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upstartpoodle · 3 years

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So since I’ve been taking forever with both Moving Forward and various fic requests that I’ve been working on, and because I’m starting to run seriously thin on ideas for edits, I’ve decided to post a few extracts of my other various WIPs because this may be the only way they’ll ever see the light of day whilst I try to get around my writer’s block. This one is from my selkie AU, another extract of which can be found here.

Tagging @ticketybooser, @harry-leroy, @forcebros, @lashbrook11 if any of you are interested! :)

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From there they progressed to dancing. Or rather, the room at large progressed to dancing. George, however, progressed to hiding in a shadowy corner in the hope that his presence would be overlooked, and he would not be called on to make a fool of himself in front of what seemed to be the entire county’s worth of young girls. He had no talent for speaking with women—even less so than he had for speaking with men, and aside from which, he doubted any of them would wish to dance with the upstart grandson of a blacksmith when there were many far more desirable prospects at hand. Frankly, he had been snubbed quite enough for one evening and had no intention of inviting any more scorn upon himself. His uncle would no doubt be displeased, but, faced with those hordes of strangers, he found that he did not particularly care for Cary’s opinion.

He soon realised his mistake when his awkward hovering at the edge of the room brought him a little too close to the vicinity of old Agatha Poldark, lurking in a chair in a shadowy corner and, with her customary black dress, hunched way of sitting, and beady eyes fixed unwaveringly on his uncertain progress along the wall, reminding him, not for the first time of the rowdy, squawking crows that Ambrose often took to barking at as they perched in the trees of Cardew’s grounds. She was watching him with that sour expression that he had come so accustomed to seeing on her withered face whenever she regarded him, and with a mounting sense of discomfort, he made to move away from her. The old woman, however, did not seem satisfied with allowing him to remove himself from the unpleasantness of her company, as she called out to him in that familiar harsh croak before he could make his escape.

“Not dancing, boy?” Her eyebrows were raised mockingly, her lips twisted into a nasty smirk, and in an instant, George desperately longed for the luxury of simply ignoring her and walking away. He did not dare give her any ammunition with which she might further disparage him, however, and so he turned back to respond to her, trying to keep any evidence of his disagreeable mood from his face.

“I don’t much care for it, ma’am” he replied politely but briefly, hoping against all hope that she would take pity on him and recognise that he was in no mood to converse with her that evening. That, however, he knew was a ridiculous hope. The foul woman knew damn well what she was doing—if anything, she seemed to find great entertainment in causing him distress.

“Don’t you now?,” she scoffed at him, eyeing him up like a cat playing with a mouse. “And why would that be, I wonder?”

“Must there be a reason, ma’am? I am simply not partial to it” George replied, masking his uneasiness under his courteous tone. He was not sure yet what game the old woman was playing, what point she was trying to prove. Still, there must surely be one—nobody would have cause to look so smug when simply making innocuous conversation.

Agatha snorted derisively.

“What pretty manners you have,” she sneered. “Quite the excellent performance. But then, your family has always been excellent at pretending to be something they’re not, haven’t they?”

George bristled at the insinuation. Throughout his friendship with Francis, Agatha had had little compunctions about hiding her contempt for his family and their ambitions, something which he thought was mightily unfair of her, considering she had never worked for a scrap of anything in her extensive life.

“My father had aspirations, ma’am,” he said calmly; he refused to rise to her bait, to prove to her that he was just as coarse and uncivilised as she expected—and indeed wanted—him to be. He would not shame his family—or himself—in that way. “He strived to better our lives, not falsify them.”

Agatha’s lips curled in disdain.

“Aspirations of grandeur, perhaps,” she returned. “But I wasn’t talking about your father, boy. I was speaking of your mother.”

George blinked, momentarily thrown by the strange turn of the conversation.

“My—?”

“Yes, boy, your mother,” Agatha snapped. “I don’t believe for a moment that you don’t now know exactly who and what she was. I know you…changed. It seems you take after her in more than just looks.”

It was as if someone had plunged a shard of ice into his stomach. How could she know? How could she—? But of course she knew. She had known about his mother before he had, and though Ross had kept largely silent on the subject of the Incident, clearly Agatha had not received the same treatment regarding the matter. That then begged the question: how many other people had he told? How many people would he tell? And more significantly, how many people would she tell? How many people would she crow to that the upstart grandson of a blacksmith that had latched onto her nephew was a—was—

“I don’t—” He didn’t truly know what he meant to say to her—to deny it, to argue her point—but, whatever he had intended, she cut him off sharply, only interested in her own venomous diatribe.

“She turned up at that beach, shameless, naked as the day she was born, as all her kind are, but once she met him, she was quite happy for him to dress her up in those fligs and filallery like a child’s doll and put on a pretty smile for his neighbours.” She sent him a pointed look at his borrowed coat, her twisted smile in equal measure scornful and triumphant. “Clearly, the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

George stiffened, fighting the urge to fiddle with the cuff of Francis’ coat. He couldn’t quite decide whether he wanted to rail at the horrible old crone for the insult to his mother or to melt into the floor with shame at the jibe at himself. Still, he knew he could not allow either of those urges to win. It was clear she wanted to rile him, and he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing that her words had upset him.

“Is there something you want, ma’am?” he asked, his voice tight and controlled as he tried to keep the caustic note out of his voice.

Agatha threw her head back and cackled. George glanced cautiously around the room. He was sure she was drawing attention to them, and that was the last thing he could bear at that moment. If one of them overheard…if they even suspected—

“Still won’t speak your mind?,” she sneered. “I know you want to. You’re just like her, dressed in the cast-offs of your betters with your pretty words and false smiles, desperate to fit in with humanity. But I know what she really was underneath that porcelain mask—a deceitful whore who wormed her way into your upstart father’s affections—”

“My mother was not a whore,” hissed George before he could stop himself, “though you are most assuredly a witch.”

His words had the effect of silencing her for a few blessed seconds, but his relief was short-lived, as her malevolent smirk transformed into a victorious grin, and he realised exactly what he had just said to her.

“So the kitten has claws after all,” she crowed. “And here was I thinking you were just Francis’ docile little pet. It seems your manners aren’t quite as sweet as you’d have us believe.”

#poldark #poldark fic #poldark au #selkie au #george warleggan #agatha poldark #fic #mine #my fic #sfw

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shewhowasbornlucky · 5 years

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the game

Royal Family Week 2019 @idonthatemaiko Day 4: Coming of Age

Lu Ten notices; he is not happpy with the discovery.

Cherry trees bless the spring, and the young prince drags a long breath – it has always been his favorite scent. More than his father’s tea, more than the ashes from his bending, more than the softest tarts from the kitchens or the breeze of the sea. Perhaps it is the reminder of his childhood, or the perfume her mother preferred, Lu Ten is not sure. The mind stands no chance against time, and memory slipped from the prince’s fingers, no matter how hard he fought. He does not ask simple questions – he has grown out of them. A prince has no time for platitudes, after all. That is a lesson he learned with time, and one he does not take lightly. There will come the day when his nation will need him, and the sleeping dragon needs to be ready.

He feels his uncle’s glance before he sees the man himself, and Lu Ten waits for the inevitable chat that will come out of it. He turns and looks at a pair of golden eyes so alike his own, and for a moment he lets his guard down.

Uncle Ozai is not much older than him. He remembers attending his lessons and doing his chores by his uncle’s side. He remembers hiding at the catacombs, and the ochre smell of it all. Lu Ten needs only to close his eyes, and he is chasing and being chased by a presence he came to like. The young prince remembers being held when he thought he was not going to make it – when his father’s spare thought his life had been equal to Lu Ten’s.

The young prince remembers Azulon’s ill-masked worry as they found their hiding place and the smell of burnt flesh at his father’s feet.

The prince does not remember Ozai’s heated glare as his father and his brother made sure the heir was safe first and foremost. He does not remember the force that the spare used to stand, or the wooden pride he showed when he walked without giving anyone a second look; he does not remember, for even if Ozai walked like a true prince, he was not the one who held power.

Their time together didn’t last; years weighted on him, and the young prince could not keep his young uncle from his duties any longer. As Lu Ten grew brighter, Ozai grew colder. The young prince cannot pinpoint the exact moment their relationship shattered, but he knows that no matter how much he wants to, his uncle may not be the same person he once was.

He went away in a blinking.

“Nervous?” he speaks. His voice has changed, too. There is no longer that awkward timbre Lu Ten remembers from his first years. He feels no comfort in the regality he now finds in it.

“Should I be?” he answers, and lets his hands fall at his sides. A prince never truly shows what he is feeling. He suspects he can’t let the mask fall even around his family. Azulon does not accept failure and there is nothing worse than weakness.

Ozai laughs, but it lacks the light it once held. The sound echoes around the hall, and the guards seem to play closer attention to their masters, if only to entertain in the court gossip.

“It’s not like you can ruin it,” his uncle says as he idly inspects the ends of his luscious locks. There is venom in his tone, even if Lu Ten cannot see it.

“Will Lady Ursa join us?” The prospect is exciting. He has been looking forward to the day the union is made official and he can call the lovely lady her aunt. He knows Ozai is, too. Lu Ten might be young, but he is not blind. The older prince’s eyes shine whenever she enters a room. Love or lust of power –whatever it might be— is a powerful motivator.

“Who knows,” is his uncle’s uninterested reply. He shrugs, and the action is too natural for it to be true. The young dragon is none the wise.

“You should,” Lu Ten says back, a small teasing smile on his lips. Prince Ozai might be his older, but he is still his nephew – in the future, he will be his king, too. Surely he can spare some time for a joke, Lu Ten muses.

Ozai does not betray his emotions easily; he hasn’t in the past years, but Lu Ten knows where to look. The older prince lifts an eyebrow, and there is the ghost of a smile barely pulling at the corner of his lips, though he fights it with honor. It is with honor that he wins.

The young dragon can’t say he is surprised, even if he can’t understand why a man on his right mind would deny himself of love. Much less when it comes from a creature as lovely as his future aunt.

“I hold no power over the Fire Lord’s guest; He, in all his wisdom, will know where and when to invite her.”

Lu Ten laughs – it is irritable, and childish and so pathetic Ozai actually wants to roll his eyes, but keeps himself from saying so. Only a frown betrays his true feelings.

“The Fire Lord is your father. My grandfather. We are alone – surely we can forget protocol.”

“We could,” Ozai concedes, though half-heartedly. He shakes his head. “You will do well remembering that our glory lies on our greatness, however.” It is now turn for Lu Ten to frown, but the older prince – the uncle he came to call a friend – does not flinch; it seems that his nephew has lost the power he held over him.

Lu Ten does not like the feeling of neglect any better than he likes having no power.

“Make sure the ladies don’t notice the way your voice trembles. No one likes a weak prince,” Ozai says, sparing him a glance. Lu Ten feels himself smile at the prospect of his favorite uncle sharing a piece of advice, but there’s something in the action –the mere act of looking at him –that says he is gracing him with his attention, and Lu Ten loses his ease. His uncle bows at him, though it is hardly with the same respect as his subjects or the sages do. “Good luck, my prince.”

Ozai disappears with no fanfare, leaving Lu Ten guessing if he ever cared for him, before. With a sigh, the young prince stands straighter and curses under his breath. At twelve, he is not a child. He will show his uncle as much. If he does not care for him as a nephew, he will care for him as a king. He will make sure of it.

His father’s footsteps –careful though firm – bring him back to reality. Lu Ten turns to smile at the glowing pride with which Prince Iroh looks at him.

“Nervous?”

“Just a little,” he admits in a small voice.

“You’ll be the greatest prince this nation has ever seen, my son. And they will love you as such,”

his father says in a tone that equals Lu Ten’s. Iroh has no doubt.

The young dragon surprises his father with a long and tight hug that leaves him breathless. Iroh closes his eyes, and laughs a little. How could someone not love his beautiful boy? He looks at him and sees nothing but a good prince. An imaginative kid. A dreamer. A little soldier who never gives up; a son who loves with everything he is. The picture of a loyal citizen to the Fire Nation. A true dragon. No one would ever hurt him, that he knows. One must lack a heart to take the light off of his fire-filled eyes.

Feared General Iroh closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the gesture. There will come a day where they will have to part ways. He will march to the front with no promises of coming back, leaving his golden child behind. There will come a day where his little soldier will join him, and he can’t help but look forward to it.

“It is time, prince Lu Ten,” he says over his hair –so soft it reminds him of Lu Ten’s mother.

“Lead the way, father,” his golden child says with the voice of a son and not a prince. Iroh wouldn’t have preferred it other way.

The curtains open, and a baritone’s voice announces his coming. There is applause, and he feels the pride with which his father’s hand rests on his shoulder and Fire Lord Azulon’s calculating eyes fixed on them from across the room, his lips barely curving in a smile. There’s the hint of a smile on his lips that was not there when Ozai was announced, but Lu Ten does not know that.

He could care less.

The hymn starts to play, and Prince Lu Ten walks down the stairs by the Dragon of the West’s side. Nothing could ever be better than that.

Lady Ursa did join them at the party, Lu Ten learns as he sees her from across the room. She smiles that lovely smile of hers, surrounded by a group of young courtiers that pretend to be interested in what Hira’a is like. Lu Ten does not know, but not everyone is as excited as him at the prospect of the Avatar’s blood union to the crown.

There is no dancing, but the food is exquisite, and the hymns a delight. The Sages murmur into his father’s ears, and the eyes of the Dragon of the West burn the brightest with a father’s love.

“Princes Kumiko would be so proud,” is whispered among the groups and it reaches the prince’s ears. He can’t help but wonder, but he wears the compliment as if it came from the very same Fire Lord. Kumiko has become a shadow, but one he is happy to keep in his heart.

All eyes are on Prince Lu Ten; it is then that Ozai asks for Lady Ursa’s to join him for a walk.

They are gone for a big part of the ceremony, Lu Ten notices with a frown. All eyes are on him, and he is grateful. He only wishes his uncle would be happy for him, though he dares not to admit it to himself. That would suggest he believes his uncle does not care for him at all, and he is not yet ready for that.

Lu Ten is presented for all his country to see, and there is joyful screams and applause. No eyes left for the young spare – the last fruit of Lady Ilah’s womb matters not when compared to the Crown Prince’s heir. Ozai is not there to see it; there is something he wants more than the rights that were taken from him. Ozai is not there, and Lu Ten can’t help but feel it as a slap to his face.

Lu Ten sees not the way Lord Ozai sits with his bride at the foot of a tree near the pond. He sees not the way Ozai struggles to catch his breath and messes his words more times Ursa could count. He does not see, either, the way the turtle ducks spy on the young couple as Lady Ursa offers them bread. He sees not the way Ozai’s eyes seem wounded when she laughs carefree at him. He sees not the way the prince promises the world, lacking the beautiful words he studied or the exquisite manners he vowed to show. Lu Ten is not there to see the way Lady Ursa kisses her prince, pulling him closer to her. His crown falls from her eagerness and her caring hands, but Azulon’s oldest doesn’t care. He finds that forgetting who he is, at least for a moment, is not so bad.

For a moment, nothing matters.

“I will give you a crown of your own,” Ozai promises, and Lu Ten is not there to hear. Not there to see the way Lady Ursa smiles and shuts him with another soft kiss. Promises were never as lovely as those whispered by the pond, under the moon’s softest caress.

No night can be perfect, and so it comes to an end. Ozai sees Ursa part from his side with her head held high and an elegance that betrays her upbringing. He almost missed his brother’s coming to him.

“You missed the Sages’ speech,” Iroh mutters under his breath, the picture of a collected prince. Ozai has just insulted his lineage, and the Dragon would not allow it.

“Did I?” his brother answers, unbothered. It takes a great deal for Iroh to play it cool, but he reminds himself that his losing control is exactly what Ozai wants. He does not play by his rules; he has never, and he is not to start now.

His Lu Ten, however, is something he can’t help but defend with his all. “He is your nephew, Ozai.”

“Then he will forgive his loving uncle’s misstep.” He looks at him, and does not even bother to hide his annoyance. Iroh purses his lips. Ozai’s eyes gleam, and for the first time in many years, Iroh sees joy in them. It makes his blood boil. “I am sorry, brother of mine,” the young prince continues, and the way his eyes darken tells no niceties even if his tone is sweet as sugar, “but I had to take it out of my chest. I could not live any longer with it,” he breathes, and if Iroh were another he might have fallen for his baby brother’s act. “I am to marry Lady Ursa in the summer. Surely you haven’t forgotten what is like to love another, dear brother?”

Iroh does not answer Ozai’s smile. “Congratulations, Prince Ozai,” he bows his head. “She will make a good wife,” Iroh says, and it falls not on deaf ears the implied meaning behind of his equally sweet tone. Ozai clenches his jaw. “Do not forget to pay your respects to your Prince. It would do you good to remember your place.”

With that, Iroh is gone. His cape murmurs in the air, and his steps are strong and graceful. Ozai made a promise, and a crown will rest on Lady Ursa’s head one day. Iroh simply does not know it yet.

His smile disappears.

Lu Ten is eighteen when he reaches his mature age. There is a ball to celebrate, and members of the royal houses of the Fire Nation attend with their pretty heirs. Crown Prince Lu Ten, heir of the Dragon Throne will choose a bride once the siege of Ba Sing Se is over, and more than one are eager to occupy the role.

General Iroh enters the room with his son dressed in the finest silks and their hairs in a bun; the style of a warrior. There is no nervousness – it has left the prince a long, long time ago. He is in his element; he has been born to rule over the people inside the room. Applause erupts and the young prince and his father are welcomed with a war song about the General’s last conquest, and the young dragon’s greatest adventure. Fire Lord Azulon watches with little interest as they move around their guests, pleased with their manners and success.

“Little brother, you are looking nice,” Lady Ursa bows respectfully to the two of them.

“You’re not bad yourself, dear Aunt,” Lu Ten smiles at her, and engulfs her in a hug. “How are the kids? I couldn’t meet them earlier.”

“They are eager to meet with their favorite cousin,” she smiles.

“How was the front?” Ozai asks with a glass in his hand, and Lu Ten’s smile disappears as soon as it came.

“Eventful, Uncle, but the Fire Nation holds its grounds. Soon, Ba Sing Se will be ours,” he has no doubt, how can he?

He knows his father’s reputation was not built in lies. He knows it is his destiny to ride by his father’s side to a conquest that will grant them glory and honor. He will bring the Earth Kingdom to its knees, and he will rebuild it from scratch for the glory of the Fire Nation. Like a Phoenix, his kingdom will reborn, and his father will be there to reign until his dying day.

So was said by the prophecy, and so Lu Ten believes.

“Just as Sozin dreamed,” his uncle says with a small nod, and Lu Ten can’t help but see the way something in Ursa’s eyes flashes. She says nothing; she is too intelligent for that. Sometimes, Lu Ten forgets she is Avatar Roku’s blood.

Sometimes, he thinks she has forgotten.

“But what about you?” she asks after taking a sip of sake. Her sweet tone makes one forget how carefully chosen her words are. “What has filled our dearest prince’s dreams? Have you got your eyes on a woman yet?” Ursa smiles at her nephew, and Lu Ten can’t help but laugh.

“There is no rush, dearest Sister. My father is busy at the siege, and my heart beats for our nation,” he says in his Prince voice, and it takes all his strength for Ozai not to roll his eyes.

“Your nation will need a strong consort, my prince,” says Ursa with a delicate hand on the young prince’s shoulders, “I’m sorry Princess Kumiko is not here to help.”

“She would have wanted me to be happy.”

“She would,” Ozai concedes, but it is too low to study his tone. Lu Ten has giving up on that for quite some time.

“Are you, my prince?” Ursa looks at him with bright eyes and a brighter smile. “Are you happy?”

“More than anything,” he doesn’t even hesitate. How could he? Lu Ten has everything one could ever desire, and then more. He has his father by his side, and what can be any better?

Ozai makes a toast for the young prince long and happy life, and Lu Ten graces it with a small bow.

“Shhh, Zuzu, don’t laugh, they’re going to hear us!” the young girl protests in a voice too loud to be secretive.

“They are going to hear you if you can’t keep your mouth shut!” Zuko says, as annoyed as his age permits allows him.

“I can’t see cousin Lu Ten.” Azula tries, but even standing on her tiptoes she can’t spot the flame crown she knows her cousin must be wearing. In front of them, a sea of nobles extends talking in hushed tones.

“He is right there,” Zuko says in a whisper, suddenly remembering how important it is to stay hidden. They are supposed to be sleeping, after all. Escaping from Li and Lo was never an easy task, but always a pleasure they indulged whenever possible. This time it was particularly harder, and it had resulted in an accident with their bending and them hiding at the salon in their sleepwear. “The one with the bun.”

“I can’t see anything! Your gigantic head takes too much space!” she protests in hushed tones, and Zuko made an exasperated sound that was so alike Ursa Azula couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“If Father catches us—“

“He won’t do anything,” she says.

“He won’t be happy.”

“Are you afraid, Zuzu?” If Azula wasn’t so tired she would find delight in the way her brother seems to fear their father. If Azula were another, she would have been terrified of it.

“I’m not afraid!” Zuko was always easy to anger. Pouting, he pushed his sister. “It wasn’t my idea, anyway!”

Azula likes not to be handled like a little girl, so she pulls from Zuko’s phoenix tail. “But you’re here, dum dum!”

“That’s because I didn’t want to—!”

“Shut up, they are going to hear us!”

“You shut u--!”

“I cannot wait to see Princess Azula’s presentation,” the two siblings freeze when they listen to their cousin’s voice.

“A princess kissed by fire, after so long. It certainly cannot go uncelebrated,” Ursa says, and for a moment, Azula thinks she hears pride in her words. Her little heart beats too fast, and she can’t help but smile. Princess Ursa goes on through gritted teeth, but her smile does not betray her discomfort. “If only she wasn’t so… temperamental.”

“She will grow out of it, dear Sister. She’s still young.”

Ursa’s answer is a tired sigh that she tries to cover with her bright smile. She would never let her mask slip. She trained well for that. Azula sees her smile, but she sees the way her eyes betray her frustration too, if only for a few seconds. The young princess’ heart no longer seems to flutter in its happiness.

“She is a fast learner,” Ozai says, and it sounds like he is trying to defend her. “And a bending prodigy,” he continues, and the way he says so is filled with pride and an ambition that Ursa does not see. For all of her father’s compliments, Azula has only eyes for the way her mother scoffs. Excellence is expected; a princess cannot be anything but perfect. Approval is needed, but her mother would not give it to her. The princess’ smile disappears just as fast as her mother’s, and she is pretty much tempted to set the curtain on fire just to see a reaction.

Lu Ten, who had watched the two closely, nods. “I heard you are considering sending Zuko to Master Piandao.” The young prince knows when a battle is not his to fight, and so he retires with honor.

“He is really talented with knives!”Ursa’s spirits lighten up when Zuko is mentioned. She does not seem to need to act.

The young prince stands taller and smiles smugly at her sister, who in turn rolls her eyes.

“Your father has suggested it; I am simply following his counsel,” Ozai explains. “Though I can’t say the boy has no talent for the art,” there’s the smallest hint of a smile again, and Zuko understands that is the closest he will get to hear an ‘I love you’ from his father, so he treasures it close to his heart.

“He has the spirit of a warrior; no matter how much it may seem that he fails, he never goes down without a fight,” there it is. The adoration in Ursa’s voice does not go unheard.

“If only he were a better bender,” Ozai muses, and it only takes his frown for Zuko’s smile to shake.

Their children are pawns they use against each other, Lu Ten notices, but does not feel alright with that discovery.

“Perhaps he is in need of a better teacher,” he tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Perhaps,” Ozai nods sharply, and Ursa scoffs quietly.

Azula stays quiet for a long moment. Zuko, as her older brother and the closes thing to an authority right there, and knowing her like he does, is sure it isn’t a good sign. He patiently waits for the outburst. He thinks himself a warrior waiting for his opponent’s attack.

“Let’s get out of here, Zuzu. It smells like old man in here,” she finally says with a scorn, and makes a show of wanting to throw up.

She has yet to learn to lie, but she knows to find an out whenever needed.

“I’d rather be eating a tart,” Zuko says, and looks for her eyes. He can’t stand to listen to what his father truly thinks of him any longer.

“Let’s steal some, dum-dum,” Azula takes his hand, and Zuko lets her lead the way.

Their parent’s words ring on their ears.

The next year, Lu Ten’s birthday goes uncelebrated. Crown Prince Iroh is nowhere to be seen, and Ozai is scheming as Ursa pushes back. Zuko and Azula stand in the middle of their game, proud and strong like the pawns they are.

The air still smells of cherry trees.

#ozai #ursa #iroh #lu ten #zuko #azula #urzai #atla #it is taking me longer than i wouldve wanted but I WILL NOT SURRENDER #also pretty much everyone is trashy in this #im sorry #i love love the portrayal of ursa in the series as this lady macbeth

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