#the way that if it were another rich white boy. the monarchy would have a chance to salvage the scandal because they’re on the same side | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heartshyuck · 4 years ago

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Pairing: Jisung x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst,slow burn, strangers to lovers au, first love, early 1900s au.

Synopsis: Lavenders symbolise purity, silence, devotion, serenity and grace. All endearing characteristics of the gorgeous boy, you met in the fields of purple.

Placed in the late 1930s , just before World War two starts, you flee from your family who are forcing you into a marriage. You lie low in a small village where you meet Jisung in a field of lavenders.

Word count: 23k lmao

Warnings: female reader, misogyny and very backwards ways of thinking, forced marriages, world war two + historical inaccuracy for progression of the plot, drinking

a/n: this is the longest fic i have ever written and honestly it was a mission, it took about a month to write and I am genuinely so proud of it and really happy with it. Please don't be scared by the length but when I say slow burn, I really mean it!

Escape the life they’ve laid out for you, the one they’ve planned without your input, you can’t live a life where everything is set out, where ’everything is expected and perfect. A life where you’d get married at 18 to a stranger who was of a worthy social class, attend formal lunches with the wives of your husband’s work colleagues and host dinner parties and occasionally large balls in a manor that always felt empty no matter how many paintings you bought to hang on the never ending amount of walls, no matter how many more bookshelves you tried to fit into one room, a place that you’ll always hate. Then to have children by 20, as many boys as possible of course to then not have any say in their upbringing and watch nurses tend to them, your husband educate them and then watch them get married, meet your grandchildren and when you’ve reached a respectable age, death will meet you in your sleep and you’ll be mourned and then forgotten. A life filled with regret, a constant numbness, no fulfilment and no meaning.

She would buy gifts upon gifts and shower you in expensive luxuries, spoil you in riches as a form of love and yet it always held another meaning behind it. There was a slight sadness in her eyes as she passed a gift every birthday,christmas and any other reason she found, almost as if she was saying sorry for the life you were going to live and how she’d use these moments as blackmail for when that time came. You’d overhear her quiet sobs when you would sneak around the house late at night, read letters she received from someone you didn’t know and how they wished for her life to get better and for her to find happiness in a world where happiness didn’t exist. You saw your mother cry when your father died, eyes bloodshot red in fear rather than grief. Her life was now uncertain and that's when you decided that you couldn't live an empty life, regretting choices and wishing for death to come to you first.

You did better than your brother at grasping algebra, better at them with understanding Versalius's "De humani corporis fabrica" and it didn't take your friend long to understand Karl Marx's theory on communism once you explained it to her. It angered you that this was dismissed especially when your brother soon went off to universities for they had outgrown your father's enormous library and knowledge, there was no more he could teach them but there was still much to learn and you yearned to do the same but as you approached a suitable age for marriage, your everyday classes on Shakespearean English, Tudor monarchy, Greek mythology and Italian art had now been replaced with sewing, crochet, dining etiquette and the differences between napkins, white laced ones for formal lunches, gold embroidery for important dinners and regular silk for everyday use, you'd recite to your mother and the many maids who were on standby.

You've left that world now, left the bustling streets of industrialised London where a black smog always hung around the air and the smell of burnt rubber that stung your nose, you always hated both. Though you grew up in a large estate where there seemed to be a never ending amount of land on the outskirts of London, you never were allowed out to explore. Only allowed out with your mother to pick out fabrics in the markets, surrounded by military men that guarded the general's wife and daughter but now you were alone, no guards, no mother and no black smog to block your view of what lies ahead, only the sun and the ocean sky, clear of clouds as you breathe in fresh air that cleanses your lungs from the toxins that hang in the city air, surrounded by vibrant lavenders that arrive with a strong, sweet smell of pollen which you welcome to replace the bitter rubber your sense of smell only seems to know.

You close your eyes and bask in the warmth of late August , the sun gleaming down on you, rays striking against your skin with the wind between the strands of your hair, blowing the lavenders and they slightly tickle your arms. You’re not sure how long you were in your euphoric trance but you weren't ready to leave yet when the dark shadow was casted over you.

Your eyes lazily open and beauty lies ahead, the sun gleaming behind him, lights him on flames and he burns with a presence so strong you can see it as his aura swirls around you, engulfing you. His features,strong and yet his eyes are soft and even as he's turned away from the sun they sparkle infinitely as they hold the brightest stars, his stare pierces through you and it makes your gut clench as you feel small under his gaze but you don't turn away, daring him to continue staring down on you, well that's what you tell yourself as you can't help but get lost in the beauty of his eyes. His face wears a worried expression, his hand out forwards for you to take and place in his and it takes you a while to realise he's trying to help you up, even longer to comprehend the words that leave his mouth, as you just watch his cherry red lips move. You're dazed and for the first time you're not thinking straight, your legs won't move to carry you back up onto your feet but your hand instinctively moves towards him and your own mouth gapes open as it does, and again he repeats himself emphasising the words as his eyes widen further “are you feeling well?” you stare blankly at him, no response until you feel the burning sensation of his hand in yours. A heat that sends shocks through every nerve, it runs through your bloodstream lighting you on fire and as if you were burnt you pull back, shaking off the dizzy spell you rise to your feet, your body finally responding to your screaming brain. A sense of relief washes over you as the fear of losing your mind slowly seeps out as the haze in your mind clears, until your eyes meet his again. “Really y/n, not for a boy” you cry out in your head as your mind seems to be lost in awe looking at him.

You shuffle uncomfortably and it’s just now you realise how much of a mess you look as the embodiment of beauty’s eyes fall down. Your expensive dress torn up, what was once a full sangria and silver ball gown was now rags that wrapped around you with the bottom half missing as it stopped just above your knees, an uneven hem due to the rough ripping which took all of your strength, the white net underneath was visibly stained a brownish yellow, the cuts on your knee not being the only thing the dirt seeped into but his eyes don’t even seem to stop there, they didn't even seem to notice, only meeting a piece of paper that lied on the floor. He reaches down for it, his eyebrows perk up slightly before handing it back to you.“You dropped this” he avoids eye contact, continuing to stare down, his hand abruptly extends out in front of him and he clears his throat, adding to the excruciating awkwardness between you and you wince at the sudden sound.

“Oh thank you..” you can hear your voice waver and crack and for the first time in your life, your voice isn’t confident, seems like a day full of firsts, your mother would’ve been proud if she saw you acting like this, like a lady she would have put it. Quiet, reserved but really it was just a suffocating stiffness that lingered in the air.

“Jisung” he completes your sentence, a small, shy smile appears on his face as his eyes look at everything but you, the letter still in his grasp he shakes his hand at you slightly urging you to take it. Your fingers brush past his ever so slightly as you take the letter back into your possession, a spark is sent through you and your fingers twitch, as if wanting more but you stop them from moving any further, your eyes slightly widen as you catch yourself falling so easily and if Jisung catches the weird expressions on your face, he chooses to ignore them not saying anything. “You are not from around here, are you?” His voice is light and airy as he speaks softly, as if you were made of glass and any harsh tone could break you, you can’t tell if it’s because of the immense awkwardness or because of the pity he must feel seeing you in such a state. You hope it’s the former and decide that’s what it is, when he starts playing with the edges of his white shirt.

“No I live in London” the words die as soon as they leave your mouth, you used to live in London, you don’t anymore. This only adds to Jisung’s awkwardness and it reminds you no matter how beautiful he is, he’s only just a boy who’s probably around your age. So you smile at him, letting out a small breathy laugh in hopes of lightening the mood, it works as he visibly unstiffens. “Used to” Jisung doesn’t press on the matter any further, doesn’t ask anymore questions, just nods. The unsettling atmosphere sets in once again and your incapability of standing in silence for more than a second, you clear your throat "do you know where this address is?" your tone light and airy, you sound almost clueless and it’s now you realise the true meaning behind every etiquette class, the role of the women is the domestic war, the war on power. For one to rise they must make powerful allies and that’s what this voice is for, to obtain the power of a man and trick them into helping you; so you're glad when Jisung takes the letter back into his grasp and examines the writing at the front, it’s worked.

“I’ll show you the way” and you nod with a slight smile as a thank you, Jisung leads the way and you follow soon behind, with his face no longer in my sight you can finally observe the rest of him. Judging by his height and build, seems like he comes from a well off family. Though there wasn’t a day you felt hungry, you weren’t blind to the outside world no matter how hard your parents tried to shelter you from it. The world is living off rations but the wealthy still have access to more, Jisung must have some sought of status or most likely works for a household with high status considering it seemed like he was running errands, why else would he be in a field full of lavenders and it’s only reinforced by the fine silk that flows as wind rushes past you. Somewhat similar to the material that makes up your gown, or what’s left of it, it’s an expensive material imported from colonies in the empire. He walks with no flaw and so you guess he didn’t serve in the war, meaning he has to be around your age; this new life is exciting and scary, you’re not sure what you want yet but you certainly wouldn’t mind if the boy in the lavender field stuck around for a while.

Jisung’s steps slowed and soon came to a stop outside a large estate, it was nowhere near as big as your parent's manor but comparing it to the small petite houses in the village you could just about see; it definitely was the biggest house in the village. You turned to thank Jisung, mouth slightly opened as the words were prepared to leave until you saw him pull out a key and a heat rose up your neck onto your face, in both slight embarrassment and excitement as you realised that Jisung must live here and your mouth couldn’t help but confirm your thoughts, “do you live here?” you blurted quickly with a slight lift in your tone, which you hope wasn’t too obvious in exposing your excitement.

His eyebrows rise, a small smile appears but he doesn’t answer your question, continuing to unlock the doors and allows you to step in first, a women who barely makes it past Jisung’s shoulders calls out to him, embracing him as she tightly wraps her arms around his waist, Jisung leans back slightly as a way of hoping to loosen her grip as his face scrunches up in pain as the struggle to breath sets in but there’s a constant smile on his face right until he peels her off. It’s then she punches him in the stomach, making him crouch down below her, holding onto his stomach.

“How many breaths must I waste in having to tell you to make sure you fulfill all your duties before you head to the fields'' she nags him and a smile is brought to your face at the violent display of affection, you guess he must be a part of the service team that works for the master of this house, which was exceptionally beautiful in the inside; much bigger than what it lets off from the outside, your eyes can’t help but linger elsewhere and observe the hidden beauty in all the small intricate designs. “Young master” the lady continues to punish him for his action and you head whips around at her words, she hasn’t even noticed you but Jisung’s eyes are constantly on you watching your expressions change as more as more information is being released to you, a smile appears on his face and at first it seems like a smirk but soon you notice the constant pink dust across his cheeks and you realise he’s embarrassed. There’s a strange feeling in your chest, a warmth that spreads and has you clutching your fists as you think at how adorable he is, your eyebrows furrow and you shake both the thoughts and the smile off.

Finally after what seems like hours of you staring at Jisung but in reality was no longer than a few seconds, the petite woman turns to you and acknowledges your presence, her eyes widen in surprise and she rushes to your side. “Oh lord, my dear child are you okay?” she grabs your hands and ushers you down the hall into a secluded room that takes up a big portion of the ground floor of the house.

The kitchen, filled with plenty of workers,busy hands and food; she shouts at a maid to move a few things around and to make some space for you around the small table that holds vegetables and freshly cut meat. There’s the smell of spices that are definitely too exotic to be from these lands, parcels with German writing and several people cooking dishes you don’t recognise.

You're pushed down onto a small wooden chair that slightly rocks and it is by far the most uncomfortable place you’ve ever sat but you don’t dare complain even after the minutes pass and your legs begin to ache. The maids ran around you and even as you left that world behind, you still somehow ended up in the same position and then you realise it’s the fine silk you wear that sets you apart, the rows and rows of pearls around your neck and rings on your fingers. They don’t ask any questions, just wiping away at the dirt on your legs; the same women at the door pouring a type of alcohol over your cuts and it stings drawing out a hiss from you, “sorry” she whispers and blows slightly on the irritated skin. The kitchen quiets down and the other maids exit, leaving you and the same women who scolded Jisung, she didn’t bother to ask him any questions and quickly sent him away to carry on with the work he didn’t finish, she doesn’t ask you any questions either for it’s not her place to ask.

She wraps bandages around your knees and your eyes wander around, landing on a picture of her with three little boys, you recognise the smallest to be Jisung, she catches your eyes and smiles “the masters, when they were little devils” she remarks making you and her both let out small laughs, “though they aren't much better now” she smiles fondly as she continues to wrap the bandages, you see love in her eyes and can tell that she raised them.

“The smallest is Jisung, am I correct?” you ask just to confirm your assumption, she nods and smiles, “i can tell by his awkwardness, it’s radiant even in pictures” you scoff and she laughs. "Who are the other two?" Your curiosity seemingly has no end.

"The tallest is master Jeno and the one in the middle is master Jaemin" she says as she cuts the bandage. You take note of their names and match it to their appearances though you assume they've probably changed quite a bit. The tallest, Jeno has crescent moons for eyes as his smile pushes them up, it's adorable. The middle, Jaemin also has a bright smile, probably the prettiest you’ve ever seen but Jisung still stands out the most to you, maybe it’s because you’ve seen how he looks now; the change is definitely visible, he’s grown much taller and into his sharp features. He's definitely handsome, epitome of beauty but by the way he timidly walks you’re not quite sure he knows it.

“Will these do, ma’am?” her hands hold onto a set of clean clothes and you only nod at her as you take the clothes from her hands, calloused and rough from years of labour. "Please just call me y/n" you tell her trying to remove your status and she only nods in return. "And what may I call you" you ask her.

"Daphne" she replies and you notice that she smiles at you, a full smile nothing quite like you've seen before and you'd like to think this what a smile should look like. Genuine. Instead of all the small smiles you recieved, the ones with hidden agendas and meanings, the ones because of who your father was, the one because of your status, name, title, money and a persuasion for your hand in marriage. So many smiles yet none truly considered one. God you hated that life.

"Now y/n let me show you to a room" she leads you out the room and you follow her upstairs, all the maids rushing back into the kitchen after you have left. She turns left and right and you find that the upstairs is far more complicated to navigate, with many different rooms. When she finally reaches a long corridor, she stops to point at the room that awaits at the end. "That will be your room ma'am" and before she even could finish her sentence properly, "y/n" you correct her and she only nods, giving you a soft smile as an apology."Please call for me if anything isn't to your liking" she says and just as she's about to step away, ready to leave you to get comfortable.

You call her back, "Daphne, can you please tell me who this is" you lift up the small blue letter that leads you here to this address, to finally put a name to the mysterious woman who only seemed to want the best for you and your mother. She takes the small letter from your grasp, examining the small font that's slowly fading due to the number of years it's collected dust. Her eyes widen as she reads the letter, her head snapping up to look at you, her lips parting slightly as if her jaw threatened to drop.

"My god" she says as she continues to read, shock written all over her face, "this is from the master's mother, dear" she tells you and you join her in shock as your jaw hangs a lot more obviously in shock. "She worked for your family when she was young" she continues to tell you and the ripples of shock continue to pulse through your body. Your mother and her are good friends from what you've gathered, reading all the letters you found. Yet your mother never even allowed you to mix classes, always telling you to stick with your own people, people who can pay for your time, literally. Yet here she was being friends with a woman considered below her, even considering sending you away to her. The hypocrisy is what shocked you the most, for you didn't think your mother could build relationships if it weren't for a social advantage.

"Can I meet her?" you ask, excited until you see sadness seep into her eyes, she looks down and she shuffles slightly. Her eyes glossy with tears threatening to fall and your own shoulders droop down and a frown is formed on your lips. "I'm sorry" you apologise but she shakes her head and wipes her eyes slightly.

"Don't be silly, you didn't know and it's better you found out through me anyways." She tells you and you're glad that you found out through her too, you don't think you would've been able to handle it coming from Jisung. "If you do not mind me, but when did she pass" you ask carefully as to not break her.

"Last May" she tells you and you hear sadness in her voice , as it slightly cracks and you release a deep sigh as to rid your body from the contagious mood. With that she hands the letter back into your hand and leaves you to wash up, "Dinner will be ready soon, please wash up" she urges you to go into the room.

You walk down the corridor, steps heavy as your heart grieves for Jisung and as you're reminded of your own father's death, though he planned on marrying you to a stranger you didn't love and never truly wanting you to live happily. You loved and still love him with every ounce of your being, all making grief an impossibly hard process. For your heart hurt and your mind could not comprehend why. Your eyes stung with tears and your hands trembling with pain and still the mind was questioning why you felt sad. Then the guilt blooms, hovering above you, for this man raised you and cared for you and yet you question your grief as you sit by his deathbed. Yet you remind yourself that questioning your grief is better than not feeling any at all, you remember looking over towards your mother who wore black and instead of grieving her husband's death, she felt grief for her widow status that crushed her social status, for who was she without her husband.

So as you remove the many pearls and diamonds around your neck, gifted to you by your mother, you’re reminded why you left that life behind. You won’t be defined by your husband but by what you have achieved and for who you are. Yet you leave on the thin golden chain with a single pendant on your neck, as a reminder for where to come from and how far you’ve travelled. It was a gift from both your mother and father, the one gift you like to think wasn’t used as a symbol of your wealth to attract men in asking for your hand in marriage, the simplicity of this necklace led you to believe that this was a genuine gift of their love.

Changing out of your ball gown or the remainders of it, you feel anew. Stripping out of your old skin and into much comfortable and humble ones, you feel as if your new life is finally starting and though it’s far from what anyone would have wanted for your life to be like, it’s what you want. You’ve been here for just under an hour and instantly you're on cloud nine, floating to where only the sun is. The rays dancing on your skin and euphoria runs within your veins, this is life.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in a daze but soft knocks on the door is what awakens you and you're quick to open the door, not wanting to leave the person on the other side waiting but you’re met with a fist, that seems as if it malfunctions as it goes down by the side of the same person who seems to waking you out of all your dazes recently. Jisung stands there awkwardly, legs crossed and hands behind his back, he stutters as he says “dinner is...um.. It is awaiting” and with that he cuts himself off, rushing the words out of his mouth and quickly turns around, rushing downstairs.

You can only smile at him, how was someone allowed to be that cute. Following soon after him you enter into the dinning room, the smile on your face completely wiped off by the shock of two other men sitting around the table. Your back straightens as your body stiffens, by habit, you’ve been taught to look most confident when caught off guard.

“Sit here y/n” Daphne takes out the seat opposite of Jisung and next to a man you don’t know until he smiles your way, you recognise that smile and it’s still as pretty as it looks in the picture hanging in the kitchen. You smile back at him as you make your way by his side and take your seat.

“Hello, I’m Jaemin” he turns to you, dropping his fork and it clatters as it hits the plate, a beautiful smile across his face and you finding it comforting to think it hasn’t changed at all. He then lifts your hand to his lips, placing them softly on your knuckles all whilst keeping that damn smile held across his lips and staring straight into your soul, heat rises up your body slightly thrown back and he can see the shock in your eyes . Your well crafted facade cracking. His eyes are still boring into yours and you can’t move, stuck looking into his eyes, hands stuck to his until a kick. Coming from across the table, a force hits Jaemin’s shin causing him to yelp, instantly turning away from you and dropping your hand, you notice a small smile on Jisung’s face as he tries to conceal his laughter. You turn to look at where such a force came from, fierce strong features and an intimidating stare yet when he turns to you crescent moons appear, his aura changing immediately and the child in the portrait comes to life. “I’m Jeno” his voice is soft yet clear and all you can do is smile back before replying simply your name “Y/N” you tell him and he nods your way.

Thinking that silence would now set in was foolish of you, for you should’ve guessed Jaemin isn’t the type to let there be silence and looking back now you could definitely tell he was itching to ask you so many questions. “I guess you have already met Jisung” he turns to you again and you only nod, looking up at the tall boy in front of you but he only stares at the soup in front of him but you know he senses your gaze as he twitches slightly in his seat, holding himself back from looking up and directly into your eyes. “He is not usually this quiet, he will warm up to you soon” Jaemin apologises on behalf of Jisung yet he grimaces at the words that leave Jaemin’s mouth but you smile at Jaemin ignoring Jisung’s expression.

The rest of dinner is filled with small talk between you and Jaemin, him asking you your favourite colour and trivial things like that, you discussed different authors and scriptors to which Jeno also chimed in on the conversation, both very impressed on your knowledge though you aren’t sure if they were impressed because you were a woman or genuinely impressed by the vast knowledge you had accumulated over the years spent in your father’s library however you brushed that thought aside, carrying on with the conversation, eyes drifting to Jisung at times who just sat there playing around with spoon, twisting it between his fingers instead of daring to look at you let alone to add to the conversation. Finally as Daphne takes away the plates, Jeno stands up dismissing himself from the table, “It was a pleasure to meet you Y/N, I hope you stay a while it was fun having you” he tells you with those same moons for eyes and you thank him for his hospitality “It was a great pleasure to meet you too, thank you for allowing me to stay” you say them at Jeno and Jaemin but they’re mainly directed to Jisung who brought you here.

“If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to tell me” Jaemin smiles, a hand on your shoulder as he stands next to where you sit and you only nod at him, he then comes to your ear, lips so close you feel them brush against the shell “Jisung will come around, I’m sorry if he’s making you feel uncomfortable” he apologises on his behalf for the second time that night and you wave him off with a smile. You could already tell that Jisung is shy and awkward but it’s not confused for hate or resentment, he simply doesn’t know how to act around a female and it’s clear the way he trips over his words and his very own legs but to be fair they are very long.

After everyone left the table and made their ways to their own rooms, you too made your way to bed. Laying there you think back to how far you’ve come, a few months ago this all would have been nothing but a dream and now it’s a reality and the euphoric feeling you imagine is everything and more. Freedom is worth anything is what you’ve learnt, the freedom to live your life the way you want. To be in control of all your decisions, living with the consequences but not a single shred of regret because you chose it and therefore it must have been for a reason. It’s new and exciting but so scary as the colony of butterflies bloom in your stomach, all the possibilities panning out in your head and for some reason as you drift off to sleep that night, you see Jisung in this future of yours.

The sun shined in through the sheer curtains of your room, sunlight dancing on your skin and the warmth made you feel alive as it tingled. The house was quiet and as you look out the window you realise that even the Sun has still yet to wake fully, still sleepy rising out of the horizon. The birds chirp and the lavender fields roar as the wind dances but there in the middle of it all is a figure. Jisung. Your eyes light up and your legs are quick to move, still in your nightgown, hair in a mess you rush to meet him there. The stairs creak as you step down them slowly, as if a child trying not to get caught, you try your best not to wake a soul.

Once out the door you run out towards the purple sea, the cold morning air refreshing to the midday humidity that sticks your clothes to your skin, instead the wind blows through you and you feel free as all boundaries and confinements are washed away but then it hits you, causing your legs to halt. Jisung barely knows you, how weird it would be for you to run up to him at the break of dawn? Very weird you decide as you slowly make your way back to the house, hoping to not make any noise that might draw his attention your way.

Stepping back inside, your back against the heavy wooden door you let out a deep sigh as your eyes fall closed in relief. Thank god he didn't see you, you think to yourself as you just stepped into the living room and your heart dropped down to your stomach, lungs stopping as you see him there. Jisung flicking through a book, his eyes come up to meet yours which are blown out in shock as you stare between him and looking back at the door, his lips fold into a line and you practically see the questions forming in his mind as he scratches the top of his head.

“Good Morning” you say with a smile but the embarrassment isn’t covered well, eyes everywhere but his. He softly replies with a mumble you’re unsure if he actually said anything back or if you just made it up but as your eyes land on the book in his hand and all thoughts are banished. You rush round the table, Jisung’s eyes wide now as it’s his turn to be shocked as you sit down beside him, taking the book out of his hand to have a look at the title. “Ah a classic” you say as your fingers run over the title and Jisung only nods at your words. “Is it your favorite Shakespearean play?” you ask in hopes of starting up conversation, all you get in return is nod of the head but that does nothing but urge you to talk again to fill the silence. “I like Hamlet but i think Macbeth is my favourite. The best character being Lady Macbeth, a strong ambitious women” you state and Jisung only laughs at this causing you to turn back to him.

“She had lost her mind” he laughs again and you smile

“Yes but as a woman she exerts power and it’s not really seen much in female characters in stories and real life” you tell him, explaining how a woman like her is admirable for her strong spirit.

“Yes but doesn’t Shakespear describe her to have a masculine soul that within a femine body, he is saying the ambition and power are masculine and therefore is she really a good embodiment for strong powerful females?” he argues back, questioning you and you can’t help but smile.

“But he uses her and the witches to plant the idea of murder in Macbeth’s head, he shows that they are powerful and can achieve what they want through manipulation which he explains to be a women’s method, they are in control of the men and it shows that if it weren’t for social confinments that they would pursue their ambitions for themselves, is Macbeth really the one in control?” you question him back and he smiles

“You win” he laughs and pride is struck through you, there’s no feeling quite similar to winning a debate but there's sadness at the bottom of your gut as you remember and miss your brothers who you would debate with until frustrations would burst out of you all and it leads to punches being thrown around.

“Let me guess, you hate Romeo and Juliet” he expects you to say yes and you know it’s because he probably thinks their love for each other is shallow but you can’t say you do.

“I don’t actually, aside from the whole love at first sight, I somewhat relate to it” you tell him eyes staring at him but unfocused as you think back to how your own life was in comparison to Juliet’s, “the being forced into something you don’t want and dying for your freedom, in this case her freedom was Romeo but i don’t think he was the only reason she chose to flee, I’d like to think ran away for herself and to allow herself her own choices in life” and then silence as Jisung took in your words, a perspective he had never really thought about, the story was always solely based on romance but then again he had never been put in the position of being forced into something so life changing such as marriage. Jisung couldn’t begin to comprehend how it felt to be used so obviously for social gain and being stripped and deprived of anything else that would hinder that.

Sensing stiffness in the air, you had to do something about it, you finally got Jisung to actually have a conversation with you. “Still Macbeth is the best” and again you manage to get a laugh out of him. The sound is so sweet that angels come down to listen to it, the heavens split open at the first bubble of laughter that leaves his mouth and your eyes light up as your body tingles with pride for causing it, you’re addicted to it and you're itching to hear it again. You need to hear it again.

The moment is cut off though with the entrance of Jaemin and Jisung’s eyes avert to his brother greeting him a good morning as quietly as he did to you and Jaemin sleepy replies in a yawn, rubbing his eye before sitting down opposite you. “Morning y/n” he greets you and you smile before greeting him back, turning back to Jisung to hopefully start up the conversation again. “So what else are you reading?” you ask and your eyes light up as you scan over the many books on the table before you.

“Oh y/n, you know how to read!” Jaemin jumps up, it wasn’t expected for someone to be literate to the extent they could read Shakespeare or any higher educational scriptures, unless of a high class, let alone a women but your father taught you all he could and then you leached off your brothers who were lucky enough to be sent to school but Jaemin had already been aware of this “Yes my father taught me” you tell him and he nods rapidly.

“Yes I know, I just thought you’d like to know that there’s a library upstairs if you ever get bored and want to read something” he tells you and excitement bubbles up inside you and the instinct to run up there and have a look at their book collection is something far harder to conceal then it should be and Jaemin laughs at your eagerness. “Jisung could use someone like you, he’s always trying to get away from his studies” and you hear Jisung let out a nervous laugh as you turn towards him, completely offended.

“You have the privilege of being able to study and you want to run away from it” you gasp and it causes Jaemin to laugh again but this wasn’t a laughing matter, you were completely serious. You would die to be in his position and something about the way Jisung holds an apologetic look makes you think he knows you would.

“I guess you’ll just have to be with him to help him study” Jaemin offers a solution and your eyes light up at this, the excitement running through your veins. You all know exactly what that means, yes it’s babysitting Jisung to make sure he gets all his work done but it also means you get to study whatever he’s learning and expand your knowledge as far as you can. Jisung seemed hesitant at first but after seeing how you visibly lit up at the suggestion he couldn’t help but agree to take you along with him when he had to study.

After breakfast Jisung led you up to the library, it was a large room filled from ceiling to floor with books, the sight alone made you dizzy with excitement, as you stepped in the beloved smell of old books filled your senses and your hands instantly rushed to run along the spines of every book. Your eyes sparkled as you looked over each one and Jisung watched as fascination completely engulfed you, he couldn’t stop watching as you pick out a book, couldn’t take his eyes off you as your eyes skimmed the blurb, he was mesmerized by what he wasn’t too sure of. His eyes didn’t seem to be able to move on from your figure until you turned to face him, time stood still as he watched more and more of the bright smile that was held across your face be revealed to him, you were beautiful. Once met with yours, his eyes scrambled away as they always do and he was quick to turn around and seat himself at the desk that sat in the centre of the room.

You too situated yourself on one of the more comfortable chairs, opposite to Jisung, you watched him begin to write, his head slanted and both arms splayed out on the table, he was the height of beauty and grace, the gods carved him from marble, so ethereal Aphrodite herself was jealous of his perfection, Apollo envied his grace. Though you were here to study, read as many books time allowed you, your eyes were distracted and little did you know they were distracting Jisung as well. Your gaze causes his breath to halt, his hands to sweat and pink dust to decorate his skin. You were dazed, stuck in a trace of his beauty and had to do something to get out of it, you clenched your hand; nails digging into your palms, pressing hard to wake you. You forced your head to the side, eyes looking at the bookshelf once again but your actions caused Jisung to look up, you can feel his stare on you and a shiver is sent through your spine, too scared to look back at him, afraid you’ll be pulled back into his trance.

“You have a lot of German books” you say, hoping your nervousness isn’t obvious and just to be sure you get up and head towards the books. You feel him staring at every step you take and you just pray you're the only one that can hear the loud thumping of your heart against your ribcage as a colony of butterflies bloom in your stomach. Fingers tracing over the German writing on the spine of each book, you try to distract yourself from him and try to compose yourself once again but then his voice echoes through the room, deep and smooth it sends shivers rippling through you.

“My father was stationed in Germany” he tells you as his eyes finally move away from your figure, a sense of relief washes over you as he continues to write once again. Yet you're still too nervous to turn around, too nervous to look at him, he who is the epitome of beauty.

“Still?” you ask, filling in the silence as you pull out another book, examining the words on the front cover but you instantly regret it as Jisung’s eyes fall back onto you.

“After the war he was assigned a higher position in the Rhineland and then after they were dismissed he was asked to stay along the French borders'' he tells you and once again your curiosity gets the best of you and you ask him another question. If you remember correctly, it’s been 10 years since the dismissal of the troops in the Rhineland.

“So when was the last time you saw him?” and instantly you regret the words that leave your mouth, your curse yourself a million times over. Jisung’s silence is all too overwhelming and your chest grows tighter as guilt takes over your body and just as you’re about to apologise, he answers

“He visited last year” Jisung simply states but you can hear the strain in his voice, the pain he’s tried his best to cover yet it seeps through and your glad you can’t see him right now because you couldn’t bare to see the sparkle in his eyes fade slightly as you remember the passing of his mother, that most probably led to his father returning back home. Silence settles again and your frozen by the shelves, the air so heavy it feels as if weights were holding you down, your mind hazy as you space out and as the common pattern goes, Jisung wakes you out of the depths of your mind with a voice as smooth as honey, it provides a comfort that sends shivers down your spine. “He’ll be back soon though, he’s officially been discharged for retirement” he tells you as if he can feel your stiffness and out of the corner of your eye you see he’s giving you a small comforting smile, just to make the air seem a little lighter.

Time seems to fly past as you both sit there, Jisung’s hands busy writing away as he refers back to scriptures and your eyes busy as you read up on German politics and the structure of the Weimar constitution, that revolutionised democracy, the sun was now high in the sky as noon approached. You didn’t even notice until Jisung let out a loud yawn, arms above his head as he stretched and let out mumbles of how you should stop for today or at least take a break. You only nodded in response as you stretched your own limbs out, you had ended up curled up in the chair with your legs tucked away as you leaned into what you were reading. Jisung couldn't help but smile as he looked up occasionally to see your eyebrows furrowed as you read and he can't help the soft laugh from escaping his lips now as he watches you stretch. "And what is it that you find so funny?" You question him, eyes narrowed but your lips are clearly fighting back a smile and the sight of it flusters Jisung, stammering over his words ``N-Nothing" he answers and you let out a small smile to let him know you were only kidding.

As you both leave the room, you can't help but follow Jisung "and what is it you do after you are done studying?" Your question startled him as he visibly flinched at the sound of your voice and he mentally tells himself to get used to your unquenchable curiosity. "Except for picking lavenders" you tease. He lets out a soft laugh, the same sound you've been itching to hear since this morning.

"Nothing much" he tells as he makes his way down the stairs. Following him down, he makes his way towards the drawing room, sitting himself down in an old velvet chair, you place yourself beside him in a matching one. Your eyes peering over towards his hands that pull at needle and thread and you’re astounded by the sight in front of you, a male who knows how to sew is as rare as diamonds, as impressive as gold. Jisung continuously stuns you, his nimble fingers work diligently as they pull the thread to make patterns across the once plain cloth.

He can feel the burn of your stare on his hands, his chest tightens and his nerves are lit on fire, he is hyper aware of every wander of your eyes. His mind clouded by the mere thought of you watching him, his mind so fixated on impressing you, for a reason he’s not sure of, he doesn’t pay much attention to the needle any longer; a mistake he realises once the sharp point collides with the soft skin of his index, drawing blood. He flinches back away from the sharp contact as you leap forward to cup his hand in both of yours. Pressing your thumb against his finger, applying pressure in hopes of stopping the seeping blood, you slightly blow upon it to relieve it of any pain but Jisung can’t feel any pain not when your overwhelming heat rolls of you and radiates on to his skin, with every touch sparks fly on top of his skin fizzling underneath and seeping into his bloodstream. A fluttering blooms in his stomach and Jisung has no idea what this feeling is, it’s new and exciting. He craves it as his eyes drift to your worried face and once your eyes meet his, the emotion is buried by the overwhelming nervousness he feels engulfing him, his cheeks flush and his breath is caught in his throat. He pulls away from you and quickly stands “I’ll” he pauses thinking what to say next “I’ll get a bandage” he spits the words out as soon as his mind comes up with the excuse.

“I’ll get it, sit down” you stand up and ready to head towards any one of the maids that could help you but your steps are interrupted by Jisung’s voice once again.

“No it’s fine, I’ll get it” he blurts out, hand stopping you as he places in front of you, your head moving back on reflex, and with that Jisung runs out the room; feet moving fast as his left hand tightly wraps around his right index.

You sit there for what felt like forever waiting for Jisung’s return but in reality it was no more than 10 minutes, you were never one to hold patience. So you rose to your feet, eager to find the tall boy that let awkwardness roll off of him. Heading to the direction you saw Jisung turn, you make your way to the familiar kitchen, many busy bodies work their way around preparing for dinner as the clock is nearing sun fall. Your eyes wander the familiar walls with the same pictures you stared at upon the first day of your arrival, until they stopped on the figure they seeked. There he stood by the wooden table that just about reached his waist. He poured flour into a bowl, followed by two eggs and your eyes watched his every moment again and as if he could sense you, his rose to meet you once again. You smile because it just comes so naturally when with him and he smiles back, how could he not?

Inviting yourself in, you step closer towards Jisung, “A cook too” you say, you’re impressed and it’s evident in your voice.

“It’s a basic necessity” he says yet there’s a pink coating that dusts his cheeks, you know he’s flattered by your words despite his own.

“Basic necessity?” you question as you sit down, legs crossed, on an empty wooden chair just by where he stands “I guess I should learn” you state nonchalantly, not expecting the reaction it would provoke from Jisung. His head snaps to turn to you, his eyes searching your face for any indication that you were only pulling his leg, that this was only a joke but those indications never showed because this wasn't a joke, you were serious.

“What? Does a girl have to know how to cook?” you question him in a scoff, an eyebrow raised as you question his thoughts that control his expressions.

“No they don’t but I can be surprised, I know you are surprised I can” he rebuttals, calling out your hypocrisy but to this you only smile, you were glad Jisung could stand his own ground, it wouldn’t be fun otherwise.

“More impressed than surprised” you state, earning a smile from Jisung once again, you pat yourself on the back each time you manage to pull out that sweet, healing smile that seems to wash all worries away.

“Who’s to say I’m not impressed” he questions you once again and continues to mix the batter, adding more ingredients, again you smile at his words and Jisung feels his heart flutter at every stretch of your lips. He craves to see it more.

“Can you teach me?” your question catches him off guard and his eyebrows leap up into the soft brown hair that covers his forehead, “what I’m not totally hopeless, I’ve read a book on it before” you pout. Laughter rings through the air as Jisung has doubled over, unable to hold in the snorts and his breathing unsteadies as your words register in his head and this only makes your pout more prominent and your eyebrows knit together.

“I’m sorry” Jisung laughs out as his eyes fall onto your expression but he can’t hold it in, a few bubbles of laughter spilling out as he tries to calm his breaths, his eyes glossy as tears threaten to fall and you try to fight back your own laughter as the corners of your lips slightly perk up. “Did you say you read a book on cooking” he can’t even get through the sentence without laughing but he’s quick to reign it back in to allow you to answer.

“Yes” you say proudly, head still held high and Jisung bites down on his lips as the splutters of laughter threaten to escape again. “It’s obviously not the same thing but I’ve read basic methods” you state in defence.

“You make it sound like science” he scoffs at your words and you roll your eyes at his.

“Is it not, the mixing of substances to achieve a product. It sounds like alchemy to me” you explain your thought process and Jisung nods in agreement. Though you can tell he has something to say.

“Alright then, let us say cooking is science” he begins and you raise your eyebrow in questioning as to where this is leading “reading a method for an experiment is not the same as doing the experiment, there are things that are not accounted for, practical errors, measuring errors. The method tells you what to do but not how to do it” and before he can even finish his sentence properly you jump up, startling him slightly as he flinches back.

“And that is where you come in to teach me, guide me through the experiment” you plead but it sounds like he doesn’t really have an option, you’re practically telling him. He sighs but he has to give, how could he not when you're giving him your sweetest smile and when your eyes are practically begging him.

“I’m surprised you want to learn” he questions you “I thought you’d avoid anything that would have been forced upon you” he explains as he hands you an apron.

Your smile extends ear to ear as you take the apron from his hands, tying in behind your back you explain your sudden want to learn “Yes but I’m choosing to learn, this isn’t about adding another quality of a wife to my resume. This about extending my knowledge and as you said it is a basic necessity.”

Jisung only nods at your answer as he hands you another bowl, some ingredients already placed inside “follow after me” he says as he cracks an egg and pours it’s insides into the bowl and then turning to you he see you struggle, knocking the egg against the table softly you try and mimic his actions “Did the book not mention eggs?” he laughs and so does Daphne who observes close by as you send him glares that wish him death.

“Like this” he says as he places his hands over yours, guiding you but your eyes aren’t focused on the egg in your hold, you’re focused on Jisung who’s so close, too close. You feel his breath on the side of your neck and goosebumps arise on the surface of your skin as shivers are sent down your spine. The scent of cotton, jasmine and of course lavenders invade your senses and blur your mind. You can’t help but stare at Jisung, perfection personified as he concentrates on explaining how to assure no shell falls into the batter. Yet the words enter one ear and exit the other as you watch his lips move, your eyes stuck and it’s only when his eyes move up to meet yours does he also realise the little space between the two of you. His hands still holding onto yours, his eyes move down. Slowly they trace the features of your face, the bridge of your nose, the dip of your cupid’s bow and then they stop at your lips. His breathing halts, his heart skips beats as it dances in his chest and when he feels unbearable heat take over him he forces himself away from you. Quickly flinching back, his warmth leaves you, he clears his throat and turns from your gaze that still stares, he continues showing you what to do and no more words are exchanged as the heaviness in the air sets in.

Many weeks go by where you and Jisung spend all your mornings in the library, which had now become your favourite spot in the house, you look forward to picking up a new book every morning, look forward to watching Jisung so focused on his work, telling him all about what you’ve learnt and occasionally sparking up a debate but you also find yourself staring out the window wishing for the sun to only raise itself higher and higher as you wish for midday to arrive, to run away with Jisung down into the kitchen where he continues to teach you how to cook, some days he would take you into town to pick out fresh ingredients or some days into the drawing room where he attempts to teach you how to sow. After a few failed attempts, your patience wearing thin and much blood being drawn from your fingers, you give up on sewing however cooking is a much greater achievement and the outcome was worth every bit of it. The smile on Jisung’s face every time he’d taste something he’d liked, every time you remember a part of a recipe and every time he would sit down at the dinner table and Jeno or Jaemin would compliment your cooking. He felt immense pride in you and it fostered a love for cooking within you.

Other days when the weather prohibited it, Jisung would take you out into the lavender field. You’d sit in between the rows and rows of purple, picking at the prettiest ones.The sun high in the sky, august warmth embracing you as the wind blew over the roaring fields, dancing between your hair. “Look I learnt this from a book” you sit beside Jisung, his head snaps up and his attention is on your fingers now as they twirl the thin stems in and around each other to form a knot. “Purity, silence, devotion and grace are what a lavender symbolise” you begin to tell him “and you Jisung” you place the intertwined lavenders behind his ear, he’s visibly flustered as his cheeks turn hues of pink and it only urges you on “are exactly that” you whisper to him as if the lavenders had ears and could hear your confession, for these words are for Jisung’s only.

Jisung’s eyes widened as each word that was revealed to him, his heart thumping in his chest and his mind set on fire as chaos engulfed him. His thoughts scrambled and instantly his mind went to countless different possibilities as to what those words meant but looking up at you his mind cleared for he only saw beauty. The beauty your eyes held, as they sparkled infinitely each time they skimmed over the countless words on a book, the beauty your smile held when someone complimented your new found cooking skills, the beauty in your voice each time you called on him as the new found nickname “sungie” which caused his heart to melt, the beauty you held in the way you carried yourself never letting anyone put you down. Jisung adored you in every way, embers in his chest that grew into a flame, which spreads through his entirety burning all. A blissful pain sits at the core of him, aching, he longs for you but do you long for him? Is he but a fool to fall in love with a stranger, the stranger in the lavender fields. Is he a fool for falling in love with you? Is this even love? His eyes fixated on your lips, he examines the curve of them, the colour, their beauty. As if they were magnets he’s drawn to them, slowly inching himself forward, so close he could feel the warm air that made it past them.

So close and yet so far is he to you, the sweet smell of lavenders is dizzying, the sunlight burns your skin but against Jisung’s it only illuminates his, he glows. The urge to place your lips on top of his, eats away at your skin, the want crawls under and down your spine, shivers resonate throughout your body as he nears. The world falls away, the slight buzzing of bees fade, the tickles of the grass dissipate and you only feel Jisung. His presence, the brush of his knee against yours and the warmth that radiates off him. Your heart stops, you stop breathing, anticipating what’s about to happen next until suddenly Jisung’s head snaps to the right and reality comes flooding in as you hear both your names ringing and ripping through the air. “Jisung! Y/N!” Daphne shouts and Jisung jumps up answering for both of you “We’re coming!” Left completely stunned you sit there, mind in chaos as your embarrassment engulfs you. Your eyebrows furrowed, you think to yourself how you could allow for yourself to fall into his spell. What were you thinking? That’s the problem, around Jisung you can’t think, everything happens on pure instinct and desire. Then as if you had rewinded time, a shadow is casted over you, a hand is placed in front of you to take and as he did on that first day, he snaps you out of your daze. “Are you feeling well?” he asks in that same soft voice. Your hand twitches to move towards him and it takes everything in your power to stop it from falling into his grasp once again.

“Fine” it comes out much colder than you expected it to as you rise up to your feet on your own, his hand is left hanging awkwardly to which he slowly closes before placing it behind his head as he bites his bottom lip and your eyes can’t help but fall on them again, they which were so close and yet so far. “Let’s go” and this time you lead him out of the lavender field.

The walk back to the house is silent, the same awkwardness that hadn’t made an appearance in so long settles in the air, it’s thick and heavy and you can feel it weigh you down. Upon arriving back to the house, a carriage awaits outside, a military emblem on the back and your heart drops, eyes widen and your steps stop. “It couldn’t be” you let out at barely a whisper.

But the slightest sound from you is enough to have Jisung’s head snap up towards you, for he’s been waiting for you to make a sound, any sound to rid this atmosphere. "What is it?" He asks also hushed, his eyes follow yours and there it leads to the carriage, a smile rips through his face and he runs ahead. Confused you rush your steps but the anxiety building up in your chest stays, the lump in your throat is still hard to swallow.

“Y/N!” Jaemin calls you whilst waving his hand eagerly, calling you to come quickly and as you step closer the constraining feeling in your chest dissipates as the figure that steps out of the carriage is an unknown one to you. You stand by Jaemin’s side, who radiates excitement off him and you can’t help but smile as the little boy in the picture is standing right before you, the same eager stance and pretty smile that even the sun envies. The man exists and immediately pulls Jeno into an embrace so tight and you swear you see Jeno’s eyes sparkle as tears threaten to fall. Jisung is much less subtle at concealing his tears, he sobs into the man’s shoulder and it’s only then you presume this is their father. Jisung’s eyes are red and he sniffles as his father let’s go of him and your heart clenches at his adorableness. Jaemin is as happy as ever, hugging his father as tight as ever, eyes closed in pure bliss. You’re smiling like a fool as the heartwarming scene unfolds in front of you, so busy looking at the happy smiles and the stray few tears that are still running down Jisung’s cheeks you don’t notice the new acquaintance step in front of you until he clears his throat and you jump to meet his gaze.

“You must be Y/N” he smiles extending his hand and you place yours in it, shaking it. “I’ve heard a lot about you in all my son’s letters” your eyes widen and your turn to the three boy, Jaemin with that damn smirk on his face, Jisung avoiding your eyes and as always finding his shoes much more interesting, thank god for Jeno who offers a comforting smile assuring it’s all good things. “Sir you’ve raised three fine men, who have all welcomed me” you bow your head in thanks and he smiles once again.

“I couldn’t possible take any credit for it, it’s all thanks to their mother and Daphne of course” he turns from you to her and she pulls him into an embrace “Thank you for looking after them” he says barely audible but Daphne catches it and just as softly replies “but of course”. As everyone heads inside you wait until Jisung is by your side to start heading in as well, “Crybaby” you whisper with a teasing smile you nudge him with your elbow, he scoffs as he’s wiping his tear stained cheeks but he can’t help smile back at you.

Seated around the dining table, as always by Jaemin’s side and opposite Jisung, their father sits at the head of the table and more food than ever is being served tonight in celebration. You’re much more quiet tonight despite Jaemin continuously making sure you feel involved in the conversation, you’re eternally grateful for him. “So Y/N, why did you leave home?” their father asks so casually it almost goes unnoticed by the boys but Jisung almost chokes on his water, Jeno’s eyes widen and Jaemin almost immediately tries to shut down the conversation “Father” he gives him a pointed look, jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowed as he shakes his head.

“Jaemin, it's okay" you smile towards him, "freedom i suppose sir" you answer the question and Jisung's father squints his eyes, as he lets out a hum in acknowledgement of your answer. "Even after all your family has done for you?" He continues to question "you come from the family my late wife used to work under, am I correct?" And you simply nod "yes I do".

"The late General's daughter" he states "I wonder if he's turning in his grave at this moment" Jisung's grip on his silverware tightens and you notice his knuckles turn white and once again Jaemin's stare is begging his father to stop as Jeno looks over to see how affected you are by his cruel words. You don't falter though, you know what you've done can seem selfish but it was necessary "I'm sure he is" you laugh out "but he's always known I'm never one to listen" you continue to pick away at the food on your plate and you can feel all there gazes falls onto you, as you look up Jisung’s eye bore into yours as he mouths a soft “sorry” to you and you smile back at him shaking your head.

“I assume you’ve run from marriage” Jisung’s father starts up conversation again and you only nod as an answer “Are you against marriage?” he asks and it’s if he wants tears to fall from your eyes as he keeps pushing where he knows it’ll hurt. “Of course not but I would like to pursue a higher education or experience the world first” you explain, still keeping your calm.

“You think a woman is capable of doing such things?” he asks again and it’s this question that really makes your skin crawl and your jaw tighten. Questioning your methods of gaining freedom is one thing but looking down on all women and claiming them unable is one you can’t stand for. “I think we are very capable, I think the suffragettes have made that very clear and sir didn’t you work with the Weimar Government, they were the first government to allow women to vote I would think their initiative would have rubbed off on you” and he only smiles at your answer.

“I was stationed in Germany and worked under the Weimar Government up until their collapse, you’re correct” he begins to tell you “I have to tell you that I agree with your view, I’ve seen much that women are capable of doing” he says and your eyes widen at his words “I think what you did was brave and admirable, my three boys could learn from you, I hope you can lend Jisung some of your courage” he smiles at you and your jaw still hangs as does everyone else's around the table and as you look up to find pink hues invading Jisung’s cheeks once again, if you didn’t know any better you would have thought it were always like that regardless. You nod at their father before answering back “I think I’m the one who’s learning a lot form Jisung sir” and the shades of pink darken

The atmosphere had lightened again somewhat although the topic on war was not a light one at all, as their father expressed his worry about sending his three sons off to war and how in ruins the country would be again, worry sat in your chest. Jeno and Jaemin are strong all physically, emotionally and mentally but Jisung is the sweet boy who wouldn’t hurt a bee. “What do you think of the current situation of our country Y/N'' Jeno taking you out of your thoughts, you head snaps up to him “I think the war is unavoidable despite our economic stance, Germany has already invaded Czechoslovakia and it’s only time before they invade Poland meaning our involvement in the war is definite whether we want it or not'' the table falls silent as they process your words and it’s not until Jisung’s father begins to nod and expand on your thoughts but you zone out as you watch Jisung fiddle with the knotted lavenders you had gifted him and your lips can’t help but curve.

The next morning a book awaited you on your vanity, a scarlet red cover with gold print, you ran your fingers along. “Sonnets'' it read and as you flicked open to the first page, familiar handwriting appeared “A collection of my favourite - Jisung” a smile spread across your face as it usually did when your thoughts ran to Jisung. You sat down flicking to the first poem “Sonnet 18” a giggle escaped your mouth and like a schoolgirl already aware of the beauty Shakespear's arguably most famous sonnet holds, the giddy feeling of butterflies blooming caused your heartbeat to quicken and a heat to rise.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And too often is his gold complexion dimm’d:

Annotations surround the poem as Jisung highlights and picks out certain lines. The second line is underlined and next to it he writes “Though you are lovely, temperate is definitely up for debate” he teases and you scoff at his words. You read on and lines four and five are underlined and his annotation reads “The eye of heaven is you who shines gloriously throughout the day and yet too often you allow yourself to dim. Don’t.”

And every fair from fair sometimes declines,

By chance or natures changing course untrimm’d;

By thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

“You are my eternal summer, your beauty is one that isn’t possible to vanish, it’s infinite unlike summer which collapses in winter” you read on as lines nine and ten are underlined.

Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

The the final annotation as the last three lines are highlighted, Jisung says “Your beauty shall remain eternal so long as my heart beats, so long as i live and breathe, so long as my eyes can see your beauty, I only seem to think of you now as i read this poem and in this poem the memory of you shall live on” you heart beats erratically in your chest, you’re breathless as his words halt your breathing. Forgetting such simple acts as thinking and even breathing seem to be a regular side effect in the presence of Jisung, just the mere thought of him. Your palms grow sweaty, your heart clenches reading over the words again and again, you pinch yourself. For this moment, seems like nothing but a dream, your heads in the cloud, you're living in the heavens. The feeling is suffocating, your own throat is closing in on you, the pain in your chest spreads like wildfire, your whole body aches with admiration for him. Yet the constant question looms over your head, what does he really mean by this? Is his feeling the same as yours? Or is he portraying the beautiful friendship you both have built over the weeks? One thing is sure and it’s that you can’t ruin that, can’t let the heavy air seep in once again and weigh you down.

The days folded out as normal, Jisung’s presence still as overwhelming as ever but you couldn’t help but find serenity in it, he was soft spoken yet his silence speaks the loudest for him, his grace and beauty as were one to be envied by all but you were nothing more than grateful for being able to witness it day after day, it were as if he had walked out of your dreams. The stolen glances, lingering stares as he smiled or laughed, he stole your heart and he wasn’t even aware it was his anyways. Sitting opposite him, you stare not caring if he or anyone catches you for your far past the point of holding any shame and allowing your eyes to do as they please.

"I have something to announce" Jeno suddenly speaks up, breaking the silence, all eyes turn to him and he audibly gulps. You’ve never seen him so nervous, fiddling with his silverware you almost mistook him for Jisung. He clears his voice before speaking, taking in a deep breath he prepares himself for the words that are about to leave him, “I am to marry” he says quickly waiting for a response, an outroar, a gasp and maybe a few tears but none of them come.

“About time don’t you think” Jaemin laughs out causing the rest of the table to release small giggles at Jeno’s expense, “You have been all giddy and heart eyes at that girl in the village since we were all but five- OW" Jaemin's face twists in pain, hands rushing to his shin as he's cut off by a harsh kick. Jisung and you burst into laughter not being able to hold it in any longer.

"And what are you two laughing at" Jeno punches at Jisung’s shoulder, immediately causing him to halt his laughter as he rubs his shoulder “Well brother, it’s not like it is a secret. Even Y/N knows” and you giggle again as Jisung enlightens Jeno on his obvious swooning.

“What?” Jeno’s eyes widen as he turns to you and you can’t help but laugh even more. “We visited the village and your eyes were stuck, Jeno you walked straight into Jisung” you burst out laughing as you recall the memory. Once the laughter, the teasing, the amount of huffs that leave Jeno quiet down your left with comfort, a bliss that you’ve never felt before, a smile that just won’t leave your face. It’s a beautiful feeling and you wish to memorise it for if numbness overtakes your body, you can relive this exact moment of the solace you found in those around this table.

“Is that three out of the four of us in love?” Jaemin smirks as he lifts his glass to his lips, looking around the table, Jeno scoffs at his words but confusion is written all over you and Jisung. Did Jaemin know that your heart only seems to beat for Jisung? How did he know? Who was the other person? Was it Jaemin or Jisung? If Jisung, who did he love? The questions ran through your mind in circles and it only spewed more questions to follow, your head was spinning stuck in the spiral of curiosity, but curiosity always killed the cat.

But cats have 8 other lives right? That is what you had decided later that night, sat beside Jisung on the stone wall, letting curiosity take over you - slightly. Your legs dangled, swinging them back and forth, whilst Jisung’s gaze was set on the crashing waves of purple as the moon pulled them back and forth; yours were stuck on him. The moonlight illuminated, captured his beauty in a way the sun couldn’t, it seemed the goddess of the moon saw greater beauty in Jisung than Apollo could ever begin to understand.

“I could not fail to realise that sonnet 23 was not amongst your favourite” your eyes darting out towards the fields as his turn to you, “It’s one of my favourites” you tell him.

“I’m sorry to disappoint but do you not think it’s a bit cliche” he laughs and your eyebrows shoot up in slight disbelief “and sonnet 18 is not” you scoff, finally meeting his eyes.

“Sonnet 18 is beautiful” he argues and he swings into you, nudging you slightly, rolling your eyes you nudge him back “Sonnet 23 is just as or dare I say more” and he smiles slightly, eyes turning back to the night sky, the clouds running over the moon and Jisung is left amongst the stars. “How so?” he dares to question.

“It is, for one, far more romantic” you begin “the thought of one loving you with so much passion, so unconditionally that it can not even be professed by words yet the love they feel is so strong they need an escape, to tell that person what they can not truly express fully, to let them show you how much they love you. To hear with eyes as Shakespear so beautifully put it” you nudge him again and he looks down at you, a smile as radiant as the sun,moon and stars combined graces you and again Jisung has stolen your heart in complete silence

“Yet what I love about Sonnet 18 is that it is not too romantic, that the love that Shakespear professes can be for a lover or a friend, he speaks of all the imperfections of summer yet still he loves it, he describes the person he loves as someone who defies all the imperfections for in his eyes they are perfect imperfections when it comes to them” he nudges you back with a slight giggle but you can’t return his happiness for you have been stung as his words seep into your mind.

“Oh for a friend” you whisper, he hears your words but not the sadness behind them as he continues with that bright smile “and that is why it was so perfect to give to you” his words are daggers to the heart, piercing through, it shatters and the fine pieces scatter throughout you and the sadness seeps through every fibre, cell and atom of your body.

“Are you feeling well?”he asks and worry sweeps the smile off his face as he finds the glossiness of your eyes, the slight redness as well as the unusual silence from you. “Fine” you answer jumping off the stone wall, “Just tired” you say looking out to the goddess of the moon one last time, unable to turn and look at the art she admired most. “Goodnight Jisung” you say as you turn back to the house, not sparing him a glance for he stole your heart and then broke it.

Though that night your tears mixed with moonlight until Morpheus took you to dream and then the next morning tears mixed with sunlight as Apollo pulled his golden chariot, with swollen eyes and a throbbing head you promised this wouldn’t affect the beautiful friendship that had bloomed. Jisung may not love you the way you would like but he still loved you, as a friend. The mere thought of the word stung, another aching rippled through you and your bones quacked.

Many dusks and dawns had passed and since,you’ve managed to create some distance between you and Jisung but as once said distance makes the heart grow fonder and you curse whoever uttered such truth. For every stolen glance and accidental touch seemed to make your dormant heart beat with every intent of being heard as it rose to your throat, suffocating you.

Jeno’s upcoming wedding being the greatest of all excuses to run away from the burning presence of Jisung, for you would flee to the village with Daphne and pick out materials, help Jeno’s fiance pick flowers, handwrite invitations with Jeno and accompany Jaemin on whatever errands he had been sent to do. No one questioned how you decided to spend your time, other than of course Jaemin who couldn’t help but let his curiosity lead the words that spewed out of him, to which you told him he’d regret someday.

“Just tell me Y/N” he groans as he carries the large basket of apples “Why spend your time with me instead of Jisung” he continues to pursue the answers you deny him of.

“Maybe because, and I dare to say, I like your company more” you pinch his cheek and laugh at the pout that forms on his face “What answer are you looking for Jaems, what would you have me say?”

“I want you to say you are helplessly in love with my brother who is just as in love with you however both of you are too busy quoting literature that is up for interpretation rather than professing your feelings because you lack the courage to do so” you freeze at his words and he also comes to a halt, turning towards you his eyes, sympathetic “you both are as obvious as Jeno” he lets out a small laugh.

“He does not love me Jaemin” your voice stern as you try to convince one who believes in fairytales, your steps quicken and he chases after you “and how exactly do you know?” he questions, curiosity endless.

“He said so, he said he gifted me Sonnet 18 as a friend.” You scoff at the absurd word that causes so much pain and you say it with spite everytime.

“Like I said he lacks courage and as my father said you, Y/N, can help him gain it” he tells you, eyes wide with hope and you admire Jaemin for being a hopeless romantic and you only hope he meets someone who completely fulfills his ideology of love.

“I don’t think I possess such courage anymore” you break it to him for Jisung has broken your heart once, how can you have the courage to allow him the chance to do it again.

Jeno’s wedding arrived much sooner than expected, as the weeks rushed past in much haste as the many busy bodies prepared for the beautiful evening and as hard as you tried to separate yourself from Jisung, the universe liked to disrupt those plans. To the place it all started, so close yet so far apart, you stood rows away from Jisung picking only the prettiest lavenders as per Jeno’s request. The air was thick and heavy despite the August breeze that ran through the fields, an unfamiliar heaviness sat between you two for even as strangers you were far more comfortable. Maybe it’s due to the curiosity you held back then, for the boy in the lavender field, beauty that wasn’t done justice by the word but now that you know him, adore him and are in love with him and now that your heart belongs to him but his not to yours. There’s a void left for the seeping awkwardness to fill, an uneasiness sat in your gut and every moment was excruciating to bare as your heart pains at every beat that belongs to him who does not seem to care.

“Lavenders wouldn’t be my first pick for a wedding” he speaks up first, the silence with you was something he wasn’t used to, you always made sure to replace it with continuous talking and contagious laughter and now that you weren’t, it didn’t feel right to him but you only nod in response not entertaining his thoughts any further. Jisung preferred silence, his thoughts more coherent, his emotions understandable, the silence was comfortable and not overwhelming but with you he couldn’t stand it, mind always wondering what you were thinking, what you were feeling, he needed to know.

So he carries on speaking, “If it were up to me, Irises and carnations” he expects an interrogation, your endless curiosity asking why that would be his pick but it never comes. So he continues speaking, giving you the answer you didn’t ask for “Irises mean faith, fitting for a lifelong vow” he laughs as he looks over to you stoic expression, cutting off his soft laughter he again begins to speak “and carnation, white ones that symbolise-”

“Eternal love” you cut him off, turning to him, finally speaking yet your tone is monotonous and there is no emotion evident on your face. There’s slight fear in him and it rises, a lump forming in his throat that he can’t quite seem to swallow “Exactly” he choked out, voice strained.

You let out a breath that seemed to be weighing you down, you couldn’t let him continue talking about the meaning behind the flowers, your heart couldn’t take it for aching stops momentarily and instead it flutters and swoons across your chest but then reality hit and it shatters all over again, the pain shooting through your bloodstream.

“Are you feeling well?” he asks as he always does and you answer “Fine” as you always do, even though you both know it’s a lie but he doesn’t push any further as always. The longing feeling for you to look at him and spill all your worries and feelings to him is so great but he doesn’t want to push you to nor does he expect you to trust him with that vulnerability when he himself does not have the courage to do the same back to you.

“I’m going to leave after Jeno’s wedding” you announce working up the little courage you have left, if you say it out loud then you’ll have to follow through. “Thank you for everything” you brace yourself to meet his eyes once more as you turn. “What? Why?” concern so evident in the way his voice wavers, eye glossed over as tears threaten to fall.

“I left to seek my own happiness in life, to make a mark on this Earth yet instead I ran from relying on my family to relying on you and yours” again your voice is completely void of emotions, yet every part of your body was screaming. Longing for the warmth, solace and peace you had found here and it’s at this point you curse yourself for memorising that bliss for all you will do is miss it.

“Did you not feel happiness here?” he screams out, harsher than he expected as he voice comes out rough and broken and you stand there eyes wide for this was the first time the pure,silent and serene boy that stands in the lavender fields has allowed so much emotion to course through his body and you can tell by the way he shakes, the way he struggles to breath and the shock that immediately washed over him upon hearing his own voice raised “I’m sorry” he mumbles in a heavy exhale.

“Thank you for everything Jisung” you offer him a smile as you leave, avoiding his question, leaving him standing alone in the lavender fields.

Leaving the basket of lavenders with Jeno, you rush up the stairs and only when behind the safety of your door do you allow the tears to come streaming down your face, sobs escaping and you hold your mouth to conceal them as you take deep shaky breaths to steady your breathing. Your whole body aches and shakes as it mours the end of your stay, the tears cloud your vision and as you lay down to ease the heartbeat in your head, you cry yourself into a slumber. Even as the dreams swirl around you, pulling you into the unconscious, reality never truly slips away, it haunts you as even in the world you build you can’t stray away from it. The ability to dream of anything further isn’t a possibility, he doesn’t love you and that’s the reality. Why bother dreaming of something that isn’t meant to be. Yet you can’t help but dream of him. His eyes, his smile, his warmth, the pink dust that always decorates his cheeks, his laugh and his existence.

In your days you are held hostage by the daydreams, the what ifs. It felt like you had loved him in every lifetime, you wonder if any had got it right? Had any been loved by him? Your body lies stiff, falling in and out of consciousness but your mind never leaves him. Days go by but time becomes nothing but a construct, eating only becomes a chore.

“Y/N?” a soft voice calls as the door narrows open, a steady stream of gold shining in. You don't move, your head feeling like it's weighed down but you can easily identify the soft voice that speaks. "I brought you something to eat" the footsteps near you, the heavy thuds vibrating through your head. Your eyes peek open to meet Jaemin who crouches down beside you. He moves the few stray strands of hair behind your ear, noticing the wet glimmer of your cheeks he wipes away the tears that stain them.

"What's wrong?" He whispers as if any harsher tone would break you, as if you weren't already broken. You shake your head as your only reply, voice too weak and broken to speak up. You would love to talk to Jaemin, to spill all your worries and heartache but this is a pain too painful to speak of. His hands hold onto your cheeks wiping away any of the stray tears that still fall. His warmth is comforting but it only makes you yearn for Jisung’s more.

Jaemin doesn't leave you that day, he sits by your side in silence. He holds your hand and wipes away your tears, he doesn't attempt to mend your heart, he just sits beside you as it cries out the pain. "It will heal, it will mend itself" he whispers to you as you drift off into the unconscious once again.

It’s the constant knocking at your door that drags you out of the depths of your slumber, pulling you back, the light that streams in as the sun is about to set and you wonder how long you have slept, what time it was and what day it is. Then another knock calls your attention from the window and Daphne steps in “Y/N” she says and her voice is high in surprise as she examines the puffy redness around your eyes. “I was expecting you to be already awake, it is almost time to head to the wedding” she chooses to ignore the wet stains on your silk pillow, choosing to bite her tongue. You choose not to answer her back afraid your voice was raspy and would break, you crawl towards the edge of the bed and swing your legs over as you make your way to the chair that neatly holds your gown for the night, the night that has finally arrived,your last night.

You can see her face change, each one expressing the internal turmoil within her as she questions whether or not to say something. “Just say it Daphne '' you sigh out in a weak smile as you change into the many layers that need to be placed under the gown.

“Ah well” she begins nervously as she fiddles with her loose strings of her apron, she stutters and stumbles over her words but you’ve been taught patience by Jisung as he’d do the same.You smile at the memory of him stuttering, blush across his cheeks as he got nervous causing him to stumble over his words more. You loved seeing him so flustered, loved seeing him progressively become so comfortable around you he never stuttered, became so confident and articulate it was as if he became another person but the same dust of pink never faded but the more you think of him the more it pains and your heart swells as it aches. “You see y/n” she finally spits out as if she had been wrestling the words “If this is your last night, would you not want to leave with a loving memory?” she asks nervously.

“So it seems word has travelled” you let out a small laugh as you turn to her to pull the strings of your gown and as her hands move to tie knots she laughs as well “Nothing gets past me” and her nervousness visibly dissipates. No more words are exchanged as she helps you ready for tonight, no more words are needed as she sees you slip into the depths of your mind, thinking of what your next act is.

As she places the same pearl necklace you wore the day you came here around your neck, clasping it, she finally turns to leave and through the mirror you see her hesitate but she turns back around a smile across her face “It was a pleasure to meet you ma’am” she says with teary eyes “Y/N” you correct her as you rise quickly, wrapping your arms tightly around her and from the corner of your eye you see Jisung standing at the end of the hallway, witnessing the goodbye he run back down stairs. You saw the glossiness of his eyes and though you would love to leave as a happy memory, would he allow it?

You nervously make your way to the drawing room, there he sits in a black suit, his hair neatly styled yet it looks not much different to everyday. He should not look this good but he does because he is the epitome of beauty. He is beauty personified. You let out a deep breath before you step into his line of view, preparing yourself for whatever is to come next. “Jisung” you call softly but he refuses to look up at you, you can hear him sniffle and his breathing is heavy and you almost could trick yourself into believing he loved you the way you loved him. You sit beside him and take his hand in yours, rubbing small soothing circles by the knuckle of his thumb you attempt to speak, “I am leaving” you choke out,the words are stuck in your throat and he rips his hands away from yours, turning completely with his back towards you. You sigh once again, “Let’s me leave with good memory” you beg, voice small and shaky. This was not the y/n Jisung first met, not the y/n he knows now and definitely not the y/n he fell in love with for you were never one to speak so quietly, yet here you are broken. So he puts away his own selfishness to feel sadness, anger or whatever pulsing emotion that runs course throughout his body.

He turns back to you, eyes glossy and a pout on his lips as he raises a long string of black silk. “I cannot tie it” his voice breaks slightly and you can’t help but smile at his cuteness. You take the silk from his hand and wrap it against his neck, slowly weaving it in and out of itself, you form a knot. “Learn this from a book?” he teases and you can’t help but scoff and roll your eyes. Falling back to where you were with Jisung was never hard, falling in love with him all over again was never hard. “my father taught me” you say as you pull the silk slightly causing his head to jolt forward. A smile perks at his lips as he lets out air from his nose as a form of laughter and you don't realise the lack of space between you two until you feel it brush against your skin and you near closer, eyes drawn to his lips. Your breathing stops and your heart sporadically jumps around in your chest, beating louder than ever.

Jisung’s eyes are closed as he waits for your lips to be placed upon his but they never come and his eyes jump open at the sound of Jaemin’s voice, your warmth escaping him. So close and yet so far, his eyes land on you who’s now moved as far as possible from him. “Y/N, do you know how to tie a tie?” he walks in looking down at the balck silk he holds around his neck but he cuts himself off as his eyes rise to find you and Jisung awkwardly sitting beside each other. “Oh am I interrupting?” he asks in a chuckle as he raises an eyebrow and you shoot up onto your feet, making your way towards him “No not at all” you wave your arms as if it would convince Jaemin. You grab onto both ends of the silk strand, repeating the same movements as earlier and looking down at the silk you can practically feel Jaemin’s smile that beams from above. You weave the string in and out of itself and pull tight around his neck causing Jaemin’s head to pull back “OW '' he huffs out in a pout, you pat down his tie and with a smile as gleaming as his was a mere moments ago, you apologise.

“Oh y/n you know how to tie a tie, thank god” Jeno rushes in with his father soon after him both holding the same black silk around their neck “Does nobody in this house know how to tie a tie” you laugh in disbelief. “Our mother used to do them,” Jeno whispers as your hands make their way up to form the same knot you’ve made twice already. He thanks you silently with a sweet smile, those crescent moons you adore showing up.You move on to their father, tying his tie neatly and much more carefully than the rest. “Thank you for everything, y/n” he bows his head to you and you whisper “It’s nothing” shyly. “It’s been a pleasure having you become a part of our family” he continues and his words are like a stake to your heart, the same aching reappearing as nothing fails to remind you of your departure.

“Thank you for welcoming me bu-t'' you're cut off instantly

“no buts y/n, you are family” Jeno interrupts and if it was anyone else you don’t think those words would have held such meaning for Jeno is a silent lover, showing his affection through sweet smiles, concerned looks and kind gestures; he was never one for words of affirmation. So you smile, ignoring the tears that prick at your eyes, ignoring the deep breaths that leave Jisung and the solemn sadness on Jaemin’s face.

“We need to go” Jaemin looks down at his pocket watch, as always sensing the tension in the room and ready to dissipate it, he urges everyone out the door and as you’re about to step out, a warmth engulfs you as Jisung catches your hand in his. Turning back you are met with a smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes that hold a sense of sadness as they glimmer in the setting sun.

Hours after the sun had sunk into the horizon, the moon well into its reign, music rang through the center of town as everyone gathered to celebrate the new chapter of Jeno’s life. A ceremony so beautiful, you were sure you witnessed true love when Jeno’s eyes set on his bride that walked the altar.

After all the tears, it was finally time for the bubbling of champagne to intoxicate your bloodstream and to allow the music to take control of every swayed movement of your body. Standing under the yellow dimmed lights, Jisung glew a gold you didn’t know existed but easily was the prettiest you had ever seen. His cheekbones high and lips painted pink, golden flute in hand and silk tie loosened you could easily say he was the prettiest here, outshining all. For Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty lived through him, simple acts such as greeting guests left you stunned. Eyes chasing every movement of his, from the way his hands moved as he spoke, to the way he smiled once seeing an old friend, the way he laughed softly in conversation and when his eyes travelled back to you when he thought you weren't looking.

And to pull you out of that trance was none other than Jaemin, “Would you and Jisung stop exchanging lover eyes and dance already” he whispers as he places himself beside you, you scoff at his words and slightly nudge him with your elbow.

“Are you so bored that your eyes follow mine?” you question and his simple and instant “Yes” make your eyes roll as far as possible but you can’t help but smile. “When will you find your own love story? This is one hopeless”

“So when were you planning to tell me you were leaving after tonight” his words don’t come as a surprise, nothing goes past Jaemin but it still doesn’t fail to make your every movement halt as guilt overtakes you, turning to him you begin to explain “I was going to tell you as soon as the night was over, it was unexpected I promise” you say softly.

“I don’t suppose i can change your mind in any way?” he asks hopefully, still with the knowledge he wouldn’t be able to. You shake your head slowly, unable to say the words that will so obviously ruin the both of you but Jaemin is never one to sit in sadness, always being his priority to make you feel better.

“Would you allow me this first dance?” he bows down asking for your hand and with that you place yours in his, placing a soft kiss to the knuckles he pulls you into the center of the floor. Legs moving to the beat, Jaemin’s hand on your waist he guides you through the waltz, breaths heaving and smiles plastered on your face he bends down once more to place a kiss on your knuckles as the music dies down declaring the end of the dance, a sad smile spreads across his face and he whispers “Goodbye” against your skin, looking up to meet your eyes who hold nothing but despair. Yet the hardest is to come when you turn and automatically your eyes find Jisungs, who just happened to be looking your way.

You offer him a smile before heading towards him “And why are you not dancing, I’m sure plenty of girls are just about dying to be your first dance” you tease him and he laughs along with you, hands rising they scratch the back of his neck as he prepares to confess to you “I actually do not know how to dance” he spits out fast hoping you don't catch his words but you do. Eyes widening and mouth agape, you let out a gasp

“Jisung you do not know how to-” you're cut off by his hand on your mouth as he looks around to see if anyone has heard the sentence about to leave you.

“Quietly, I think the whole of London can hear you” he says in a whisper still looking around. Removing his hand, you roll your eyes at his antics.

“Let me teach you” you whisper back and he turns to you, eyebrow raised as he assesses how good of a dancer you could be.

“I am not entirely sure, who did you learn from? A book?” he teases, still completely in character until you shove him and his laughter comes spilling out “You used the joke once already” you roll your eyes

“I was taught by trainers actually, do you forget I was to be wed” you scoff at his assumption and rise to your feet, hand extended for Jisung to take. He stares at you, watches the way the light bounces off your skin causing you to glow, your eyes glimmer, smile bright and the confidence and charm you carry in inexplicably attractive as you stand under the moon, offering to be Jisung’s first dance and it’s here he decides you’ll be his last.

The moment his hand is in yours, you drag him straight to the crowd, the music is quick to start and you waste no time in giving out instructions. “Place your hand on my waist” you order

“Your what?” Jisung’s eyes are wide as he cluelessly asks

“My waist” you repeat again, emphasizing each word and you drag his hand up and place it on your waist for yourself. Then putting your own hand on his shoulder, you pull him a little closer. “Just follow my lead” you reassure him as you witness the petrified look on his face.

“Left foot forward” you say to him as you move yours back, “Right foot forward, feet together” you continue to guide him through the dance as you spin around the room, ‘Now left foot back, right foot back, now feet together” you repeat the sequined dance around the room, music thumping through your body and you convince yourself it’s that you feel and not the heavy beats of your heart as the space between you and Jisung seems to close more and more. As he leans in so close you can feel the air that leaves him, fanning over you. You look up and his eyes are set on you, only adoration is held in them and Jisung thinks it’s now or never as he tries to fully close the gap between you two, to place his lips on yours but then you let go, head turning to the right “Now we switch you” you say as you land into another man's arms, repeating the same steps you did with Jisung moments ago with another. So close and yet so far is all Jisung can think whilst his eyes watch you twirl about the room.

Once finally back in his arms, the music seizes and he’s forced to remove himself from you. You can’t help but smile at him as he looks down at you, breathing heavily with a flush of pink to his cheeks yet he seems to be gleaming in the buzzing sensation of a waltz. The air is heavy with sweat and alcohol, the room is filled with chatter and loud laughs but that all falls away once you look at Jisung. So you dance to every song as if you were the only two people to exist, for this was your last night and this was your last dance.

Endless glasses of champagne later your dancing feet carry you outside, the cool summer nights air washes over you, clearing your mind of the foggy mist of alcohol yet the coolness of the moonlight is overwhelmed by the warmth of Jisung’s presence as he stumbles next to you, tripping over his own legs he lands in your arms. “I think you drank a little too much” you laugh down at him.

“No I am perfectly fine” He quickly stabilizes himself, straightening out his clothes and you can only smile as he shakes off your support. “If you say so” you turn to the night sky, looking up to the moon who you haven't had the courage to face since. The wind rushing past you, crickets croaking and the stars blazing across the sky, your legs about to give way as the alcohol circulates your body, you find purchase on a stone bridge, Jisung following soon after you. The water trickles down under you, the calming sound washes over you and the solace you so missed seems to make an appearance once again as you allow yourself to surrender to Jisung’s presence. Silence sits between the two of you but it’s not the one you wish to fill, insead you choose to let it engulf you not wanting words to taint this moment. Your last moment.

Jisung however doesn’t think he can hold it in anymore, the liquid courage is just about enough for him to declare his roaring love for you, a flame that won’t go out no matter how far he pushes the idea of you away. He wasn’t sure if this was love but the ache in his chest all these days proved it could be nothing but love. The longing to be by your side as you found happiness, found your own way into this world and to watch you become who you want, is unbearably strong. This is his only chance before the goddess of the moon takes you away with her, for when the sun rises, you'll set into nothing but a memory. So here Jisung turns to you, staring at your beautifully carved features, moonlight highlighting every perfection; deep breaths he calms his nerves. Adrenaline rushing through every nerve, he finally builds the courage and out the words he never knew would feel so good to pronounce “Y/N I love you” it comes out in a whisper but by the way your eyes widen, breathing halts, Jisung knows you’ve heard.

“Jisung you are drunk” you laugh off

“Drunk lies are sober truths” he says in all seriousness, his eyes are begging for yours to turn to him and so you give in to their silent cry. “I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, for I thought soulmates were nothing but a fairytale until mine spoke to me upon laying eyes on you. I denied my feelings towards you, for I didn’t know if it was love I felt for you or not but I do. Love, adoration, affection and warmth. The moon only looks beautiful with you under it, the sun only shines with you beside me.” he professes and the sincerity in his voice strucks you, for every fiber of your being longs for these exact words but can you believe him?

He inches closer, his scent and warmth trapping you in a trance and you can’t find it in yourself to back away as he moves towards your lips, his breath mixing with your own, the flush off his cheeks that are illuminated by the moonlight. Everything is perfect except he’s drunk. Though your heart screams for you to close the gap, place your lips on his and kiss him until he’s breathless, your head scream the opposite, move back, wait till the morning when his head is in the right place, don’t allow him to make a mistake that’ll hurt you and when were you ever one to not listen to your mind. “You are drunk” you whisper to him, so close he can almost feel your lips move against his, flinching back, ignoring the cry of your heart that desires nothing more than to feel Jisung’s confession. Jisung’s eyes open to find you pulled away, for once again he was so close yet so far.

“We should return” you jump up, step fastening back to the crowds of people who were still dancing and laughing. Jisung’s hurried footsteps rush beside you, his hand holding onto your wrist, he pulls you into him. Arms wrapping around you so tight, he’s afraid you’ll pull away and that he’ll lose you. You already pulled away from him once, you’re not sure you have the power in you to do it a second; so you let him hold you. His face hidden into the crook of your neck, he speaks into your skin

“Love for you fades the exhausting hours till Kingdom come, for even then my soul only speaks of you, my heart only beats for you. Let me love and let me give, for both are infinite” he confesses once again.

Your arms instantly wrap around his figure, you allow your love to course through your body to his, you hope he can feel your heartbeat, the steady pace that keeps you alive for his existence, and him only. For without him what was the purpose of living? You stand there under the moonlight, red strings wrapped around you, Eros’s arrow shot through you, and hold onto each other.

Walking back, hand in hand, smiling like fools. The air smells sweeter, the world seems brighter as your heart skips a beat every now and then “In all honesty” Jisung breaks the blissful silence, his voice deep and smooth and it sends shivers down and through you just as it did the first day. Once your eyes are on him, giving him your undivided attention he continues “I lacked the courage to gift you Sonnet 23 but I wanted to” he tells you “Promise” he makes sure you believe his words and you can’t help but smile.

“You still lack courage, this is the alcohol’s courage” you tease him, swinging your arms back and forth as you walk on. He giggles at your comment because he knows it’s true, if it wasn’t for the liquid courage he doesn’t think he would have been able to confess to you but he’s glad he has because if he hadn’t, would he ever get the chance to?

“So will you stay?” he asks, voice hopeful and eyes pleading as he pouts, in hope it would convince you but you didn’t need anymore convincing, for if you want to follow happiness and happiness just so happens to follow Jisung, who were you to seek for more elsewhere. “Perhaps” a smirk makes it way up your lips as you give him vague answers. “I will take that as a yes” he laughs out, holding onto your hand a little bit tighter, to ensure you really weren’t going anywhere.

Love is a complex feeling, one that causes an unbearable amount of pain; as if your chest had been slit open, heart pulled out and crushed. An aching pain resonates throughout your whole body, endless tears and you don’t think you can live to see another sunrise yet it’s euphoric in every way. From the tingling sensation at just the sight of your love, the shivers, the heat that takes over, the trance you left in as their words hypnotise you, the warmth of their presence and sweet scent. In Jisung you found peace,solace,serenity and love.

“Jaemin” Jisung calls out as he can just about make him out in the distance “Y/N said she has decided to stay” he shouts out like a child, excited he’s jumping up and down and you find yourself smiling and laughing again, for with Jisung it’s the only thing you seem to be able to do. Yet as you draw closer to Jaemin and the guests he happens to be wishing a farewell too, your smile and heart both drop.

“Y/N” one of the two men calls out as your figure becomes more apparent to them, disbelief held in their voice as they call out to you. Jisung and Jaemin eyebrows shot up in shock, eyes widening as they wonder how you are acquainted.

“How do you know our y/n?” Jaemin asks, always being the first one to dissolve the awkward silences, the men are taken aback clearly by the way their jaws hang slightly.

“She is our sister” the taller stutters out, your blood rushes cold as the words leave his lips, what would happen now? Would they allow you to just roam free? You thought for a second before you mentally scolded yourself, they would never allow that. They will force you back. “I am not returning” you spit out, not beating around the bush, you get straight to the point.

“But you must, mother is left worried" he tries to grab onto your wrist but you move back not allowing him to get a hold on you.

"Worried for me? Or that the season is almost finished?" You question him and guilt is evident in his eyes as your question takes him aback.

"Don't be silly" your younger brother tries to calm you, "we just want you home" he tries to convince you.

"I am perfectly fine on my own" you stand your ground even though you see the frustration in your older brother, creep closer and closer to the surface "I have no intention of returning" you continue to press forward.

"Do you not feel shame, what would father have to say?" He dares ask. Shame? The word linger in your head for you to wonder if your brother truly knows the definition of the word or were all those years at Oxford a waste. For how had this brought shame upon you or your father, how does a want for purpose,happiness and freedom lead to shame?

"For if father was alive, this problem wouldn't have occurred. He would have listened" you hissed, jaw tight as you teeth clenched and the words slipped out through the small cracks.

"How naive of you to think'' he laughs and finally latches onto your wrist, holding tightly he's prepared to drag you to the carriage until another holds you back. Jisung’s hand holds onto your arm, pulling you back, looking back you don’t think you have never seen such fierce eyes. A red you never thought you’d see engulf Jisung, he’s not prepared to let you go. "Let go" your brother's voice is stern as he clenches his jaw yet Jisung doesn't budge.

"Jisung this isn't our place" Jaemin whispers, defeat in his voice and he is right. What say do they have in this? If you don’t even have a choice, who are they to decide but then again you are certain a man’s opinion will most definitely be heard by your brother over your own anyday. “Let go of her,” Jisung threatened.

Your brother couldn’t help but scoff at his words “She belongs to me, I am her blood and she holds mine and my father’s name” his grip tightening around your wrist as he pulls you towards him once more, your eyebrows furrow and you wince in slight pain, Jaemin instinctively flinches forward before stopping himself, getting involved will just make it worse he reminds himself. You smile at him weakly in hopes it can put him at ease but as both your arms are being held hostage, both cuffs tightening as the seconds go by not one daring to back down.

“She doesn’t belong to anyone” Jisung spits back “She is free to do as she pleases and she chooses to stay here” he continuously argues in hope of changing his mind , yet what can he possibly do? Now that they have found you, what is left for you to do? They will not let you live on how you wish, they will not leave without you and even if they didn’t take you tonight, they will come back for you. It’ll only cause chaos, you will again become a burden on someone else. “You do not own her” he repeats.

The words you so despise form on your tongue and as you open your mouth to say them, Jisung’s eye beg you not to. He knows what's to come and even as every ounce of your being screams and cries as the words are spoken, you let them leave you regardless. “Let go Jisung” voice weak, shaking.

“But you said you would stay” his voice shaky, encased in sadness, his grip weakens but his hold stays, unable to let you go once he’s finally got you but you were always a dream to him, one that never seemed quite real and though you mixed with reality, almost coming true, he was but a fool to believe you could be his.

“I said maybe” your voice quiet, breaking a promise you didn’t make, breaking his heart and breaking yours that was just put back together.

“She said for you to let go” Your brother interrupts, a smirk on his face that Jaemin has a dying need to punch off but he retains himself. Jisung lets go of you hesitantly, his hand still lingering onto the skin of your forearm and you take in his touch one last time. He watches you leave, tears falling from his eyes for you were so close yet so far.

The tears from that night, months ago, have yet still to dry for every living and breathing moment is lived in agony, longing turning into nothing but numbness as it engulfed your being and became you. Days and nights merged, smiles are a forgotten act for it felt awkward even attempting. The large manor is silent, it perfectly resembles the void in your chest. You live as a ghost, sleepless nights and empty days your mind always occupied with the thought of Jisung.

His eyes that held the universe, his warmth the sun envied, his smile were solace was found, his laughter that was contagious, voice that was soothing, beauty unmatched, the gods were both proud and envious of their greatest creation. The years went by and yet the image of his is as clear as ever, preserved in your memories, you live on in your dreams that can’t escape reality. So close and yet so far from each other.

You sit in the empty rooms, walls bare for the art never compared to Jisung’s beauty, you never found art that could express the definition of art as well as Jisung did. Each time looking at Jisung you found a new feature to adore, hidden beauties that appeared when the moonlight hit his skin, features highlighted by the golden rays of the sun. No art seemed to do that, no art seemed worthy of showcasing.

Your library remains empty, clearing it out of all books, you couldn't bear to look at one again. For everyone of them taunted you with the memory of him. The way he used to sit in the center of the room, arms sprawled out on the desk, his head so close to the paper as he would write. Your eyes would follow every one of his movements, so distracted you would forget about the heavy book in your hand. Yet now with a book in hand, your eyes search for distraction. Yearning to find him, to make the pink blush, that you so missed, appear as he couldn't take your stare any longer. The adrenaline of when his eyes suddenly come up to meet yours, the scrambling of his when you catched his stare. You missed it all.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day” the performer begins, as you sit around the large table for dinner. Your every movement halts as the words leave his mouth, your mind runs back to the lavender fields, into the small room at the back of the house, finding the scarlet red book. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate” he continues on but no you are not temperate. Your heart aches, your eyes sting and a wave of nausea over takes you. Your fist smash into the table, legs standing up, you push the heavy velvet chair back

“Stop!” you shout, voice hoarse and broken, you can’t help the tears that roll down your cheek. You can’t help the way your whole body shakes upon hearing those words, you can’t help but miss him. The whole room stares at you, a heavy silence settles, the only sounds are your whimpers as you sob in your palms, falling to your knees. Their eyes lingered, terrified. No one dared to speak to you first, let alone the events of the night. Afraid they would cause you to break down once more but they failed to see it was they, who stole happiness away from you, stole freedom and ripped your heart out of your chest. You wandered aimlessly through the many halls, staring out of windows you wanted the sun rise and fall, watched the goddess of the moon shine down on the earth yet neither held the beauty they did when Jisung was by your side.

Summer has come to find you once again, those who say time heals have never been broken. Time doesn’t heal. Time forgets, the world may move on but you do not, you cannot share the same ecstasy the birds sing, the happiness in summer flowers, For now you hate flowers, you hate how their beauty and meaning are only reminders of your longing.

“How about lavenders for the drawing room ma’am, I’m told they are your favourite” the maid asks, her mission to make you smile, to rid you of the constant tear stained cheeks; nothing but a failure is awaiting her. Just the mere thought of lavenders causes your skin to crawl, for nothing symbolises him more than the vibrant violet. Yet you turn to her, a weak smile and you nod because maybe the scent will help ease your heart and just maybe you’ll find serenity in them once more.

Though days were long, summer left in a hurry for now autumn was here once more. The leaves had already begun to brown and the vase filled with lavenders, which sat upon the grand piano, had wilted now - their scent and comfort decaying with them.

And soon followed the day, the world knew would soon be coming, had arrived upon us, September 1st 1939:

“we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.” you read Winston Churchill’s words in the papers, war has arrived. The heavy ring sits on your finger as you stare out the window reminiscing the day you were watching the carriage be prepared and though it is your two brothers and the Earl’s son leaving you can’t help but let your mind imagine Jeno,Jaemin and Jisung, For the war will take them further away from you, to barren land filled with death, guns pointed at them, bombs dropping at anytime. Though the war has imprisoned many,taken from others, you thank it’s timing for it has liberated you momentarily. The Earl’s son waved goodbye to you and though you raise your hand to send him off to a war you’re not sure he’ll return from, you have no intention of calling him your fiance whilst he is gone and if he returns you have no intention of calling him your husband. You pity him in that memory.

“Ma’am” a voice calls out to you, you don’t recognise who it is for every voice sounds the same but regardless it pulls you back to the world of the present for the war was already well into its sixth year. Though your body is here, your heart and soul never left Jisung for he had stolen that long ago. You turn to find a small envelope, blue like the ones that found you happiness. “To y/n'' the handwriting is familiar but to you all letters were painted the way Jisung’s hand did, for your eyes can simply not forget but it is what the letter contained that brought a soul into your lifeless shell.

As an unperfect actor on the stage

Who with his fear is put beside his part,

Sonnet 23 with annotations is what your eyes fall upon, the second line underlined it reads: “With great courage I put aside this fear to confess to you such words that I cannot express on my own.” Your hand runs over the lines, the smell of gunpowder but there is a scent that you so long for. The scent of lavender still lingers onto the parchment which ripples under your clutch. .

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;

The next lines highlighted “For this feeling was just as strong as rage yet it was where I found peace, my heart weakened at the sight of you and from that moment onwards it belonged to you.” A smile naturally took over you, the flutter in your chest an ecstatic feeling you forgot.

So I for fear of trust forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,

And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love and look for recompense

More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.

O, learn to read what silent love hath writ.

To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

“Know that I cannot express the words my soul speaks, for we are worlds apart so allow the empty words of the English language, attempt to convey my love. Look not at my words only but at the way the fool I make in your presence for my mind is clouded with you, heart beats for you and soul yearns for you. For you are my sonnet 18 as a friend and sonnet 23 as a lover.” Tears fall unnoticed, for you hear his voice so clear in your head, for six years you waited for a single word from him and here he has gifted you a sonnet between lovers, so how could you possibly love someone else.

“Yours forever Jisung, the boy who waits in the lavender field”. You sob as you read those words, a fresh new wave of tears staining the parchment as the longing to be in his warmth and comfort is washed upon you as if it were that day you were forced away from him. Opening a wound that never could fully heal.

Waiting is a virtue of love, it proves your love, for it feels equivalent to death and yet you still wait but there is a point in time where you can wait no longer, where you must stop waiting and strive for love now. At this exact moment, it is time. For you are ready to give up the world to run to Jisung, to find the beauty in the moon once more, to find solace in the sweet smell of lavenders once more, to find the warmth of the sun once more, to find happiness once more. For happiness was the only reason worth living.

You're not sure how long you’ve been running, legs moving on their own, you don’t look back you’ve learnt never to look back, never return. As the metallic taste at the back of your throat rises, oxygen running thin and your legs almost collapse from exhaustion. It’s as if you jumped out of the past, gown torn at the train station, you’re left in rags but it’s different this time. For before you ran to find your happiness and now you run to where happiness lies. In a field of lavenders.

Every fiber of your being pulses with the need to see him, hear him, touch him. To feel his warmth once more, to have his voice send serenity through you, to see his eyes again and to smell the sweet scent that lingers around him. You’re not sure what souls are made of but whatever it is yours and his are the same. For your heart yearns for him, desperate, it aches every living second of everyday without him. For a life without love, is a life unlived.

The rows and rows of purple are in sight and there in the middle of it all stands him, waiting. Jisung doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, he can tell by your footsteps, your breath, your scent and the sudden ease he feels. You are there. Yet he does anyways for the memory of you has haunted him for the past 6 years, on the battlefield, in the barracks, he would only see you, only hear you but he couldn’t touch you; for you were merely a dream mixing with reality.

But here you are standing in front of him, Your expensive dress torn up, now rags that wrapped around you with the bottom half missing. He smiles as nostalgia washes over him, was this real or were you just a fragmented memory. Was he simply remembering happier times, a time where you were in his grasp. “Jisung” you call out, voice soft and unsure, a hand reaching out for his own, to make sure what you saw in front of you wasn’t a hallucination, a cruel trick your mind played on you. Slowly a warmth overtook your hand, sparks sent through your skin and into your bloodstream and the beating of your heart returned. Tears formed but never fell because one of you needs to be strong, Jisung sobbed as he fell into your embrace, gripping onto you. “Never leave again” he chokes out, breathing heavy and uneven. “Promise me” he whispers into your hair.

Pulling him back to face you, his eyes are red and puffy yet they burn with passion, his cheeks stained with tears but the pink dust is always still there, you smile at him closing the gap and finally placing your lips on his. The taste of salty tears invade your mouth and your lips move against his and he kisses you back, placing his hand on your cheek he pulls you closer, thumb brushing over the top of your cheekbone. Your knees weaken and you grip at his shirt, desperately clinging to him as your knuckles turn white, as he kisses you with passion overflowing with each soft movement, sincere and full of the love he can't express through words. The scent of lavender is overwhelming and intoxicating, you press yourself against him. Your lungs burn as he kisses you breathless, sparks flying into your bloodstream and unbearable heat takes over whilst your lips move as one. Pulling away, chests heaving as you pull in as you regain all the oxygen you exchange, Jisung places his forehead on yours, his cheeks pink and in between breaths you whisper against his lips “I promise” and again he pulls you in, lips crashing on yours.

This is your first love, it may not be your last but it will be the one you remember most, for it taught you how to love, it taught you the struggles of love and it taught you to feel loved. In search of fulfillment and meaning, you weren't looking for love but it found you and soon after fulfillment and meaning came in the form of a boy in a lavender field.

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vamonumentlandscape · 4 years ago

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Charlottesville Part 1: Monticello

Before heading home from Richmond, we took a slight detour to visit another iconic Virginia city. Charlottesville is a picturesque college town, rich with history and many sights to see. We began our trip at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello. With COVID-19 policies still in a transition phase, we ended up only getting Grounds and Gardens tickets. This gave us full access to the garden areas, the basement exhibits, the enslaved peoples tour (including the exhibit on Sally Hemmings), and the burial grounds. The only part of Monticello we did not get to fully experience was the home itself, but we think that gives us all the more reason to return in the near future!

Thomas Jefferson is a complicated figure. He is known as the Father of the Declaration and a beloved American President. He is also known as one of the most infamous hypocrites in American history. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” These are the words written in the Declaration of Independence that we have all been inspired by as American citizens. It is undeniable that the revolutionary principles our founding fathers believed in created a nation today like no other. The ideas of a country free from the oppression of the “divine” monarchy, the belief that a democracy could thrive by the people and for the people, and the use of enlightenment principles to create an entirely new government is something we owe to our forefathers. We do not believe in discrediting men like Jefferson who had one of the greatest impacts on American history, but we believe that the whole story should be told. Literally and figuratively, no one should be allowed to be put on a pedestal without the full truth being unveiled. There is a fine line between patriotism and nationalism as we have seen in the years our country has developed. The man who helped create our fine nation was also the owner of slaves, a man who struggled with debt, and one who pushed Native Americans out of their own homeland. Again, our country would not be what it is today without men like Jefferson, but his full story deserves to be told.

Before the Slavery at Monticello tour, we decided to do a quick walkthrough of the basement level of Jefferson’s home. As a trained architect, Thomas Jefferson developed spaces for the main kitchen, a beer and wine cellar, an ice house, and more. We were fascinated to see the pulley system utilized in the beer and wine cellars to transfer goods up to the main parts of the home. It is important to note that the comfortable lives that the Jefferson family was able to live relied on the exploitation of enslaved labor. All spaces on this level have been converted into exhibitions and inform audiences of the people that worked within. Families that were featured included Hemmings, Gillette, Hern, and more. In truth, Jefferson was quite hypocritical when he wrote that “all men are created equal.” When we got to the far end of the house, we followed the crowd that gathered around three exhibition boards and a small room showing a short film. After the death of his wife, Martha, and upon his return to Virginia from France, Thomas Jefferson brought back Sally Hemings to Monticello. She was previously a “maid-servant” for his younger daughter, Maria. Hemings became pregnant soon after this return and it is almost certain that Thomas Jefferson, who owned hundreds of slaves, was the father. The title of “concubine” that was bestowed on Hemings is dehumanizing and limits any historical interpretation of her. They would have a total of four children together. Jefferson only freed a total of 7 enslaved people and they were all members of the Hemings family. However, Sally was never legally free after he had “given her time” upon dying. We highly recommend viewing The Life of Sally Hemings exhibit if visiting Monticello. It may make you question the legacy of Thomas Jefferson learned in schools around the country.

607. Over Jefferson’s lifetime, he owned 607 people. Our tour guide immediately gave us this number when we began our tour. After walking through the grounds and the basement, we began the Slavery at Monticello tour. Starting on Mulberry Row, which is named after the types of trees that line the dirt road, we saw small cabins and plots where these cabins sat. These were the homes of the enslaved people at Monticello. The one room cabins could not have been bigger than 12x12. With dirt floors, one stove, one bed, and a loft above that had extremely low ceilings, these cabins could have held anywhere from two to twelve people. Since many enslaved people had numerous children, the cabins were usually tight spaces. On the wall of the recreated cabin visitors could walk in to see a plaque that read “Not so bad?” Some people who have entered these small, nearly inhospitable spaces have made similar remarks, so Monticello has gone out of their way to ensure people know it was that bad. Enslaved families faced constant struggles like violence, separation, dehumanization from their “masters’, and much more that we cannot fathom. Moving forward in the tour, we had a fantastic guide who had been there for over fifteen years. She explained to us many parts and pieces of Mulberry Row and stories of those who lived there. “Sunup to sun down, six days a week,” she said, “Only small provisions were given each week per person to survive on, otherwise they had to find time outside of their work to grow more food.” She explained to us more of the personal stories as we went along. Jefferson owned a nailry, but the small working parts of the way nails were made required small people and small hands. Jefferson enslaved young boys from 7 to 14 to do this work. Once they had gotten too big to work for him the boys would be moved to other jobs on the plantation (also known as a labor camp) like carpentry, field work, or domestic works. Stories began to be more intimate as we went along as she told us more about the Hemmings family and the enslaved young man who attempted to free himself without success, James Hubbard. The personal stories they are able to tell are made possible through the research that the foundation has taken on, but more importantly come about from the stories of the Monticello enslaved. Without the help of descendents, our tour guide told us that they would not have been able to know half of the stories that they do. To conclude our tour, we asked our guide how things had changed with the tours she had given over the past 15 years at Monticello. “When I first started, the Sally Hemmings story was told much differently. We would have to say ‘there is a high probability that Jefferson is related to Hemmings’ to avoid scrutiny, instead of now where we definitively say ‘Jefferson fathered Sally Hemmings children.’ Also before being called Mulberry Row and the Slavery at Monticello Tour, it was the ‘Plantation Community.’” A lot of things have changed to tell the whole story at Monticello and it is encouraging to us all in seeing that both sides of Jefferson are presented equally.

Similar to other historical homes that had enslaved workers, there is a separate cemetery that was used for those that were white members of the Jefferson family. We had to ask a staff member if they could direct us to the small burial ground, and they were kind enough to oblige. We were able to see roughly 50 cross markers within a gated location in the middle of the parking lot. The markers were unnamed. We saw the toll that enslavement took on those at Monticello. Most of their lives were likely spent working for no pay with their basic human rights stripped away from them. There is ongoing work in and around the area of Charlottesville to find if there are other human remains of those that were forced to work for the Jefferson family. Unfortunately, the grave of Sally Hemings has yet to be found, but we are hopeful that this discovery will be made in the years to come. Thomas Jefferson is undoubtedly a very complicated figure in our history. Our visit to the African-American cemetery that followed the Slavery at Monticello tour was essential in understanding why historians continue to debate his legacy.

#monticello #history #virginia #thomas jefferson #charlottesville #enslaved #monument

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hayingsang · 4 years ago

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What I read in 2020

2020 wasn’t a vintage year for reading. I only finished 66 books – my lowest count in recent years – and I didn’t discover anything startlingly new. But I was pleased that for the second year in a row half the books I read were by women and that I came close to hitting my target of six books in Chinese. I would have hit my Chinese target if I hadn’t started a 600-page book in October, but as that’s already going to be one of the top books of 2021, I’m not too upset about missing that goal.

Upping my Chinese reading was probably part of reason for the low overall count – one page typically takes around 10-15 minutes – though also responsible was over-reading during two weeks in home quarantine in March put me off books for a while.

As usual, I mainly read older books – ones not released in 2020 – and for once the amount of fiction I read comfortably exceeded the non-fiction. Of that fiction the highlights were Lydia Davis’s Collected Stories, Angela Carter’s Heroes and Villains and the second volume of The Plum in the Golden Vase.

Davis’s work is short – often very short (many of her tales are less than a page). Prose poetry? Sometimes, but not always. A lot of playfulness. But also with a power that builds as you keep reading, a few pieces one day, a few more the next, and the one after, and so on. Also her repeated determination to experiment, sometime using traditional forms, sometimes with new ones.

Carter’s book, from the late 1960s, moved through much the same collapsed-society territory as Margaret Atwood’s The Year of the Flood, but far more elegantly and to a more satisfying ending. I didn’t like her fairy stories, but this was tremendous.

The Plum in the Golden Vase, Volume Two: The Rivals – as good as the first volume. Better maybe. The best sprawling novel ever?

Aeschylus’s The Oresteia was another standout – read following last year’s Aeneid and Odyssey after consulting Richard Jenkyns’ excellent Classical Literature (an invaluable source of recommendations about what to read from Greece and Rome). No surprise that Aeschylus’s work has survived two-and-a-half millennia with its poking around matters that still bother human beings (families, states, etc).

Of the various books I read on Hong Kong, Kong Tsung-gan’s Liberate Hong Kong: Stories from the Freedom Struggle was the one I found most satisfying. Partly for its exploration of some of the darker, more violent aspects of 2019’s protests, but most of all for capturing the importance of what happened and so why it will be hard for the forces of repression to succeed in the long run. The only problem with this book is that it now seems to be almost impossible to get hold of.

Of the five books I read in Chinese, my favourite was in Cantonese (and so arguably not in Chinese): 麥花臣金將軍與白龍的對談 by 並明. An extraordinary piece of work, mainly about two young men from Hong Kong in Oxford talking about Hong Kong and philosophy, but also including voluminous footnotes on matters such as why certain characters had been chosen to represent words used in Cantonese that don’t occur in standard Chinese. If you have any interest in Cantonese I would say it’s a must-read – it’s the first time I’ve come across a sustained piece of writing using Cantonese as it’s spoken.

I also enjoyed 像我這樣的一個女子 by 西西 (Xi Xi, A Girl Like Me). I had read a couple of her books in English, and thought they were so-so. Actually, the problem was the translation. In English, her stories look simple; in Chinese, even I can tell that there’s a lot more going on, even if I’m not sure what it is.

What pointed me to Lydia Davis was her translation of Swan’s Way, my third version. My first reading was in 1984, when I thought it was amazing. Then, after reading the first two or three books, I decided to save the rest for some special occasion. That never came, so in the early 2000s, I read those first few books for a second time – again finding them amazing. This time round, however, I was rather less compelled. I enjoyed it, but didn’t care for it. I’m now thinking I will never get round to finishing the whole thing.

The list in full:

Anita Brookner, A Friend from England

Peter Gray, Free to Learn

Richard Baldwin, The Globotics Upheaval

Stendhal, Scarlet and Black

Anita Brookner, Latecomers

Daniel H Wilson, Robopocalypse

Tim Jackson, Prosperity Without Growth

並明, 麥花臣金將軍與白龍的對談

Anonymous, Bhagavad Gita

Erik Brynjolfsson & Andrew McAfee, The Second Machine Age

Wang Anyi, Love in a Small Town

Nina Bawden, Walking Naked

Anita Brookner, Family and Friends

Anita Brookner, A Start in Life

Angela Carter, Heroes and Villains

Gerald Graff & Cathy Birkenstein, “They Say, I Say”

Mario Vargas Llosa, The Neighborhood

Marcel Proust, Swan’s Way

Ruth Kassinger, Slime

Erik Brynjolfsson & Andrew McAfee, Machine, Platform, Crowd

Aeschylus, The Oresteia

Stanley SK Kwan, The Dragon and the Crown

陶傑, 香港政局的50個關鍵詞

CS Lewis, The Horse and His Boy

Felicia Nay, Red Affairs, White Affairs

Anonymous, The Plum in the Golden Vase, Volume Two: The Rivals

Julia Lovell, The Opium War

Various, Aftershock

Bruce Aitken, The Cleaner

青永屍, 你個教育制度壞咗呀

Kong Tsung-gan, Liberate Hong Kong

Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal

Octavia Butler, Bloodchild and Other Stories

Deborah Levy, The Unloved

Daniel Levitin, The Organized Mind

Elias Canetti, The Play of the Eyes

Martha Nussbaum, The Monarchy of Fear

Jeffrey Wasserstrom, Vigil

Ursula Le Guin, The Farthest Shore

西西, 像我這樣的一個女子

Ursula Le Guin, Tehanu

Lydia Davis, The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis

Antony Dapiran, City of Protest

Stendhal, The Charterhouse of Parma

Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider

Lydia Fitzpatrick, Lights All Night Long

Michael Taylor, Community, Anarchy, Liberty

Jean Rhys, Quartet

Toni Morrison, Home

Ursula Le Guin, The Telling

Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning

譚劍, 人形軟件

Adair Turner, Between Debt and the Devil

Amos Oz, Judas

JS Sharman, The Despot’s Guide to Wealth Management

Ursula Le Guin, Tales of Earthsea

Ursula Le Guin, The Other Wind

Ursula Le Guin, The Dispossessed

Felix Dennis, How to Get Rich

Martha Nussbaum, Woman and Human Development

Alice Munro, Dear Life

Sally Rooney, Normal People

David Grossman, To the End of the Land

Natalia Ginzburg, All Our Yesterdays

Margaret Atwood, The Year of the Flood

Charles Taylor, Hegel

#books

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casual-eumetazoa · 5 years ago

Text

i’m a perpetually broke grad student so instead of buying gifts for Christmas and birthdays i write fanfics or short stories for friends. Christmas 2019 i asked my best friend to pick up to three genres for his gift story and he told me political drama + classical literature + self-help. i added steampunk sci-fi to that and took that as a challenge...

--------------------------

A Yule Anthem

(or how to end the monarchy and overthrow the government in twelve* simple steps)

a memoir by Erasmus Waynard Smith, a once royal circuit keeper

Season’s greetings to you, dearest reader. Although I have no way of verifying this, it is quite likely that you are starting this book on the dawn of a Yule, as this is the date my memoir is set to be released. If that is the case, then happy holidays! I wish you all the best. May the spirits of old Earth guard you and support you in all of your endeavors in the upcoming cycle of the Suns.

It is with an unsteady hand that I begin this story, for I have never intended for it to be heard. Indeed, the book you are projecting onto your cornea as of this very moment would not exist if it wasn’t for the efforts, diligence, and, if I may be so frank, stubbornness of a certain someone.

Thirteen months ago, you see, I was approached by Theodosia Pruce – a talented and perceptive lady from the distant, exotic shores of the planet Zanzibar. Miss Pruce was the one who convinced me to put my memories into words, for the sake of future generations. And although I do not give as much as half a bitcoin for the future generations, I was, nonetheless, swayed, by the most generous offer of a personal mansion on a resort world and a fully paid pension for the rest of my physical existence. And so, I am sitting here now, a tall glass of rapidly cooling Roomas juice by my side, and a touchscreen quill pressed tightly in between my fingers, trying to jolt my memory and produce exactly as many words as I was asked for, not a word more, not a word less.

Conveying all the truth and nothing but the truth about these events is an earnest challenge for me. I am an old man of a hundred and fifty now, dearest reader, and 2237 seems centuries away from the present. Back then, I was a young lad of hardly forty, and my mind was full of foolish desires, far-reaching ambitions, and cotton candy. I worked as a royal circuit keeper in her majesty’s planetary servers - a skillful but simple and honest occupation - and, like so many before me and around me, dreamed of preposterous things. Dreamed of success, and money, and love, and a glorious revolution…

Lean back, dearest reader, adjust your mindscreen settings, and let me bring you with me on a trip to the past and tell you how to accomplish what I have somehow accomplished.

step 1: identify your project

This story begins on a dark, uneasy, snowy evening, on the first day of Yule of 2237. The shifts down at the factories and the river banks were rolling to the end, and the work hours just came to a close for all the royal employees. I – your faithful servant – had only about arrived at my usual spot, the Drunk Mongoose pub, when a roar of thunder shook the ground and shattered the glass in the liquor cabinet.

-The forecast didn’t say no thunder snowstorm. - Said my best friend Arabella, as she fell down into a lumpy seat beside me. – I left Boy outside. If he will get struck by lightning again, I’ll never get the money to replace his burned-out batteries.

-Chill. – I advised, and took a generous sip of my drink. – It don’t seem to be a big one.

As if to disavow my word, the thunder crashed again, with twice as much strength this time. It pulsed through the floor, crackled in the walls and shook the roof above our heads.

-I ain’t likin’ it. – I whispered.

The lights and sounds of the pub were starting to flicker.

-Same. – Arabella retorted, clutching the rackety table with utmost strength.

Side by side, we watched as every single candle and kerosene lamp in the building lingered and died, blown out at once by a rush of electromagnetic wind. A low, irritating murmur reached my ears, and I realized that the entire holographic engine must have gone caput. For the second time this lunar cycle.

-Not again! – Came the exasperated moan of Octavius, the pub owner.

I sighed, and forced myself out of my seat, intent on helping the man with the machine.

-The entire network’s down. – Arabella informed, pointing at the blank projected screen of her pocket watch. – I’m so sick of this, Ersh. They’d promised to fix this back during the wet season!

-Sick of the government? – Yelled some drunken gentlemen from the other side of the pub. – Sick of his majesty’s empty promises?

-Yeah! – Another random visitor of the establishment supported the man enthusiastically.

-Well big mood, I tell ya. – The first man snorted. – Everyone hates them, but ain’t no one gon’ do a thing about it. So get back to your work.

Now I cannot put my finger on why that simple remark had such a profound effect on me… Was it the man’s voice, so full of despair and apathy and subdued anger? Was it my own exhaustion, the quiet rage at the thought of coming back home by foot, through the howling thunder and snow, in the absence of a sky bus? All in all, something must have short-circuited in my mind, as a sat back down, looked Arabella in the eyes and said, in a voice most confident:

-You know what? Let’s overthrow the government.

step 2: define goals and objectives

On my way home, I was drowning in feverish frenzy, drunk without wine and hopeful beyond reason. Oh, for how long I have dreamt of this! Many a morning I have spent imagining what it would be like to live on a planet fair, unburdened, free from the thralls of corrupt government and incompetent king. I knew that I wanted it, and I knew that every one of us wanted it, and, somehow, despite all common sense, I knew that I could do it.

I stumbled out of the pub and wondered on unsteady feet towards the docks. The snow swirled and raged around me, and my blurry eyes struggled to focus on my surroundings. I stopped at the slope of the northern canal and gazed into the clouded sky, feeling the snowflakes land on my eyelashes and the wind slash my face. I cannot tell you why, dearest reader, but I felt so utterly happy.

-How much for an uber these days? – I announced cheerfully as I approached the line of carriages waiting by the canal.

-Three fifty for a mile. – Echoed one of the drivers – an older lady, who was stroking the head of a white, shabby-looking horse.

-Steep. – I whistled, and swung myself into the carriage. – Hampton Hall please, down at the cross of Richmond and Westby.

She nodded at me, and pushed the minute counter switch. One word to the horse, and I could hear the sound of its metal hooves striking against the cobblestone. I half-sat, half-laid in my seat, staring at the hole-ridden ceiling of the carriage, and listening to the sounds of the dreaming city.

‘Alrighty then’, I thought, pulling out my notebook. It had hardly any charge left, so the bleak night mode would have to suffice.

“Tasks for tomorrow”, I noted down, and drew a flower on each side of the line. “Destroy the government from the inside. Make King Edmund step down from the throne. Profit”.

step 3: define tasks

It was only at noon next day when the realization of what I just committed myself to hit me like a bolt of lightning. I was enjoying my Roomas (the good kind – they don’t grow it right anymore) with my colleagues at the servers, and suddenly it dawned on me – I was going to take this planet apart, bit by bit. So powerful that was, so profoundly terrifying, that I had to excuse myself and sit in a locked bathroom stall, wheezing, my heart pounding in my chest. A few girls and a man must have heard me, as I was asked repeatedly whether I was okay.

I was not, but I was going to be.

I went straight home after the workday was over. I forced myself to gather my thoughts, and look rationally at this situation. This task, though ambitious, no doubt, could surely be accomplished. I knew this planet, knew it through and through. I knew politics too – it was the first thing I ever studied in university, and I hated it, I’ll admit, but it was useful nonetheless. All I needed was to sit down, think it through, and draft a plan.

And that is precisely what I did.

step 4: build your team

We met in the abandoned park by the lakes at dawn the next morning. The air was bity with cold and static electricity, and the seven of us could not help but shiver as we walked towards our gazebo. It was buried underneath a thick layer of snow, and I laughed as Arabella pretended to push the fluffy heap onto my head.

-Good morning, everyone. – I greeted, inviting them inside before myself.

-Skip to the important bit, please. -Arabella yawned, and took her seat at the table.

-Fair enough.

I took a deep breath in and gazed upon my freshly assembled crew. Arabella, a fellow circuit keeper and the fastest hacker I have ever met. Ambrose, a talented but not extensively successful journalist. Cecilia, an up-and-coming politician herself, but currently a secretary to one of the most famous politicians on the planet. Wilhelmina, a social media manager with hundreds of contacts at her fingertips. Josiah, an artist and designer, currently one of the official dressmakers to the king. Euphemia, a policewoman in the past, now a social activist and respected public figure. Matthew, a writer and a poet, who happened to be the lover of three separate government figures, all of different genders, all filthy rich. And me, a humble sysadmin with a dash of organization skills and arrogance to spare.

-Esteemed guests, - I said, and paused to clear my throat, - you all know why we are here. Now allow me to explain to you exactly what we will do.

step 5: create a timeline

-This is flippin’ insane, Ersh. – Wilhelmia exclaimed, glaring, and I was forced to shush at her.

-Quiet. – I reminded, and she swallowed hard, remembering that anyone in the building was at liberty to overhear us.

The upcoming revolution was now two days old. On the surface, we continued to lead normal lives, working, complaining, gossiping, and counting the minutes to the end of the shift. In truth, we were right in the middle of action. Meeting all over the city – in undiscovered pubs and inns, in unguarded computer cellars, on the rooftops of nuclear boilers, and in the dead-ends of dark alleyways. We communicated over quantum radio and made sure to burn all of our transmissions after every call. We were brave, and vigilant, and determined, above all else, to bring this to a close as soon as possible.

-But that is too fast. – Wilhelmia insisted in a hoarse whisper. – You don’t seriously believe that this will be over before the Yule ends, do you?

-Indeed, I do. – I replied, and had the displeasure of being poked in the ribs. – What’s more, it is the only way to accomplish what we set out to do.

-How so? – She questioned.

-Conspiracies are short-lived. – I elaborated, and shifted in my tight, deeply uncomfortable sit.

The server ventilation shaft was far from a pleasant place to be inside of.

-The longer it goes on, the more likely it is to fall apart. Especially as we begin to bring more people into it.

-But ten days, Ersh! – Wilhelmia repeated. – How would that ever work?

-Simply and elegantly. – I smiled. – Remember, my friend – I am brilliant under tight deadlines, especially when said deadlines are self-inflicted.

Wilhelmia chose not to argue with me – for she knew, deep down, that I was right.

step 6: adjust your plan accordingly

I did not get a wink of sleep on the fifth night of the revolution. The visions of failure haunted me like vicious yet intangible ghosts, and I tossed and turned in bed until the second moon grazed the sky. Giving up on sleep altogether, I got up, mixed up a glass of dehydrated water, and turned on the radio. I expected to be lulled back into calm by its soft, crackling static – but instead, I had my anxieties validated.

-Thank heavens, Erasmus. – The voice of Josiah erupted from the speaker. – I’ve been trying to reach you for hours!

-What is it? – I asked, and slumped down to the floor, my head dizzy all of a sudden.

-It isn’t working. – Josiah confessed, and I could practically taste his desperation. – Not a tad. He is listening to me, but he doesn’t believe me in the slightest, I fear.

-Okay. – I said, though I was as far from okay as one could be. – It’s fine. – It was not, in fact, fine. – Roadblocks happen. Let’s talk. We’ll think of something, I am sure.

And, unlikely as it was, we did.

step 7: be flexible

The sixth day flew by so fast; I hardly noticed the night arriving. Eleven pm, and I found myself on the top floor back row of a double-decker, moving smoothly on its set path, the electric engine buzzing and murmuring somewhere far below. Outside, the snow was replaced by a thick fog, with neither of the moons in sight. The bus was almost empty and deathly quiet. I sighed, turned to my left, and met eyes with Matthew.

-How many in total? – I inquired, my voice down, still aware of the potential danger of being overheard.

-Forty-seven. – He informed, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. – Which makes it almost a third of the entire government.

-Not enough. – I shook my head, unsatisfied.

-Not enough? – He pouted.

-Time is not in abundance. – I said, and he looked away, avoiding my gaze. – We need to accelerate. Do you agree?

He sighed, but nodded.

-Good. – I glanced sideways, and drew a spiral on the mist-covered window. – You know what to do, Matthew.

-Yeah. – He said, smirking. – Unleash them memes.

step 8: communicate with your team

All of us gathered together again on the afternoon of the seventh day, in a tacky, brightly lit and empty tea room. The forecasts mongered another thunderstorm, and the atmosphere was heavy still, but, somehow, it did not bother me in the slightest. I smiled as the maid droid placed a tray in front of me, and the smell of cinnamon and lemon zest reached my nose.

-We’re on the right track. – I proclaimed confidently, and took my acai rice pudding bowl and a steaming hot cup of Earl Gay off the tray. – Cheers.

-Cheers. – The team echoed, and we clanked our china cups together.

We spent the hour discussing the current affairs, congratulating each other, chatting, laughing, and feeling oddly optimistic about the whole endeavor. My step was light as I was leaving the tea room. We had a few challenges ahead, sure – but, overall, everything was going according to plan.

step 9: address any problems before they occur

Then the eighth day arrived, and, all of a sudden, nothing was going according to plan. News rushed in through the radio one by one; they piled all on top of each other, and right as I was leaving the server maintenance room to enjoy my well-deserved Roomas break. I felt drops of sweat form on my neck and roll down my spine as I scrolled through the message feed of my wristwatch. Nothing terrible has happened so far, I admitted – but it could. So shaky. So many opportunities for it all to go to hell – and in rapid succession. Three seconds later, and I was overtaken by fierce, unwavering panic.

It must have been twenty years at least of sitting in the memory cube closet, hugging myself and trying desperately to remember how one was supposed to breathe, when someone knocked on the door. The first aid droid, I realized.

-I have detected alarmingly high levels of adrenaline and cortisol. – The droid’s voice sounded even sillier than usual, obstructed by the door. – Would the gentlemen like some treatment? I can offer morphine drops or deep brain stimulation.

-No. – I yelled back through the closed door. – No, thank you.

-Very well, sir. – The droid responded. – If you will need me, I’ll be at my re-charging station.

-Yes. Fine. Now leave me, please. – I groaned, and gently bumped my forehead against the wall.

I cannot tell you why, but somehow, that brief exchanged kicked some sense back into my mind. I let go of my shoulders, took a deep breath in, and told myself – “think”. Yes, the opportunities for disaster were plenty. Yes, we were on shaky ground now, even more so than before. Nevertheless, not all was lost. In fact, nothing was lost yet, I realized. You see, dearest reader, the benefit of having anxiety is that you can foresee potential problems and overcome them before they arise.

Fifteen minutes later, I had a solution for every single issue that could occur in the last phases of the plan. I thought about it further over my Roomas (with just a few drops of morphine), then found an excuse to leave the server buildings for a brief pause. Outside, it didn’t take me long to find a kid aimlessly wandering the streets.

-Any spare change, sir? – The kid asked, big blue eyes full of sadness. – I am all out of coins to buy Fortnight mods.

-Just your luck, your little rascal. – I smiled, and ruffled the kid’s curly hair. – I’ll give you a tenner – if you can bring this, - and I handed him a memory stick, - to lady Euphemia O’Malley. You will find her somewhere in the city center, most likely close to the town hall.

-Alright, sir. – The kid said, and snatched the memory stick out of my hand even before I transferred the payment. – I sure will try.

I nodded, said my farewells, and felt completely tranquil at once. Whether it was the effect of having dealt with the problems, or the morphine kicking in, I had no clue.

step 10: learn to say ‘no’ and accept help

I took a break on the ninth day, knowing that the revolution was beyond my grasp at that point, and all I could do was step back and watch the dominos fall into place. I ended the shift early, and went to the ice rink up at Thatchley Square. It was full of preschoolers and noisy beyond tolerance, which prompted me to push my airpods deeper into my ears. I would take the majestic, sophisticated sounds of Ed Sheeran, Gwen Stefani, and other classics over the offensive modern chaos they played in public places any day.

Half an hour of skating back and forth across the artificial crystalline surface, and my muscles were starting to betray me. I sighed and leaned against the nearest wall to rub my aching thighs and ankles. Alas, I had not been built for physical labor. I was about to leave the rink, when something – no, someone – rammed into me at subhuman speed, making me cry out in shock and stumble backwards into the snow.

-Oh lord, - the someone exclaimed, - I am so sorry!

And I mumbled something incomprehensible in response, for there, in front of me, covered in snow and helping me get up from the ground was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Tall, lean and bright-eyes, she had bubblegum pink hair and a pierced nose and a tattoo of a rose on her neck. And she was staring at me… goodness me, she was staring at me as if she knew me.

-Erasmus Smith? – She asked, frowning, and my face lost all colour.

-Shush. – I said, immediately on guard. – Come to the dressing room with me.

We sat there, talking and drinking those awful food machine concoctions out of cellulose plastic cups, and she told me everything she knew about the revolution, and how she came to know of it. It brought me concern at first, but soon enough it left my mind, for I was told that she had no intention of upsetting our plans. And what’s more, she even wanted to join in – and take it up a notch.

-Out of the question. – I responded immediately, once she had laid out her scheme for crashing the entire political system. – We are not risking the original plan on a dare.

-But… - She protested.

-No. – I shook my head. – We’re sticking to our goals.

-Oh well. – She sighed. – It was worth the shot. Say… can I help you out, at least?

I considered it for a moment, then gave her a singular nod. It made her eyes glow with excitement and pride. Such a stunning smile she had…

-I have a different proposition for you, though. – I found myself saying. – What do you think about going to the holographic theater next week? With me.

-Oh. – She looked away, and a soft shade of blush touched her cheeks. – I’d be honored.

And thus, the exchange was not all in vain.

step 11: write tomorrow’s task today

On the dusk of the tenth day, all – now as many as fifteen – of us gathered together by the docks, next to the roaring powerplant, where the moons were shining, making the freshly fallen snow glow and sparkle. We drank warm beer, talked, and watched the dodo birds and the pterodactyls play and chase each other on the canal slopes.

-All set to run. – Arabella concluded, after we revised every minute step over and over again. – Shall we?

I paused, took in a full lung’s worth of fresh cold air, and said yes.

We followed the first sparks of the fire on social media, observed as politician after journalist after king’s man turned all against each other, throwing accusations, spilling dirt, and digging political graves for each other – and we thought it lit. I did not wish to stay there at the docks for the entire night, so I brought the meeting to a close.

-One last thing before we go. – I announced, just as the people were turning to leave. – Write down a tweet for me, people.

“All political parties on the planet have fallen apart. The entire government has resigned. King Edmund is stepping down from the throne to marry a commoner. Bitches, let’s party.” I finished, and every single one of us cheered.

step 12: celebrate milestones and victories

And bitches did, indeed, party the next day – party day and night as the biggest scandal of the century shook the planet to its core. I do not recall where I was for most of the Yule Tide. All I know is that by midnight I ended up in the town hall, which was utterly wrecked and overflowing with people. I came to my senses sitting on the floor, wearing nothing but booty shorts and an undone tie, and smoking weed through a pipe. It was the most splendid party I had ever attended in my life.

-To the revolution! – I shouted it, and half a hundred people – most of whom I have never met in my life – joined in cheerfully.

-All hail Ersh, - Ambrose added, - for without him, this wouldn’t have happened.

-All hail Josiah, - Arabella interrupted, - for if he hadn’t sucked the king’s dick, this wouldn’t have happened either.

-Oh leave it. – Josiah dismissed. – I’ve always wanted to do that anyway.

-When are you gonna tell him? – I asked. – That you aren’t marrying him after all, I mean.

-Well. – He shrugged. – I think I might actually like… do that.

-Wouldn’t that be funny, - Euphemia said, - if Josiah became a prince.

-Anything is possible now. – Arabella pointed out.

-Yeah. – I agreed. – Anything’s possible.

And that’s when yet another crucial realization dawned upon me, and made me instantly sober.

I have accomplished my goal – no question about that. Brought down the government, destroyed the monarchy, did away with every major political party – all like I had imagined. But the more pressing question was – what are we going to do now?

And here comes *step 13, dearest reader, which no one had the courtesy of warning me about. The step is to ask yourself: what in the name of holy fuck you are doing in the first place, and why.

I advise you to complete this step before all the subsequent ones, for it took me all but twelve days of the Yule to bring my entire planet into chaos, and more than twenty years to carry it out of it and back into order.

Which is why I always say to the young, overly ambitious people who seek my wisdom – before you fuck some shit up, you better come up with a plan of how you will unfuck it – or do not go fucking it up in the first place, my child.

Signed, Erasmus Waynard Smith.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #short story #steampunk #sci-fi #paradox nerd post

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joannalannister · 6 years ago

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Do you think grrm could have based the targaryens on the aryan race? Their obsession with keeping their Valariyn blood pure, with being exceptional and special (superior = master race anyone ?). Their looks set them apart from the rest of westeros too, they're meant to have white hair (blonde hair) and violet eyes (blue eyes). They seem like a mix of colonizers and arryans the more deeply I think about them, a Targaryen restoration seems like the worst possible idea to me.

Why would you ask me, a Lannister blog? Me, a Lannister blog. Yet here I am hoisting the Targaryen banner; the things this fandom makes me do smh. Nobody’s even gonna read a post this long but I’m not doing this by halves.

So, GRRM has said that the Targaryens have an “obsession with the purity of their blood”. Let’s look at the text to get more details:

The tradition amongst the Targaryens had always been to marry kin to kin. Wedding brother to sister was thought to be ideal. Failing that, a girl might wed an uncle, a cousin, or a nephew; a boy, a cousin, aunt, or niece. This practice went back to Old Valyria, where it was common amongst many of the ancient families, particularly those who bred and rode dragons. “The blood of the dragon must remain pure,” the wisdom went.

The way the Old Valyrians maintained a “pure bloodline” was by marrying “kin to kin”. Marrying one Valyrian-blooded person to another Valyrian-blooded person was not enough in Old Valyria to keep the blood of the dragon “pure.”

What historical precedents could GRRM have been drawing on when he wrote that Targaryens “marry kin to kin”? Fortunately we don’t need to speculate, especially when speculation leads to … this anon. GRRM has told us that he based the Targaryens on the Ptolemaic dynasty, which ruled Egypt from 323BC to 30BC:

The Targaryens have heavily interbred, like the Ptolemys of Egypt. As any horse or dog breeder can tell you, interbreeding accentuates both flaws and virtues, and pushes a lineage toward the extremes. Also, there’s sometimes a fine line between madness and greatness. Daeron I, the boy king who led a war of conquest, and even the saintly Baelor I could also be considered “mad,” if seen in a different light. ((And I must confess, I love grey characters, and those who can be interpreted in many different ways. Both as a reader and a writer, I want complexity and subtlety in my fiction)) [SSM]

The Ptolemaic dynasty included Cleopatra, who married her brothers and whose parents were the products of incestuous unions to keep their Macedonian bloodline pure. Here is an interesting article comparing Daenerys and Cleopatra. Another fun article. (I am throwing this wish out into the void that I would like to see in-depth Dany-Cleopatra comparisons on my dash please.)

It’s interesting to me to read that the doylist reason GRRM chose to include interbreeding among Targaryens to accentuate “both flaws and virtues.” To me, GRRM has written ASOIAF as a story much larger than life, like the Paul Bunyan of fantasy, with impossibly large castles and impossibly vast geography and impossibly long seasons, an oversized place where GRRM’s characters do superhuman feats. GRRM’s characters have glaring flaws, but they also have glorious virtues to which I can only aspire. That’s the point tho. That’s one reason why we read: to see ourselves, only magnified.

Why do Targaryens have a tendency to interbreed and keep their Valyrian blood pure? GRRM says the Targaryens intermarried to avoid conflict. It’s a matter of common sense to avoid fights when giant fire-breathing lizards are involved, as the Dance of the Dragons illustrates.

The Targaryens are the extreme example of that policy [to reinforce the family’s bloodline]: they only marry within the family to keepthe purity of the blood, and that way you avoid the problem of having several candidates for thethrone or the rule of the family.

If you have a generation of five brothers and each of them hasseveral children (sons?), after two or three generations you could find yourself with thirtypotential heirs: there could be thirty people named Lannister or Frey, and that produces conflict,because all of them are going to get involved in hereditary fights for the throne.

That’s what originated the War of the Roses; An excess of candidates for the throne, all of themdescendants of Edward III. Laking an heir (like Henry VIII) is just as bad as having too many ofthem. If you have five sons and you want to avoid that kind of problem, maybe it’s not such abad idea to marry the firstborn girl of the oldest son with the third son (or with the firstborn of thethird son?), and that way you avoid fights and the bloodline remains united

Something to note about this SSM entry is that GRRM was discussing all this blood purity stuff in the context of Tywin. The asker was literally asking why Tywin married Joanna, and GRRM answered that it was a love match and to reinforce the Lannister bloodline. Now, why would GRRM jump to discussions of blood purity when Tywin Lannister comes up?? Why ever could that be??

I know why. If we’re looking for the family that was inspired by fascist ideology, we don’t need to look far.

This issue of blood purity is a way to maintain dynastic power in a feudal system.

Which is bad, in the sense that feudalism is inherently a bad system, especially in comparison to, say, democracy. Even Ned Stark’s benevolent feudalism is bad compared to democracy. Lemme say that again - Even Stark feudalism is bad.

There should be a populist revolution in Westeros and literally every noble should lose their aristocratic status and wealth and power, and all this wealth and power should be redistributed to the common people, and everyone in Westeros should be given equal rights and there should be free and open elections to choose democratic representatives.

But I suspect anon isn’t interested in TWOW detailing their fav aristos losing all their fancy jewels and samite, and I don’t think anon is making signs saying “Down with feudalism! Down with monarchy! Down with the aristocracy! Eat the rich!” Somehow I really don’t think that’s what this anon is campaigning for.

*~*~*~*~*~*

(Note to self: is there a correlation between real-world economic systems and the types of fantasy produced under those systems? In other words, does capitalism motivate medieval fantasyland? And how do real-world levels of income inequality influence income-inequality in fantasyland? These are questions I am interested in.)

*~*~*~*~*~*

Anyways.

If we accept feudalism as par for the course in medieval fantasyland, I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing that the nobility wants to maintain their dynastic power in a feudal system. It’s what they do with that power that’s important.

As the original asker of this SSM question pointed out, marriages are a way of maintaining power and building alliances in a feudal system, but such marriages also raise up the lesser House and make it more powerful

For example, I believe Lord Roger Reyne wanted to marry one of his sons to Genna Lannister to gain more power in the Westerlands, but was thwarted when Tytos betrothed Genna to Emmon Frey instead. Similarly, the previous Lord Reyne, Lord Robert Reyne, arranged a marriage between his daughter Ellyn Reyne and Gerold’s heir Tywald Lannister. The Reynes wanted more power and influence in the west, perhaps even to go so far as to topple House Lannister and become the dominant House in the West.

The Targaryens face a similar problem, on a much larger scale. Whatever House they marry into, it raises that House up and grants them considerable power, potentially creating a disequilibrium point in the game of thrones and causing more innocents to suffer. (…honestly why do you think Tywin wanted his daughter to be queen?)

This is why the Targaryens (and all the nobles really) need to consider their marriages (or even mistresses) very carefully. If you choose your partner poorly, without concern for dynastic politics, it could throw the land into chaos. (See: Tytos Lannister, Rhaegar Targaryen, Duncan the Small, etc)

So, who are the Targaryens marrying? Because anon seems to be making the assumption that the Targs don’t marry outside their bloodline in any significant numbers, and I intend to challenge that assumption.

The Targaryens certainly do have a tendency to intermarry, as we see in The Sworn Sword:

Egg spoke as if such incest was the most natural thing in the world. For him it is. The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister for hundreds of years, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. Though the last actual dragon had died before Dunk was born, the dragonkings went on. Maybe the gods don’t mind them marrying their sisters.

“The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister for hundreds of years, to keep the blood of the dragon pure.” And yet, despite Dunk’s observation, the Targaryens have been marrying outside of House Targaryen for hundreds of years as well, suggesting to me that dynastic politics rather than blood purity is their greatest concern.

I will attempt to compile a list of people who are not of Valyrian descent who married a member of House Targaryen. I have not read Fire and Blood yet, so I hope that someone will let me know if I’ve forgotten anyone and I will edit this post to include them (I do not mind spoilers). Any corrections to this list are appreciated.

Ceryse Hightower

Elinor Costayne

Alys Harroway

Jeyne Westerling

Tyanna of Pentos (Tyanna of the Tower)

Argella Durrandon (who married Targ bastard Orys)

Rodrik Arryn

Rhea Royce

Alicent Hightower

Corwyn Corbray

Garmund Hightower

Rohanne of Tyrosh (who married Daemon Blackfyre)

Michael Manwoody

Ossifer Plumm

Ronnel Penrose

Aelinor Penrose

Betha Blackwood

Dyanna Dayne

Mariah Martell

Maron Martell

Jenna Dondarrion

Kiera of Tyrosh

somebody from House Tarth

Jenny of Oldstones

Lyanna Stark (I believe in R+L=J. I personally do not think R/L got married in the books, but even without a marriage I think this relationship should be included here. When Rhaegar chose someone to have his ice & fire prophecy baby with, he did not choose someone with valyrian blood.)

I think it’s also important to note that there are various Targaryens who wanted relationships outside of House Targaryen, but who couldn’t marry outside their House / couldn’t marry who they wanted, for various reasons. For example, Aerys and Rhaella did not want an incestuous marriage.

And gay marriage is not legal in Westeros but anyways:

Daeron Targaryen, son of Aegon V - in love with Jeremy Norridge

Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of Prince Aenys - idk if she was bisexual or a lesbian or what but Rhaena definitely liked a lotta non-Targ girls, and Westeros is a homophobic, misogynistic place that hates women and hates wlw so it’s not like Rhaena could have married any of these women

I am counting this as (at least) two non-Targ “marriages”. Fight me.

This makes a total of 27 non-Targ relationships.

There are also instances where a Targ has married someone outside of House Targaryen, but that person has some Valyrian blood. As mentioned above, tho, keeping the blood of the dragon “pure” is defined in the books as marrying “kin to kin” but I will keep this as a distinct subcategory for now.

Valaena Velaryon

Alyssa Velaryon

Jocelyn Baratheon (valyrian blood through Orys)

Corlys Velaryon

Larra Rogare

Aemma Arryn

Laenor Velaryon

Laena Velaryon

Alyn Velaryon

Daenaera Velaryon

Ormund Baratheon

Elia Martell

This brings us to a total of 39 non-Targ marriages. These 39 marriages do not fit the in-world definition of keeping the blood of the dragon ~pure~.

So how many Targ*Targ marriages do we know of exactly, so that we can figure out if blood purity was the main concern for House Targaryen?

Gaemon and Daenys

Aegon and Elaena

Aegon and Visenya(+Rhaenys)

Aegon and Rhaenys(+Visenya)

Aegon and Rhaena

Jaehaerys I and Alysanne

Baelon and Alyssa

Rhaenyra and Daemon

Aegon II and Helaena

Aegon III and Jaehaera

Aegon IV and Naerys

Baelor and Daena the Defiant

Aelor and Aelora

Aerion and Daenora

Jaehaerys II and Shiera

Aerys and Rhaella

I’ll list Targ*Targ affairs too to make it fair, since I included potential gay marriages above:

Aegon IV/Daena the Defiant

Brynden/Shiera

Aemon the Dragonknight/Naerys (this is only speculated and I honestly don’t actually think this was consummated but let’s throw it in here)

This is a total of 19 Targ*Targ relationships.

It is possible I’ve forgotten someone and I appreciate corrections.

So I have a total of 58 relationships here in my sample.

25+12+2+16+3 = 58

Let’s break that down:

~pure dragon blood~ relationships = 19/58 = 32.8%

~impure~ relationships = 39/58 = 67.2%

Roughly two-thirds of known Targaryen relationships do not keep the blood of the dragon “pure” by the book definition of blood purity.

If you wish to break the ~impure~ relationships down further:

Targ*Valyrian-blooded relationships = 12/58 = 20.7%

Targ*non-Valyrian-blooded relationships = 27/58 = 46.6%

At the very minimum, at least 46% of Targ relationships were not motivated by blood purity reasons. Note, I think this number is too low, because like Queen Victoria “the grandmother of Europe” and her descendants, the nobility tend to intermarry a lot (because of classism). People like Aemma Arryn have valyrian blood because everyone is intermarrying.

I will say again, roughly two-thirds of known Targaryen relationships do not keep the blood of the dragon “pure” by the book definition.

Targaryens intermingled with the people of Westeros, they didn’t keep their blood “pure”. This is a very different attitude from, say, the 20th century anti-miscegenation laws that made it illegal for people of different races to have sex.

I already pointed out above how GRRM has said these incestuous unions were motivated at least in part by dynastic politics. Could there be any other reasons?

Why did the valyrians before the Doom all practice incest? The “blood of the dragon” is not just about valyrians marrying valyrians, although that’s how anon is trying to spin it. The text specifically says that maintaining “the blood of the dragon” is about marrying “kin to kin.”

We do not yet know why the valyrians practiced incest. Why is it important that “the blood of the dragon must remain pure”? It has not yet been explained. But there are theories. @nobodysuspectsthebutterfly has already addressed this issue, so I will refer you to her posts: 1, 2 and her entire tag for #the blood of the dragon.

Why is it important that “the blood of the dragon must remain pure”?

I don’t know, but we’re definitely not reading books with magic. We’re definitely not reading books with blood magic. We’re definitely not reading books with giant magical fire-breathing lizards. We definitely don’t need easy ways to control those lizards. Definitely not.

I mean, we still don’t know exactly what “the blood of the dragon” means but I think what GRRM wrote with House Targaryen’s incestuous ~blood purity~ is something different from Aryanism.

Which isn’t to say that all this blood purity bullshit GRRM wrote shouldn’t be criticized. Placing importance on the ~purity~ of someone’s blood in any context is … not a good look. GRRM has been kinda playing this trope straight so far, but I am hoping he smashes it in future books; Tyrion is eager to ride a dragon, and A plus J does not equal T.

To quote what @moonlitgleek said:

I hate it when people start talking about percentage of Valyrian blood as if that’s the measure of who rides a dragon. Whip up your calculators, everyone. We need to figure out how much Valyrian blood it takes to ride a dragon, be the subject of prophecy or be a savior. Anyone below a certain percentage can not measure.

This blood purity bullshit is bad, I actually agree with anon on that. But I’m not sure why that means we should condemn the entirety of House Targaryen.

Especially when GRRM loves the Targaryens so much he keeps writing history books about them instead of finishing the series…

Like, from Fire and Blood, Jaehaerys I and Alysanne Targaryen are one of those Targ*Targ marriages that I admit help reinforce Targ blood purity. But this marriage was how Alysanne exercised her own bodily autonomy, by marrying who she wanted, because she and Jaehaerys had their dragons and no one was able to stop them. But anon … anon gonna call that Aryanism …

Anyways. I want to move on to anon’s other claims, but first I think it might be useful to define Aryanism, since anon seems to think it is about marrying brother to sister, which it is not.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aryanism grew out of 19th century fascist ideologies. The term Aryan is related to the root -arya which is related to a Sanskrit word meaning “honorable, respectable, noble.” In the mid- to late-1800s, the term “Aryan race” was coopted by racists to justify their repellant “scientific racism” that claimed that “blond” Germanic / Nordic / Northern European people were a “superior race.” Note that “blond” is specifically mentioned by these ~scientists~ espousing their racist ideology. They claimed that “Aryans” were “natural leaders, destined to rule over” the other races. According to Jackson Spielvogel, Hitler described the Slavic peoples as “a mass of born slaves who feel the need of a master.” Himmler said, “whether nations live in prosperity or starve to death interests me only insofar as we need them as slaves for our culture. Otherwise it is of no interest.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Anon was correct that racial superiority is a characteristic of Aryanism.

But do the Targaryens consider themselves to be a superior race to the other peoples of Westeros, or other peoples in general?

GRRM says he wanted the Targaryens to be “a race apart”:

Speaking of Valyria… right from the start I wanted the Targaryens, and by extension the Valryians from whom they were descended, to be a race apart, with distinctive features that set them apart from the rest of Westeros, and helped explain their obsession with the purity of their blood. To do this, I made a conventional ‘high fantasy’ choice, and gave them silver-gold hair, purple and violet eyes, fine chiseled aristocratic features. That worked well enough, at least in the books (on the show, less so).

But in recent years, it has occured to me from time to time that it might have made for an interesting twist if instead I had made the dragonlords of Valyria… and therefore the Targaryens… black. Maybe I could have kept the silver hair too, though… no, that comes too close to 'dark elf’ territory, but still… if I’d had dark-skinned dragonlords invade and conquer and dominate a largely white Westeros… though that choice would have brought its own perils. The Targaryens have not all been heroic, after all… some of them have been monsters, madmen, so…

Well, it’s all moot. The idea came to me about twenty years too late.

What does it mean to be “a race apart”? Does “apart” automatically mean superior? To me, “apart” here means different or distinct. But does that mean “superior”?

I’ve already addressed the fact that Targaryens are on average twice as likely to marry someone outside their House than to marry a Targaryen, so I don’t think the incest can be used to say the House as a whole claims superiority.

There are certainly some Targaryens who view themselves as racially superior. Aerys Targaryen comes to mind; he said of his newborn granddaughter that she “smells dornish.” The Blackfyre cause is certainly racist (for example, Team Blackfyre did not like it that their ~precious white princess~ Daenerys Targaryen, was married to Maron Martell). There are many other Targaryens who were racist. But racism isn’t exclusive to members of House Targaryen. Many nobles in Westeros are racist: Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin - but we were talking about House Targaryen.

What of Daeron Targaryen, who married a Dornish princess, who surrounded himself with Dornishmen and women and artists and intellectuals, and he wanted to include all these people at his court? I don’t know where the textual evidence is that King Daeron adopted an attitude of racial superiority.

What of Maegelle Targaryen? Would you truly accuse her of an attitude of superiority? Maegelle was a septa who nursed children with greyscale, until she herself caught greyscale and died.

When Aegon the Conqueror became high king, he adopted some Westerosi customs to assimilate. For example,

Heraldic banners had long been a tradition amongst the lords of Westeros, but such had never been used by the dragonlords of old Valyria. When Aegon’s knights unfurled his great silken battle standard, with a red three-headed dragon breathing fire upon a black field, the lords took it for a sign that he was now truly one of them, a worthy high king for Westeros.

Aegon the Conqueror literally wanted to join with the Westerosi nobles and become one of them. Compare this to Tywin, who disparages nobles from another continent as nothing but "spice soldiers and cheese lords”. So who has the superior attitude?

And what of Daenerys Targaryen? Dany embraces the Dothraki customs of her husband. (Contrast this with how her brother Viserys belittles the Dothraki.) Daenerys befriends orphans, former prostitutes, former slaves, people of many different races. I don’t think Daenerys adopts an attitude of racial superiority. (It’s true that GRRM does fall into some racist tropes when he writes ASOIAF, but I don’t think this means that Daenerys supports Aryanism, or that GRRM was inspired by white supremacy when he first imagined Daenerys. (Like, srsly, wtf??) Daemon Blackfyre I can definitely see being inspired by white supremacist movements in the real world, but Daenerys?)

Anon accuses the Targaryens of being “exceptional and special”. idk I thought controlling dragons was special. Kinda like controlling direwolves is special. Controlling magical creatures is special. But I didn’t think controlling magical creatures made you a fascist or a supporter of Aryanism.

If you want to make the case for a group of white people in ASOIAF posing as ~the master race~, I would actually suggest the valyrians of Old Valyria. The sorcerer-princes of Old Valyria captured and enslaved people and used people to fuel their magical empire. The attitude of Old Valyria actually seems very similar to that Himmler quote I gave you above: “whether nations live in prosperity or starve to death interests me only insofar as we need them as slaves for our culture. Otherwise it is of no interest.” The dragonlords of Old Valyria definitely colonized other places and practiced imperialism.

But the Targaryens were like the hillbillies of Old Valyria. They weren’t very powerful. Shortly before the Doom they relocated to a rock in the middle of nowhere on the edge of the Valyrian empire, and then the Doom and the Century of Blood meant suddenly the Targs were on top by accident (and a really smart woman). It’s like an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard or The Beverly Hillbillies, and this is why Tywin and his ancestors before him were so fucking pissed, because who the fuck even is this hillbilly targ family with their ~dRAgoNs~ and their ~InCeSt~ that’s ~bEtTeR~ than our ~LAnNiCeSt~ and ~~~We were kings in Casterly Rock for thousands of years, so who the fuck are these hicks~~~

Anon mentions the characteristic silver-gold hair and purple eyes of House Targaryen. GRRM explains that he “made a conventional 'high fantasy’ choice, and gave them silver-gold hair, purple and violet eyes, fine chiseled aristocratic features.”

Is there racism in conventional high fantasy? Yeah.

Does ASOIAF have racist writing? Yeah.

Is GRRM playing some of those racist tropes straight instead of subverting them? Yeah.

Could GRRM do better? Yeah. GRRM himself thinks he might have made the Targaryens dark-skinned.

Despite GRRM’s racist writing, I don’t think this means that the Targaryens as GRRM wrote them are all, without exception, terrible people.

I would also like to point out that House Targaryen exhibits a variety of phenotypes. They are not all the same, they’re not all blond and fair and ~Nordic looking~. Here is a partial list of Targaryens without the traditional look. If someone has statistics on the percentage of Targs without Valyrian features, I would appreciate a link, but I’m math’d out right now.

Speaking broadly, House Targaryen has certainly done some terrible things. For example, I think the Targaryen conquest of Dorne was imperialistic. Many people have already addressed imperialism in ASOIAF in detail, so I will refer you to this tag.

Was Aegon’s Conquest of Westeros a good thing, or a bad thing? I don’t know. Truly I don’t know - there is good and bad both in what Aegon the Conqueror did.

GRRM says this about him:

“Aegon finally decided to take over Westeros, and unify the Seven Kingdoms (that existed at the time) under a single rule. There is a lot of speculation that, in some sense, he saw what was coming 300 years later, and wanted to unify the Seven Kingdoms to be better prepared for the threat that he eventually saw coming from the North – the threat that we’re dealing with in A Song of Ice and Fire.”

Individually, some Targaryens were certainly awful. Others were good and kind. Some of them were mediocre. I think we should evaluate these characters individually, instead of condemning an entire family. I think that is what GRRM is trying to get us to do, judge each character individually based on their crimes and/or their heroism.

“a Targaryen restoration seems like the worst possible idea“

Anon thinks the worst possible thing that could happen to Westeros is that Dany becomes queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

That’s “the worst possible idea” of what could happen.

The Others could win the War for the Dawn and enslave/murder every single living creature on Terros. That’s a distinct possibility.

But anon would rather have every single person on Terros die than for Dany to become queen of the Seven Kingdoms?

And people say this fandom isn’t misogynistic.

I really don’t think it would be a bad thing for a person as compassionate as Daenerys Targaryen to become queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Westeros could certainly do worse than Dany. The Lannisters could stay in power, for example.

Cuz you know which family is repeatedly described as blond and fair and there is a LOT of uniformity in their appearance? Which family didn’t want to marry a Dornish girl? Which family described the Westerlings as “doubtful blood” and wouldn’t marry them? Which family had a common girl gang raped because the heir married her? Cuz it sure wasn’t Aegon V’s family.

Who said Lannisters are “worth more” than other people? Who captured and enslaved people at Harrenhal while burning their lands?

Tywin Lannister did that. GRRM ain’t exactly subtle about pointing out the fascist. It’s Tywin and Randyll and people like them who are the fascist who support Aryanism.

Daenerys is repeatedly in direct opposition to Tywin’s philosophies. Daenerys is one of the heroes. She’s a complex, well-written hero. She flirts with darkness but ultimately rejects it. She’s a grey, complicated hero.

This fandom doesn’t deserve Dany, but she’s gonna save the world anyway.

#daenerys targaryen #asoiaf meta #asoiaf #lannister thoughts #a song of ice and fire #dany meta #no pink hearts for you @anon #fascist masculinity in asoiaf #Anonymous #replies #cleopatra #racism tw

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jerseydeanne · 6 years ago

Link

Why in the hell is this Obama Moment?

LONDON (Reuters) - Prince Harry’s wedding to Meghan Markle, an American actress of African-American heritage, was a historic moment for Britain’s royal family. Some say the imminent birth of their baby is, if anything, even more significant.

Due in the coming weeks, the baby will be seventh-in-line to the throne and, it is believed, the first person of mixed race in such a senior position in the history of British royalty.

“I think this baby is going to be hugely important historically because it’s going to break new ground,” royal biographer Claudia Joseph told Reuters.

“Whether it’s a girl or a boy, it will be the first Afro-American baby to be born into the royal family.”

With a black mother and white father, Meghan’s ethnicity has never been far away from discussions about her relationship with Queen Elizabeth’s grandson - scrutiny that has often been unwelcome.

In late 2016 when he first announced they were dating, Harry issued a rare rebuke to the press, condemning the racial undertones of articles. One commentator had written how Meghan would bring “rich and exotic DNA” to the Windsors.

Michelle Ebanks, head of the company that publishes “Essence”, a U.S. magazine for African-American women, sees the positive.

“Every time we can break a barrier and be, as black people, somewhere were we’re not expected to be that is to be celebrated.

“Because we should not be in a box. Not in a box, not outside a box - there is no box! So, to be royalty should be normal,” Ebanks told Reuters.

But Kehinde Andrews, a sociology professor at England’s Birmingham City University who writes on race issues, is less sure that the royal baby indicates any improvement in racial equality.

“Unfortunately, because racism is so bad and so historic and so entrenched, we tend to look at things, any things,” he said.

“So any symbol that could possibly be good we tend to over-celebrate: Barack Obama becoming president, the film ‘Black Panther’ got people excited, anytime we have someone which ... looks like a similar progress - unfortunately we get carried away.

“But I think when we sit back and actively analyze what’s happened and what’s changed we realize that this is nothing, means nothing at all.”

BLACK PRINCESSES

For Ingrid Seward, editor of “Majesty” magazine, the new baby will be a small but important step in the royal family’s evolution.

“In order for the monarchy to survive it has to evolve and this is another way of it evolving and becoming more in tune with the multiracial society in which we now live.”

Royal biographer Robert Jobson said Meghan’s ethnicity resonated with many young Britons.

“I was at the wedding reporting for American television and there were little black girls dressed up as princesses in their princesses dress with little tiaras,” he said.

“Now even though they would have been excited to be at a royal wedding or even talk about a princess, I don’t think that those little girls would have ever dreamed that they could be part of this story.”

Slideshow (2 Images)

However, those like Jobson whose job it is to cover the royals on a daily basis have found themselves accused of racism on social media by supporters of Meghan, often for reporting critical comments made about her by members of her own family.

Valentine Low, who covers the royal family for the Times of London, wrote in February that some U.S. networks gave the impression that Britain’s media was racist and sexist.

“The problem is that in some quarters, particularly in the U.S., any negative coverage is seen as racist,” he wrote.

“Anything less than unqualified adulation comes under a barrage of abuse on social media.”

But some British journalists say Meghan has been treated differently from other members of the House of Windsor, citing a difference in attitude towards Kate, the wife of Harry’s elder brother Prince William.

Broadcaster Afua Hirsch, author of “Brit(ish): On Race, Identity and Belonging”, said ethnicity played a part.

“I would like to see more honesty and introspection in journalists who have repeated some of these tropes about Meghan Markle, and a willingness to at least look at the fact that her treatment has been different,” she told Reuters.

Meghan herself has said she avoids newspapers and Twitter, but asked about the focus on her ethnicity when her engagement was announced, she such coverage had been “disheartening”.

“At the end of the day I’m really just proud of who I am and where I come from,” she said.

Writing by Michael Holden; Editing by Robin Pomeroy

Our Standards:

The Thomson Reuters Trust Principles.

#us #britain #royals #baby #race

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sprnklersplashes · 7 years ago

Text

Truth of His Dreams-Prologue

Note: We’re taking some liberties with this fic; let’s pretend Rhodia is a small Western European country that killed its monarchy a la the Russian revolution.

The Marlie Anastasia AU my brain would not stop bugging me about.

AO3

The small European kingdom of Rhodia was, at first glance, a paradise, a hidden jewel. The Capitol was truly something to behold. The cobbled streets lined with huge houses of every colour, creating a rainbow as one passed. On the high street there were shops from every famous designer an elite socialite could hope for, not to mention the restaurants were no less than four stars. Around the streets, the wealthy inhabitants of the centre of the Capitol paraded around in their convertibles, coloured in blinding shades of red and silver and white, the fumes sometimes making the air too thick.

In the very heart of it all stood a grand palace, hundreds of years old, dazzling white walls painted with real gold paint (that is, if the rumours were to be believed), 900 rooms and 1000 servants, ceilings as high as the sky itself, almost every one of them decorated with a sparkling chandelier made out of thousands of tiny diamonds and ornate patterns painstakingly painted by the most skilled artists money could buy. The royal family of Rhodia had ruled there for 400 years, surviving rebellion, assassination and war.

The current line was unusual in that there was only one child, and therefore one heir. The King had been insistent that his ancestor’s policy of having at least five children to ensure an heir would always exist, in case of an accident or plot leaving the first heir dead, deciding that no one would dare to touch his family. Prince Charles, being the only child, was the most beloved of his family, particularly the apple of his grandmother Alia’s eye.

“Must you go, Grandmother?” he whined as she sat on his bed. She ran a hand through his bright blond mop of hair, not one out of place or his mother would have his hide. He may have been nine years old, but he was the heir to the throne, and would look presentable.

“I’ve stayed too long here, my darling,” she said softly.

“But London is so far away,” he sighed. “Why can’t I come with you?”

“Because what would your father say if I took the sole heir away to a foreign country with me? I might be executed!”

“I’d rather be in London than here,” he said, a bitter edge to his voice, too bitter for a child. She shook her head at him.

“Now, now, we can’t have any of that. You’ll have lots of fun when I’m away, and you’ll forget you ever missed me.”

“No I won’t!” he protested.

“Well, just in case, I had this made for you,” Alia said, taking the trinket out from behind her back. She presented small round box, green with a gold lining, with the words “Together in London” written in gold cursive on the front. As Charles watched with wide eyes, Alia turned the circle at the side, round and round, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen times, and then the lid slowly opened to reveal the likeness of an old woman in a white dress dancing with a small boy in a smart blue suit, a soft music tinkling through the air.

“Our lullaby!” he squeaked. “So when you’re away, I can still listen!”

“Of course, my darling,” she said. “And you mustn’t worry. Just like the box says, one day we will be together in London.”

However, a dark shadow threatened to dash the dreams of the young Prince and the elderly Queen Mother. While at first glance, Rhodia was a paradise, when you looked closer you saw what lay beneath. While the rich elite and the royals lived in luxury, many struggled to make ends meet. Unemployment crept up every year, it did not become uncommon for children as young as 14 to drop out of schools and find work elsewhere, in some cases, children aged 8 and 9 would accompany their fathers to their professions after school to prepare themselves, such as servants of the royal family taking their young sons to learn the trade. Food was becoming more and more expensive in the countryside, people struggled to pay rent.

Eventually, enough became enough for some. Armed with rifles, a new army stormed the palace with the intention to take over, demolish the monarchy and establish the Republic of Rhodia, not two months after the departure of the Queen Mother. Outside the palace, a swarm of protesters ripped statues of the royal family from their stands and burned the once lush gardens to ashes. Inside, they tore the palace apart, searching for the three they saw responsible for their suffering; the King, the Queen and Prince Charles. The royals knew in their hearts that the mob had no intention of letting them live.

“Come, this way,” the Queen urged her son, half dragging him down the carpet. Outside the window, the sky was turning red, the scene accompanied by screams of both determination and fear and ear-splitting gunshots. The pushed their way through the crowd of horrified servants, hoping to get to their carriage before the barricade was broken through.

“My music box!” Charlies gasped, remembering the treasure he had left in his bedroom after his governess had woke him in a state of panic. After struggling, he wrenched his arm free from his mother’s hand and turned, fighting against the current of people, back into the blaze and towards his bedroom. His mother did call for him, but his father shook his head and told her to keep running.

Once safely inside, he bolted the door shut and dived for his dressing table where he left the box. Despite the world falling apart around him, he took a moment to stroke it, the metal cooling his hot skin. He traced the words “together in London” with his finger.

“In here!” he heard a thick, unfamiliar voice say, shocking him to his core. He knew that that meant of course; the soldiers had got into the palace. And they were close to finding him.

He was too afraid to move. Even when they banged on the door over and over again. This was it, this was his death. He couldn’t jump out the window, the crowd outside would burn him alive, if the fall alone didn’t kill him.

He felt something shaking his arm. When he turned, he didn’t see a soldier with murder in his eyes, but a boy his age looking fearful and wearing dirty grey shirt and brown trousers, the uniform of the children of the servants.

“Come this way,” he gasped. “I know a way out.” Charles numbly followed him, putting his trust in this stranger. The boy pulled at a panel on his bedroom wall and it opened before his eyes. Charles was half sure he was dreaming. “This is a servant’s passageway. You take it.”

“Who are you?” Charles asked. The boy shook his head as another bang of the shook caused the room to tremble. He pushed Charles into the passage, causing the box to fall out of his hand. He wanted to go back, to protest, but the boy was already closing the passage, leaving him in darkness.

When he heard the door break open, heard a man demand to know where he was, he ran. He kept going and going through the dark tunnel until he found himself bursting through a door outside the back of the palace. The rebellion seemed so far away.

He kept going, crossing the palace gardens, sprinting across the pathways he decorated with chalk, squeezing through the bars of the fence and into the streets, tearing his coat as he went. The streets were so full that no one seemed to notice a small boy with tears running down his face pushing through crowds, fighting against the stitch in his side.

Eventually, as the crowd pushed him this way and that way, he found himself in an alleyway filled with overflowing rubbish bins. His weary legs made him stumble all over, tripping over his own two feet until he couldn’t hold himself any longer, the tiredness and fear caused him to trip over something and land face down on the concrete.

The Prince of Rhodia lay face down, bloody and beaten and sobbing, in an alleyway for waste.

**********************************************************************************

Early the next morning, a confused boy in a torn jacket and with a bloody face was brought to a local hospital, filled with other children. Casualties of the revolution, they were called. Most of them with broken legs or burns or separated from their families. But this boy was different.

When asked his name, he stayed silent, not out of a lack of respect for the nurses, but he did not know. When asked if he knew where his family was, he shook his head. What he was doing the night before. Nothing. A blank slate in his mind. No memory of a house or parents or even friends. He had no idea how he ended up in that alleyway, why he was bleeding, or why he was crying. As if the boy had no life at all before coming to that hospital. All he could tell them was that, for a reason he didn’t know, he had to get to London.

#class bbc #marlie ff #marlie #matteusz andrzejewski #charlie smith #i wrote this whole thign in one sitting #welp im commited now rip

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infectedworldmind · 7 years ago

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On an unseasonably warm Saturday morning in early February, my wife suggested that I take a break to go see the new Black Panther movie on our way back from a local Chinese New Year parade. We were having a very good day after an exhausting, impossible week. At the time, I did not know that this pattern would repeat itself over the following four months. We had a great breakfast at one of our favorite local spots (Zoi’s, which makes terrific breakfast sandwiches) and I successfully convinced my son that the colorful dragons marching in the parade were fun and not frightening (“See? They’re not real dragons, they’re just costumes!” <man under dragon costume gives a friendly wave to skeptical son>).

We discussed the Black Panther phenomenon while we munched hash browns and sipped coffee – it had premiered a few days earlier and was already a giant success at the box office and in the culture. I was curious and she was ambivalent – while the concept and creative folk involved piqued her interest, she mostly checked out on Marvel movies after the underwhelming Avengers film in 2010. When she made her offer later that morning, I thought about declining until I realized that if I didn’t accept, I probably wouldn’t see Black Panther until it arrived on Netflix (or whatever over the top digital service Disney comes up with). So I accepted her offer and was surprised by how excited I felt.

I found an amazing seat at our local theater (a spot that made up for its lack of modern features with decent screens and pleasant staff). I was surrounded by a representative sample of New Haven – earnest college students from a wide variety of backgrounds, excited African Americans from the local community and pleasant Yale/Yale New Haven Hospital retirees. There was a lot of conversation in the room that died down when the trailers and commercials and PSAs ended. Everyone focused their attention on a dark screen and heard a boy ask his father to tell him a story.

A few hours later, another curious boy asked a man who he was, and the screen faded to black. There were two more scenes tucked in a seemingly endless scroll of credits, but they felt like post-film trailers for future Marvel movies, a reminder that Black Panther takes place in a larger (and quite lucrative) narrative and a suggestion that the cinematic Wakanda will play a much more prominent role in the Marvel movie universe than its comic book counterpart. Some stayed for the scenes, and others did not, but it was clear that the boy’s question was the end of the story that Ryan Coogler spent 200 million dollars to tell. Some people were energized, others were talking about their favorite scene or which one of the many attractive actors in the film was the most stunning. I saw a few people with tears in their eyes, a few repeating Michael B. Jordan’s last line in the film.

Black Panther is an excellent film, possibly the first Marvel movie that feels completely engaged with our world. Coogler sustains an emotional resonance throughout the entire film that can only be found in isolated sequences in other Marvel films – a glance from Jeff Daniels, a provocative question asked by Cate Blanchett, a moment of intimacy between Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan. These genuine, emotionally honest moments are as important to the Marvel Studios storytelling formula as all of the third acts filled with expensive digital effect sequences and schematic plots. Black Panther departs from this formula by grounding these moments in a personal story with meaningful stakes. The stakes of the story matter because all of the artists involved in the movie – from the director, writers and cast to the costume designer, the makeup and hair people and the experts who helped with dialects – worked to make all the characters feel fully realized, with hopes, dreams and flaws independent from our hero and his journey. We care about the fate of Wakanda because we care about the characters who inhabit it – and T’Challa’s family turmoil matters because the love, joy and resentment expressed by the family members feels real.

Coogler reminds us that the desire for representation in the African American community isn’t just about seeing black faces on a screen. We want to be taken seriously, to feel like our gaze is as valid and important as the white gaze that we are accustomed to seeing in Hollywood films. We want to see a dramatization of the kinds of debates and tensions that exist within the black community without an explainer for everyone else. We want movies where dark skinned people are properly lit and stories that aren’t mediated by the perspective of outsiders (even the very well meaning ones).

Coogler uses a familiar hero’s journey framework to tell a story about community, societal boundaries and black liberation. Black Panther dramatizes the discourse within the black community about identity and freedom in mythic, larger than life terms without sacrificing the black perspective. He invites the audience to view in-group conversations without translating anything for them. It’s a mainstream movie about black lives that cheerfully ignores the urge to reassure or defy the “little white man deep inside all of us” who wants to limit our freedom to imagine and create fictional worlds.

Coogler trusts his audience. He trusts them to tease out the distinctions between and within the liberal and radical visions for black liberation presented in the scenes and layers the narrative with allusions to events and ideas relevant to the African American experience.

There are limits to the scope of ideas explored in Black Panther. The film is set in Africa and is filled with images and items that we associate with Africa, but its narrative is driven by the concerns, dreams and dilemmas of the members of the African diaspora who were brought to America hundreds of years ago. In one sense, there aren’t many African American characters in Black Panther, but in another, we are everywhere. We are asked to reflect on the obligations that a privileged black community owes to less privileged black communities and while the characters do reference the struggle against white supremacy (not named, but you know…) in global terms, the visual reminders of oppression and that struggle are all tied to America, and the African American civil rights movement (in the early nineties) serves as the catalyst for the story.

This dynamic is not confined to the film version of Black Panther. In the late winter, I planned to (and may still) write about Black Panther and Wakanda as incomplete afrofuturist projects. Here’s the gist: Black Panther and Wakanda were created by two Jewish American comic book creators in the 1960’s, and while a number of Afro-diasporic writers and artists have helped shape our understanding of the Black Panther’s world over the years, almost all were telling stories from a perspective that was both African and American. They explored African American hopes and fears about empowerment, colonialism and intergroup conflict, but rarely incorporated the viewpoints of other members of the diaspora, particularly those who remained in Africa. I found great value in exploring the dreams and possibilities of the African American experience through a story like Black Panther (and a nation like Wakanda), but wondered if the absence of non-American perspectives (particularly African ones) blunted its potential impact. I also wondered how much sharper – and more transformative – the story would be if we were reading/watching a story that Africans were telling us about their world.

Black Panther is also a Marvel Studios movie, and cannot escape the positive and negative associations of that corporate relationship.

It shares the basic plot structure as many of their films centered around a solo hero, from the role of the two villains in the narrative (and how they are introduced) to the hero’s fall from grace and eventual triumph in a CGI fueled battle.

I wonder if that relationship contributes to the intriguing tension between the radical and conventional elements in Black Panther. The film’s visuals shake mainstream (at least in the world of blockbuster commercial Hollywood filmmaking) assumptions around beauty and power, with a diverse, nearly all-black cast presented as larger than life figures and shot in a manner that highlights the richness of their individual skin tones.

We are shown pieces of culture from all over Africa in a way that makes them feel modern and vital (and not ancient or exotic). But while the story gestures towards quasi-radical politics, it ultimately delivers a full throated defense of traditional monarchy that would’ve seemed downright reactionary in another film. The dialogue that evokes a long history of black nationalism/radicalism is delivered by a character presented as a violent faux populist tyrant. T’Challa’s plan to reengage with the world felt audacious on my first viewing, but upon reflection, it sounded pretty vague. My wife (who watched the movie with me when it was released on Blu Ray) remarked that she expected T’Challa to announce an initiative that would improve the material circumstances of the people of Oakland – a housing or education or employment program.

The Africana spread throughout Black Panther highlights this tension. The visual look of the scenes set in Wakanda is thoughtfully considered and creates a distinctly non-American context for the story. The interviews and profiles surrounding the movie make it clear that the visual aesthetic for the film is intended as a celebration of a wide range of African cultures, a rare thing for mainstream American films. This celebration is complicated by the film’s narrative, which is mostly set in a fictional isolated African nation. In this context, the blend of different African cultures in a single place without any in-text explanation becomes a reminder of our troubling habit of treating Africa as if it were a single location. A cinematic Latveria (the fictional Central European home of Fantastic Four villain Dr. Doom) that just combined elements of Greek, Czech, French and British visual and physical culture wouldn’t seem authentically ‘European’, it would feel artificial, the product of an outsider unfamiliar with the diverse cultures and societies on the continent.

Latveria, from a bad Fantastic Four movie. This needs some Greek columns and a couple of domes. Maybe a circuitry covered henge in the background.

The mix of conventional and radical elements make Black Panther feel less satisfying and more substantial. I would have wholeheartedly welcomed a mainstream Hollywood funded full throated meditation on dismantling white supremacy and the pain caused by colonialism, but I know that Americans – that we – have a limited appetite for blockbuster films that unnerve or threaten. I still want to see a movie that shows the non fictional black community – my community – through a non-tragic lens. Many countries in Africa still face huge challenges, but there have been a number of meaningful improvements of social and economic conditions in nations throughout the continent over the last two decades. African Americans still face a wide range of disadvantages relative to European Americans, but there has been (some) progress (particularly in the areas of education and wages). We are more than nameless youth at an urban basketball court. The scenes set in Wakanda are triumphant and transporting, but I couldn’t shake the thought that there are also happy and prosperous and successful (in the broadest definition of the word) black people who live in actual neighborhoods in real countries.

Coogler’s Black Panther is a piece of entertainment, a commodity owned by a multi billion dollar corporation that has a mixed history with black people and social justice and which is unlikely to green light a blockbuster with radical politics or that challenges viewers. It’s also a thrilling and thought provoking work of art made by a promising young African American director who has successfully infused social commentary and emotional honesty in a series of mainstream films of steadily increasing size and scope. Black Panther’s success is a win for films made by and starring black people, but it’s also a big win for Disney shareholders. It’s a story that excites by centering the perspective of African Americans (even in allegorical terms), but leaves one hungry for more that reflects the experiences of people from other parts of the diaspora.

It’s a movie that entertains and inspires, but as Yasiin Bey might say, it can’t save us. Thankfully, no one promised that it would.

Next Week: Second Take (Four Things).

Black Panther: First Take. In which I finally put some thoughts about a popular movie into writing. On an unseasonably warm Saturday morning in early February, my wife suggested that I take a break to go see the new…

#Afrofuturism #Black Panther #Ryan Coogler

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years ago

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The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas

Ursula K. Le Guin (1973)

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?

They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children— though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however—that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.—they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that; it doesn’t matter.

As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers’ Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, don’t hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger, who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas—at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were not drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world’s summer: this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really don’t think many of them need to take drooz.

Most of the procession have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old women, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune.

He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.

As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and soothe them, whispering, “Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope....” They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.

Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes—the child has no understanding of time or interval—sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes speaks. “I will be good,” it says. “Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, “eh-haa, eh-haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a halfbowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.

This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.

The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.

Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there sniveling in the dark, the other one, the fluteplayer, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.

Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible.

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

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heartshyuck · 4 years ago

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Pairing: Jisung x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst,slow burn, strangers to lovers au, first love, early 1900s au.

Synopsis: Lavenders symbolise purity, silence, devotion, serenity and grace. All endearing characteristics of the gorgeous boy, you met in the fields of purple.

Placed in the late 1930s , just before World War two starts, you flees from your family who are forcing you into a marriage. you lie low in a small village where you meets Jisung in a field of lavenders.

Word count: 2.3k (preview), projected to be around 16k?? (5th of February)

Warnings: sexism and very backwards ways of thinking, forced marriages (for preview)

a/n: let me know if you wanna be on the taglist, also please listen to the merry go round of life whilst reading this (from howl's moving castle). The full fic is hopefully to be released on the 4th of February

Your legs seem to be moving on their own, feet hitting the ground at a steady and fast pace, you don’t look back and can’t seem to see what lies ahead but still you run until your lungs burn, run until the bitter metallic taste is at the back of your throat where bile threatens to rise. You run until finally your legs collapse, knees hitting the ground, grazing them and it’s the slight sting of the sediment seeping into the cuts that stop you from passing out. You’re not sure how far you’ve ran or how long you’ve been running, you don’t know where you're running to but you have to escape. Escape the life they’ve laid out for you, the one they’ve planned without your input, you can’t live a life where everything is set out, where everything is expected and perfect. A life where you’d get married at 18 to a stranger who was of a worthy social class, attend formal lunches with the wives of your husband’s work colleagues and host dinner parties and occasionally large balls in a manor that always felt empty no matter how many paintings you bought to hang on the never ending amount of walls, no matter how many more bookshelves you tried to fit into one room, a place that you’ll always hate. Then to have children by 20, as many boys as possible of course to then not have any say in their upbringing and watch nurses tend to them, your husband educate them and then watch them get married, meet your grandchildren and when you’ve reached a respectable age, death will meet you in your sleep and you’ll be mourned and then forgotten. A life filled with regret, a constant numbness, no fulfillment and no meaning.

You saw your mum live that life, a smile that never quite reached her eyes, always plastered on at any given moment as she walked around the large hall with a glass of nothing but champagne in hand greeting the hundreds of guests that you were never able to comprehend how she managed to remember them all. She never spoke unless spoken to, never put in any input and always obeyed your father even when you could see the frustration bubble up inside her as her eyes glinted and her jaws tightened with the urge to say something. She would buy gifts upon gifts and shower you in expensive luxuries, spoil you in riches as a form of love and yet it always held another meaning behind it. There was a slight sadness in her eyes as she passed a gift every birthday,christmas and any other reason she found, almost as if she was saying sorry for the life you were going to live and how she’d use these moments as blackmail for when that time came. You’d overhear her quiet sobs when you would sneak around the house late at night, read letters she received from someone you didn’t know and how they wished for her life to get better and for her to find happiness in a world where happiness didn’t exist. You saw your mother cry when your father died, eyes bloodshot red in fear rather than grief. Her life was now uncertain and that's when you decided that you couldn't live an empty life, regretting choices and wishing for death to come to you first.

Your father had always made sure that you would receive a proper education, one where you'd read hours upon hours of the finest English literature, works of science and learned of the past and present politics. He always said "a lady should know about the world around her but should never venture off on her own" you hated that phrase but it was better than what you overheard your friend's father saying to her when she asked for him to explain the concept of communism, "a women does not need to busy herself with politics, for your brain could not even begin to comprehend it" he announced with his nose high up in the air as if he had just said the most inquisitive statement known to man. It baffled you how one could even think that, let alone truly believe it enough to announce it so stupidly in the open, it was obvious that women were capable of understanding concepts like politics,maths and science for you were living proof. You did better than your brother at grasping algebra, better at them with understanding Versalius's "De humani corporis fabrica" and it didn't take your friend long to understand Karl Marx's theory on communism once you explained it to her. It angered you that this was dismissed especially when your brother soon went off to universities for they had outgrown your father's enormous library and knowledge, there was no more he could teach them but there was still much to learn and you yearned to do the same but as you approached a suitable age for marriage, your everyday classes on Shakespearean English, Tudor monarchy, Greek mythology and Italian art had now been replaced with sewing, crochet, dining etiquette and the differences between napkins, white laced ones for formal lunches,gold embroidery for important dinners and regular silk for everyday use, you'd recite to your mother and the many maids who were on standby.

Your eyes lazily open and beauty lies ahead, the sun gleaming behind him, lights him on flames and he burns with a presence so strong you can see it as his aura swirls around you, engulfing you. His features,strong and yet his eyes are soft and even as he's turned away from the sun they sparkle infinitely as they hold the brightest stars, his stare pierces through you and it makes your gut clench as you feel small under his gaze but you don't turn away, daring him to continue staring down on you, well that's what you tell yourself as you can't help but get lost in the beauty of his eyes. His face wears a worried expression, his hand out forwards for you to take and place in his and it takes you a while to realise he's trying to help you up, even longer to comprehend the words that leave his mouth, as you just watch his cherry red lips move. You're dazed and for the first time you're not thinking straight, your legs won't move to carry you back up onto your feet but your hand instinctively moves towards him and your own mouth gapes open as it does, and again he repeats himself emphasising the words as his eyes widen further “are you okay?” you stare blankly at him, no response until you feel the burning sensation of his hand in yours. A heat that sends shocks through every nerve, it runs through your bloodstream lighting you on fire and as if you were burnt you pull back, shaking off the dizzy spell you rise to your feet, your body finally responding to your screaming brain. A sense of relief washes over you as the fear of losing your mind slowly seeps out as the haze in your mind clears, until your eyes meet his again. “Really y/n, not for a boy” you cry out in your head as your mind seems to be lost in awe looking at him.

#neothestars #neowriters #neowritingsnet #nctcreations #nct #nct dream #nct 127 #nct 2020 #jisung #nct dream jisung #nct fic #nct fluff #jisung fluff #jisung x you #jisung x y/n #jisung x reader #loml jisung #teaser #lavender fields

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spideyxchelle · 7 years ago

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love is universal. it spans time and distance. and sometimes, on the rare occasion that love doesn’t quite get it right the first, love spans for more than one lifetime. this is that story.

in this life they are called Cécile and Mailhairer. in their last they are called Peter and MJ.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4]

Cécile slammed her wine cup on the table in anger. Her brother Louis, the more gentle of the two siblings, seemed unbothered by her outburst. But his friend, Jean, more revolutionary than man, seemed delighted by her display.

“Tell us, my little dancer, why the long face?” Jean cooed.

Louis gave his friend a hard, unimpressed look to which Jean only laughed. Cécile growled, “I have been summoned to court.”

The two boys sat up, their attention finally caught. She knew that would get their attention. They were all children of the French revolution and hated the court as much as all of the other commoners, if not more violently.

Louis shook with fear for his sister, “Cécile, what have you done?”

“Nothing,” she was quick to say. “I was dancing at the nearby tavern. One of those pompous ballet men over at Versaille saw. Monsieur Bernard or something.”

Jean’s shoulders caved with laughter, “The court composer? The court composer summoned you? Why?”

“To dance,” Cecile reiterated to the oaf, her cheeks heated with embarrassment. She knew she was a commoner and she looked as straggly and drawn-out as one, but she could dance. There were two universal truths in Cécile’s life: the monarchy was evil and she was a born dancer.

The man in the tavern seemed to think so as well, which was why he as good as invited her to dance with the ballet company at Versaille. Good things did not happen to poor people. This felt like a trick. And, most of all, she did not want to rub elbows or interact with any of the courtly gentlemen. Villains. All.

Jean pranced behind Louis, his crude impersonation of Cécile’s dancing, and said, “I say you go, Cécile. Find out what you can for the revolution. Catch the ear of the ladies you can.”

Louis scowled and knocked his friend in the stomach, “You don’t have to, Cécile.”

“Of course she does,” Jean argued. “Else why would she go? To dance?”

Cécile flooded with anger at Jean’s antics but his words struck a chord with her. To bring down the monarchy there would need to be the brave few that faced the men of the court and herded their secrets. Being a member of the royal ballet would offer her such intricate knowledge.

And for this reason, and this reason alone, Cécile packed the meager dance shoes she had and made the long journey to the ballet. When she arrived, a gruff guard led her down a windy corridor and jostled her into the practice room with a push.

She fumbled into the room and gulped. Everyone stared. All of the lithe, pristine, white women with their hair twisted elegantly at the top of their heads. Her own messy, updo stood out.

The jovial man she met at the theatre, slid across the room and shook her hand. There was a bolt of electricity between them that she pointedly ignored. His showed all of his teeth when he smiled but it wasn’t overwhelming or crass, it was warm, “You made it.”

“You asked me to come,” she mumbled.

“Yes,” he raised an eyebrow, “but that hardly guaranteed you would come.”

She could feel the other dancers prickling at his attention to her. Cécile did not want the attention or the heat of his eyes that seemed to ask a thousand questions of her. None of which she knew the answers to, mind you.

“Come,” he led her to a bar at the front of the studio. He cleared his throat and all of the other dancers stood at attention, “Ladies. This is our newest member-“ He looked at her like he was eager for her to supply her name in his silence. She denied his silent request. So he was forced to carry on without her name, “a charming young dancer I saw at a tavern not far from here.”

“Monsieur Bernard,” one of the ladies pipped up, “Perhaps we should discuss such rash decisions in private.”

His continued on like he had not heard the other voice, “We will start with warm-ups, as per usual.” He sat behind his piano and began a jolly tune that felt out of place in the tense, charged room.

Monsieur Bernard’s words, however terse, were final. And, just like that, Cécile was a part of the royal ballet.

After the first rehearsal, as the other girls filed out in droves, knocking into Cécile’s shoulder as they went, Monsieur Bernard crossed to her with a box in his hand. Her expression was questioning and so he laughed, “Open it.” He seemed to be radiating in joy at her presence, which made gave her a healthy dose of suspicion. She was no one to him and yet he was looking at her like she hung the stars.

Cécile clawed open the box and there, hidden between the fine wrappings, was a pair of dance shoes. She blinked, “Monsieur Bernard, this is…too much. How did you even know I would come back?”

He adopted that mysterious, fond look again and whispered, “I just knew.”

“Monsieur Bernard,” she started.

“Mailhairer,” he said, dripping private amusement, “My name is Mailhairer.”

“And why,” she pressed, “is that so funny to you?”

“It means ill-fated, which I believe is the most apt name bestowed on me yet.”

Cécile crossed her arms over her chest and asked, “You put much stock in names, monsieur?”

He distractedly brushed a lock of hair off of her shoulder and the brief skin-to-skin contact on her neck stole all of her breath. “Tell me yours and we shall see.”

Her voice broke on her name, “Cécile.”

“And what does that mean?” he asked, his eyes fiercely intent on every small movement in her face.

Cécile brushed his hand away to regain her senses and said as nobly as she could manage, which did very little as her voice still shook, “Blind. It means blind.”

His lips curled into a knowing smile, “Then, yes, I would say I do put great stock in the meaning of names.”

Her back straightened, “Are you teasing me, monsieur?”

“Perhaps,” he smiled and spun around on his heel. His feet clicked with each step away from her and she raged from the thought of him having the last word. Cécile opened her mouth to speak but Mailhairer spoke again, “You are dismissed.”

That night in the privacy of her Jean’s cellar, Cécile recounted her first day at the court ballet. Her words were drenched in ire as she spoke of Monsieur Mailhairer.

Jean and Louis shared a curious glance and Cécile barked them down, “What?”

Neither men seemed shaken by her outburst, Cécile was prone to them. Instead, Jean stood and reported his wine, “He likes you.”

Cécile scoffed, “Don’t mock me.”

With the gentle patience of a saint, Louis added, “We would never mock you, my darling girl. This courtly gentleman, this composer, he likes you.”

“And you know this how?”

Jean threw back his wine, “Don’t act the innocent, Cécile, it hardly suits you.”

Cécile set her lips in a thin line. She knew what Jean was going to suggest, she knew what other girls in the revolution did to gain information and she was not one of those girls. Especially not to some second-rate, terribly confusing court gentleman with the musings of a child. Music was a fancy of the wealthy. All art was the playground of the rich.

Before Jean could even suggest it, Cécile shook her head, “No cause is worth my honor.”

“I dare say,” Jean slid his eyes over to her in irritation, “You traded your honor to a stable boy a few years ago. Or was it that traveling salesman?”

“Jean,” Louis slammed his hands on the table.

Cécile dropped her shoulders, “What I chose to do with my body is no business of yours.”

“If this Mailhairer likes you, Cécile, do you have any idea what kind of information you could glean on the enemy? Do you know what sort of bedfellow he could make? The secrets he knows? He has the ear of the king, you vile, little-“

“Then send another girl.”

“What other girl?” Jean posed. “Fate has placed you in this Mailhairer’s path. For better or for worse, this is your mission. Your duty to France.”

Cécile looked to Louis for some kind of aid, words of defence, but she found none there. Instead, her brother’s eyes were glued to the table, his fingers glided against the rim of his drink. Her voice was small, “Louis?”

He sighed and did not look up, “For the revolution.”

The next few months she was dancer and spy, a dazzlingly confusing combination. While she loved to dance, she hated all of the women in her troop. The shining stars of society that seduced and stole the hearts of the French elite. Cécile was like the bastard cousin of the fine art, but Mailhairer found cause to always include her.

He laughed heartily at her jokes, he hung on her every word like he was learning some new, wonderful thing. In this case, the new wonderful thing was her. And she began to suspect that Jean’s suggestion, a warm bedfellow for the court composer, would soon be upon her. Everyday he looked at her longer and harder and more passionately.

It made her skin prickle as she danced, the way he watched her over the top of his pianoforte.

He finally managed to get her alone when she debuted with the ballet several months after joining the company. Mailhairer, never to be outdone on gifts, gave Cécile her own dressing room just off stage left. It was a small, but beautiful room.

Her costumes hung limply on the wall and a beautiful vanity set leaned against one of the walls. Mailhairer had put a vase of flowers on the stand beside the vanity and Cécile tried not to be delighted.

He was the enemy. The seat of privilege.

And yet, when she turned around to gape at him for his generosity, he was standing nervously in the doorway gauging her reaction. His shoulders were hunched, his demeanor cautious, and Cécile laughed.

He startled and she laughed harder. “What?” he squeaked.

“The great Monsieur Bernard practically shaking in his heels over the opinion of some lowly dancer.”

“Low?” he whispered reverently. “You are not lowly. You’re…my god, Cécile, you are exquisite. If you could only see-“

Cécile dared to ask, “And how do you see me?”

His eyes were liquid, “You know.”

Her stomach turned over in clenching delight, “You shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.” But even as she said the words they fell flat on her tongue. She was a good spy, but a mediocre liar. Being around Mailhairer made her feel different. Cherished. She had never been cherished before, had never known dedicated, focused attention. He looked at her like he saw her and, she figured, that was how all people wanted to be gazed upon.

“We should,” he groaned, closing the final steps between them so they were flush against one another. Her body instinctively arched against him, like a well rehearsed dance.

The stood there, bodies touching, but nothing more for quite some time. She realized he was waiting for her to make the final choice. It was her decision. To leave or leap.

She leapt and the world cracked open with endless possibilities.

He singed hot, feverish kisses against her lips. His chest purred in delight and her stomach turned to liquid gold, beautiful and warm. “Oh Mailhairer,” she sighed.

He grabbed at her waist and lifted her up onto his vanity, knocking all of his baubles aside to make room for her. Her silky legs wrapped around his waistband and she felt the dizzying pulse of his body tuning to hers. “We shouldn’t,” he teased her, dragging his hands underneath her skirt. Her mouth fell open as he prodded at her with solid, eager fingers.

“We should,” she scrambled for fabric on his shoulders to steady herself as he worked her to a swift, floaty release. She crowed his name in ecstasy as he took her on the vanity. The mirror banged against the wall with every moment of bliss until the banging stopped and Mailharier stood slumped over her, kissing the exposed patches of skin on her shoulder.

She breathlessly dragged his mouth to hers to punctuate their finish, which only served to send his prodding fingers below her skirts again to take her dancing along the stars. She saw brilliant colors and heard distant tongues as she fell into the void of his relentless pleasure.

And, finally, when they were done she let out a throaty laugh, “Four times was unnecessary.”

He nibbled on her neck, “Five times.”

“Four and a half,” she submitted. “Where did you learn to do that?”

His eyes darkened to storms, “Old lovers.” It felt like one of his half truths, again, like he did not trust her to know his past. Or worse, like he suspected she already mystically knew.

“Old lovers,” she repeated, “How worldly of you.”

“Rather worldly, yes,” he nodded, sucking a patch of bruises into her skin. “One was Egyptian. Another English.”

“No French?”

“None before you,” he said honestly.

His overeager hands slipped back beneath her skirts and she squealed, “Mailhairer.”

“Yes, that’s it,” he smirked, “Say my name.”

And she did again and again that afternoon.

Laying with Mailhairer, after that, became an easy habit to make. She spent the better half of every day in rehearsal with him as he led the troop into the next dancing fancy of the king. And when rehearsal was done, she would linger backstage where Mailhairer would find her. Sometimes they would spent all evening talking, revealing secrets, and others they would say nothing at all. Save each other’s panted names in the darkness.

She knew the other dancers considered her Monsieur Mailharier’s exotic fancy, but when he backed her up against the set piece backstage and sung praises into her neck she could not allow herself to believe such horrible things. Not that she should care, she reminded herself. He was the enemy of the French people, born with privilege and a silver spoon of opportunity in his mouth.

He could lay with her, make her insides squirm with the tides of his body, but she would one day bring him down when the revolution took back the country. And he would die. She wished he would die.

Except in the morning when the sunshine made his hair look almost auburn and he dressed her body with the softest, sweetest kisses a man could ever bestow.

If he knew that she relayed the court’s secrets to the revolutionaries, he never said. Sometimes, she suspected that he had an inkling that the French people were going to rise up against the monarchy. When he did not think she was looking at him, he would gaze at her so sad. And why else would he be sad?

One year of bliss, a happiness that felt dishonest and on the best days felt like cheating, passed. And then, two. And only into the second year of their affair did Mailhairer finally begin to relax. He stopped looking for problems around every corner and Cécile hated herself for feeling content.

And so, she stormed the Bastille. And the revolution exploded into action and the monarchy was in disarray. When Mailhairer found her the following day in the midst of the people’s chaos she looked wild and like the daughter of the Revolution she had always been in hiding.

He gave one look at her and rubbed his eyes like he was so tired of something. She could not pinpoint what. Mailhairer spoke nonsense, “So this is how it goes this time.”

Cécile blinked in confusion but she did not relent. The revolution was upon them.

It took some time for the monarchy to recover after that, but they eventually found a tentative peace with the people, and the ballet opened again. Cécile was not welcomed back. The other girls were skeptical of her motives and Cécile could not blame them.

But Mailhairer did not stay away long. He found her a few months after the storming of the Bastille in Jean’s little tavern. He was dressed in his usual finery and the men whooped at him as he entered. Cécile stood up and pushed herself through the crowd to him and drew him into the back room.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. He pulled back his cloak and kissed her all in one foul swoop. She squeaked and tried to pull away. “Stop,” she pushed at his chest and he sorrowfully let her go. She gasped for air, “What are you doing?”

“If you think I care about the lying and the spying…I don’t.” His eyes were sunk-in and sad, “I don’t know how much time I have left now.”

“What are yo-” she tried to speak.

He pressed on, “You and I both know this peace cannot hold. They’ll start killing us soon.” She remembered Jean’s whispers of a machine, a blade that brought death down upon the monarchy’s head. He kissed her hands, “Cécile give me whatever days or months or, god bless me, years I have left with you. Please.”

In the end, they had years. Four of them. Horrible, bloody terrible years with endless cries for murder against the monarchy. Until, finally, the fighting ended.

And the killing began.

Jean crowed about the guillotine. He said it was more mercy than those evil bastards deserved. He leered down at Cécile, always looking like one day he might pound on her, and told her that had taken her composer, too.

It had been several days since she had seen Mailhairer, not an uncommon occurrence at the height of war, and knew if Jean was telling the truth he would only be in one place. The place where all of their troubles had began: the Bastille.

Dressed in her uniform of freedom, Cécile slipped past the guards and into the prison. As she looked out the window of the prison, she could see the scaffold in the moonlight waiting for the morning. Calling out to its victims to be ready.

A whisper tickled at her ear:

It’s a trap, Peter. It’s a trap.

She turned around sharply to see no one. The voice, the echo, was just the wind. Cécile pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders.

When she found Mailhairer he looked like he had not eaten in days. His face was long and drawn but his smile was always the same and it shone in a special way just for her.

She sat on her knees and scooted as close as she could manage to the prison bars, “Mailhairer.”

He croaked, his voice raged from days without water, “Femi?”

She shook her head, “It’s Cécile.”

He laughed until it turned ugly and hoarse like a cough.

She had a painful thought. She was the reason he was in here. When so many people in court had run away, escaped to nearby countries Mailhairer had stayed. And he had stayed for her.

Cécile might as well have been the man bringing down the ax.

“It never hurts,” he hummed to himself, speaking to Cécile like an easy companion, not his pseudo-executioner. It startled her, his words held a rush of honesty that were tangled in a web of confusion.

She pressed, “What doesn’t hurt?”

He reached for her hands through the bars and she allowed him to brush her knuckles, a parting gift for a dead man. “Dying,” he chuckled. “It never hurts.”

Her face transformed into skeptical curiosity, “Are you being poetic?”

“Not in this life,” he shrugged in an infuriatingly wise manner. Whatever his words meant she could not piece out for herself. He was as maddening now, hours away from the guillotine, as he was the first day she met him at the ballet. The only difference was his finery had been stripped away. Mailhairer looked awfully common in his tattered rags sitting on the dirty prison floor.

Cécile yanked her hand away from him and stood up.

She would not feel sympathy for this man. No matter who he had become to her. She was a daughter of the revolution, France was for freedom now, not the tyranny of the royals. She had drawn a line in the sand the day she had decided to infiltrate the ballet and learn their secrets, she reminded herself. Every moment she shared with Mailhairer was a lie, a carefully crafted folly to gain intelligence for the revolution.

Or it had been. Once.

He smiled tiredly at her and her heart cried out a name. Two names that were not his own: Marcus and William.

“You talk in riddles, monsieur.”

“You always say that, too.”

She screeched in anger. Nothing he said made any sense. He was not the person in control here, she was; after all, Cécile was the one that might as well have walked him to his death. She had been the woman that had spied on him from months at the foot of his bed. She had been the person who had laid tangled up in his arms and spoken into the morning in hushed whispers about her dreams and aspirations. And he had been the one that had indulgently listened, hanging on to her every word like scripture.

“Mailhairer,” she croaked, overwhelmed by the memories of days as good as gone, “I’m sorry. I’m the reason this is happening to you.” And while she did not regret the revolution, a traitorous part of her heart cried out for the man behind the bars. He was scarcely out of boyhood, his face grew hair in patches and they were going to cut it clean off of his shoulders.

His face softened and he implored her to reach back through the bars and grab his hand, like that small gesture would offer him immeasurable strength to face the morning bells. “I have loved you,” he said emphatically, “And I will always love you.”

She realized he had not disagreed with her. He did not deny that she was, in fact, the reason for his death. Perhaps, she considered, he had always known it would end in this manner. The French court had known for years that the common people were unhappy. They had to have suspected something like this would happen.

But Mailhairer’s calm was unlike that reasoning. It was a deeper, more resigned knowing. Like, he had met her in that crowded room and something in the world told him he would die for her. Like, she was his death sentence.

She could tell he sensed her thoughts turning dark and cold because he squeezed her fingers, “I do not regret choosing you. To have you for a year or for a minute. It doesn’t matter. I would have chosen you.”

“You’re an idiot,” she chastised him, pressing her face up against the bars to try and find his lips. She knew she was a spy, she knew it was meant to be fake, but the string of fate pulling at her abdomen, dragging her back into his orbit, would not quit.

He twisted his face to fit through the bars just enough to kiss her. She felt wet, hot tears on her face and was horrified when she could not figure out who they were from. “Mailhairer,” she cried into his mouth, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush now,” he pecked her lips, “It’s going to be okay.”

In a wave of reckless sentiment, she announced, “I’ll save you. I can break you out of here.”

He gripped her hands through the bars and looked at her in the most serious manner she had ever seen grace his features, “Don’t you dare. This is how it’s supposed to go. Don’t you change a single thing, not a single moment.”

“I could save you, you fool,” she snapped.

The future shouted into the void:

Let me save you, you stupid idiot!

“You don’t know if that changes anything. Leave me be, Cécile. Let me go.” He withdrew his hand from her grip. “It’s almost light. You should go. The monarchy has fallen and so must I.”

She pressed her body up against the bars, “Mailhairer, in the grand scheme of injustice against the people-”

“I am a part of the nobility. Your people will never let me live. And they’ll punish you for trying to help me. Listen to me,” Mailhairer whispered, his nose poking through the bars, eyes locked on hers, “we had seven years, Cécile. It gets longer each time. It’s okay.”

Cécile knocked her nose against Mailhairer’s and her eyes shuttered close, “Please, make sense.”

His warm breath tickled her cheeks, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” The glow from a lantern turned down the corridor and Mailhairer retreated into his cage. Cécile bit down the sob forming in the back of her throat and he smiled sloppily at her, a reckless boy to the end, “Go now, my love.”

My war.

When the sun rose on the scaffold, Cécile clutched her dance shoes to her chest. The crowd around her called for blood, for battle, for war. And that was when Mailhairer and his comrades at the nearby prison climbed out of the carriage. The other men were shaking, terrified by the glistening silver blade dangling overhead. Mailhairer looked bored. Like death was a bothersome friend that was wasting his precious time. She could have strangled him for how caviler he looked in the midst of a battle.

His eyes found hers as the guillotine dropped down on the first man’s head. The crowd whooped and cheered. And Mailhairer smiled. Not a dark, burdened grin that indited his murderers. No, an effortless smile that was only meant for her.

She could only offer a watery attempt in return. He lifted his chin as if to tell her to keep her head up and she did a pale imitation of his request.

The executioner jostled Mailhairer to the guillotine and Cécile locked her jaw down to stop whatever emotions threatened to bubble to the surface. His steps were heavier than she had ever heard them. It was like his death march was the only sound in the whole square.

She wished he would look away so she could do the same, but she would not turn away from him first. If he needed her strength to face his death than she would stand by and hold him up in whatever way she could do from the crowd below.

When they strapped him in to the machine, the crowd jeered. The tacky blood of the first man dashed across his throat like an angry cut. A priest began to pray for his soul, heaven almighty protect him, and Cécile panicked.

He was going to die. In that moment it all became outrageously clear that if she did not do something he would die. She stepped forward and began to make her way through the bodies blocking her way to the scaffold. His eyes widened and she was not sure whose heart was beating faster: hers or his. But she could feel them both pounding in her chest.

The man in the mask asked, “Any last words?”

And Mailhairer looked her dead in the eye and roughed out, “Michelle, no!”

The name startled them both. A new name, but one familiar to both Mailhairer and Cécile. She knew it was her, somehow, she knew to take it as her own. He tried to say something else. Something significant-

And the blade came down.

She collapsed in agony in the crowd. A sharp and indescribable pain shot through every synapse of her body. It radiated in her neck and traveled down to every inch of her skin, like it was on fire. There was no breath, no life, no feeling except agony.

The people surrounding her rustled in concern and Louis broke through the crowd to pick his sister up. His voice called out to her, “Cécile, my sweetest sister.”

She covered her ears. All of the noise and the feeling was too much. She could not concentrate on one particular sensation. They were all drowning her.

And she could not breathe. She choked on air.

Until finally, she passed out.

When she woke she felt a hollow pang in her chest. She had, for a moment, felt two heart beats surging there. Now, neither. She was certain she was alive, but she did not feel alive.

Cécile curled in on herself and cried.

Louis joined her a few hours later as she stared blankly at the wall. He offered no kind words, only this, “I didn’t know.”

She rolled over to face her back to him.

Many weeks later, she finally rose from bed. She packed her bags and took the closest ship to London. There, she went to an old theatre where Mailhairer had once told her he had seen the most spectacular play. Epic love, he had called it. Fate guided each of her steps.

And like Mailhairer, or some greater force, was looking over her, the theatre was putting on William Barker’s play. The one that Mailhairer had told her about.

She sat impassive the entire play until the last line whispered an augury of fate: we will meet again, my love.

#headcanon ask #reincarnation au #spideychelle

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