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cheeriecherrymain · 1 year

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Springtime On The Moor [Chapter 1]

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader Chapter Rating: T Story Tags: Regency AU|Slow Burn|Arranged Marriage (affectionate)|Strangers to Friends to Lovers|Angst/Comfort Proofread: No Taglist: @trfanglophile @fairy-writes Chapter Summary: You meet your husband for the first time. On your wedding day. And he’s...not what you expected.

The first time you meet your fiance is on your wedding day.

Clad in an ivory gown with lace detailing on the sleeves, standing at the far end of the aisle on your fathers arm. It’s unconventional for such a thing to occur, especially in this modern day and age.

Your marriage was most certainly a business deal: you had expected no less when you came of the age to wed. It was something that you had been raised knowing, and over the years you’d grown to find comfort in the fact that your future was at least somewhat decided for you.

But to marry a man you’d never met before? Not even once?

Your father had spoken to you with the utmost assurance, promised that he’d know your mysterious betrothed when he was but a boy - told you of all the mischief he’d gotten up to, and how he’d always done things out of the kindness of his heart.

“Viktor is a good man,” your papa had sworn, gently taking your tear-stained face in his hands. “He’s a little odd, I will admit; he doesn’t always know the ins and outs of polite society. But he is not cruel, as I have seen many men to be. He’s gentle, and smart, and he cares deeply for the commonfolk of our city.”

You had scoffed when he’d fed you such pretty words at first, but by the end of your discussion, you’d been calmed. Your father would not lead you wrong in life. He had handpicked spouses for all your older sisters, setting them up with bachelors who would treat them with smiles and spoil them rotten with goods beyond what they’d had before.

You trusted his judgment.

Even when the letters you’d written to your betrothed had been declined, you trusted him. Tea, lunch, a walk in the garden, something: declined.

You trusted your father.

Even when your frustration ran rampant, he promised you.

“Does he even want to marry me?!” you’d shouted, in a fit of anger caused by the constant rebuff of your supposed fiance. “Because he’s certainly not making much of an effort! In fact, he’s making no effort at all!”

Your father had been diligent in soothing you with his soft words and promises, swearing to you again and again that you’d have the wedding of your dreams, filled with friends and food and dancing and happy laughter. And you had believed him.

But now?

Now, you have doubts.

Music plays quietly in the background, nearly drowned out by the whistling of the wind and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears.

Anger.

Disbelief.

Shame.

All things you felt when your gaze fell upon the chairs set out on either side of the aisle. Decorated with ribbon and pretty draped fabrics, and hand-plucked flowers that were bloomed at their fattest. Barely thirty seats, at your fiance’s insistence - something that had outraged you so significantly that you had half the mind to call the whole deal off.

He doesn’t know the ins and outs of polite society, your father had reminded you.

You hadn’t wanted to make an improper wife of yourself, so you’d remained silent in the wake of Viktor’s demands, and had agreed to cut down on the guest list. You deeply regretted such a thing now, wishing more than ever that you’d pushed back a little bit against him.

If he was any sort of kind, he would have understood. Even if he truly didn’t have the ability to tolerate the lifestyle you led, he could at least make a single exception for the woman who was to be his wife!

But you had been an utter doormat.

And now each chair stood empty as you walked down the aisle.

You should have tried harder.

But how were you to know that the people you’d once called friends would abandon you on such short notice?

Your siblings and their spouses have claimed the seats in the rows closest to the altar, and all have politely stood to watch you tread forward with grace and integrity. But it’s with a sinking heart that you realize they’re only there out of obligation. You’re their sister - of course they’d come to your wedding, however disastrous it was.

But that’s not the most boggling part of the whole ordeal.

What baffles you most is the complete emptiness on Viktor’s side of the aisle. Where you at least had family on yours, his is well and truly empty. His parents most obviously have not shown up, as you know them to be deceased, but…his siblings? Friends?

No one.

It is the fact that keeps you moving forward.

Perhaps he really had no one. No one close to him, no one to lean on or speak with or share inside jokes.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

You keep your head towards your future, as you had been taught to.

Viktor, however, has no such grace. He turns away from where he’s been staring a hole in the ground, and towards the noise and - for the briefest of moments - your eyes meet.

His eyes, wide and worried, and the prettiest shade of honeyed brown. He’s handsome, you realize, with an internal hint of surprise. You’re not sure what kind of man you were expecting him to be, but it’s certainly not he who stands before you.

Slender and tall, with fluffy brown hair and elegant features. You could almost mistake him for an aristocrat, were you not already aware of his adopted background. It hardly bothered you to know that he didn’t share blood with the people he once called his parents - you’re just a little baffled as to why he inherited so much when they passed.

Thankfully, the only thing that seems to be physically lacking about him is his posture, which you assume is from his many years of being hunched over a desk, working. And the moment you catch sight of the brace on his leg, and the cane in his right hand, you don’t fault him for it.

All things considered, he’s perhaps not the worst person you could have ended up with as a spouse. You’d at least be able to make some attractive children, and for that you’re grateful.

Though you know in your heart that you’d love them regardless of who their father was.

—

The rest of the ceremony passes quickly after that. You and your father reach the end of the aisle, where he carefully hands you off to Viktor.

Viktor, who stumbles twice when leading you up to the altar, but who continues to hold your hand with a surprising amount of practiced dexterity.

Viktor, who fumbles through his vows despite the fact that they’re the most traditional and mundane you’ve ever heard, but who whispers them with a sort of reverency that leaves your heart fluttering in your chest.

Viktor, whose voice catches on his I Do before you’re pronounced as husband and wife, but whose lips are soft and tender against your own in the barest hint of a kiss. Short and sweet, filling your stomach with butterflies that flutter around wildly.

And then, another clap of thunder, closer this time.

He pulls away from you then, as if he’s just come back to himself and his senses. His fingers slide out of yours, and he steps back with a curt nod, awkwardly offering you his arm. You take it without question, and he leads you towards the dining area that has been set up.

—

It doesn’t take long for your anger and shame to start welling up again, nor for your mood to sour significantly.

The wind from the coming storm is beginning to pick up, whipping a chill across your face and over your shoulders. Half the decor has been ferried inside by your father’s staff, in lieu of it blowing away entirely, and without any significant number of guests, the garden just looks…empty.

Empty, and lonely, and hollow. Much the way you feel.

Lunch is fine enough, in terms of taste. It’s not as fancy as you had expected, but it’s palatable. You chat amicably with your siblings and their spouses while you eat, and while your manners are poor, you hardly find the mind to care at the moment.

Viktor, in any case, doesn’t say anything. He just continues to eat in silence, watching as the conversation bounces around.

—

After the meal is finished, and all the plates have been cleared away, you make a silent vow to yourself to have a good time. Yes, none of your friends showed up for the most important day of your life, and yes, the weather was quite honestly terrible, and yes, you were quite honestly a little miserable. But!

That didn’t mean you couldn’t turn things around!

“Would you care to dance, sir?” you ask boldly, striding gracefully up to your new husband to offer him your hand. Even with his need for a cane and a brace, he’d surely be able to spare you a couple moments of swaying, right? Even if you spent the rest of the day cavorting around with your sisters-

“I’m not much use for dancing,” Viktor replies, barely even looking at you before casting his gaze downwards, towards the hardware wrapped around his leg. “Perhaps one of your brothers might entertain you, if you feel such inclinations.”

You stand there for a couple moments, your jaw slack in disbelief.

“Sir, perhaps we could-” you begin to argue, but you’re promptly cut off by a wet splat landing on your cheek.

You glance towards the sky, praying that what you think is happening is actually not happening.

To no such avail.

Another fat raindrop lands on you, and then another, and another, and another. Plinking down against the flagstone and the handful of pitchers set out on tables. Stirring the leaves of every plant in the garden, and soaking into the soil to create a lovely layer of mud.

It doesn’t take long for everyone to hurry inside to where it’s dry, but the damage has been done.

Your sisters suggest moving the party to one of the sitting rooms in your father’s manor, but…you’re done.

“Let’s just get all my trunks packed into a carriage, so we can be on our way,” you sigh, unable to keep the sadness out of your voice. Your father tries in vain to cheer you up, and reassure you that you were going to have a wonderful life, but you hardly feel like entertaining the hope anymore.

You just want the day to end.

—

The ride over to Viktor’s estate is nothing short of uncomfortable and awkward. You had wanted to leave and get settled as soon as possible, so the moment your things were loaded into your transportation, you take off into the rain.

At this point, you don’t care if you get stains on your gown. You run out to the carriage and up into its belly, finding a seat in the cramped exterior. Viktor follows after you shortly, and the two of you fall into the strangest silence you’ve ever experienced.

You can see him glancing at you from the corner of your eye, looking as though he wishes to say something, but never quite gathering the courage to do so. Awkward, like your father had said.

You remain like that for a good while, staring out the window while you listen to the rain beat against the glass. It’s possibly the most peace you’ve felt on this day, the repetitive patter of drops lulling you into an uncertain doze.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until the carriage jerks suddenly and you pitch forwards, hastily jarred out from your nap and into the lap of your husband, who stares down at you with wide eyes.

His hands are warm where they press into your upper arms, steadying you where he’d instinctively tried to catch your fall.

“...are you alright?” he murmurs, gently guiding you back into your seat.

You sigh deeply, and nod.

“I am,” you mumble. “Thank you.”

Another beat of silence.

And then,

“Good. We…ah, we’re here. I’ll fetch an umbrella- let me just-”

You watch in a daze as he squirms around in his seat, before unlocking the door and shimmying out into the weather. The rain has slowed significantly since you last paid attention to it, with just a few little speckles falling from the sky. The birds have begun their happy little trills once again, filling the air with a pleasant kind of peace.

Without waiting for Viktor to find what he’s looking for, you step out of the carriage and into the fresh air to look around a bit.

His estate is…grand, to say the least. The manor itself stands at what must be four times the size of your childhood home, and that’s just in the architecture. The land around the building is nothing short of magnificent, with cobbled paths leading every which way, to secret places you know you’re going to have fun exploring.

The gardens are a little dilapidated, and are significantly overgrown, but you can hardly blame your husband for it. If he was the only one around to help things run smoothly, then you’re not really surprised the land has fallen to ruin.

“I said I was going to fetch an umbrella,” Viktor sighs, when he strides out the front entrance and back towards you.

“A little rain won’t hurt me,” you reply with a cheeky smile.

He stares at you for a couple of moments, his expression unreadable. You almost think you’ve offended him in some way with your actions, until he sighs again and lets his shoulders fall.

“Very well,” he says quietly, gesturing towards you. “But please come inside before you catch a chill.”

—

The inside of the manor is much nicer than the outside, in your opinion. It’s a little dusty, but the wood tones and furniture are nothing short of extravagant. And the rugs, you think, looking curiously downwards. They look like they’ve been hand woven from the finest of fibers.

Viktor carefully helps you out of your coat, pulling the fabric from your shoulders only to hang it over the bannister.

“I…failed to say this earlier,” he begins, plucking at the buttons on his sleeves, “But the manor is at your disposal. Anything you might come across is yours, and you are free to roam wherever you please. If there is anything you require that is not provided, you need only ask - either myself, or one of your ladies’ maids. All I ask is that you don’t come into the workshop in the basement by yourself - or without my knowledge.”

You can’t help but notice the way he still avoids your gaze.

Despite the fact that you’re married.

“Your room has been made prior to your arrival, but in the future you are free to curate it however you like.”

Your room?

Wouldn’t you be sharing?

“Breakfast and lunch may be served to you at your discretion, and dinner is at seven every night. If you have any preferences, again…just ask. Either myself, or your attendants.”

The two of you stand there in silence for a few moments, waiting, waiting, for the other to say something.

“Ah…thank you,” you mumble.

Viktor nods, short and curt, and turns on his heel.

“If you’ll excuse me, now,” he says, as he makes his way towards what you assume is the staircase that leads towards his workspace. “I’ve got some things that need to be completed in a timely manner.”

And with that, he disappears from sight, leaving you completely alone.

—

It doesn’t take you long to find your bedroom. You open six or seven doors along the way, but once you arrive at your own dwelling, you know for a fact that it’s yours. You’re not entirely sure how your trunks and suitcases were moved up to the space without your knowledge, but with such a large estate, you know there are bound to be servants hallways around.

The decor itself is a little bit dated, but it’s still quite beautiful in execution. Soft pastel wallpapers, and deep wood tones. The bed in the center of the room is intricately carved, and you can’t imagine how much such a piece must have cost. How much everything in the room must have cost, ranging from the various bookshelves, to the petite bedside tables, to the sturdy desk beneath the window.

And again, the rugs.

You make haste in changing out of your wedding attire, well and truly sick of wearing such a thing. It’s beautiful, yes, but now the gown only stands to remind you of what has so far been a rather unhappy day. That, and the seams are beginning to dig into your skin, and you’re positive that you’re going to have little sore spots for a couple of hours.

Instead, you dig through your various trunks until you’re able to find your favourite lounging gown. Gauzy and airy, trimmed in delicate lace. It drapes over your body in a way that is breathtakingly flattering, and you can’t help but twirl around in the mirror to admire yourself.

It had been a gift from your eldest sister, for your last birthday. She’d said that you deserved such fine things, and to be clad comfortably when you felt the need to rest.

And later, when it had been just the two of you, she’d whispered to you that your future husband might also find it appealing.

You had been horribly flustered by her statement back then, but now, as you stare at your reflection, you can’t help the tiny smile that pulls at the corners of your mouth.

Your entire wedding had been unconventional. From not knowing your husband before you married him, to the social snubbing you’d received in the lack of guests, to your new spouse not indulging you in a single dance, and the terrible storm cutting the afterparty short.

But there was one thing you knew that Viktor wouldn’t want to miss. What no newlywed couple would pass up, and what all your sisters and you had giggled about on the nights you’d sneaked into each other’s rooms to gossip.

The wedding night.

And looking as enticing as you did, in your pretty, frilled nightgown?

Your husband would not be able to resist.

He had work to attend to, still: this much you know. But in no more than two hours the sun would start setting, and he’d be finished with his distractions. He would come upstairs to find you where you wait, curled up in the lavish bed with a novel, donned in the finest of silks.

Just for him.

—

Imagine the shame you feel, when you listen to the grandfather clock on the main floor chime once again.

Midnight, this time.

So late that you can barely keep your eyes open. So late that the candle lighting the pages of your book has nearly burned out. So late, that you can’t even focus your eyes on the words anymore.

The shame you feel, as you crawl into bed in the dark.

Alone.

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane x reader #not me starting another fic oh dear #Springtime On The Moor

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richs-pics · 1 year

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Red Grouse on Rombald’s Moor

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ourladyofomega · 17 days

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I’m shuffling my deck and revealing the top 10 cards to all; one by one.

10♥️: Slift: “The Real Unseen”

9♦️: Maxband: “Exhaling”

10♦️: Boy Harsher: “Run”

K♣️: Iodi: “Sonrie”

7♦️: BadBadNotGood f. Charlotte Wilson: “In Your Eyes”

K♥️: Self Defense Family: “Jesus Of Nazareth”

6♥️: Editrix: “She Wants to Go And Party”

4♦️: Tracks: “Bottleneck”

10♣️: Kontravoid: “So It Seems” (ver. 2)

5♠️: Zonal f. Moor Mother: “System Error"

B/W🃏: Thanks For Coming: "Five And A Half Feet Under"

@iamdangerace tagged me to hit ‘shuffle’ and list the next ten songs that come up. To make it simpler, all tracks posted here are ones I found in the Springtime within the last five years.

Unlike everyone, I use iTunes and not Spotify. iTunes always gives me freedom to import and find anything I want without limitations like Spotify. And, Spotify is a cheap deadbeat uncle who keeps taking from his poorer friends and never gives anything back.

I invite @charliemonroe, @sludgexslut, @sibelin, @lysistra and @kimkimberhelen to play.

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vale-priestess · 1 year

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❀ MAYPOST ❀

Below is an article of mine I’ve shared before, about how Wiccans (especially those outside of the UK) have a skewed perception of May Day that does not necessarily reflect surviving traditions. This was long before the TERFs really started to take hold over the “nature-based” demographics; many of these harmless folk customs would be outlawed if they had the power to do so. Anyway, here it is in full, because nobody wants to click through a bunch of links. (archived here) ❀ Some time ago, I began to question what I've generally been told about British folk traditions. May Day, for example. I was so busy re-educating myself about folk festivals in Gaelic cultures, that I never stopped to question what I knew about British ones. My following visit to Wikipedia was illuminating.

Here are some things I was surprised to learn.

1. May Day is feminine and twee by today's standards.

At a neopagan festival, you're likely to encounter a maypole, and any dancing that occurs will be performed in the weaving of the ribbons around it. In England, there's a lot more dancing. Elaborately choreographed dancing. Young and old folks dancing. With bells. And ribbons. And wands. And little hankies. And flowers. Flowers on hats. Men's hats.

These Cotswold dancers, for example. Or these dancers at Oxford Circus. As you can see from some of the comments, the average citizen tends to find these displays uncool and annoying. Failing to combat this attitude is a contingent of "goths and pagans" on a mission to butch the whole thing up with black clothing, phallic pantomime, and seasonally inappropriate hats - much to the disapproval of traditionalists (and people who can see.)

Happily, morris isn't restricted to the month of May. They are also seen on other holidays, such as St George's Day and Pentecost. On Plough Monday, dancers in East Anglia gather in “molly teams,” made up of jolly, burly types dressed like little girls.

Royal Liberty Morris dancers and “molly”

2. The May Queen can be a little girl.

Wiccan and neopagan literature tends to emphasize the idea of May Day as a marriage rite between the “king” and “queen” of spring. But that doesn’t necessarily describe the festivals that have survived to the present day. In many townships, the sole representative of springtime is the May Queen: a young girl chosen from among local students in their pre-to-mid-teens.

She is crowned before her community and a procession is made to welcome her rule.

She may have a wide cast of characters and troops to accompany her, including musicians, dancers and attendants. One of the longest running May Day fairs is held each year in Hayfield, Derbyshire, where there are many roles and silly costumes donned by children and adults.

Hayfield May Queen attended by girls dressed as beefeaters.

There is precedent for a May King, however, to be found in some Early Modern sources. Here's one mention of a "Lord of May" from the diary of Henry Machyn, in 1557: "On the 30th day of May was a jolly May-game in Fenchurch Street (London) with drums and guns and pikes, The Nine Worthies did ride; and they all had speeches, and the morris dance and sultan and an elephant with a castle and the sultan and young moors with shields and arrows, and the lord and lady of the May." These military characters may reflect the Spanish origins of morris dance, where battles were reenacted to commemorate historical conflicts with Morocco.

Additionally, in Sports and Pastimes of the People of England, the author tells us that "in the comedy called The Knight of The Burning Pestle, written by Beaumont and Fletcher in 1611, a citizen, addressing himself to the other actors, says, 'Let Ralph come out on May-day in the morning, and speak upon a conduit, with all his scarfs about him, and his feathers, and his rings, and his knacks, as Lord of the May.' His request is complied with, and Ralph appears upon the stage in the assumed character, where he makes his speech, beginning in this manner: With gilded staff and crossed scarf the May Lord here I stand." Strutt also notes the appearance of Robin Hood appearing in May Day performances, accompanied by "a female, or rather, perhaps, a man habited like a female, called the Maid Marian, his faithful mistress."

From this, we see that...

3. The May Queen can be a drag performer.

In the late 1880s, chimney-sweeps and other guild-workers had developed their own styles of celebration. For them, the "Lady of the May" was typically played by a man, for comedic effect. She carried a ladle and was dressed like a flirty cook, while the "Lord of the May" was dressed as an admiral, or a gentleman in a powdered wig. I find this example interesting, not just for its urban setting, but for the satirical quality of the characters involved. Also, these games came about after morris traditions had lain dormant in the countryside for some time.

Some regions have processions led only by Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Interestingly, the Maid Marian was the sole focus of these pageants for centuries before the Robin Hood mythos came into being, and continued to preside over the festivities long after he had faded from popularity.

Another one of the oldest continuing May Day processions is the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, dating back to the 11th century. Here, Maid Marian has no consort. Then, as now, she was played by a young man.

The Horn Dancers consist of the horn bearers, the Maid Marian, the Fool, a boy to keep time on triangle, and a boy with a bow and arrow. In recent years, girls have also been allowed to participate in the boys’ roles.

4. The May Queen can be a doll.

This is an interesting practice that bears a close resemblance to the Gaelic custom of making the Brideog doll on Imbolc. The Oxford Dictionary of English Folklore tells us:

The most widespread and best known May Day activity in the 19th and early 20th centuries was the children's garland custom. In essence, this involved groups of children visiting houses in their community showing a garland, singing a song, and collecting money. [...] A regular, but not ubiquitous, feature was to place a dressed and decorated doll (sometimes more than one) in the centre of the garland, or in front of it. She was usually called something like Her Lady, or The Queen, and treated with great respect. Commentators assume she represented the Virgin Mary. In some places, it was the doll which was given precedence, rather than the garland, transported in a decorated box or basket...

In this write-up from a UK newspaper, we're told:

There has been much debate about what the May Doll represents. Some believed it was the Virgin Mary, to whom the month was dedicated, others Flora or the May Queen. One of a group of young girls told a folklorist in Bampton, Oxfordshire in the 1970s that their doll represented a goddess whilst another in the group said it was Minerva! In Edlesborough, Buckinghamshire, two dolls, one smaller than the other, were carried in a covered decorated chair to resemble the Virgin and Child.

It also notes that in some counties, this doll was called "the Maulkin." Bringing this all back around, these etymology geeks claim that "maulkin" or "malkin" was once a common term for the young man dressed as the lady in May Day dances and parades. Guess playing dress-up was always the point.

What strikes me the most after learning all of this? Overall, traditional May Day festivities seem...almost diametrically opposed to the image presented to me by the pagan community, which was all about reinforcing strict gender roles. On the American side at least, I think a lot of pagan men would find the absence of a May King intolerable, and the presence of a drag queen unthinkable. In their minds, this can't be what their ancestors intended. If they can invent their own May Day to be more heavy metal, then they will do just that.

I am not here to say that old customs are good and new ones are bad. Many of the traditions described above were revived in the 1900s, by new communities who did new things with it. There were also debates in the mid-20th century, around whether women should be allowed to participate in May dancing, despite the fact that women were evidently involved both in its history and preservation. So it’s not as if the legacy of May Day is totally free of sexism or revisionism. What I'm here to say is this: Sometimes, when a person claims to be practicing an ancient faith that's been passed down secretly through the country-ways of the common-folk, you have to ask yourself: what is it they're really advocating? Tradition? Clearly, tradition has no problem with unmarried girls or cross-dressing men. Nature veneration? Somehow, the seasons kept turning through all this. If someone is telling you a story about what your forebears practiced, believed, or valued - can you be sure they’re telling the truth? To the best of their ability? It's important to be sure, I think, if we sincerely want to honor the past.

❀

Extras:

Jack-In-The-Green Revisited

Quest For the Queens is a collection of BBC footage of May Day festivities in New Westminster, from the 1930s onward.

The Hayfield May Festival in 2011.

Nigel Pennick with a May garland and doll, plus a song on accordion.

#may day #beltane #wicca #I tried to post this earlier in the day #but I started disassociating really badly #I definitely don't have religious trauma #from the happy hippie religion #nope none at all #why is the last emoji so huge

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thatscarletflycatcher · 11 months

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Jane Eyre adaptation OSTs, ranked

Because I have OpinionsTM. The main criteria here is "how Jane Eyre" each of these feel, being the main trait in it how much drama, high emotion, operatic-ness and cheese they contain, how much they reflect the environment and feel of the story, independently of how much they fit the specific adaptation they were made for. Some context will be taken into account, and also how aesthetically pleasing they are, etc, but not specifically their overall match with the tone of the adaptation they belong to (mainly because that makes them really impossible to compare with each other).

Before properly beginning, I will put outside this list the OST of the 1973 BBC adaptation. As much as it is big and operatic and has a lot of gusto, it's also not an original composition for the series -it's Edgar Elgar's 'Introduction and Allegro' for Strings (Quartet and Orchestra), Op. 47, and I think that disqualifies it.

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That now out of the way, let's proceed:

7. Jane Eyre (1983) by Paul Reade.

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This one is at the bottom mostly because of how sweet and tranquil and restrained it is overall. I'd rather expect it for something like Cranford or Anne of Green Gables. There's nothing even remotely Gothic or super dramatic to it.

6. Jane Eyre (1943) by Bernard Hermann.

Bombastic, like all things Hollywood in the 40s, but also very, very, very generic. Can fit anything from Victorian Romance to Contemporary drama and a serious old-timey silly simphony cartoon.

Best tracks: Rochester, Springtime, Mr Mason, Farewell.

5. Jane Eyre (1970) by John Williams.

It's comforting, once in a while, to know even the greatest are not very inspired sometimes.

Mind you, this still IS John Williams. The melodies are beautiful, the leitmotif carries solidly through the different pieces and morphs deliciously... but it doesn't sound like Jane Eyre. It doesn't sound like anything remotely in a zone anywhere near Jane Eyre. The tone is epic, but as in war-epic, with a dash of romance. What you'd expect for, say, a Zefirelli adaptation of a Shakespeare play?. The instrumentation, heavy on flute and a sort of harpsichord and sometimes... glockenspiel? does very little to evade that idea.

Best tracks: Trio (The Meeting), Across the Moors, Reunion.

4. Jane Eyre (2006), by Rob Lane.

This one is... fine. It's fine. It surely does have big emotions, it can do spooky and it can do joyful... but, listen, Rob Lane is an award-winner composer. We are talking of the person that composed the epic theme of Merlin. Here are some samples of his Jane Eyre score:

All except the intro an outro can be found at: https://www.roblanemusic.com/portfolio-item/jane-eyre-2006/

But you know what really puts it at the "bottom of the best" list? The... peculiar... way in which it sometimes sounds way too close to Thomas Newman's score for Little Women 1994. Maybe it is a matter of the director temping scenes with LW tunes and requiring the score to sound very similar, but even then, it's not... a good look.

Listen, for example, to this segment (it will play first "New York" from the score of Little Women 1994, then the music you hear when the servants prepare Thornfield for the arrival of the guests. The sound on the second is a bit muffled because I removed the vocals manually):

Also, this one (Learning to Forget, from LW 94, then the Rivers Family tune):

Badly done, Rob, badly done.

3. Jane Eyre (2011) by Dario Marianelli.

*gasp*

Yes, I went there and I'm not sorry. But also, this is not about dissing this score at all. It's really, really good. And truly, the difference between 3 and 2 is almost a technicality.

Declaredly, the director wanted Dario Marianelli to make this score as contrasting as possible to the one he composed for Pride &Prejudice (2005). This is in principle a good idea, because these works do feel like completely different universes. But one thing that the P&P score had going for itself, and that I see as a weakness of this one, is the distinctive character of each piece of the score; one blends into the other, and the general tone, while very atmospheric and supremely gothic, is also very restrained (it sounds contradictory, but it isn't). Which isn't very Janeeyresque at all.

Best pieces: A Thorough Education, Waiting for Mr. Rochester, The Wedding Dress.

2. Jane Eyre (1997), by Richard Harvey

youtube

(here is my own extraction of the music from the movie itself. As such, because of vocal isolation procedures, there's distortion and quality loss, specially in the parts under dialogue, but it still gives a complete impression of the OST as a whole).

I mourn that it has never been released, because to me at least it is hauntingly beautiful and memorable. Jane's leitmotif really just captures so much about the hardship and grief mingled with hope and yearning, and high drama and struggle of the story, that even if some of the other parts of the score aren't as distinctive or memorable, it still places it near the top.

Best pieces: Jane Eyre (Main Theme), Rochester's Fire, Handshake at Sunrise.

1. Jane Eyre (1996) by Claudio Capponi and Alessio Vlad

Jane Eyre (1996) will justly loose most accuracy rankings, but the score, the score is the one thing in it that very much does feel like the novel to me.

The music for this production is distinctive and gorgeous; it’s very simply structured around three main motifs: a journey motif (very clear in Infanzia di Jane, Viaggio di Jane), a love motif with a joyful (Tema di Helen, Matrimonio di Jane) and a wistful movement (Tema di Jane, Jane e Rochester), and a dark motif with a regret (Tema di Rochester, Ritorno a Thornfield) and a danger (Incendio a Thornfield, Inverno a Lowood) movement. The score moves seamlessly from poignant and reflective to sinister to hopeful, to innocent and pastoral and back again.

Best pieces: Infanzia di Jane, Helen e Jane, Tema di Jane Eyre (reprise).

What are your favorite moments of Jane Eyre scores?

#Jane Eyre #Spotify

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annadia-thorn · 1 year

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Aralya'diel

The clipper Aralya’diel cut a sharp profile moored at the docks below Paw’don village; her lines and craftwork showed the vessel as one from Suramar’s shipyards, although the cut of her sails, for those with an eye, bore the influence of Quel’thalas. A lanky figure with long tusks and a shock of upright hair stood on the forward decks, a three-fingered hand held over his eyes as he peered towards the village above.

“‘ey, Cap’n Tightpants,” the troll called out, “I tink dat be your sister comin’.”

Annadia ducked out of the clipper’s aftcastle, adjusting a tricorn hat adorned with a nigh-ridiculous feather to just the right rakish angle. Black leather pants, fitted tight enough to earn the troll’s epithet, were tucked into knee-high cavalier boots buckled close around her calves, the outfit topped with a bishop-sleeved loose linen shirt left dangerously unbuttoned and secured only by an elaborately embroidered half-corset.

All the ensemble required were her blades and pistols but those? Those remained below decks. The conditions of Paw’don's dockmaster were strict, and the local Pandaren had not forgotten the memory of what had once been Garrosh’ar Point.

“Yeah, that’s Seraa,” the sin’dorei agreed, walking across the deck to join the troll at the clipper’s forecastle. The distant figure was making her unhurried way along the winding path from the village to the docks, followed by a shadow far darker than could be accounted for by the springtime sun. “I’m surprised you remember her. And Ko’jin - you’re gonna have to stop calling me that when we get a full crew.”

Annadia gave him a sidelong look, golden eyes narrowing as the troll burst out in laughter.

“Only when you stop dressin’ like de covah o’ some cheap trash book,” the lanky troll retorted after his laughter subsided, “or mebbe you be plannin’ for an early Hallow’s End, eh?” His broad smile, echoed by Annadia a breath later, dulled the sharp edges of their banter.

She lifted a lazy hand with one finger extended in a near-universal gesture. “Let me have it, huh? It’s fun to play the part. We’re still breaking her in,” Anna patted the carved railing, “and I’ve been dreaming of my own ship since I was little. Besides…”

She checked the cinch of her waspie and adjusted her bosom emphatically, “If they’re distracted by my tits, they won’t see how blind we’re stealing them.” Her grin grew sly, long brows raised with hints of salacious intent.

“If it’s larceny on ya mind, you gon be needin’ more den dose baps,” Ko’jin snorted with mock derision, only to wince and move away from the punch Annadia aimed at his arm. “Spirits, ya be abusin’ yer crew already! Fine cap’n you gonna make.”

Annadia huffed an exaggerated pout of aggrievement before looking back along the path. Her sister was near halfway from the village, close enough that Annadia waved and shouted a greeting, the shadowed figure raising a hand in silent response.

A nudge from Ko’jin pushed Annadia in the direction of the gangplank. “You go’wan an’ meet her. Ghaz won’ be back from Two Moons ‘til mornin’, an’ I still gotta finish wit’ inventory in de hold.” He considered Anna for a moment, “You still tink settin’ aside dat space be a good idea?”

“…Yeah. I got a feeling.” She gave a curt nod, still looking towards Seraanna’s approach and waving again. “This time.”

“Best t’be trustin’ a captain’s hunches, ‘den. Mebbe I’ll stop in t’greet you an’ her after y’both had some time for catchin’ up.”

“Captain.” A pleased smirk. “I still like the sound of that. Don’t lose yourself in the hold, or all the wine’ll be gone by the time you’re out.”

“An’ here you be tinkin’ I didn’t lay in extra.” Ko’jin made a shooing gesture. “Now git, ‘fore she boards an’ takes de helm while we’re jawin’.”

Annadia flipped the bird at him again and left, boots clacking along the gangplank as she debarked. Ko’jin watched, the troll‘s thick fingers worrying a dull amulet worn about his neck until he saw the two sisters - sin’dorei and ren’dorei - meet in an embrace still a hundred-odd yards from the docks. Only then did he make his way belowdecks.

"Dreamer be walkin’ again..."

* * *

mentions: @longveil

Ko'jin & Ghaz have appeared in: Old Bindings (Seraanna, flashback) and Extinguished (Kyuusei)

#thornstories #annadia thorn #seraanna longveil #ko'jin and ghaz #old NPCs #| Masks |

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power-chords · 2 years

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To the naked eye, a suit appears to consist of two parts: a jacket and trousers. But those two seemingly solid parts are composed of four different fabrics. Cotton, silk, mohair, and wool. And those four fabrics are cut into 38 separate pieces. The process of sizing, forming, conjoining those pieces requires no fewer than 228 steps.

So the first step is measurement. But measurement doesn’t mean just reaching for your tape, “So many inches here, so many inches there.” No, no, no. You cannot make something good until you understand who you’re making it for.

All clothing says something. I’ve had gentlemen walk into my shop and boast, “Oh, I don’t care about what I wear.” And assuming that’s true, doesn’t that say something, too?

So, who is your customer? And what are you trying to say about him? A man walks through your door, what about him can you observe? Is he timid, hunched over like a midday clock?

Or does he stand with confidence, spine at six and twelve?

Is this a man of springtime pastel, clamoring to be noticed? Or is this a man of gray and brown, blending into the hurried crowd?

Is this a man comfortable in his station? Or does he pine for grander things?

And who would this man like to be?

And who is he underneath?

Take your measure, and when you understand who he is, then you’re ready to begin.

THE OUTFIT, 2022, Graham Moore / COLLATERAL, 2004, Michael Mann.

#I will be back on my bullshit until further notice #collateral #collateral (2004)#the outfit #the outfit (2022)#tom cruise #jamie foxx #michael mann #graham moore #bux watches every michael mann movie

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bthump · 8 months

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I feel like this is such a weird take but the song Venezia by Sakamoto Ryuichi (rip) has always reminded me of Golden Age lmao

here’s my shitty english translation:

A beautiful youth

Is being bathed in the light of the sun

In a vacant castle

Still bearing his armor

Red Rose, Venice

Land of Eternity, Venice

Castle made of Sand, Venice

Springtime frolicks, aged aristocrats jockey horses on the moor

Coughing up blood into the heather thicket

Red Rose, Venice

Land of Eternity, Venice

Castle made of Sand, Venice

Oh that's awesome, totally fits the Golden Age and Griffth, love that sense of impending doom underneath.

Thank you for the song rec and translation!

#ask #music #anonymous #b

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agate-dragon · 1 year

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So I was wrong :(

For context, weather is a HUGE shift trigger for me, especially what we typically think of as springtime weather. If its rainy/overcast, temps in the 50s-70s, crisp air, and a strong breeze, it's pretty much guaranteed I'll have at the least a slight mental shift. Now where I live, the weather has been weirdly warm, with temps in the low 40's and nonstop rain, so I've been shifting rather frequently, which meditating on my hearthome.

Whenever think about what my hearthome could be, I'm instantly hit with kin memories of stony hills, dense pine forests, fish-filled wetlands, plunging cliffs into the gray ocean, herds of deer and warrens of rabbits in case I ever wanted red meat, and a constant damp chill in the air. Anytime I'm in nature with a similar vibe to that, its shift city baby.

Being the ecology nerd I am, I almost instantly assumed I lived somewhere along the intersection between a boreal forest (taiga), and tundra, and I was happy with that! I mean it checks all the boxes- cold, the right type of plants, big ol' mountains, sometimes wet, and with fish and large game aplenty! But the one thing I could never get around was how cold it actually got that far north.

I HATE snow. I really cant stand it, and I don't really have any kin memories it. I mean, how does an arctic dragon hate snow? I thought about how I also hate when it gets dark early in the winter, because it messes with my sleep schedule severely. Well, I guess that must mean I hibernate! If I have a diet and lifestyle similar to a brown bear, I probably have torpor like one too!

And I stuck with that thought process for months and months, until today. Like I said, I've been in shift city due to the weather, despite the fact that I almost never have weather-triggered shift when it's colder than 40, or snowy. I don't have any kin memories of either snow OR settling down for hibernation, hell, I don't even have kin memories of midnight sun.

So, after hours of research on the wikipedia page for ecoregions, I came to the conclusion that I'm not from a boreal forest/taiga, but probably a temperate broadleaf and mixed forest, the most similar ecoregion I can find being the Caledon conifer forests and the north Atlantic moist mixed forests.

Basically, where I lived was closest to the sparse, grassy, and mountainous forests, bogs, and moors of Ireland and Scotland!

I'm very happy about finding a new detail about my past life, but unfortunately it means I'm going to have to do a lot more meditation to make up for some of the assumptions I've made about my hibernation, by lifestyle, what foods I ate, and how I lived day-to-day. Despite looking and feeling similar, boreal forests and temperate broadleaf and mixed forests are VASTLY different environments, with vastly different adaptations.

Moral of the story: Don't be afraid to admit you're wrong about a kin memory, or that you interpreted the cause of a shift incorrectly, or any mistake you might have made in your own personal kin journey. It hurts a lot to know this environment I've put so much thought and love into wasn't actually my home, but I'm so much happier being closer to the truth.

If you're interested in narrowing down your hearthome, and being able to talk about/find uber-specific pictures, I HIGHLY recommend this resource! I could spend hours just looking through all the interesting environments. Support Wikipedia!

#This stuff is such a long and difficult road #especially when you get things wrong :(#but im happy I know better now!#Tbh I feel a lot more connected to this than the tundra #it just feels more correct #idk how i didn't notice sooner #alterhuman #otherkin #dragon #dragonkin #dragon kin #agate dragon

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magicwingslisten · 1 year

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H.P. Lovecraft & C.L. Moore on “The Black God’s Kiss”

Regarding the Moore stories—one has to separate the undeniably hackneyed & mechanical romance from the often remarkable background against which it is arrayed. “The Black God’s Kiss” had a vastly clever setting—the pre-human tunnel beneath the castle, the upsetting of gravitational & dimensional balance, the strange, ultra-dimensional world of unknown laws & shapes & phenomena, &c. &c. If that could be taken out of the sentimental plot & made the scene of events of really cosmically bizarre motivation, it would be tremendously powerful. The distinctive thing about Miss Moore is her ability to devise conditions & sights & phenomena of utter strangeness & originality, & to describe them in a language conveying something of their outre, phantasmagoric, & dread-filled quality. That in itself is an accomplishment possessed by very few of the contributors to the cheap pulp magazines. For the most part, allegedly “Weird” writers phrase their stories in such a brisk, cheerful, matter-of-fact, colloquial, dialogue-ridden sort of style that all genuine sense of shadow & menace is lost. So far, Miss M. has escaped this pitfall; though continued writing for miserable rags like the current pulps will probably spoil her as it has spoiled Quinn, Hamilton, & all the rest. The editors will encourage her worst tendencies—the sticky romance & cheap “Action”—& discourage everything of real merit (the macabre language, the original descriptive touches, the indefinite atmosphere, the brooding tension, &c.) which her present work possesses. Nothing will ever teach the asses who peddle cheap magazines that a weird story should not & cannot be an “action” or “character” story. The only justification for a weird tale is that it be an authentic & convincing picture of a certain human mood; & this means that vague impressions & atmosphere must predominate. Events must not be crowded, & human characters must not assume too great importance. The real protagonists of fantasy fiction are not people but phenomena. The logical climax is not a revelation of what somebody does, but a glimpse of the existence of some condition contrary to nature as commonly accepted. —H. P. Lovecraft to William F. Anger, 16 Feb 1935, LRBO 229

Also, since I’m disagreeing with everything today, I’ll have a shot at your dislike for romance contrasted with your love and understanding of fantasy. You don’t have to take Dumas any more literally than you do Dunsany. Of course lots of people probably do look persistently through rose-colored glasses, but then dear, sincere old Lumley believes implicitly in his phantasms. To me it’s just as pleasant to imagine during the duration of the story that there is a lovely springtime world peopled exclusively by handsome heroes and exquisite heroines and life is one long romp of adventure with no unpleasant attributes at all, as it is to believe for the length of the story that time, space and natural law can be elastic enough to permit the existence of a Shambleau or a Cthulhu (have I spelled him right?). Your point, of course, is that to be acceptable as release-literature the happenings must be incredibly outside, not against the phenomena of nature. Does that mean that you can’t with self-respect, enjoy Howard’s gorgeous Conan sagas, which are surely pure romance for the most part? —C. L. Moore to H. P. Lovecraft, 11 Dec 1935, Letters to C. L. Moore and Others 88-89

#hp lovecraft #c l moore #r e howard

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readingbooksinisrael · 1 year

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#notyourclassics Day 15: Wuthering Heights

Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.

“Listen to th’ wind wutherin’ round the house,” she said. “You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it to-night.”

Mary did not know what “wutherin’” meant until she listened, and then she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.

-The Secret Garden/Frances Hodgeson Burnett

But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire, particularly in the springtime. She was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window. It was pouring down in torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry.

"The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said. "It came because it knew I did not want it."

She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering." She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it "wuthered" and how the big rain-drops poured down and beat against the pane!

"It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said.

-The Secret Garden/Frances Hodgeson Burnett

#the secret garden #quotes #notyourclassics #frances hodgeson burnett

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cheeriecherrymain · 1 year

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Springtime On The Moor [Chapter 3]

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader Chapter Rating: T Story Tags: Regency AU|Slow Burn|Arranged Marriage (affectionate)|Strangers to Friends to Lovers|Angst/Comfort Proofread: No lol Taglist: @trfanglophile @fairy-writes @feeiry Chapter Summary: You and Viktor finally have an actual conversation with each other, revealing family secrets and deciding what to do about your future together.

You watch as the maid exits the room quickly, straightening her apron as she goes. Part of you feels bad for demanding she control her temper in the way you did - you could have spoken less harshly, you think, and tried to reason with her.

Instead of insinuating that she owed you respect because you’re her employer.

Your father had always taught you to be kind to the working class, growing up. Explained to you that no one person was inherently worth more than another, and that everyone was just trying to make their way through life and do the best they could.

Maybe she was just having a bad day, you think, slouching back into your chair, worry beginning to creep up in the back of your mind.

What would Viktor think of you, after such a show?

Would he think you a temperamental woman? Too fiery and loud to make a good wife? Would he think you were overbearing, or classist? Or would he-

“Why did you redirect her anger like that?” Viktor asks. His voice is thankfully quiet, and you can’t detect any kind of malice or ill intent. He just sounds curious.

You peek up at him from behind your lashes, and push yourself to sit up straighter.

“I’m your wife,” you explain softly. “Matters of the home fall onto my shoulders. That includes…asking the staff to be kinder.”

You watch as his features pinch together ever so slightly, drawing into the faintest frown you’ve ever seen. The corners of his lips quirked downwards, pressed into a straight line.

“I wasn’t aware our duties varied based on gender,” he admits. “I thought marriage was meant to be a partnership?”

You’re well and truly shocked by his assumption.

Nothing in his posture says he’s being facetious or dishonest, so…what kind of rock has your husband been living under, to not understand the most basic of social systems? Even those who didn’t participate in the kinds of interpersonal games that you did, were still aware of how unions worked.

Understood what kinds of roles everyone was meant to play.

There were, of course, some special exceptions. Your father, for example: a widower of many years, now. He hadn’t grown up knowing all the work it took to run a home. Your mother had shared everything with him, all her decisions and the goings on of the day - he had been forced to play the role of both parents to you and your siblings.

But that was a very special circumstance.

Your husband, on the other hand, just seemed…oblivious.

“Viktor,” you begin, somewhat hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed without offending him in some manner. “Did your parents never teach you about any of this? About what to expect from a marriage?”

You try your best to stay as outwardly kind as you can, knowing that one small slip in tone or posture could push him away from you, and cause him to clam up. He already seemed so reserved and unwilling to socialize, and you don’t want to undo whatever progress you may have made.

But despite your best efforts, you still watch as discomfort makes its way into his expression. The slight tense of his shoulders, and the way in which he so casually avoids eye contact.

“I just want to know where I should start explaining, that’s all,” you tell him, honestly. “You’re not going to face any judgment from me, not for this, and least of all for not knowing something in general.”

You’re still, as his gaze travels over you. Looking for any sign of deceit, anything that might hint to him that you’re trying to set him up for…for something unpleasant.

A joke, you wonder, or maybe just to ridicule him in general?

You would never.

But he doesn’t know that.

Finally, he relaxes in the slightest, mirroring your form to slouch back in his seat.

“You’re aware that I’m adopted, yes?” he asks, and when you give a brief nod of confirmation, he continues. “I am the youngest of six, and I don’t share blood with any of my siblings. When my parents were no longer able to have children of their own, they plucked me out of an orphanage in an attempt to raise one last baby.”

You can feel the surprise stretch across your face, loud and prominent. Had he really been taken in so young? With how your father had spoken of him, and described him as a boy, you’d assumed that he’d been brought home around nine or ten.

But as an infant?

Where did he learn his mannerisms, then?

“We -meaning my siblings and myself- had all assumed that I wouldn’t end up with any kind of claim to the family fortune,” he explains, chewing on the edge of his thumb nail. “Even from a young age, they would not pass up a chance to remind me of my place - I was the outsider, and I had no business trying to continue our parents’ legacy.”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table.

“But you share a surname, don’t you?” you wonder.

Viktor nods to your question.

“We do,” he confirms. “But that hardly matters. Not when the purity of the bloodline is in question.”

Your heart sinks slightly, knowing he must have felt incredibly lonely growing up. Having a family, and being loved by his parents, but otherwise ostracized by the people his own age. Never being allowed to expect the same treatment as his siblings, as if his background made him somehow less.

You watch as he reaches for a bottle of wine that’s been set out on the table, reading the label for a brief moment before uncorking it with a soft pop.

He fills his glass a little more than you would consider polite, but then, you couldn’t really fault him for it, could you? Especially not when he gestures towards your own goblet at the last minute, as if he’s just remembered that you might like some, too.

He’s trying.

You slide the glass towards him, and wave him off when you’ve got a sufficient amount of red nectar - a little more than you’d usually indulge in, but with dinner on the way and a heavy conversation in your midst, you feel as though you’re entitled to it.

“At least,” he finally resumes, swirling the wine around in his cup, “that was what I had thought.”

He takes a sip, and reclines back in his chair again.

“We were of the mind that my brothers would take over the business when my parents either passed or retired, and my sisters would run the estate once they were married,” he goes on. “We assumed that I would be permitted to stay in the manor as long as I pleased, as part of the inheritance conditions. All of us were happy with that outcome. The business has never been in any of my interests.”

He takes another mouthful of drink, his expression pulling into one of frustration.

“Imagine my surprise, upon finding out that my parents willed everything to me.”

He doesn’t sound angry about the situation he’d been given - not really. Fed up, perhaps, and like he had never expected his life could go the way it has.

It makes you sad, the more you think about it. Imagining your husband as a little boy, tormented by the people who he was meant to call family, never allowed to believe that he could be more than their words, or achieve anything. Not even allowed to dream.

And now, forced to marry someone he didn’t know - someone he probably had no desire to know.

“I’m…sure your brothers and sisters were not so pleased?” you suggest, earning dry laugh from your husband.

“That’s one way to phrase it,” he scoffs. “They were outraged. Even when I told them that I had no idea I was in the will - told them that I would be happy to hand over everything they’d been previously promised! All I wanted was a place I could continue working.”

You finally take a sip of the wine in your hand, listening intently to the sweet aftertaste of cherry.

“But there was no reasoning with them,” he laments, his tone growing somber. “They were scorned, and they blamed me. I knew that if I gave them anything, they…would have taken everything. I would have lost years of work - my home, any semblance of a future. Even now, they still…”

Your eyes remain trained on him, following as he stoops forward to lean his elbows on the table, pressing the tips of his fingers into his temples to rub slow circles.

A very well-practiced motion, you realize.

“My siblings have done everything in their power to drive my life into ruin. I have never been one to care for my social reputation, but…the rumours. Their threats, scaring away most of the staff employed by the estate.”

He finally looks over to you, his eyes wide with a forlorn sense of sadness.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the garden. There’s no one in town who is willing to risk their social life to care for it, so it’s fallen to ruin. I would do it myself, but…” He gestures down towards his leg - out of your line of sight, but you know that he’s pointing towards the shiny metal brace that you’ve never seen him out of.

Of course he’d love the place he’d grown up. Of course he’d want to take care of it. You’re furious with yourself for ever thinking he might have just been a careless man, unconcerned with what other people thought of him.

In truth, he cares quite a bit.

And how frustrating it must be, you think, to see something so beloved falling to ruin around you, unable to do anything to stop it. To have people actively working against you, counting and praying on your downfall.

You quietly drum your fingers on the table.

You can feel Viktor’s eyes on you, questioning and curious - and you can tell that he knows you’re thinking.

“Has your business been impacted by any of this?” you ask.

Suddenly enough that he hesitates a moment before replying.

“The family business has taken a loss-”

“No, no,” you interrupt with a wave, taking another sip of wine. “I mean your business. The deal you have with Mr. Talis. HexTech, if I’m correct?”

His jaw slackens when you reveal that you know about that. And in truth, it had required quite a bit of digging around and asking questions: you’d been far too curious about the mysterious man who’d appeared out of the darkness to ask for your hand.

He was difficult to find a trace of, you know, always careful to cover up his tracks and make sure no one saw his face or knew his name.

You would have thought him shady, were the HexTech company not so well-known.

“…not thus far, I don’t think,” Viktor finally replies.” My participation in our projects is not typically brought up when speaking to sponsors - Jayce does all the networking, and we do the rest together.”

You drum your fingers on the table some more.

“Your siblings will try, then,” you tell him, bluntly.

Worry falls over him when he figures out what you’re implying: that the people he once called family were ruthless in their endeavors, and would stop at nothing to see him brought to his knees. That they would be willing to ruin anyone’s lives to do it.

Even when they discovered his association and partnership with Mr.Talis, they would simply seek to tear him down, too.

“They have been successful in bringing you to ruin thus far,” you tell him, “No one wants to work for you, save the select few you have employed - but nowhere near enough people to keep up with the work that a house demands. Your estate is in shambles, and your name is so tarnished that the people I considered close friends didn’t show up to our wedding.”

He peers over at you, guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, and you cut him off with a wave.

“Don’t be,” you sigh, taking another sip of your drink. “I will admit that I was upset about it yesterday, but…knowing that very little of your reputation has been your choice has calmed me down a bit.”

You smile at him, sweet yet mischievous.

“I’ve a proposition for you, husband. Something that will benefit both of us.”

Viktor raises a brow, intrigued, and gestures for you to continue.

Your smirk widens.

“I suggest revenge.”

His face falls a fraction, but before he can say anything, you speak over him.

“I’m not suggesting bodily harm. I’m not suggesting any kind of like-minded retaliation, either,” you promise, easing some of his tension. “ I’m well versed in social politics. Quite frankly, I find it entertaining and invigorating - and I enjoy getting to dress up on special occasions. It wouldn’t take a lot of prodding among my typical circle to get your name bouncing around.”

You take the last mouthful of your wine, and set the goblet down on the table.

“ A couple of kind words here and there. Everyone knows that you…lack social prowess, so any word of mine would be considered an absolute truth. I’m your wife, after all - and I’m meant to know you in ways that are far more intimate than your siblings ever would.”

You don’t miss the way he fidgets in his seat at your choice of words, nor the way pink begins to blossom across the tops of his cheeks. His awkwardness is honestly quite charming, in your opinion, if not slightly frustrating.

Frustrating, because how easily does he manage to catch your interest.

“All I’d have to do would be to let slip a few things that directly contradict the rumours spreading around, to the right people,” you finish, proudly knitting your fingers together to set them in your lap.

Unsurprisingly, though, Viktor seems unconvinced.

“Do you really think that all the damage done is so easy to fix?” he wonders, almost incredulous. “Talk to a couple of your friends and let them gossip?”

“No,” you admit. “I don’t. But we don’t need to convince anyone, Viktor. We just need to make them doubt. Doubt your siblings, doubt what they’ve heard. Once people start questioning, they’ll be willing to look a little closer, and be a little closer.”

Finally, finally, he seems to understand what you’re saying.

“What would make someone angrier than thriving, despite their attempts to assure otherwise?” you ask, of no one in particular.

Your husband smiles then, and not just a small quirk of the lip. A genuine smile, laden fully with the same sort of mischief that you have. A giddy, almost playful edge to it, and…something you can’t quite decipher. A sense of longing, perhaps - hope?

“You’ve thought this out very thoroughly,” he says, “and yet you’ve only been here a day.”

“Well, it’s not just your life anymore, now is it?” you tell him, matter-of-factly. “It’s our life. Our name, our home, our reputation. And neither of us deserve to be treated so poorly.”

There’s more you want to say to him - more conversation to be had about how to improve your lives and where to start, how to fix the garden. Your entire plan, really, as unfinished as it is.

Were it not for the servants’ door flinging open, startling the two of you away from each other.

The kitchen staff begin pouring in with dishes of food, setting them out around the table so you might choose what you’d like to eat - much of it which you’d never seen before, spices you’d never smelled, colours you’d never eaten.

Viktor promises you later that you’ll speak on the matter tomorrow, after you’ve both had some time to rest - claiming he still had some work he’d yet to finish that evening, and that he didn’t want to be late on its completion.

You’ve half a mind to ask him to stay with you: to ask him to spend the night with you, as a husband was meant to - even if it just meant sleeping together in the same bed. But with his beliefs and general awkwardness…you know even suggesting something like that would make him retreat back into his shell.

You’ll just have to work on refining your plans for the manor, and hope they would be enough to impress him.

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane x reader #viktor x you #viktor arcane x you #Springtime On The Moor

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