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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 4 months ago

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Guide to Literary, Historical, Folklore and Alchemist Themes in "Nosferatu" (2024)

After my post about how the film itself debunks every "popular" view on “Nosferatu” (2024); and the ending explained through cast and crew interviews, (I did full breakdowns on here and on my personal blog), here’s a list of references in “Nosferatu” (2024):

Literary themes: "Dracula" by Bram Stoker (1897); and "Wuthering Heights" by Emily Brontë (1847);

Historical themes: early 19th century (1838), Victorian era. Strict gender roles; views on female sexuality (sickness; contagious; sin) as a marital duty, owned and controlled by their husbands; sexual repression/liberation; Ellen’s mediumship medicalized as “hysteria” and “melancholia”; “love” and “passion” as opposite concepts;

Folklore themes: Changeling (European); Strigoi myth (Balkans); Șolomonari (Romanian); Nachzehrer (Germanic);

Occult themes: Agrippa; Angels and daemons; Enchantress; Babalon and the Beast (New Age of Aquarius);

Alchemist themes:"Sylph" and Paracelsus; Humorism (Humoral theory); Alchemical Gold (Chrysopoeia; Gold-making); Myth of Isis and Osiris.

Literary themes

"Dracula" by Bram Stoker

"The Threat of Female Sexual Expression": Based on 1980's Feminist Literary Criticism (Second Wave of Feminism). the physical figure of the "sick woman" as one of the principal ways in which female sexuality manifests as a contagious disease (Lucy Westenra and her degeneration into vampirism) - Ellen's character as seen by the Victorian characters (especially Friedrich Harding)

19th century "Contagionism" theory: Victorian medicine on disease origin. Disease spread from individual to individual (neglecting environmental issues like polluted water or unhygienic spaces)

"I thought it was agreed you were to keep the girls from her. You mustn’t be swept up in her fairy ways."

Subverted Themes:

Robert Eggers subverted every literary theme in “Dracula”, like he said in one interview: “My influences are all very clear, and Nosferatu is a remake, after all,” Eggers says, yet he plays with the canon, with expectations and clichés – “hopefully subverting them to do something unexpected.”

The Promise of Christian Salvation: This is a Anti-Christian story, at its core. Religious items have no power against Orlok; the fact he can’t enter the Orthodox convent has nothing to do with God (but with him not being given entrance); the God-fearing and religious character (Anna) is the first to die; and the female heroine Ellen not only rejects God (calls it “destiny) but also says she needs no salvation (rejecting Christian salvation, completely);

Madness: Neither Ellen, Professor Von Franz nor Herr Knock are “lunatics”, but the Victorian characters think they are. Knock is in full control of his mental capacities, he’s just a religious fanatic obsessed in discovering Orlok’s secret to immortality and he’s behaving the way he does because he wants to become a strigoi, too, and will stop at nothing to achieve it (even seeking a “violent death” to seal the deal);

The Consequences of Modernity: Ellen’s character and the medicalization of her supernatural gifts and mediumship by Victorian society;

Money: in the novel it’s associated with Count Dracula evilness; here with the Victorian characters. Friedrich Harding (the Victorian patriarch) is wealthy and loans money to Thomas, who drowns himself in debt, in his ambition to climb the social ladder and being “no longer a pauper”. Ellen, the female heroine, rejects money. Orlok gives Thomas a sack of gold in exchange for his signature in the “covenant papers” (the divorce papers) as he’s paying for Ellen’s dowery;

The Threat of Female Sexual Expression: Ellen breaks Nosferatu curse and “saves the day” by embracing her sexuality.

"Wuthering Heights" by Emily Brontë

“I think that what ultimately rose to the top, as the theme or trope that was most compelling to me, was that of the demon-lover. In “Dracula,” the book by Bram Stoker, the vampire is coming to England, seemingly, for world domination. Lucy and Mina are just convenient throats that happen to be around. But in this “Nosferatu,” he’s coming for Ellen. This love triangle that is similar to “Wuthering Heights,” the novel, was more compelling to me than any political themes.”

Dream of Death: Robert Eggers on “Nosferatu” Interview

Love triangle between a free-spirited and medicalized woman (Catherine/Ellen) with a beastly men (Heathcliff/Orlok) and a gentleman (Edgar/Thomas);

Themes of the all-consuming, obsessive and self-destructive passion, wrecking the lives of everyone around them and only stops when they are both dead;

The Destructive Power of Love;

Blend of Hatred and Love;

Separated by death/United by death; couldn’t be together in life, united in death and reunited in the spiritual world.

Historical Themes

Historical context: early 19th century (1838), Victorian era

Strict gender roles: marriage and motherhood as a woman’s destiny; social reputation and provider as a men’s destiny; domestic (women) vs. public (men) spheres;

Infantilization of women: the ideal Victorian woman was a model of virtue, purity and modesty who obeyed their husbands; women were seen as innocent, ignorant and naïve about the world, and were thought to have no minds of their own; the average Victorian woman wasn't allowed to be educated nor possess knowledge outside of domestic life. A woman’s entire life revolved around men: obeying their fathers, preparing for marriage, seeking an husband and as a wife, living for her husband;

Women as their husbands' property; marriage was the institution where Victorian men fully accomplished their male responsibility and privilege: to form a household, provide safety and comfort, and exercise authority over dependents (wife and children) where the trademark of a successful man. This was also connected to their social and professional success, making them respectful in the eyes of other men. A man who couldn’t govern his wife was also seen as unfit, socially, professionally and morally; and the wife’s behavior would reflect on the husband (which is why Friedrich Harding accuses Ellen of being a social embarrassment to Thomas);

"I envy you. You’ve truly taken your father’s place now… it’s incredible."

Victorian views on female sexuality: female sexuality seen as a plague and a monstrosity in need of containment (sickness, contagious, wicked, sin); women should have no sexual desire whatsoever (Ellen's shame; "I'm unclean"); married heterosexual sex was the only socially acceptable sexual expression in the Victorian era, and everything else (masturbation, homosexuality, prostitution, etc.) was considered deviant, “sinful” and “evil”; sex was a marital duty women had to go through to have children and serve their husbands (women’s sexuality owned and controlled by their husbands);

Sexual repression/liberation, represented by her corset, as Linda Muir, the costume designer, reveals in her interview "The Costumes of ‘Nosferatu’ Are Gorgeous - They Also Tell a Story About Female Repression and Liberation": “Her [Ellen] true nature [takes over] in the end. She liberates herself by ripping herself open, ripping her striped dress open. She liberates herself by wearing the same garment over and over and over again when she’s staying at Harding’s home. So she’s liberated herself in that she doesn’t feel the need to dress up completely each and every day. And then she liberates herself completely in the end.”

“Love” and “Passion” as opposite concepts: Victorian love (Thomas) was meant to be chaste, modest and restrained, tempered devotion confined to the household; and the sacrament of marriage ("sacred") was meant to repress and contain "passion". Passion (Orlok), on the other hands, was erotism, sexuality and sexual desire, considered "animalistic" and corruptive.

"Find the dignity to display the respect to your caretaker. And for your husband’s sake, I pray you might learn to conduct yourself with more deference."

Ellen’s mediumship medicalized as “hysteria” and “melancholia”: Robert Eggers tells us: “[Ellen is a] victim to 19th-century society […] she can see into another realm, and has a certain kind of understanding that she doesn’t have the language for,” Eggers said. “But people are calling her melancholic and hysteric and all of these things.” and in another interview: “she [Ellen] has this understanding of this other world, and this other way of thinking that she doesn’t have language for, so she’s isolated. But the pull to it is very strong, and so people consider her melancholic and hysterical, and we can see her fighting within herself. I think having it stem from the realities of a woman who’s a victim of 19th-century society is something that makes it hopefully work."

And in another: “she’s [Ellen] as much a victim of 19th-century society as she is a victim of the vampire. People talk a lot about Lily-Rose Depp’s character’s sexual desire, which is a massive part of the character, of what she experiences — being shut down, and corseted up, and tied to the bed, and quieted with ether. Misunderstood, misdiagnosed. But it’s more than that. She has an innate understanding about the shadow side of the world that we live in that she doesn’t have language for. This gift and power that she has isn’t in an environment where it’s being cultivated, to put it mildly. It’s pretty tragic. Then she makes the ultimate sacrifice, and she’s able to reclaim this power through death.”

“She’s [Ellen] an outsider. She has this understanding about the shadow side of life that is very deep, but she doesn’t have language for that. She’s totally misunderstood and no one can see her […] this demon lover, this vampire, who is the one being who can connect with that side of her." (x)

“Ellen’s husband loves her, but he can’t understand these ‘hysteric’ and ‘melancholic’ feelings she’s experiencing, and he’s dismissive of her. The only person she really finds a connection with is this monster, and that love triangle is so compelling to me, partially because of how tragic it is.” (x)

The Victorian characters and Victorian society are the actual villains of the story; which subverts, another theme of the "Dracula" novel (where the titular vampire is the villain).

Folklore Themes

Changeling (European folklore)

"Father… he would find me in our fields… within the forest… as if – I was his little changeling girl."

“Changelings” are human-like creatures from European folklore. They are children kidnapped by fairies, elves or demons and a substitute child being left in their place. Ellen's father called her this because she she enjoyed playing and being in nature, when she was supposed to be indoors (domestic sphere).

Strigoi (Balkan Folklore)

Count Orlok: quintessential strigoi morti, a undead creature from Dacian mythology and, consequently, from Romanian folklore, who raises from its grave to feed on the living and must return to it before dawn:

Appearance: walking corpse; bald and leathery; skin infested with maggots, cracked and oozing with putrescence and decay; long, spidery fingers; fangs cannot be retracted (sores on his lips and chin); dressed in moldy, torn out clothing (the one he was buried in);

Cause of curse: Ellen resurrected Orlok and cursed him at the prologue (confirmed four times in the film). Connected with his tragic backstory Robert Eggers won't share with the public (but influenced Bill Skarsgård entire performance and gives meaning to the ending of the film); late 16th century voivoide (count) from Transylvania, was married (couple bedroom where he attacks Thomas) and had a family (multiple sarcophaguses on his castle cript);

Characteristics: "psychic vampire"; it's not blood he feeds on specifically, but souls (soul trapped in the blood), and that's what sustains him (and that's why Thomas had to be exorcised). Plague-carrier ("blood plague"); controls animals (rats and wolves); astral projection powers (shadow); and manipulation of dreams (nightmares to create fear).

Haunting: strigoi haunt the person they loved the most when they were alive, and drag them to their grave. Reincarnation theme.

Strigoi "repelling" blessings and tokens:

“Dau cu ustoroi de strigoi”

Ritual to locate a strigoi grave:

"The means of repelling and destroying vary greatly from region to region [...] Their efficacy is plainly unknown. Boiling wine, a spike of cold iron transpiercing the navel, decapitation, incineration…" Professor Von Franz to Dr. Sievers

A virgin girl on horseback will be attracted to the strigoi grave and locate it. Then the strigoi can be killed. Here with a spike of cold iron. This ritual is all wrong on purpose, because it’s usually a black stallion and done during the day (when strigoi are resting on their graves). No strigoi was killed in this scene because the Roma people work for Orlok (as in the "Dracula" novel) and he wanted Thomas to see this ritual.

Șolomonari (Romanian Folklore)

"A black enchanter he [Orlok] was in life. Solomonari. The Devil preserved his soul that his corpse may walk again in blaspheme."

Șolomonari are dark wizards from Romanian folklore, who were believed to ride a dragon (“balaur”) and control the weather (rain, thunder, storms), and usually lived as beggars. The were frequently recruited among the common people and taught black magic at the Solomonărie (or “Scholomance”, in the Germanic version); some call it “Devil’s school”, others “School of the Dragon”. They are said to be taught by the Devil himself, and their school was located underground, in the Carpathian Mountains, in Transylvania. The name Șolomonari is often associated with King Solomon and alchemy.

According to folklore, there were seven, ten or thirteen students, who didn’t saw the sunlight during the seven or nine years duration of their studies. Some accounts describe them as “strigoi vii” (living strigoi; wizards and witches); but this isn’t Orlok’s case otherwise Robert Eggers wouldn’t be so secretive about his backstory (the reason for his curse is something else). At the Solomonărie, they learned magic (spells), the secrets of nature and the language of all living things; as well as ride flying dragons and control the rain.

As their final assignment to become a Șolomonar, they had to copy their entire knowledge of humanity into a “Șolomonar’s book”, a book of wisdom, which would become the source of their power. Which is what we see in “Nosferatu” with the Șolomonar codex of secrets Professor Von Franz finds in Herr Knock’s office; it was written by Orlok himself.

At the end, it’s said one of the students was chosen by the Devil to be the “Weathermaker” and tasked with riding a dragon to control the weather. This dragon was said to be kept submerged in a mountaintop lake, south of Sibiu. While the other was selected to be servant to the Devil himself; which is what the Orthodox Nuns believe Orlok to be, as does Professor Von Franz.

“Our Nosferatu is of an especial malignancy. He is an arch-enchanter, Solomonari, Satan's own learned disciple.”

However, Orlok is no “devil worshipper”, because like his iconography tells us, he’s a Pagan enchanter, follower of the Dacian god Zalmoxis, owner of the secrets of life and death.

The "demonized Pagan": the connection between Zalmoxis worship and the folkloric Șolomonari began in the early 20th century by Romanian social scientist Traian Herseni, who proposed the “Dacian cloud travelers” and “Șolomonari weathermakers” are connected, and this myth has its roots in Dacian religion. Nowadays, this theory is openly embraced by xenoarchaeologist Jason Colavito. No matter the historic validity, this is the interpretation Robert Eggers is using in “Nosferatu” (2024).

Orlok sigil: an heptagram (seven-pointed star) surrounded by a Dacian Draco ouroboros (rebirth; reincarnation; immortality); the letters are cyrillic for “Zalmoxis”; the center is the alchemist symbol for blood; the symbols appear to be Vinča; archeological findings in Romania with these symbols being over 8,000 and 6,500 years old, and consider by many as the oldest form of human writing, but their meaning is still unknown (they are here either to show Orlok comes from an ancient bloodline; or he has known reincarnations throughout the ages)

Heptagrams are connected to the seven elements of Alchemy but aren’t represented like this. Heptagrams are also connected to divine feminine goddesses, like Babalon and Isis.

Nachzehrer (Germanic Folklore)

When Professor Von Franz discovers the Șolomonari book in Herr Knock's office, he also finds a cryptic writting: "His thunder roars from clouds of carcasses, I feedeth on my shroud, and death avails me not. For I am his.”

This is based on Germanic folklore, where the "nachzehrer", also known as "shroud eater", is a sort of vampire who needs to devour both its burial shroud and body in order to survive. It's immortal, and lives off humans even after death. In folklore, it's believed the most common way for a person to become a nachzehrer is to commit suicide or die accidentally (which is what happens to Herr Knock and what he was seeking). It's also associated with disease, for in Germanic folklore, when a large number of people die because of a plague, the first people to have succumbed to it would be transformed into a nachzehrer.

Occult Themes

Agrippa

"He [Professor Von Franz] became obsessed with the work of Paracelsus, Agrippa, and the like [...] Alchemy, mystic philosophy… the occult."

Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim was one of the most famous occultists in Europe in the 16th century. He was a versatile scholar, and knowledgeable in the fields of science, medicine, magic, philosophy and theology. However, he was dismissed as a charlatan and self-promoter by many, while others praised him for his pioneer role in the scientific revolution, especially due to his intellectual curiosity (in opposition to the church authority).

His works incorporated elements of the cabala, numerology, mathematics and theology; a mix of Christianity, Neo-Platonism and occult science. His most notorious treaty is called “The Nobility of the Feminine Sex” (1532) where he asserts the natural superiority of women, and counterarguments Greek and Roman philosophers and even the Christian Bible, advocating for social gender equality.

Professor Von Franz is probably based on Agrippa, mostly his “reputation” as a charlatan and self-promoter (he’s an outcast in Victorian society and considered a “lunatic”), and he's the only human character who recognizes and respects Ellen’s supernatural gifts, as well as her agency.

Angels and daemons

When Professor Von Franz tries to determine with whom Ellen is communicating with, he uses his Abraxas stone ring to compel her to speak, and he conjures both angels and demons during this scene:

"Who, damn you!? Speak!! I command you, hearken to my voice. By the protection of Chamuel, Haniel, and Zadkiel, impart your speech unto me. In the name of Eligos, Orabas, and Asmoday, impart your speech unto me."

Chamuel: Also known as Kamael, "One who seeks God", is the angel of peaceful relationships, and considered one of the seven Archangels (who have the honor of living in God's direct presence in Heaven) by Jewish Kabbalah and some Christians;

Haniel: "Joy of God", is the Archangel of joy who's known for taking Enoch to Heaven;

Zadkiel: "righteousness of God", is the angel of God's mercy;

Eligos: is a "Great Duke of Hell", ruling 60 legions of demons. He reveals hidden things and knows the future of wars;

Orabas: is a "Great Prince of Hell", with 20 legions of demons under his control. He answers questions and gives one power and control over others;

Asmoday: is the "King of Demons", in the legends of Solomon and the constructing of Solomon's Temple.

Abraxas stone rings were considered magical talismans or charms since the Middle-ages, connected to the Seven Olympic Spirits (Aratron (Saturn); Bethor (Jupiter); Phaleg (Mars); Och (Sun); Hagith (Venus); Ophiel (Mercury) and Phul (Moon)); and to Gnosticism (personal spiritual knowledge above organized religion), who considered Abraxas as “the God above all Gods”.

This is also connected to Agrippa, “Occult Philosophy”, book three, which covers the intellectual world of Pagan gods and spirits (including angels and demons), and gives magical procedures for invocation and communication with them, as well as with God (sigils, amulets, magical alphabets, sound, perfumes, etc.); and the kabbalistic tree of life (hierarchies of angels and Demons associated with each sephirot). The idea behind this conjuring is to infuse the lower angelic orders with the light they receive from God, as they instruct the orders.

Enchantress

Ellen has been a somnambulist since infancy, and she always had supernatural abilities; premonitions (“I know things”), as she would know what her Christmas presents were before opening them, and when her mother would die, which indicates she always had a connection to the spiritual world.

Professor Von Franz recognizes Ellen's spiritual power and ability to communicate with the spiritual world (“I believe she has always been highly conductive to these cosmic forces, uniquely so”). She's a medium (or a psychic); someone with the ability to connect with the spirits of deceased loved ones, spirit guides, and other non-physical entities.

What the Victorian doctors call “hysterical fits” and “epilepsies”, are, in fact, trance-like states of spiritual communication (trance mediumship), similar to Pagan priestesses. Like Von Franz tells the audience, Ellen inhabits the “borderland”, a peripheral area, a portal between the two worlds: the physical (matter) and the spiritual. And this is what Victorian society medicalizes in Ellen, and tries to restrain with drugs and corsets, not only her sexual nature, but her spiritual power, her own nature.

Orlok calls Ellen "enchantress". Historically, enchantresses were practitioners of feminine magic: oracles, healers, herbalists, midwives and shamanic shapeshifters. They were what’s commonly known as “witches”. These female magicians studied and practiced their art in goddess temples, mystery schools, alchemy schools and hedge schools. The alchemists of the Middle-ages studied these dynastic lineages of “wise women”, and they had several names: "enchantresses", "chantresses", "encantrices", or "incantrix".

Ellen is, then, a "incantrix": uses words, incantations, songs, spells and prayers to shape reality. They were, also, the priestess of an old religion (as Professor Von Franz also calls her "great priestess of Isis"), gifted with magic power and authority to command the elements or the body by the power of their word.

Babalon and the Beast (New Age of Aquarius)

The birth of the New Aquarius was already the occult meaning of the original 1922 “Nosferatu”, because Albin Grau was a student of the occult and a member of the Fraternitas Saturni (German magical order devoted to Saturnian doctrines) under the magical name Master Pacitius. Within the occult leaders there was tension due to their beliefs, and Grau eventually sided with Aleister Crowley Thelema (which views we see in Eggers “Nosferatu”).

While Stoker saw Count Dracula as pure evil, Grau reinterpreted the vampire as a symbol of transformation through confrontation with darkness. Saturn, in esoteric tradition, represents restriction, death, and rebirth (the forces that initiate profound spiritual change). Grau viewed the vampire as a reflection of these principles, a shadowy force that compels the aspirant to face mortality, fear, and their own inner darkness. And his death symbolized the birth of the New Age of Aquarius (Saturn as ruler of Aquarius), a new era of collective awakening and innovation.

Robert Eggers included the divine feminine (Babalon), his heroine is already a dark character, as he describes his Ellen as “dark chthonic female heroine”, who makes the ultimate sacrifice to "reclaim this power through death". Chthonic = gods or spirits who inhabit the Underworld; and, in his version, Orlok gifts Ellen with immortality and rebirth (not death like in the original "Nosferatu").

When Ellen and Thomas are returning home, there’s a man in the streets rambling bits from the “Book of Revelations” (Apocalipse) from the Bible: “And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, owith ten horns and seven heads, with ten diadems on its horns and blasphemous names on its heads.” (Revelations, 13:1).

This passage is about Orlok arrival and his "blood plague", but there's a character (also from the "Book of Revelations") connected to this beast: the Whore of Babylon, the “Mother of Prostitutes and All Abominations of the Earth”, and she rides this Beast, which is the same as Crowley’s Babalon. What Crowley did was a positive reinterpretation of this biblical figure, symbolizing liberated female sexuality by embracing the powers of the Divine Harlot.

Initiatrix, Creator and Destroyer, Babalon is the “Great Mother” because she represents Mother Earth. Like Isis, she’s the Archetypical Mother, the Womb, the Great Sea and the Divine Blood itself. According to Crowley, the “whore/harlot” facet is about enjoying sex without the burden of reproduction; and the “mother of abominations” connects with destruction like natural catastrophes, plagues, etc. She’s the ruler of the cosmological sphere and both good and evil (as evil as elemental forces can be or are considered as). Babalon is the guardian of the Seven Principles of the Underworld, a place of darkness and transformation. Babalon is also the goddess of the liminal point, who can access other realms. As Goddess of vengeance, Babalon punishes when life is out of balance, and exerts violence and corruption upon those who are in the wrong. Ellen ("mother of abominations") unleashes Orlok onto the world, and we can interpret him bringing plague into Wisburg as Ellen’s reckoning against Victorian society, which ostracizes her and will never accept her.

According to the Thelema, Babalon is the “Sacred Whore”, and her primary symbol is the Chalice or Graal (symbolic womb). She’s a consort to the Beast, who has seven heads, which is symbolically represented in her heptagram sigil (parallelling Orlok's heptagram). To Crowley these are archetypes in his Sex Magick beliefs: the “Scarlet Woman” is the High Priestess, and the “Beast” is the Hierophant: Ellen (the priestess, enchantress) and Orlok (priest-shamam; enchanter). Orlok is described as a “beast” several times in the film, and he says Ellen’s passion is bound to him, like Babalon’s passion is united with the Beast.

All rites and initiations of the Underworld Goddesses include rites of sex and death. Which is what we see with Ellen at the end of “Nosferatu” (2024). By Thelemic occult tradition, she, the manifestation of Babalon, has sex with the Beast (Orlok), “representing the passion which unites them” and her womb (Holy Grail; cup) is “aflame with love and death” (sexual climax, orgasm, with an un-dead vampire), to give birth to the New Age of Aquarius.

Crowley described Babalon:

“She rides astride the Beast; in her left hand she holds the reins, representing the passion which unites them. In her right she holds aloft the cup, the Holy Grail aflame with love and death. In this cup are mingled the elements of the sacrament of the Aeon”.

"the cup, the Holy Grail" = womb

"Aflame" = orgasm

"with love and death" = sex with undead Orlok

"sacrament of the Aeon" = the "aeon" in Thelema is a spiritual age, in this case it's Ellen's womb who gives birth to the New Age of Aquarius

Alchemy Themes

"Sylph" and Paracelsus

"Do extend my tardy congratulations to your wife. She is truly a… A nonpareil of beauty. Almost a sylph." Herr Knock to Thomas Hutter

A “sylph” is air spirit (or nymph) from the 16th century works of Swiss physician, alchemist and theologist Paracelsus, with roots in folklore. Sylphs are invisible beings of air (or air elementals), connected to fairies and pixies. On his “A Book on Nymphs, Sylphs, Pygmies and Salamanders, and Other Spirits”, Paracelsus described the four elemental beings, each corresponding to one: Salamanders (fire), Gnomes (Earth), Undines (water) and sylphs (air).

Sylphs are formed and live in air, and they have power over the air element, particularly the wind and the clouds, where they move freely. They do not fare well outside of their element; they burn in fire, drown in water and get stuck in earth. They are portrayed as the guardians of secret knowledge, and protectors of nature.

During the 19th century, there was a renewed interest in sylphs in European society, especially in theatre, where they appeared in several plays and operas as ethereal, graceful, charming and ultimately unattainable.

Ellen is compared to a fairy three times in the narrative: by Herr Knock ("sylph"), by her father ("his little changeling girl") and Friedrich Harding ("her fairy ways"). We also see her floating at the prologue when she meets Orlok.

Humorism (Humoral theory)

“You [Dr. Sievers] have bled her to decrease the congestion? […] And her menstruations are also? [Liberal]. Too much blood. Too much.”

Professor Von Franz physically examines Ellen, as her trance is beginning, and determines she has “too much blood”: in connection to “Humorism” (or “humoral theory”) with possible origins in Ancient Egyptian medicine, and then used by Ancient Greeks and Romans. Hippocrates suggested that humors are the vital bodily fluids, and they are four: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. This belief was common during Middle-ages in Europe.

Ellen having “too much blood” means she has a sanguine temperament (not a melancholic temperament); it was believed that, when in good health, “sanguines” are cheerful and loving; but when there’s an imbalance, they are “hysterical”, which is what Victorian doctors also diagnose Ellen as (“hysteria”).

The treatment is bloodletting (bleed the patient, drain their blood; a practice still used in the early 19th century), to remove the excessive blood; which is what Von Franz also advices in Ellen’s case. “Congestion”, in the medical sense of this time period, means “containing an unnatural accumulation of fluid”, in Ellen’s case it’s blood. This diagnose will come full circle when Thomas and Dr. Sievers discover that Orlok is with Ellen when they go to Grünewald Manor. Von Franz tells them “She wills it! Your wife wills it!” and Orlok himself “can’t resist her blood", which means Orlok cannot resist Ellen, herself.

Mutual healing theme: At the end, Orlok drains Ellen of her excessive blood, balancing her “sanguine temperament” and ending her “hysteria” and “melancholy” (he also gives her an orgasm, a nod to hysteria as repressed and frustrated female sexuality); and Ellen’s love and willing sacrifice sets their spirits free from the rotten vessel they were trapped in ("and freed them from the plague of Nosferatu"); as they are reunited in the spiritual realm, now fully healed.

Alchemical Gold (Chrysopoeia; Gold-making)

"I had nearly unlocked the final key of the Mysteriorum Libri Quinque. No… No matter. I miscalculated the stars. Hermes will not render my black sulfur gold this evening." Professor Von Franz to Dr. Sievers and Friedrich Harding

“Mysteriorum Libri Quinque” is part of a collection of mystic writings by mathematician, hermetic philosopher and astronomer Dr. John Dee (16th century). An avid learner of the secrets of nature, he made no distinctions between mathematical research and the supernatural (which he considered mere tools to achieve a transcendent understanding of divine forms underlying the visible world, called “pure verities”). In 1580, he began experimenting with evocations to contact and communicate with angels, and Edward Kelly joined him in this project in 1582. They both documented every interaction they had with angels and wrote about their language, which they called “Enochian”. This collection of esoteric writings was only found, by accident, after John Dee’s death.

Alchemy, at its core, is the transmutation of base materials (lead, etc.) into noble materials (gold), and the pursuit of immortality (“philosopher’s stone”). Occultists reinterpreted this as a spiritual quest of self-transformation, purification and regeneration of the human soul. Hence physical death being seen as a gateway to another life (rebirth, reincarnation).

Both Ellen and Orlok evolve from a diseased and corruptive state (physical world; black sulfur) into regenerative and perfect state (spiritual world; gold), after being purified by fire (Sun). Their old selves are empty shells, as their spirits ascend. This also finds parallel in the myth of Isis and Osiris, as they both went from “daemons” to Gods in the Plutarch essay.

"I believe only you have the faculty to redeem us [...] You are our salvation."

At the end, Von Franz succeeds in transform black sulfur into gold, as he, too, emerges redeemed and avenged by Ellen’s fulfilling her covenant with Orlok.

In modern occult beliefs, alchemy is considered as a mystical system designed to transmute the soul from a “base” or “leaden” state of spiritual impurity to a “gold” or purified state of divinity, with the chemical procedures of alchemy being an elaborate metaphor for psycho-spiritual development. This idea was popularized by Carl Jung, among others.

In alchemy, this “gold” wasn’t like common gold, it was a miraculous, incorruptible substance, “the true and indubitable treasure”, which could only be perceived by those who can see with their mind’s eye: “Nolite dare sanctum canibus” (“Do not reveal what is sacred to dogs”) and “Neque mittatis margaritas vestra ante porcos” (“Nor cast your pearls before swine”).

Myth of Isis and Osiris

"In heathen times you might have been a great priestess of Isis."

The “Osiris Myth” is one of the major surviving pieces of Egyptian mythology. It’s a ancient tale, with its early versions dating back to the 5th Dynasty (c. 24th century B.C.). It has known several adaptations throughout Egyptian history. The most complete version is in “The Moralia” by the 1st-century scholar Plutarch of Chaeronea, a collection of essays about Greco-Roman culture; that became very popular during the Renaissance era (14-16th centuries) and the Enlightenment period (18th century) in Europe.

Isis and Osiris were brothers, and according to Ancient Egyptian religion, they were in love with one another before they were born, and enjoyed each other in the dark before they came into the world. They eventually married. They had a brother, Seth (or Typhon in Plutarch essays), the God of deserts, storms, disorder and violence, who murdered Osiris to take his throne. He tricked Osiris into climbing into a wooden chest/coffin, shut the lid, sealed it shut, and threw it down the Nile River, knowing Osiris would never be able to survive. In some versions, it’s said Seth cut Osiris body into pieces and scattered them throughout Egypt.

Osiris had two facets as a God: in life, he was the God of fertility, agriculture, and vegetation, being considered a “Shepherd God”; in death, he was the God of the Underworld, the judge and Lord of Dead, the afterlife and resurrection. The pharaohs of Ancient Egypt were associated with Osiris in death, because as he rose from the dead, so would they unite with him and gain eternal life through imitative magic. Which is also the whole deal between Orlok and Herr Knock in “Nosferatu” (2024), as Knock seeks to gain immortality like Orlok, by serving him.

Isis is the epitome of the mourning widow in this myth, as she mourns Osiris’ death deeply. Here enters the symbolism of the lilacs in "Nosferatu", the symbolic flowers of Ellen and Orlok: in the Victorian era, they were associated with widows because they represented a memento of a deceased lover. Isis sought for Osiris’ mangled body and with help of tree other Gods (Nepthys, Thoth and Anubis), they sew Osiris’ body back together, and then wrapped it head to toe in strips of linen, creating a mummy. Orlok’s corpse appears almost mummified at the end of the story.

In the Osiris myth, Isis uses powerful magic (incantations and magic spells) to bring her dead lover back to life; similar to Ellen who resurrects Orlok with her summoning prayer. In one version, this happened on a night of the full moon; in “Nosferatu” (2024) we also have a full moon connected to Ellen and Orlok, in the prologue, when he reveals himself to her:

According to Ancient Egyptian funerary texts, it’s Isis sorrow, sexual desire and anger that empower her magic to be able to bring Osiris back to life. When Ellen prays for a companion of “any celestial sphere” in the prologue, she’s crying (sorrow), she’s upset because her father recoils from her now that she’s no longer a child (anger) and she’s in her teenage years/puberty (sexual desire). Like Isis with Osiris, it’s the combination of these emotions that power her magic to unconsciously resurrect Orlok.

However, Osiris can’t remain among the living, because he has to return to the Underworld and become King of the Afterlife. But before he goes, Osiris and Isis conceive Horus, the God of the sun and the sky, who will restore peace and order to the universe. In “Nosferatu” (2024), Professor Von Franz says that “with Jove’s holy light” before dawn, the plague will be lifted. “Jove” is Jupiter, the “King of the skies”, who’s connected with the Egyptian Horus. Horus and Ra are often merged together in Ancient Egyptian religion, making Isis and Osiris the metaphorical parents of the Sun.

In “Nosferatu” (2024), as Orlok and Ellen complete their covenant, consummate their wedding, the sun is also the metaphorical result of their union. As dawn breaks, the sunlight vanquishes them both from the physical world, as they both die in the material realm. After being buried by Isis, Osiris goes into the Underworld to rule over it. And from then on, Isis herself is also associated with funeral rites, as she would guide the souls of the dead, helping them entering the afterlife. Through her magic, Isis helped resurrecting the souls of the dead, as she did with Osiris, acting as a mother to the deceased, providing protection and nourishment. At the end of "Nosferatu" (2024) we see Ellen fulfilling her role as “priestess of Isis” (or as Isis herself?), as the Goddess of healing, who ends the Nosferatu curse, the blood plague in Wisburg, and also guides her dead lover Orlok with her to the Underworld.

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grumpyeagleandfriends · 2 months ago

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To Flee, To Gather

Summary: The team find themselves in the Balkans in the spring of 1999, in a small town near the Serbian-Albanian border. Nicky and Joe stumble upon a tragic scene inside one home.

A glimpse into their thoughts on children.

A/N: A pre-cannon one shot with lots of angst.

I was watching a multi-part documentary on Yugoslavia in the 90s and this one shot was inspired by that. The conflicts in that region were not very long ago and relations remain tense to this day. This is purely fiction and in no way meant to take sides or make any kind of statement.

This story features death, specifically child death.

Hurt/Comfort. Angst. War themes. Death. Blood and Injury. Joe & Nicky centric, pre-Nile joining the team. Nicky is a licensed doctor and I cannot believe that Rucka hasn't acknowledged this fact in the cannon yet. Like C'MON. Can't be alive for a thousand years with the one goal of serving others and not learn medicine. Give me a break.

It's close.

They arrive in the village of Dragaš very shortly after a group of combatants, maybe only a question of a couple of hours. After days of aerial strikes and ground fighting in the region, many of the homes and buildings are pockmarked by bullet holes and in states of near collapse. Dragaš is no exception, and it wears the wounds of the on-going war openly. The tumbled facades of concrete buildings reveal skeletal rebar, the occasional glimpse of a tiled kitchen or a carpeted living room, once intimate spaces now open to the sky. In the silence, a lone goat picks through the debris, nosing at a spilled sack of grain. The mountains loom over the village, stoic and indifferent, birds settle on telephone wires.

The four of them are exhausted from only two weeks on the ground. The scenes are the same everywhere they go, and their mission never changes: gather survivors, treat the injured who are savable, then move everyone fit for transport over the border to safety. The victims they find alive are almost uniquely women and children. The men in each town are dead or captured, too often this includes the elderly and boys as young as thirteen.

The work of clearing through the village is slow. Forty odd homes and a dozen scattered shops take hours to sweep. There are wounded to tend and bodies to clear, many of the dirt roads are muddy from several days of rainfall. The last house they reach is eerily intact — miraculously spared by the bombs, its walls barely grazed by gunfire. Clean laundry still flutters on a bullet-stitched balcony. When they step past the low stone wall into the garden, the silence tightens around them. A child’s bicycle lies capsized in the mud. A frayed football rests before a chalk-drawn goal on the wall. A rope swing drifts from a thick branch, its seat empty.

The front door gapes open. They know that there are only two options: the inhabitants either fled or were not spared.

Before any of them can speak, Andy turns to face the group.

"Book, with me. We can start walking the survivors up the road." She issues the command while moving back to the gate, never looking over her shoulder to see if he's following her. "Joe and Nicky, clear this place. Meet us at the school."

Booker lingers. His gaze snags on the toys strewn across the front garden. For a moment, the weight of the past days presses visible on him: shoulders bowing, jaw clenching. He blinks hard, hefts his rifle.

"Coming, boss."

Nicky watches him stalk off in the direction Andy left. He knows that Booker will undoubtedly grumble, but he makes a note to check in on their brother later that evening. He's the only one on their team to have held sons in his arms. No one will outwardly acknowledge Andy's act for what it truly is, but they all know that it is a small moment of mercy.

Joe’s hand brushes Nicky’s arm, a silent focus to bring him back to their task. Together, they quickly comb around the perimeter of the house, making sure that no one is outside before finally breaching the front door. Nicky enters first, rifle ready.

Downstairs in the front sitting room, they find a man lying dead across the floor, dressed in an undershirt and sweatpants, still wearing house shoes. His hands are bound and it's clear that he was executed through the back of the head. Signs of a struggle appear a few paces in front of the narrow staircase. A broken vase lies in scattered pieces, a woman's body is crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood, wearing a light blue bathrobe. She was shot several times.

"Nicky..." Joe's eyes are trained on the papered wall near the stairs. There is one small, lone photograph of the family that hangs crooked, only one corner of the frame sits correctly on the nails hammered into the plaster. The man and woman sit smiling on the same brown sofa in the front room of the home, smartly dressed with two boys on their laps.

To see the faces of the family all together, smiling and alive, makes the air around them suddenly smell stale and putrid. They don't know the woman's name, but they can only imagine that she tried to stop the soldiers who entered from going upstairs.

They must urgently check for the children, but Joe is unable to tear his eyes away from the woman lying down on her side. His look is tender, almost apologetic.

"We need to move her first. It's not right to leave her like this." He says decidedly, already sliding the strap of his rifle so his weapon rests on his back.

Together, he and Nicky maneuver her body into the sitting room, setting her carefully on the sofa. They take the additional time to move her husband next to her, positioning them so they sit side by side.

Nicky can only think how macabre it is to be positioning them exactly like the crooked photo hanging on the wall.

They waste no time before turning toward the staircase. The wooden steps groan under their weight as they charge up, each creak a trespass in the hollowed-out silence.

At the top, the scene they find is unspeakable.

There are two doors, each leading to a bedroom. On the left, the door to the parents' bedroom yawns open, there's a rumpled quilt half-dragged toward the hallway. The other door is smaller, its frame chipped with crayon marks. Inside, metal framed twin beds sit askew. The bodies of two young boys are perfectly still, pillows pressed over their faces, the fabric puckered around the bullet holes. One of the boys looks to be around ten, the other one much younger. They are both still dressed in pajamas.

A stuffed bear lies face down beside the smaller boy's bed.

Joe's eyes close. He exhales, soft and controlled, but his hands stay clenched around the stock of his gun, white-knuckled and useless. He cannot help but think about the men who committed the act, about their choice to cover the boys' faces before execution. Could it be considered cowardice or a perverse way of trying to soften the atrocity?

Nicky is the first of them to move.

He sets aside his rifle and bag before stepping toward the far bed. When he lifts the pillow, the boy beneath looks peaceful—eyes closed, lips slightly parted—as if merely sleeping, save for the neat, dark hole in his forehead. Nicky hesitates, then draws him gently into his arms. He carries the limp body reverently, taking the time to make sure his lolling head rests upright against his shoulder. Downstairs, he lays the boy between his parents on the sofa, tucking him close as though for warmth, murmuring a soft apology to his unhearing ears.

Joe goes to the bed of the younger boy last. He's no older than four or five, and it takes several long seconds to gather the necessary courage to lift the pillow from his face.

Time stands still once he does.

Blood saturates the hair at his crown, the mattress beneath him is stained in an expanding rust-colored bloom. Unlike his brother, there’s no clear entry wound at the center of his forehead. His eyes are open, though glassy and unfocussed. His nostrils subtly flare with each rapid and shallow breath, yet he doesn’t cry out. It’s unclear how long he’s been lying there. He’s frozen in a mix of shock and terror — his system too overwhelmed to react.

Joe barks Nicky’s name. The sound of fear and surprise in his voice rips through silence of the home like gunfire.

Thunderous stomping is heard on the steps, and it seems barely a second passes before he’s back in the room. The urgency in Joe's tone has him holding his sidearm in one hand, but he promptly shoves it into the back waistband of his jeans when he sees his husband sitting beside an awake child.

Joe's hand rests on the boy's knee. He’s speaking to him in rushed, simple Albanian — his voice strained.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled. It’s okay. This is my friend. He’s a doctor."

Nicky stoops to grab his bag before he crosses the floor, already yanking off his tactical gloves with his teeth before pulling out a fresh pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket. He reaches over to make brief contact with Joe’s shoulder as he lowers himself down onto the opposite side of the small bed — a silent communication of It's all right, I’m here.

Gently, he combs back the boy’s dusty brown hair.

“Va tutto bene, piccolino. Fammi vedere, eh? ” The soft words curl warm in his throat.

With animals and small children, he always finds himself slipping into Italian. His mother tongue may technically be Zeneize, but over the centuries Italian became the language in which he best knows how to soothe and be soothed. It's the sound he associates the most with comfort, with the feeling of home — the language that he and Joe speak to each other.

His large hands cradle either side of the child’s skull. Carefully, he cranes forward so he can better inspect the wound. Most of the bleeding seems to have come to a stop. Even a small laceration or gash to the head will gush heavily, so Nicky’s not surprised by the amount of blood on the mattress. His fingers part the matted hair for a closer look, finding a four centimeter graze with no exposed bone, and no signs of crepitus upon gentle palpation.

It's nothing short of miraculous. The bullet looks to have only skimmed across the top of his scalp.

Nicky continues to speak quiet comforts to him. With one hand he pulls out a small penlight from his jacket and peers into the boy’s eyes, they’re blue-green not unlike his own. His blown pupils are equally reactive, both sluggishly tracking together. It's enough for Nicky to be sure that the damage to his head is only superficial. The moment he feels the boy's strong carotid pulse against his fingertips, he reflexively sighs out a hushed whisper of gratitude — to what exactly, he no longer cares to define. His own concept of God became indescribably complicated so long ago.

Physically, he knows this child will be fine. The graze from the bullet never touched his skull. Psychologically, there are wounds that he will carry until whenever he leaves this Earth.

This aspect of his trauma is evident to them both. Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, failure to acknowledge touch or sound, they have seen these symptoms too many times before — the mind's retreat when the body can't escape. The entire time Nicky examines him, he never makes a noise, he’s limp and cooperative while his head is gently lifted and turned. Even when Joe touches his knee, squeezes his hand between his own, he remains stone still. Completely catatonic.

Their bodies sitting on either side of his bed mercifully block most of the room from view. The moment Nicky announces that he’s okay, before the boy can even try to move or look around, Joe bends and gathers him up. His hand molds around the back of his head, keeping his face tucked against his chest, not allowing him to see.

He speaks to him quietly as he carries him from the bedroom, down the staircase and out of the house. His Albanian is shit, but it’s thankfully enough to communicate on a child’s level. It's mostly promises that he's safe, that they are taking him to friends who will help, that they won't leave him.

Once outside, they find a garden hose along the side of the house. As gently as they can manage, Joe cradles the boy while Nicky cups a bit of water in his own hand to try and rinse some of the blood from his hair.

He should be crying.

It’s the only thought Joe has while he watches the boy’s face. He has saved enough children over nine centuries to know that the absence of tears can be more alarming than any wound. The water from the spout is cold, it undoubtedly stings when it makes contact with the scrapes along his scalp, but the boy only blinks, slow as a doll's glass eyes. They’re standing directly under the warmth of the early Spring sun, and Joe can feel the way he trembles in his arms.

“Basta, Nicolò, sta tremando…”

They cut the water, then dry his hair with a clean t-shirt from Nicky’s backpack.

Joe opens his mouth to suggest finding a blanket inside, but stops when he sees Nicky hastily shucking off his own jacket. It's a sherpa-lined denim one Joe bought him in Colorado decades ago, by far the warmest thing either of them can offer.

“He’s in shock.” He quietly insists while stepping over, helping wrap the material around the boy’s body. His thumb brushes against his small cheek, still no tears.

The walk to the other side of the small town takes only thirty minutes. Joe continues to speak to the boy off and on, if for nothing more than to keep his mind occupied in hopes that he won’t think about what happened back in that house. He weaves his broken Albanian into temporary distraction, listing the types of animals he sees in the neighboring fields, the names of the different vehicles and farm equipment they pass. His words are clumsy buoys in the silence, but the steady sounds coupled with the fresh air start to have an impact. The boy's eyes follow a circling hawk overhead, something in his gaze finally begins to thaw.

Joe adjusts his weight, now carrying him so he sits upright on his arm instead of cradled against his chest. He keeps the jacket wrapped around his body, folding the collar up so it protects the back of his neck. There’s still a chilly breeze in the air despite it being a warm day for early April.

He points to himself, pressing his hand against his chest before pronouncing "Jozef". Then he gestures over his shoulder to where Nicky casts a long shadow behind them, saying "Nikolla". The tip of his index finally touches the boy’s shoulder, and he asks if he can tell them his name or his age.

For several moments, there's only the sound of their boots walking over the muddy road. The child finally wriggles his hand out of Nicky’s jacket to show four fingers.

Ordinarily, Nicky would be the one to take point in these circumstances, walking in front with his rifle drawn, eyes scanning the rooftops. But there's no need in this gutted town that now lies still. He can detect no movement between the bullet riddled walls, all survivors are congregating at the school further down the road.

Instead he walks behind Joe, watching his attempts to try and interact with the child.

He can just see the top of the boy’s head resting on Joe’s shoulder. His pale blue eyes occasionally peek out, ignoring the coaxing smiles Nicky gives him, instead fixating on the ghostly sight of his vacant village.

The only other reaction they see from him comes every time a growling plane passes overhead. Nicky can’t help but grimace at the way he buries his face down against Joe, his arm sharply hooking around the man’s neck in panic.

Joe continues to walk along casually, his footsteps purposefully unrushed as he speaks reassurances into the boy’s ear, his hand smoothing up and down his back.

Sometime after the third plane passes over, Joe pivots smoothly on his heel and begins walking backwards. The grin he flashes Nicky is worn at the edges but warm. He jostles the boy gently, nodding for him to look over in Nicky's direction. Whatever secret he murmurs near his ear is impossible to parse, but the boy’s fingers creep into his mouth as he listens, his wide eyes fixed on Nicky with something like cautious study.

Nicolò wonders if maybe the distress on his face eases slightly.

Joe slowly turns back and resumes walking forwards. They keep making steady progress down the road, the boy continues to stare at Nicky as they walk along, only stopping when Joe’s hand comes up to cup around the back of his head. With a bit of gentle guidance, he easily goes down against his shoulder again, fingers still in his mouth.

Nicky has witnessed this thousands of times over the centuries — the instinctive gift Joe has with children, the way they curl into his warmth. This knowledge is something that he carries in his bones: his Yusuf would make a father of boundless joy, if only their immortality didn't render such a fate so impossible. When Nicky thinks of the cautionary tale of Booker’s family, he knows that in many ways this is a kindness. The anguish of helplessly watching while your own children grow old and decompose touches on a truth to their existence that is both unyielding and unapologetically raw — love may be infinite, but it simply isn’t stronger than time.

Despite these thoughts, occasionally Nicky still finds himself gripped by that old, foolish ache whenever he watches Joe with a child in his arms. It thrums inside of his chest like a second pulse. Look at what we cannot keep. Look at what I cannot give you.

The village school’s iron gate arches above them as they enter. The once bright paint of the building is now cracked and marred by machine gun fire. Just beyond the entryway, the courtyard hums with a fractured order. Lines of survivors are winding between aid workers in vests marked with fading acronyms, their clipboards and tired voices weaving a fragile net of logistics. Military trucks idle near the perimeter, their engines a low growl beneath the murmur of names and destinations.

A hush rolls through the crowd upon their arrival. A flurry of whispers begin as villagers take note of the child they carry.

Near the supply pallets, Andy’s hands still from opening a large crate. She straightens to her full height and her eyes meet Joe’s across the distance, then drop to the boy. A fractional pause. He’s the only one? The question hangs between them, unspoken.

Joe gives the barest shake of his head, his lips pressed firmly together. No others. Just him.

Booker walks up along the side of a transport truck, wiping grease from his hands onto his trousers. He follows the crowd’s stares, finding Nicky’s grim expression, then the little boy bundled up in an adult's jacket. His breath catches before he swipes a palm over the back of his neck, as if trying to scrub away the tension coiling there.

Before Joe can call out for the boy’s kin, the crowd near the eastern wall of the courtyard fractures. A woman’s voice slices through the noise, raw and trembling. She comes darting forward, tear tracks stain either side of her face while she cries out.

Imir!

At the sound of his name, the boy momentarily stiffens before twisting around in Joe's arms. The first sign of someone truly familiar and safe causes his face to crumble. His mouth twists into a pained expression before he begins to openly weep, his hands now raised towards the woman.

It takes only a moment for an explanation to reach them. One of the aid workers steps in, translating the woman's rushed words. She’s his mother’s sister.

Nicky should feel relief in the fact that this little boy still has family to go to, that there are people here who know and love him. He does. He absolutely does. And while this feeling may loosen the knots of grief settled deep in his stomach, it becomes tangled with something somber when he glances at Joe.

No one else would notice. No one else has studied Joe’s hands for nearly a millennium to know exactly how they cradle a blade, mend a tattered garment, or sketch the minute details of a person's likeness. But Nicky sees. He can plainly see the hesitation when Joe’s arms constrict, just once, around the boy’s weight. He catches the way his husband exhales, soft as a prayer, before finally passing Imir to the begrieved woman.

______________________________________________________________

Later, on the fringes of the refugee camp, they lie side by side in the hollow belly of an empty transport truck. Tomorrow will bring another border crossing, another village reduced to rubble and need.

Just outside the canvas flaps of the covered truck bed, a sea of green disaster tents stretches far across a large field in the countryside. The frigid mud on the ground is thick and makes walking difficult for those who are not able bodied. It oppressively crusts over everyone's boots in stubborn clumps.

Joe's arm lies heavy across Nicky's chest, as if he fears that the entire world could lurch in the night and drag him away if he doesn't anchor him down. The foam mat beneath their body crackles with every minute adjustment Joe makes — his knee jerking, his shoulders rolling. He's restless even in exhaustion.

“Yusuf..." Nicky breathes his name in the dark.

It functions like a scalpel, cutting away any needless pretext. Joe knows that it's both a question and command, a prompt to unload whatever may remain on his shoulders.

He exhales through his nose, his mouth pressing against the familiar ridge of Nicky's spine. It's been two days since they had a proper wash and somehow the man still carries traces of their last clean clothes, his odor a mix of detergent and the faint tang of perspiration. Joe thinks longingly for the next occasion he can tug Nicky under the spray of a hot shower, thoroughly rake his hands over every inch of the man's body and wash away the physical traces of this mission.

“What did you say to him?” Nicky continues, blinking slowly against the heavy weight of his own eyelids. “Today when the planes were flying over?”

There’s a stretch of silence. Joe’s breath is warm as it fans across the back of Nicky’s neck.

“Just to not be afraid.” It's spoken in a mumble, his attempt at dismissal tastes bitter even to himself.

Nicky huffs. It's a quiet, knowing sound.

“Is that all?"

His husband will always know how to press onward until he arrives at the truth in his words. There are no white lies or evasive tactics that can work when speaking with Nicky. He sees people for what they are so easily, extracting deceit like pulling splinters from flesh. Somehow it's never judgmental. His Nicolò is certainly not naïve, but he freely gives the world far more grace than it deserves, this includes Joe.

Caught, Joe nuzzles the man's nape. His hair has grown just long enough to curl around his ears and touch the back of his shirt collar. Fuck, if it doesn't soothe him.

"I told him...when I'm afraid, I look at you." His throat clicks as he swallows. "If I see no fear in your eyes, then I find none in myself. So if neither of us fears, why should he?"

He feels Nicky's hand travel up to find his own in the dark, his thumb presses to the pulse point in his wrist.

"I didn't know your Albanian was so poetic..."

The dry observation startles a laugh from Joe, too loud in the fragile quiet.

He retaliates by pinching a bit of skin at Nicky's side, earning a hushed curse in Italian from the man pressed to his chest. It takes minutes for them to resettle, for the intimacy of the moment to cover them once more.

Joe's lips travel over the clothed skin between Nicky's two shoulders, across the base of his neck. He delights in the warmth of him, in feeling the toned muscles of his back pressed to his front, the softness of his stomach beneath his arms.

“He reminded me of you, Nicolò.” The admission comes with a note of grief, one that manages to surprise them both.

He can feel Nicky go still against him.

“You know, many times I have tried to picture you as a little boy." His lips brush the smooth skin at the back of his neck. He noses once more at the man's hair, trying to use the scent as a means to ground himself. "I will never know, but today with him—” Joe grimaces as his voice cracks, his eyes momentarily shut. "I thought about when your family sent you away, how you couldn’t have been much older than him. Hardly more than a babe."

It's a thought that Joe has had many times. But to speak of it here so plainly, under the weight of the day they shared, he feels the sharp sting in his eyes. His grip tightens on Nicky without meaning to. The thought of him so young and vulnerable, being sent away by those meant to nurture and protect him, he'll never not feel the injustice of it.

Nicky says nothing. His fingers trace idle patterns through the hair on Joe's forearm, but his breathing has gone carefully even.

“We couldn’t have kept him, I know that.” Joe continues, half his face now pressed against the other man's warm back. “But if there had been no one...if he'd had nowhere else—”

Nicky turns in his arms, firmly touching their foreheads together. In the dark, it's impossible to see his expression. There's only the touch of his lips landing on the bridge of Joe's nose.

"I know, amore mio." he murmurs. "I know.”

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End note/translations:

Va tutto bene, piccolino. Fammi vedere, eh? - It's okay, little one, let me see, hm?

Basta, Nicolò, sta tremando. - Enough, Nicky, he's shivering.

#The Old Guard fanfiction #tog fanfic #yusuf al kaysani #yusuf x nicolo #nicolo di genova #the old guard #immortal husbands #Joe & Nicky #joe x nicky #joenicky #joe and nicky

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literary-illuminati · 5 months ago

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2024 Book Review #71 – The City and the City by China Mieville

Mieville is one of those authors whose influence and artistic shadow I’m far more familiar with than the guy himself or his actual work. I read Perdido Street Station years and years ago (quite good, not as clever as it thinks it is and has let’s say Issues with gender, I would have been better served reading it without knowing all the hype) and I got about halfway into Railsea at some point in university (a great central aesthetic and cute conceit sadly does not sustain an entire book of otherwise uninspired pastiche), and otherwise? I’ve just read and enjoyed far more stuff that cites him as an inspiration or is writing in the whole New Weird tradition (name now at least a decade out of date) that he was one of the big names establishing. So this is me doing a bit to rectify that imbalance, and also trying to fail a bit less comically at my literary fiction reading goal before the year ends. It served both ends neatly, and as a bonus was even a pretty decent read.

Tyador Borlu is a detective of the Extreme Crime Squad in the vaguely Balkan city-state of Beszel who, as detectives in novels inevitably due, gets himself hopelessly entangled in the case of a young woman murdered under murky and improbable circumstances. The investigation leads inevitably to the conclusion no one wants to deal with – that this is a cross-border case, and that Tyador will need to chase the trail of corruption and conspiracy into the neighbouring and overlapping city of Ul Quoma. Only by working with officers from both the mirrored cities police forces is there any hope at all to get to the truth beyond all the hints of a secret conspiracy pulling the strings of both and murdering to cover its tracks.

Which is to say, this is a fairly standard detective story plot that often seems there mostly to explore, poke at, and examine the implications of the lovingly detailed high concept setting. Beszel and Ul Qoma are the true stars of the show here – two cities with their own languages, cultures, histories and governments, even their own borders and economic trajectories, that by odd coincidence happen to cover the same geographical area. A Beszel street might run along an Ul Qoman park, and but every driver on it would simply unsee the families enjoying themselves walking or playing in it. They do not notice the rattling of a train in a another city merely because it happens to run directly above their apartment – or if they do, they’re trained and educated since birth to show absolutely no sign of it. The two cities are separate and foreign to each other, no matter the fact that their residents walk by each other on busy streets every day. This is enforced by popular agreement, by centuries of tradition and, n a pinch, by Breach – the shadowy and opaque secret police empowered and respected by the authorities of both cities as an independent and almost occult boogeyman, there to keep the two nations firmly separated from each other.

Which is an absurd and fantastical a premise as any of Mieville’s other books on the face of it, but he really has put in the work here. The cultures of the two cities both seem real and distinct, and painstacking care has been taken figuring out exactly how all this would work day-to-day with mid-2000s technology. It’s still asking for some heavy suspension of disbelief, to be sure – but once you accept the premise the book never does anything to really throw you out of it with egregious implausibility. If everyone wanted things to work like they’re presented as, if feels like they probably could – and the ways they couldn’t are each acknowledged and given some level of justification or another (or, if not, made into whole plot points).

So yes, this is a very Theme-First novel. It’s never really didactic, and one absolutely never gets the sense of Mieville getting up on a soapbox to lecture at you, but then he really doesn’t have to. The setting makes the point about nationalism – about how lethally hard and sharp borders that exist only in the human mind can be – quite clearly without too much elaboration. Which is really my preference for getting these things across.

In the interview at the end of the book that I very lightly skimmed through, Mieville calls this fundamentally a crime novel more than anything else, which feels difficult to disagree with. It’s honestly kind of fascinating to see his politics – which generally come through quite loud and clear. Read Perdido Street Station and then take one guess what stance his history of the Russian Revolution takes – get absolutely buried under the expectations and requirements of a hardboiled police mystery. There’s still the same cynicism towards political establishments and assumption of corruption as always, but it’s frankly weird to read the avowed Trotskyite write a story where the happy ending is the protagonist is recruited into the secret police. Or just all the blase matter-of-fact narration about the use and usefulness of beating prisoners, informants providing private records on demand, a general surveillance state, and so on. It’s all of a piece with the rest of the genre’s trappings, of course – the general cynical view of the world, the fact that the most personally admirable character is the girl whose already dead on page 1, and the fact that the books central relationships are three different iterations of the natural and sacred bond between a cop and his partner. The genre emulation is really pretty note-perfect, and I’m not quite sure if this is good in terms of getting out of the way and letting the themes and setting taking centre stage or if it ends up muddling and confusing them.

It does save the book from the very common failure state of setting-heavy novels that end up feeling like tourism brochures, at least.

Truthfully the most interesting part of reading this for me was how the ~15 years since publication have left it feeling like a bit of a period piece. The whole vibe of the book and the Europe it presents is just incredibly mid-aughts in ways both obvious and hard to explain. The Twin Cities themselves, of course – the whole conceit obviously owes a lot to the collapse of Yugoslavia and the wars that followed (the talk about the difference between the cities’ languages feels like it was taken 1:1 from people talking about Serbian and Croatian), with more than a dash of divided Berlin in inspiratio n (it seems less than accidental than the more Western and pro-American Beczel has a much more Germanic vocabulary for things whereas Ul Qoma is a melange of Slavic and Turkish). There is, throughout the book, a sense that these carefully and lovingly maintained divisions between cities and peoples are an anachronism, a rough spot that cannot long withstand being smoothed out by the homogenizing tides of globalization and the convenience of international commerce. More directly – the backdrop to the plot is the economic boom a former Eastern Bloc state is going through since opening itself up enthusiastically to foreign (western) investment, and the plot itself involves a corrupt conspiracy between a pro-business Social Democrat, an American tech company, and the easily duped ultranationalist thugs as muscle. It all speaks so deeply to the assumptions and trends of the world that hadn’t quite shaken off the hangover of the Cold War and for which the Great Financial Crisis was still over the horizon.

Even the book’s portrayal of politics has this feel. The vaguely-alt-left Unificationists and the assorted far-right ultranationalists are all portrayed as hopeless lost-causers; potentially dangerous (more the latter than the former) and useful tools in the hands of those who know what they’re doing, but on their own nothing but bitter old men and deluded kids who refuse to accept how the world works – radicals who the real powers leave be because they have infiltrators in every group, and anyway if they ever had a chance of success they’d be rolled up before they even realized it. Real power is the chamber of commerce and the established parties, the police apparatus and foreign corporations – the avatars and defenders of capital and the status quo. Even the plot itself – the revelation that the secret conspiracy which might overthrow everyone’s understanding of their history and their nations is just a smuggling operation that’s gotten out of control preying on the naivete and idealism of a young genius – feels so very End of History. It’s kind of charming, really.

Anyway yes – enjoyable read. Never really set me on fire and nothing about it has really gotten stuck in my head? But glad I read it, and have no real complaints about doing so.

#book review #the city and the city #china mieville #literatre #mystery

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jokeroutsubs · 9 months ago

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[ENG translation] Joker Out: Playing on the main stage of Sziget means the success with capital letters for us

An interview with Joker Out published in the August 2024 issue of Rockstar magazine. Original article written by Viki Erdős, photo by Viki Erdős. Translation and review by X ddrflctns and X brnbergeron, proofread by @flowerlotus8.

In the former Yugoslavia they have won the 'Artist of the Year' and the 'Song of the Year' awards several times. With two albums under their belt, they entered the Eurovision Song Contest with their song 'Carpe Diem' last year, which put them on the Spotify Viral Top 10 list and then on the Main Stage of Sziget. We met the Slovenian five-piece Joker Out before their first concert in Budapest, where they told us: their biggest dream came true by playing for us at the Island of Freedom on 8 August. Read more of our interview on rockstar.hu!

What's your first impression of the Sziget Festival, now that you've spent a few hours here?

Jan: Actually I already came here yesterday to see L'Impératice. It's definitely the biggest festival I've been to, yet it doesn't seem too crowded. I really like the atmosphere, somehow despite the noise it's calming, and the line-up is incredible!

Jure: It's going to be the biggest stage we've ever played on.

Bojan: I didn't even see you on the stage during the soundcheck, because there was so much smoke! I turned around and just blinked 'where is everyone'?

You posted concert photos from 2016 on Instagram just yesterday. Did you ever think you would play on the main stage of Sziget?

Bojan: Performing at Sziget was always our biggest dream, we somehow thought that playing here, on the main stage would mean success with capital letters. I think we always believed that it will happen one day.

Last year your Eurovision performance brought you international success. How to imagine this? Are you getting recognised on the street, for example?

Bojan: We're constantly being recognised in Slovenia, but there are other countries, for example the Balkans, or Finland and The Netherlands, where we have a big fanbase. So the bottom line is that it's all unbearable and we're huge rock stars. (they all laugh)

Kris: And to top it all off, we are doing an interview with Rockstar Magazine.

How do you handle fame?

Bojan: Oh, it's all terrible! I can't even have a cup of coffee without being surrounded by people! (laughs)

But seriously!

Bojan: No, it's super good, in my opinion, our fame at the moment is perfectly manageable. We’re not recognised by a crazy amount of people yet, and the people who do recognise us are usually very nice. Sometimes a few fans wait for us at the airport, weirdly specifically it always happens in Finland. They tell us about how our music helped them getting through tough times or how they found new friends thanks to us. Only at times like this, we realise that we're getting closer to our goals, that music is no longer just for our entertainment, but also for the pleasure of others.

You recently came out with an animated music video for your song 'Šta bih ja'. How did you come up with this idea and how did you find the right artist for the job?

Kris: It was quite liberating to make a music video without having to be in it. Jokes aside, I thought it was a great time for an animated video, which we've never done before. We had a lot of gigs and time was tight, so it was a perfect move. We've been working with a lot of our fans over the last six months, who are great artists, by the way. We keep an eye on what they post, and we're always completely blown away by it and try to collaborate with them whenever possible. For example, they've made merch and a cover for our single for streaming platforms. The new music video was also made by one of our fans.

How much do they freak out when you contact them?

Kris: A lot, I feel like. But they try to be chill about it.

What is the story behind 'Šta bih ja'?

Bojan: We moved to London for two months to write new material, this was the first song that was written there. It was the first time we really felt what it was like to be away from home and miss our loved ones. In additional to how it feels to be a stranger in a new city, the song is also about what it's like being in love when you can only keep in touch with your partner over the phone.

I've noticed on your Instagram that you like lame photoshopped pictures. Is there an expert in the band responsible for these, or is it a team effort?

Jan: That would be me... (laughs) I don't even know how it started. I always use the same picture, it was taken for our Eurovision campaign, we all look hilarious on it. I noticed that our faces fit perfectly on any picture depicting people. It started as a joke, but now it's become our general marketing strategy.

Bojan: You've already extended the scope to foods, animals...

Jan: Yes, last time I photoshopped Nace onto a sausage.

Earlier this year, your concert film and it's accompanying live album was released. Was this a big dream come true?

Jan: The concert film and live album itself was not a dream, but playing in the arena where it was recorded was. It's nice to relive that experience.

Bojan: I haven't watched it at all. It's really about the fact that we had the opportunity to record and release it, and we took it. That's how the market works. We had to have something to spend our money on, so that we would have as little left as possible. (laughs)

Your festival season will be over soon. What's in store for the rest of the year?

Bojan: Before the tour we had already recorded most of our third album in Hamburg, but we knew that we would need to come back [to the studio] for a few more session. So we spend all of our day-offs in the studio, but now in Ljubljana.

How would you describe the new sound in three words?

Bojan: Makes. No. Sense. (laughs)

#joker out #jokeroutsubs #bojan cvjetićanin #bojan cvjeticanin #jan peteh #kris guštin #kris gustin #jure macek #jure maček #source: rockstar magazin #year: 2024 #og language: hungarian #type: article #jo: all members

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sleepy-spacetronaut · 6 months ago

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Unpopular opinion, but Germanic fairytales got nothing on Slavic/Balkan fairytales. Now, do not get me wrong, they are very different in essence, that is why they are quite dissimilar. German fairitales tend to be cautionary and grim, intended to teach you a lesson, whereas the Slavic/Balkan ones give you the strong feeling of some psychedelic daydreaming.

You start reading one fairytale and immediately begin to wonder what the authors were drinking/smoking, and where you can get said substance.

In some stories, people can eat rocks to spit out pavement, the moon uses gender like a skipping rope, horses and wolves fly, kids grow by the hour, princes weep a lot and seek guidance from anyone (even mosquitos!), women are wise, and there’s is almost always a shapeshifting companion that adds bromance to the story.

#thoughts #stories #fairy tales #slavic folklore #moldovan folklore #also there’s Ivan #Ivan or any other name variants #And Ivan is almost always a dumbass #Somehow he still pulls a beautiful and wise princess #bromance also happens #bonus points if the protagonist insufferably doesn’t follow his companion’s warnings and gets them both in more trouble after each task #and lest we forget the constant risk of imminent death for the main character by the future in-laws or otherworldly sources

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gemsofgreece · 3 months ago

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What do greeks (lke the totally hellenic ones) thinks of their ethnic minorities like aromanians, pomaks, romas, slavs and arvanites/albanians ? Are they still culturally differents and identify with their ethnicity or are they fully assimilated and their background is just a funfact ?

This depends on the minority. It also depends on the way the minority perceives itself. The situation differs for each of them so I have to write for them separately.

Aromanians or Vlachs

The Vlachs are one of the two most seamlessly integrated minorities in the Greek society. In fact, they were entirely fused and vibing with the Greek cause even before the break of the Independence War in 1821 and the creation of the Modern Greek State, in which they were very involved as well. The origins of the Vlachs are not yet understood. Despite theories being built in other neighbouring Balkan countries and Romania suggesting the Vlachs descended at some point from the Romanian region to Greece, there has not been any such documented migration that can be confirmed. The Vlachs have been in Greek or, rather, Byzantine territory since at least the 11th century, they historically speak the Aromanian language, which is derived from Vulgar Latin like all Romantic languages and has a lot in common with Romanian, and they prospered by living in the mountains and practicing husbandry. Their unclear origins, their Greek Orthodox faith and their significant integration long before Greece was even a sovereign state has led to the perception of the minority as a linguistic one rather than an ethnic one. A lot of Vlachs in Greece view themselves as originally Greeks who switched to Latin after the Roman conquest of the Greek lands and just remained Romantic speaking ever since, although this too is a totally unconfirmed theory. Another theory, also unconfirmed, is that they were some last Latin-speaking Romans who remained as such even after the increasingly Hellenic character of the Byzantine empire. In any case, most of them identify strongly with the Greek ethnic identity in the last centuries. The use of the Aromanian language is severely endangered. Just to draw a picture, a few years ago a minister (I think) suggested the teaching of the Aromanian language in schools for the Vlach students. The Vlach community itself objected (!) to this claiming that this would create a perception of a different ethnicity about them. This is not to say that everyone thinks like that but the vast majority do. Vlachs have been the butts of jokes in the Greek society, stereotyping them as too rural and primitive, probably due to them historically being mountain farmers and shepherds. In serious contexts, however, they are respected and a lot of Vlachs have had great positions of power in politics. It should also be noted that some of the biggest benefactors of the Greek State have been Vlachs, such as Georgios Averof (1815 - 1899), who made enormous donations in the Greek minority community of Egypt, funded the largest Technical University of Greece (which since then bears the name of his birthplace Metsovo), other schools, conservatories, the Evelpides School (Highest Military School), restored the ancient Panathenaic Stadium and most famously gave 2.5 million francs to the Greek Navy, with which the famous Greek cruiser Averof was built. That guy was definitely not raising an ethnicity question...

In case you think I am exaggerating:

In simple words, it's not the non-Vlach Greeks but it is actually the Vlachs themselves who are angered by the notion that they are a minority in Greece. Most Vlachs reside in Greece but most Vlachs of other countries do not have a Greek sentiment. There are two sides to this story that should be taken into account though: of course historically most Vlachs lived in a region which was largely Greek-speaking and Greek Orthodox which would explain why Greek Vlachs in particular have developed a robust ethnic Greek identity. On the other hand, neighbouring Balkan countries which have had strained relations with Greece actively discouraged their local Aromanian communities to identify as having any sort of connection to the Greeks. Compare this to the non-neighbouring Serbia, with which Greece always had good relations, where the Aromanian population of the 19th century was bilingual in Greek and Aromanian and they were often called "Grci" (Greeks) by the Serbs.

This is not to speak on the behalf of the Aromanians or claim they are this or that, I am only trying to show how nuanced the situation is and how differently it might be viewed depending on who's doing the talking.

Photos of Vlachs from Vlach sites.

Georgios Averof and the Greek cruiser named after him.

Pomaks

Pomaks are an unfortunately forgotten community in the greater forgetfulness of the Greek state when it comes to the region of Thrace. Pomaks are Muslim speakers of a Bulgarian dialect, inhabiting Greece, Bulgaria and Turkey. The problem is that both Turkey, out of expansionism, and Greece, out of stupidity and stereotypes, tend to perceive whomever is Muslim as a "Turk". Furthermore, the Greek society seems to be a little cautious with them due to their stricter religious beliefs. As a result, the Greek state uses the Turkish language (!!!) in Pomak schools and for the practice of Islam instead of the Pomak or at least the Greek as being the state language (using Greek to practice Islam?????? You can hear the sound of millions of Greeks dropping unconscious to the floor at the mere thought). This has led to the turkification of the Pomak community, which however has been noticed and Pomak themselves raise concerns over it. When Turkey tried to exploit this by sending the previous minister of Foreign Affairs for a diplomatic trip there, the Pomaks declared him as persona non grata and declared themselves as "Pomak Muslims and Greek citizens". The Turkish minister eventually cancelled his plans to visit. Greek Pomaks tend to be a little isolated and inwarded and have few interactions with the Pomaks of Bulgaria and Turkey. So far to my knowledge, they seem to identify as Pomak and not view it as a Bulgarian cultural minority, like Bulgarian Pomaks do. Greek Pomaks do not seem to have any particular demands, except for the Greek society to eventually view them properly as actual Greek citizens. Hellenic Greeks are not negative towards Pomaks, they just know too little about them and make misconceptions. Pomaks are of course distinct culturally, religiously and lingually than most Greek nationals.

Pomak girls

Ideological positions of Zagalisa, the oldest Pomak newspaper in Greece. From its website.

Roma

The Romani are one of the largest and in many ways diverse minorities in Greece. It is certainly also one of the most marginalised. Roma are a primarily nomadic people and so they are dispersed throughout the country. Romani people have lived in Greek territories since the 15th century. Greek Roma show great diversity in how much they are integrated into Greek society, how involved they generally are in Greek matters and how much they follow the Romani versus Greek customs / lifestyle . They speak Romani and Greek or Romano-Greek or other smaller Romani dialects. Most are actually pretty pious Greek Orthodox believers nowadays but a few also constitute a Muslim minority in Thrace. As a result of neglect by the state, among other factors, the Romani communities in Greece face several problems including high rates of child labour and abuse, low school attendance, police discrimination and drug trafficking. The most serious issue is the housing problem since many Roma in Greece still live in tents, on properties they do not own, making them subject to eviction. In the past decade these issues have received wider attention and some state funding. Roma people definitely face discrimination. Due to this and maybe also due to their own desire to keep their own culture intact, some have less than ideal relations to the rest of the Greek citizens. On the other hand, there are also many Roma who have successfully developed a Greco-Romani sense of identity and have an according lifestyle. Many Roma have prospered and become famous in the artistic fields, especially in the music industry. There are many Greek Roma that are famous and very loved musicians and singers.

A few Greek celebrities with full or partial Romani ancestry.

Greek Roma in a protest for their human rights in 2014.

Slavs of Macedonia

By Slavs, I suppose you meant the Slavic locals residing in Macedonia and not generally all people from Slavic countries who have migrated to Greece. The Slavic minority of Macedonia is certainly a most sensitive topic in this post, due to the bad relations of Greece with the Republic of North Macedonia. First of all, most of the Slavic inhabitants of Macedonia were moved or deported to Bulgaria and Serbia / Yugoslavia (later turned to Republic of North Macedonia) during the Macedonian Struggle and the Balkan Wars, just like Greeks of these regions were moved / deported to Greece. The remaining numbers are very small. Nowadays, most of them are entirely Greek passing, speaking Greek usually as their first language, having Greek names and surnames and in general being mostly indistinguishable from other Greeks. Their Slavic heritage is evident through their knowledge of the local South Slavic dialect, which they might use with each other and within their families (but are hesitant to do so in front of other Greeks) and some local customs that are Slavic in origin. People of Slavic heritage in Macedonia generally fall into two categories, to my understanding: a) a group of people who generally agree with the perception of the Republic of North Macedonia of the existence of a "Macedonian" ethnic identity and a "Macedonian" language, a position that both Greece and Bulgaria oppose to and Greece also views as irredentist propaganda. My perception however is that most of these people who are Greek citizens do not follow the extreme rhetorics of NM in that they are supposedly the true inheritors of Macedonia or that the Ancient Macedonian history / legacy belongs (exclusively) to them. Most Macedonian Slavs of Greece do not deny the legitimacy of the Greek presence and historicity in Macedonia since antiquity, they just wish for the recognition of their language as a minority language of the region and expect the rights that come with it. Neither do they seem to wish that Macedonia should be part of the Republic of North Macedonia instead. I am not saying that's all of them, because on the Greek and generally on the Balkan internet and social media you will hear just about everything, but the majority generally seems to fall along those lines. The Greek state does not recognize them and their language as a minority yet, stumbling onto the huge obstacle of it being called "Macedonian". You know, it's the notorious "name issue". A few individuals have formed a political party but it is of no consequence as at its hayday it gathered percentages of 0,09-0,11% on a national level and a maximum of 5,7% in the region in which most of the Slavs of Macedonia are concentrated.

b) The second category of people of Slavic heritage in Macedonia might actually be bigger but I only recently became aware of them. Those seem to be descendants of the Grecomans or later embracing their heritage through a Grecoman perspective. Here it should be noted that the term "Grecoman" is pejorative in neighbouring Balkan countries where it was coined, literally meaning "Greek maniacs", but it is embraced in Greece. In short, the Grecomans were locals of Macedonia and Thrace who indentified as Greeks and fought in favour of Greece during the Macedonian Struggle and the Balkan Wars even though they appeared to be fully or partially non-Greek culturally and linguistically. While it was mostly for people of Slavic heritage, it was also used for people speaking Albanian or Aromanian (see above) as a first language. The Grecomans were accused by the neighbour countries as "pretending to be Greeks" and "not real Greeks" because apparently the right to self-determination suddenly does not apply if you're claiming to be Greek in particular. People embracing the "Grecoman" stance nowadays accept that Macedonia was at some point influenced by the Slavs due to their appearance in the region in the Middle Ages or later due to the multi-cultural character of the Ottoman Empire that inescapably also influenced the pre-existing local Greek populations there. As a result, the Grecomans view themselves as ethnic Greeks who were significantly culturally and linguistically influenced by Bulgarians and other South Slavic populations over the course of the last centuries. They do respect their Slavic idiom and Slavic traditions but they view them as elements of a greater and more diverse Greek cultural tapestry, due to the historical influence Greek people have received from others. I don't know how accurate all this is, however it is certain that this happened to some degree, meaning that Greeks were slavicized, just like Bulgarians and other Slavs also got hellenized, due to the extensive interactions of those populations in Byzantine and Ottoman times.

Therefore the minority of Slavic speakers of Macedonia differ in their perception of their identity; some compose a distinct ethnic minority that is at odds with the rest of the Greeks (although also most not really feeling represented by the Republic of North Macedonia and its positions either) and some identify as ethnic Greeks who compose a distinct cultural minority.

It is perhaps telling both for the sensitivity of the topic but also their small numbers that I cannot find photos of them making gatherings like I did with the other minorities. I only find historical photos of Grecomans.

Arvanites

In your mail you wrote Arvanites / Albanians which is not totally accurate because these two communities are perceived totally differently in Greece and they also perceive themselves totally differently in terms of their identity and role in the country. Arvanites are Greeks of a now basically distant Albanian origin. The first Arvanites came to the Greek territories around the 13th-14th centuries from the region of Arbanon in modern-day South Albania, which of course also was a part of the Byzantine Empire at the time, with phases of being an autonomous principality, where also ethnic Greeks have been present all this time as well. Arvanites were Greek Orthodox Christians and they spoke a dialect of Tosk Albanian with Greek influences. It is unclear how they exactly viewed themselves in those early centuries but by the 19th century they had merged significantly with other Greeks and they were all bilingual in Greek and Tosk Albanian. Arvanites managed to preserve their language and some of their traditions by establishing several Arvanite-core settlements mostly in South-Central Greece. However, their common faith and often common uprisings against the Ottoman Turks made them interact and marry with other Greeks beyond their minority communities, to the point that nowdays most are mixed. Many of the Greek Independence warriors that Albanian nationalists altogether call Albanians nowadays were of half-Arvanite and half-other Greek ancestry. (Of course many were also not Arvanites at all to begin with but Albanian nationalists kinda also call Ancient Greek gods as Albanians so there's that... you know, Balkans, you gotta be careful.) Even those who were indeed Arvanites spoke extensively and very proudly of the Greek / Hellenic cause and the "fatherland Hellas". Many of the Greek warriors left detailed documentation with letters and memoirs behind and the truth as well as the perception of their own identity can be easily traced in those. Furthermore, in the Ottoman army the soldiers a lot of the times were not actually Turks but rather Egyptian subjects and Albanian mercenaries. Arvanites were fighting therefore alongside other Greeks against Albanians of the Ottoman army. Another thing to be considered is that across the centuries of Byzantine and Ottoman power there were no national borders between the regions of Greece and Albania. The strong similarities between Greek, Albanian and the in-between Arvanite fighters in the Ottoman Empire can be very easily explained due to their very significant interaction and cohabitation. This is why Greeks and Albanians of the time and the Arvanites of course, especially those fighting in the mountains, were knowledgeable in each other's languages without this raising any ethnic or identity questions for either, however people nowadays find it very hard to wrap their minds around these totally different conditions of borderless co-existence within nearby regions of a vast empire. As said above, Arvanites were already Greek Orthodox and Greek speakers (in addition to the Tosk Albanian dialect) for long before the break out of the Independence War. As a result, after the establishment of the Modern Greek State, the Arvanites were never viewed as foreigners or a separate minority or Albanians in the way the people of Albania are perceived. Furthermore, due to all the reasons presented above in short their cultural expression does not differ significantly from Greek cultural expression. Their costumes and songs don't differ much more than other Greek costumes and songs differ from one another. Consequently, the Arvanites are hardly considered a minority but if we must call them as such, then they generally fall into a linguistic minority category more because this is their most notable difference from other Greeks. The Arvanite dialect is severely endangered nowadays however, let alone that most Arvanites spoke Greek fluently even before the independence. Other than that the Arvanites take pride and look after their traditional costumes, songs and dances.

Again, on the Internet and social media you can find just about anything, including Arvanites siding with Albanian nationalists in thinking their community is oppressed by the Greek state but also more moderate Albanians who argue that everything in the Arvanite history shows that for the last centuries they are closer and more similar to Greeks than to Albanians. I have encountered both types of people on the Internet. In real life, however, so far Arvanites seem to identify as Greeks and take pride for their contribution to Greek history. Other Greeks also overwhelmingly consider Arvanites Greeks, not in order to distance them from the Albanians (although some might do it for this reason too) but because they genuinely perceive them as indistinguishable from Greeks. As for those, usually Albanians, who think Arvanites are oppressed by the Greeks, I will just say that Greece had Arvanite PMs and ministers since the foundation of the modern state, who could have favoured the Albanian presence right then and there, if they had such concerns. People just don't want to entertain whatever does not fit their ethnic if not nationalist narrative which likes to fit things in distinct boxes. Arvanites fought for Greek independence and had already mixed with the rest of the Greeks in the modern state by the early 19th century - the Albanian national idea for independence from the Ottoman Turks and the formation of an Albanian state was first shaped in late 19th century. In short, Arvanites truly have genes and heritage from both Greeks and Albanians, and that's about it. Whoever says something different is fooling themselves.

Arvanites and painting inspired by the Death of Markos Botsaris, the most famous Arvanite Greek Independence fighter (who was indeed an Arvanite).

Pressing "post" with a prayer, this can get me hate from both Greeks and non-Greeks....I genuinely believe I spoke the truth, or whatever is closest to the truth.

#greece #minorities #history #greek history #minorities of greece #greek facts #anon #ask #long post #tw long

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elenaire-sarince-aicassea · 1 year ago

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Fifth OC (Original Character): Hrávahyalmo Falmahiþion Altaluimë

"His silver hair flowed like moonlight, and his grey eyes held a keen awareness that saw beyond the surface, so his presence signals an undercurrent of tension; His grace adorned with the emerald [and olive] green robes reminiscent of the seawater and reflected the nobility that echoed through his lineage." — The Long Ballad of Eärendil

Hrávahyalmo Falmahiþion Altaluimë was the underrated Lord of Poreč and Rovinj, the middle-born son of Lord Falmahiþo and Lady Siloratanë who was born on 12 June (12. Lipnja) in mid-Fifth Age (2439 BCE). His love life started when he met Lady Halatirnë II in Jelsa, Hvar Island (or in Beaches of Elende in Alternative ver.) and got married as her husband. However, he was encountered by Šimun, who possessed a charm as alluring as it was dangerous that was drawn to Halatirnë like a moth to a flame.

Artwork Description: Hrávahyalmo was described as frost-white-haired, pale-skinned, donning his robes of olive and emerald green and silver details. Background: Green ocean waves and the so-called oldest known emblem of Croatia—six-pointed star and a cresent moon behind him.

Names: His Mother-name/Amilessë - Hravahyalmo translates from Quenya meaning "Wild Seashell". Like a seashell buffeted by the waves, Hrávahyalmo possessed a spirit that could not be contained, his essence as boundless and enduring as the sea itself. His Father-name/Ataressë - Falmahiþion, meaning "Wave Mist," just as mist rises from the waves, so too did Hrávahyalmo's father embody the fluidity and unpredictability of the sea, his presence a constant source of wonder and mystery. As an epithet, Envinyataro, or "Healer," speaks to Hrávahyalmo's compassionate nature and his dedication to the art of healing. And his surname - Altaluimë, meaning "Great Tides," is a surname that echoes the ebb and flow of the ocean's rhythms..

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thefisherqueen · 6 months ago

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The Merry Widow (1968) with Jeremy Brett

I've not been a lot on social media lately because of the complete takeover from US'ers (which - understandable, I'm worried and grieved too, but still there are other countries and issues and the way people often neglect to specify they're talking about the US and assume all their readers are in the US too is kind of obnoxious) so I've directed my very limited time and energy towards something which has given me a lot of joy in recent years and is often freely accessable too: old media. I'm making a valliant effort to actually finish Moby Dick and Les miserables and Raffles, I've read the first collection of Arsène Lupin, I'm trying to get into Hercule Poirot (not entirely convinced yet but we'll see), and last weekend I watched The Merry Window movie of 1968, starring Jeremy Brett. It is entirely on youtube here. Not in the best visual or auditory quality, sadly (it has not been remastered yet), but still very watchable.

I went into this without any knowledge of the story or rich history of this operette, only having heard a few fragments of the songs before. And I was so, so entertained throughout, even though I did not understand everything that was going on.

A summary of my prompt research: The Merry Window (Die Lustige Witwe) was composed by Austrian-Hungarian composer Franz Lehár and first performed on stage in 1905 in Wien, running a very succesful row of almost 500 live performances. It has since been adapted both on screen and stage often, even through this very day. The Metropolitian Opera has a comprehensive synopsis on the story on their website, but more fun is this comic.

The basic story goes as follows: the embassy of a small Balkan country (fictional, but likely to be inspired by Montenegro), situated in Paris, is thrown into merry chaos as they learn that a very rich widow originally from the same Balkan country also is residing in Paris. Shenagans and plotting occur to try and convince her to marry one of their countryman, so her sweet sweet money won't leave the country, which is in dire need of it. There's only a problem: the proposed candidate, a count played by Jeremy Brett, already knows the widow, and the two of them have a History. Avoidant behaviour, sassiness, misunderstandings and other delicious drama ensue.

I did not expect the amount of music and songs in this movie. I think 80% or 90% of the script is in song rather than dialogue. Entire performances are shown, during which the plot just stands still, and honestly? I loved it. Modern movies/shows often move too fast for my sluggish autistic brain to keep up with, and this languid tempo just worked well for me. The folk and, I imagine, quite scandalous can-can dances are a joy. I'm usually not that fond of the more classical technique of singing but I found the music here quite gorgeous, too, a delightful mix of classical sound with fun folk elements. Jeremy Brett's rich voice really stood out of me. You can listen to the entire soundtrack here.

Jeremy Brett is a treat to watch in his role as a bit of a playboy, avoiding responsiblities and commitment and feelings of heartbreak by dancing and drinking at a local nightclub each night instead. Not suprisingly for everyone who has seen him in Granada's Sherlock Holmes: he's really excellent at dramatic posing, lounging on surfaces not meant for that, and 'trying to look cool but actually besotted'. There's a lot of humour in the dialogue and performances of the entire cast, too. For example, there's an entire extramarital affair going on right under the nose of an antirely oblivious baron's nose, and it's pretty hilarious. Further example of some funny lines: "What have you been doing lately?" Absolutely nothing!" "Excellent!" Jeremy's rivalry with the widow (played by Mary Costa) is especially a lot of fun, both really sell that part. I really got quite emotional by the final "Love unspoken, faith unbroken..."

There's an interesting background of historical social context to this operette, too: widows in that time enjoyed an amount of financial freedom denied to either unmarried or married women, and watching high class men competing for a woman's money was, I suppose, a nice bit of social commentary. I also really enjoyed a song by a group of men all wondering what they have to offer women if it isn't money - a question, in my opinion, that may be asked more often. The widow using her relative freedom to protect another woman from scandal at the end was rather sweet, too. The story ends, of course, by not upsetting the status quo too much. But it's such a fun ride.

All in all, very much recommended.

#the merry widow #jeremy brett #old movies

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fuckthemforthis · 1 year ago

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So this podcast has a lot of topics and stuff to think about (cons of fame, Bojan's panic attack, Gregor situation, what success means for them, relationship with the fans and their own friendship, how will experiences from this year affect their new music, tour life, social media, support systems and staying down to Earth, state of the world etc.) and it gets very serious and kinda heavy at times actually. I'm not getting into retelling much because jokeroutsubs will probably work on it like crazy, except:

1. Timeline for 2024

As we know, they're moving to London next week, for 2 months. Then comes the European tour, a week at home for the holidays and back to UK for the last part of the tour. Then they're spending a month in Germany to record the album and then they have a big concert abroad which is the most special for them and they believe they'll be able to announce it soon but are still not allowed to talk about it (I am so curious!!). After that, a festival season mainly in the Balkans.

2. The new single

They said it will be out in February and they don't know who'll record the music video. It is apparently a 4 minute long story; ballad in the songwriting sense, but arranged in a way that it doesn't seem so? Bojan said it was like therapy for him and all of them including Žare are really satisfied and excited. And Nace said the first three women who heard it, cried. So good luck to us.

#joker out #kind of an emotional roller coaster this one #definitely emotionally draining for me #but very interesting #and would've been great to hear jan's opinions if he wasn't sick

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golbrocklovely · 10 months ago

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outsiders // colin and penelope

A/N: i know this is unlike anything i've posted before on here. i'll be honest, idk how else to explain this other than i direly need to see luke newton play a vampire, so this is about as good as it's gonna get until then. this is also very vaguely based off of a tweet that said this picture of polin makes them look like a cunty vampire couple and you know what??? they ain't wrong about that lol i used direct lines from the show, particularly in the drinking scene with the boys and the carriage love confession (which will be in part two). there are also some quotes and line sprinkled throughout that are similar to those in the show/book. but most of the dialogue is not from the show/book directly. also this is the first time i've ever written a fanfic using characters rather than real ppl… well minus a spn fanfic i never finished. so, please be kind since it's all fiction anyway. hope you enjoy and lmk what you think :)

prompt: Colin is trying to deal with the fact that he is not only in love with his best friend, but that he is incredibly lost as to who he is as a person. It also doesn't help that he's a monster; a vampire. Pen just wants her freedom, her ability to be Whistledown without anymore people finding out. And in her mind, Debling is the solution to her problem. But one fateful night brings Penelope and Colin together in ways they never imagined.

trigger warning: jealous!colin, protective!colin, AU!vampire, the entire bridgerton family are vampire, colin's friends are dicks lol, formal english (but that's a given), vampire powers, manipulation, ANGSTY AS HELL, idiots to lovers (not until part two), somewhat of a cliff hanger but not really since the next part will be out soon, mentions of blood/blood drinking

word count: 3054

~~~~~~~~~~~

Colin knew deep within himself that going out with Fife and the rest of his so-called friends was a mistake. Mostly because his mind was preoccupied tonight, many thoughts swirling around him; all of which pertained to a certain red head he had known since childhood. The mistake was thinking that he could relax while being around these exhausting men and their childish ways.

However he really did need some revelry after what he witnessed during the day.

When he walked into the library party and caught Pen with Debling, smiling and laughing at whatever he was saying, his blood boiled. A permanent frown etched into his face and had stayed there the entirety of the day.

"Say, what ails you, Bridgerton? Are you not enjoying your night?"

Colin turned to Stanton, blinking slowly. He took a swig of his drink, shaking his head. "I am well. Please continue with your story."

Stanton smirked, turning back to the table, "On my Grand Tour, I encountered this Greek girl in the Balkans. My bear leader..."

Colin zoned out again, unable to truly listen much longer to the men's stories of different conquests they had over the summer. His mind was still reeling, his thoughts ever consumed by the image of Penelope. Of their shared kiss. Of his constant reoccurring dreams of her and him.

"She sounds like the young woman who made my time in the French Quarter worth the length of the voyage. Much to offer upstairs, and I do not mean her mind." Lord Wilding motioned with his hands, causing all three men to burst into laughter. Colin sighed, staring at the ground for a moment.

Fife looked up at Colin, "What about you, Bridgerton? You were gone for quite a while. I am sure the girls of summer made your trip quite... fulfilling?"

The gentlemen chortled, and Colin could feel them all eyeing him, waiting for an answer. "I did tell you my story of the contessa, did I not?"

"Yes, but you did not give details." Stanton whined.

Colin half-heartedly smiled, "Well, a gentleman must keep some things to himself."

Wilding pffted, "Oh, come now. I do not see a gentleman amongst us."

"I concur with you there." Colin shook a finger at them. The gentlemen gave him a quizzical look, freezing him for a moment. "Oh, forgive me… But it is tiring, is it not? The necessity imposed on us to remain cavalier about the one thing in life that holds genuine meaning. Do you not find it lonely?"

Colin gazed upon the men, hoping to see agreeing eyes; but instead the table chuckled at his expense. He sat back in his chair, defeated.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain Featherington girl, now would it?" Fife teased, his glazed eyes staring at Colin's face.

"You know, Bridgerton? Congratulations are in order. I heard that apparently Debling plans to propose to her." Stanton raised his glass, "The marriage mart whisperer actually made a match. Cheers."

"May God have mercy on that poor man's soul." Wilding whispered, finishing his drink.

Colin narrowed his eyes, "I beg your pardon?"

"I know you have a fondness for the girl, but I cannot fathom what type of wife she would be. I would never marry a Featherington, but especially Penelope." Wilding remarked, almost disgusted.

"Maybe that's why Debling plans to travel for years." Fife quipped.

"Well, like your lady in the French Quarter, she at least has a lot to offer upstairs." Stanton snickered.

Colin leapt to his feet, his chair slamming to the floor. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides as his anger raged through him. His red eyes shot up, glaring deeply into the gentlemen's souls, captivating them instantly.

"You will never speak about Penelope or the Featheringtons ever again. And if ever asked about them, you will say nothing but the kindest of words." Colin grunted, his gaze shifting from man to man, "If I ever hear you speak badly about her or her family again, I will tear your throat out with my teeth. Your trivial existence will be ended, and the ladies of the Ton will be better for it... Know this as true, but forget I said this."

The gentlemen blinked rapidly, clearing their throats and looking at each other confused. Fife glanced behind Colin, "What happened to your chair?"

Colin smoothed out his vest, calming himself, "Oh, it must have fallen over when I stood up. Goodbye gentlemen, I am growing rather tired of this night."

~~~

Colin had the privilege of being born a vampire; and with that privilege came the ability to manipulate those around him. However, there were only two types of people he couldn't manipulate: other vampires - which really only applied to his family since he knew of no others - and those he was in love with. That applied to all the Bridgerton siblings. It was their own little family quirk, as they so lovingly called it. In a way, it kept everyone in check. Because they knew out of everyone in the Ton, the people they loved couldn't fall victim to their ability.

But luckily for everyone in the Ton, the Bridgertons were a good family. Violet had taught her children to seldom use their ability, and the children all followed suit. Hyacinth and Gregory did occasionally use it on the maids in the house, so that he could get extra sweets or she, the latest issue of Whistledown before bed; but for the most part all of the Bridgerton siblings fell in line with Violet's beliefs.

While most of the Bridgertons enjoyed being vampires, Colin did not. Maybe it was because he was battling with himself over who he truly was. All this did was make him feel even more like an outsider. He wanted to be normal, to be known and loved for who he is, but how could he? He was a monster.

And now this monster, deeply annoyed by the past couple weeks of events, was on the search for blood.

Colin did not enjoy hunting. In the day, when he couldn't hunt, it was easier to forget what he was. But at night, his cardinal urges always came to the surface.

Hunting on the poorer side of London wasn't challenging. There was always someone out and about. And Colin only needed a little bit of blood. None of them ever killed; the rule was only take what you need and leave no trace. And they were all excellent at that.

The worst that could happen was being caught by authorities. Or even worse, somehow ending up in Lady Whistledown.

Colin lurked around a corner, waiting impatiently for a passerby. He glanced at the printer shop, the light inside telling him someone was there. He needed to move further away, in case those inside would hear his victim if they were to scream out suddenly.

He casually walked down the cobblestone street, his sense of smell picking up someone near. It was a woman; that he was sure of.

He knew he should have just drank from the prostitutes, the ones he couldn't even bring himself to sleep with tonight. But he didn't like the idea of drinking from them. They oddly had shown him kindness, something he couldn't even acquire from his friends.

A woman rounded the corner. She was young, and her dark black hair was slightly unkempt. Colin rushed over to her, their eyes meeting instantly. The only sound she was able to make was a small gasp.

"Don't be scared, Miss . This will be over quickly. I'm just so...." he swallowed hard, "hungry."

Colin cupped the woman's face, turning her head so her neck was more on display. His fangs grew, his mouth watering at the thought of blood. Her pulse had quicken when he rushed her, her blood now calling his name. He sunk his teeth in, moaning as the liquid poured into his mouth. He closed his eyes, his thoughts shifting slowly back to familiar ones...

Penelope.

He hated admitting it, but he had wanted to drink from Pen. His dreams not only consisted of touching her in the most inappropriate ways or confessing that their kiss was all he thought about; it was how he longed to bite her neck, taste her salty skin and rich blood. He knew she would be heavenly, but he never allowed himself to ponder on it too long. These were fantasies after all. She would never, ever find out what he was. And he would not damn her to a life like this.

He groaned against the woman's neck, lapping up spilt blood. Penelope was haunting him, even in real life. How was it that he could smell her, even right now? Even with his mouth on a different woman's neck, drinking her life essence, was he able to feel Pen's presence? It's like he could hear her say his name.

Colin glanced up, the printer shop illuminating the archway leading onto the street. A short person stood frozen, watching him.

He froze too, his eyes focusing on the figure. The woman in his arms slurred incoherently. His eyes connected with her for a split second, telling her to forget what occurred and to go home. He pushed her off down a separate street, his eyes remaining on the silhouette.

He took a whiff of the air, his eyes widening.

The person ran the opposite way, racing back towards a carriage nearby. Colin made it there long before they could, grabbing them by the shoulders and pushing them up against the wall. His hand covered their mouth instantly, staring deep into the blue eyes he was captivated by since childhood.

"Penelope?"

~~~

Penelope had known the Bridgertons were vampires for years. While she might have met Colin first, Eloise had been her closest friend; mostly because it took Pen a while to really strike up the courage to actually talk to Colin. But when Eloise and her were young, outside and playing in her mother's garden, El casually told her what she was. At first, Pen didn't believe her. Who would believe such a thing without proof? El suddenly waltzed up to a butler nearby and told him to start doing a dance for her, and he did. The girls laughed at the sight, and from that moment on, Pen knew.

She never asked questions, but she was curious as to what vampires were really like. El wouldn't confirm anything to her, understandably wanting to keep some things private. And once Lady Whistledown rose to power in the Ton, El was even more hush about vampirism. Pen could tell she was nervous about her family's secret getting out there. But Pen assured her that Whistledown would never write on such a thing, otherwise she would become the laughingstock of Mayfair.

And now with El completely ignoring her because of Whistledown, she hoped that El understood that statement still rang true. While she would write about what everyone was talking about, no one but her knew their real secret. She would never share it, even if her and Eloise were no longer close.

The carriage came to a stop, the footman opening her door swiftly. She stepped out, the newest addition of Whistledown in her hand. She smirked as she read it over, noting how many in the Ton were speaking on her and Debling's possible engagement. While Pen did not enjoy being the center of attention, she did enjoy knowing that the sniveling mamas of the Ton were wrong about her.

Not only was Penelope courted, she was going to get married. That is, assuming she accepted Debling's proposal. Or that he actually planned to ask her mother tomorrow.

A life with Debling seemed... fine, to her. And if that's all she could get, she would take it. She wanted a love filled marriage, that was true; but maybe time would change that. It's possible that Debling one day might love her. Or that she may grow to fully accept what she had.

Part of her hated admitting it, but her feelings for Colin were still there too. But she accepted that reality as a fantasy and nothing more. Somehow, vampires were real, but Colin reciprocating her feelings wasn't.

God had a very wicked sense of humor.

She walked down the street, turning the corner to the printer shop. When she raised her hand to knock, something caught her eye. She gazed down the street, two figures stood out in the open. It appeared to be a man and a woman. She squinted her eyes, watching them. The man cupped the woman's jaw, burying his face into her neck. Pen blushed at the notion. She had thoughts similar to that of her and Colin. Dreams, even. But to see two people doing something like that, so out in the open, was very scandalous to her. She wanted to look away, but curiosity got the better of her.

The couple swayed into the light unintentionally, and Pen's eyes widened.

The man's mouth was latched onto the woman's neck, and she was limp in his arms. It almost appeared like he was biting her. As she took in the man, she noted his dark brown coat. His tall stature and quaffed hair were familiar to her. It almost looked like...

"Colin?" She whispered.

The man looked up, locking eyes with Pen. She gasped, seeing his face for the first time. Dear Lord in Heaven, it was Colin. His mouth was stained red from blood and his fangs were prominent, even from such a distance away.

Her heart raced, and she knew she needed to get out of there, now.

She spun on her heel, running back to the carriage. Before she was able to get remotely close, her body was pushed up against the wall, her mouth covered.

"Penelope?" Colin hissed, his red eyes almost glowing in the dark.

She studied his face, taking in the features she had yet to see of him. His eyes were the most surprising, but his fangs were shocking up close.

"I am going to remove my hand. Please don't scream." He moved his hand slowly, her face feeling hot from his skin touching hers. "What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask you the same question, Colin." Pen argued.

"It is none of your concern, Pen. Whatever you saw..." Colin fought to speak, "was not what it looks like."

Pen suddenly became aware of the Whistledown papers in her hand, "Well, if that's the case, then I should be heading back home."

"You didn't answer my question. Why are you-" He began.

She cut him off, trying to sidestep him. "Colin, I need to-"

"What is that in your hand?" He questioned, pointing down.

Her blood ran cold. "W-What?"

Colin grabbed the papers from Pen's hands before she could stop him, her heart dropping instantly.

He gazed at the papers, reading over the words hastily. She backed up, her body hitting the wall. His stare hardened, eyes watering. "You're... Whistledown."

The hurt in his eyes, his voice, made Pen instantly tear up, "Colin, please I can-"

Colin backed away from her, "I cannot believe this. How could you?"

Pen wiped away her tears, "I am terribly sorry, Colin. Please let me expl-"

"No, no. I do not want your explanation. What is there to explain? Clearly you are the one who has been writing such horrid things about my family. I cannot believe you would do this to us. To El." He choked out, "To me."

She begged, "Colin, let me explain myself."

"On top of being Whistledown, you come out here in the middle of the night to do your dealings. Unchaperoned, and presumably with no one knowing where you are. You could seriously get hurt! Not only could you ruin your reputation, but you could be harmed. How can you be so careless, Penelope?" He furrowed his brow, his eyes boring into hers.

Pen hated being talked down to. Who was Colin to act so scared for her safety, or her reputation for that matter? He was a vampire, for God's sake. She spat, "The only thing out here that seems to be harmful is you, Colin."

She knew she made a grave mistake. Damn her mouth.

Colin's eyes glowered at her, his body tensing. "What did you say?"

"I-I," Pen took a moment, gathering the courage to speak. "I saw you, Mr. Bridgerton. You weren't simply... caressing some random woman on the street. You were feeding on her. You're a vamp-"

He glared into her soul, demanding, "You are going to forget we had this conversation. You are going to forget what you saw moments ago. You are going to go home. Now."

Pen copied his gaze, shaking her head. "Who are you to tell me what to do? Have you gone mad?"

This was a terrible time to find out that Colin was, in fact, in love with Penelope. He knew he was, but the timing of it all really could not have been worse.

Colin growled, walking up to Pen's carriage door and opening it for her. "Get inside, Penelope. We will talk about this on the way back to your home."

"How can I trust to get in a carriage with you? Are you still hungry?" She sassed, her hands on her hips.

He lowered his gaze, his eyes darkening. "Do not make me force you inside."

Her skin felt hot suddenly, his tone hitting deep within her body. She had never seen Colin like this, and she wasn't sure what to make of it.

Her mind was cautious, nervous. But her body... felt something else entirely.

She sighed, stepping inside her carriage with the help of Colin. He followed her in, sitting across from her. He called out to the footman to go to the Featherington residence.

"Take the long way, please." Colin sat back against the seat, staring at Pen.

"Make a stop at the Bridgerton's house first... please." She called out. The footmen acknowledged their commands, and Colin rolled his eyes at her petty attempt of control. She squirmed under his gaze, unable to make eye contact with him.

He asked bitingly. "Should you start or should I?"

|| Part 2 >>

#colin x penelope #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #penelope bridgerton #bridgerton #colin bridgerton x penelope featherington #polin #colin x penelope fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fic #luke newton #nicola coughlan

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