#proletarian song

[muzapesni]

O partigiano portami via / O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao / Partigiano portami via / Che mi sento di morir.

[apas-95]

???

On the other hand, however, our notion of productive labour becomes narrowed. Capitalist production is not merely the production of commodities, it is essentially the production of surplus value. The labourer produces, not for themself, but for capital. It no longer suffices, therefore, that they should simply produce. They must produce surplus-value. That labourer alone is productive, who produces surplus-value for the capitalist, and thus works for the self-expansion of capital. If we may take an example from outside the sphere of production of material objects, a schoolteacher is a productive labourer, when, in addition to belabouring the heads of their scholars, they work like a horse to enrich the school proprietor. That the latter has laid out their capital in a teaching factory, instead of in a sausage factory, does not alter the relation. Hence the notion of a productive labourer implies not merely a relation between work and useful effect, between labourer and product of labour, but also a specific, social relation of production, a relation that has sprung up historically and stamps the labourer as the direct means of creating surplus-value.

.- Ch. 16, Das Kapital, Marx (emphasis mine)

Every productive worker is a wage labourer; but this does not mean that every wage labourer is a productive worker. [...] A singer who sings like a bird is an unproductive worker. If she sells her song for money, she is to that extent a wage-labourer or merchant. But if the same singer is engaged by an entrepreneur who makes her sing to make money, then she becomes a productive worker, since she produces capital directly. […] In both cases the worker is a wage labourer or a day labourer, but in the first case he is a productive worker, in the second an unproductive one, because in the first case he produces capital, in the second case he does not

.- Draft Ch. 6, Das Kapital, Marx (emphasis in bold mine)

The proletariat is that class in society which lives entirely from the sale of its labor and does not draw profit from any kind of capital

.- Principles of Communism, Engels

So, firstly, productive labour is not specifically that labour which produces a physical product, it is, in fact, that labour which expands and enriches capital - which produces surplus value for the capitalist. Secondly, it is not the production of surplus value that defines whether one exists as a proletarian, it is the relationship towards capital, which is to say, owning none, owning only ones own labour-power.

[hongjoongspoetry]

A Love Written in Gold

Part 1 — The Grand Debut

🦢 Summary: Dearest gentle readers, the much-anticipated season of debutantes has finally graced us, casting a spell of delightful nerves among our young ladies poised to conquer the glittering heights of society. As is tradition, a diamond amongst them has been selected to dazzle—oh, which lucky charm shall it be this year? Amidst a flurry of introductions and grand soirèes, let it be noted that the inaugural ball shall be hosted by the illustrious His Grace, the Duke of Beaumonte. But pray tell, who are those most peculiar gentlemen drawing all eyes with their striking features? And what delightful mischief lies in wait for the debutante of the Jeong Household and her charming commoner, behind the discreetly shut doors of the music room?

🦢 Pairing(s): Proletarian!Hongjoong x Noble!Reader, Duke!Seonghwa x Noble!Reader

🦢 Genres/Tropes: Bridgerton AU, Regency era, forbidden love

🦢 Warnings/Tags: no use of (Y/N), female reader, sexism, mentioned classism, explicit language, overprotective!Yunho, wholesome family dynamics, slight angst

🦢 Wordcount: 14.8K

🦢 Author's Note: Welcome to my second series!! Whi-hoooooo! I've been wanting to write a Bridgerton AU since s3 came out and what better than to make it a Hongjoong series. It was about time I did something for my bias lmaoo. Anyway, the tags are a bit vague and I'll update them as the chapters come out, so check them out with each update. A little fun thing I did. There are a few 🎼 emojis spread through out the chapter with songs I thought were fitting to the scenes, so if you want, listen while reading :) The following songs are in order:

Young and Beautiful, Vitamin String Quartet | We Are Young, Vitamin String Quartet | Positions, Jeremy Green | Chopin: Waltz No. 19 in A minor, Op. posth.

This is all fiction and not meant to represent the idols involved in any way or form. This work is NSFW and not appropriate for minors as it contains explicit scenes. Minors and ageless blogs, please, refrain from reading or interacting with this work or my blog!!!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard Permanent taglist

Winter prepared for its departure as spring eagerly waited by the door, a green blanket in hand and pockets full of overgrowing flowers. She was more than ready to wrap the world in a warm hug of vivid colors and greenery. Many ladies got ready for their first active participation in the social season, giving their parents, maids and butlers a handful of things to fret over. In one of the most respectable households of the ton, the Jeongs were arranging everything for their youngest to make her appearance in society as a débutante and help her search for the perfect eligible man.

“We must hurry! The carriages are outside,” Wooyoung announced and raked his hand through his combed hair, making it appear messy as if just risen out of bed.

Although being the second born of the late Viscount and Viscountess Jeong and possessing no title to his name, Wooyoung still dressed the part of an aristocrat. His double-breasted vest was a white creme color with a tad bit brighter dress shirt beneath, the light colors contrasted his dark features and he stood out as a star in a pitch black sky. A matching neck scarf rested around his neck and he occasionally tugged at it, complaining of the itchy and suffocating material that no one dared to alter, courtesy of it being his mother’s choice. His legs were tightly wrapped in a pair of black trousers, showcasing his glutes and muscles. The black tailcoat was yet to be worn, but he had no doubts it would hug his body in a delicate way to display his slim waist and make up for his lack of height. 

Granted Wooyoung was not seeking a lady to wed, he would still arrive to gatherings wearing expensive pieces of clothing and jewelry and a dazzling smile that would make even the stubbornest of ladies swoon. Much as last year’s social season, Wooyoung planned on greeting the pretty debutants with a kiss to the back of their hands and — if feeling frisky — asking to sign their dance cards with a glint of mischief in his truffle colored eyes. 

“Then someone should hasten our lovely sister, do you not agree, Brother?” Yunho, the current viscount and head of the household, suggested. 

Unlike Wooyoung, Yunho was wearing darker schemes besides his white shirt and the pretty silver patterns on his thick vest. His tailcoat was darker than coal, but soft as feathers, made out of a velvet fabric indigent people had never set eyes on, much less dreamed of. The black scarf was neatly tucked beneath his vest and the elder showed no signs of irritation, he looked rather content and relaxed on the plush couch in the living room. Yunho’s long legs were decorated with black pants and extravagant leather boots reaching up to his knees. 

The Jeong brothers did not look alike, from their varying facial characteristics to the height difference, anyone not aware of them sharing blood — they would be foolish not to know — would not believe they were nurtured by the same father and mother. 

“What a splendid proposition, Brother, however, I do have to say she is far more civil in your company.”

“Stop speaking of your sister in that way,” their mother, Dowager Viscountess Ireum Lee, chastised and gently ran her palm along her beautiful pistachio green gown. 

At first glance, the woman seemed to be a very serious and strict lady. Some even dared to compare her to a sly fox. Looking into her sharp and dark eyes would be the equivalent of staring into a void hole—dark, empty and cold. Her neatly braided, black hair and red-tainted lips were vivid against her bright complexion, and she was always shielded from the sun whether it was under an umbrella or a great tree. Despite her resting facade — claiming to be missing that motherly warmth newborns would yearn for — she could light up a room with her bright smile and soft-turned eyes. Her beauty was truly unmatched and no amount of makeup could make the other mamas appear nearly as pretty. It was no secret both Yunho and Wooyoung acquired their looks from her. Yunho with his cupid bow lip and Wooyoung’s wide cheekbones and sharp jaw. 

“Although it is true we do not have time to idle. Let us fetch your sister.” The brothers followed their mother as ducklings padded after a hen, with haste and no further questions asked.

“Is she still not ready?” Yunho asked as the trio stopped before a great white opening, both of the doors closed and some shuffling noises coming from inside the youngest's room.

“It seems so, dear.”

“We do not have time, Mama. I should call for her.” As Wooyoung advanced forward, his hand stuck out to grasp the golden knob, Yunho quickly gripped the younger’s wrist.

“Did you not say she preferred my company over yours, little Brother?”

“That was before we risked running late, now if you would.” Wooyoung ripped his hand out of the gentle hold and gave a new try of entering. 

A millimeter away before Wooyoung’s gloved fingers made contact again, the doors swung open and the trio simultaneously stepped back. Multiple maids rapidly left the room and soft as a feather, the youngest and only daughter of the Jeong family came into view. You were gorgeous. The epitome of breathtaking. The white dress cascaded down your body and reached the glossy tiles of the hallway. The details of the gown were subtle. The pair of golden roses professionally woven into the puffed sleeves and across the bosom accentuated your chest. No more frilly necklines or thick dresses to cover your figure. Your exposed neck was adorned with a golden necklace, an heirloom passed down in generations, from your late grandmother to your late mama, to you and eventually to your future daughter or daughter-in-law. It was a simple piece of jewelry and resembled branches of a tree holding pearls and clear diamonds instead of leaves. The maids responsible for your hair arranged it into an updo with many pins to not accidentally stray in your gently dolled-up face. A feather headpiece drew all the attention to itself, standing tall on your crown and flapping with each little movement of yours.

“Miss Lee!” Wooyoung teasingly remarked, “You sure do make a fine debutant, little Sister.”

Matching Wooyoung’s playfulness, you pinched the material of your dress between your silky-clad hands and curtsied with a faux smile, an expression you mastered over the years for this specific event.

“Thank you, Woo.” Facing the rest of the family, you bowed again, “Mother. Yunho.”

“You look lovely, my dear.” Ireum placed her hands on your shoulders and gave them an encouraging squeeze. “Your papa and mama would have been proud of you, treasure.”

“Do you really believe that?” The insecurity in your tone did not go misheard.

“I am more than certain.” She cupped your jaw and allowed her thumb to caress the apple of your cheek.

Your real mother passed during childbirth along with your younger brother, who did not live to take his first breath outside her womb. Three summers passed until your father, the late Viscount Lee, wed another lady with the promise of taking her two sons under his care. In exchange, Ireum raised you as her own daughter, but never with the intent of erasing the trail your mother left in the short three years she shared with you. There was only so much a three-year-old could remember and if it were not for the big portrait of your late parents hanging in your room, you would have forgotten the face of your biological mother. Despite the loss of your mama, you still felt the motherly love seep through the words and touches of Ireum.

The quirk of having a small family was that all members fit into one carriage and no one was rarely ever forgotten. Except for Wooyoung, who did the unthinkable just to escape the watchful eyes of Ireum in order to have some fun. Holding the title of the household, Yunho never stepped out of line and fulfilled his duty of keeping the family in good hands. You had what would probably be the easiest task; to stand and look pretty. It sounded boring at first, but the more you did not bring attention to yourself, the easier it was to slip under the radar of the ton. 

That would all change today. Whilst the people of the ton woke up hours after the sun rose, the famished side of town was on their legs since before the bright star had peeked over the horizon. For them, it was nothing more than another day of hard work and bringing food to the table. Age and gender were two words that did not mean much besides giving character to their entities. The poor were thrust into work at a very young age — something families like the Jeongs could never imagine — and brought in a handful of pennies over the course of weeks. The cycle would repeat until driven into an early grave from either lung poisoning, exhaustion or starvation. Some would say it was unfair that the sole family you were born into could determine your whole life and others would argue otherwise, claiming life was formed by sheer strategy and the use of tools that were handed to you after birth. 

Mister Choi would agree despite having more leaves and sticks in his boyish pockets than coins. Raised and almost born on the floor of his father’s pub, Mister Choi spent more time inside the beer-filled room than in their own house. He was a somewhat respected man, not by means of money, but by the reputation built through his greatest treasure, his pub. It was the reason behind the Choi’s survival through generations and the next owner in line was no one else but his first and only child, San. Mister Choi would be turning in his grave had he known what his offspring planned to do with his greatest treasure. 

Far away from the flower populated streets filled with luxurious carriages, men and women dressed in eye-catching costumes, and magnificent architecture, a dingy space residing in a rundown building. The name decided by the great grandfather of Mister Choi was carved into the wooden sign hanging above the entrance, albeit reformed throughout the years. The moment the key was in the palms of San, the young man decided to change the complete interior. The Crescent was the pride and glory of the Choi bloodline and looking over the semi-full boxing club, San could not have imagined a better use of the previous pub.

“I do not get how you do this, I mean, you can not even see a speck of blood on my floorboards!” San exclaimed, bruised hands resting against his bare hips. 

The male who was done scrubbing the wooden floor threw the dirtied rag over his shoulder and glanced up at the owner. San was a very handsome man. Sharp eyes, full rosy lips and prominent cheekbones. The black hair was parted down the middle with a few strands escaping and falling over his forehead. His most alluring feature were the dimples appearing with his dazzling smile, an attribute people would commit treason for. That was not all. Beside his captivating face, San’s body was that of a sculpture. The thin tank top did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and strong arms, and even brought forth his slim waist. The man had muscles in all the right places, courtesy of the daily exercise in his club blessing him with very hard abdominal muscles and firm buttocks. San was a work of art and there was no doubt in mind he would fit right in with the ton, if he only discarded that kindhearted personality.

“Lukewarm water and a lot of finger strength,” replied the worker, his pale hand coming up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. 

“Remind me to give you a raise. You have helped me more than anyone and to you I am forever in debt.”

“The debt was paid off the moment you allowed me a space in your home, providing food on my plate and shelter over my head. Do not fret over such minor things, San. I do see you as family after all.”

“Good, because you are the closest I have to an older brother, Hongjoong.”

The first time San saw Hongjoong, they had yet to reach the age of puberty. The elder was a scrawny child by nature and stayed that way in his twenties as well. Thinking back to the olden days, not much about his appearance had changed except for the aging and looking part of a man and not a boy. His caramel colored hair was still untamed and reached the base of his neck while the front strands were cut so as not to fall in his line of sight. Hongjoong was a man of very delicate features; a small and pointy nose, a heart-shaped mouth and feline eyes in the prettiest shade of brown San had ever bestowed. 

Hongjoong would have thrived in the life of a rich man, but that loose mouth of his would certainly land him in a heap of troubles. However, it did not matter as he was born with nothing. No title that would pay off all his troubles in life, no family with a great sum of money or greater achievement to inherit. Hongjoong was a mere man with a dream that would never be fulfilled. All the obstacles thrown in his life taught him to be grateful for what he had and not long for dreams out of his reach. 

“I do believe we have cleaned up nicely for my cousin’s arrival. You can take a rest and write some of your poems and stories that you oh-so-desperately hide from me.”

The exhaustion settled over Hongjoong’s shoulders and he could not have been more happy to hear the word ‘rest’ leave San’s lips. They had been cleaning since stepping foot in the boxing club and all because of San’s wish the place be tidy for his cousin’s first visit. 

He let out a sound the mix of a chuckle and cough. “They are music sheets, not stories and I am merely hiding them because they are yet to be finished.”

“You are telling me you have not even finished one piece of music over the course of how many years?”

“I am a perfectionist! You of all people should know that, San-ie.”

Prepared to tease the elder a little more, San threw an arm around him and lit up the room with his dimpled smile, but was interrupted as the door creaked open. In came a man appearing younger than Hongjoong and with a bigger value than the whole club and San’s apartment combined.

Judging by the unknown male's exquisite choice of clothes, Hongjoong would guess he belonged on the opposite side of town where they dined appetizers for lunch and drank champagne instead of water. Not a speck of dirt tainted his all-white suit, in fact, the only brown smudge on his whole appearance was his neatly parted hair to show his forehead. The stoic expression on his round face sent caution heedings through Hongjoong. Fearing he was there to cause ruckus — because why else would distinguished gentlemen stop by a boxing club funded by another poor man — Hongjoong hardened his gaze and balled his hands into fists. A gesture that would have him shunned out of every place in the whole town, no matter how poor or rich he may have been. As Hongjoong moved to greet him in an unfriendly manner, San’s sudden detachment from the caramel-haired man caught him off guard, but not nearly as much as the loud and warm greeting following seconds after.

“Little Cousin!” 

San moved at the speed of a racing horse and disregarded the extortionate suit as he wrapped his bare and sweaty arms around the man, using enough power to lift him off the ground and spin them around. The man looked uncomfortable, but his features were not colored with a tinge of annoyance or anger, quite the opposite. He broke out in a smile, gummy teeth on display and eyes creasing as a cute giggle filled the spunky atmosphere. The threat Hongjoong created in his mind was nothing but an exaggeration. Instead of a Grizzly Bear, the man became a teddy.

“San, release me!”

“I cannot help it, Cousin, I have not seen you in ages!”

The cousin, Hongjoong had yet to put a name to, dusted off imaginary dirt and straightened the lapels of his suit. “It has not been ages, you always exaggerate. We met at Mama's funeral last season, although I do apologize for not interacting all too much with you.”

It sounded like a foolish thing to apologize for, but who was Hongjoong to question it? He had never been to a funeral and would most likely not live to witness one either. The first one would attend, he would be lying in the casket if he was lucky enough to afford one in the first place.

“Anyhow, that is not important now. I did not travel all the way here to reminisce of my last moments with Mama. I have a proposition for you, but before that will you not introduce me to your… comrade?”

Hongjoong looked as perplexed as San’s cousin sounded. He did not expect the young man to address him anywise and certainly not with a high regard. His mouth opened and closed continuously. The silence prolonged and Hongjoong awaited harsh words and a biting remark from the gentleman at his lack of answer, but all he received was a patient stare.

“Uh, right! Right. May I introduce my one and only trustworthy friend, Hongjoong? Hongjoong, this is Lord Choi, owner of Precious, the most well known pub industry in all of Scotland and currently expanding to England.”

“Just… Hongjoong?” The man nodded and Lord Choi sighed. “Very well then. As my cousin said, I am Lord Choi, but you can address me by my given name, Jongho. I am not all that keen on formalities, especially with friends, and a friend of my cousin is a friend of mine.”

Hongjoong stared at the Lord, at his new friend, who showed off his gummy pearls as if the man had promised him a house of gold and not just progressed past the formalities five seconds into their meeting.

“Now, back to what I was saying. The proposition, Cousin. His Grace is hosting the first ball of the season and I have been given the freedom to bring whomever I want.”

“And you decided to bring your dirt poor cousin because?”

“You know I have never liked these social gatherings, I cannot deal with mamas coming up trying to wed off their daughters. Matter of fact, you are invited too, Hongjoong.”

Jongho was full of surprises, Hongjoong concluded. Dressed in a proper suit and hair tidily combed, but he still whined as if a century old child. It was uncommon—in fact, it was very rare—to see an aristocrat be kind toward people the likes of Hongjoong and San. He could not count on his hands the number of times nobility shunned him for his mere existence. To have a Lord call him his friend and invite him to the first ball of the season was bound to leave him skeptical.

Hongjoong cleared his throat and wiped his clammy hands against his ripped bottoms. “Uh, my apologies, Lord Ch– Jongho, but I cannot attend… I do not have the means to finance an exquisite suit or carriage or, well anything to be frank.”

“The same goes for me, little cousin.” San slung his arm over Hongjoong’s shoulders and connected the sides of their heads. “Besides, who will tend the boxing club?”

Jongho broke out into another grin, shoulders up to his ears and his brown eyes squinting so hard one could believe San shared the funniest joke of the epoch. “You seem to forget yourself, cousin. I, Jongho, have enough money to free up the rest of your week and restock your wardrobe for the foreseeable future. For the both of you. Go and clean up while I make some arrangements for us. It is time to pay a visit to an old friend.” He firmly grabbed both men by their shoulders and guided them further into the boxing club.

Hongjoong was never one to back down from a good time full of food, sweets and excessive beverages, not to mention pretty ladies in frilly dresses. Going under the hot stream of water and changing into a new set of somewhat clean clothes, the three men took Jongho’s carriage to the supposed old friend. The representative colors of Kilmartin, blue azure and an argent shade of white, covered the carriage in swirls. The foreign palette was bound to make them stand out from the rest, like the cart passing by drenched in complete black and minimal designs of gold added on the outline and handels.

There was always a mild curiosity among the bystanders standing on the pavement, yet the blue and white colors managed to even catch the attention of the second-born Jeong, who himself was in a carriage going in the opposite direction. The rapid flicks of his wrist slowed down as he continuously peered out the window, his attention caught by something more important than his sister’s worry over her debut. Sweat coiled beneath your armpits and chest, and the air fanned with the help of Wooyoung did nothing to cool you down. 

“Are there different ranks for certain carriages?” 

You snatched the fan from Wooyoung’s hands and smacked it over his head. “Is that the most crucial thing to discuss right now, Brother? I am sweating like a pig and all you ask is the value of carriages? I have not heard one, ‘How are you, Sister? Can I help you, Sister?’ from you.”

“Will you two hush? The whole ton can hear your bickering and I am certain that will not heighten your reputation amongst them. What man fancies a lady who is ill mannered and what lady seeks out an aloof gentleman?”

The two youngest of the Jeong Household erupted into another fit of whines and complaints making Yunho’s attempt at calming them down futile. As the head of the family and viscount, he could handle all the duties that came with the roles, but aiding their mother with the growth and upbringing of his siblings was a far more complex task than anything he had battled before. 

“I would not be deemed ill mannered if my brother could focus on the task at hand!”

“Aloof? Aloof?! What is so aloof about wanting to expand my knowledge?!”

Yunho sighed and leaned back against the plush seat, he could not listen to another second of pointing fingers and turned to his mother for help. The Dowager Viscountess chuckled gracefully, mouth shielded by her clothed hand and lips tightly sealed but not enough to hide the delighted sound. The struggle straining his features did not go unnoticed and she decided to interfere before his rich brown strands turned gray. 

“Alright children, settle down!” Ireum took the fan out of your hand and resumed Wooyoung’s previous task. “Now, Yunho does have a talent for over exaggerating, my dears, but I do not agree with his claim. None of my children are ill mannered, maybe sharp-tongued and… on occasions rowdy, but still very demure.” 

“But Mama!”

“No, buts Wooyoung dear, stop arguing and let us focus on your sister’s debut into high society.”

You straightened at the attention and raised your chin to the heavens. The pride set into every atom of your body and pulled at your lips until a triumphant smile lit up your face. There was no sweet victory as the one over your brothers. Your pleased look crumbled as the trotting horses slowed down and eventually stopped the whole carriage. The moment you had been dreaming of since little legs was upon you and it was equally scary as it was exciting. Walking through the doors of the royal court and being guided into a room with a dozen other ladies waiting to present made you realize how close you were to your dream. There was no retracing your steps to the life of a little girl anymore and while it sounded great, it also filled you with melancholy. Debuting meant entering a stage in life neither of your biological parents witnessed you in and closing the door on your childhood was to leave the memories of your late papa and mama. However, your mourning did not solely contain the passing of the late Viscount and Viscountess Lee, but also of the girlhood you would not face until your own daughter was brought to the world with an ear piercing cry. 

Your brothers or any other male relatives were not allowed in the waiting room and were referred to accompany the remaining guests in the main hall. The girls in your vicinity were all clad the same, some were more nervous than others, but the tension was nonetheless high in the room. The worry of their appearances did not quiet down until the first girl was announced to step out. The remaining débutantes-in-waiting stopped adjusting their gowns and feathers and focused on being calm enough to not ruin the important walk that would determine their rank and value in the market. Out of everyone there, you wished for one person to appear. Mingi, the heir to the seventh Viscount Song, whom you had known since birth more or less. It was a shame only the primary family of each débutante could attend as it would bring you immense peace to have him there. To see his towering height, bright smile, and single crooked front tooth on display and mouthing encouraging words. Mingi’s presence alone would lift the suffocating spell you were under. 

🎼 The chatter of the people outside moved in waves, raising and simmering out between presentations. As with many others, your name was eventually proclaimed on the other side of the door and the last ounce of concern sketched on your features evened out into a pleased expression. Your small courtesy smile was to catch everyone’s attention while your eyes would be the gems making them swoon. The announcer’s voice increased in volume as the doors parted, allowing the spectators to drink in the next débutante. 

“...Presented by her mother, the Right Honorable, the Dowager Viscountess Lee!”

You took calm and collected steps, synchronizing them with Ireum’s who was half a step behind you, looking equally as mesmerizing and captivating as the day she debuted. The trick to these things, she had told you years ago, was to keep your head straight and posture upright, showcasing importance and elegance. You had been practicing the walk for ages. The amount of trashed books and shattered teapots stretched over a hundred, but they lived to serve their purpose in the end. Hushed whispers and looks filled with curiosity followed your moving forms. You immediately found the scrutinizing gaze of the Queen, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. She was clad in the most exquisite dress you ever laid eyes upon and that spoke volumes as you had your own fair share of expensive silks tailored to fit your body like a glove. The mighty periwig adorning her small head took on the form of a rosebush and put everyone else’s to shame. It was so huge, you nearly missed the gleaming crown — delicate and small — on top, sparkling in the dim lights of the chandelier.

Somewhere in the crowd stood your brothers. Wooyoung with a proud smile and cheesing eyes while the older looked rather grim, not liking the idea of his baby sister turning into a woman. But underneath that hard exterior, warmth and happiness heaved a weight off his shoulders. A feeling akin to pride swelled in his chest just to see everyone’s surprised and amazed reactions. The Jeongs always knew how to leave an impression.

“Your sister does take after your mother, Lord Jeong.” A deep yet soft voice murmured next to him. Yunho looked away from you curtsying, the correction resting on his tongue dispersing into thin air as it landed on a familiar face.

“Your Grace, what a delightful surprise it is to meet you here.”

The Duke of Beaumonte, Seonghwa, looked as he sounded; rich and eloquent. His hair was long and black, falling as a blanket over his nape and tickling his collarbones. Most of his hair was neatly combed back, all but one piece of his fringe, which was styled to curl in front of his bare forehead. Not many gentlemen dared such a hairstyle, as the fear of appearing gruesome was more probable than winning a horse race, but Seonghwa was the exception. He did not cower for any challenge, even those involving fashion. From peculiar suits to eye-catching hairdos, he frequently introduced new styles into society and it was by virtue of his handsome features that it looked good. The long bridge of his nose, full raspberry-colored lips, prominent dark brows and a pair of mesmerizing eyes held a peculiar coldness, but in essence he carried a warmth strong enough to melt iron. The duke was a character born out of a fairy tale with the posture of a soldier and the brain of a scholar. Women dreamed of a worthy man the likes of Seonghwa and men were green with envy whenever his appearance was made. 

Seonghwa chuckled, “I hope it is not that big of a surprise as I intend to find a wife this season.”

“Ah, that does explain your presence indeed and is that the reason behind hosting the first ball of the season, as well?”

Seonghwa pursed his lips, a futile attempt at covering the broad smile fighting to come forth. “You are still quick-witted, I see�� Perhaps it is. A man has to assess his range of selection in some way, does he not?”

Yunho nodded, agreeing with the duke, but could not further comment on the matter as the Queen rose from her seat on the red throne, wordlessly silencing the entire hall. She stopped before you and put a finger beneath your chin, guiding you to stand straight. Ireum did not dare to move an inch from the uncomfortable crouched position and your brothers’ held their breaths as if one single intake of air would ruin the moment for you. The Queen’s icy demeanor was a stark contrast to the warmth emitting from her touch. Your heart nearly collapsed as she uttered one single word and blessed you with a tender peck to your forehead.

“Perfection.” 

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, and your previously gracious smile fell into one of bewilderment instead. There was no higher honor than the praise of the royal house. 

Viscount Jeong did not fathom how powerful of a tongue the Queen possessed. He did not manage to step foot outside the royal court without being hounded by at least a dozen eligible gentlemen, asking for a formal introduction to his sister while boasting about their gold mines in the Kingdom of Spain or studies in India. Yunho was overwhelmed and there was still a ball to attend. The interactions would not stop there, as the season had only just begun, but Yunho was already overthrown by a headache not even his finest flask of brandy could cure. As if that was not enough, another headache in disguise of his brother waltzed through the door of his study.

Wooyoung was dressed boldly that evening. The rich red of his tailored jacket was hard to stray away from and one would think he was one of the débutantes searching for a bachelor to court. It seemed to be a trademark for the Jeongs to have gold details carved into anything they touched as Wooyoung’s jacket was embroidered in that particular color. The rest of his suit was all black; slacks, dress shirt and shoes with his dark hair slicked back with stray strands falling over his forehead in a fashion-like manner. The younger was also freshly shaved and Yunho could feel the pinch of his strong cologne on the other end of the room. 

“Oh, Brother! I was sent to fetch you by Mama; it is time to leave yet aga– Pray do tell, why are you not dressed?” 

“I have been busy discarding letters asking for formal introductions to our sister. Would you believe me if I said there have been over ten so far?”

“Well, yes? Have you seen our sister? She is the most beautiful débutante of the lot! They would be foolish not to secure a formal introduction with her, especially when the competition is tight. Each word spoken is one step closer to joining the family, Brother.”

Yunho opened another letter from the big pile on his right. “As if I would let those deuces in the vicinity of our sister. That is a very distasteful approach, I must say… Letters? What do they take me for? A man who remembers every single face I come across… Just take a look at this!”

Dear lord Jeong,

I pray this letter finds you in excellent health and high spirits.

I shall be curt and consistent in my writing. The news of Miss Lee making her debut in society has captivated all of London and I, too, find myself among the gentlemen bewitched by her beauty. Though I am not the first nor the last to seek you out in regard to Miss Lee, the urgency of my sentiments outweighs my concern for the multitude of letters that clutter your study.

It is said Miss Lee’s grace and elegance surpass the high expectations of Her Majesty. Whispers swirl the ton that Miss Lee has secured the esteemed title of the Diamond of the First Water, and I must confess, it is indeed quite fitting, rendering her all the more desirable. As you well know, Miss Lee embodies a kindness and warmth unmatched by her fellow débutantes and is a great trait for nurturing offsprings, a prospect with which I wrestle most ardently. The gentleness and affectionate nature of Miss Lee is to be guarded and protected from the vile eyes of the inappropriate gentlemen and as a frequent patron of the pugilistic club, I stand ready to defend her purity. This, I give you my word for. 

Each new piece of information adds admiration to her character and one cannot help, but ponder what further attributes Miss Lee may possess. I am but an intrigued gentleman who marvels at Miss Lee’s mere existence and I harbor a desire to peruse the remaining chapters of her story.

It would be my utmost privilege to make the acquaintance of Miss Lee. Might we arrange an introduction at His Grace the Duke of Beaumonte’s ball to deliberate upon a potential courtship?

Yours truly–

The paper was torn to bits before Wooyoung could catch the name of the sender. Although he had to agree the choice of words was improbable, he could argue Yunho’s protectiveness was the main reason as to why none of the letters were approved either. Finding you a possible suitor would be harder than anticipated if Yunho did not let up on his hostility, and as your other brother, Wooyoung made it his mission to help you.

“Perhaps I could help you look through the letters after the ball, but it is best you give it a rest now and get dressed, Brother. I doubt Mama would be delighted to know her eldest is the last to be ready considering your title.”

Heeding his words, Yunho slid the rest of the envelopes over the desk and into his first drawer before disappearing into his bedroom. A similar suit jacket to Wooyoung’s hung over his wardrobe, ironed and ready to be put on along with the rest of his attire. It seemed everyone in the Jeong household was to dress in the colors of love, passion, and anger. The guests and hosts attending the balls Yunho was invited to were usually clad in mild colors and he had yet to witness someone come in a starker hue of red, green or blue. He was well aware of his mother’s schemes. You already garnered enough attention with the simple flick of the Queen’s wrist, and Ireum was a smart woman for playing further into that act. Keeping the curious flame of the ton alive by giving you the most breathtaking dresses the people were going to see. Nothing was to halt Ireum from finding her daughter a perfect suitor, with or without the viscount’s permission.

🎼 Descending down the few steps of the carriage, you held a fair amount of your gown while the other hand was clutching Wooyoung’s open palm. The Jeong family was neither early nor late, although it did not matter whichever because people sought after your arrival. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the débutante evoking a pleased reaction from the Queen. They wanted to see for themselves if your beauty was truly unmatched. 

Yunho was the first to exit the carriage followed by Ireum, Wooyoung and lastly you. After your feet met the ground again, Wooyoung delicately passed you onto Yunho. Entering high society meant replacing your simple ballerinas with low-heeled shoes, something you had yet to grow accustomed to.

“Please, do not let go of me,” you whispered and held tightly onto Yunho’s bicep.

“I do not dare dream of it, Sister. In fact, you will not leave my sight this wonderful evening at all.”

Yunho met the eyes of a dozen lust filled men, some of whom could not even keep their tongues from straying past their lips. These were supposed to be chivalrous gentlemen, he thought and scoffed. It was no doubt the red attire — besides your beauty — was making them act ungraciously. Your gown was lengthy and stuck to your waist perfectly, revealing your ample bosom and collarbones. A ruby and gold amulet was sown into the middle of the neckline and you were certain people would not be able to decide what to look at more, your cleavage or the pretty gem. You absolutely loved the color, a deep red reminding you of the stunning roses growing outside your windows or the fresh cherries that were soon in season. The rest of the fabric hung loosely around your legs, granting you the freedom to move more steadily without the fear of falling over. Your shoulders were covered and bejeweled with rosettes and pearls matching those around your neck and ears. To shield you from the summer breeze, the modiste had gifted you a knitted cardigan that you looped your arms through. Ireum insisted on doing your hair as she had done so for many years and learned to style it the way you loved it.

Crossing the short walk to the entrance of Park Manors, you were in awe at the beauty of it all. Disregarding the decorations, the inside was not much different from your own residence; spacious, tiled flooring and high ceilings, a few paintings and statues to liven up the place, even a few flower pots. But as Seonghwa was hosting the season’s opening ball, he made sure to enrich the place with the most outstanding decorations the ton would see. Big hydrangea bushes were planted by the stairs, the different shades of lavender, violet and purple continuously wrapping around the railings and leading the people through the mansion. The walls were a beautiful tapestry of cream white that gave much space to work with any colors the duke wished for, and by the look of the interior, he had chosen all the hues falling under the category purple. Following the stream of people, you and Yunho found yourself standing in the main hall, a big space leaving room for both dancing, socializing and tasting the savory pastries on the sides. 

“This is wonderful,” you said under your breath and kept your eyes on the enormous chandelier suspended in the center of the ceiling. Under the lightning ornate was an orchestra stationed, already playing a pleasant melody as the guests strolled in one after another. 

Yunho hummed in reply and led you to stand by one of the many windows draped over with a lilac curtain. It seemed to be the safest place for the time being, squashed between him and Ireum, whilst your other brother had already managed to snag a glass of champagne and a tart of some kind.

“I do not appreciate the staring, mother.”

“It is expected, my dear,” Ireum answered, completely overlooking Yunho’s unease. She gave your elbow a soft squeeze of comfort. “We shall let them come to you, my ruby.”

As the music took a quick turn from a mellow to a more festive tune, the gentlemen around you pursued the débutantes for a dance. You perked up at the thought of being asked to dance and could nearly not contain your excitement. A suitor of sturdy height and dark hair had kept his eye on you since your arrival and mustered up the courage to advance with the aid of a much older woman you recognized as Lady Kang. She bowed, which all three of you returned.

“Lady Kang, good evening,” Ireum greeted and smiled politely.

“Good evening, Lady Lee, Miss Lee and Lord Jeong. I believe you have not yet met my nephew, Lord Yoon. Nephew, this is Miss Lee, Lady Lee and Lord Jeong.”

“It is my pleasure.”

“Likewise,” you replied and smiled charmingly. He did not look bad, not at all. His suit was elegant too, and he had a cute pair of eyes, very warm and welcoming.

Yunho, being overly observant and on edge since stepping foot in the Park estate, acted with haste. “Lord Yoon, is it not? I believe I do find your name familiar… Ah, right! You are familiar with the fencing club, correct?”

“Very much indeed, Lord Jeong.”

“It is a shame you have not visited in quite some time… Does it perhaps have to do with your failed payment issue? Or was it for acting unruly after conceiving one too many drinks?”

Despite the festive melody surrounding the two families, the atmosphere had thickened at Yunho’s revelation. Lord Yoon was left gaping with red cheeks giving your dress a run for its money as you took a turn about the room, arm hooked with Yunho’s. Ireum was left to deal with the stunt her eldest had caused, apologizing for Yunho’s curt tongue.

“I did not realize…” You began and glanced down at the shiny floor to hide the embarrassment tinting your cheeks.

“It is not easy, dear Sister. But that is precisely why I am here… and Wooyoung too, but we shall not rely all that much on him as of now.”

Yunho steered you in the direction of Wooyoung still standing by the treats, passing all the mamas and débutantes swooning at his presence, not indulging in them for a fraction of a second. Yunho was not interested in courting a lady and would not do so in the vast future either, he had too much on his plate to seek out a perfect candidate to be his wife! You were his main priority now and God help him if you landed in the hands of someone unworthy, like Lord Yoon, for instance. Creasing and plastering on an overly wide smile, you and Yunho walked past the entrance, missing the arrival of three very handsome gentlemen who stole the attention of every lady inside, single as well as married.

Hongjoong was not used to being under the spotlight. No one would think twice to look at him, let alone whisper about his handsome looks and wish he would ask them up on a dance. Then again, this was not his setting at all. Fancy suits, pretty ladies and interiors worth a sum he did not dare to imagine. At least the music was to his taste, he thought and mentally applauded the orchestra for their skilled fingers managing to handle the instruments correctly. Of course they would, they had all the means for it. Envy climbed up his back and threatened to seep into his bones, but the firm weight of San’s hand on his shoulder brought him out of the jealous haze.

“This is…” 

“I know. It is rather overwhelming,” Hongjoong admitted and nervously caressed the front of his white vest. His whole attire was brand new, a little something whisked together by the ton’s modist — a sweet and peculiar man with kind eyes and a soft spoken tone. They were lucky Jongho’s social circle was quite grand otherwise they would have never made it past the gates of Park residency, let alone see the shimmering insides of chandeliers and diamond ornaments.

“Brothers,” Jongho’s deep yet smooth voice called for their attention. How and when he managed to obtain two glasses of champagne was beyond Hongjoong, but the proletariat in disguise did not care as he grabbed the stem of the overly light champagne flute. “Let us be entitled gentlemen for the night.”

The statement was ironic, if something. Out of the three, Jongho was already a gentleman, but the aspiring musician did not correct him. If the owner of Precious wanted to play pretend, then Hongjoong was going to display the best act of his life.

He smiled, the corners of his mouth sharp and his eyes playful as he clinked the edge of his glass with the others, “Let us.”

The intrigued gazes of the remaining guests were not as overwhelming as Hongjoong first thought. After some time, he, along with the Chois, blended in with the rest of the crowd. They stood a bit from the dessert table and snickered at the aristocats under the guise of looking at the sweets. Hongjoong understood why Jongho chose to not socialize with them. Everything they did, from talking to simply existing, was pretentious. 

“Do you do this often?” He eventually asked.

“Laugh at the upper class? Yes.”

“No, I meant this.” Hongjoong gestured to the ballroom. “Attend balls and other events.”

“Ah… Well, not precisely. Although I am an Earl, Hongjoong, it does not grant me invites to every social gathering. I am here merely because I am an acquaintance of the host.”

“Where is the man of the hour, anyway? Should the host, I do not know, maybe tend to his duties?”

“His Grace is full of surprises. Everything he does is unexpected. Who knows, perhaps he will not even show, but I do doubt that. It is said he is intending to marry this season.”

Another entitled prick added to Hongjoong’s never-ending list of arrogant nobles. Sipping on the bubbly champagne that left a sour taste on his tongue, he watched as a new round of waltz lured the gentlemen to the waiting ladies. Soon enough the room was in full swing and truthfully, it was making him dizzy. All the spinning and changing partners and maintaining the beat—what an exhausting activity. The people standing on the sidelines, much like Hongjoong, enjoyed the festivities of the ball and he wondered if they had nothing better to do than eat sugary treats, gossip and fantasize about romantic endeavors. Not that he could be one to complain, his free time was spent writing poems and music sheets, more precisely piano scores. 

🎼 As the current round of dancing came to an end, the orchestra stopped their performance, making everyone turn their heads in confusion. Their questions were answered as a pair of white doors separated and someone of high status, Hongjoong presumed, entered through simultaneously as the violinists of the orchestra drew their bow across the strings of the instrument. He was mid-sip when the whole room erupted in gasps and murmurs of awe, startling him and having a gulp of bubbly champagne slip into the wrong pipe. Throwing a hand over his mouth to lessen the violent coughs, his eyes widened to the size of the duke’s saucers as they fell on an elegant man knocking the wind out of everyone. It did not matter how well-dressed Hongjoong was or what kind of attire the modiste brought out, no one could match up against–

“His Grace the Duke of Beaumonte!”

Hongjoong could not believe what he was seeing. The duke was simply a flower and every lady, along with their mama, were bees eagerly waiting to get a taste of his pollen. Loyal to the theme, he decided to dress in a velvet suit the color of moonvistas and wisterias. The white damask pattern on the vest was divine and matched his cravat and gloves. Every corner of the room erupted with ‘Your Grace’ as the man passed them, exchanging polite smiles, but not lingering any longer than necessary. What a presumptuous bastard, Hongjoong thought and masked his disgusted scoff with another cough.

The hundred pairs of eyes burned into the body of the duke, never letting him out of their sight, but Hongjoong could not bother to keep looking at him. The host was vexing the green monster inside of him by existing. It was incredible how the toss of a coin pre-birth could determine the outcome for the rest of one’s life. The title was passed down to the duke because of the time and place of his birth. That could have been Hongjoong, San or even Jongho had they come out of the duke’s mother instead.

“Perhaps we should greet His Grace?” San suggested and adjusted his cravat.

“You really believe that would be a wise thing to do? I mean, those hounding him are mainly ladies. What socializing topic could we have to offer him? Perhaps indulge him in your boxing club or– Oh, I know, I can share some of my work and see if he will hire me as a pianist!” The sarcasm did not go misheard and San deflated at the hostility lacing Hongjoong’s voice. The elder quickly regretted his harsh words and patted his friend on the back. “I am deeply sorry, San. That was unjust of me.”

“All is well. It was a foolish suggestion anyway.”

Before Hongjoong could reprimand him for his chastising demeanor, Jongho cleared his throat. “I could formally introduce you. I am quite close to His Grace, after all.”

“You never told me of your connections with a duke?!” San whisper-yelled into his cousin’s ear. “Now you must introduce us, see it as your payment for being dishonest.”

Sighing, Hongjoong replaced his empty glass with another full one. If he was going to turn his nobility act up a notch, he would need more alcohol in his system. Mimicking Jongho’s stance, Hongjoong and San straightened their postures and formed their expressions to make it seem as if they were of important background, all while feigning joy from attending the event. Despite being the shortest of the trio — courtesy of Hongjoong’s heeled shoes making him a few inches taller — Jongho took the lead and maneuvered through the sea of people.

“Your Grace!” He called and the swarm of ladies gathered around the duke dispersed with annoyance dragging their features. 

The stoic expression of the duke lit up brighter than the chandelier above his head. “Jongho! I am delighted you could come!” The men sealed the greeting with a firm handshake, both sporting wide smiles and stars glinting in their eyes. It was one thing to drop formalities with an underdog, but to be on first name-basis with a duke was so foreign to Hongjoong’s ears.

“I hope Spain has treated you well?”

“Certainly it has. Very beautiful weather and polite people. I wish to return after the social season… Possibly with my future wife if everything goes as planned.”

“And I am sure it will. You are the Duke of Beaumonte after all, it should not be a harder task than the piles of paperwork you have worked through in your life.”

Seonghwa let out a hearty laugh. “No, it should not, but I do want a genuine lady and not someone who is after my title. Perhaps, if I am bold enough, I may even hope for a love match.”

“I would not put it past you, Park. Anything can happen while the season is still in bloom.” Jongho winked and sipped on the champagne. The clearing of San’s throat diverted the conversation to the pair standing slightly behind Jongho. “Yes, of course. Your Grace, may I introduce my cousin, San, and our very good friend, Hongjoong."

“Well, gentlemen, I hope the evening is up to your taste.”

“It very much is! I adore the theme and colors of the decorations, it is very soft and not flamboyant as most balls are,” San admitted and although he did not have anything to compare it to, he was genuine with his compliment.

“Thank you! I deemed it most fitting to decorate everything in my favorite color, as you may have noticed on my suit.”

“Yes! A very el–”

“If you will excuse me for a moment, I need to use the restroom,” Hongjoong interrupted. The duke had not done anything particular to upset him, he was simply not in the setting to discuss the elements of the interior while he would later return to his rundown bedroom in the basement of San’s boxing club.

“Of course. Take left in the hall followed by the second turn on your right, continue on the path and turn on the first left, and you shall find the restrooms. Do not worry if you get lost on your way, there are servants and guards roaming the halls so feel free to ask for directions.”

All Hongjoong heard was, ‘Do what you want as long as you do not get caught.’ With his disappearance, the duke excused himself for a moment and took a turn around the room. It was lovely seeing familiar and genuine faces, not just people showing up out of curiosity or interest for Seonghwa’s business. Jongho was one of the few nobility he could stand and actually enjoy the company of without fearing possible ulterior motives.

You bowed to your dancing partner, an Earl you could not bother to remember his righteous piece of land, and returned to the safety of Yunho.

“Did he step on your toes?”

“No, Brother.”

“Then why did you make such a horrid face mid-dance?”

You contemplated whether to share the fragment of conversation between you and Lord Emberstorm that pulled on the corners of your mouth, estimating how furious Yunho would be after hearing what distasteful words stumbled out of the Lord’s mouth. Deciding to keep it a secret for you to bear and your diary to hear, you offered a bright smile and averted the topic elsewhere. 

“I am quite parched, Brother. If you will excuse me–”

An imitation of a cough halted you mid sentence, and you hastily turned around, expecting to be met with another request for a dance. What you did not expect to see was–

“Mister Song!” If it were not for the public setting, you would have your arms wrapped around the gentleman’s neck and cheek mushed against his. Instead, you settled for a simple nod of your head and a foot of space between your bodies. 

“Miss Lee, what a blessing to stumble upon you here.” The underlying tone of amusement did not go unheard. 

“Certainly it is, Mister Song. Have you finally come out of your cocoon to find the perfect eligible lady or are you still running from them?” 

“The world would not be spinning if I was intending to marry.”

You broke out in a fit of giggles, uncaring for the weird stares and whispers set off around you. At the end of the day, everyone dear to you knew of your and Mingi’s sturdy friendship. You harbored a love that was frowned upon considering your closeness despite being of opposite genders.

There was a point in your lives where both pairs of parents considered Mingi to be a perfect suitor and you to make a wonderful wife. You were perhaps five years of age and they considered the blooming friendship to grow past the platonic stage and into something more romantic, but with your father’s passing and Yunho taking over the role as viscount, your brother abolished the arrangement. The Songs did not take kindly to that and nearly burned the bridge you and Mingi built since childhood. Yet more than a handful of years later and you were still as close as ever. Besides, Mingi was not like the other boys you knew of. He was kind and soft and genuine, despite his big build and long legs always making him the most fearsome in the room, he could never spread evil onto anybody, even if he tried to. Mingi was the purest form of life you had ever seen and you could not understand what others saw in him to picture anything, but a shield of comfort and warmth.

The idea Mingi proposed after your thirteenth birthday — that if neither of you were married after your twenty-fifth year alive, you would marry each other mainly for the purpose of survival and an easy life — was proof of his kind nature and good willed heart. Though, to say you were appalled was an understatement. You immediately declined his proposition despite him providing you with a further explanation. It was first when he revealed the secret tucked far away in his chest, hidden behind his many ribs and lungs, and locked in the depths of his pumping heart, with the thought that it shall never see daylight that you allowed him to speak. In the end, perhaps you only agreed to it because he admitted you were the only woman he could consider himself to marry. The pact was sealed with a handshake and your promise to keep secrecy until soil covered your putrefying body. 

A love with Mingi was not horrifying compared to a long life with a stranger because a love with Mingi could never go beyond that of a friendship as he did not fancy women.

“Mister Song.” Yunho stepped out from his place behind you, arms behind his back and a soft smile on his cupid lips. 

“Luh… Lo– Lord Je… Uhm! Lord Jeong,” Mingi stuttered out a response. All of the blood in his body gathered beneath the skin of his cheeks as if the sun kissed him in the morning and left him cursed for all of eternity. It was painful to witness, but it was even harder to watch as your brother was oblivious to the flushed mess standing before him, barely keeping his wits together.

“I admire your suit. You shine everyone else down.”

Mingi’s eyes were so devoid of expression you could see the light reflecting in them as he held Lord Jeong's gaze, then glanced down at his clothes and back up at Yunho. Could it be that the viscount was indeed attempting a most audacious flirtation?

“What?”

Yunho chuckled at his dumbfoundedness and had to cover his mouth to avoid garnering too much attention from the people around them. He and Mingi were nothing more than acquaintances tied together through you. They never had the opportunity or perhaps interest to form a friendship and it was mainly because of their different ranks in society. While Yunho became a viscount at an unimaginable young age, Mingi was still in line for the title and had no real task beside scouting his father and gathering as much information as possible. Mingi was undoubtedly still a child in Yunho’s mind and the thought was bitter on his tongue, like the coffee grounded from the beans imported from India. 

The elder said nothing more. He pressed his lips into a taunting smirk, eyes relaxed and focused on Mingi despite everything moving around them in a haste enough to have their heads spinning of nausea. 

Sensing the air thicken and turn warmer around the men, you gingerly moved without disturbing their quiet conversation conveyed through the windows of their souls. It was not encouraged to venture into an event without a chaperone as whispers quickly traveled around the ton, especially concerning a lady who made her debut not twenty-four hours ago. Walking with your head still on the tall pair, you did not see the figure standing in your way until a collision occurred.

“Pardon me–” The words died in your throat as icy eyes belonging to no other than the duke cut into your core. Scrambling to restore your dignity, you swallowed the thick clump of anxiety and sputtered out an apology. Meeting the duke by carelessly bumping into him on the first ball of the season was not on your agenda. Making a fool of yourself was certainly not an achievement you fought to attain either. “Your Grace, pardon me for my inattentive behavior!”

A hum, dare you say not of disgust, reached your ears. You looked up and came to view with a dazzling smile that spread an assuring warmth through your body. The fear sticking its claws into your back melted and you straightened back up again. 

“It is quite alright, Miss…?”

“Ah…" You curtsied perfectly, "Miss Lee, sister of Viscount Jeong.”

It may have been the stark light of the chandelier or one of the many cherry tarts you consumed through the night, but you were certain a spark of recognition flashed across his face. You would not name it eerie, but it was on the edge of being unsettling how long he was staring at you. On cue, the orchestra played another song and people gathered in pairs to participate in the dance. Seonghwa cleared his throat and let his palm face the ceiling, steady and determined. Everyone kept their sights on the duke, and as he was standing in front of you, a promising position that could only mean one thing, it made you be in their center of attention too. A sudden dread settled in the pit of your stomach. Taking a quick glance around the room, you meet the burning glares of mamas and their daughters, as well as the disappointed looks of various gentlemen. The feeling of being perceived was uncommon and your thoughts simmered and eventually began bubbling erratically with questions of what-ifs. You were ready to take your leave, to excuse yourself and run to a place secluded from everyone and their prying eyes and judging whispers. 

“Miss Lee,” Seonghwa started and brought forth a pencil from his breast pocket. You were by no means a fortune teller, but there was no doubt in your mind he was going to ask you for a dance. The question leaving his mouth seconds after made you consider opening a magic shop on the other side of London. “May I have this dance?”

If Yunho was anywhere near you and not distracted by Mingi’s cute, rambling mess, he would have pushed you straight into the duke’s arms. To your relief, Yunho was occupied with Mingi’s questions about being a viscount to even consider what his dear sister was up to. The consent was expected to roll off your tongue and disappoint the gentleman, but anger the ladies.

“You must excuse me, Your Grace! I seem to hear my brothers calling for me!”

Your legs moved faster than your sight, and you nearly bumped into an elderly couple. Flustered and sweaty, you whispered out a hasty apology and ran toward a room you deemed to have the least amount of people in it. Seonghwa managed to utter as much as a breath before you were gone, lost between the sea of people and walking in the opposite direction of your brother. While he was supposed to feel irrevocable annoyance at your dishonesty, he could not stop the amused smile from lingering on his face. You were quite a peculiar lady, he thought and exhaled a strong gust of wind. If the duke was charmed by your beauty earlier that day, he was more than intrigued now. 

Running around unchaperoned on your first night as an eligible woman was not appreciated by the mamas standing uncomfortably close to their sons. Their judgmental glares stemmed from a place deep within, from a place of concern over what kind of woman their sons would take interest in. It said plenty to see you alone, neither of the Jeong brothers nor that mother of yours that married twice by your side. They do say the apple does not fall far from the tree. No one wanted to welcome a woman carrying the curse of death in her purse with open arms only to later bury their son six feet underground. 

Out of respect for your family’s name and honor, but also to protect your own feelings, you stumbled up the big beautiful staircase by the entrance and turned left and right until you were alone with the walls and striking interior to keep you company. If Yunho got a whim of what you were doing, he would be beyond furious. Instead of socializing downstairs, you opted to hide out in one of the many rooms upstairs. You could already hear his patronizing voice in the back of your mind, asking you how you thought to be courted if you were out of sight for the majority of the night. Would you expect a suitor to fall through your bedroom ceiling? 

🎼 Yunho’s nagging came to an end as a faint melody filled the silent hallway and sailed your thoughts elsewhere. Caught in its waves, you followed the mellifluous notes. If you were a sailor, then the player was a siren guiding you to your demise with their lulling melody. The further you walked, the louder the sound became and you recognized it as piano notes. Each press of their fingers on the keys was a chord striking along with your heart and your own fingers itched to dance along the white and black surface. The long hallway led to many different rooms, all of them shut except one with its door ajar and a string of light cutting across the tiled floor. 

You moved slowly, afraid to accidentally touch the door or disturb the mystery musician, and peeked through the tight opening. Out of all the impressive things you had witnessed that evening, this room would forever be engraved in your memories. In the center of the room by the big window sat a man in front of a dark oak piano, breathing life into the silence. All you could see was his back, a suit the color of snow, and caramel hair reaching his shoulder blades. What a peculiar style for a gentleman, you thought. 

Instruments were placed into every nook and cranny of the room. Guitars, violins, cellos, the pianoforte. This was everything you could ever ask for. You were not aware of His Grace‘s interest in music, perhaps your brother could formally introduce you to the duke later. Looking past the expensive equipment, you took in the room for what it was. The walls were a deep red contrasted by the champagne-carved details on the tapestry and rosewood furniture filled the room, everything from bookshelves to uncomfortable-looking desks and chairs, even a few sofas here and there. As every room of the Park manor seemed to have, even this one was lit up by a chandelier — albeit smaller than the one in the main hall — in the center, right above the pianist. 

He was on the last segment of the melody and you slipped into the room quiet as a mouse stealing cheese from the pantry, but stayed close to the door where the man could not see you until he had turned around. The song was beautiful, far better than anything created by the professional orchestra downstairs. This man was a proficient player and you wondered if you too could have been this talented if your mother had not established the foolish rule in the Jeong Household. 

As the man pressed his fingers on the keys and let them linger until the last notes vanished to silence, your feet got caught on the end of your dress, sending you tumbling forward. Blessed be the chair in your way as it saved you from falling in front of the pianist. The screech of its legs was so thunderous and sudden that it had the man jumping from his seat as if physically burned by the keyboard. The clash of your eyes froze you in place. Not only was his playing enchanting, but his appearance deserved a place amongst the many portraits hanging on the walls. The pianist you had yet to learn the name of was the most handsome man in all of London and you believed he even challenged the duke for his looks. The silence stretched on and your face burned hotter than the fireplace in your living room. Upholding your image, you brought forth your hand and cleared your throat just enough for you to hear. 

“Eh– Excuse my intrusiveness, Mr…!” 

Despite the fear swimming in his eyes and his heart thumping louder than the music downstairs, Hongjoong schooled his expression into that of a relaxed man. You did not seem to have any ill intentions in mind, but he could not take his chances. For all he knew, you could be of great relation with the duke and have him arrested for trespassing. His music playing was not meant for anyone to hear or see. He did not think anyone would be as foolish or brave as him to explore the second floor in spite of it being a restricted area for the evening. Hongjoong hid his sweaty palms in the smooth pockets of his trousers and slipped on a — hopefully — charming smile. 

“You may call me Hongjoong.”

An unchaperoned lady in the presence of an eligible man in a secluded area far from the party downstairs was a risk you could pay for the rest of your life. A barque of frailty, cyprian, doxy, a light-skirt were only some of the vile words that came to life anytime Ireum stepped out of the confines of your home after the passing of your papa and you wished not to know what insults you would be addressed with. Although you did not witness it, you knew it weighed heavily on her. To hear the other mamas speak poorly of her and criticize her parenting, all for being brave enough to search for another love. It was unfair. Ireum’s past was fresh in your memory, but apparently you gave it no heed as you did not run from the man standing in front of you, his hair wild and uncommon and eyes carrying a gleam of adventure. To call a stranger by his name was no better than shaking hands with the devil and your brother would have your head for it, but what Yunho did not know could not harm him. 

Pulling your lips into a polite smile, you scribbled your name on the imaginary paper and handed it back to the red figure with sharp horns and a pointy tail. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Huh–” You cleared your throat and ignored the flare of your cheeks. “Hongjoong. As I mentioned, I apologize for interrupting. You play a divine tune on the pianoforte.”

Hongjoong turned scarlet at the compliment. Praise was foreign to his ears. Yes, he was constantly showered with love and gratitude from San, but it could not be compared to hearing the words come from a pretty lady of presumed high status. 

“It is alright… Thank you, Miss–”

“Miss Lee. You may perhaps have heard of me, I am the sister of Viscount Jeong.”

It was no surprise all members of the ton were the same, they bled arrogance more than anything else. How pompous of you to think he would know of your name or origin, if only you would have known how many foreign faces Hongjoong had set eyes on. His lips set into a thin line and the fear swimming in his eyes was swallowed by sheer annoyance. “I cannot say I have… To be frank, I am not from this part of the country, nor am I familiar with the duke either.”

“Oh…” You squeaked, only then realizing how improper that sounded. “Well, please, pardon me for my pretentiousness. It was quite naive of me to assume such a thing.”

In the span of less than five minutes, you managed to surprise Hongjoong three times. The simmering emotion threatening to bubble over calmed within him and he did not understand why. Perhaps it was your sincere apology or the way you cowered in on yourself, or it was simply Hongjoong’s mind taking pity on pretty, young girls. Nonetheless, he could see himself on the same podium as the gentlemen in the longhats chatting shit and sipping wine while doing nothing but sit on their rears all day. He was in the vicinity of a lady for all of five minutes and he already managed to sour the mood. Noticing you had not budged from your spot since entering the room and began fiddling with your fingers, he decided to play nice for once. Who knew, maybe it would bring him good fortune?

“Are you familiar with the pianoforte?”

“Hm?” 

He jutted his thumb out over his shoulder. “The pianoforte? Do you play it?”

The smile taking over your features could be described as the sun on a winter morning doing little to warm the earth, but enough to brighten the cold season. “Not precise, but I was very keen on learning it.”

A caramel brow shot up. You were? When did you manage to find and lose the interest in learning the piano? Musicians were one of the few who kept their hobbies alive for most of their lives. Not that Hongjoong had much knowledge on the way things worked in the ton, but was it not better for a lady to have more talents for a better chance of getting married?

“And it is safe to assume the interest died… because?” 

“It is quite the story.”

“I believe we have time.”

You heaved in a sigh and ran your palm along the front of your dress. “My papa had a big love for music and I, wanting to be just like him, harbored that same passion… He passed shortly after my seventh birthday and never got around to teach me…” You avoided Hongjoong’s heated gaze by bouncing your eyes all around the room. “The piano was a means for me to stay connected to him, but the melodies became unbearable for my mother. It brought her great pain just to see it in the common room every day. So… she decided to ban all and any music in the house…”

“My apologies, Miss Lee. I should not have asked–”

“It is not a difficult topic, so rest assured everything is alright. On the contrary, I am delighted you asked. I do not remember the last time I spoke of both my papa and our passion for playing.” 

Overthrown by the feeling of guilt settling in the pit of his stomach, Hongjoong rounded the stool and occupied the left side, leaving a vacant spot on his right. He beckoned you over with a wave of his hand.

“You will not leave me waiting, will you now, Miss Lee?”

The teasing tilt to his voice was an enchanting spell pulling your feet further into the room that you could not disobey and it sounded louder than the slow church bells in the back of your head. The heedless caution of leaving a safe enough space between you died faster than a daylily. You had already crossed every line drawn to protect your innocence from staining and it was still clear as a day. What harm could it bring to sit by a handsome pianist? Taking the seat beside him would leave no room for defense if anyone were to catch sight of you. 

Hongjoong noticed your reluctance and turned his torso facing you. “You are to do as you please, Miss Lee. I can not and do not wish to force you into anything… I do apologize if I am crossing any boundaries, it was not my intention.”

“See it as– as– as you asking me for a dance! I will even allow you to sign my dance card, if you will.”

Pushing the worry of being the main talk of the season to the back of your mind, you occupied the vacant seat and tried, with all your might, to ignore the burn of his thigh pressed against yours and the slight caress of your elbows. A heat warmer than on a summer afternoon grazed your bare arms. Picking your head up from the peculiarly interesting spot on the piano, you gazed into the wide eyes of Hongjoong that eventually creased as his lips curled cutely.

“That would be more than alright. May I?”

As his left hand reached for the pencil lying on the music stand, the other faced the high ceiling of the room. His slender fingers were far from elegant and soft, but rather rough and calloused, reminding you of the elderly men tending to your garden. Nonetheless, you let the dance card fall in his palm and watched as he in one long stroke signed the last vacant row.

“Shall we?” He played a major chord and you let a giggle slip past your lips.

You did not touch the wooden instrument or breathe during his performance. It was a melody too beautiful to do anything but bask in. You simply allowed the uplifting and bright sounds to wrap around the two of you, separating you from the party downstairs. Hongjoong was a different person while behind the piano, you noticed. He closed his eyes and relaxed, becoming one with the music. For a minute you got lost in the beauty of his passion and sensed his love for the instrument emerge from him like sunshine escaping the confines of a cloudy sky. As the last notes spilled out in the room, you quickly reverted your focus elsewhere, but unbeknownst to you, he felt your eyes on him throughout the whole song.

“If I may ask…” You broke the silence, hands intertwined and resting on your lap. “Who taught you to play the pianoforte?”

Hongjoong pressed down on a random set of keys and hummed along to the notes. “No one. I am… self-taught.”

The mystery man was leaving you shellshocked once again. The dozen pianists occupying the dance floor in the main hall were skilled players because of the money in their fathers’ pockets, but Hongjoong was not in need of a teacher.

Talent could not be forced, was what your papa used to say as you sat in his lap before the big instrument while your mama diligently fiddled with an embroidery frame on the other side of the room, her belly round and ready to welcome the growing baby any day. Your papa refused to pay for tutors. He claimed talent and passion ran in your blood and you were too good for a teacher even at the ripe age of three. The late Viscount Lee did not withhold the truth, but before your talent was given the chance to bloom it was put to rest alongside him in his coffin. However, listening and witnessing Hongjoong handle the piano with care and expertise rekindled the flame that died out years ago, and perhaps with the help of another, it could be polished and restored to what it once was.

Scooting closer to the gentleman and pushing your already accentuated chest between your arms — a manner you had witnessed Ireum do countless times while in disagreements with your father to get what she wanted — you executed the mischievous plan with gentle swats of your eyelids. “Such remarkable talent you possess, Hongjoong.” 

Honey to go with his tea was not an option for Hongjoong at the breakfast table, but he imagined it to taste as sweet as you sounded. It was almost hard to swallow his thickened spit as you beamed that sugary smile of yours. The bare night sky bore witness to your intimate moment and promised no rain pour for the foreseeable future, and Hongjoong could erase the thought of handing you his suit jacket — a means of protection from the droplets threatening to melt you at contact. Forgetting himself, Hongjoong hastily averted his attention back to the big instrument and cleared his throat, but could not hinder the stutter from latching onto his words.

“Th– thank you, Miss Lee.” 

Darting your tongue over your bottom lip as you contemplated your next move — a gamble that could set off Mingi’s proposition five years too early — you reached out and put your hand on his forearm closest to you. The man stiffened beneath your feathery touch and his fingers froze above the keys. This was not the outcome you expected. Hongjoong did not fall under the spell as the gentlemen did for Ireum’s vixen eyes and seductive touch, and your consciousness was halfway down the hole of regret and anxiety before you could play it off as brushing dust off his clothes. The fear of being reduced to nothing but a woman of easy virtue loomed over your head and you forced yourself to proceed with the plan.

“I must confess, a twinge of jealousy arises within me hearing you play. It would be marvelous to possess the ability to play the piano as you do…” The finishing touch was to slowly retract your hand and leave a tingling trail on the wake of his arm, and end it with a big, mournful sigh. 

“If it pleases you,” he slowly started and you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. Being in that close vicinity of a man not belonging to your kin set off a wildfire spreading throughout your whole body. It did not help that Hongjoong was a very attractive gentleman who, thus far, had only shown you kindness. The layer of clothing suddenly became uncomfortable and you longed for a glass of water or a change of clothes, if not both. “...I would be delighted to demonstrate a few simple melodies.”

The act of a dejected woman disappeared and Hongjoong could bask in the light emitting from your bright smile and twinkling eyes. Perhaps it was the very reason he did not inquire about the sudden alteration in your demeanor and gave you a sincere smile of his own.

“Your kindness is most appreciated!”

The late Viscount Lee stood correct as your sponge of a brain absorbed every word Hongjoong uttered and mimicked his motions with utmost perfection. Playing the pianoforte was in your veins and it was a shame Ireum forbade it. Though if the circumstance was different, it would still not change the possibility of playing in public. If one woman did not stoop in your way, then your own female features would. A man with your talents would thrive in high society, but you would only be allowed to play in the confines of your home and even that you were not allowed. The human mind was a peculiar thing. When you finally got around your family and achieved the one thing making you happy, it was still not enough.

Hongjoong’s chuckle brought you out of your blue stupor. “You are a swift learner and possess notable talent at the pianoforte as well, Miss Lee. A most natural talent, if I may declare.”

“Thank you…” 

Greed and envy hid in the cracks of your gratitude, and had you gone beneath a knife your insides would bleed a poisonous green. The three melodies he taught you were certainly not enough to quench your insatiable desire, on the contrary. Having tasted a speck of your dreams made it hard to resist the yearn for the entirety of the feast. The youngest of the Jeong Household was not usually bold, but one might attribute it to Hongjoong’s welcoming nature and dazzling smile. Had the circumstances been different, if he had turned the other cheek and ignored your stumbling presence, you would have excused yourself and returned to the safety of your brothers. But he did not. Hongjoong entertained your curiosity and pointed out a branch of excitement you had no prior knowledge of. 

“Shall… “ You began quietly and cleared your throat. “Shall you be kind enough to teach me the art of playing the pianoforte?”

The grandfather clock ticking in the corner could barely be heard over your thumping heart. If you thought you crossed Hongjoong’s boundaries before, then you were certain you had done it now if the look of his wide eyes and parted lips were anything to go by. 

“I do admire your eagerness to learn, Miss Lee, but it would not be an ideal situation. You are a débutante and I am but a simple gentleman. Our gatherings would certainly garner unwanted attention and be in the way of you finding a suitable husband.”

“It would not be done in public!” 

Because if either of your brothers got whim of your absurd idea, you would not be allowed to leave the foyer of your house, let alone accompany him to more balls in search for a partner. 

Hongjoong still showed apprehensiveness, but you knew that the one thing no man could turn down — except ladies of the evening — was money. Everyone was always eager for more gold and you prayed Hongjoong was not an exception, as he had shown to be multiple times this night.

“An– And your services would not be free of charge, of course!”

The proposition was not bad, Hongjoong thought and raked his mind weighing the benefits and disadvantages. Teaching a presumptuous lady how to play the piano equaled pockets full of money, less dirty floors to scrub and him getting to practice on a real piano every once in a while. The downside of your brothers having his head on a platter would only come true if you were caught which did not sound too bad of a gamble. 

“The question remains of how we are to do this, Miss pianist?”

Too happy to care about the heat attacking your face, you held your hand out for him to shake. The warmth of his fingers burned through your glove and kissed the skin on your palm, a feeling that you soon would find reminiscing for days on end.

“Meet me at the town's square two days from now and we shall further discuss our arragnement.”

With a nod of his head, the pianist waltzed straight into the agreement blinded by the shimmering coins floating before his eyes. The celebration was cut short as an eerily creak broke you apart. Both snapped your heads toward the sound only to witness one side of the double doors opened as if given a little nudge from the other side. Fear coiled around your feet and up your legs. You could not remember if you had closed the doors properly or not and your uncertainty did not calm the storm brewing in your abdomen. 

“Perhaps it is merely the wind,” Hongjoong suggested feebly, his words taking on the form of a sword and sliced the snake crawling further up your waist. What possible wind he could be referring to was beyond you, but it was easier to deny reality than fall into a spiral panic. Besides, who in all of London would prefer being upstairs than enjoying the presence of the duke down below?

Time scurried on without your knowledge, yet the loud clash of the grandfather clock striking midnight was not the cause of you parting ways. The harmless scare was enough of a sign to reclaim your designated position next to Yunho and not bat an eye at Hongjoong’s figure sliding through the crowd of guests seconds after your return. The forty-eight hours of waiting began as of now and it may have been the longest forty-eight hours of your life.

© HONGJOONGSPOETRY 2024 - All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting or translating my work is not allowed.

[orioluss]

so there is a russian song by daite tank (!) called planetarium

it's consists that lyrics

two naked proletarians under the sky of planetarium

so

i thought

im fucking menace

[mesetacadre]

Occasionally the International Brigades captures me and it's all I think about for the entire day. The Volunteers of Liberty, the living embodiment of proletarian internationalism, the laborers and peasants who marched through streets that have now forgotten them, under the tide of a 40 year dictatorship and the shameful policy by the succeeding democracy to place them in the same box as the interventionist fascist states of Europe. Those who purposefully bombed Madrid when the theaters closed to kill as many civilians as possible, flying down the main avenues with machine guns firing upon mothers and their own children, who were in line for rations, described by Alfred Kantorowicz; "This is fascism!", in a chronicle. Those are placed, by liberal historiography, at the same level as the brigadiers who weathered the terror bombings in the center's bars, some, like John Cornford, purposefully not running away, to infuse confidence into the people of Madrid.

As of today, there is only 1 monument to the Brigades in the city of Madrid, erected the 25th of October, 2011, 75 years after the foundation of the International Brigades. It is located in a small esplanade in front of the UCM's Faculty of Medicine; when the front in this area crystallized, where the monument stands today, it was no man's land. In 2013, Madrid's Supreme Tribunal ruled that the monument "violated the local urban laws" and that it should be removed, though thankfully nothing has come of it yet. To this day there are some who refuse to acknowledge the historical service given by the Brigades to Madrid, Spain, and the entire world. The Brigades sang the Internationale while marching down Gran Vía; 3 years later, the only song that rang through Madrid was that of the infant fascist dictatorship.

The Telefónica skyscraper that served international correspondents, Republican artillery, and Soviet aviators when they wanted to survey the front, housed within its walls before the war a USAmerican multinational: International Telephone and Telegraph Company (now ITT Inc.), and it held lucrative contracts with fascist Germany. In the fall of 1936, one of its owners, Sosthenes Behn, was in Madrid, and he could have watched the front from his office. Instead, he chose to leave Madrid the 7th of November. The skyscraper today still pierces Madrid's sky, although overshadowed by more modern skyscrapers. However, in those short years, it was the only time that skyscraper pointed towards the heavens, through the smoke of artillery and terror bombings. As the shining example of internationalism and democracy entered Madrid, some fascist lackeys left. Others remained, as part of the Fifth Column, perhaps the very same Fifth Column that, in 1939, left the gates of Madrid wide open for the fascist columns. No brigadiers remain alive, only their descendants, fading memories, and incomplete archives. It makes up a very unique sense of loss and confidence for me.

[energydrinkking]

Furina's constellations and their meanings!

Furina is known for having extremely long constellation names. Many know that all these names are taken from operas and songs, in character for Furina since she loves operas and arts in general. But… is there more behind it? Here are my thoughts on the constellations and how they fit her story and character!

C1: “Love is a rebellious bird that none can tame”, the lyrics are taken word by word from the opera “Carmen”. The lyrics of the opera often reference love as multiple things at the same time. “Love does not know law!”. “Love is far, you can wait for it”. “Love is a child”. The opera itself deals with proletarian life, immorality, lawlessness and the tragic death of the main character on stage. Furina’s love for Fontaine does not know law. She impersonated a god, which is punishable, but she still did for her people. Her love for her people cannot be tamed by law, or by anyone. She would choose to act out this painful act another 500 years if it meant that her people would be safe.

C2: “A woman adapts like duckweed in water”, the name is a stretched-out version of the opera “Rigoletto”, the original title of the opera is called “La maledizione” (The Curse). it deals with a curse that was put on the main character, and it only comes to fruition when Gilda (the female love interest) starts falling in love with him, he is then saved by her, sacrificing her own life for him. Sound familiar, no? A curse, a prophecy, a sacrifice. Furina fits all these themes in one way. Furina also, quite literally, adapts to any situation thrown at her (like duckweed in water).

C3: “My secret is hidden within me, no one will know my name“, the sentence is taken word by word from the opera “Turandot”. The opera follows the Prince Calaf, who falls in love with the cold Princess Turandot In order to win her hand in marriage, he must solve three riddles, with a wrong answer resulting in his execution. Calaf passes the test, but Turandot refuses to marry him. He offers her a way out: if she is able to guess his name before dawn the next day, he will accept death. Furina often uses her God name “Focalor” when describing herself, to keep her image as a god. In the opera, the main character is glad that the princess doesn’t know his name. However, in Furina’s case, she is probably saddened by the fact that she can’t let anyone know her “real” name. Everyone knows the name “Furina” but do they really KNOW “Furina”?

C4: “They know not life, who dwelt in the netherworld not!”, is a retelling of the ancient legend of Orpheus and Eurydice and comes from “Orpheus in the Underworld” Orpheus in the play is portrayed as carefree, indifferent to the loss of his wives, even eager to escape the constraints of marriage. This might draw parallels with Furina who, to the people of Fontaine, appeared inactive in the face of Poisson's disasters.

C5: “His name I now know! It is…!“ the sentence is also taken word by word from the same opera as the C3, “Turandot”. The princess finally learns his name at the end of the final act. She uses the words “It is… love!” I 100% believe this is a reference to Neuvillette.  With her C3, where she is telling everyone that no one will ever know her name, and in this constellation, she seems weirdly happy about knowing someone’s name… or in better words: knowing someone. Seeing Neuvillette grow as a person and learn to love humans as much as she does. She now knows the true Neuvillette, the one who loves and adores humans. As she has a close relationship with Neuvillette, he can open himself up to her, he has no secrets that he must keep from her. Many fontainians have tried to get close to him, but all have been rejected. No one knows his full name, except for Furina. She, however, cannot ever let Neuvillette get to know the real her. Her secret is hidden within her.

C6: “hear me – let us raise the chalice of love!” is a duet from “La traviata” and is considered a brindisi (a song that encourages drinking). Now, this is going to sound lazy but I feel like this constellation name is something Furina would say out of the blue when she’s drinking alcohol. Clorinde once had to stop her from getting up on the table when she was drinking too much. I also want to mention that Furina, who has acted as someone she was not, may fall back into that character. It was also mentioned in Furina’s voice-overs that she sometimes cannot separate the real Furina with the “god” Furina.

These are my thoughts!

[karahalloway]

(Less Than) Noble Intentions: Chapter 17 - News Flash

Fandom: TRR

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series Summary: The social season may be over, but Harper Gale’s problems are just beginning. With everyone at court a potential suspect, can she and Drake survive the engagement tour and get to the bottom of the plot against her and clear her name? An AU take of TRR2 featuring my OTP - Harper & Drake.

Masterlist: (Less Than) Noble Intentions

Chapter Summary: Harper and the Beaumonts get on a plane to Italy… but they are not riding solo

Word Count: 4,500

Rating/Warnings: M (using the Lord's name in vain, shocking revelations, possible ulterior motives)

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: And… we’re back! I know this is a bit delayed, thanks to my new Heaven’s Secret distraction, but I am hoping to refocus myself on this continuously neglected series again for the next few weeks/months so we can make some headway towards wrapping it up. Also, I know we all miss him, and he hasn’t had as much page time as we all (Harper included!) probably want, but I promise that after this chapter there will be a lot more Drake again 🥃

A/N2: Astute readers will probably notice that there is nary a train in sight (in this chapter, or any future ones). This is deliberate because (i) I never understood why PB went in that direction in canon (is a travelling boutique really that important?!), and (ii) trains don’t make sense from a security point of view anyway (apparently the UK’s Royalty and Specialist Protection — which provides close protection to the royal family — used to hate it when Elizabeth II travelled by train, because it was always a massive headache to ensure her safety as trains travel on a fixed route and schedule, with no opportunities for diversion or evasion of things go to pot). So… planes it is ✈️

A/N3: Finally, another special shoutout to @thegreentwin​ for giving me the inspiration to have a crack at creating the tabloid cover page featured in this chapter. If you have not read The Rebel Prince, please do so! It is cute, funny, insightful and the gossip magazine covers that accompany several of the chapters are something else!

Chapter 17 - News Flash

"I thought we're going to Italy..." I remark the next morning as we pull to a stop on the tarmac of a secluded private airfield.

"We are," confirms Bertrand, jamming a fedora onto his head to protect against the ferocity of the morning sun... and hide the brutal sunburn he managed to acquire as a result of spending the entirety of yesterday's Festival outdoors without any SPF protection.

"Then what's with the literal mountain of luggage?" I ask as we step out of our customary limo.

Bertrand fixes me with a red-faced glare over the roof of the vehicle. "Have you learnt nothing from the social season?"

I throw him a deadpan look. "You mean apart from the fact that you insist on packing everything, including the kitchen sink?"

Maxwell's snort drifts up from the backseat.

The elder Beaumont is not impressed with my clapback. "The engagement tour will be one high-profile event after the other, which means that we will have neither the time nor the opportunity to engage in slap-dash shopping sprees. Not only would such proletarian behaviour be rude, but it would be misguided as well, given that we need to ensure that for each event we abide not just by the formal dress code indicated on the invitation, but also that we do not clash with, or indeed overshadow the hosts — or the King and future Queen, for that matter! — in terms of style and colour, all while being thoughtful in ensuring that we incorporate elements from both local and Cordonian designers to visually showcase the strength of the bonds that knit our respective nations together. On top of all that, it is imperative that we—"

"How the heck is anyone expected to pull all that off?" I blurt in disbelief.

"Through careful planning and coordination," Bertrand declares as he comes to join Maxwell and me on the other side of the limo. "Which is why I have taken the liberty of pre-selecting each outfit for each event of the tour, in consultation with the Palace's Master of the Robes."

My mouth drops. "You... Put a wardrobe together? For me?"

"Yes," comes the diffident affirmation. "Given that all eyes — not just those of our fellow Cordonians, but of our host nations' — will be on us constantly, we cannot afford any fashion faux pas."

I stare at my former sponsor mutely, mouth opening and closing like a dumbfounded goldfish.

Maxwell attempts to diffuse my slap-faced reaction with a jovial grin. "Bertrand used to lay my clothes out for me all the time when we were younger. I know he doesn't look it, but he has excellent—"

I shove an accusatory finger out. "He tried to foist me into a Medieval cosplay dress! That is the exact opposite of excellent taste!"

The elder Beaumont bristles. "It was hardly—"

"And how the hell did you afford all of this anyway?" I interject, throwing my arm out towards the carefully stacked Eiffel Tower of suitcases. "Because last time I checked, you were flat broke!"

Bertrand's already ruddy complexion darkens further. "There is no need for you to concern yourself with—"

"How?!"

After the way Maxwell had tried to sell covert photos and Christian and me from New York to the press in a bid to make bank, I am not willing to take any kind of half-baked deflection when it comes to the Beaumonts and money. I've been used one too many times for someone else's gain, so my trust is virtually non-existent at this point.

Bertrand swallows thickly as he averts his eyes. "I... I may have made recourse to an old sewing machine I found in the attic..."

My eyes just about pop out of my head. "You what?!"

I'd expected any one of six million other explanations — he'd sold the vineyard... remortgaged Ramsford... auctioned off every last chair and curtain from the manor... Even offered his soul to the literal Devil...

But using a sewing machine...? To make actual clothes...?

I had obviously caught the sun yesterday as well, and am now suffering from heat stroke...

"Bertrand has always been interested in fashion," explains Maxwell with a perfectly straight face. "He even wanted to enroll at the world-renowned Istituto Marangoni International in Milan to study Fashion Design. But then our father took unexpectedly ill, and—"

"Yes, yes..." interjects Bertrand with an embarrassed wave of his hand. "No need to revisit broken dreams and unfulfilled promises. The point is that I made the best use of what meagre funds and resources we had at our disposal to curate a serviceable selection of outfits for each of us. With a little help from Maxwell, of course."

"I was the mannequin," he declares proudly. "I admit, I got poked a few times in the line of duty, but it was worth it. Bertrand did a stellar job – you're going to love what he made for you."

"I... I don't know what to say..." I admit faintly.

And here I'd been thinking that Bertrand's closet Harry Potter obsession had been a big reveal...

"Yes... Well..." Bertrand clears his throat uncomfortably. "We each have our unique talents. Speaking of... I trust you have been practicing your Italian?"

I frown. "My what?"

"You were supposed to give her lessons!" cries Bertrand, smacking his brother over the back of the head.

Maxwell's retro '60s sunglasses fly off his face. "My Prada’s...!"

"What about French?" Bertrand demands, rounding on me with all the intensity of a furious tomato on the verge of exploding.

"Allard and Schweitzer have been teaching—"

"Some initiative at last!" exclaims Bertrand, throwing his hands up in the air in deliverance. "Good — you'll have some semblance of a basis, then. However, while both languages share a common root — that being Latin — and a border, as a result of roughly fifteen centuries of historical and linguistic divergence, Italian has become markedly different from its Gallic cousin, so we will have our work cut out in making you even semi-proficient by the time we land in Rome. So, I hope you brought pen and paper with you."

My shoulders slump as I watch Bertrand stride off towards the waiting plane. "Great..."

There goes the next hour and a half of my life...

"I knew I had forgotten something..." admits Maxwell, rubbing the back of his head as he retrieves his sunglasses from the tarmac. "But I thought it was just my second favourite pair of boxers."

"It's fine..." I assure wearily him as I begin my own trudge towards the jet. "It wouldn't be a true Beaumont travel experience without a droning Bertrand lecture..."

Though I guess it could be worse. I could be stuck on the royal jet with Christian and Madeleine. Which — after what happened yesterday — would be like staging an aristocratic rendition of Squid Game... 20,000 feet in the air. So, on that basis, I'll willingly subject myself to Bertrand's monologuing any day of the week, if it means I can—

"And there she is..." remarks a familiar, though very much unexpected voice as I step onto the plane. "The woman of the hour."

Jerking my head to the right, my eyes land on Olivia, lounging on one of the cream-coloured leather seats, her killer spike stiletto boots dangling over the armrest as she casually peruses a broadsheet.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in disbelief.

Olivia lowers the paper to meet my eye with a quirked brow. "You mean, on my own aircraft?"

I cast a glance in Bertrand's direction as I make my way down the gangway. "Guess your meagre funds and resources didn't extend to sourcing jet fuel?"

Bertrand coughs evasively as he stores his briefcase in the overhead locker. "Since we are all heading in the same direction anyway, Lady Oliva was kind enough to—"

"Shut it, Beaumont," Olivia snaps. "I am doing this as a personal favour, not an act of charity. As Lord knows that I wouldn't normally tolerate sharing recycled air with this many people in a confined space. So, if you want to stay on this plane, you will save the histrionics for the Italian President."

Bertrand promptly clamps his mouth shut to sink into his seat without another word.

"Wow..." I say, settling in across from Olivia. "He must've been really desperate to come to you for help... No offence."

"None taken," she replies with a breezy shrug as she flips the broadsheet closed and nods to the cabin attendant. "Because the request didn't come from the Beaumonts."

My head snaps up in surprise. "Then who?"

She regards me for a long moment, as if debating whether to tell me. Finally, she lets out a resigned exhale. "Drake."

My jaw hits the floor. "What!"

Olivia scrunches her mouth up ruefully. "He twisted my arm into agreeing to look out for you while he's off playing desert soldier."

I stare at her. "How in the world did he—?"

Maxwell thrusts his head 'round the back of Olivia's seat. "Drake's playing video games! Instead of coming to Italy?”

The Duchess of Lythikos shoves the intruding face away with the palm of her hand. "No, you imbecile! Drake's gone to Dubai." Glancing at me she adds, "I presume they know?"

"They do now," I concede with a sigh.

Thanks to the slew of quick-fire developments at yesterday's Festival, followed by the rabid packing to get ourselves ready for the international leg of the tour, I haven't had a chance to bring the Beaumonts up to speed with everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours.

But they're bound to find out about Drake's last-minute side-trip at some point, so this is as good a time as any to level with them.

Maxwell’s mouth drops with an aghast look. "But I didn't hit him that hard!"

Olivia quirks a brow at me.

"Long story, don't ask," I tell her wearily. Glancing up at Maxwell, I add, "He's gone after Tariq. Bastien found him hiding out on some rich cousin's yacht out in the bay."

"Oh." Maxwell scratches his head abashedly. "That makes more sense..."

"How do you put up with these two?" asks Olivia with a shake of her head as Maxwell sinks back into his seat.

I give her a shrug. "They have a weird way of growing on you..."

"Like some deadly fungus..." she mutters with a roll of her eyes.

"I heard that!" objects Maxwell from behind her.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't eavesdrop, then!" she throws over her shoulder snidely. Turning back to me, she adds, "And speaking of funguses, you can remind your boyfriend when he gets back that you both owe me. Big time."

My gaze darts to hers. "I— We're not—"

"Thank you for confirming it," she interjects with a sly smile. "But also, I'm not an idiot. It's obvious to anyone with a set of eyes that the fool is in love with you... and you with him. It's all quite disgusting, really..."

I feel my cheeks redden. "So, why help us, then?"

She heaves a low breath. "Because you stuck your neck out for me when you didn't have to. Despite everything I did to try and undermine you during the season. And because we have a common enemy."

She tosses the broadsheet that she'd been reading over to me.

Catching the copy of the Cordonia Sun before it has a chance to slide off the table between us, I glance down...

...and my heart sinks as I take in the unflattering picture of myself seemingly facing off against Madeleine under the sensationalist headline.

I shove the paper angrily away. "Hey. I didn't start it..."

"And yet you somehow always manage to find yourself in the middle of it, don't you?" she counters with an arched brow as the jet revs its engines for take-off. "The half-nude pictures... The Beaumonts' financial troubles... The speculations about the real reason Christian gave you a duchy... I mean, even the Duchess of Sussex would have a hard time competing with you when it comes to front-page scandals."

"And you think Madeleine is behind it all?" I ask tightly, indicating the tabloid.

"She would certainly have a lot to gain from waging a targeted media campaign against you," Olivia affirms. "She isn't married to Christian yet, and after what happened with Leo, she no doubt feels threatened by your continued presence at court. So, discrediting your integrity in the eyes of the Council would help her ensure that Christian can never formally pick you over her to become Queen."

"Because she doesn't know I turned him down..." I grumble dejectedly as the plane pulls into the air.

"And certainly would not believe you if you told her, either," she adds. "But she is not the only one with something to lose."

I sit up straighter. "You mean there are other suspects?"

"Yes," she nods. "Namely Godfrey and the Queen Mother."

Bertrand erupts from his seat at the mention of the two names. "That is an outrageous accusation! The Queen Mother would never—!"

"Madeleine is her niece," counters Olivia flatly. "Given that she has no children of her own, she practically treats that golden-haired harpy as if she is her heir. And since she was the one who brokered the original marriage contract between Leo and Madeleine, she clearly doesn't want all that work going to waste."

I frown. "But if everything was in place already, why have a social season at all? Why not just sub out Leo's name for Christian's in the contract?"

"To give Christian the illusion of choice."

My jaw drops. "You're not serious..."

"It would have been in poor taste to simply swap one prince out for another," Olivia advises. "Leo hadn't died... merely abdicated. But that decision nevertheless rocked the kingdom to its core."

"It's true," supplies Maxwell, leaning around with a mouth full of jelly worms. "The headlines were vicious."

"So..." I muse with a frown. "The Palace needed a distraction?"

"Yes," Oliva affirms seriously. "To draw attention away from Constantine's failing health."

"Wait," I cut in. "Constantine is dying?"

Olivia nods. "Prostate cancer. By all estimates, he has less than a year to live."

"Oh, my God..." I gasp, hand flying to my mouth. "No wonder Christian didn't want to talk about it..."

"The Palace is under strict instructions to keep the whole thing tightly under wraps..." she explains. "At least until after the coronation and wedding are both out of the way. They don't want the news to overshadow the first few critical months of Christian's rule."

"So, how did you find out?" I query.

She cuts her eyes over at me. "Like I said at the Masquerade Ball... Christian and I share a special connection. There are no secrets between us. Also – look at who you're talking to. I have files on each of the suitors from the social season. You seriously think I wouldn't know about something as vital to the functioning of the kingdom as the state of the King Father's health?"

"I guess not..." I concede, still trying to process this bombshell. "But how does giving Christian an illusion of a choice during the social season help cover up Constantine's cancer?"

"In the wake of Leo's abdication, support for the Rys family fell to an all-time low. The press started to question Constantine's policies, and the direction that the kingdom has been heading over the past few decades, implying that the country's current trajectory was unsustainable... and uncorrectable."

"I remember reading something about that on the flight from New York..." I recall. "There were suggestions that Leo abdicated because he didn't believe in the future of the monarchy."

"Which wasn't the case at all," she cautions. "But the Palace was worried that such intense media scrutiny would unearth evidence of Constantine's ill health... which would in turn intensify the calls from the republican factions of the country to abolish the system of hereditary rule completely. So, in a desperate bid to reunite the people behind a common cause, and shore up support for the monarchy, the Palace decided run the season again."

"But why?" I ask, still not seeing the connection.

"To charm the country with the fairytale of a royal romance," denotes Olivia sourly. "Because people apparently go ga-ga for that shite..."

Bertrand narrowly avoids choking in his seat across the aisle. "That is a crude and absolutely salacious interpretation of—!"

I whirl across the aisle. "Wait. You knew about this?"

Bertrand folds his arms across his chest. "I am a serving member of the Council. Of course I knew about the Palace's decision to run the social season again. But to suggest that it was all done simply for the sake of—"

"God, you're thick..." interjects Olivia.

Bertrand blanches. "I beg your pardon?!"

"You've been at court long enough to know that the truth is never the whole truth — there is always some hidden purpose or ulterior motive."

"But to suggest that—"

"The Palace needed a believable story — one that could capture the public's imagination — while still serving the needs of the kingdom," Olivia states. "A story of duty and love."

"Between Christian and Madeleine?" I ask sceptically. "But they don't even like each other."

"So?" scoffs Olivia. "The aim was to sell the lie to the populace. Everything else is inconsequential. And can be made to fit the narrative."

"But if you knew all this," I counter, "why did you join the competition?"

"I joined exactly because I knew the season was a sham," she replies heatedly. "To give Christian a genuine choice... not just the one that everyone else was determined to steer him towards."

"Because you love him..."

Olivia nods tightly. "Yes. And I knew it was a long shot. But even if he wouldn't end up being able to choose me — Regina would've made sure to stack the Council votes in her favour — at least I could be there to support him... as a friend."

I feel my heart go out to her, knowing from personal experience how difficult it is to be in a situation where you desperately want to be with someone, but can't because of circumstances that are outside of your control.

"But then, of course..." adds Olivia, once again with her customary breeziness, "you show up from out of nowhere with your hideous accent and relatable backstory—"

"Hey!"

"—and the whole country — Christian included — loses their collective minds. With the result that Regina's plan to make her niece Queen begins to unravel at the seams."

"Which is why she decided to set me up..." I surmise heavily as the jet levels off.

It's been fairly obvious from the start that I'm not Regina's favourite person... But the knowledge that she'd go to such lengths to publicly blacklist me? That's just inexcusable.

"You have no proof of that!" objects Bertrand, butting in again.

"Not directly, no," Olivia admits. "But all the evidence we have to date fits. The money Tariq received for his involvement came from a numbered account located in Switzerland. The blackmail letters distributed at the Coronation Ball were printed on Palace stationery. And as far as motives go, the Queen Mother would have more reason than most to influence the outcome of the social season."

"I cannot believe I am hearing this...!" decries Bertrand with a shake of his head. "The implications alone would be—"

"Ruinous to the Rys family," confirms Olivia. "I am aware. Which is why we must tread carefully in order to avoid tarring Christian with any of this. The monarchy would not survive the ensuing scandal."

"What about this other guy?" I ask. "Godfrey? How does he fit into this?"

Olivia throws her hands up. "Lord, you're more clueless than him!"

"Excuse me for not knowing every single Cordonian nobleman by name," I snark back. "I've only been a duchess for a day..."

"I'll send you my files," Olivia huffs wearily. "All two hundred of them."

My eyes widen. "There's two hundred—?"

"There's more, but those are the important ones," she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. "And if you want to be an effective duchess, I suggest you study up because you need to have the entire contents of those dossiers memorised and ready to deploy in any given conversation."

"Sweet Jesus..." I gasp faintly, making recourse to Drake's favourite invective, as it certainly fit the magnitude of the task Olivia has just dumped on me.

"You didn't grow up in this world, so you have a lot of catching up to do," Olivia shrugs unabashedly.

"Yeah, I'm very much aware of that..." I concede dryly, rubbing my temples. "So, who is this Godfrey?"

"The Third Earl of Huntford, and Duke jure uxoris of Krona."

My brows furrow in recollection. "Krona... Does that mean he's—?"

"He's Madeleine's dad," supplies Maxwell, popping his head into the aisle again, this time in the company of a CapriSun juice pouch.

My eyes widen. "The man at the garden party! But what does he have against me? I've never even met him!"

"The fact that you are still here..." offers Olivia blandly. "Competing against his daughter for the attentions of the King."

"It's not exactly a competition," I scoff. "I'm not trying to steal him away from her."

"Except that isn't how the press is portraying it," counters Olivia pointedly, tapping the front page of the Sun.

I open my mouth again, but quickly shut it, realising that Olivia is right. As regardless of my personal reasons for being back at court — as the Royal Consort, no less! — the view from the outside presents very differently. And given that Madeleine herself clearly feels threatened by my continued presence at Christian's side, it's no small jump to imagine that her father — who, based on what I saw at the garden party a few days ago, is just as power-hungry and image-conscious as his daughter — would also feel the same.

"Crap..." I huff, falling back into my seat dejectedly.

"Not the most elegant of phrasing," muses Olivia. "But certainly succinct."

"What am I going to do?" I ask morosely, starting up at the cabin's air vents.

"Help me gather as much proof as we can during the course of the tour," Olivia instructs. "So we can narrow down our suspect list... or indict all three of them. In either case, we will be more effective if we work together."

"That plan is akin to sedition!" cries Bertrand, clearly aghast by the very suggestion. "Bordering on treason! All of us are in enough hot water already without—"

"Which is why it is imperative that no word of anything that we have just discussed leaves this aircraft," declares Olivia with a steely look. "Or I will personally hunt you down and turn your face inside out."

I gulp at the gruesomeness of that particular image. "What... What about the staff? Can you trust them?"

"They are all Lythikosians," Olivia states. "Who have sworn blood-oaths to House Nevrakis. They would never dare betray me."

"Good to know..." I admit, watching the cabin attendant re-appeared with a selection of drinks, and wondering if underneath her uniform she is as armed to the teeth as Olivia supposedly is.

"I presume the same goes for your beefcakes?" asks Olivia, nodding her chin towards the back where Allard and Schweitzer have taken up residence for the duration of the flight.

"Yes," I confirm. "I trust them with my life."

She dips her head in approval. "Good. So, as first order of business, I suggest—"

"Can we tell Hana?" interjects Maxwell, bobbing up from behind Olivia again. "She's helping us, too!"

Olivia heaves a breath. "Yes, fine. But—"

I hold up a hand. "And Drake will probably want t—"

"Yes, fine!" she snaps irately. "Anyone else? Your maternal grandmother, perhaps?"

I bite my bottom lip as I peek up at her. "Do we tell Christian?"

Olivia holds my gaze for a long moment. "No. Not until we have concrete proof. One way or another. He has enough crises to manage right now without lumbering him with a major constitutional one as well."

I nod in understanding. The mere suggestion that his godmother and future father-in-law have been conspiring to put Madeleine on the throne (potentially with his fiancée's own buy-in!) would be soul-destroying. Which is why we need to find that smoking gun — ideally several — before we present our accusations.

"Not sure if it will be of any help at all," I say, "but Ana de Luca managed dig up some information on the freelance photographer Tariq was working with on the day of the Jamboree."

"Did you bribe her with another exclusive?" chaffs Olivia dryly.

"We'll need someone to help us set the record straight," I affirm. My shoulders slump suddenly. "But I gave the flash-drive to Drake."

"Which he gave to me," smirks Olivia, pulling the device from the pocket of her jacket.

I gape at the piece of plastic in her hand. "Drake really trusts you, huh?"

"More than most," she shrugs coyly, flipping the drive over to me.

I catch it with both hands. "We should review whatever is on here. Who knows? Maybe the photographer is part of the press corps covering the tour."

"I have my laptop with me," Maxwell offers. "I was going to use it to mix some tunes, but—"

"You'll only get one chance to unravel a high-stakes aristo racket!" I quip, dangling the drive between my fingers.

"God, your incessant American optimism is stomach-turning..." Olivia groans. "And you've clearly spent too much time with Walker."

"Hey," I hit back. "This is the best lead we've gotten yet. We shouldn't discount it. This photographer could be key to linking Regina and/or Godfrey to the plot to influence the outcome of the social season."

"Assuming you can find them..." counters Olivia. "And get them to talk."

I meet her eye with a level look. "Good thing that's your area of expertise, isn't it, Duchess?"

The corner of her mouth lifts craftily.

"But what about Harper's Italian!" disparages Bertrand. "We'll be landing in less than an hour, and she still doesn't know the proper way to greet the President in his native tongue without insulting him!"

I swallow a groan. "Do I really need t—?"

"Being able to carry a conversation with the Head of State in Italian will go a long way in demonstrating to both the public and the press that you are serious about your new role as Duchess of Valtoria," he advises frankly. "And will score you some much-needed diplomatic points with our hosts as well."

"Guess we have our work cut out for us, then," I accede with a sigh. "Any chance for some coffee?"

"Turkish, Irish, or Sicilian?" asks Olivia.

"Which is closest to a latte?"

"Probably the Sicilian," she advises. "If you make it into a granita di caffe."

"I'm feeling Italian already!" I gibe in an attempt to lighten the mood a bit.

Bertrand groans loudly from his seat. "Oh, Dio..."

The story continues in Chapter 18 - Diplomatica

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(Less Than) Noble Intentions only (let me know if you want to be added!)

@thetruthisthatiloveyou @anakjaybon-blog

[lesbianchemicalplant]

I get that not everyone is familiar with this particular grift—“proletarian feminist” orgs [read: liberal feminists campaigning for bourgeois reforms] who work directly with bourgeois cops and feds. yes, many of their supporters will quote engels at you, and yes they all do the song and dance that it's not about punishing women etc., and it's lies and sophistry every single time

this isn't about some liberal notion of “empowerment” ftr, this is about whether it's a “proletarian feminist” or marxist project to work with bourgeois states to further drive the boot into sex workers' necks

[criphd]

Raphael Magarik (contributing writer): I confess that I have only read the “Jewish” parts of Marxism and Form (1971), my favorite work by Fredric Jameson, the great literary theorist who died this week. That is to say, I have read the chapters on Adorno, Benjamin, Marcuse, Bloch, Lukács—all but the chapter on Sartre, which is, at least for me, a hundred pages of impenetrable, gentile boredom. The names of these theorists are emblazoned on the book’s cover as if they were a musical supergroup, like Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Jameson was trying to explain and defend Hegelian Marxism, which promised that historical materialism could approach literary texts not as propaganda or morality plays, but as complex forms, in whose development we could chart the course of an evolving, universal history. Somehow, the book he ended up writing consists of a series of mournful vignettes about Central European Jewish intellectuals.

It’s hard to know what Jameson would have thought of this observation, not just because his origins were WASPy and patrician, but because he largely avoided personal reflection, even as he built a superstar career defending, often single handedly, Marxism’s claim to primacy among High Theories. But the Jewishness of Marxism and Form is no coincidence. It reflects the “elective affinity” Michael Löwy would later trace between early 20th-century Central European Jewish writers, barred by antisemitic prejudice from academic postings, and thus institutionally marginalized and driven toward a utopian, romantic mode of left-wing politics. Löwy’s student Enzo Traverso later studied a cohort of doubly “heretical” adherents of what he called “Judeo-Marxism,” who rejected the vulgar, dogmatic scientism of Karl Kautsky and the Second International, as well as Orthodox religiosity and post-war Zionism. Often rebels against both Jewish and contemporary left pieties, these Judeo-Marxists produced eccentric, offbeat theories, probed the arcane troves of Kabbalah and Christian mysticism, and tended more toward modernist experimentation than by-the-book socialist realism. Thus, if one wanted, as Jameson did, to find sources for a Marxism that was intellectually rich, thick with ironies and paradoxes, and critically adequate not just to proletarian novels and folks songs, but to Balzac and Beethoven (and then, in Jameson’s eclectic, catholic, and massive corpus of writing, to pretty much any cultural artifact whatsoever), then of course one would end up writing about Jews.

And despite Jameson’s ideal of objective impersonality, there are hints he was aware of his Jewish focus. A section epigraph in his chapter on Ernst Bloch reads, “Next Year in Jerusalem! —Old Jewish Prayer,” the single pithiest distillation of the utopian longing that animates Jameson’s whole career. More telling, perhaps, is the uncharacteristically personal turn with which he concludes his discussion of Marcuse, writing that despite the bleak, unrevolutionary conditions of mid-century American capitalism, “it pleases me for another moment still to contemplate the stubborn rebirth of the idea of freedom” in several minds, the last of which is that of Marcuse, the “philosopher, in the exile of that immense housing development which is the state of California, remembering, reawakening, reinventing—from the rows of products in the supermarkets, from the roar of traffic of the freeways and the ominous shape of the helmets of traffic policemen, from the incessant overhead traffic of the fleets of military transport planes, as it were from beyond them, in the future—the almost extinct form of the Utopian idea.”

In Jameson’s hands, the paradigmatically Jewish condition of exile undergoes a double metamorphosis, first into Marcuse’s estrangement from the land of his birth by the Nazi catastrophe, which either killed or uprooted nearly all of Jameson’s book’s subjects, and then second, into the existential predicament of the social theorist lost in post-war consumer capitalism, adrift in a history that seemed to have lost its plot. That predicament, and his oft-repeated, defiant insistence that nonetheless, one must not, could not, forget Jerusalem and the dream of a redeemed future, was, of course, Jameson’s great theme. So it pleases me, in spite of his studied impersonality, to point out that in 1971, Jameson had only recently left Harvard for the University of California, San Diego, where he overlapped with Marcuse for several years—and that perhaps here is an autobiographical clue that Jameson was a quiet devotee of our exilic tradition, which he reimagined as the melancholy condition of the left intellectual in an unfriendly historical moment, struggling to transform his nostalgia into hope for a future, into a yearning for a world transformed.

-- from the jewish currents shabbat reading list & parshat nitzavim-vayelech [idk if it's accessible now but i've linked a sign up to the newsletter]

[folk-enjoyer]

Song of the Day

do you want to know the history of a folk song? submit an ask or dm me and I'll cover it

"Great Historical Bum" Odetta, 1960

Originally written in 1941 by Woody Guthrie for his Columbia River Song collection. That time when Woody Guthrie (a socialist) was commissioned by the US federal government (at the recommendation of Alan Lomax. to write folk songs in support of the Coulee Dam in 1941. Woody Guthrie was in poverty at the time and was happy to finally have a job. During the month he traveled through Oregon and wrote a song every day, including "Pastures of Plenty" and "Roll on Columbia".

the lyrics in these songs, including this one, include radical themes like working-class rights, unions, anti-fascism, and anti-capitalism. because of this and because Woody Guthrie was an anti-capitalist, the songs and the documentary they were made for were ordered destroyed by the Eisenhower administration. luckily the recordings were saved by a proletarian comrade: a former employee of the Bonneville Power Administration, who decided to keep a copy of the film and recordings.

this song may also be inspired by another traditional song recorded in 1928 by Harry McClintock , but I'm not sure.

I like this cover by Odetta quite a bit. I think she does the original one justice.

[muzapesni]

Red Army rendition of a traditional Russian folk song during Civil War (there were different lyrics versions on every side of the conflict).

Oh, little apple, your sides are green, / Kolchak is not allowed to go beyond the Urals!

How the eSRs in Siberia praised foreign Authority! / Lady, lady, madam, lady!

A courteous Authority, people are sick of it! / Lady, lady, madam, lady!

Oh little apple, your side has a little hole, / the eSRs moment of victory will never come!

Oh, little apple, you are made of glass, / the social revolution is underway!

The steamer sails past the pier, / to the front we go as Communists!

Oh, little apple, you are made of tin, / damned Kolchak's authority!

Oh, little apple, you are wonderful, / the Red Army has come to us!

The Red partisans have arrived, / Kolchak and the interventionists are shaking!

Oh, little apple, you have rolled away, / Kolchak's government has collapsed!

Oh, little apple, your roots are tenacious, / and the Soviet authority is very firm!

Oh, little apple, you are becoming juicy, / proletarians of the world are uniting!

[oswinpond]

My Clara Rewatch, Episode 1: Asylum of the Daleks

I'm going to ignore the silliness in this episode in favour of focusing on Oswin. Fabulous Oswin.

(But for one second, can I just say about how truly silly it is that the Daleks have a parliament? They're Daleks, they have nothing resembling a democracy. Are we supposed to believe they held a Dalek election? And why do they have an asylum when they exterminate anyone, including other Daleks, who show the slightest sign of imperfection by their standards?)

Anyway...

(Also I hate that Amy and Rory have this divorce plot offscreen, and the minisodes don't count. Springing this on us and then resolving it in one single episode was unnecessary. I love getting to watch Amy prove her love for Rory, but we've had plenty of that in s6 and s7a to come.)

Okay now to the good stuff: Oswin.

"Day 363. The terror continues."

Oswin has been on a Dalek planet for nearly a year and is still holding strong. It really speaks to the strength of her character. (Especially when you know...)

I love that Oswin is boarding up her little hiding hole with planks of wood, as if those will keep out Daleks. Bless.

We're first introduced to Oswin with the song "Habanera" from Carmen, the opera. Now I'm no opera connoisseur so I'm pulling from wikipedia here, like a proper English major: "It is set in southern Spain and tells the story of the downfall of Don José, a naïve soldier who is seduced by the wiles of the fiery gypsy Carmen. José abandons his childhood sweetheart and deserts from his military duties, yet loses Carmen's love to the glamorous torero Escamillo, after which José kills her in a jealous rage. The depictions of proletarian life, immorality, and lawlessness, and the tragic death of the main character on stage, broke new ground in French opera and were highly controversial."

I don't want to stretch too hard, but I think there are some obvious parallels to Clara's story in there, intentional or not. But I do think there's something to be said about how Oswin is dressed in that bright red and at one point has a red rose in her hair (oh hey the inspiration for my username!) in that classic spanish tango style. Maybe that was intentional. I mean, Eleven does call her Carmen at one point.

If Clara were on GBBO, she'd lose in the first round.

But is it not absolutely precious that she finds a way to spin everything in a positive light? "Made another soufflé... very nearly." That wasn't even close, my dear. "They came again last night. Still always at night. Maybe they're vampires." She finds a way to turn the trauma of her life, barricading herself from the universe's most deadly killing machines, into a little fantasy (a fantasy within a fantasy, you might say). "Happy birthday, mum. I did make you a soufflé, but it was too beautiful to live." Does it need saying?

The connection to her mom is already being established. Is Oswin's mother still alive, and this version of Clara got to have more time with her? Or did she lose her mother young, too, and is celebrating her birthday as one other way to stay connected to her humanity, her home?

Anyway, she sleeps in a hammock like a pirate. Hot. (And Oswin, like Prime Clara, likes to wear rings. Details.)

Carmen. Oswin. Roses.

I think this is the first time we hear the start of Clara's theme.

"I know a Dalek when I hear one, yeah." So Oswin Oswald, junior entertainment officer of the starship Alaska, has encountered Daleks before. She's seen things, she's done things. Even if this is her first trip out on this starship, somehow she's encountered Daleks. That's pretty cool. Why has Big Finish never done a story about Oswin? Get on that, BF. Phone Jenna.

There's a flavour of Everything Everywhere All at Once with this intro to Clara, this idea of what other versions of yourself would have done in different lives, with different choices and opportunities. Prime Clara was an unofficial nanny who always dreamed of travelling, and then became an English teacher while getting to travel the universe with the Doctor. Oswin became an entertainment officer on a starship, in order to travel the universe. Victorian Clara was both a barmaid and a governess, and immediately jumped at the chance to travel with the Doctor. Common threads between our Claras are very obvious: she's a people-pleaser, she likes to take care of others and make them happy, and she wants to see the world, the universe.

(Tangent: Is "Oswin Oswald" her full name from birth? Or was she also a Clara Oswin Oswald who ditched the "Clara" and started going by her middle name?)

-

DOCTOR: How can you hack into everything? It should be impossible. You're in a crashed ship! OSWIN: Long story. Is there a word for total screaming genius that sounds modest and a tiny bit sexy? DOCTOR: Doctor. You can call me the Doctor. OSWIN: I see what you did there.

The shameless Doctor/Clara flirting has officially started.

Side note, I love how Oswin's hacking genius is explained in The Bells of Saint John soon after this. It's not just Oswin being an entertainment officer who also just happens to be a tech genius. There's a specific plot reason for it, and now I wonder if Victorian Clara ever demonstrated any uncanny abilities with early technology...

-

Oswin saving Rory and interacting with the Ponds is very important to me, seeing as they're my three favourite companions of the show. (Plus, the fact that she flirts with Rory shows she has good taste. That said, if she had flirted with Amy I think the fandom would have combusted on the spot. Speaking for myself, at least.)

Now I totally hate the "I was going through a phase" line because come on we're past the point of describing bisexuality as a phase but thankfully they later fixed this, to some extent, by making it hard canon that Clara is bisexual and identifies as such.

-

Unrelated to Clara, but I adore how when Amy is hallucinating the people-Daleks, she hears a jazzy version of "Together or Not at All". Murray Gold strikes again with the genius.

-

OSWIN: Do you know how you make someone into a Dalek? Subtract love, add anger. Doesn't she seem a bit too angry to you? AMY: Well, somebody's never been to Scotland.

Aside from how funny I find this exchange, I just love how the one emotion we definitely haven't seen Oswin express the entire time is anger. She's shown us plenty of other regular emotions (and in fact, love–when talking about her mother) but we haven't seen a shred of anger from her.

Which is really important for what comes next... the big reveal that Oswin has been fully converted–at least physically–into a Dalek.

Part of me wishes she hadn't been converted. Imagine if we'd gotten Oswin escaping with Amy, Rory, and the Doctor? I would've had my three favourite companions (at least, a version of Clara) interacting as a trio. She could've stuck around for a few episodes before dying in time for the exit of the Ponds and the intro of Victorian Clara. I would've loved to see Jenna play off Karen and Arthur face to face.

But I have to come back to the fact that it's so perfectly set up. Right off the bat, Oswin's situation doesn't make sense. The lone survivor of the Daleks, alone for a whole year, baricading herself from them with planks of wood and surviving off soufflés that aren't edible and we never see her eating them, with ingredients she doesn't have. Every time we see her interact with the Doctor, it's through a very Dalek-like lens:

And of course, we can write that off the whole episode as this just being Dalek technology so of course it looks Dalek-like. But after the reveal, you realize that of course, this is her actual POV.

And most importantly, we need the Doctor to never know what Oswin looks like so that Victorian Clara's death, her repeating the iconic line, and the Doctor finding out her middle name all create that big gut punch moment for him. We as the audience know both characters are played by Jenna Coleman, but the Doctor isn't supposed to know. And when I do the next Clara episode I have a whole thing about why this is so important.

This just about breaks my heart. She finally sees the Doctor has arrived and she immediately runs to pack her suitcase. She's so committed to her self-imposed delusion that she still, to this moment, believes she's about to escape.

"Rescue me chin boy and show me the stars."

It's absolutely heartbreaking hearing her say "I'm hu–" and hearing the Dalek voice finish "–man". Genius, though. And then you hear a Dalek cry for the first time ever and it's so incredibly unsettling because they're the embodiment of evil, of hate, and crying is not Dalek. Sadness and heartbreak are not Dalek.

Oswin has been depicted as the exact opposite of Dalek. When she starts crying, it's the one time she says "exterminate", when she lets it in for the first time, and it's because she's angry about what they did to her. She spent a whole year hiding from the truth of the unbelievable trauma she's been put through, partly because it's too much to deal with, but also because if she lets herself face it she will feel that anger, and they'll start to win over her mind. Oswin lives in delusion to protect herself and her humanity.

"Eggs... stir... minate..." isn't just a fun twist. She turned "exterminate" into something as harmless as a soufflé recipe. Oswin took the one word Daleks use the most, the one that, on Doctor Who, is the epitome of evil, and turned it into something human, something positive, something creative (even if she sucked at it) and that she associated with the love for her mother.

Oswin spent a whole year fighting a full Dalek conversion, while the rest of her crew couldn't fight off a partial one, and she refused to let them turn her into a killer. The pure strength of her will is incredible.

I just adore these shots of Oswin crying, finally accepting the truth of what happened to her. Jenna knocked this out of the park.

As I said, crying is not Dalek.

And then she decides that no, she won't let in the anger, she won't let them win, ever. She'll save the Doctor, the biggest enemy of the Daleks, and die as Oswin, a human.

Then she says her iconic line, "Run you clever boy, and remember." She breaks the fourth wall which, correct me if I'm wrong, is the first time it's happened on the show, until Twelve comes in to make that one of his rare quirks.

That's my girl.

[polish-art-tournament]

round 1.5 poll 4

Postaci (Figures) by Wojciech Fangor, 1950:

propaganda: ta pani po lewej jest iconic. para po prawej baza. dychotomia boa grzechotnik-chłoporobotnik. czego nie kochać [the lady on the left is iconic. the couple on the right is great. it's that boa-rattlesnake//peasant-proletarian dichotomy. what's not to love.] <- reference to song lyrics

about the artist: Fangor wypróbował chyba każdy rodzaj malarstwa jaki istniał i rabini pozostają niezdecydowani czy którykolwiek mu naprawdę wyszedł. kocham go [Fangor tried his hand at probably every kind of painting and it’s kinda up to debate whether he succeeded at any of them. i love him]

zapomniałem dodać w ostatniej propagandzie Fangora że on też pomalował ściany peronów M2 w Warszawie. czy to propaganda czy anty-propaganda to już każdy sam zdecyduje ale trzeba docenić wszechstronność malarza [forgot to add that he also painted the walls at the M2 metro line stations in Warsaw. decide for yourself if it’s a propaganda that speaks for him or against]

Moje problemy widziane z perspektywy kosmosu (My problems viewed from space) by Wiktor Jackowski, 2015:

propaganda: jest banalnie prosty, ale jego potęga jest niezmierzona [it's banal, it's simple, and yet its power is limitless]

about the artist: he’s a modern artist and has apage on facebook // https://wiktorjackowski.tumblr.com/bio (kocham to, że gościu ma tumblr. jest jednym z nas) [i love that this guy has a tumblr. he’s one of us]

submitted by @rascal-rodent

[josh-lanceero]

Just came back from Stuttgart Staatstheater‘s production of Cabaret and my first impression is that it was really dirty (in a positive and lovely way) but underwhelming in presenting the apocolyptical feeling that is the end of Weimarer Republik in comparison to other productions (London, Baden, maybe also Chemnitz from what I have heard). BUT, it is the kind of production that the more you think about it the more you realize how serious and grounded the sutle social commentaries are.

How this production deals with Tomorrow Belongs to Me/tbtm (a fictional Nazi propaganda music written by its jewish componist) is really really different from the other versions I personally have seen.

So, often, this music will pop up twice in Act I. The function of the first time would be to present the allure/charm of Nazism, its aesthatic and its feigned progressiveness, then The Emcree will mock it. This can be achieved by only singing the first two stanze of the song (just leave the VATERLAND part out), where the lyric is fairly unalarming and just nice to the ear, combined with having a harmony or a children's chorus sing it. The more beautiful and innocent this tbtm was, the scarier the reprise of it would be at the end of Act I. I also enjoy this kind of design, because it forces the auience to fight their own appreciation of the aesthetic and it is not that easy, you WILL catch yourself humming the melody unconsciously after the show and you will want to slap yourself for it. Because of how asthetically appealing this propaganda is shown, a huge group of esemble singing the full version of tbtm at the end of Act I also makes sense. People are drawn to this horrible thing, the audience can understant it because they would also feel the pull.

HOWEVER, in the Stuttgart production, tbtm was presented as underwhelming and unimportant, even quietened by Ludwig (that explicitly anti-semitic Nazi guy) after Kost sung it ALONE at the end of Act I.

The Stuttgart production of Cabaret doesn't go for the 'Nazi is asthetic pleasing/brainwashing' route for making sense of why would Weimarer Republik spiral into Nazi-Germany. It make the audience notice the chilling fact/warning that turning to right-populism can a case of making horribly wrong decisions for the right reason.

The character of Kost, the nazi sex-worker living in Frau Schneider's appartment, get alot more depth an nuances in this production. She get more stage time and also a new number, which is I Don't Care Much. Yes they move this song to the first Act directly after Frau Schneider threaten to evict Kost for bringing in the sailors. Kost acts like an asshole like in most productions, but the following number makes it clear that she was feighning her cheerful bastard personality. She doesn't enjoy sex-work and is always tailed by hunger and homelessness.

Her interaction with the jewish tenant Herr Schutz was also not explicitly enti-semitic. She did not evoke the stereotype of the greedy jew like in most production (and the original script), but insteat made a social commentary on how now in this world everything is about doing business and making money. For me this is her clear resentment towards capitalism, exploitation and inequality, which is a huge problem in Weimarer Republik. Because of this characterization of Kost, her singing tbtm ALONE at the end of Act I then being shushed by the explicit Nazi Ludwig is also very nuanced. The scene might feels underwhelming in comparison to other productions, but the constellation is clear: a proletarian suffering under capitalism full of hatred turns to right-extremism, and the right-extremist, while fully aware of the usefulness of rightpopulism, does not like how vocal she is with HER agenda.

Is Kost a lovable character in this production? No.

Is her turning to Nazism a right decision? Hell no.

Is her discontent with the economic system justified? Yes

Is her radicalization understandable? ...Yes

I never liked the simple 'nazi bad ppl were just brainwashed because propaganda was just that good' reasoning for why Nazi-Germany happened. The nuance of how rightpopulist political group exploits the ideology cultivated by (neo-)liberals and libertarians that their is no alternative ecnomic/socio-cultural system beside capitalism should be more present or become a common sense.

The choice of how to present the appeal of Nazism - through music or narrative - is also worth thinking about. The Stuttgart production seems to be intentionally avoiding the asthetic route. tbtm was actually presented twice in Act I. Besides Kost's solo number in the end, their is also this lovely lady/drag-queen Lena aus Essen playing it on a violin rather POORLY. Lena then said: "you weren't expecting this, right?" It is as if the production is encourage the audience to turn their attention to the mundane part of the dangerous (almost sensual in some hollywood films) appeal of Nazism presented by Kost: One would think that a party which doesn't dismiss their suffering and hatred like the current one, and even agrees with their irrational xenophobic/enti-semitic sentiment instead of trying to correct it like the current one, would eventually make their life better.

p.s. I remeber that in the original book Goodbye to Berlin by Isherwood there are actually some communist characters, also scenes about how they ran their activities in underground bars, and of course the indication of their terrible ends when the nazi got into power.

[willtarica]

Discussion Leader Panel Presentations

Pink Floyd: Nothing but the Machine

Young students run around causing a ruckus, complaining about their evil teacher who traps them with the masses. Being a hundred times the size of the students who are ants in comparison, the teacher has an easy time putting the kids into the roof of a standard British home that appears to be a funnel and are turned into spaghetti as he watches through his glasses where one lens enlarges into a magnifying glass. The students' lack of individuality reigns supreme in Pink Floyd’s, “Another Brick in the Wall, Part Two,” they are just another noodle. In “The Ruling Class and The Ruling Ideas,” Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels make the point that the ruling class, the teachers, control the means of material and mental labor, which is divided for one half to appear as thinkers while the other stays passive and grounded in reality. This allows for one class to rule all just like a teacher runs a classroom in 1970s England (Pg. 59-60). Marx and Engels discuss how ideas are not independent of politics, just as music and art are intertwined with politics. Pink Floyd were one of the most influential bands to criticize the education system and how teachers back then put kids in a box as seen in the imagery of a white brick wall encasing a student sitting on the dirt ground. In “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” Louis Althusser writes:

“School (but also other State institutions like the Church, or other apparatuses like the Army) teaches ‘knowhow’, but in forms which ensure subjection to the ruling ideology or the mastery of its ‘practice’. ‘professionals of ideology’ (Marx), – the tasks of the exploited (the proletarians), of the exploiters (the capitalists), of the exploiters’ auxiliaries (the managers), or of the high priests of the ruling ideology (its ‘functionaries’), etc” (Pg.88).

Pink Floyd paints a picture of the ruling class quite literally trapping a child inside a brick wall by the high priest Althusser speaks of, the teacher. Keeping the youth trapped without hope of living their dreams only will force them into the wall of never contradicting their superiors and never accomplishing anything. Instead, the children will end up in the workforce where they will be miserable.

The sad reality is presented in the shot of silver hammers with red and black handles marching like the military in a dark and cloudy night. Each hammer represents a different child who the high priests trapped into our established system, even if that means the children are unhappy because they grew up to work meaningless jobs. Pink Floyd, Marx, Engels and Althusser all agree that the system's hierarchy is oppressive as the ruling class subjects everyone else into a working majority that builds the infrastructure that keeps the upper class afloat and in power. It's a cycle where the high priests manipulate the children to be the same as everyone else so they stay and grow up to work the same jobs as their parents just like their own kids will.

Thom Yorke and the Aura of Surrealism

Thom Yorke from Radiohead and The Smile made a solo album titled “Anima” and a short film with Paul Thomas Anderson of the same title to go along with it. The film features the songs, “Not the News,” “Traffic” and “Dawn Chorus.” In Walter Benjamin's essay, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," he discussed mechanical reproduction and how it depleted the uniqueness of works of art, writing “even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be” (Pg. 667). Thom Yorke is one of the few modern musicians who proves Benjamin's critique of artistic authenticity wrong. “Anima” exists outside of time and space. Benjamin’s comments on retakes in film and music is that it depletes the aura of the piece. Maybe multiple takes does make a work of art less organic, but Paul Thomas Anderson’s direction appears natural in its own right as the film begins with a location all too familiar for many people, the train.

To perfect something, or rather to record something numerous times can only benefit the artwork at hand, but that's just my opinion. Benjamin does speak on the meaning of aura relating to authenticity and Yorke and Anderson show the inside of a subway where everyone is wearing the same coat and flips it over with a choreographed dance sequence of each person moving their body in a bizarre lifeless way. Yorke and Anderson make their point that authenticity and surrealism can go hand and hand.

After the dance sequence, Thom Yorke picks up a woman's briefcase and proceeds to exit the train to give it back to her. Instead, he loses her and wanders around in a dream-like dystopian world. He is searching for answers but nothing is received. There's a point where he tries to exit the station but the turnstile won't move. The same people in identical trench coats continue to walk through the turnstile right next to him, but his still won't budge. The audience is left to ponder the question of what it meant. This is exactly what I want out of art, displaying an ambiguous critique of society. Art becomes repetitive when the answers are given to the viewer instead of the filmmakers forcing the audience to think critically about the film and its meaning. Thom Yorke and Paul Thomas Anderson let the viewer experience a dream-like state so they can apply it to an everyday event such as taking the train to work. Yorke and Anderson are breaking the laws of time and space in the film with surreal imaginary and bizarre and striking choreography. “Anima” created its own aura that is not aligned with the idea that a piece needs to be viewed in a specific way or the authenticity will be lost. The authenticity of “Anima” is its unique and uncanny perspective on reality. Maybe Walter Benjamin wouldn’t mind retakes if films were as inventive as “Anima.”

Critical Thinking Questions

According to Marx and Engels, ideas are not independent from politics. Do you think art and politics should be grouped together or can the two be separate?

Is Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall, Part Two” overly cynical towards capitalism that's perpetuated by what Althusser describes as “high priests,” or is it justified?

Do you agree with Walter Benjamin's opinion that retakes deplete the aura of films?

Marx, Karl. Marx and Engels Collected Works Volume 5: Marx and Engels 1845-47. Lawrence & Wishart Limited, 1976. 

Sharma, Aradhana, and Akhil Gupta. The anthropology of the state: A reader. Oxford, UK: Blackwell Publishing, 2006. 

Braudy, Leo, and Marshall Cohen. Film theory and criticism: Introductory readings. New York: Oxford University Press, 2009.

[mesetacadre]

your "no pasaran" posting reminded me of that DDR song about building the wall (the chorus has the phrase)

personally I think it fits in this case, but what do you think? (since the stakes were a bit different)

I haven't heard that song, but there are some key differences between the east/west germany split and the Spanish Civil War which must be pointed out.

As I said in the post, No Pasarán was originally popularized (not invented) for the purpose of the defense of Madrid. Early to mid autumn of 1936 was a very tense period, since the rebels still had the intertia and initiative from coming down from the northwest towards Madrid's east. The International Brigades, -specifically the 11th, 12th and 14th brigades [battalions Edgar André (German), Paris Commune (French and Belgian), Dabrowski (Polish, Hungarian, Yugoslav, Paraguayan), Garibaldi (Italian), and Thaelmann (German)]- played a crucial role in stopping the rebel advance on its tracks, in the early November battles in and around the Eastern Park and Central University Campus. In the outskirts of Madrid, the Brigades also had a decisive role in preventing the envelopment of the city via the south around the Jarama Valley, where the Dabrowski battalion took on most of the rebels' fight, including divisions of fascist Italy.

Even if the SCW was a war fought between the Spanish, the proletarian internationalism and zeal displayed by the brigades in the defense of Madrid gave No Pasarán an undeniable internationalist element. The fall of Madrid was prevented by the inexperienced but decided effort of tens of nationalities, risking not only their lives but their own safety in their home countries, since many punished the brigadiers who managed to return. Those brigadiers were overwhelmingly mere workers who understood the SCW was an opportunity to beat fascism, especially the German and Italian workers who saw in the attempted coup of July 18th what they had experienced in 1922 and 1933, these brigadiers understood that not letting the fascists pass was the first step in defeating them wholly. And they carried on their anti-fascism after Spain fell, providing resistance and guerillas across Europe with the experienced acquired in Spain.

The anti-fascist defense wall, as it was called within the DDR, also had the purpose of preventing the advance of fascist, reactionary or otherwise sabotaging forces within a divided country. But it did lack that element of internationalism, at least at the same level that the defense of Madrid had. I still think the slogan is appropriate in this context, but they aren't identical situations even if the general purpose rhymes with the defense of Madrid. It's not that the stakes were that different, as you say, since a failure to keep those reactionary elements would have ended in disaster, like it ended up happening, it was simply less explicit and a little bit less pressing of an issue in the DDR as it was in the SCW.