#the problem of henry iv's health

[une-sanz-pluis]

When I was looking up a reference in Chris Given-Wilson's biography of Henry IV, I just happened to glance at the footnotes and saw this sentence:

Henry often commented on his health in his letters; Prince Henry apparently liked to be reassured about his father's health (ANLP, 286–7, 405, 465; CDS, v.917).

I don't know, it just makes me feel things. The first reference is for the Anglo-Norman Letters and Petitions, which is online here, but the first reference is the only one that deals the Prince and his father (I think, it's all in Anglo-Norman and I'm only Unit 5 of Duolingo's French course). Still, I've copied it below the cut if anyone wants to see it.

HENRY IV TO HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES 1402 Treschier et tresentierment bien amé filz, nous vous saluons de tresentier cuer ove la benisoun de Dieu et la nostre. Et pur ce que l'affions bien que pur vostre consola cioun vous desirés d'estre souvent acerteinéz de nostre estat, nous vous signifions que au departir de cestes nous estions en bone santee de nostre persone, mercié en soit nostre seignur, qui par sa grace ce vous ottroit. Treschier et tresamé filz, nous escrivons de present par la portour d'icestes a noz treschiers et foialx cousins, les Contes d'Arundelle et de Staffort, q'ils ovec tout leur poair soient assistantz, aidantz et vous supportantz pur resistre a la malice de noz rebelx en paijs de Gales. Et pur ce a la resis tence d'icelles mettre veulléz vostre entiere diligence, par la deliberacioun et avys de ceulx de vostre Conseil, en nous signifiant de temps en temps de vostre esploit au fin que nous vous puissions esforcier ovec nostre pouair si busoigne soit. Treschier etc. nostre sire vous eit en sa seint garde. Donné etc. De par le Roy au Prince.

[that-ari-blogger]

What Secrets Lie In Mystacor's Shadows?

So, it has been noted many, many times that She-Ra and the Princesses of Power is a series about trauma. And usually, this takes the form of overcoming conditioning and pre-programmed responses. But there is another aspect of the trauma that is less obvious.

Adora suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), not from the war or the Horde, but from Shadow Weaver. This is examined in the topic of this post, In The Shadows Of Mystacor.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD

I'm going to start by taking a look at the bath sequence. It shows two things. One: Adora is paranoid and brings a sword to a place in which she should feel safe. Two: Shadow weaver is just messing with her.

That's what's happening here, this is how Shadow Weaver acts. Her stated motive here is bringing Adora back to the Horde, and her preferred method is psychological. She tries to scare Adora into returning, she tries to convince Glimmer and Bow that their friend is unreliable. And she tries to convince Adora that her friends are giving up on her. She's trying to isolate her prey.

Shadow Weaver doesn't have to be a physical threat to be intimidating. She's intelligent, and manipulative. Her power comes from her patience, and her drive, her understanding. She doesn't have to be present to have an impact.

"I saw her shadow on the floor"

A shadow is a reflection, of sorts. It is a sign that there is someone there, not detailed, but enough to be sure. Shadow Weaver is very much here, but its her shadow. You see the impact she has had, more than you see her.

There's even the transition at the end, as the shot of Adora fades into a much closer and larger Shadow Weaver, showing their connection and power dynamic with all the subtlety of a crocodile in a steakhouse.

Despite receiving its name in 1980, Post-traumatic Stress Disorder is one of the oldest mental health problems afflicting humanity. It is a response to fear and/or pain that is designed to avoid the same situation again.

Shakespeare famously wrote a character from Henry IV, Hotspur, with what would now be diagnosed as PTSD. There is a whole speech on it in part 1, which I highly recommend you look up. But Cambridge University, the article Shakespeare And Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, gives another description from the bard of the phenomenon:

"Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!" (A Midsummer Night's Dream)

In essence, PTSD has many forms and symptoms, but most revolve around sensory processing and instinctual reactions.

Notice how Adora shows both in this episode. She mistrusts her senses about Shadow Weaver, and immediately goes into a fighting position when snuck up on by Glimmer and Bow.

The point I am making is that this is an episode about Shadow Weaver as much as it is about Adora, and a lot about her can be inferred from Adora's reactions to everything.

"Pull it together, Adora. There's no way shadow weaver can be here."

Again, notice how Adora's shadow is the spy, the influence. Again, Shadow weaver is here, not in person, but through Adora's trauma.

The most stressful scene in this episode is Adora, alone, in a room, taunted by her own thoughts, or rather, thoughts Shadow Weaver has put in her head.

It is almost more comforting when we finally see Shadow Weaver. She becomes a tangible problem, one Adora can talk to, one Adora can physically fight.

I've mentioned Shadow Weaver's shadows before in how they frame a shot, but that was in relation to Catra, notice the difference in how they interact with Adora. With Catra, the shadows cover her up, and corrupt her, they look painful, like claws that scratch specifically at her eyes. With Adora, the shadows encircle her, they compress her, they trap here. The imagery in this shot is reminiscent, at least to me, of fingers clasping shut around Adora to reach for her and grasp her, to control her.

"I could give you Etheria, we could rule the world together."

Here we finally get Shadow Weaver's actual motivation. She doesn't align herself with any faction, she wants control. She offers Adora the world not out of benevolence, but because Adora is the one who can give the world to Shadow Weaver, and all she has to do is manipulate Adora's perceptions to get what she wants.

I do not like Shadow Weaver.

Previous - Next

[scotianostra]

David Stewart, 1st Duke of Rothesay and heir to the throne of Scotland died on March 26th 1402.

In all the long history of the Stewart dynasty there are many tragic figures such as Mary, Queen of Scots and King Charles I, but surely there can be no more hapless and lamentable bearer of the name than the first prince to ever carry the title of the Duke of Rothesay.

David Stewart was the heir to the throne of Scotland at the end of the 14th century until he lost his claim to kingship, and his life, at the behest of his own uncle. His death occurred in the strangest of circumstances in this week of 1402.

t was a time of great jostling for power within the Stewart clan and their fellow Scottish aristocrats. David was born on or around October 24th, 1378, as the son of John, Earl of Carrick, the heir to the Scottish throne, and his wife Countess Anabella nee Drummond. On becoming King he took the name Robert as John and it’s association with the Balliol's’ was considered unlucky, the third to use the name.

Robert III had been kicked by a horse two years before his coronation and as well as physical injury he suffered from melancholia, or depression as we know it.

His younger brother, confusingly also called Robert, was the Earl of Fife who had assumed the Lieutenancy and taken control of the governance of Scotland in the early part of Robert III’s reign.

Both Fife and 19-year-old David Stewart were created Dukes, the first in Scotland, in 1398 after David was knighted at the Great Tournament of Edinburgh arranged by his mother. Fife became Duke of Albany and David became Duke of Rothesay, the title which has passed down to the heirs to the Scottish throne – Prince Charles is the current holder.

Albany’s grip on power had seemed secure at first but as her husband’s health deteriorated, Queen Anabella began to take more control, and she also pushed the cause of her son David as the heir, arranging for him to become the Lieutenant in 1399. The problem was David’s personality – he was a self-indulgent wild child, who grew increasingly debauched as his teens wore on.

He was also arrogant to a fault, and despite being engaged and probably married to Elizabeth Dunbar, daughter of the Earl of March, he decided for dynastic reasons to marry Mary Douglas, daughter of the hugely powerful 3rd earl of Douglas, known as Archibald the Grim.

The Earl of March was furious and switched allegiance to King Henry IV of England who promptly invaded Scotland but had to go home when Edinburgh Castle thwarted his siege. Poor David got the blame for the invasion and his already sagging popularity hit a new low.

When both Archibald the Grim and his mother died in 1401, the Duke of Rothesay was in a very vulnerable position as his uncle Albany moved to complete his control of the kingdom. Albany was assisted in this by Archibald, 4th Earl of Douglas who greatly disliked Rothesay.

Early in 1402, Albany moved to consolidate his power by conspiring with Archibald Douglas to have his nephew David arrested and imprisoned in Albany’s Falkland Palace in Fife on trumped up charges.

It was there that David died on March 26, 1402, most probably from starvation. Whether he was murdered or not is unknown. The official verdict was that Rothesay died of natural causes but the circumstances said otherwise.

His father, the virtually insane King Robert III, presided over a council of enquiry and had to put his name to a document which exonerated Albany and Douglas.

The King wrote: “We consider as excused the aforementioned Robert and Archibald, and anyone who took part in this affair with them, that is any who arrested, detained, guarded, gave them advice, and all others who gave them counsel, help or support, or executed their order or command in any way whatsoever, and in our said council we openly and publicly declared, pronounced and determined definitively and by the tenor of this our present document declare, pronounce, and by this definitive sentence judge them and each of them to be innocent, harmless, blameless, quit, free and immune completely in all respects.”

Robert even ordered the end to malignant rumours: “Wherefore we strictly order and command all and singular our subjects, of whatever standing or condition they be, that they do not slander the said Robert and Archibald and their participants, accomplices or adherents in this deed, as aforesaid, by word or action, nor murmur against them in any way whereby their good reputation is hurt or any prejudice is generated, under all penalty which may be applicable hereafter in any way by law.”

The opposition silenced, Albany was in complete control and remained so even after Robert III died in 1406, when David Stewart’s younger brother James became King. But having fled from the marauding Douglases, young James was at that time in the custody of the English court and would remain an exile for 18 years.

How much pressure was put on the King at this time is not known, however as insane as he was, he decided to send his other son, Prince James, aged only about 1, to France for safety. As you know from last Tuesday’s post, his ship was boarded by pirates and he ended up as a “guest” of the English, for the best part of 20 years.

When Robert III heard of his son's capture, he became even more depressed. He refused any food and died within a few days on April 4th, 1406.

Robert asked to be buried under a dunghill with the epitaph: Here lies the worst of Kings and the most miserable of men as he did not consider himself worthy of the honour. He ended up being buried in Paisley Abbey.

David Duke of Rothesay is said to have been buried at Lindores a Tironensian abbey on the outskirts of Newburgh in Fife, which never survived the vandalism of the Scottish Reformation.

Pics are Falkland Palace, then and now, and Lindores Abbey ruins.

[themidnightcircusshow]

The Queen’s Choice by Anne O’Brien

The Queen’s Choice is a pretty average novel, with some good tidbits and some things that got under my skin. But it’s main problems aren’t bad history (though there is some of that), but bad writing. It has the same problem that a lot of historical fiction in the vein of Philippa Gregory has, where the heroine of the novel is not necessarily present at a lot of historically significant moments. The way to counteract this problem is by making her the focus of her own plot, so we aren’t left with nothing but a conspicuous absence. The Queen’s Choice goes in the opposite direction-- almost every important plot element happens off screen. Even the choice the novel is named for happens only in exposition. Joanna’s imprisonment happens after a six year time skip, so it truly comes out of nowhere. The battle of Shrewsbury, the execution of Archbishop Scrope, most of Henry and Joanna’s marriage takes place in letters or single sentences that get cast aside. It conveys, perhaps more than Anne O’Brien intended, that Joanna was a Queen with nothing to do and no importance. Which makes it increasingly laughable every time Joanna is praised for her political knowledge and ability to give good counsel, when we never see her express either attribute and she gets shot down whenever she tries. This Joanna is ironically far less active than any of the information about her indicates, and her characterisation is too flat to give her any other impact.

To put it frankly, it reads like fanfiction-- not just because it’s an easy read, but because it feels like a companion piece, the kind of fic you write about a side character you like but who isn’t very involved in the main plot. If you don’t already know this time period in depth, you won’t have any idea what is going on. 

Little Details I liked

Humphrey cheerfully recounting all the ways his father has nearly been murdered.

The concern about Joanna’s entourage and ties to Brittany is shown well. None of it relates at all to her imprisonment, so the foreshadowing and payoff are completely divorced from one another, but it’s nice to see an attempt.

Similarly, Joanna is shown to indulge in plenty of herbs, as does a lot of other characters. I just like when it’s shown a lot of people use potions and tinctures and the like, and how the line between that and witchcraft is essentially whether a person likes you or not.

We get to see a glimpse of Henry’s rising paranoia after taking the crown. It goes nowhere, and the most pressing examples of it are left aside, but again, an attempt was made. Sort of. 

Stuff that Irked Me

Blanche is referred to as dying in childbirth. Again. 

Henry is barely given a character. Their romance is never given enough detail to be convincing. Frankly, I wonder if the author was more interested in the storyline with Thomas than the one with Henry. 

Humphrey stands around listening to people call Hal selfish, greedy, and all sorts after Joanna’s imprisonment, and does nothing. Humphrey.

Henry Beaufort’s characterisation is neither consistent nor sensical. 

Henry IV supports the Burgundians in this book, but is reluctant to go to war. Still, he is determined to lead the invasion himself. This plot line is never resolved in a way that makes it historically accurate, it’s just dropped. 

Hal is seen on screen perhaps five times. The first is after the Battle of Shrewsbury, where Joanna offers him potions for his scar. The second is him being mentioned to be talking about violently quashing the Welsh. The third, him demanding Henry abdicate (and demand is the right word. Little argument is made, and none that would suggest Hal is concerned at all about Henry’s ill health, just that he wants the power for himself). The fourth is at Henry’s deathbed, wherein Joanna says Hal doesn’t like her very much. Based on these few scenes, and the final chapters in the book where every character on screen (except Humphrey, but he doesn’t say otherwise) is quick to call Hal various insults, I think that Hal is meant to simply be taken as evil. Hal is undoubtedly the villain of Joanna’s story, but as soon as we get Henry saying Hal doesn’t understand why you would want an outspoken wife and Joanna claiming Hal would never take the advice of a woman (forgetting, of course, that Joanna was very active in Hal’s court when he first became King, and Joan FitzAlan’s entire existence), there is no longer room for nuance and subtlety. He is sexist, and violent, and greedy, and he is either Evil or at the very least a real prick who not even his uncle and brother can defend. While wholly unintentional, considering Joanna shows sympathy towards Hal about it and it only, I’m still somewhat annoyed that one of the only times we get Hal with his scar, it’s when he is intended to be as unsympathetic as possible. 

[trustmeimadoctor]

When will this end?! Please make it stop! How do I make it stop?!

[wrathandgreed]

(I hope requests are still open) So ive been thinking. How about the brothers reaction to MC taking a large step away from them when ever one of them raises their hand up. It could be as simple as a high five. MC used to be in a abusive relationship and is paranoid about getting hit

Note: (For the record, I don’t know if you sent me this on purpose - I’ve never done requests; I’ve literally just put out my very first OM headcanons. But I figured I could try. I’ve never been in an abusive relationship, but a number of my friends have. I really hope I can do this one respect - if anything about this is not on the level, please let me know! Also, if I missed a trigger warning in the tags, or tagged this wrong, let me know. Also, for the record, I tend to like soft!Brothers and I really wanted them to try and be better - not put the onus on MC to “get over it” or anything.)

Second note: After writing this, I’m not sure that most of these guys would be a good choice for an abuse survivor! 

Third note: I am NOT good at keeping things short and, as usual, I went overboard with Asmodeus. Like, it should be its own fic at this point. But write what you want to read, right?

Warnings: references to domestic abuse, both physical and verbal. References to suicide baiting. Uncensored swearing.

~5K words

Lucifer

A strange choice; his perfectionism and exacting behavior sometimes make you remember how it was back in the human world; everything had to be JUST SO….or else.

And he’s threatened to kill you. Twice.

But there’s something inherently decent about him - and you live for the rare moments he laughs.

His perfectionism usually isn’t even about you, so you just kind of….ignore it.

You’re doing some of your RAD homework in Lucifer’s study.

It’s quiet there.

And, while he won’t do the work for you, he’ll definitely help when you’re stuck.

Also you can give him tea and soothing when he (inevitably)  gets upset at his paperwork - Mammon’s bills, Asmo’s bills, Satan’s bills (hey, dark magic books are expensive).

You start hearing the shifting and muttering that herald the beginning of the rant.

You gather the tea and walk towards his desk.

“Devil’s sake!” Lucifer suddenly snaps out, slamming hand on his desk as he reads yet another ridiculous piece of paper.

It’s not at you, the anger isn’t at you, you KNOW it’s not at you, but you freeze anyway.

Slammed hands on desks, punched holes in walls, hands on you, always hands - 

The cup of tea hits the floor and you’re out of the room before Lucifer can even look up.

He’s seen it all in your paperwork - the police reports, the restraining order, the lists of injuries - so he puts it all together before his study door closes behind you.

He knows better than to go after you immediately. You’ll want some solitude, some quiet on your own, to steady yourself a little.

If he goes after you now, it might frighten you more. Looks like hunting.

You need to know he’s calm, that he’s not acting or reacting out of emotion.

He takes his time cleaning up the spilled tea, straightening his papers.

When he shows up at your room, he has a mug of hot chocolate.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out before he can say anything. You made a mess in his study, and he’s such a stickler for everything being neat. He was angry before, but he’ll be even more angry now.

“No, I’m sorry,” he returns, and offers you the chocolate.

(You blink once. Has the Avatar of Pride ever apologized before? If so, it was never in your hearing.)

The two of you talk quietly for a time. He insists that you don’t need to apologize - ever. He insists that, while he appreciates the tea-and-break routine, it’s 100% not your responsibility to control his anger. It’s his. He says that his anger isn’t good for him anyway (just look at Satan) and he needs to take a break when that hot feeling starts. 

Maybe he should start scheduling breaks; setting timers on his D.D.D. so that he no longer works long enough at once to let it all get to him.

He doesn’t want you afraid of him.

Mammon

Mammon is pretty much the only demon who HASN’T threatened your life. He often sounds irritated, but he’s never even sounded angry at you.

If anything, he’s a mush and an abuse victim himself. So he gets where you’re coming from, and tries really hard.

So you shouldn’t be afraid of him.

But….he moves too quickly. He’s constantly jumping from one idea to another, one topic to another, one emotion to another. And that’s just emotionally.

You can’t trust where his hands will be. Ever. And that’s not a sex thing.

Sometimes, his protection of you makes you feel safe. If anyone hurts you, Mammon will hurt them a thousand times worse.

He’s funny, and his hands on you are gentle, and once you tell him about your past, he tries really hard not to go back to his “stupid human” habit, because it hurts your feelings.

But sometimes, his protection feels like obsession. Why were you talking to that guy? C’mere, you’re MY human.

Then, inevitably, the tug on your hand or arm or waist, pulling you closer.

It starts simply enough.

You’re playing video games in his room. He’s not as much of a gamer as Levi, but he enjoys them.

Especially ones where you can be competitive or drive cars really fast.

He’s been getting more and more excited, coiled like a spring. And it’s from enjoyment, not anger, but that level of energy, in your experience, explodes at some point.

You get quieter, but that only makes him more boisterous. He wants you to join in the fun! C’mon MC, did you see that?! It was awesome!

After a really impressive win, he shouts in triumph and suddenly his hand is in front of your face for a high-five.

You recoil and hit the floor, crab-crawling backwards before you can stop yourself.

His look of complete confusion, in different circumstances, might be funny. He actually looks at his hand like he doesn’t recognize it.

He drops to the floor too, “Babe? What’s wrong? Y’okay?” And he reaches out a hand towards you.

When you flinch, he gets it.

He sits on the floor, stuttering out apologies, not even finishing one sentence before starting another. He makes sure he’s cross-legged, leaning back on his hands - non threatening, leaning away, hands not hidden, but not prominent, and in a position it would take him time to move from. 

When you start crying, he can’t maintain that pose and crawls towards you, pulling you into a hug.

If you resist, you know he’ll let you go. And that’s why you just curl into him instead, crying out on his shoulder while he holds you close - but not tightly.

“I jus’ need ya to talk to me….let me know if I’m gettin’ to be too much. I know I’m loud. Just….. jus’ remind me, I’ll never be mad.”

Leviathan

Boy already has anger problems.

Envy’s kind of prone to it, you know?

On the one hand, he literally attacked you over a piece of TSL memorabilia.

On the other, he’s generally harmless the rest of the time.

He’s meek and shy and terrified of touching you - so, 95% of the time, you feel super safe with him.

When you wake with a nightmare, when something jump-starts your fear response, he talks you through it, easily abandoning whatever game or anime he’s involved in.

He’ll only touch you when you ask, or when you reach for him first.

But then there’s the MMOs.

You know you should leave when he starts getting mad. Not in a victim-blame sense, but for your own mental health it’s probably not a good idea to be around him when he raids.

He ALWAYS gets mad.

You’re sitting in his room, so involved in your handheld that you forget it’s his raiding night.

(Usually you make study plans with Satan, or shopping plans with Asmo on his raiding nights. You don’t want him to give them up; he enjoys them, but it’s not good for you to be around.)

After finally completing a tough level, you pop your headphones off just in time to hear Levi swear loudly.

You go still as a string of swear-filled trash talk fills the room. Things you’d never expect shy, needy Levi to say. 

You know it really is just trash-talk - the threats of violence are just too absurd. Rip off their arms and use their own fingers to bowl their skull like a bowling ball? Really?

Also this is LEVI. Levi? The demon who needed you to taunt Mammon about his credit card because he couldn’t do it himself? He might be Admiral of Hell’s Navy and all, but he’s not exactly threatening.

You get to your feet, a little shaken but ready to just walk out of the room. It’s raid night, and this is why you don’t hang out on raid nights. You’re not comfortable around other people’s anger.

You’re halfway across the room when Levi suddenly shouts in frustration and throws his controller on the floor.

And you’re out the door.

Levi just glimpses you as he’s reaching to pick up his miraculously-unshattered controller from the floor.

“Henry?” He calls out, just a second too late.

With only one moment of hesitation, he logs out of his raid and goes to follow you.

You had less than ten seconds head start, but it takes him almost twenty minutes to find you, sitting out in the garden, gazing at nothing.

“MC?” He calls quietly. He doesn’t want to sneak up on you.

A single blink, and the tiniest flash of fear - he left his game to follow you. 

Calculation: extreme concern - or extreme anger. 

Conclusion: Undetermined.

So you wait.

“Are you ok?”

Okay, so not mad. “Aren’t you raiding?” You ask, instead of answering. You’re not ok, but you’re also not in the mood to talk about it.

“I, uh, h-had a, uh, power outage?” Even he doesn’t sound convinced, and you snort. Levi only has three modes: simple, stuttering, and verbose. Thankfully he goes with simple. “You ran out. I was worried.”

You debate brushing his concern off, but he deserves better than that.

“I’m not good with anger. Even if it’s not directed at me.”

“Oh.” Levi pauses as he considers. He knows the basics of what’s happened. “I - I mean, I could, you know, NOT - “

“No,” you say quickly and lean in to kiss his cheek. “You don’t have to change anything. Do your raids, make stupid threats to stupid players. Just….warn me to leave first?”

Levi nods, but he skips the rest of his raid to stargaze with you in the garden, arms wrapped around you from behind as he points out different Devildom stars and constellations to you. You get a lecture on how Devildom stars are used in Devildom sailing. It’s actually kind of interesting.

Satan

Okay, seriously? The Avatar of Wrath? Author speaking here, I literally can’t picture a worse combination than an MC who’s still recovering from domestic abuse to date the AVATAR OF WRATH.

Like, yeah, he has good control over himself, but he also loses his temper in a moment’s notice.

He has CANONICALLY tortured people for calling him strange.

He flips out with no warning and destroys parts of the house and his brothers just let him do it because he’s too powerful to control when he rages.

I can absolutely see MC falling for the quiet intelligence, the consideration, and so forth, but witnessing one (1) single rage should be enough to tell them that this relationship won’t be good for their mental health.

Let’s not even talk about the (again, canonical) desire for domination, power play, pet play, etc, that kind of defines our boy.

I mean, I love Satan. Out of all the bros, he’s the only one I could imagine legit dating in real life.

But I’m a little ball of rage myself, and I have no problem with anger, mine or anyone else’s.

And the fandom (including me) can totally play cute and love on their “soft little angy boi” all they want, and he definitely has soft, sensitive sides, and I may actively choose to ignore the whole domination/power play/etc when I fic or headcanon because I really love soft!Satan….. but he’s not.

I can’t even make a headcanon, because I cannot picture a situation in which this is actually GOOD for MC.

Because no matter how hard he’ll try and control it, and how much his rage probably won’t be directed at them, I just keep picturing “It won’t happen again” except it will, and it’ll just wind up being flashbacks to the number of times “It won’t happen again” ended in black eyes or an ER visit back in the human world.

And MC walking on eggshells for eternity to avoid setting him off, and how is that healthy?

Asmodeus

Another decent choice for MC, at least on the surface.

King of consent over here, at least how I picture him. Especially for someone he cares about.

Always accepts “no” about literally anything. Don’t want sex? We’ll cuddle. Cuddling a little confining? Holding hands is cool. Really don’t want to be touched at all right now? Gossip and tea! 

You were coming to really care about the Avatar of Lust, and you believed what Simeon said about him - how much he desperately needed love and affection. You got it; you needed some, too. 

I mean, even if he’d been a bit of a jerk, he’d warmed up significantly since the pact, so new that it still burned on your skin, was formed.

But even Asmodeus wasn’t without faults. However much he focuses on love, he can sometimes, really be….mean.

You’re standing on a balcony in Diavolo’s castle, having escaped for a few moments.

He’d always been catty, gossipy, filled with drama, but the genuine affection and likability of him sometimes made you ignore it.

His constant mocking of Luke you could put down to the whole angel/demon conflict. 

His occasional snapping or poking at his brothers you could put down to being stuck in the same house with the same people for literal eons.

The only thing that might make up for your awful existence is if you just ended it.

The words haunt you as you stand looking up at Devildom’s endless nighttime.

How many times did you hear similar words yourself? How useless you were, how much of a burden, no way you’d survive on your own without him, and he didn’t even want you that much. Why didn’t you just go kill yourself?

Dammit, you think to yourself as Asmo steps out on to the balcony.

“Darling! Why are you out here all alone? Or are you waiting for some company?”

When he goes to put his arms around you, you just say “no.” Simply, quietly, emotionlessly.

Asmo circles around to look at you. “Something wrong, sweetness?”

You take a breath. Another. You consider swallowing it, again, don’t want to start a fight. Back down, put on a smile, ignore it.

But realize you can’t. You spent years dealing with this crap, and you’re not going to do it again.

“You’re mean, Azzy.” Your voice is quieter than you expected. You look up into the demon’s eyes. To his credit, he looks deeply confused and, as you take a step away from him, hurt. Before he can open his mouth, you continue, “How could you say that to Mammon?”

“Are you defending MAMMON?” He asks, torn between incredulity and anger.

“Right now? Yes. But also Luke, Lucifer, and everyone else you talk shit to. Or about. He’s your brother. Do you have any idea how much it hurts to hear that out of someone you love?”

Dismissively, “Oh, if it actually bothered him, he’d - “

“What? Beat you up? That’s not like him. So he takes it. And takes it, and takes it, until, because it’s all he hears, he believes it. And then why fight back? Why defend yourself, if you’re such a piece of shit? You deserve it, after all, right?”

You don’t even realize it, but you’re crying by this point. And you’re mad. All the mad you couldn’t fling at your abuser before is filling you now. You don’t even know if you’re talking about Mammon or yourself anymore. Maybe both of you.

“And even though he’s beaten down, you keep going. When he won’t respond to the usual anymore, when that doesn’t seem to hurt him, rile him up, you go worse. You told your brother, who you claim to love, to kill himself. We’re barely even friends. So what happens when I annoy you? Should I just go die now, save you the trouble of telling me to do it later?”

You step right up to him, into his personal space, almost nose to nose, and stare directly into his red-yellow eyes. “Is this who you are, Asmodeus?”

Asmo has gone from defensive; incredulous and angry, to baffled, hurt and worried in just a few minutes. But at your last, pointed question, he jerks his head back as though you slapped him. Not knowing what to say or do, he reaches for you again, but you dodge his hand and brush past him back into the castle.

You get Solomon, the only one who won’t ask questions, to switch rooms with you. (Luke is thrilled; teaching him to play gin rummy actually cheers you up a little.)

For a few weeks, you and Asmodeus pass each other in the House without speaking.  Then, one evening, there’s a knock on your door and Asmo slides into your room.

He looks….well, not awful; he could never look awful. But the glow is gone from his skin and, unless you’re mistaken, he hasn’t bothered doing his hair. He looks like he’s missed some sleep.

You look up from your homework and watch him. Silently. It’s not your job to fill the silence anymore.

More than most of them, Asmo despises being vulnerable. But it’s fix this or not, and the pact is pushing him to be on good terms. At least, he blames the pact. It’s easier than acknowledging how much the weeks of silence have worn on him. How awful it was watching you walk to class with Mammon instead of him. 

And no matter what, he values honesty in his relationships, no matter what kind of relationship. So he would be honest.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Lean back in your chair, hands folded. Waiting.

“I don’t know….if that’s who I am. Maybe it is.”

“Why are you here, Asmo? What do you want?”

“I want you to stop ignoring me!”

Steady face. “I spent too many years having someone talk to me the way you spoke to your brother. The rest of it - the gossip, the side comments, the cattiness…. it’s not your best side. In fact, it’s pretty unattractive when it’s mean, but I could handle it. But I can’t handle cruelty. I don’t want to be around it anymore.”

A pause. “What is my best side then?”

Disgusted, you chuck a pen in his direction. “Fuck’s sake, Asmo. Get out.”

“No! Not, not that. If that’s my bad side, the **unattractive** part, then what’s the other half?”

You search his face, but he doesn’t seem to be fishing for compliments. If anything, he looks….lost. Confused. And you wonder if anyone’s ever said anything to him, good or bad, about who he was; not what he looked like or how he fucked. 

It’s not your responsibility to psychoanalyze a demon, you think to yourself. But you’re not someone to walk away. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to be thousands of years old, and know less about themselves than you know about yourself in just a few decades. And you have nothing to lose by being kind.

“You can be wonderfully kind, Asmo, and generous. You want to see the beauty in everyone and everything. As nasty as you can be with it, I’ll give you points for honesty. You connect with people, and the times you’re actually genuinely interested in them is….charming.”

He’s silent for a few minutes. Then he nods, as if he’s made a decision. “Okay. Tomorrow, after RAD, do you want to go for bubble tea?” At your confusion, he just smiles and continues, “It’s like skin care, isn’t it? Attractiveness requires effort, darling, until it becomes habit. If I want to be attractive inside as well as out, I’ll have to practice the good things, so they outweigh the bad. I can’t do that alone. I need a practice partner who won’t tolerate failure, right? At least until it’s habit.”

You feel your entire brain have to reboot before you can give a coherent response. 

“Tomorrow. One hour. I have papers due.” You wait until he leaves your room before you smile.

Beelzebub

Probably the best choice for this MC.

The most emotionally intelligent of his brothers.

Also the most sincerely kind and gentle.

But also, like Satan, prone to sudden outbursts and rages. They’re all food-related (or, rather, lack-of-food-related), but they’re there.

A smart MC always carries snacks while dating Beel. Phone, wallet, keys, fried bat wings.

Strangely, though, the food-induced rages don’t really bother you. It’s not anger, really, and it’s never once been directed at you. And, unlike back in the human world, there’s a concrete way to help: feed him.

Today you have a whole backpack full of snacks.

You’re with Belphie, watching one of Beel’s games at RAD.

(You’re not sure Belphie wants to be there, but you’re not allowed out alone, and Belphie decided to take you - keep you safe and support his brother. Two birds, one Belphie.)

Belphie tends to nap against your shoulder any time the ref goes to make a call, but he’s somehow always awake to clap for his brother. 

(You stand on your chair and cheer, but that’s you.)

The game is a close one; double overtime. Even Belphie is too tense to sleep towards the end.

And at the end of double overtime, Beel manages the single extra goal that results in victory.

You cheer yourself hoarse for your demon boyfriend.

The whole stadium is crazy, so you hang back and wait. Belphie hates crowds and you’re not keen on them yourself. It’s going to take awhile for Beel to make it through the crowd to you anyway.

You’re standing in the aisle, scrolling through your phone, when suddenly there’s a loud shout and arms wrap around you from behind and lift you up.

You gasp, and your scream strangles in your throat so what comes out of you is nothing more than a squeak. Your phone goes flying.

You’re frozen for a moment as panic surges. You want to fight and you’re fighting your own brain to push the panic into your limbs so you can fight for yourself.

You vaguely feel a tugging and you hear someone - Belphie? - insisting that you be put down and then your feet are on the ground but there’s no such thing as your legs and you start to fall before the same arms help you gently sit. The ground is gross, but you’ll only care about the damage to your skirt later.

Everything is fuzzy and confusing; you’re not even sure of what you’re looking at until your vision is filled with blue and violet.

You know that swirl of color. That’s a SAFE color, and you start feeling your poor brain start to work again.

You blink into your boyfriend’s blue-violet eyes; you realize he’s cupping your face with his hands and the weird underwater noises start to sound like his voice. You realize, very belatedly, that what probably happened was Beel lifting you up in a victory hug.

“M’okay,” you say, but it sounds robotic. It takes a few more seconds - you don’t know how many - for all of your senses and brain to actually begin working in sync again. You start hearing the sounds of the crowd departing the stadium, and you hear Beel continuing to say your name and trying to get you to answer questions. You almost smile; but smiling wouldn’t make any sense.

“I’m okay,” you say, and you must sound a little more convincing this time because Beel looks relieved. He shoots a few more questions at you, and you realize they’re the kinds of questions people get asked when someone thinks they have a concussion or head trauma.

Your answers satisfy him, so Beel helps you to your feet. 

“What was that?” He asks. “Low blood sugar? Are you hungry?”

You have to smile at his very-typical diagnosis. A little sugar wouldn’t hurt, though. For some reason, eating grounds you after something like this. You dig a chocolate bar out of your Backpack of Snacks (Snackpack?) and hand the rest to him.

He impatiently takes a bag of chips out of it but doesn’t open it. He looks at you expectantly and you realize he won’t eat until you do. So you take a bite of the chocolate and he looks more relieved.

“So what the fuck WAS that?” Belphie asks as the three of you move towards the exit.

“Later.” You haven’t yet found a reason to really tell Beel (and, by extension, Belphegor) about everything. You do later that night. 

Beel swears he’ll never surprise you like that again. He’s a lot more cautious about touching you for a few days, but eventually things go back to normal between you.

Belphegor

Author note: Dude fucking murdered you, deliberately, in cold blood, and taunted you for your gentleness and desire to help as you died. But let’s say you can get past that - or try to. Probably the second-worst choice, after Satan, for this reason.

You started dating Belphie for the strangest reason: you could trash-talk the shit out of him.

He kept trying to be around you after you made the pact (which, let’s face it, you made so you could MAKE SURE he never hurt you again). Until, after politely dodging him wasn’t working, you told him to take his emo-boy routine and fuck off somewhere else.

You flinched, waiting for retaliation, but he just blinked at you and told you to stop being a brat.

And he was smiling.

But it wasn’t a mean smile - it was a smile that shared the joke.

Your lips quivered into a returning smile, and you threw another insult at him.

He topped it, and hurled one back.

Before you knew it, the two of you were screaming obscenities at each other in the middle of the common room and laughing like hyenas.

For some reason, Belphie calling you a dumb bitch wasn’t an insult. It was a mark of endearment. And it didn’t hurt your feelings or make you afraid.

It was empowering to call him a dickhead if he did something you didn’t like and have him simply laugh and amend his behavior. Nothing bothered him.

He didn’t move quickly; in fact he didn’t move at all if he could help it.

But you would remember, sometimes, the way his hands felt on your throat, or how cold his eyes had been. And you couldn’t say it was a momentary madness, because he’d planned it. He’d been imprisoned because he wanted to kill humanity.

You put it out of your mind. It was something you were good at, after all.

Until the two of you sat down to watch a movie one evening. A simple plot hole sparked a discussion that wound up being….not an argument, but definitely a difference of opinion.

As usual, insults were flying fast and furious when suddenly Belphie laughed and smacked you with his pillow.

It wasn’t an angry move, and it wasn’t hard enough to hurt. It wasn’t a hard blow at all! But the surprise had you falling back on the couch. And the fear had you curling into a ball, arms wrapped around your head protectively, legs curled up to guard your middle.

There is dead silence.

“Hey, Brat?” Belphie asks. When you don’t answer, he calls your name instead.

You slowly, very slowly, begin to uncurl yourself from your position. It takes time for the residual fear to leave, but enough is gone to leave room for embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” you mutter. 

“I get it,” is the answer.

Cue awkward silence.

“I figured you were still afraid of me.”

“I’m not!” When he just stares blandly at you, you sigh. “Okay, a little. If you wanted to hurt me - again - you’ve had a ton of opportunities. So I don’t think you want to. But…..”

“It’s a hard thing to get over.”

“Yeah. And not just you.” Hesitantly, you start to tell him. You want to just give him the basics, but once you start talking, you can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t interrupt, barely seems to blink, just watches you. A blank vessel to help you empty the poison that fills you sometimes.

You see his jaw tighten as you go on, but you know the anger isn’t at you.

When you finish, he’s silent for a few moments. Then he gathers you up to him. “I’ll never hurt you,” he says.

You look up at him with the same bland look he gave you a moment ago.

“Again,” he amends. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

You let out a watery laugh and he hugs you a bit tighter.

“You’re still a brat, though.”

[novelelitist]

Somewhat-successor to 2018 and yesterday. Probably needs a part IV. TW for mental health, mentions of suicide. I go months without posting jack shit, you can deal with a little bit of Sanson Self-Indulgence.

Charles-Henri Sanson on Death III

Charles-Henri Sanson did not have this opportunity in life, nor in the times he was summoned to America as a Heroic Spirit. He thinks Salem is charming without the cosmic horror. The regular horror is more than satisfactory.

The ocean is beautiful at night, though the light pollution from nearby Boston leaves much to be desired. Still, to look out on an endless black sea like this is humbling.

Master takes a step too far, Sanson takes Master's hand. He yanks them back so they won't take a long walk off a short dock into the Atlantic.

"This isn't an appropriate place to dive in," he says. "There's a sign right over there."

Master bitches a bit before reassuring him. "I wasn't going to do anything. Maybe jump. Nothing bad."

"I don't see how that makes a difference."

Master slumps into him. "Jumping means I'm less likely to crack my head open, unfortunately."

He props up Master in his arms like they're an inflatable tube person. "If you're going to break the rules and crack your head open, you could at least wait until I'm not around to see it."

"Ah, yes. The age-old adage: 'if you don't have evidence I disobeyed the sign, you can't give me shit for disobeying the sign.'"

Sanson uses Master's hand to bop their forehead. "Truthfully, that's the least of my concerns."

"Hey, if I get lucky a boat will run me over and I won't have to put any effort into drowning. You know how hard it is to drown?" Master asks.

Sanson notes their playful tone and tries to keep it light. He fails. "Exceedingly easy, considering that 'drinking water going down the wrong pipe' is as much drowning as any open water drowning is."

Master gives Sanson's shoulders a lazy squeeze and an even lazier shake without leaving their sloth-flop posture. "I knoooow, so whyyyyy can't I doooo it?"

"Because you're terrible at reverse-engineering death, I suppose?" he suggests.

"Seriously. You'd think a passably-intelligent person would either a) succeed at their attempts to die or b) fail at existing hard enough to succeed at not existing."

Sanson rolls his eyes. They land on the reflection of lamplight in Master's hair. He gets distracted by the shimmering silver highlights.

He thinks on how he and Master both have blue eyes, and how theirs are closer to steel than ice. There is no twinkle in theirs, nor in their smile. He remembers how he once thought they'd never get along, and how eager he was to fulfill his duties and disappear. Now he can't bring himself to leave them.

He rubs the back of their head just the way they like. "Perhaps you were too powerful, so you were cursed to fail at the thing you most craved to achieve."

"You mean like a nerf?"

"I mean a nerf."

"Shit balance team, if that's what they thought would keep me out of the meta. Like my entire existence isn't the problem. Remove me from the game.”

“The answer is still ‘no.’”

Master digs their fingers into Sanson’s back, clutching at the fabric of his well-ironed shirt. He leans back to look at them, but they refuse to show their face.

“That isn’t going to change my answer,” he says.

“...Please?” they ask meekly into his shoulder.

Sanson doesn’t answer. 

“I don’t want to live like this anymore,” they say. “I don’t want to live at all knowing that this is what it feels like.”

Sanson reaches to hold them, but they shrug him off and shove him away. He stares at his hand. It stings. 

“Every time I have, like, the tiniest bit of hope it gets crushed. Any faith I have in others is jaded in nature. I don’t trust anybody. I don’t even think I like anybody. I don’t want my whole life to be like this, but I’m going to have to be in professional care forever and I’ll always need medications and therapy and mental health shit and I can’t get away from my family or myself and I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. Other people kill my will to live, and even if I try to explain how they’re negatively affecting me it’s not like it gets anywhere because they don’t understand or they don’t give a shit. Friends don’t get it, and family doesn’t care, and I can’t. I fucking can’t. I don’t want to live like this.”

Sanson opens his mouth to respond, but thinks better of it. 

“I don’t think I’ve done anything that terrible, but the amount of guilt and negativity I live with outweighs any moments I have in which I don’t feel like shit. No amount of positive interactions will make the negativity go away. I don’t have the resources to get out of the living situation I’m in, and I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want things to be like this.”

Master hates listening to the opinions of the inexperienced and uneducated. He doesn’t feel what they do. It’s best not to pretend he does.

They fidget with the hems of their sleeves until their hands are hidden away. They pull and yank and scratch and tug. Their fingers twitch as they pick at their nails and claw at their knuckles. Before Sanson can stop them, they step further away from him. There are tears in their eyes. They sniff.

“I want so many fucking things and I can’t have any of them and I don’t want to live like this. I’m so viscerally envious of others, even those I shouldn’t be, of the tiniest fucking things they get that I don’t because I don’t get anything because I don’t have anything. I don’t want anything. I don’t. I just don’t.”

Those feelings, Sanson thinks, are things he understands. From his own perspective and the perspectives of those whose lives he’s ended, Master’s frustrations make perfect sense. 

Sanson and Master read the Prisma Illya manga together (to the shame of both parties). Sanson remembers how much Master liked seeing Illya say something to the effect of, ‘I want to die’ means ‘I want to live’ in a ‘manga for lolicons.’ That line struck a cord with him, too, not that he’d ever admit it. 

It’s a pitiful feeling--one of desperation and self-loathing, of fear and uncertainty. To those who crave death, that afterlife or lack thereof is a guarantee that they do not have in life. To believe that there is nothing waiting is to believe in a peaceful rest. To believe that there is a peaceful rest is to believe that better things can be had than what there already is.

This line of thinking conflicts with both his own philosophies and Master’s. So he believes Magical Girl Prisma Illya when she says that those words mean I want to live. 

For everything Master hates and doesn’t want, the converse is equally true: they want the acknowledgement, presence, and presents that others receive that they do not. They want to feel safe and validated, like the people around them live in the same reality they do. They’ve never had those things, and Sanson is well aware that Master doesn’t know what those things would look like for themselves. 

Doodles? Stories? Gifts? Hugs? Memes? Quiet? Reassurance? Validation? Criticism? Help? 

They would probably say they want the sweet embrace of death. As one does.

So he opens up the adjacent line of questioning. “What do you want to want?”

Master sniffles, snuffing like a dumb puppy with a cold. They pull up their hood to shield themselves from the intense gaze of the moon and streetlights.

They shrug, toss their hands up, then smack themselves in the face. “Damned if I know.”

Sanson finds this charming, in Master’s not-at-all-charming way. 

He pulls Master into a hug and pats their pathetic back. Rest assured, they’ll come back to this conversation later when less snot is present.

[mybeingthere]

Alfred Henry Maurer (1868 – 1932) was an American modernist painter. He exhibited his work in avant-garde circles internationally and in New York City during the early twentieth century. Highly respected today, his work met with little critical or commercial success in his lifetime, and he died, a suicide, at the age of sixty-four.

The artist Jerome Myers wrote poignantly of him in his autobiography, Artist In Manhattan:

"Alfred Maurer, whom I knew casually, had a pleasant personality. After his early talent had brought him a prize at the Carnegie Institute, he went to Paris, where he stayed for years ... There was no doubt that he was happy in his Parisian atmosphere. Like many other young Americans there, he was attracted by the life of the boulevards, the cares, the daily affinity with brother artists with whom he was then studying the problem of color ... His father, Louis Maurer, was an old-time artist, who had worked on the Currier & Ives lithographs. When I met him at an exhibition of the Independents at the Grand Central Palace, he was a quiet-mannered man, whom I took to be about seventy-five years old. Later I learned that he was then already ninety-five ... Speaking of his son, Alfred, he evidently could not sympathize with—or, as he said, understand—the ultra-violets and ultra-blues of that phase of Alfred's work. He seemed so proud of what his son had done, but so grieved at what he was then doing. For some reason, Alfred was subsequently forced to return to New York, leaving behind in Paris his beloved boulevards and the friends of his heart. The idea and the style of his work seemed to change; he turned to the painting of elongated women, after the pattern of Modigliani. Then Louis Maurer, seemingly outraged by his son's work, did an extraordinary thing. He gave an exhibition of his own paintings at the age of one hundred years, a record for all time. Between this unique rejuvenescence of his remarkable father, with the implied reproof against his own art, and the suffering due to ill health, the pit yawned and the unhappy Alfred Maurer left the scene of his sorrows a suicide, his gallant heart broken." (from wiki)

[meetmsrightxoxo]

To say February was hell is an understatement. All month with work the customers were extra cranky and super entitled plus it was insanely busy every shift I worked the week of Valentine’s Day! I am also sick with an infection which caused me to spend twelve hours dealing with doctors and going to the emergency room because the stupid urgent care doctor overreacted and sent me there when all she had to do was do a vaginal exam like my primary doctor wanted her to do for me at urgent care in the first place! Ugh.

Time to get back on track with my personal, mental, emotional, and physical growth!

Ten years ago at sixteen years old, I had my first of eight major surgeries and the start of many future hospital stays and emergency room visits. Children’s Hospital Los Angeles and Henry Mayo hospital were basically my second homes. I didn’t have a specific illness causing me health problems. My body and immune system was really compromised and even confused the doctors on what could have been wrong with me. Then while dealing with my severe mysterious health issues and surgeries, I was forced to drop out of high school because the school district refused to work with me because since I “didn’t have a specific diagnosis” that couldn’t give me an IEP yet I had all these doctors notes and surgeries that required me to be hospitalized for at least six days each. At twenty years old while my health was rapidly declining my fiancé died in my house and I was the one to find him dead. I not only became sicker after that, I became a alcoholic after my fiancé’s friends blamed me for his death. I was blacked out drunk for four and a half months. It took my mom threatening to kick me out to make myself get my act together.

However, my health was still declining and the doctors were prescribing me hydromorphone every three hours for pain and was on fentanyl patches. Not only did my body become addicted to IV pain medication, I ended up becoming mentally addicted while my health was declining. In November of 2018 the night of thanksgiving, I desperately needed help to get off the pain medication addict train. The doctors wouldn’t help me get off the pain meds so I decided to quit cold turkey which was very dangerous, don’t ever just stop taking an opioid, you have to wean yourself off of it properly. My brain got so overwhelmed from the withdrawals, I fell into psychosis for three and a half months! My mom even retired from work early because the doctors told her there was a chance I was permanently mentally disabled for the rest of my life.

In case any of you don’t know what psychosis is, you know the homeless addicts you see talking to people that don’t exist on the streets? That’s an example of psychosis. Your brain’s conscious shuts down and your sub conscious basically takes over the drivers seat.

Magically one day after three and a half months of being in psychosis, my brain and my body flipped a switch and I wasn’t horribly sick anymore physically and mentally. Yes, I have to be medicated for anxiety, depression, and PTSD but I’m five million steps away from deaths doorstep now.

I have a job, I am back in school trying to get my diploma, I started this blog and developing a online store, and I’m working with non profits as a foster for animals!

Goodbye hellish February! March is going to be all about making progress working out and developing myself with my personal growth! February was only a bump in the road. Gotta stay focused and move forward!

[une-sanz-pluis]

Peter McNiven, "The Problem of Henry IV's Health, 1405-1413", The English Historical Review, vol. 100, no. 397 (October 1985)

[minervacasterly]

18 JANUARY 1486: The Union of Elizabeth of York and Henry VII of England.

There is a not a lot of information regarding the wedding ceremony. Henry VII had swore he would marry Elizabeth when he had been in exile in Brittany, at Vannes Cathedral, three years prior. A lot had happened since then though. The papal dispensation that their mothers had secretly plotted to get had to be reissued. 

The papal dispensation covered the Earl of Richmond and the natural daughter of Elizabeth of York (meaning the Lady Elizabeth, not the legitimate daughter and heiress of Edward IV). It was vital that the couple married under the good eyes of the church. The fifteenth century had descended into chaos when two branches of the Plantagenet House had annihilated each other, their descendants had married off to other noble houses and as a result (after Bosworth), Henry claimed the crown. But he was not blind. Connquering and ruling were two different things. He needed stability or at the very least, give the illusion of it to the people to put down civil unrest. 

Therefore, he needed to marry Elizabeth who was the eldest living descendant of the first Yorkist King. The papal dispensation took time, and meanwhile Henry had to establish himself as the realm's ruler. He established his claim to the throne through his "right of conquest" and his mother, Margaret Beaufort whose family descended from John of Gaunt via his third marriage to his mistress, Katherine Swynford. 

Nevertheless, his claim to the throne was still seen as weak, which was why parliament asked him on December 1485, two months after he had been crowned, to keep his promise to marry the Princess Elizabeth, and strengthen the claim of his descendants and *"restore some stability to the English royal line."

The pope had finally granted the dispensation at the beginning of the year, and it was confirmed in England by the papal legate, the Bishop of Imola on 16 January, two days later the coupe were married.The wedding ceremony was officiated by the archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier. Given the statement that Henry wanted to make, as it was mentioned earlier, about their union; the Abbey would have been filled with Tudor imagery that Henry had created that gave a new interpretation of the dynastic conflict that is now known as the wars of the roses. By intertwining the white rose of York (Edward IV's favorite symbol besides the sun in splendor) with the red rose, Henry VII's union with Elizabeth meant to give a powerful message of peace. Illusory as it was, its impression lasted and their descendants continued to use this device and celebrate the union of their ancestors, Henry and Elizabeth. The building would have been decorated by royal colors such as "purple and gold, silk, ermine and delicate cloths of tissue." And the bride, adds Licence, "would have been splendidly dressed and adorned with jewels, lace, brocade and ribbons."

She would not have worn white, given that white was not a color worn for wedding dresses.(The first royal bride who did was in fact her daughter-in-law, Katherine of Aragon, when she married Prince Arthur). Elizabeth would have likely worn purple as it symbolized royalty, or taken one of her many new gowns.

After the archbishop placed the golden ring on Elizabeth, the couple said their vows. Following royal custom, Elizabeth promised to take Henry as her husband "for fairer, for fouler, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to be blithe and amiable, and obliging in bed and at board" till death do them part.Besides the expenses, that no doubt would have been great, Elizabeth would have seen the new rose, the Tudor rose in every corner as well as her husband's other badges. By intertwining the white rose of York (Edward IV's favorite symbol besides the sun in splendor) with the red rose, Henry VII's union with Elizabeth meant to give a powerful message of peace. Illusory as it was, its impression lasted and their descendants continued to use this device and celebrate the union of their ancestors, Henry and Elizabeth.In recent fiction the two have been portrayed as an unhappy couple, pushed into the marriage by their shrewish mothers, but this is an interpretation based on secondary sources that have come many years (more than a century in fact) after the even took place. Francis Bacon writes very colorfully of Henry, and negatively of his mother but Francis was writing a century after the events took place and the two George Bucks themselves wrote even later. It is very easy to believe these sources, but if we want to look at the couple, we just have to look at their actions, at what they faced and what moral attitudes people had in this period.

A young woman such as Elizabeth would not have missed the opportunity to regain her status as Princess, and much less to be Queen. After being bastardized, and forced into hiding at Westminster, then in the midst of intrigue in the Ricardian court (with rumors -whether they are true or not, we will never know- that her uncle wanted to marry her shortly after his wife's passing and he later recanted after people protested at such an idea that he began to look elsewhere for a bride, and a spouse for Elizabeth); she would have no doubt welcome this new change in status. Elizabeth was a Princess-born, she had at one point been betrothed to the heir to the French Crown. She could not accept no better offer than to be a Queen, as it would also bolster her family's position as well and it did. Henry VII rewarded the Woodvilles. Richard Woodville as the third Earl of Rivers lived comfortably, Elizabeth Woodville kept some of her dower properties and when she was present, she always took precedence. Even Margaret Beaufort had to walk behind her as the older woman was Queen Dowager whereas Margaret was just a Countess -a Countess in her own right but a Countess nonetheless. Sir Edward Woodville, Elizabeth of York's uncle who took after his late eldest brother, was a highly pious and adventurous individual who proved his loyalty many times and was favored. The Catholic Kings themselves spoke very finely of him after his death. The set of ordinances that Edward IV had made for princes and that Anthony Woodville had supervise for Elizabeth's brother, Prince Edward, was kept and used for Arthur's upbringing. And Elizabeth herself was not left behind. 

**"Like her parents, Elizabeth of York was a patron of William Caxton and his successor at the Westminster printing press, Wynkyn de Worde." 

Furthermore, as Queen, she ruled over her own court and her own properties -some of which had previously belonged to her aunt Isabel, the Duchess of Clarence.As for Henry, this was also a personal triumph. Born to Margaret when she was thirteen (a birth that scarred her immensely. She would have no more children). Given as a ward to William Herbert who was given his uncle Jasper's earldom of Pembroke, and raised to be the perfect Yorkist to neutralize the threat he might pose in the future, he was then sent into exile after the Lancastrian Readetion failed and every member of the royal house was eliminated. Henry lived in a period of uncertainty, danger, and now it was all over. He was King. And he could also boast of having one important advantage. Many royal couples did not have the luxury of getting to know one another. They were married to this person or that, and whether or not they liked each other, they were expected to fulfill their duties. Henry fortunately did no have this problem. In the five month period that they waited for the dispensation to come, the two got to know each other. So when they walked down the aisle, they were not complete strangers.After the ceremonies ended, came the consummation. Elizabeth proved herself an exemplary Queen, living by the virtues of the day and this, as well as her fertility, made her well-remembered and loved. She would not be crowned until the following year, after “she proved herself” by giving Henry a male heir that autumn, less than nine months after their marriage. Given the speed in which they conceived, it is possible that the marriage could have been consummated before (since being betrothed was as good as being married. And the pope had given his approval, they knew it was only a matter of time before the bull came). But there is also the possibility that Arthur could have been premature.

Henry and Elizabeth’s marriage would remain strong, with the two relying on one another for mutual support when tragedy struck.

*From Dan Jones' Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses and the Rise of the Tudors. **Elizabeth of York: A Tudor Queen and her World by Alison Weir. I also recommend the following biographies:  Elizabeth of York by Amy Licence and Blood Sisters by Sarah Gristwood.

[scotianostra]

Robert III was crowned King of Scots on August 14th 1390 at Scone.

King Robert was born as John, he took the name Robert as his given name brought back defeatist memories of John Balliol. He was also illegitimate, his Father, Robert II, the first of The Stewart, and his mother Elizabeth Mure, although were married in 1336, the marriage was not recognised by the Catholic Church, they received a matrimonial Papal dispensation in 1347, and the young John/Robert was made legitimate.

He succeeded his father as King of Scots in 1390, he was advanced in years by then, at 53, and to make matters worse had been deemed lame, after a kick from a horse in 1388 in a tournament. He was married to Annabella Drummond, the daughter of Sir John Drummond, of Stobhall, near Perth, 11th Thane of Lennox and Chief of Clan Drummond, and Mary Montifex. Her father’s sister was Margaret Drummond, the second wife of David II.

The new King, like his father before him, was weak willed, hesitant and ineffectual, anything less like his namesake the great Robert he Bruce is difficult to imagine. Anarchy reigned in Scotland during the years of his feeble rule, the country was beset by problems including rivalry between the Highlanders, his brothers and the lords of the isles.

The King’s more forceful brother, Robert, Duke of Albany, had been appointed Governor of the realm by their elderly father, towards the end of his reign. The King took over these powers, but owing to the King’s ‘sickness of body’, the council humiliatingly removed them from him and vested them in his eldest son, David Stewart, Duke of Rothesay, appointing him as lieutenant of the kingdom. The Duke of Albany proceeded to have David arrested and imprison David, who died in mysterious circumstances at Falkland Palace in 1402 and his uncle Robert again took up the title. According to rumour rife at the time, David was starved to death. Albany and Douglas fell under suspicion of the murder of David but were cleared of all blame by a general council.

While at Dundonald Castle in Ayrshire and in failing health, Robert made an attempt to save his second son and heir, the twelve year old Prince James, from the ambitions of the powerful Albany, whom he strongly suspected of contrivance in the murder of his elder son. Robert had James hidden at Dirleton Castle and on February 1406, he was dispatched to France. James had to escape to the Bass Rock in the Firth of Forth along with the Earl of Orkney after his escorts were attacked by James Douglas of Balvenie. They remained on the rock for over a month before a ship from Danzig, en route for France picked them up. On 22 March 1406 the ship meant to be carrying James to safety was attacked and taken by English pirates just off Flamborough Head and the heir to Scotland was taken prisoner to the court of Henry IV of England.

The disastrous news was brought to the aging King Robert Rothesay castle. Distraught and depressed by the event and overcome with his grief and despair he asked to be buried with the epitaph 'Here lies the worst of Kings and the most miserable of men.’ He died soon after on 4th April, 1406 and was buried at Paisley Abbey. The original tomb was destroyed in 1560 during the Scottish reformation . Queen Victoria later paid for the construction of the present tomb when she visited Paisley Abbey in 1888.

Scotland would be without a King for 18 years as James I remained a prisoner of the English, albeit, with all the trappings and education etc afforded to someone of his high office.

[flufflebones]

some more fun hcs about delphine [mc 1.... closest 2 my heart since ive used her in various settings for a While]! it’s a little long so im slapping it under a cut but its all sfw and all very much in good fun.

you know, mostly. i only really got two headcanons down and one is brief/about michael and the other is about pets in the devildom

- can and will fight michael do you think they saw the angel/anni event and were ok with it? yeah? no! just going to kick him hard enough in the shin to....... probably bust their own foot but its FINE 

- has an approximate accumulated f*ckton of devildom native and possibly (definitely) magical pets

[The list:

Sosig / Sausage - Hellhound - Gift from Beelzebub!:

A beast of considerable size and [reportedly] god awful temperament, bearing charcoal fur and the lingering [faint] scent of sulphur. More vulpine than canine, their frames are typically gaunt, with the flames that fuel their bodies licking out from the ends of their tails, their ankles and wrists [on their normal quadrupedal legs], the inner portions of their ears [leaving them at a disadvantage when it comes to hearing], their somewhat visible / open ribcage, and the corners of their mouth. 

Despite this general introduction, hellhounds are wildly varied and have a number of breeds and variations in recent history, typically intended for one of three purposes.

Companionship - These hellhounds are typically smaller in stature and less sturdy, with a tendency to bond strongly to one or two masters [with some consideration/leeway for those close to their master: See- Cerberus]. Arguably the most docile of any class of hellhound, they are still dangerous if not raised correctly, and have a nasty bite. Though not a true classification and with no formal means of training a hound to do so naturally, some companion hellhounds serve as a psuedo service dog, heavily attuned to the needs and potential problems unique to their primary master. This isn’t to say that they are an alternative to service animals, or anywhere near as well trained, *of course*, but the devildom is hardly the safest place for a regular human realm animal; And sometimes, you’ve just got to work with what you’ve got.

Sport / Show - Typically very much breed standard. While raised to tolerate handling and grooming, these traditionally built hellhounds are temperamental at best and borderline terrifying when their willful nature comes in direct conflict with a demonic handler who bit off more than they can chew. Heavily regulated, and typically owned by the elite.

Protection - The devildom is dangerous, and nobody is questioning that. Demons with a knack for animal handling [or demons who can afford to hire someone skilled with animals, of course!] breed and train these creatures to guard many things; People, places, objects, etc. They’re typically territorial and hard to train as a rule, as one cannot allow for a beast such as this to be tempted by treats or good petting from *anyone*, yfm?

Sausage is a bit of a mixed bag. Born from protective stock and bought by Beelzebub after overhearing Mammon trying to convince Lucifer to get Delphine/my mc a pet [who lays eggs, we’ll get there, that he can sell for a massive profit]. Being the youngest present brother at the time, anything capturing his interest other than food is both welcomed and encouraged in an attempt to positively reinforce him to not put the devildom at risk of a famine.

Delphine unintentionally raised this brick house of a hellhound puppy into a sort of in-between of companion and protector, with him being very social, very sweet, and *fairly* defensive and willful if things aren’t going his way. He’s typically the one to step in most successfully to motivate her to move around [yes, moreso than the brothers!] and do her day to day tasks, and is probably the best way to find out if something’s wrong with her-- Past being able to just kind of drag her off due to their size differential, his general wit and ability to communicate his needs and wants have led to unexpected food deliveries, blankets spread over her shoulders, and human world medicines arriving a few days before she shows any real signs of illness that she can see.

He’s also spoiled as all get out. If you’re sharing a bed/couch/blanket/etc with her, you can bet Sausage is soon to follow. Sorry, Mammon! He loooves table scraps and is almost as bad as Beel when it comes to eating things he shouldn’t [and looking too cute to be scolded about it too heavily].

Rocky - ... That’s just a rock, dude. - Gift from Belphegor:

It’s really hard to tell if Belphegor is messing around when he presents Delphine with a rough hewn black rock bearing two googly eyes, a pair of hilariously out of place crystalized horns, and a pair of similarly out of place crystal wings, but I swear on all things unholy, he’s doing it for a reason.

Though not... Really sentient, initially, Rocky just needs a good, possibly year long charging. Soulstones are sort of... Weird, in that they are inert and lifeless for as long as they remain with the boulders from which they are harvested. but typically-- After being exposed to a single party’s magical runoff and signature for a year or so-- absorb enough energy to come to life, their coloration and mineral makeup adjusting to fit the nature of the being they owe their life to. Delphine’s takes the form of a celestine and blue goldstone peryton; A winged stag. With crystalized wings and antlers, Rocky would almost look majestic; If it weren’t for the fact that the googly eyes have remained a feature that she has never been able to figure out how to remove. Soulstones are typically quiet observers, not requiring active care to thrive but delighting in contact [especially immediately post spell casting or magic use]. They are attuned to the needs of their magic bound masters, and typically exude an air of-- if not positive-- reassurance.

In Delphines Little Canon Divergence Corner, it’s likely that rocky coming into her care is one of the first of many attempts at reconciliation that Belphegor makes with her post chapter 16; And it honestly really, really sets him back, like, even when she returns to the human realm. Forgotten but included in her luggage, it’s a few weeks into her settling down on Earth that she finds the dinky little stone, and an overload of magic-- Possibly emotionally sourced, possibly due to unresolved tension/a discussion that never got to happen because he was being a little jerk about it-- sets off the transformation, which occurs overnight.

She recognizes the little stone figure when it approaches her in the morning, and one of her first texts about it is a simple, succinct “WTF” + an image attachment sent to Belphegor, specifically in the dead of night with the intention to wake him.

Henry “Pogchampion” 6.0, 7.0, and 8.0, A.K.A: “Pip! Minette! Beans!” - Infernal rats - Gift from Leviathan:

A note: If you don’t care for rats or you’re more familiar with their popular association with illness or disease/classification as vermin, and are only capable of thinking of them in that context, I don’t care. I am specifically talking about rats in the context of them being pets-- And good pets, at that. If you want to talk about how much you wish they were dead/didn’t exist, thats not my problem. Just don’t do it on a post discussing them as a pet, or I will block you!

Anyway!

Leviathan is probably the most appropriate person for them to get pet recommendations from, but her asking never winds up a necessity; When he finds out that he’s got another pet enthusiast in the house, he’s *all* about it, and when he finally [very unsubtly] weasels his way into the information he needs, he gets them to come along with him to what’s supposed to be a routine supply trip for Henry that just *CAN’T* be accomplished online. It’s a trip to *a* shop, but not what she’s expecting, especially when she gets to meet a handful of very curious, very playful, larger than a medium sized dog mice and rats. These guys are very much pests turned pets, with a small niche of hobbyists raising them and breeding them for temperament and overall health and disease resistance. Very social and very intelligent, they tend to thrive best in groups if one is not devoting all of their time to them as an individual. The type Leviathan recommends are on the smaller side, with cloudy, soft fur and sweet temperaments. And massive teeth, nubby horns, spade tipped tails, and very large, typically bony or leathery wings.

Levi is... Probably the one who wanted them, really. They get a little big, and tend to like to roughhouse, and they chew like nobody’s business-- And while he can’t risk his figures or merch or other Otaku Trappings or wires for everything in his room, he *CAN* risk Delphine’s. Plus, Sausage needs a friend, right? Or three?

They pick up three, all of whom are sisters, and all of whom on paper are named Henry “Pogchamp”, 6.0, 7.0, and 8.0, since he *is* technically the one paying for them and at least gets to do that much. Even when they start being named Pip, Minette, and Beans, in casual conversation, he can still hold on to the fact that they’ll always be Henries in his heart of hearts.

Sausage loves them to bits, for the record, but their interactions tend to be supervised/very brief even without the worry of him being able to harm any of them due to the general (and very appropriate) ill advisement of large predators interacting with smaller prey animals. It’s cute, sure, but it can be dangerous, and Delphine (and Levi, to a lesser extent, because he’s using the excuse of them being friends to keep Lucifer off of his ass for adding another animal to her menagerie) isn’t about to risk it.

Sweets - .... A black cat? That glitters? - Gift from Satan and Asmodeus:

Small, sleek, and independent, Sweets is probably the pet people see the least of all of Delphine’s little collection-- Though that doesn’t mean she’s not well loved. A pet project between Satan and Asmodeus, Sweets isn’t *technically* a cat; They’re a being comprised of shadow, somewhat similar in nature to a familiar without the connotation of them technically being a demon slash demonic. Who just so happens to have been enchanted to appear like and generally function in their day to day life as a cat. That sparkles, the only concession Satan was willing to grant Asmodeus in return for his help obtaining the materials necessary to create  the little beast (and in return for him taking the heat when Lucifer inevitably got pissy about it). Given its unique nature, very little is actually known about the little being of shadow past basic care and assumptions based on its generally feline behavioral patterns. The rats scare the hell out of it, however, and it tends to be out of sight except when called, hiding in shadows and only occasionally emerging on its own.

... Oh, and be careful. Satan hasn’t told Del yet, but it seems that the belly rubs this shadowy kitty offers tend  to bite off more than they can chew if they’re not careful. Asmodeus thinks its horrible. Who wants a pet with a massive maw of teeth in their stomach? Satan desperately wants to use this quirk in Sweets’ nature for a prank. Delphine already knows, but is playing dumb for the sake of faking surprise when its formally revealed.

Elysia - Gilded Crow - Gift from Lucifer and Mammon:

SO, i”M going to keep this short because i’ve been writing this for several hours at this point on and off and i really really want to be ready for my dinner when its ready, but!

Elysia is a sort of... Special circumstance. Literally. Devotees to Mammon-- And yes, there *are* people who think he’s a legitimate demon lord, the only people really allowed to treat him like garbage are his brothers and a few choice officials too strong to be eradicated as any lesser demon might have been-- with a background in magical augmentation specifically enchanted this line of crows to reflect that which is most valued by their Lord; Riches. They’re technically not legal due to their status as something of an organic money generator, but a select few in a small flockare kept under the watchful eyes of the Demon Lord and his immediate family, and those who have been trusted by his family members. This is where Lucifer comes in.

Understandably, Mammon is not allowed to have care of his flock, though he certainly wouldn’t be the worst at caring for them. He’d just also be selling their products illegally, and you can’t have that!

Elysia wears a small enchanted band comprised of dull, unimpressive iron-- The kind of thing Mammon would neither notice nor have interest in. This band is enchanted, and serves as a sort of storage space for any of Ely’s dropped organic components. Talons, feathers, eggs-- Everything is automatically absorbed into the band, rendering the bird borderline useless outside of being a gorgeous pet, and a gigantic nuisance. 

Lucifer hates to admit it, but he really is a fan of the large, intelligent, gorgeous creature; And Mammon thinks it’s really funny to teach her to take shiny things (like grimm, loose jewelry, gum wrappers, etc), even past the sentimental value of the bird itself and what her kind represents to him. 

Delphine adores her, too, and is about as good an influence on her as Mammon is-- Teaching her to speak, in some capacity, simply by repeating certain words or phrases to herself as she does things in the day to day, especially during feeding time. It’s all fun and games, until this pretty golden bird calls Lucifer a ‘motherf*cker’ while she thinks he’s out of the room while visiting with Diavolo for an update on her health.

[ilovebroccolisomuchitsunreal]

ok ok oK but im literally so fucking obnoxious and i adore my friends but i genuinely do not know how to stop being obnoxious i spent so much of my early childhood trying to organize myself and the way i respond to thing in a sensible way nad my little kid veiw if the world couldnt see that the way i purposely acted that i thought was cool and intellugent and charismatoc was actually JUST REALLY FUCKING OBNOXIOUS and a dufferent more insecure side of myself would be like welp the answer to avoid doing obnoxious shit would be becoming super quiet and dissolving your personality but DING FUCKING DONG IVE ALREADY TRIED THAT AND IT DOESNT WORK trying to shut up ur obnoxious traits by literally shutting up always seems to bavkfire so the best way it seems to go about not being an arragont fuck to everyone i love is to slowly cultivate good manneers and behaviours and social skills but alot of the people ik are probs already at their wits wnd with me so i dont really have that much time to go about cultivating being a good person and now im doing that thing where i say what i think and i feel and get really into fleshing that emotion out but the emotion has alrady become irrelevant and fake to me so this is all for fucking nothing and ya know if it says much about my personality i identifying the description of bunny cormicans thru henry, richards etc eyes. i am the worst aspects of bunny cormocan and no im not and yes i am and this is all bullshit but idk what the trutb is so i cant speak the truth so like ????? im not fucked but my need for a rant is way overdue so to make it a valid rant i have to overexcagherate the feeling of the problem thats already fading also bro how do my friends even like me i feel lime im just aboyt to be killed at them because i do obnoxious shit and yhen at the worst tines choose to show my affection thru totally shallow and materialistic means like coukd i stop doing that????? please????? and then i acknowledge my fuckerys but one of two things have already occured 1 i apologise and accept the fuckery of my actions way too late 2 it comes off as guilt trippy and weird and fishing for forgiveness and reassurance wjich im nt trying to do but honestly on some subconscious level i probabaly am and if im gonna restrict i should at least be good about it and eat wellish instead of binging and restricting like thats gonna fuck up my health so bad and also i wanna feek like the ocean and naturallness and i have signed my death warrant snd my fascibation with apathy in fights is ultimately selfish and retroactive like most of my fascinations and then applucations of ways of behaving in certain situations and the person i used to be in love with would probably put some of that down to their theory or my neuroduvergency but im not gonna tack it up to that because my being aware and in control of it means i am very capable of change and the idea of holding myself accountable seems nuce

[jessgartner]

2020 Life Olympics

The real Olympics may have been canceled in 2020 but the Life Olympics persevered like the postal service of Olympics. 

First, I’d like to apologize for my role in the chaos of 2020 because I think I had a slight miscommunication with the powers that be and I feel partly responsible. Here was my plan for 2020: 

My theme for 2020 is Intention because I want to take the energy I feel right now and deploy it with more intentionality next year - bringing increased mindfulness to how I spend my time, money, physical and mental energy. And because I love wordplay, I also literally want to spend more time camping “in-tent” to enjoy more peace and quiet and beauty in nature.

The universe was like, “Oh, she wants to spend less money and more time outside? Well, shut it down. Shut the whole planet down.”

I mean, mission accomplished, I guess? I did spend less money and more time outside and had to be VERY intentional with my mental energy to survive the day-to-day morass of 2020. Next time, I will be more specific with my annual manifestations. Sorry to all. 

2020 was brutal for pretty much everything and everyone. I don’t know anyone who isn’t in some state of grief right now, including myself. I debated doing a Life Olympics at all this year, feeling like-- what is the point? Hundreds of thousands of people died, our democracy is hanging on by a thread, and millions of people lost jobs, businesses, and homes. 

Like many people, I’ve been struggling with anxiety and depression this year which intensified as it got darker and colder outside. At a low point, I talked with my therapist about the struggle of just not wanting to do any of the things that usually bring me joy-- and how periods of relief were so fleeting. “But you have to keep doing those things,” she said, “even if they’re not working right now, you have to keep doing those things and trust the process; the joy will return.” 

So even though I don’t really feel like it and kind of feel like it’s dumb, I’m writing the 2020 Life Olympics. I’m trusting the process.

2020 Life Olympics Recap

Work - Participation Trophy

Starting a company is hard, operating a company is harder, but running a company during a global pandemic and economic crisis is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. 2020 was not a fun year to lead a business; it was hell. On March 15, the plan for the year pretty much went out the window and everything went into survival mode. I never take the company or my team for granted, but I’m particularly grateful to be able to usher this work into 2021.

Despite the craziness, we still had some big wins this year. We launched new product partnerships with PowerSchool and Amazon Business. We rebuilt our tool for equitably calculating district funding formulas. And I got to flex my creative muscles with EdFinToks! Throughout it all, I was lucky enough to be surrounded by a team of people who are as compassionate as they are talented. 

I’m worried about public education more than ever after this year, but I’m going to keep fighting every day to make it work better for kids. 

This is Work-Lite but I also spent a good chunk of time this year leading the modernization workgroup for Bill Henry’s transition committee after his spring primary election to become the new Baltimore City Comptroller, ousting a 25-year incumbent, Joan Pratt. This was an enlightening (and infuriating) experience for me that gave me a glimpse into the operations of a segment of the City government. This process also really helped crystallize how much I enjoy making public agencies function more efficiently; I’m excited to see what Bill does with the recommendations (some are already being put in action!)

Health - Gold 

This is the second year in a row (and ever) that I’m giving myself a Gold medal for Health. This was easily a year that I could have regressed on all of my healthy habits and no one would have blamed me. Instead, I leaned into protecting and improving my physical and mental health in 2020. It’s not an exaggeration to say that walking probably saved my life this year. I spent a lot of time walking around my neighborhood and various state and city parks-- walking is maybe not the best word; I stomp and charge around like I have a score to settle with the ground beneath me. My walking increased 370% in 2020. This is a habit of 2020 that I’d like to keep. My brain and body are happier if I can spend a little time walking-- stomping-- around outside each day. 

I also did a lot of biking this summer. My cycling increased 200% this year-- with much more time spent cycling outdoors. My crowning achievement this year was biking to and from Annapolis:

I spent a LOT more time outside this year which was critical for my mental health. On the downside, I only did 90% as much yoga and 60% as much strength training, so I want to try to be a little more balanced next year. 

I also invested a lot in my mental health this year. I kept up with therapy every 2-4 weeks and in October I decided to pursue a formal diagnosis for ADHD which I definitely have! Needless to say, staying in one place this year has been a special kind of hell for me. 

Home - Silver

Well, I definitely spent less money this year. And the way I did spend money made me (mostly) sad: 

Travel down 70% 

Auto & Transportation up 200% (boo cars)

Shopping down 60%

Personal Care down 35% 

Gifts and donations up 200% 

Food and Dining down 40%

Entertainment down 35% (I kept up my singing lessons virtually which accounts for a lot of this category) 

2020 was quite the palate cleanser from my 2019 year of hedonism but maybe we can go for a happy medium in 2021? Just kidding-- I will resume my hedonist ways the minute the world opens. 

I also redid my home office like every other work-from-homer on the planet and replaced my crumbling kitchen floor so the house got some TLC. 

But nobody enjoyed having me home all year as much as Darwin:

Relationships - Bronze

What a weird year for relationships of all kinds. I’m giving this a Bronze because while I invested a lot into a few relationships this year, there are also a lot of people in my life to whom I haven’t been able to give my time and love. 

One of the most important relationships in my life this year was with one of my former students. After bouncing around in the foster system for many years, we reconnected around the holidays in 2019 and he started crashing with me while we tried to figure out stable housing and employment. He was arrested in January and was incarcerated for the next several months awaiting trial. Finally, we were able to negotiate a plea agreement with the State’s Attorney and he came home around Independence Day. We spent the next several months getting him set up with a phone and various identification documents-- a nightmare in normal times and a total abyss during the pandemic. I got him registered to vote when we got his ID card and I took him to vote for the first time (a supreme treat for this former social studies teacher):

He’s now got a full-time job and stable living situation. Calling this THE success of 2020. Thank you to everyone who helped me with resources all year for housing, legal processes, and documents. It takes a village. 

It was a bizarre year for family. We lost my grandmother in September, so not being able to spend the holidays together felt like an especially cruel loss. Other big losses this year include a trip to France to celebrate a milestone birthday for my mother and my brother and sister-in-law’s wedding (Mosby seemed pretty ok with the alternative plan, though):

But in many ways, my family has been more together than ever this year thanks to prolific group chats and photo-sharing. Mostly, I’m just glad everyone else is safe and healthy. As my father often reminds me, “Our problems are small.” 

And dating? What to do with this weird Jane-Austen-esque dating scene-- as if modern dating weren’t fraught enough. Is this the universe punishing me for ending my 2019 dating hiatus early? I, for one, have given up. You win this one, pandemic. I’m just going to have my little Twitter crush and call it a year. Next year, though...

Horizons - Silver Gold 

You know what? It’s hard to expand your horizons without people or places. 

I did the best I could. I finally got back on track with my Goodreads challenge and actually had a really good year of reading, including finally embracing audiobooks through my Libro.fm subscriptions. I especially enjoyed Michelle Obama’s book Becoming and Mike Birbiglia’s The New One on audio-- both narrated by their authors. 

I camped in Pocomoke (MD), Western MD, Lake Michigan, and Ohiopyle (PA):

I explored over 30 new hiking/biking trails-- some favorites including the Youghiegheny River trail in PA, the NCR trail, Catoctin Mountain, the C&O Canal Towpath, Annapolis Rock, and of course, Stoney Run in my backyard. 

I left Facebook and started the Life Olympics newsletter. I’ll be honest, I don’t miss Facebook but I also don’t understand where that energy, time, and brain space went. I was spending cumulatively hours a day mindlessly scrolling Facebook and I quit cold turkey and barely noticed-- what black hole of our brains does social media occupy? I kind of thought that with all that extra time I would write the next great American novel or something. I’m probably spending a little more time on Twitter, which I could stand to cut back on. Other than that, I think I was just trying to process the shitstorm of this year. Maybe I’ll write the next great American novel post-pandemic. 

For the first time in my life, I feel somewhat ‘caught up’ on pop-culture. I finally watched Parks and Recreation (twice); I watched The Mandalorian and finally actually watched Star Wars (episodes IV-IX); I watched the final seasons of The Good Place and Schitt’s Creek; I’m caught up on Insecure; I watched The Prom and Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom and Jingle Jangle; I even started Bridgerton. I know what everyone is talking about and I’m catching so many more pop-culture references these days. (I guess instead of writing the next great American novel I watched Netflix?)

2020 Lessons

I’ve spent plenty of time mourning the missed opportunities of 2020 and will probably always wonder what this year could have been in an alternate universe with a functioning government. But we only have this reality for now, and we made the best of it. 

I wanted to slow down in 2020, try to be more intentional, more mindful, and...

No thank you! I liked the pace of my life; it makes my brain and heart happy. I’m happiest when I wake up in a different city three days in a row. I like darting around every borough of Manhattan for nine meetings and three cocktails and then taking a red-eye to Europe. I want to run around to eight conferences for 18-hours a day for three weeks and then sleep for 22 hours. I miss overloading my brain so much that I need a deprivation chamber to sleep. This is who I am. This is how I like to live. And when I was locked down alone in the house for a year, slowing down, being mindful, I never once thought, “I should have... when I had the chance.” Because I always did. And I always will. 

2021

We shake with joy, we shake with grief.

What a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body.

Mary Oliver

We’ve had enough grief. 2021 is going to be all about joy.

Universe, let me be clear: this is not a euphemism or code or secret signal.

I want pure, unadulterated, abundant, joy. I want multi-course dinners in restaurants with lots of close friends and good wine. I want the virus so far gone that I can make-out with handsome strangers. I want a rollicking good time in France and/or Brazil and/or Prague and/or New Zealand and/or Bali. I want to spend the day after Christmas in NYC with my father. I want to be a glutton for theatre and art and music. I want celebrations and parties and sequins. 

I want to shake with joy. 

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[heartofstanding]

Today (20 March) is the 607th anniversary of Henry IV’s death. His death was no surprise - he had been in ill-health since 1405 which only worsened over time. It’s difficult to diagnose him accurately but he seems to have suffered a severe skin complaint which was sometimes called leprosy but was more likely psoriasis, as well as bouts of acute illness and seizures, including one where it was uncertain whether he was alive or dead. It has been suggested that this was epilepsy, stroke, psychosomatic, valvular disease of the heart or coronary heart disease.

Various accounts of deathbed confessions and conversations with his heir, the future Henry V, exist but perhaps the most memorable is that, having been carried unconscious to a bed after his collapse, he asked where he was and when he was was told he was in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster Abbey, recounted that it had once been prophesied that he would die in Jerusalem.

His body was embalmed and entombed in the Trinity Chapel at Canterbury Cathedral, close to the tomb of Edward of Woodstock, the Black Prince, whose son he usurped and had murdered. Henry’s second wife and queen, Joanna (or Juana) of Navarre, was buried beside him in 1437. In 1832, the tomb was opened to check the veracity of the story that Henry’s body was had been thrown into the Thames en route to Canterbury and his face was seen in “complete preservation”.

Pictured (from top left): an illumination of Henry, the effigy of Henry and Joanna of Navarre, the ruins of Bolingbroke Castle and the ceiling of the Jerusalem Chamber which was decorated with the initial R, for Richard II.

Sources:

Given-Wilson, C. (2016) Henry IV. Yale University Press.

McNiven, P. (1985) ‘The problem of Henry IV's health, 1405–1413′, The English Historical Review, Volume C, Issue CCCXCVII.

Mortimer, I. (2007). The Fears of Henry IV, Vintage.

Stanley, A. (1880). ‘XII.—On an Examination of the Tombs of Richard II. and Henry III. in Westminster Abbey’. Archaeologia, 45(2).