of Princes and razed it to the ground along with the nearby town.

#History #'BlackBart'Roberts #1720 #Atlantic #WHE #[#]

27 notes · View notes

demigodsanswer · 5 months ago

Text

Demigodsanswer/Gluten_FullAO3 Fic Masterpost

AO3: Gluten_Full

Tumblr: Demigodsanswer [My writing tumblr tag]

Series

On Your Toes (Percabeth Ballet AU) Five Works, ratings T through E

Percy, a young soloist with The New York City Ballet, had gotten used to his spot in the back of the room, content with his role in the fourth cast of the company's upcoming production of "The Sleeping Beauty." But when the principal male lead gets injured, he's given the chance to dance with Annabeth -- the company's star, recently back after a long leave of absence. He's got one chance to dance with her in rehearsal. As he takes his spot at the front of the room, he knows that this is not simply a rehearsal. It's an audition. The sudden retirement of Annabeth's ex-finacé had left one male principal spot open in the company, and Percy is determined to finally earn his promotion.

Find more in the tumblr tag

G Rated

Christmas Lists, Christmas Gifts Chapters 1/1

Percy was pretty good at getting gifts for Annabeth. She wasn’t that subtle about what she wanted. He was sure his wife wanted a dog. He was going to get her dream dog for Christmas. ~ Annabeth spent weeks subtly trying to get Percy to say what kinds of dogs he might like. Ever since they moved back to New York, and he’d once again left Mrs. O'Leary in New Rome, her husband had been a bit bummed out, staring wistfully at every dog they passed on the street. She was sure he’d love to get a puppy for Christmas. And she was going to get it for him.

A Little (Vegan) Treat Chapters 1/1

Percy had wanted to open up a bakery, but a coffee shop that sold pastries seemed a lot more lucrative. In hindsight he was glad he did. Every day, Annabeth - a young professional about his age - started her day with one of his soy lattes. He wasn't sure if she was actually a vegan or dairy-free, but she inspired him to add a few new vegan treats to the menu anyway.

E Rated

Princess, I Found You At Last chapter 2/3, more in the tumblr tag

Percy tapped his foot nervously as his father stared at him. It was never a great sign when his dad needed to speak with him. Percy was not, by any means, an important part of the Spanish monarchy: fourth son of the king's brother. He was basically a socialite with a memorable ocean-themed back tattoo. "Did you," his father finally said, "have sex with the heir to the Swedish throne last night?" Percy laughed. "What? No, of course not." Oh he had, he so had. ~ Modern Royals and old college rivals Percy Jackson of Spain, and Annabeth Chase of Sweden meet at a party and get snapped by paparazzi. Their hookup makes the front page.

All Up In Your Mind Chapters 1/1

Annabeth's architecture firm had her on some strict deadline for a proposal that needed to be flawless. She was due for a promotion soon, to be sure. She was also due to stand up, use the bathroom, and eat something. Annabeth sat down the moment she got home at five and barely moved in two hours. Percy was tired of watching her ignore her own needs. But there was an easy solution. He picked up the little pink toy they kept in her nightstand. It only when someone used the remote. The remote was in Percy’s bedside drawer. ~ Annabeth has been working hard and working late trying to earn a promotion. But she often forgets about her physical needs when she gets sucked into work. Percy comes up with a fun way to remind her when its time to take breaks and to teach her the value of self care.

#fic list #pinned post #percabeth #percy jackson and the olympians

30 notes · View notes

phoenixtakaramono · 3 days ago

Text

Chariot and Wolf - Chapter 1 Preview (Part 1/ ?)

(Note: this comes from an earlier draft, so there might or might not be some small changes in the final version that’ll be uploaded to AO3 once the prologue is done.)

CONTEXT

Sneak-Peek:

Fate had always been in the realm of the gods, though even the gods were subject to it.

For as much as mankind, immortals, and gods believed they were the masters of their destiny and could control the little things in life, with those small decisions adding up to the everyday, the overall shape of their lives were not theirs to decide. They were at the mercy of the Moirai—the three Fates who weaved their futures from their spindles on their craftsman’s loom and snipped life threads short. From the beginning, the Fates determined which souls would be born, the course of events, what kind of lives they would live, and for how many days. It was always ever thus.

It was during the month of Hekatombaion, during the important Panathenaic Games held every four years to honor the goddess Athena, when Queen Anticlea fell into labor, sending all into an uproar. On a warm midsummer night, dark and moonless, the midwives, along with the queen’s female relatives and friends tending to her through the moving image of eternity, finally heard the wails of a healthy baby boy.

They had delivered the firstborn son of an Argonaut, King Laertes and his wife, Queen Anticlea.

Their kingdom, at last, had a legitimate heir.

Whilst the exhausted queen slept, the wet-nurse, a dark-haired woman who wore a kekryphalos—a wide-woven woven caul secured around the front of the head, with a pouch in the back where the majority of her hair was tucked inside the elastic cap—presented the sleeping newborn prince before the queen’s honored parents.

The honored servant was named Eurycleia; she had been sold to King Laertes as a young girl, having been treated as an honored servant in his household for many years, that she was almost regarded as the king’s second wife. However Laertes never had Eurycleia attend to him in the bed, out of respect for his principal wife whom he loved. As his trusted servant, Eurycleia had been tasked to attend to the baby’s needs during the queen’s postpartum recovery.

When the servant Eurycleia took this soft delicate creature into her arms, holding him with the utmost care and delicacy, she found herself seized with emotion. Eurycleia fell into a daze looking at the tiny sleeping face peeking from the blue swaddling cloth. Her heart swelled. Although he had been born from another woman’s womb, at this very moment, she felt a mother’s unconditional love wash over her.

Stepping forward, very gently Eurycleia laid the tender sleeping prince upon the aged Autolycus’ knees and addressed respectfully, “The Wolf Itself, Autolykos, you who have dared to battle wits against the craftiest of men, King Sisyphus, may you find a name to give to your child's own child; for he has much been prayed for.” She didn’t dare suggest a name to him, for it was neither her place nor did they share any blood ties, but she could provide a gentle hint.

Wearing a handsome wolf pelt draped over one shoulder, Autolycus, fleet-footed and fleet of fingers, cradled his grandson who had surprised everyone and whose sudden birth sent all into a flurry of panic. He scrutinized him. Looking at the wisps of soft dark down on the infant’s head, it was still much too early to tell whom this child would take after in appearance, whether it was his birth mother or his royal father—or perhaps someone else in their ancestry. But the prince’s penchant for trickery proved innate—perhaps an influence of the child’s great-grandfather. Peering at the infant’s ruddy cheeks, the old Autolycus was once again confronted with the disappointing reality that his family could not have the fortune of ichor running golden through their veins. Only red mortal blood.

Grazing his thumb over the child’s eyelid, he suddenly recalled the servants’ secret whisperings. The prince had been born with marigold eyes. Just like their daughter’s. Just like his. The sort that picked up whatever hue was near. Like a creek dappled in morning light, a dirty stain of gold, darkening into a warm brown around the two innermost black eclipses.

In the past, Autolycus had the dubious honor of being visited, and rewarded for his faithful sacrifices to him, by his swift-footed father with his gold wand, who’d been absent most of his life; glimpsed a glimmer of marigold beneath his shadowed features. There'd been a hint of twisted playfulness which had softened some of the immortal’s merciless edges, lending his youthful beauty a trace of humanness. There was something there, in the defined angles and deep shadows cast over the Messenger God’s marble-like face, the sharp line of his smooth clean shaven jaw, the two wicked slashes of his lips, the hollows of his cheeks, and a pair of eyes the color of pure unsullied ichor which glowed bright gold beneath the wide brim of his winged hat.

But just like strong wine which had been diluted with water, the more and more bloodlines would mix into theirs, the more watered down their bloodline would be. Autolycus’ own sons, as well as his two daughters, Anticlea and Polymede, and now this grandchild, proved evidence of that. None of his children could do something he found as simple as changing horned cattle into hornless ones and brown cows into white ones. Perhaps this was the fate of all borned demigods, who weren’t immortal, destined to live out a life more mortal than divine. There’d come a time in the distant future when the strength of their gifts faded, when a descendant from their bloodline would be no different from that of any other Achaean.

“Since I have angered many, both men and women,” Autolycus announced, in a moment of pure sardonic pique, "as I am a legendary untouchable thief hated by all, let the name of the child be ‘Odysseus.’” Lifting the infant higher with both hands, Autolykos told the future king, “I have high hopes for you, little Odysseus.”

Eurycleia bowed her head. To be wroth against, to be angry or cause hate—a fierce name, strong in meaning, bestowed as an honor to himself. The name betrayed the weight of Autolycus’ expectations and the value he placed on his grandson.

It was said that the Three Sisters of Fate spun a person’s destiny within three nights of their birth. The first sister, Clotho, a young maiden on the left, spun the fibres of a child’s life while in the womb into a single thread, from her distaff onto her spindle. The older and more matronly sister in the center, Lachesis, held the rod used to measure their golden thread of life, for the length of a child’s life, experiences, and the number of tribulations they were predestined to face were determined from her fingers. Then came Atropos—cronely, haggardly, old. Inevitable. The sister whom most were frightened by, for in her gnarled hand held the terrible shears used to cut the thread of life, choosing the manner and time of his or her death. Once cut, the soul would be sent into the Underworld to receive judgement and discharged to one of three destinations: Elysium, for the righteous souls who were to be rewarded; Tartarus, for the vicious souls who were to be punished; and the Fields of Asphodel, for the mediocre and ordinary. Feared by mortals and gods alike, the sisters pressed together to preside over a person’s fate—a prophecy foretold, their past, present, and future set in stone.

Odysseus was King Laertes’ firstborn son, born by the legitimate wife. So long as the king of Ithaca Laertes did not give sire to another son, and the prince suffered neither misfortune nor committed any unforgivable crimes, the course of this child’s destiny had already been charted out for him.

Three nights later, dark storm clouds rolled into Ithaca, heralded by dazzling claps of thunder and lightning that boasted an ocean of tears. The old Autolycus awoke with a start.

“Dear…?” his wife murmured drowsily.

Whatever Autolycus had been about to say to reassure her was interrupted when a flash of blistering color lifted the veil of darkness. His ears rang with the deafening unearthly screech of an eagle. There was a dangerous edge to the cry, like a thunderstorm about to erupt.

Like a bolt of lightning, the fine embroidered bedcover was flung off and Autolycus prostrated himself on the floor. He bellowed, “Zeus, O’ Wise King of the Gods, I heed your prophetic warnings! I give eternal thanks for your consideration and the everlasting grace you have shown to me and my family!”

Deep in Autolycus’ ambrosial sleep, he had dreamt Zeus had flown into his bedchambers in the guise of a large golden eagle, landing on the bedrest above the old swindler’s head. Sharp talons curled, majestic wings folded, a strong yellow beak preened his flight feathers. In the dream from heaven, disguised as a bird of prey, the god proclaimed in a deep, authoritative thunder clap: “Master of Thieves, Autolycus, do you dare sleep now when I come to you bearing a message? Listen closely now, for you are my messenger son’s son and, as far-off as I can be, I care about you and feel compassion.”

Like peering through a fog, Autolycus witnessed a war, and a fatal anger that would bring countless sorrows on the Achaeans, sending the souls of many valiant warriors to Hades, their bodies left behind as spoils for dogs and carrion birds on the broad-paved roads. He then witnessed the mightiest of all, aegis-bearing Zeus, he of the far-thundering voice, seated upon his throne composed of clouds at the gleaming Olympus, looking troubled; inclining his shadowed brow upon ambrosial locks, the Cloud-Lord thunderously forbade the company of gods from interfering in the quarrel of mortals.

Autolycus saw a massive wooden horse being wheeled into a city’s thick fortified gates, and forty soldiers pouring out of the large, hollowed underbelly in the dead of night to push the gates open. He beheld Odysseus—handsome, long-haired, and proud—commanding six hundred men to glory. He saw his grandson, looking fresh and bright after the war, setting sail homeward bound—and the innumerous sufferings he endured. The incidents, and the faces of many, flashed before Autolycus’ eyes like a series of quick lightning bolts.

A cave and the one-eyed monster that lived inside it—a horrid creature, not like a human being at all, but resembling a rugged mountain crag piercing the sky—dashed six of Odysseus’ men to the ground with his club until their brains splattered, tearing their corpse from limb from limb, gorging on their flesh, bones, and entrails; of Odysseus later thrusting a club of olive-wood in the ashes, and then having his men aim it straight and true, sharpened at the tip, into the cyclops’ eye—throwing his weight upon the beam from above, whirling the fiery-sharpened point in the socket like how a man would bore a ship’s timber with a drill, while those below kept it spinning with the thong, as the eyeball burned and boiling blood bubbled around the red hot beam; Autolycus’ ears deafened hearing the pained, earth-shattering roar whilst the surrounding flock of rams, well-fed and thick of fleece, brayed in fright; the monster’s crying had attracted the other savage cyclops who lived in the headlands near him.

In another flash, Autolycus was on a cliffside, and he saw what he assumed to be the silhouette of his grandson from a distance, joined by his crewmates who hastily set sail from the beaches. Dwarfing Autolycus in height, the blinded ogre had stretched both hands out to the starry heaven; his voice rumbled like two boulders grating together, praying to the lord Poseidon—that if he were the god’s true begotten son—to grant a curse upon “the valiant warrior, Odysseus, the sacker of cities and son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca,” to never reach his home alive. Or that if it were Odysseus’ fate to see his friends, to derail the man’s voyage for as long as he could, for the captain to suffer greatly after losing all of his men, and to let him reach his home only in another man’s ship, and to find trouble in his own house. Curse after curse after curse spilled forth. And Poseidon heard his prayer.

Zeus hurled his bolt—and this time Autolycus opened his eyes to see the earth-encircling Poseidon commanding a giant whirlpool. Autolycus’ breath drew tight in his chest. Who could stand the weight of a god’s wrath? A titan towering over the twelve ships, Poseidon calmly declared to them their death sentence. With a majestic sweep of his divine trident, the black ocean swelled up into monstrous giant horses, surging over eleven ships—before crashing down, swallowing the screams of more than five-hundred crewmen. Autolycus watched as Odysseus’ face crumbled in despair. Over the sleet-like spray of salt water and sound of waves rocking the only ship spared, they could hear the god’s vindictive hiss: “Forty-three left under your command….”

“Cousin, Father Zeus; and you other everlasting and blessed gods,” a clear voice suddenly rang out. Loud, energetic, eager. The violent seas had vanished, replaced by sunlight, shining and radiant. Autolycus would recognize that voice anywhere, having pilfered a dagger from the god: Helios the Sun, the one who saw everything. The god threatened, “I ask you to punish the companions of Odysseus, son of Laertes; for they outrageously killed my cattle, in whom I always delighted on my way up into the starry heaven, or when I turned back again from heaven toward earth. I demand just recompensation for my cattle, or you will see me go down to Hades’ and give my light to dead men!”

A bolt of lightning hurled blinded his vision—and this time Autolycus was overlooking his grandson from high above, up in the black clouds. From Zeus’ perspective, as judge, jury, and executioner. Odysseus looked wretched and disheveled, the bloodstain on his tunic blooming like a carnelian flower. “Choose.” Addressing Odysseus, Zeus’s voice was deep, like a storm coming, but gentle, like the rain ending. The god’s sonorous voice echoed through the hollow place of sorrow, reverberating in everyone’s eardrums. “Someone’s gotta die today and you have got the final say….” The last syllable was stretched long, a cruelty masked behind gaiety.

Another flash—and this time Autolycus was astonished to see the familiar tall figure of Athena, beloved daughter of Zeus, marching up to the imposing throne constructed of wispy cumulus clouds. Her voice boomed with authority in the sacred place, coming to Odysseus’ aid, pleading her case before Zeus to release him and to allow the pitiful king of Ithaca to return home. Her voice melded with five other opposing voices who engaged her, turn by turn, in fierce debate. That was all Autolycus was allowed to hear before his vision darkened, and he almost leapt with fright suddenly seeing the helmeted Athena brazenly point her bronze-tipped spear up at a furious Zeus.

The image of Zeus’ daughter raising her weapon against her heavenly father, this great primordial being whose form eclipsed the entire sky, in defense of Autolycus’ grandson, was seared into Autolycus’ eyes. Beholding the god’s true terrible form, Autolycus remembered the stories of the mad Titan, Kronos—he who mated his older sister Rhea—whose blood flowed in Zeus’ veins, as well as his ancestry with the Titans Ouranos, the sky, and Gaia, the earth. The goddess’ noble figure was the last thing he saw before his vision burned bright and a shroud of absolute darkness soon came falling down.

After the last vision, Zeus fell uncannily silent. In the absence of light, the darkness held a presence that was all the more felt because it was not seen. Autolycus heard the distant sound of waves striking the shore, forceful and strong and as constant as the deepest ocean currents; and it was as though the pounding of his heart was keeping in time with the sea’s great tides—the sound a familiar comfort, and every seafarer’s nightmare. A looming danger unable to mitigate.

“…That clever grandson of yours will run afoul of many great gods. These are a mere trifle I have deemed significant and allowed you to see.” The eagle lifted his beak from his feathers. Gazed at Autolycus with eyes blazing with golden ichor. “Odysseus of Ithaca is a man born to trouble. However his fate is to become a fine king of counsel, charged with an army, on whom responsibility so rests. He will go to engineer a clever trick so heinous, the war cannot be won without his strategy, contributions that thereby make him essential for it is fated that Troy will fall. As I will have decreed that us immortal gods cannot interfere in the war, I have effectively tied my own hands—for once I give my nod, my word can never be recalled; to prove true and fulfilled. Heed my only warning, Autolycus, as my wish is to preserve the sanctity of the natural divine order. Hold fast to this, remember all, when honey-tongued sleep frees you.”

With this, the eagle departed in a shower of golden sparks. When Autolycus woke, the divine voice was still ringing in his ears.

At present, he could feel his body ache; the cold floor was unforgiving on his old bones and stiff joints. Dread donned Autolycus’ troubled brow now that he was no longer constrained by sleep’s inability to doubt. Why give him, a thief who’d boasted he could steal undetected from the gods themselves, the grace of a divine vision? Why him—and not somebody else? Autolycus’ cunning mind raced, pondering Zeus’ intentions.

Could it be…? For Zeus to personally descend instead of sending down a messenger, did this not indicate that the god somewhat recognized their unacknowledged familial ties? Although Autolycus’ blood ran crimson, his relationship to the immortal gods of Olympus could be considered the strongest amongst his wives and children, for the blood of Hermes directly flowed through his veins. Disguising his warning as an omen, was their divine ancestor showing consideration for his children’s mortal descendants—however distant and negligible their relation might be, as neither Autolycus nor his children nor children’s children sprung from Zeus’ loins directly?

He heard his wife slip out from the comfort of the warm covers; her warm hands slipped underneath to support her kneeling husband from underneath his elbows. He snapped out of his thoughts. His pulse still thundering from the prophetic dream, gripping his wife by her arms, Autolycus announced feverously, “Beloved Amphithea, come with me to seek an audience with our daughter. We must make haste! For I have seen her son’s future!”

The old woman, seized with fear, obeyed her husband.

That night, Autolycus and Amphithea held an assembly with their daughter and their son-in-law. Listening to Autolycus recount his prophetic vision of an incoming war, Queen Anticlea—a woman of exemplary virtue and chastity—and King Laertes who was a man of honor, wisdom, courage, and a straightforward personality, were, understandably, afraid. Afraid for the state of their kingdom—and for their son. These secret discussions which rolled into the early hours of the next day, behind closed doors, would later come to define Odysseus’ life and rewrite history.

Yet, for all their preparation and well-laid plans, not once did it occur to them, if a person’s fate was something that could be so easily redirected. For, on Odysseus’ glimmering thread, the tribulations which Lachesis had woven for him remained untouched. The innumerous fibres twisted together to form one long golden strand coiled even tighter, strengthening some more.

XXXXXXXXXX

For young children, the passage of time was always particularly noticeable. They went from being tiny, unable to see the world clearly, to sitting, crawling, and then evolving to exploring the world on their short little legs.

In the blink of an eye, Odysseus transformed from a baby who smelled like milk, to a cheerful, rambunctious rascal at just three years old. Like all boys his age, he liked to climb trees, explore, jump, run around, and disappear. The prince was an exceptionally curious troublemaker who gave the servants in the palace many headaches; they were nearly driven to their wit’s end working tirelessly around the clock to find the young prince in every new hiding spot he’d managed to procure for himself in the palace grounds, or having to wait until Odysseus exhausted himself from playing before they could finally put the escape artist to bed.

Several Achaean elders who’d been called into assembly one day had remarked to the king, just like their own offspring, nephews, or grandsons, that perhaps the mind of the legitimate crown prince wasn’t being stimulated enough, which was causing the prince to act out in mischief. The young Odysseus was already showing signs that he was brighter than a majority of boys his age. The solution was to exhaust the reserves of all that untapped energy and funnel it into alternative outlets. With some effort, there was still a chance to correct his ways. Confronted with his son’s penchant for stirring up trouble, Laertes decided to move the matter of the prince’s formal education up much earlier.

It was a principle that bullying others was always better than being bullied.

But should Odysseus be taught well, he would be more likely to grow into a ruler who could distinguish right from wrong. Doting on a child too much could be detrimental to their own growth. Princes who had some talent but didn’t like to study, and were pampered by the household, should he continue this way, would either end up a waste—or a playboy who only knew a life of debauchery. Empires often declined because of a muddle-headed ruler who prioritized pleasures instead of overseeing their kingdom and government affairs.

It ought to be observed that children who were not well-educated struggled to make a name for themselves outside their parents. Looking at Odysseus’ robustness, both parents thought having the prince learn military skills early would also help him get a head start on training his discipline, with the added benefit of shaping his mind—and his physique. For that, they turned to the precedent set by the Spartans. Whilst most Spartan sons waited till they were seven-years old to leave their home and begin their military education at the Agoge, Odysseus reported to the training grounds at the tender age of five—when his grasp over his motor control skills was sufficient enough to hold a wooden practice sword for a long duration without accidentally hurting himself. The Achaean hired as Odysseus’ instructor was a strict retired general; he told the impressionable Odysseus that although Achaean boys were only expected to receive military training for two years in their adolescence, he wouldn’t take it easy on Odysseus just because of his age or status.

Thus, so began Odysseus’ new hellish life.

Not only was he tested on soldier formations and military tactics, he was expected to be well-versed over an assortment of weapons. Spears. Javelins. Sword and shield. Bows. Slings. Horseback riding. Practical skills that any commander needed to know, for the battlefield was a cruel place that eviscerated little boys like him. Every day was a new kind of military drill; Odysseus’ enthusiasm waned when the general started their first lesson off by having him swing his wooden sword in the air repetitively.

It was only when he could swing a sword five hundred times, without break, that they would move onto the next lesson: archery—a lesson that Odysseus had been looking forward to, for he had heard the story of how Laertes and the other hunters who had come from kingdoms worldwide joined hands in the expedition to hunt down the monstrous Calydonian Boar which’d been sent by the angered goddess Artemis. Every year, to celebrate the accomplishment, Laertes had made it the Ithacan tradition to host a hunting expedition for all able men and young men alike to hunt down the wild boars of the region. Whatever expectations Odysseus initially had burned down to cinders when he was handed a bow by his dogmatic teacher and told he wouldn’t be allowed to touch a single arrow until the young prince learned how to string all manners of bow.

Although Laertes was no longer young, he was still vigorous. In addition to the military instructor, Laertes hired private tutors—among them a notable philosopher—to educate the young prince in a wide range of subjects, including philosophy, mathematics, and the sciences. As Odysseus was the crown prince, he required a more specialized curriculum tailored to his specific interests and to prime him for his future.

Learning required patience. The small kingdom of Ithaca had a history of maritime trade and travel, farming and animal husbandry—as well as the gods they were to worship. When the subject matter was interesting and the time was short, Odyessus was the model bright student. When the instructor droned on, he would fall into a drowsy state while listening and needed to force himself to stay awake. It was manageable in short bursts but gradually, over time, Odyessus couldn’t sit still, as if there were countless invisible nails under his bottom.

The pressures of having gone from having the freedom to play whenever he wanted, to a heavy workload and schedule that even adult men would balk at was not an easy adjustment period for any child. So, Odysseus rebelled; he played truant. His young and tender face had carried unswerving determination. One night, Odysseus snuck out of the palace with a plan to pick pretty seashells down at the white-shore sands; for he craftily knew his mom would treat him better once Laertes and Anticlea inevitably discovered that he’d been caught slacking off from his studies again. It was an ingenious plan!

This time, he did not go diving to pick up shells. The blood of a seafarer must run strong in Odysseus for he adored the water. He didn’t understand why his parents and grandparents looked a little nervous each time he said he would be careful playing down at the beaches. In daylight, the embrace of the sea felt warm and comforting after the initial cold shock plunging into the water. He loved how it flowed against his hair like it was being brushed and seeing the more curious fishes swimming up to him, their tails and fins kissing his nose, startling him into laughter, which released tiny bubbles of air. But, seeing as he’d snuck out with the guards and servants remaining unaware of the prince’s late-night escapade, he was pressed for time. Swimming at this late hour would just be asking for trouble.

Sifting his fingers through the sand, picking up seashells and turning them left and right for close inspection, Odysseus had put a handful away in his pouch when he thought he heard a nicker. Surprised, he peeked from his hiding spot behind a rock—and gasped aloud! For, out on the shoreline, he saw the mesmerizing sight of a stampede of majestic stallions galloping across the currents on their blue hooves; even more astonishing, their bodies were composed entirely out of water!

Seeing them, Odysseus’ eyes burned bright. He was treated to a sight of seeing these water horses race wildly across the surface of water, stirring up a spray of saltwater with each powerful kick, before the stampede suddenly launched themselves into the air at a turn, diving right back into the ocean with a loud splash.

…Poseidon?

Odysseus’ gaze was thoughtful. When he later returned that night with his precious cargo, the entire palace had been in an uproar—for the prince was not in his bed and had snuck out! His father had pulled him aside that night and bent him over his knees, spanking him until his bottom glowed red and Odysseus cried out. After that, Odysseus became less rowdy and much more well-behaved, obediently attending his lessons.

Unknowingly, his mood brightened along with the weather, as if something weighing on his heart had vanished. His heart felt a bit lighter—because now he had a purpose to work towards.

#odyseidon #odysseus x poseidon #epic the musical #odysseus #poseidon #greek mythology #chariot and wolf #preview #my writing #we’re speed-running through Ody’s childhood #to get to the fun bits #there are already 10 refs made to Greek mythology within the first 21 or so paragraphs 😅 y’all I’m screaming #all of these characters are from the original myth (I had like 40 tabs of research open just to write the first scene alone)#I’m 99% happy with scene 1 so there likely won’t be much change in the final draft #scene 2 however might be tweaked a bit more but this is the basic gist and set-up to what’s later planned in this chapter

19 notes · View notes