#queen helen

[kristies-mewis]

[kmewis19 ig story] 16.12.23

[dagondelrio]

My design for Helen for my book using this picrew.

I tried to keep everything as historically accurate as possible. It was extremely difficult, tho especially for the Trojan outfit.

Princess Helen

Helen of Troy

Return trip to Sparta

Queen Helen

[b3dh3d]

Last Sunday we said goodbye to the most fabulous Yaya, also known as "Queen Helen." She lived 99 years, and spent every single one as a classy, elegant woman who always showed love regardless of who she was speaking to.

She was a Mother of one, Grandmother of 2, great grandmother of 2, and Adopted grandmother to me and many of my LGBTQ+ friends, as she accepted all of us with open arms.

Yassou Yaya, S'agapò.

04/18/1925 - 06/09/2024

[mysharona1987]

Shockingly, as it turns out, these beloved dame posh British actresses aren’t all that nice.

[exercise-of-trust]

is it still an incorrect quotes if it's by the author? anyway this post has been living rent free in my head for three years and it's high time i exorcised it with a sketchy lil comic.

[cherryvampiro]

Creek Kids Dump pt. 5 🌈🫶🏽😊🌳💕 Took a while but here they are!! (This marks the 40th piece I've draw for cotc art dump!!)

[applesandpavenders]

[snakeguy999]

One, two

Honey, what'd you take?

[illustratinghan]

Helenium ~ Tears 💧

- a recreation of Helen Blackthorn’s flower card -

characters by @cassandraclare 🫶

follow me on instagram! @/illustratinghan

[princessanneftw]

Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Margaret, Princess Alexandra and The Duchess of Kent holding their new babies - Edward, Sarah, James and Helen - in 1964

📸 Lord Snowdon

[beatleswings]

LINDA McCARTNEY in the WINGS music video for "Helen Wheels". 1973.

[the-jules-world]

thoughts on the Pevensies returning home

Peter Pevensie was a strange boy. His mind is too old for his body, too quick, too sharp for a boy. He walks with a presence expected of a king or a royal, with blue eyes that darken like storms. He holds anger and a distance seen in veterans, his hand moving to his hip for a scabbard that isn't there - knuckles white. He moves like a warless soldier, an unexplained limp throwing his balance. He writes in an intricate scrawl unseen before the war, his letters curving in a foreign way untaught in his education. Peter returned a stranger from the war, silent, removed, an island onto himself with a burden too heavy for a child to bear.

Only in the aftermath of a fight do his eyes shine; nose burst, blood dripping, smudged across his cheek, knuckles bruised, and hands shaking; he's alive. He rises from the floor, knighted, his eyes searching for his sisters in the crowd. His brother doesn't leave his side. They move as one, the Pevensies, in a way their peers can't comprehend as they watch all four fall naturally in line.

But Peter is quiet, studious, and knowledgeable, seen only by his teachers as they read pages and pages of analytical political study and wonderful fictional tales. "The Pevensie boy will go far," they say, not knowing he already has.

His mother doesn't recognize him after the war. She watches distrustfully from a corner. She sobs at night, listening to her son's screams, knowing nothing she can do will ease their pain. Helen ran on the first night, throwing Peter's door open to find her children by his bedside - her eldest thrashing uncontrollably off the mattress with a sheen of sweat across his skin. Susan sings a mellow tune in a language Helen doesn't know, a hymn, that brings Peter back to them. He looks to Edmund for something and finds comfort in his eyes, a shared knowing. Her sons, who couldn't agree on the simplest of discussions, fall in line. But Peter sleeps with a knife under his cushion. She found out the hard way, reaching for him during one of his nightmares only to find herself pinned against the wall - a wild look in Peter's eye before he staggered back and dropped the knife.

Edmund throws himself into books, taking Lucy with him. They sit for hours in the library in harmony, not saying a word. His balance is thrown too, his mind searching for a limp that he doesn't have, missing the weight of his scabbard at his side. He joins the fencing club and takes Peter with him. They fence like no one else; without a worthy adversary, the boys take to each other with a wildness in their grins and a skillset unforeseen in beginner fencers. Their rapiers are an exertion of their bodies, as natural as shaking hands, and for the briefest time, they seem at peace. He shrinks away from the snow when it comes, thrust into the darkest places of his mind, unwilling to leave the house. He sits by the chessboard for hours, enveloped in his studies until stirred.

Susan turns silent, her mind somewhere far as she holds her book. Her hands twitch too, a wince when the door slams, her hand flying to her back where her quiver isn't. She hums a sad melody that no one can place, mourning something no one can find. She takes up archery again when she can bear a bow in her hands without crying, her callous-less palms unfamiliar to her, her mind trapped behind the wall of adolescence. She loses her friends to girlishness and youth, unable to go back to what she was. Eventually, she loses Narnia too. It's easier, she tells herself, to grow up and move on and return to what is. But her mourning doesn't leave her; she just forgets.

Lucy remains bright, carrying a happier song than her sister. She dances endlessly, her bare feet in the grass, and sings the most beautiful songs that make the flowers grow and the sun glisten. Though she has grown too, shed her childhood with the end of the war. She stands around the table with her sister, watching, brow furrowed as her brothers play chess. She comments and predicts, and makes suggestions that they take. She reads, curled into Edmund's side as his high voice lulls her to sleep with tales of Arthurian legends. She swims, her form wild and graceful as she vanishes into the water. They can't figure out how she does it - a girl so small holding her breath for so long. She cries into her sister, weeping at the loss of her friends, her too-small hands too clumsy for her will.

"I don't know our children anymore," Helen writes to her husband, overcome by grief as she realizes her children haven't grown up but away into a place she cannot follow.

[cypress-empress]

My crazy wife is back !!

[emilybeemartin]

"Irene---"

"Don't call me that."

"You were the princess Irene the first time we met."

"It means 'peace,'" Attolia said. "What name could be more inappropriate?"

"That I be named Helen?" Eddis suggested.

The hard lines in Attolia's face eased, and she smiled. Eddis was a far cry from the woman whose beauty has started a war.

-The Queen of Attolia, Megan Whalen Turner

Revisiting the Iliad made me think of this exchange with the most important Helen of my heart. One thing I love about the Queen's Thief is how MWT threaded in these sparing links to existing mythology, so that even though all the pantheons and legends are made up, the story is placed in a greater context. It makes the worldbuilding feel so huge and real even while the struggles are intimate and contained.

[sbrown82]

Sade - “When Am I Going To Make A Living” (1984).