#en route to the Little Palace
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Blasphemous Rumors - VI
“Marry me.”
He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope.
“Just for a year. A marriage of convenience. Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.”
Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality. Slow-ish burn. Semi-enemies to lovers.
RATING MATURE, TO CHANGE; MINORS DNI.
On AO3 here. Likes, reblog, and comments appreciated.
It apparently already had, judging by the silence that dominated the carriage ride the following morning.
A maid had seen to the heavy drapes just as you were sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing your eyes. For a moment, you forgot about your attire (or lack thereof) and your face grew hot at the servant’s giggle when she reconvened with her coworker, who was setting up breakfast in the other room.
You caught an exchange about a rumpled bed and briefly, you turned your head to note that last night gave the proper appearance of a wedding night well-spent. At least your brief encounter had been useful in some regard.
And now, several hours later, you were still en route to who knew where. The snow had given way to lush highlands some hours prior, the hills green and teeming with wildlife. Lord Dottore never told you where you would be spending the next few weeks, just that he made arrangements based on a selection of the Tsaritsa’s holdings. Your boss gave you a wide smile of unfortunate reassurance; Lord Dottore had done something correctly.
The only thing keeping your mind at ease was the knowledge that, even this far away from the Palace, it would be silly to attempt to kill you. For this agreement between you to work, you had to be seen and known. Therefore, it was beneficial to him to keep you alive.
You passed through a town, the people lively and the houses painted bright. The air here felt a little warmer and flowers crawled up trellises, spilled out of window boxes. It almost passed for Mondstadt, what you recalled of it. No one here seemed as carefree as they were in the nation of Anemo but the Tsaritsa’s gaze did not travel here; the instant their eyes caught sight of the carriage, backs straightened and heads lowered but it was not the same deference afforded in the main city.
Lord Dottore had spoken little other than a compulsory morning greeting. He had one ankle settled over a knee and a book open, the pages worn and the spine cracked. Most of the ride consisted of regular intervals of page-turning and muttering. But now, you could sense his hidden gaze was on you as you looked out the carriage window.
“You look as though you’ve never left the Palace,” he quipped.
“Usually such travel is by ship,” you replied, eyes glued to the window. “I only saw photographs of this region but they don’t do it justice.”
If you looked at him, you knew you would recall last night in startingly detail again. You were acutely aware of a distinct sensation between your legs and while that had not been the driving force behind why you straddled him, it was a consequence that lingered longer than preferred. He hit the nail on the head about being needy and the second he knew, a good chunk of leverage was gone.
But to not make eye contact would be rude. Make the entire thing more awkward. You never avoided his gaze before and you couldn’t start now.
You tore your gaze away from the passing buildings and looked across the carriage at your husband. He was dressed more casually than you initially thought, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his cravat gone, and the first two buttons of his shirt undone. In your several years of working with him and every Segment, you never once saw bare skin from him that was not just a portion of his face. Fleetingly, you wondered what it would feel like to press your lips against his collarbone and you wished you had been brave enough last night to try.
“It’s far greener than anyone gives it credit for,” you said.
The extra second that lingered sent a jolting throb through you. You schooled your features and returned your attention to the window when you received nothing more than a hum of acknowledgement.
Maybe he should kill you after all, you mused. At least then you wouldn’t have lingering thoughts about his lips and how warm he had been beneath you.
Thankfully, the carriage stopped just on the outskirts of the town, just past a checkpoint with Fatui presence. Your destination was just far enough away on foot that it was possible to walk into town, if one wished or had need to.
Lord Dottore climbed out first (he couldn’t get out quickly enough) and helped you out of the carriage. As soon as your feet touched the ground, his hand was gone from yours, as if touching you was tantamount to setting himself on fire.
Your heart gave a little squeeze as your eyes settled on, not a large manor as would have been fitting, but a stone cottage a little further down the hill, close to the beach. Still larger than the convention, the building looked as if it had been there for centuries. It was made of the same rounded, uneven stones as the wall surrounding the property, with a gable roof and several chimneys. Cozy. And if the arrangements were made by anyone else, romantic might have come to mind.
You tried not to think about how the aquamarine of your ring matched almost perfectly to the shutters flanking every window.
Lord Dottore stood next to you, neck craned back, seemingly examining the sky. You swallowed as your eyes traced his Adam’s apple. He looked every part relaxed and casual, a Harbinger without most of his trappings finally on vacation to anyone with an untrained eye.
Just before his attention was stolen by the driver and the house’s caretaker, he said, “You may want to stop gawking and head inside, my dear, before it rains. Unless you wish to be drenched.”
You hadn’t missed the way the corner of his lips quirked as you turned and made your way down to the house, gravel crunching underfoot.
The rest of the house was as expected and contained all the additional amenities expected of a property owned by an Archon. It retained its charm in the exposed trestles and plaster walls, in the stonework fireplaces and wooden floors. When it wasn’t raining, you could imagine the cool breeze passing through open windows, a reprieve from the icy chill of the western capitol and its mountains.
A pang ran through you as you felt the familiar sensation of wood grain against bare feet and heard the crack of a lot in the fireplace. For a moment, you swore you smelled your mother’s cooking.
Were they okay, you wondered. Had the money arrived on time? Were they properly prepared for the rest of the winter?
You smiled and greeted the housekeeper when she spotted you, your mind split between making sure you said the right thing and filing away important thoughts for when you were alone.
Or as alone as one could be as a Harbinger’s wife.
She showed you around the house and introduced you to the cook. The staff lived outside of the main house, she said, but were connected to the network of bells that ran through the property; if anything was required, they would be notified.
“Your Lord Husband has offered to replace the system for Her Majesty many times but the Tsaritsa prefers the less intrusive system of pullies and bells,” the housekeeper remarked. “Nothing can fail if the power grid is offline.”
Out here, the lights were dimmer and many things still relied on burning wood for the oven or heating. There was a charm to it, a reminder of the world outside of Sneznhaya’s great technological achievements.
The first floor contained the usual spaces of a dining room and sitting room. A secluded sandy alcove was accessible only through the set of glass double doors tucked into a far wall, out of the way. The house seemed to have been built with the cliffside in mind, the side of the building meeting the cliff to provide shelter from the rain. It afforded a private pathway into the house from the shore or even a small hideaway. Supposedly, the best sun rises could be seen only from there.
You were shown two smaller bedrooms on the second floor, tidy and spartan. The owner suite and its attached washroom and study were last; your things were already neatly arranged at the foot of the bed.
“I’ll leave you to unpack, my lady.”
The floors creaked gently underfoot as the housekeeper bowed and left you to your own devices in the larger bedroom. Rain pelted the windows and absorbed the remaining silence as you took in the exposed dark beams and furniture.
And the bed. Intended for two.
Your eyes drifted to the couch in the study. While the maids had found you properly disheveled this morning, this house was smaller and the staff much more loyal, that much was clear. You would at least have to truly sleep next to one another to make this convincing.
A frown tugged at your lips and you pushed it away quickly as you brought your attention back to your awaiting belongings.
Unpacking took far less time than you expected it to (although you weren’t sure why). It wasn’t as if you owned all that many clothes. In hindsight, you wished Lord Dottore told you about the climate of where you were going. At least you had enough dresses to cycle through, you supposed.
Lord Dottore’s things, as sparse as yours, glared at you in the dim light of the room. Were you expected to unpack for him? Did he do that himself? Or did a servant? You ran your fingers over the latches and found a hidden lock.
That answered that, then. So much for snooping.
When you returned downstairs, you heard a distinct timber mixing with the cook’s voice. You rounded the corner and went down the hall to find Lord Dottore kneeling on the floor, his entire upper half stuck into the open oven. He retreated and stood in one smooth motion before he turned a knob in the oven’s control panel. The distinct smell of fuel hit your senses and you heard a soft woosh.
“That one should last longer, at the very least,” Lord Dottore drawled as he stepped back. “The ignitor is easy enough to replace but it would be more efficient and befitting of Her Majesty if—”
From your vantage point in the doorway, the cook smiled and waved a hand; such a gesture anywhere in the Palace would be inexcusable and yet neither of them flinched.
As they walked over to the storage rooms, they said, “Yes, Lord Harbinger, but the food would taste different and no one would be thankful for that!”
Your husband’s striking profile was broken only by the ghost of a smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. When he turned, you hated how your heart tugged at the sight of his upturned lips; the moment was stolen when lightning cracked and took the lights with a distinctive pop, the house going dark.
“Never a dull moment?” you whispered, unable to hide the single huff of laughter that escaped you.
“Out here, I certainly can never complain of being bored,” Lord Dottore replied.
He moved instinctively and closed the distance between you, his mask’s beak grazing your nose in the darkness. His breath was hot on your lips when he spoke.
“Between your antics and the house, dorogáya moya, I think I’ll be quite occupied.”
You didn’t miss his low chuckle when he stepped around you and left the kitchen, lips grazing your cheek.
Dinner was late but truly made you question the skills of the Palace’s kitchen staff. Or perhaps it was just the fact that you’d eaten so little throughout the day. Either way, the food was delicious.
And the bed was soft, warm. Too warm.
Or maybe you just weren’t used to sleeping next to someone.
“We’re adults, are we not?” your husband had said. “Unless you intend to accost me again.”
“Who was the one who cut my cheek with a letter opener?”
“Oh, please. You can hardly see the scar.”
Words came so easily when you were alone, just like they did when you were in your office bickering over line items. But you shouldn’t, couldn’t, push your luck. You still needed to be able to gather information and if you weren’t careful, you’d be doing this all for nothing. Or rather, strictly for his benefit.
And the last thing you wanted was to help a Fatui Harbinger.
If you moved the wrong way, your foot brushed his. He was so tall that, when he curled up, his knees or feet encroached on your half. Heat radiated from his side and you did everything you could to resist the urge to draw closer. Nights in Snezhnaya were cold, no matter where one was on a map, and with the onslaught of rain, a chill lingered that never seemed to die.
His feet, perfectly warm and with proper circulation clearly, found your frigid ones by accident as you drifted off. You heard the displeased grunt from the other side of the bed but he didn’t pull away; he arranged his feet around yours with a huff before he muttered something in a language you didn’t know. The words tickled your neck.
You swallowed and tried to push away that disastrous ache from the carriage ride. Ridiculous. You were not this needy, not in the weeks leading up to the wedding, and certainly not when the Harbinger walked into your office.
Somehow, despite the trepidation and arousal that danced through your veins, you fell asleep.
And you woke to a dark gray pall of overcast, squeezing your thighs in hopes of taking the edge off the now brutal-throbbing.
The bed felt colder and you sat up and reached out a hand. The other side of the bed was empty, a ghost of the presence lingering in the sheets. He hadn’t been away long. But when he left the bedroom the night of the wedding, he hadn’t returned and Lord Dottore didn’t seem one for much sleep.
When you didn’t hear the floorboards creak for a minute or two, nor see any faint light, you carefully delved and you let your fingers trace your sex. You went rigid when you felt how wet you were. Of all times and circumstances…nothing was appealing about this situation in the slightest, you needed to keep a clear head, and yet your body craved release? Seriously?
It was nothing you couldn’t give yourself, of course. One of the joys of a private room in the Palace dorms had been no one overhearing or accidentally catching eye contact with you.
Your eyes locked with the bedroom door. Ajar.
But this never took long…
You bit your lip to keep a gasp at bay when you got your knees and pushed in a single finger, and then another, hot velvet wrapping around your digits. Your other hand joined, middle finger finding your clit with practiced ease as you pumped, finding a familiar rhythm. Soft pants mingled with the wet slick sounds that only made you buck your hips, demanding more of yourself.
A flash of the previous night flitted across your vision when you closed your eyes. For a moment, the memory tore itself apart and became something else, Lord Dottore’s body hard and hot atop yours, and instead of pulling away, he lifted your legs and—
Your mouth ripped open in a silent scream as you stroked the perfect spot, shuddering and clenching hard around your fingers. That only seemed to make the ache worse and you pushed yourself over the edge twice more for good measure.
You stiffened at a sound in the hallway just as the third orgasm washed away. One of the stairs, you surmised. Another followed and you darted out of bed and towards the washroom.
Good thing, too, you thought, as your eyes met your reflection.
Messy hair was one thing but your face bore every tell-tale sign of what you had been doing. Flushed cheeks, wide eyes, inability to catch your breath. There was no mistaking this for waking from a nightmare, that was certain.
The shower was a better place for future refuge, you realized, your gaze drifting to the glass and tile. Or the bath…that tub looked perfect for a long soak…
You washed up and tried to press a cold washcloth to your face. After your wedding night, one of the last things you wanted was to be seen with an afterglow; it would prove Lord Dottore right and likely insult him, even if he said that he was not interested in a perfect stranger. It was the polite thing to do, wasn’t it?
Not that his opinion mattered but you couldn’t blatantly display how little you truly cared for the whole façade. Not when you’d only begun.
Satisfied that you looked sufficiently normal, you returned to the bedroom to find a steaming cup of coffee on your bedside, along with a note.
Don’t take too long. Unless, of course, you enjoy breakfast cold.
Several days into the stay, you rounded a corner one afternoon only to bump straight into Dottore himself. Instead of colliding, he turned slightly and your back met the cool plaster wall, a hair’s width between the two of you as his hands rested on your hips. Enough space for him to officially say he wasn’t touching you anywhere else but, at a glance, would fool anyone.
“Are you always this careless, dorogáya moya? Do you bump into Palace walls on a regular basis?”
The tip of his mask scratched your nose and you scrunched your face at the sensation.
“Do you, my lord?” you threw back, angling your head in an obnoxious attempt to see beneath the face covering. “After all, I’m not the one with my eyes covered.”
“I see perfectly fine, thank you.”
Dottore pulled up to his full height and looked down at you, your vantage point gone. You’d caught a glimpse of his nose, aquiline in shape, but nothing else. For a moment, you imagined the lower portion of his mask gone and wondered why, of all things, he hid that along with his eyes. His profile was probably quite striking…
Perfect for striking fear into people’s hearts, you dolt. Get a grip!
You didn’t reply but he didn’t pull away either. The heat emanating from him was overwhelming, a sharp contrast to the cool wall behind you. For a man so calculated, who spent most of his time in freezing temperatures down in his laboratories, he ran warm. Too warm. Was he sick?
What did you care, you asked yourself. The man deserved to be a little under the weather once in a while after all of the headaches he caused you. In fact, considering he was so crucial to several of your own employer’s plans, you hoped he was sick.
Before you could get another word out of your mouth, Dottore tilted his head and captured your lips with his in one swift motion. His hands moved from your hips to your waist, and one reached for your neck to keep your head angled up at him. Without prompting, his tongue grazed your lips and as soon as you gasped at the sensation, all you could taste was him.
This was nothing like the kiss on your wedding day. That had been gentle, efficient, chaste.
Your head spun as your hands reached for something, anything, as Dottore’s tongue brushed yours in exploratory hunger. Breathless, your fingers found purchase in the fabric of his shirt and he pinned you against the wall, hips pressing into you.
That infernal aching need seared through you, your body betraying you. No, not again.
When you pulled away, gasping for air, he had the gall to laugh. It was a low rumble that sat in his chest and vibrated against you. He drank in your expression, his tongue pressed against his teeth as he gave a sharp-toothed grin.
Absolute bastard.
“Do be more careful next time,” he teased before he stole another kiss, teeth dragging against your bottom lip.
His hand let go of your neck and you stepped around him, aware of every nerve ending now screaming for more.
You didn’t look back as you continued the way you were going and returned upstairs.
In the privacy of a cold shower, you finished what both of you started.
Anyone else would have given in, you were certain; or at least anyone else would not have taken as long as you did beneath the water, scrubbing your skin until it was almost raw. He shouldn’t have touched you, shouldn’t have kissed you, shouldn’t have grinned like a victor over the spoils of a long day’s work.
And you shouldn’t have whispered his title as you came, wishing it was his fingers deep inside you instead.
You wished it got easier. You really did.
When the sun finally peered out from behind the clouds, you settled into the sand and spent an entire afternoon basking in the warmth. It was difficult if not impossible to ever get this up at the capitol and you were eager to soak in every ray you could.
Lord Dottore joined you one morning, his pants rolled up painstakingly, silently holding out a cup of coffee to you. You did a double-take but took the mug. It was too early for the cook to be awake; you knew the schedules by now. The sun was barely over the horizon, still pink with morning glow.
“Did you make this?” you asked softly, looking down into the scalding liquid.
Lord Dottore clicked his tongue as he shifted his weight and remained standing. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught his colors of choice for the day and was surprised to find he only wore a white shirt, gray waistcoat, and gray pants. Like what one of his younger Segments typically dressed in.
“You sound surprised that I’m capable of such a feat,” he replied, and you weren’t entirely certain that the bitterness of his words was entirely playful. “I was planning on going into town today. A change of pace. You can mail those letters that have been piling up; no doubt your parents want to hear from you.”
He made it sound as if you had an obnoxious stack of letters; in reality, it was only three. Two for your parents and one for the Tsaritsa, full of thank you’s and kind regards for allowing you the use of one of her summer homes, no matter how humble.
As planned, you had nothing else to send, nothing else written. You could not risk a paper trail, not here when the two of you were expected to be together most of the time, and where most of the staff were loyal to the Tsaritsa Herself.
There was not much information to send anyway. Dottore took his Harbinger meetings or any important missives at the guard house, away from you and away from staff who might eavesdrop. If you were going to gather any intel, it would not be on your honeymoon.
The view of the town when you first arrived had been beautiful and now that the weather was favorable, you had no doubt that the flowers would be brighter and the hills more vibrant.
“That sounds like a great idea. I wouldn’t mind looking around if you can spare the time. I rarely get to do much else when I travel other than stare at spreadsheets,” you replied. “Unless you think—”
“It is time I allotted, and therefore it is not expensive,” Dottore deadpanned. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
You took a thoughtful sip of coffee before you looked back up at him.
“Not in this lifetime and probably not the next.”
He sighed dramatically and his head lolled back. “Married for all of two weeks and already haunting me. What a dutiful spouse you’re turning out to be.”
You masked a laugh with the rim of your cup and you swore you caught his head turn to you, watching you. When you glanced towards him, Dottore was looking out towards the ocean again, one hand in his pocket.
“We’ll leave after breakfast,” he said, and turned away, trudging carefully through the sand back to the house.
Once you ate, the two of you made your way off the property, gravel crunching under your boots as you walked to the guardhouse where a carriage stood. The ride itself was uneventful, quiet, except for the occasional interjection about local landscape. You drew closer to town and the air changed, suddenly filled with the familiar scents of baked bread and spun sugar along with damp hay.
Back home, you would have smelled charcoal and roasting meats, along with the distinct tang of fish.
Once you left the carriage, you took Lord Dottore’s hand in your left and interlaced your fingers with his. Your rings glinted in the morning sun. His breath caught for the slightest moment when your palm pressed against his. When you cast a look up at him, he appeared no different than he usually did.
Everywhere you looked was in bloom, flowerboxes overflowing with blossoms. Cobble-paved roads made for easy traversal and, bundle of letters clutched in your other hand, you tried to keep the excitement from bubbling over.
Not even an artist’s rendition could capture the hum of people flitting in and out of shops, pausing at stalls, children running through the streets. There was an energy here that did not exist in the capitol, where eternal winter ruled over all, and one’s duty never thawed.
You were pulled harshly at the last minute and you corrected your footing just as you almost rolled your ankle.
“Keep your wits about you while you admire the scenery, Accountant,” Dottore muttered. “I’m not carrying you if you break a leg.”
“I’ll be sure to make my fall look like an accident, then. Less paperwork for you.”
He let out a breath through his nose as you continued. Without much effort, you located a postal office and dropped off your letters.
“Did you have anything in particular you needed to do?” you asked. “After all, this was originally your plan.”
Dottore’s obscured gaze took in your surroundings and you wished you ripped off the mask the other day. You were always able to read him before when there was a desk between you. But now, it was like even his mouth expressions were foreign to you, indecipherable.
“There’s a bookstore nearby that might have something of interest to a recent project along with a bakery that serves a wide variety of international treats I would prefer to visit last. Other than those, I had no other intentions.”
“Bookstore first, then,” you held out your other hand in a gesture, silently asking him to lead the way.
He found what he was looking for and then some, the bookseller startled when they looked up at the counter to find one of their first customers of the day to be a Fatui Harbinger. You grabbed a recently published novel on a whim, written by an individual you’d never heard of before but bearing a Fontainian publisher seal. Without so much as asking, Dottore plucked the book from your hand and placed it atop the pile.
“I wasn’t certain if I—”
“You’ve been reading the same book twice lately. Don’t be ridiculous, my dear.”
You weren’t even certain you would like the novel but to protest any further was poor manners and drew unnecessary attention to an otherwise kind action, you reminded yourself. So instead, you stepped closer and took his arm, resting your head against his bicep.
As you wove your way through the streets, you stopped in a clothing boutique. There were plenty of nice garments, soft scarves, fur-lined hats, and you tried to be demure when the shopkeeper spotted Lord Dottore and put two and two together. Everything was of fine quality and more than once, you reached out a hand to stop him from reaching for his wallet every so often.
“I will pay for what I want,” you whispered.
“It’s hardly trouble when Pantalone will give me grief for me not spending mora on this trip.”
“Please.”
You did not want to be indebted to him, not when you had your own money, and not when you hardly had need of anything new to begin with. The idea of working for the very man responsible for draining your parents’ coffers was abysmal enough; you tried not to openly balk at the idea of Dottore spending his mora on you and having to be reminded of the fact every time you wore something.
His jaw clenched but he relented nonetheless.
The thing about living the way you did was that you knew where and how to spend your leftover mora when you had it. If you saved up, you could afford a pair of boots that would last for years or a lined coat that was pre-waxed for extra warmth. Money on clothes was never ill-spent unless it was something poorly made.
And while you didn’t have much to your name, you had enough to splurge on a few new items. Maybe even a gift for your parents. They could always use extra blankets…
Your senses were discerning; you ran fabrics between your fingers and asked about the materials. At the perfumer, you asked to compare the raw materials to the finished product (but not without including Dottore in the decision, given he would have to be around you if you wore it).
Overall, you came away with a new dress, a few skirts and blouses for work, a perfume, and a down blanket for your parents.
More than once, you felt eyes on you that didn’t belong to any shopkeeper or fellow guest.
As requested, you stopped by the bakery last, although you questioned your husband’s logic when the line was to the door. Pastries and baked goods lined the displays and you smiled at the overwhelming smell of cinnamon and butter. Sfogliatelle, fresh from the cooling rack and dusted with powdered sugar and rugelach caught your eye and your stomach grumbled.
No, in hindsight, Dottore’s logic made perfect sense. It was impossible to enter this place and not be hungry.
You didn’t catch what your husband ordered but when he turned to you, you couldn’t help but ask for your favorites.
As the server went to assemble your order, you caught Dottore looking at you, lips pursed. Of all the expressions from that day, you knew this one quite well: you puzzled him and he was keen to understand more.
“What did you order?” you asked.
“Didn’t I say to keep your wits about you, dorogáya moya?”His lips tugged into a smug smile. “You’ll have to wait until after dinner to find out.”
It wasn’t until after dinner, when both of you were settled into the sitting room over a chess board, that the box from the bakery made its reappearance with evening drinks of choice.
Chess was often another way the two of you spent time together, especially when the weather turned tumultuous every so often. He beat you every time, with a sole exception; it would be the only exception, he said with a smile that made the scar on your cheek burn.
Tonight would be no different. The board was prepared and just like every other night, the opposing Queen seemed to wink at you as if it knew your secrets.
“Close your eyes,” Dottore said as he pulled at the red and white strings wrapped around the box.
When you didn’t comply and instead raised an eyebrow for explanation, he gave you a thin-lipped smile with a hint of teeth.
“Humor me, dear wife. And remember I gain little from poisoning you.”
“Fine,” you said, closing your eyes.
You heard the box open and the rustle of wax paper as something was pulled out. The smell of sugar and nuts danced in the air but you couldn’t quite place where you knew it from. Against your lips, you felt something sticky.
“Open.”
When you did, you tasted flaky dough and fresh honey; everything exploded in your mouth when you took a bite and rolled around the layer of nuts against your tongue. You knew this, grew up with this.
“Baklava?” you asked, cracking open an eye after you swallowed.
“Specifically Sumerian baklava,” Dottore clarified. “Ajilenakh Nut rather than the usual pistachio and layered instead of rolled. Your version is too close to so many other desserts visually. Messier, too.”
By your version, you assumed he meant the Sneznhayan method of occasionally rolling servings of baklava, as some regions were wont to do.
“The honey is different,” you replied. “Less floral. I like it. Is there no other bakery in the capitol that makes it that way?”
“Some try but they never get the right balance. It’s too oily, more often than not.”
You watched as your husband finished off the piece he gave you, meticulous with crumbs as well as his now-sticky hand. He jerked his head in the direction of the box off to the side, nestled near your evening tea.
“I ordered enough for both of us in the event you liked it.”
“Thank you.”
No one needed two hands to play chess but you found it amusing to watch as Dottore worked the board with a single hand, his other hovering over the box, unwilling to get crumbs everywhere.
“I find it quite interesting that you take awfully long showers as of late,” he noted absently.
Both of you stepped away to wash away the lingering sticky sugar and only just returned. You schooled your face. Where was this going? Was he going to subject you to another round of embarrassing realization that your drive was pointless?
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to intrude on another’s bathing habits?” you shot back as you settled back into your seat.
“Simply an observation.”
“It’s an odd observation,” you volleyed. “What do you want to hear, that I waste hot water while I style my hair and pretend to be a Fontainian rockstar?”
You disliked how your heart skipped when you caught the corner of his mouth tug ever so slightly. If he didn’t find it amusing, he wouldn’t have reacted at all.
Why was he keeping track of your habits like that? Thankfully, the rest of the conversation veered towards work and you relaxed considerably.
“So what exactly is it you do when you aren’t balancing my budgets?”
He positioned a rook in perfect alignment without even thinking twice. You assessed the board. Your bishop had a few options, none of them consequential…the queen was a possibility…
“Auditing, mostly. Especially when it comes to tracking the nation’s cashflow. Multiple people rotate through every quarter but we look for logical patterns, find abnormalities, high thresholds, the like.”
“What kind of patterns, exactly? Outliers exist, after all. How do you identify a one-off instance versus a larger pattern with a story?”
The question felt as if he was holding a knife to your gut, prepared to not only stab but twist for good measure. He was a scientist. Wouldn’t he know exactly how statistics and numbers worked, how to identify trends?
If this was a meeting with Lord Pantalone, you would dance around the question. He knew the industry, knew how the workflow was meant to be; he invented it, after all. But you were stuck with Dottore and such things were…well…how daft would it look if someone asked him about your job and he shrugged?
You were taking too long, weren’t you? Too much hesitation and…
Your hand plucked your bishop from its safe place and positioned it near Dottore’s rook.
“There seems to be an increase in the amount of money leaving Snezhnaya,” you said at last. “Specifically from older families in the noble class but also…rich merchants without titles. And not moving it from one branch of Northland to the other, either. Just…withdrawals. And that’s strange because it’s been happening for the better part of a year but no single branch is reporting any shortages.”
Dottore titled his head up and say back in his chair the way he did after you pointed out the cashflow issues when he asked for advances on his budgets. He pondered on your words the way a dog chewed a bone and you realized, stomach stinking, something about this was off.
Because if that was true, if Pantalone knew, he would have taken action and made the others aware.
But your husband looked as if this was the first time he was hearing it. A cat with a ball of yarn.
“It would seem we’re returning to interesting circumstances, then, dorogáya moya."
It’s a shame to waste all of this on a mere bet. She outdid herself in all her planning, from the colors chosen to her dress, to the careful seating arrangements. If no one else was convinced prior, a good portion of people would be swayed by this display alone.
Everything reflected what it was intended to.
Dramatic flairs without the striking terror.
All things considered, that she did this willingly is commendable; it would only be fair to make this entire arrangement as painless as possible.
After all, one usually only gets a single wedding over the course of their life.
She was stunning, the exact image expected of her when she walked down the aisle or flitted around the party, practically floating despite the weight of her dress. And precisely because of that, I was under no impression that she would attempt anything beyond her public duty.
Even now, I am uncertain where, precisely, she obtained those garments.
To say she isn’t attractive would be like denying the sky’s color but I never once understood the point of hiding such matters. But when she strode into the bedroom and took it upon herself to sit atop me, my eyes could not remove themselves from the way the fabric clung to her skin, how the silk and lace hid the perfect parts of her that made me all the more curious…
Such base impulses had no place in this matter. I only needed her long enough to secure my win against Pantalone; to hold other expectations would be to create a bias that would ruin anything tangible that might be possible.
Besides, there was no fun in sleeping with a stranger. I never quite understood that one, despite numerous experiments on the matter. It was far more rewarding and insightful to couple with another you knew, at least in some capacity. One could argue that I do know her but never before I did want to shove away everything on her desk and—
Well, I certainly didn’t deserve that opportunity; I didn’t deserve anyone, especially someone willingly hovering over my body as if they understood what I wanted.
Who in their right mind would want me, after all?
Perhaps that hadn’t been the kindest choice but it was the best one. Even if it meant seeing her struggle with herself on the entire ride out of the city.
Would she like it, being this far out? Near the sea? It was far more private, easier to defend, and the townspeople generally loved the Tsaritsa when she visited. Instead of a large, imposing estate, I considered that perhaps something smaller and more remote might be the better alternative.
She fit right in, with the staff and the environment, like a puzzle piece missing for too long. The same can be said about her hand in mine. I am unaccustomed to being touched in any capacity and yet I find myself craving more every time we break apart…
Ridiculous. How am I meant to quantify these experiences?
She is needy, or perhaps I have been amongst myself for too long to understand the baseline existence of others. I woke that first night, unable to get back to sleep, and slipped out of the bedroom with every intention of making coffee and sitting with some of the formulas one of the Segments slipped into my luggage. It wasn’t as if we needed to wake up together and the staff wouldn’t be awake for a while.
But two mugs had been set out in preparation.
And she was an early riser.
It was the polite thing to do.
When I treaded back upstairs, careful to avoid the weakest spots in the wooden floor, I caught a glimpse of her head tossed back and the distinct sound and smell of arousal. There was no mistaking the slick, wet sound and the quiet gasps escaping her.
It should not have elicited the reaction from me that it did, my pants uncomfortably tight as the rhythmic sounds continued, uninterrupted. I stepped back, mindful of the floor, but it was impossible to ignore how soaked she was.
Would it have been abnormal for me to push the door open a little more, watch how she pleasures herself? Learn so that one day, if she ever begged, I could replace her fingers with mine? Or fill her to the brim and watch her eyes tear up with pleasure?
Her mouth was beautiful in that shape. I counted three times, cock twitching, before she became aware of herself again and left for the washroom.
Without thinking twice, I left the mug and a hastily scrawled note, and returned downstairs before she could be any wiser.
Lest she think her husband is a monster and a lecher. W hat she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt but she should have closed the door.
Sand is dreadful and, just as that morning’s sight was burned into my memories and seemed to be everywhere I looked, I could not escape the grains of sand in this gods-forsaken house.
In my notebooks. In my shoes. Everywhere. Anywhere.
But it was impossible to observe her when we’re apart. And so I must endure. Here I thought I’d have escaped the feeling of grains of sand in everything once I moved to this frozen tundra.
I disliked the beach but she never seemed to have trouble sitting for hours, reading, basking in the sun. She smelled of the sea when she came in.
Kissing her had been…nothing short of an impulsive opportunity. We didn’t make an effort to avoid one another but when she dared to look up at me, no traces of fear, words as sharp as daggers dancing on her tongue?
I would never silence her but she passed on her pointless need to me and it was distracting. If I did not want to see other results, other possibilities, I might have hiked up her skirts and goaded her into admitting her own desire. But there is more at stake here and I do not wish to see her begin to shrink at the sight of me.
Love is…hardly a matter of an equation and I do not believe it to be possible, not in this situation. Lust is expected, inevitable. Easy enough to fend off.
After all, there’s few reasons she would take that long in the shower. I’m just as culpable in that regard.
She is exacting, frugal to a fault. If she enjoys something, would it not be prudent to simply buy the thing, rather than spend fifteen minutes feeling fabrics to discern the make and quality? Others in her position would not make a choice and simply take everything.
Just like the book she clutched but protested against. Clearly something about it struck her mind and she was considering it. Why not just purchase the book and read it, then? So many people held back. But there is little point in doing so. What grand day is awaiting that one cannot use the special dishes? The fine pen and smooth parchment? There is a need for patience and a need for enjoyment and no one seems to have ever found a balance between the two.
Including my own wife, it seems.
But it made her happy, didn’t it?
To make the choices of what she enjoyed the most. She never felt like she made a terrible choice and she always wore a smile during the transaction, a smile that I don’t believe I’ve ever seen on her face. Certainly not before I impulsively asked for her hand.
And to include me in the choices? What did I matter when she would be the one wearing such things? Using them? I didn’t care.
Sharing the baklava might have, in hindsight, given the opposite impression. But it would be wrong to not offer something in return when she included me. Did one’s eyes always twinkle like that when they were taken with something? Did hers?
Awful, this feeling. Like my chest wants to explode.
She’s terrible at chess. Most are. Pierro is one of the few who actually provides any kind of challenge. The Accountant only managed to beat me once but in my defense, I was still recovering from that morning and could not bear looking at her lips too long.
What blasted absurdity. Couldn’t this have waited until a year into our marriage? There’s no making sense of any of this and it’s…
Oh, but that was quite something, that game.
Most would never hesitate to share their findings with a superior; Pantalone is almost as ruthless as I am when it comes to menials and important information. She hesitated over such a simple question that should have been quick to answer.
But instead she provided a specific example, made no mention of whether or not Regrator knew.
Did she assume it was a given? Or did she truly not report that finding? If so, why? Was it not hers to report?
Money leaving the country and circulating elsewhere was a normal occurrence and ensured the entirety of Teyvat’s economy didn’t collapse. But if too much was leaving the local economy and being used elsewhere…perhaps there was a distrust in Northland…in the Tsaritsa.
Less money circulating natively meant less money for Pantalone to draw from for my own funding. Nevermind the rest of the nation.
To hell with the rest of the nation, really. There’s little that cannot be done without the assistance of other nations anyway. Wherever the money is going, the Fatui has no shortage of enemies.
Perhaps Regrator’s embezzlement was becoming too obvious. His greed knows little bounds, a sentiment I can certainly understand under the lens of knowledge. Accumulating knowledge is as addicting as greed, perhaps could be argued to be a form of it.
And so if she brings it to Pantalone’s attention, she might, in fact, end up on the chopping block for it.
Precarious indeed.
Not just anyone gets to be in her position, however; background checks and certifications and several examinations are required. And she cannot afford to lose it, clearly, given what’s mentioned about her parents.
Keeping anything a secret was a larger liability than simply showing her supervisor her findings…
How did I miss that? Truly? How could I have lacked that much foresight?
It wasn’t as if she was hiding it very well.
I’ll send an order for a proper background check in the morning. Of all people, I should know better than to take sources at face-value.
#dottore x reader#il dottore#dottore#il dottore x reader#dottore x female reader#il dottore x female reader#fic: blasphemous rumors#arranged marriage#marriage of convenience#minors dni
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Writing Patterns
Rules: Share the opening of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!
Thank you for the tag @tryan-a-bex!!
Going from oldest to most recent because I had already scrolled back ten fics to count them off, and I don’t feel like scrolling back up to the top again lol
10. i am singing now while rome burns
What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?
The Dream Lord’s words still pounding within her head, Mazikeen watches as he strides out of the palace, satisfaction burning from each line of his body, bright even among the fires of Hell. Defeat stings all along Mazikeen’s skin.
9. the boy in his deathless arms
The first stormclouds roll in at dusk.
Eyes narrowed against the rising wind, Dream stares at the horizon. He stands up and brushes the grass and dust from his robes. “Orpheus,” he calls. “Come to me.”
8. sister, hold me close (us despite it all)
The heat wraps itself round Calliope’s shoulders, soft and downy against her skin. In time, she knows it will become the irritation she remembers it being, but for the time being it feels like it is welcoming her back.
7. come my way and stay, my honey
In hindsight, Lucienne will reflect, it couldn’t have happened in any place but her library.
It wasn’t a spectacular, radiant revelation, descending on her head like a ball of fire. It was like waking to the sunrise resting gentle hands on your windowpane.
6. rip my ribcage open and devour what’s truly yours
“I’m still angry,” Crowley hisses against Aziraphale’s mouth. “This doesn’t mean I’m okay with what you did, and it doesn’t mean I for—fuck,” and he can’t say it, he cannot say that word, not now and not here and not with Aziraphale. He drops his forehead against Aziraphale’s collarbone, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
5. united in kiss and weep
“Gault—Gault—”
“Shhh.” Gault presses a kiss against Lucienne’s spine, and the other woman arches back into the touch. Lucienne’s shoulder blades shine with sweat. Gault trails her free hand over the slick skin, thinking about the wings Lucienne always has when Gault pictures her in her mind’s eye.
4. fly you high
A beeswax candle. A brass candle holder carved in the shape of a tree. A sprig of fragrant jasmine. This is what Lucienne lays on the small round table in her chambers.
Once they’re arranged precisely so, Lucienne lights the candle and takes a seat. She’s careful, but the squeal of chair legs against the floorboards still makes her flinch. She watches the curl of smoke as the delicate scent of the beeswax settles deep into her lungs.
3. Suffer Love
Proper paperwork didn’t catch on in Hell until the twentieth century, but once it did it seized the bit in its teeth and exploded down the racetrack.
Luckily, by that time, the demon Crowley had already pretty well worked out his excuses regarding the Arrangement. He could write it off as an encouragement of Sloth, for example. Even better that it was that of an angel, the—pardon his French—god-tier of temptable beings; what other demon could claim that? It made him feel a little smug, really.
2. i’ll be your friend, i will love you so deeply
“You’re brooding, Lucienne.”
Jerked from her reverie, Lucienne blinks and refocuses on Dream as they pace side by side en route to the throne room. “Oh—it’s nothing, my lord.”
“There is no ‘nothing’ where you are concerned.”
Lucienne knows a compliment when she hears one, and she smiles slightly. “Well, it’s maudlin, at least.”
1. todas tus luces (all your lights)
Calliope was still humming as she and Gault walked down the rain-slick street away from the school, Calliope holding an umbrella over the two of them.
“It’s catchy, isn’t it?” Gault said, sounding amused. “Isaac’s dreams have been full of the soundtrack for weeks.”
As for patterns…I don’t think I see one? If anyone spots one, feel free to comment on it! There’s a good mix here, I think. Dialogue; atmospheric details; musings out of the direct action (#7 and #3). I don’t find beginnings as difficult as most other parts of the writing process.
I think my favorite opening out of these is #9, “the boy in his deathless arms.” Because for Dream and Calliope, they’ve felt that storm building ever since they found out their son was/was going to be mortal. They always knew they would outlive him. And that fic is just chock full of foreshadowing, so I think starting it off with a line about storm clouds works well.
I’m also extremely fond of the second paragraph of #7!
Same tagging rules as Tryan’s—if you made it to the end of this post, consider yourself tagged 😁
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Thanks to @kiwiana-writes and @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, as always, for the tags this fine humpday! (And what a fine *hump* day it is, with the art we've been blessed with today.)
It's getting trickier and trickier to not spoil the entire plot of my big giant AU in these posts. 😅
Alex is fairly sure he’s never been ushered up to his mother’s office as expediently as he is today. He tries a few times to pause and say hi to a staffer en route, only to be herded onward by Amy. “I get the impression that I’m in trouble,” he says, then pensively tilts his head. “Well, more than I was when I left here last time.”
“I’m under strict instructions not to let you talk to anyone,” Amy replies. Ahead of them, the door to the yellow Oval is half-open, and she gestures at it, giving Alex a little shove toward it. “In you get.”
Alex throws his hands up. “Fine, fine. See you at the firing squad, I guess.”
“Drama queen,” Amy mutters good-naturedly, taking her post outside the door.
With a deep breath, Alex steps through the door. “I swear, no pastries were harmed during my boomerang visit to Kensington Palace,” he says by way of greeting, trying for a jovial tone to mask the sense of impending doom.
Ellen Claremont is seated on the sofa in the yellow Oval, with Zahra positioned across from her on an armchair. They both look up at Alex’s statement, and the expression on Zahra’s face suggests she’s been annoyed with him since birth.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Ellen says. She doesn’t look like she’s going to have Alex thrown in Gitmo, so maybe there’s hope yet.
“Mom,” Alex offers. “Zahra.” He looks from one woman to the other, then back. “If you’re looking for details about what’s going on in London, you’re meeting with the wrong guy. I stayed in the guest suite basically the entire time I was there.”
“We’ve been receiving constant updates from the Prime Minister’s office,” Zahra says. “Did you meet with Prince Henry at all while you were there?”
“Well,” Alex remarks, “Not in any official capacity.”
As always, if you feel called to participate, please do! I am both too introverted and too forgetful when it comes to Tumblr handles to tag all the cool people whose writing I really enjoy. 😂
#wip wednesday#wip: khix#red white and royal blue#rwrb#alex claremont diaz#rwrb fic#my fic#rwrb movie#henry hanover stuart fox#alex x henry#rwrb au
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I (bravely) challenged myself and translated Pétrus Borel's Obelisk of Luxor manifesto.
disclaimer: this text is above my grasp of the social context Borel is critiquing, so I'm sure there are things that went over my head and therefore not accurately translated. (the parts I didn't get are marked so, reader beware) Also, although the core of the first part of the manifesto is anti imperial and anti colonialist, that doesn't mean Borel doesn't indulge in some orientalist tropes. There is also some classism thrown in into the mix. Nevertheless, I think it's definitely worth reading, for that first part, and as an angry plea to value the then neglected Gothic architecture, so here it goes:
french original text here
THE LUXOR OBELISK, 1836, Pétrus Borel.
Was it not enough to destroy or allow the destruction in Paris as in all of France, of the monuments bequeathed by our ancestors? Was it not enough to permit the demolition of Saint-Côme and Saint-Damien church and the chapel of the collége de Cluny? Was it not enough to permit the establishment of a bad place(*1) at Saint-Benoît, to have promised to the hammer the collége de Moutaigu, to have sighed after the demolition of the Vincennes Sainte-Chapelle, to have made little gardens (jardinets) and canals of the majestic composition of Le Nôtre, and have the Tuilleries patched up? Was it not then enough, having shamefully let loose Bagatelle, and to make of the château de Saint-Germain, in the name of reigning Liberty, a dungeon? Was it not enough to tear down Saint-Leu-Taverny manor, and have its blood stained stones sold to anybody who wanted them?
Wasn’t it enough with all these assaults? Was it still necesary for the devastation to spread its ravages up to the shores of the Nile?
Humanity’s duty is to oppose with all the resources of its genius, to the anihilation of its works; to counterbalance, delay, suspend the operations of nature, who doesn’t know to create new beings but at the expense of those that preceeded them. The law of men is conservation; the law of time is destruction. Man and time must then be locked in a constant struggle. Unfortunately, the first one often sacrifices its mision to help the other with his, and like him, he is armed with a scyhthe and a sword. Once set in this road, Man becomes more dreadful than Time; because the latter’s deteriorations are slow, nothing presses him, he has eternity before him.
Let not the Vandals and ignorance be accused of destruction: Vandals did not make war on monuments, ignorance is respectful. It is in the name of Science and Progress that most of these crimes are commited. It’s science, and not ever ignorance who says: “- This is gothic, therefore it’s barbaric, crush it down!” --It’s science who travels the universe, pickaxe or axe in hand; who goes spoiling Thebes of its imposing ruins which after so many centuries were admired by voyagers, making their souls soar and enlarging spirits by meditation. It’s science who goes ravaging the Thebes necropolis, demolishing the hypogei, making sepulchres collapse, blowing out the dust on the tombs; it is science who would not stop its profanations until she has leveled the desert’s sands to the cradle of primordial civilizations.
It is science who has pillaged Athens as it pillages it each day of its magnificent débris; who tears away its bas-reliefs and its metopes; who strips its statues; who packs up and dispatches its columns and its portals en route to the land of business, for England, where they will be devoured by the extravagant groves of some newly wealthy refiner.
It is science who will not delay to strip India of its monuments of Mughal glory, who won’t hesistate to rip off the Taj-Mahal mausoleum, Akbar Palace, the Mouti-Mutjid, the pearl of mosques; it is science who lets the mausoleums in Akbar and Ulla-Madoula waste away, to hastily authorize their demolition and ship them to Europe.
My God! What an obsession with taking and shipping off! Couldn’t you instead let each latitude, each area have it’s glory and ornaments? Couldn’t you contemplate anything on a distant shore, without coveting and wanting to substract it?
I would not be surprised if someone told me one day that the English had taken down the Moon and stored it in the Tower of London Museum.
You think you have given much radiance to your nation, to have so intensely embellished it, when you have actually buried under the Thames sludge, or the muck of the Seine, the work of two or three thousand years, the masterpieces of fifteen or twenty civilizations; when you have piled up in your crossroads and your shops, Romans over Etruscans, Egyptians over Hindus, Italians on top of Arabs, Greeks over Mexicans?
Each thing has no value other than in its own land, on its natal soil, under its sky. There is a correlation, an intimate harmony between monuments and the countries that erected them, there is no way to intervene with impunity.
The Pyramid needs blue skyes, a smooth floor, the monotonous horizontality of the desert; it needs the caravan passing at its feet; the cries of a nomad ethiopian population, or loneliness and the howling of chackals.
The granite Sphynx needs the lenghty avenues of the Pharaos Temples; she demands them, or the strange hordes killing each other at their shadow. Or the silent ruins of the Karnac.
Obelisks need the temple pillars, the solar cult, the idolatry of the multitudes, or the desert.
These monuments that pour such great amounts of sublime poetry on the arid sands of the Sahara, that proclaim the grandeur, the might, the genius of races past, are dragged to the bosom of our cities and become as drab, mute, and stupid as them.
How great would a Sphynx look in a gap between a cobbler shop and a tavern! Such a wonderful effect the profile of an obelisk would give to an hôtel garni, between a guardhouse and a tea shop!
Alas! All these arguments non withstanding and many more, France leans in the monument trafficking business, and does it without quarter. Recently and in a notorious, scandalous fashion, she has imported a monolith, uprooted from the ruins of Luxor. Poor France!... how happy she is now that she posseses an obelisk! What glory! May you rejoice long time, my fatherland! A child who shakes its rattle forgets its troubles: may this granite rattle numb your pain and pour balm in your sores!
But if, like a child, you have a need for toys, often too like him, you don’t know what to do with what you desire, once you posses it.
In order to find a use for it, during three years, no wait, what am I saying? During four full years, rhetoricians and reasoners have striven: even men from our senate, who have raised this high question on their petite chambre.
And during these for years, by roads and paths, by mounts and valleys, we haven’t seen nothing but obelisk hunters, wandering, torch in hand, to find not a man but to find or perch themselves on this coquetish emblem of the solar rays. This one here wants it to be placed on the Louvre courtyard; that one over there, right in the middle of the Invalides esplanade; this one there, at Montmatre, between two moulins; him over there, on the Pont-Neuf terrace, in stead of that insipid Henri IV. In fact, what does a Herni IV even mean? Nothing is more spiritual than an obelisk! The majority inclines in favour of the place of the so called Concorde; without doubt, because there, the obelisk will provide the advantage of cutting up the four façades into eight(*2).
In order to satisfy everyone, to manage the goat and the cabbage(*3), The State, who wants to rob nobody of its hope, consequently orders to have them erected everywhere; and with that purpose, it is said the state has emitted lettres de marque to a company of sapeurs charged with capturing and embargoing all the obelisks they can get their hands on. We must conclude that this enterprise is founded on a wealth excedent in order to have reserves and prevent any lacking of this provision so necessary to the People, and that a market is opened for the sale of those in excedent, to stock up the provinces. --Every fortnight their taxes will be displayed along those of the bread.
I seek to joke; but my jest truns into a grimace, my laugh is hollow; my heart is too heavy with moral pain; and whose wouldn’t be, when imagining the stupid misemployment of money destined to the protection of the Arts; of the mess made at this very moment in the château de Versailles; imagining the considerable sums spent on the coupling and uncoupling of stones; imagining that the Louvre is still unfinished, that we deny him a mason while during more than three months, we make more than eight hundred arabs occupied with just digging up trenches in a soft slope, made from the pedestal of this Egyptian men-hir up to the pier; when imagining this false and disordered love some men have for antique rubble, and of the disdain professed solemnly about our own antique junk, which should be so glorious for us, which we should be so protective of!
Wretches! While you squander the treasury on your conquests of green or pink Sphynxes, while you reattach becquets or empeignes to mutilated bacchuses and hermeses, our cathedrals fall to ruin, our Castles are dismantled, Royaumont abbey, the most admirable edifice erected by the generosity of Louis IX, who erected so many admirable ones, lies there, semi destroyed and devastated by a laundry.
All your boisterous display of affection for Art and Antiquity is nothing but an impudent parade. If you really had a sensitivity for the good and the beautiful, wouldn’t you put away the Raphaellos, the Rembrandts or the Andrea del Sartes you offer in your galleries? Would you allow these collected masterpieces to be dispersed and preyed upon by foreigners? Your feelings are feigned and false. Your heart has never beaten under the vaults of a temple; you never quivered at the sight of a Murillo or a Corregio; you have never understood Puget; you ignore who Jean Bullant, Jean Joconde or Philibert Delorme are; you are nothing but pedants at the shore of the Seine, and you pretend to be poets on the coasts of the Nile. Shame on you!...
Those who do not understand Saint-Vandrille, Blois, Chambord, Gaillon, Royaumont, Brou; cannot understand Thebes. Just like the One who traded, when there were yet nothing more than clovers in his crown (???), Jean Goujon’s Diane of Poitiers in exchange for an Ajax by Dupaty, how can He ever understand an obelisk?
You do not profess the religion of the Ancients; you don’t even practice that of Art or Country, all you want is to simulate what you can’t feel; you want the appereance of a protector, play-act Maecenas, affecting solicitude, and to showcase your imposted solicitude you become extravagant; you seek to astound vulgarity with your eccentricities. Little it matters to you that your underlings demolish by hits of paper bundles the most magnificent vitraux, you do not concern yourselves with such petty matters, where you would remain obscure: you need sensational acts. You must attract the eyes of the masses, and squeeze out their admiration. You know full well it is not wisdom and beauty what stuns and amazes, and you need to stun, and to achieve that you need wonders.
No one will turn their heads to look at a superb arab stallion, the most beautiful creature of God, the most beautiful being; but when we present a giraffe, that ridiculous animal, the multitude will briskly rise and run en masse to see it pass, its entrance would be a triumph! What do we care about a work by Michelangelo? Who will stop and take a detour to look at it? But with an obelisk the multitude will stampede around it. An obelisk is a stone giraffe: your obelisk will be a success!
About a hundred fools will go “Oh!!!” when percieving it for the first time. A hundred or so grocers from the suburbs will come after selling their groceries, they’ll stop with their mouth gaping, and ask what is this machine ornamented with ducks and zig-zags: and we could answer in french: it’s a stone spike; emphatically we will say in greek: this is an obelisk monolith (what a wonderful thing Greek to pump up platitudes, to obscure what was clear!) "Zounds!" these brave people answered, "before that I thought it was a fire pump stack!"
But all jokes aside, what is it that you find beautiful in an obelisk? As art, as an accomplishment, as an invention, as a silhouette, as an effect, it’s an ugly and empty monument. Do you want to give a fabourable impression on the egyptians and their genius? Why then did you pick from among their works, a milestone? Because, you know as well as I do, or better than I since you are wise, that an obelisk was not a monument, but a milestone placed in front of temples or palaces to there inscribe the names and surnames of the founders, the enlargers, the restorators of these palaces or temples.
Do you want to prove to what point the Egyptians were skilled in their transportation and mounting of such enormous blocks? Good God! The skills of the Egyptian are not up to debate, we know perfectly well they were very adroit.
Or do you want to prove to us that you are stronger than them, and that you can, like they did, build without effort heavy masses. Good God! Who is discussing your skill! We already know perfectly well you are as skilled as the Egyptians. We know your steam machine would make the obelisk dance if it didn’t have teeth(*4).
The Romans, who didn’t know better than to pillage and imitate, transported to Italy about twenty obelisks: we are like we have seen, in our way to ship an innumerable amount. It’s al very well to imitate August and Constance; that gives us a less trivial appereance. Sixtus-Quintus(*5) had Caligula’s obelisk streightened; but how can you streighten an obelisk when you don’t have any? The task is simple: we search for them. Méhémed-Ali is very friendly, he gives to anyone who asks. Furthermore, you have only one so far, and Rome at this very moment, posseses almost half a quarter pound(*6) of them, you’re way behind.
Are you obstinately willing to complete the half quarterpound? Are you seriously that fond of obelisks (on my part, I cannot hide it from you, I am unlucky enough to prefer the infinitely long Strasbourg needle to the two hundred aunes of monolith)? Follow my advice, have your own oblesik made yourselves. Who is stopping you? One would have to have a very insulting opinion on our artisans to think them incapable of such a task. Go to Provence, in the Fréjus diocesis, where the poryphyre abounds; go at the Esterel and in Roquebrune. In the way from Roquebrune to Muy, you will find a mountain containing masses more than sixty feet tall, with a considerable width. You could there chisel, like the Romans used to do, columns similar to those brought from High-Egypt; you could make there a profusion of obelisks; and certainly, obelisks made of French porphyre, crafted by french artists, which would worth as much as those granite obelisks form Egypt.
“Whoa! Whoa there you ass!/hold your horses!” will the savants cry at this evil proposition; “Imbecile!” They will call me, “Obelisks have no intrinsec value!; their worth is the memories stored in their bosom, the memories they overflow with.” Dream then you idiot, that the Luxor obelisk remembers Ramses or Rhamases III (monsieur Marle has not yet fixed the orthography of this name; for now there is only an orthography for improper nouns) Rhamases III, fifteenth king of the eighteenth dynasty! What? You were not expecting a memory of Ramses or Rhamases, the same selon les uns, tout autre selon les autres, que Sésostris, que le grand Sésostris ! ---Cruel, unfeeling, how are you not disolving into tears to the memory of Ramses III, fifteenth king of the eighteenth dynasty! How does your heart not beat furiously at its mere name, here, written on the stomach of these eight kynocephalus monkeys(*7)!...
Alas! Messieurs, I beg pardon; but I cannot sympathize with you in this point. My heart is not that wide yet, or as elastic as to extend so far its loves and affections. Your Ramses or Rhamases III, fifteenth king of the eighteenth dynasty, was doubtles a really great man (we must never speak ill of those who are gone); but on my side, sincerely, he and his great milestone are no big deal.
Don’t think that France is anymore crazy over your Pharao than me messieurs, or that she has ever thought to erect him an altar; and you can be certain that it will not be the remembrance of your Rhamases III, fifteenth king of the eighteenth dynasty, who will come and attack them when they lay eyes on the milestone, located on a spot still fuming with the blood of Louis XVI.
*1 mauvais lieu: in the XIXth century, a maison de débauche, or a brothel -> (thanks @sainteverge !!) the allusion though, is still obscure to both of us
*2 no idea
*3 ménager la chèvre et le chou: idiomatic expression meaning to satisfy opposing parties at the same time.
*4 no idea either
*5 a Pope.
*6 demi-quarteron. Again, pretty sure this is bad translating
*7 a baboon.
#any imput/suggestions are welcome#text post#long post#fixed the footnotes to make the asterix thing easier to read
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Charles is firmly en route to having the worst built up to a coronation ever (it’s not started yet, but plenty of protests and online campaigns are being prepared, and plenty of groups are going to use the momentum to start discussions about the future of the monarchy and getting rid of it, etc) and if he doesnt do everything in his power to make sure the Sussexes dont come he’s going to get completely derailed. At least that way he’s going to be the top story on every newspaper website, even though inevitably he’ll share space with K’s dress and whatever protests there are. He could not have made a worse choice than treating the coronation weekend like it’s the end all-be all. You put this much pressure and significance on smthg these days, with the media being what it is and SM, any kink will be blown up into a catastrophe. The next 10 weeks or so, and May 6, are not going to go smoothly, I predict. I hope WK stay as little visible as possible, so they dont get dragged into it again.
The build up is reminding me so much of the PJ. I remember saying the Palace was busy planning a party while Rome burns. Here we are with more talk about celebrities who will perform at a superfluous concert 🙄 The PJ was only salvaged because William stepped in at the last minute and took the reins, including the decisions about the Harkles.
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Queen of Fools: Chapter 2 Preview
Journey’s Beginning
Sophie was a young woman studying the mystical arts. However, come morning, she would be someone else. In the morning, she would be a traveler en route to the palace to meet with the Countess of Vesuvia per her request. Following the impromptu visit of Dr. Devorak last night, she quickly packed up her things for the journey ahead. With the time she had left, Sophie collapsed into her bed. She slipped into the lull of a sweet dream with Vanny calm and curled up against her stomach.
The land of her dreams became filled with a dimming green sky and reddish sands. Sophie sat behind Asra on the back of a strange creature that she had never seen before. And being on its back, she couldn’t see what it was. Dark clouds were looming on the horizon.
“Asra…” said Sophie, almost sleepily, “where are we?”
“Far enough from home,” Asra answered. “For answers. For clarity. And I need them soon… there’s a storm coming…” Sophie’s brow furrowed. She didn’t like the tone that he spoke with, or the fact that his eyes were fixed on the clouds ahead. Sophie glanced down at the sand. She knew that she had never been here before, but… She pushed herself closer to Asra, afraid. Why did she know it? Asra put a hand on top of hers. “There’s going to be a crossroads soon.”
“Do you know which path to take?”
Asra shrugged. “That depends on where they lead.” Sophie looked up at him expectantly. “Of course, that depends on which one you take.” His apprentice let out a sigh.
“Will I ever get a clear answer out of you?” It seemed like for every question that she asked, all she got were riddles and more questions.
“We’ll see,” said Asra with a sigh of his own. He turned, reaching out for Sophie but stopped short of brushing her hair out of her face. The wind began to whip up around them, nearly blotting out the sky with the sand it was picking up. “Now… rest for me…” Asra took her hand in his own, using the other to ease her eyes closed. Everything went black as her dream began to fade away.
When Sophie’s eyes opened properly to the waking world once more, light was beginning to filter in through the bedroom window. She was back in the shop, in Vesuvia and still ticked off at her teacher. Sophie huffed, muttering his name under a breath like a curse. Why did he never answer her properly? Just once, that was all she wanted. A clear answer out of him once.
Sophie kicked the sheet off of her before getting up out of bed. She couldn’t stay in bed for long. Today was a busy day. She snatched up a few garments from the closet to change into… or at the very least, tried to. Vanny had woken up with her and was now biting at her skirts as she dressed, pulling on them.
“Vanny…” Sophie said with a sigh. She was trying to get her to stay. Vanny barked in return, letting go quickly. She looked up at her master with pleading eyes. …maybe she wasn’t trying to get Sophie to stay. Maybe it was something else.
…now that Sophie thought a bit more about it, the countess didn’t seem opposed to Vanny last night… even after being barked at. And there was no way that Sophie was going to leave her here in the shop all by herself. She loved Vanny way too much to do that to her.
“Do you promise to be a good girl?” Sophie asked the pup. Vanny barked in reply, jumping up and twirling around on the floor, which made Sophie giggle. “Okay, okay. Go get your stuff.”
Vanny barked once more before trotting off. Sophie giggled as she watched her go. So cute… The magician herself picked up the bag that she had put together the night before, carefully tucked away at the foot of the bed. Vanny came back with a raggedy scarf in her mouth as well as a little bag of her own that Sophie had made one day on a whim. Her tail was wagging, and it was almost like she was smiling.
Sophie giggled again, slinging her own bag over her shoulder before crouching down to get Vanny ready. She carefully secured the scar around Vanny’s neck, and the bag onto her back. Vanny barked, doing a little twirl with pride.
“Yes, you look very cute,” said Sophie. Vanny barked, offended. “Sorry, Sorry. I mean ready for anything.” Vanny barked again, this time a bit more pleased. Sophie chuckled, standing. She adjusted the strap over her chest, and they were ready.
Vanny rushed out into the street ahead of Sophie, who was a bit slower in shutting the shop’s heavy door behind them. After what happened last night with Julian, Sophie didn’t want to take any chances. She twisted each of the three locks on the door with a heavy click. To top off the security, she pressed her hand against the door, magic tingling in her fingertips. A white glow swirled through the wood’s grain before fading away. Magic lock. Definitely something that would keep any criminal doctors out.
“There,” Sophie said, brushing imaginary dust from her hands with satisfaction. “Ready to go—” She was cut off when Vanny began to bark. “...Vanny?”
The full chapter will be up on Ao3 on June 3rd!
#the arcana#the arcana game#preview#fic: queen of fools#oc: sophie#the arcana mc#the apprentice#asra alnazar
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Spelljammer 5e Reaction
Not going to lie, having gotten the Spelljammer set, I was expecting a little bit … more? Particularly on the Astral Sea and Wildspace as a setting. I mean more of … who all is out here, where do they live, what kind of things do you find floating out here. Maybe a glimpse of Tu’narath? IDK, it just felt a little bit basic and lacking? Some basic rules for air and speed and gravity, and then a lot of ships. And they’re cool ships! I just … would have liked more setting first?
And I know there’s a design philosophy of less-is-more here, so that people can put whatever they want out there without the game contradicting them, but … some starting seeds would be good?
The adventure gives a bit more in that regard, giving you sample wildspace systems and some things en route (the shipwrecks are cool). But that’s a thing in itself, that the adventure is worth more for the setting than the actual setting guide? The Astral Adventurer’s Guide gives you 6 pages, out of 64, actually describing the setting of Wildspace and the Astral Sea (really 2 pages, the other 4 are air and gravity rules), and the rest of the book is ships and player races, and a bit about the Rock of Bral (which is cool, not gonna lie, but it’s also only another 6 pages).
Like. I have my character! I have my ship! Now where am I going in it? What is out here???
There’s one map-slash-diagram, showing the Astral Sea with wildspace systems, astral dominions and dead gods floating in it, and that’s pretty much it?
I mean, give me a sample dominion! Give me a legend of a god corpse and what it contains! Show me Tu’narath, the githyanki city built onto the corpse of a dead six-armed deity. Show me a salvager’s moon or a vampirate trade city! Put some legends of famous spelljammer wrecks with unimaginable treasures floating lost out there, and the obsessed captains seeking them like Ahab tracking the whale. Flavour. Put some damned flavour in!
Honestly, this is one of the most anemic setting guides I’ve ever read. Put some meat on it, for crying out loud! There’s hints, the bestiary and the adventure give a little bit, but …
6 pages of setting in 64. 12, if you’re in the Forgotten Realms and you’re gonna be able use the Rock of Bral. That’s it. That’s all you get. In a setting guide.
The art is gorgeous, but please. Put some actual setting in your goddamned setting guide?
I still love the idea of Spelljammer, don’t worry, space fantasy will always be my jam, but wow, there was an awful lot of not a lot in these books? Like, Ravenloft had so much, all those domains, and some meat on all of them. Spelljammer got absolutely nothing by comparison. I’m disappointed? You’re in magic outer space, where the corpses of dead gods and the palaces of living ones drift serenely, where galleons full of a vampiric pirates sail between worlds, and creatures from alien realms of existence extrude and meet in a silver melting pot of realities. Give me a hollow moon full of ithilids! Give me a trail of astral breadcrumbs left by a trickster deity to lure adventurous spelljammers to their dominion to regale them with stories! Give me a thriving trade in alien artefacts excavated from the bodies of dead deities! I mean, give me something? Anything.
I’m half tempted to just transpose half of Sunless Skies onto Spelljammer and call it a day.
Sorry. It’s just … a bit of a disappointing set? There’s not a lot there.
#spelljammer#i would still love a spelljammer campaign#but like most of it would have to be homebrewed?#there's almost nothing to work with here
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Saturday 4 July 1840
7 20/..
10 ¾
very fine morning – rather dullish R17 ¾° and F72° at 7 ¾ a.m. breakfast at 9 and then had our Captain Loueur de chevaux 10 minutes till 10 20/.. – apologized for yesterday – very civil – will get me a sort of march-route of our excursion in the Ratcha [Racha] and Letchkoum [Lechkhumi] etc. – asked if he would like to have anything paid in advance – it seemed yes – proposed 1 month – then finding that would be 75x3 ½ =225+37/50 = 262/50 = proposed giving him a 200/. bill tomorrow morning or before setting off – he thought we had better set off tomorrow evening – and sleep in a village about 10v. off – before breakfast and till now 10 ½ wrote the last 16 lines of yesterday and so far of today – put on my pelisse and A- her habit, and all off (she and I and Cossack and George and Georgian guide) at 10 50/.. to the palais of queen Thamar – En passant called to ask if Colonel Boujouroff was arrived – no! saw Madame for a moment or 2 at the window – left the Choni road to the right and went close past château Boujouroff – pleasant ride – at the old ruin at 12 ¼, Tsikhédarbasi or Tamaritsikhé, vid. Dubois ii. 200 et seq. – aux bords du Phase: c’est le moukhérises de Procope p. 201. a mass of ruin – not shewing much at even a distance – it took 20 minutes to get A- seated at her sketching, and myself at Dubois – the high mountains almost entirely hid in cloud – some of the dark snow-striped summits peeped up now and then (left) as we rode along – to me this ruin seems the remain not of a palace but of a church – of the earliest Byzantine style – A- sketched it from the south – the foundations for 3 or 4ft. high a grouted mass of small boulders and angular fragments – then the brick walling – bricks 10 ½ and 11 inches square – hard and well burnt – very good bricks – as for the sough front “[?] de 4 embrasures” p. 202 – I could see no trace of them – there is a great gap, or breach, on each side the door-way accolée to the middle demi-tourelle the grand vestibule voûté remains with a large hole made (torn) in the top so as to let in light and weather – but as for the “vaste salle d’audience de la structure la plus imposante”, a regular cross of 86 and 76ft. French lighted only by the 8gon dome (darbase) 44ft. French diameter, and now covered with masses of tumbled down walling, I can see nothing in all this but the centre of a fine old church –East of the salle d’audience on pénétrait par une large porte dans un grands salon (p. 203) this porte is at a height from (above) the floor of the salle d’audience (or church) to have opened into a chamber above the one with the large fireplace and its cellar-treasury and one sees by the holes in the sides of the great open arch (to the east) where the joists of this floor rested – true there seem to have been communication from this chimney room to other vaults right and left (north and south) – the little door to the south must have been that shape about 2ft. wide at bottom narrowing to 18in. or less at top 16ft. high (English feet) – how he could make out the couloir opening on to a wood balcony (p. 203) I know not – there is there a mass of old walling and rubbish some feet above the
actual level of the salle d’audience – but the mass of tall thick vegetation, - wild vine, large white convolvulus, a 5 or 6ft. high large leaved achillea like flower, etc. etc. should be removed before one can tell what is left to the east – to me instead of being no wall left to the East (p.204) there is great deal of mound or wall or rubbish or something, and the same to the north – and on the west are 6 pièces voutées – went into one of them – all the rest made up or nearly with rubbish? – the large opener [?] vault must have been the great west entrance – a little fireplace fronting the little door of the little vault we went down into – very like a monks’ cell – not a single inscription (except a few Georgian letter on one stone somewhere inside) inside or out of the church close by the palais – faced with ashler stone – and some traces of fresco paintings remaining within – all bled de Turquie immediately around the ruin, and meadow at a little distance – It was 3 5/.. when I took A- and piloted her about – and at 4 went (rode) to the poor little church a verst off in grave of fine limes and poplars – there in 10 minutes one little window east and with Georgian inscription on each side and below the cross – one little window also north side and ditto south over the shabby little 2 or 2ft. 6in. wide entrance door and Georgian inscription over the door – poor little church not worth the trouble of going to see, if it had not been mentioned by Dubois – but as for all the inscriptions translated by Brosset etc. where are they? – Desired to return par la rivière – could only do it in autumn – why – the road not good – mud – would try – went down to the river – must pass it – too much water – yes! did not wish that – did not know of passing it – yes! George declared that aller par la rivière voulait dire, le trauverser – the fellow sets up for teacher of French – Turned round my horse – returned to the ruin – it must then have been about 5 – it soon began to thunder and lighten and in about 20 minutes to rain pretty smartly – put on my Mackintosh and cantered on – stopt a moment to ask if colonel B- was returned – no! Madame B- was taking a bath but would be glad of our drinking tea with her – declined on account of the weather – nearly fair the rest of the way – home at 6 – tea over at 7 35/.. – George had been at our Captains’ – the Captain sent for him, and desired him to ask me for a month [money?] in advance for the horses – no! said all this was so strange, I really felt bound to believe he could not mean any such thing – all this so unexpected, did not what to make of it, and very uncertain that the horses would be strong enough for the journey – took the Cossack and off on foot to Madame B- at 7 ¾ - there in 20 minutes – the colonel arrived – taking a bath – Madame B- had the Cossack in – all went against George – it seemed that he had sent the Cossack (who thought I sent him) to decline paying the month – the officer not at home – and if he had desired George to ask for the money he would have taken care to be at home – agreed that the Cossack should take the horses tomorrow morning for the colonel to see – saw him for a moment declined tea, and off home at 9 and came in at 9 25/.. en nage tho’ it was fair all the way (going and returning) there had been a heavy shower while
SH:7/ML/E/24/0143
Koutaïs
I was with Madame B- A- sent off an old soldier with the large umbrella and bourca – met him not much above the bridge, and beat him home by several minutes – undressed immediately and sat in my dry night things, and fur cloak delighted to have been and settled so much chez Madame B- fine day till the loud thunder and lightning followed by rain about 5 ½ or before and rain after our return – and heavy shower between 8 and 9 – Lightened all the way back from chateau Boujouroff
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Saturday 4 July 1840
[up at] 7 20/..
[to bed at] 10 ¾
very fine morning – rather dullish Reaumur 17 3/4° and Fahrenheit 72° at 7 3/4 a.m. breakfast at 9 and then had our Captain loueur des chevaux 10 minutes till 10 20/.. – apologized for yesterday – very civil – will get me a sort of marche-route of our excursion in the Ratcha and Letchkoum etc. – asked if he would like to have anything paid in advance – it seemed yes – proposed 1 month – then finding that would be 75 x 3 1/2 = 225 + 37/50 = 262/50 = proposed giving him a 200/. bill tomorrow morning or before setting off – he thought we had better set off tomorrow evening and sleep in a village about 10 versts off – before breakfast and till now 10 1/2 wrote the last 16 lines of yesterday and so far of today – put on my pelisse and Ann her habit, and all off (she and I and Cossack and George and Georgian guide) at 10 50/.. to the palace of queen Thamar – en passant called to ask if colonel Boujouroff was arrived – no! saw Madame for a moment or 2 at the window – left the Choni road to the right and went close past château Boujouroff – pleasant ride – at the old ruin at 12 1/4, Tsikhédarbasi or Tamaritskikhé, vide Dubois ii. 200 et sequentes – aux bords du Phase: c’est le Moukhérisis de Procope page 201. a mass of ruin – not shewing much at even a distance – it took 20 minutes to get Ann seated at her sketching, and myself at Dubois – the high mountains almost entirely hid in cloud – some of the dark snow-striped summits peeped up now and then (left) as we rode along – to me this ruin seems the remain not of a palace but of a church of the earliest Byzantine style – Ann sketched it from the South – the foundations for 3 or 4 feet high a grouted mass of small boulders and angular fragments – then the brick walling – bricks 10 1/2 and 11 inches square – hard and well burnt – very good bricks – as for the South front ‘percée de 4 embrasures’ page 202 – I could see no trace of them – there is a great gap, or breach, on each side the door-way accolée to the middle demi-tourelle the grand vestibule voûté remains with a large hole made (torn) in the top so as to let in light and weather – but as for the ‘vaste salle d’audience de la structure la plus imposante[’], a regular cross of 86 and 76 feet French lighted only by the octagon dome (darbase) 44 feet French diameter, and now covered with masses of tumbled down walling, I can see nothing in all this but the centre of a fine old church – East of the salle d’audience on pénétrait par une large porte dans un grand salon (page 203) this porte is at a height from (above) the floor of the salle d’audience (or church) to have opened into a chamber above the one with the large fire place and its cellar-treasury and one sees by holes in the sides of the great open arch (to the east) where the joists of this floor rested – true there seem to have been communications from this chimney room to other vaults right and left (north and South) – the little door to the South
must have been that shape about 2 feet wide at bottom narrowing to 18 inches or less at top 6 feet high (English feet) – how he could make out the couloir opening on to a wood balcony (page 203) I know not – there is there a mass of old walling and rubbish some feet above the actual level of the salle d’audience – but the mass of tall thick vegetation, – wild vine, large white convolvulus, a 5 or 6 feet high large leaved achillea like flower, etc. etc. should be removed before one can tell what is left to the East – to me instead of being no wall left to the East (page 204) there is great deal of mound or wall or rubbish or something, and the same to the north – and on the west are 6 pièces voutées – went into one of them – all the rest made up or nearly with rubbish? – the large opener arch or vault must have been the great west entrance – a little fire place fronting the little door of the little vault we went down into – very like a monk’s cell – not a single inscription (except a few Georgian letters on one stone somewhere inside) inside or out of the church close by the palace – faced with ashler stone – and some traces of fresco paintings remaining within – all bled de Turquie immediately around the ruin, and meadow at a little distance – It was 3 5/.. when I took Ann and piloted her about – and at 4 went (rode) to the poor little church a verst off in grove of fine limes and poplars – there in 10 minutes one little window east end
with Georgian inscription on each side and below the cross – one little window also north side and ditto south over the shabby little 2 or 2 feet 6 inches wide entrance door and Georgian inscription over the door – poor little church not worth the trouble of going to see, if it had not been mentioned by Dubois – but as for all the inscriptions translated by Brosset etc. where are they? – Desired to return par la rivière – could only do it in autumn – why – the road not good – mud – would try – went down to the river – must pass it – too much water – yes! did not wish that – did not know of passing it – yes! George declared that aller par la rivière voulait dire, la traverser – the fellow sets up for teacher of French – Turned round my horse – returned to the ruin – it must then have been about 5 – it soon began to thunder and lighten and in about 20 minutes to rain pretty smartly – put on my mackintosh and cantered on – stopt a moment to ask if colonel Boujouroff was returned – no! Madame Boujouroff was taking a bath but would be glad of our drinking tea with her – declined on account of the weather – nearly fair the rest of the way – home at 6 – tea over at 7 35/.. – George had been at our Captain’s – the Captain sent for him, and desired him to ask me for a month in advance for the horses – no! said all this was so strange, I really felt bound to believe he could not mean any such thing – all this so unexpected, did not [know] what to make of it, and very uncertain that the horses would be strong enough for the journey – took the Cossack and off on foot to Madame Boujouroff at 7 3/4 – there in 20 minutes – the colonel arrived – taking a bath – Madame Boujouroff had the Cossack in – all went against George – it seemed that he had sent the Cossack (who thought I sent him) to decline paying the month – the officer not at home – and if he had desired George to ask for the money he would have taken care to be at home – agreed that the Cossack should take the horses tomorrow morning for the colonel to see – saw him for a moment declined tea and off home at 9 and came in at 9 25/.. en nage tho’ it was fair all the way (going and returning) there had been a heavy shower while I was with Madame Boujouroff – Ann sent off an old soldier with the large umbrella and bourca – met him not much above the bridge, and beat him home by several minutes – undressed immediately and sat in my dry night things and fur cloak delighted to have been and settled so much chez Madame Boujouroff – fine day till the loud thunder and lightning followed by rain about 5 1/2 or before and rain after our return – and heavy shower between 8 and 9 – lightened all the way back from chateau Boujouroff –
Anne’s marginal notes:
Tamaritsikhé.
Koutaïs.
WYAS pages: SH:7/ML/E/24/0141 SH:7/ML/E/24/0142
#anne lister#ann walker#anne lister code breaker#gentleman jack#diary1840unannotated#russianempire1840#georgia1840#kutaisi1840
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The Rebirth Of The General Who Always Sees Himself As A Replacement - finished (partially via MTL)
Premise: MC used to be in love with a prince, said prince caused the ruin of MC's life and family. MC dies...and wakes up as his younger self, and for some reason, en route to this time travel thingamajig, he comes across the soul of a general who died a year before he did. Who's this guy? Didn't he used to hate him?!?
I started reading this because I was craving for a very specific kind of angst: one where MC no longer loves ML1 and has moved on wholeheartedly to ML2, but ML2 is still convinced that ML1 is still MC's true love. Delicious~! Since that was what I wanted, this novel fed me well, but people with little patience for miscommunications probably won't like this as much as I did.
Plot-wise this isn't something to write home about: a few plot-holes here and there, the typical historical novel story, two people who really ought to talk to each other better (esp. on the ML-side), soo cheesy at times, but I was charmed by the MC anyway. So cute! He might not be the smartest MC in a palace-intrigue novel, but he tries so hard, the adorable thing.
The hilarity of ML2 being all "I bet MC's thinking about ML1 🙁" meanwhile MC's thinking about how badly he wants ML1 dead. 🤣
MC-ML dynamic: One of the very few danmei I've read where it's shou-MC chasing after the gong-ML, and I was delighted. Go Mu Zhiming, get your hands on that man!
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Journey to The Cyclops
4:00 AM wake-up call,
Black room illuminated by red outside lights,
Pursuing me to the empty hall.
On the way I go, chasing the promise of
Everlasting sunshine, an ocean vista, and a pair of mischievous cats.
Airport security mimics a strange dance;
Robots, warnings, and sinister messages
Blare in a musical charade --
It's a miracle anyone can make sense of this parade!
(At 5 in the morning, no less.)
I pass through the glittering maze,
All stands selling the same thing: sex in a bottle
With the usual benefits,
Debt and regret.
The next hour is a blur,
Hastily awaiting my first Ryanair dosage.
Finally, the gate is announced;
Racing, us hurried passengers en route.
I almost boarded to Spain, but wait!
Let me redirect my aim.
Down on the tarmac, I climb up the clanging,
Wind-chilled staircase where I sit
Front row like a budget airline princess
Watching as the sunrise stretches over the Alps.
Landing in Torino where mountainous
Landscapes, the fashion police,
Sniff-searcher dogs, and guarded militia surround us.
The journey is a little over halfway complete.
First a detour to bureaucracy headquarters,
Then to claim my belongings on the big belt.
All is smooth until the end of the bus where
I go to the end of the line.
I wander aimlessly in an empty lot where
The trees are no longer in full fleshy bloom;
Much like the potential of this embarkment.
I find my way, although my
Language is fractured.
I depart on the second bus, and this is
Where the unravelling furthers.
But I don't know it yet.
And so, I naively believe I will be in
Bed within the hour! Not so.
This land has greater plans for me.
A baseball cap-clad local becomes my
Inadvertent tour guide, leading me
Around the curve of the bay,
Picking up rubbish as we walk.
I see the stacks and announce myself.
Their history is greater than mine;
A humbling in rough earthern form.
The journey is nearly complete:
10,000 more steps to go.
Up, up, and away through the cement-paved hills I ascend.
Rerouting to the presidential
Palace for some kind of connection,
Digital or otherwise,
I'm led astray through a dark winding road,
Given a message I can't make sense of.
The woman in the little yellow car shrieks as my final warning;
A violent canary in the evening chill.
I'm stranded by my own devices,
So I return to the palace, once again.
(I'm almost praying like some kind of deranged tourist, at this point.)
My pleading seems to cause a switch-up;
The gate unlocks, and I am freed!
Freed to sleep a peaceful night.
Tuxedo #1 comes to greet me by the crate.
I haul my luggage up the terracotta steps,
And allow myself a moment's rest.
Nearly 19,000 steps and 8 miles later
From the 4:00 AM red-light start,
My dinner is an orange, a hard candy, and
A handful of pistachios,
Made stale by the airport air.
My journey to the cyclops is complete.
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From Backpackers to Business Travelers: Diverse Options for Affordable Rooms in Central London
London is that rare city where backpackers breakfast alongside business travellers and solo explorers have as much fun as couples and families. Due to the diversity of the types of travellers that visit London, the accommodation scene is also extremely mixed. That means that there is a hotel to suit all budgets from barebones to flashing the cash! These are the best Central London hotels for budget travellers, business travellers, and families.
Central Park Hotel
This boutique property is the flagship of the Central Park Hotels collection.
Situated close to Paddington, the hotel is convenient for those travelling from Heathrow Airport. This strategic location also makes it easy to get around the capital. The Circle and District lines connect Paddington Underground with the City of London. The neighbourhood is well-provisioned with affordable restaurants while the upscale dining destinations of Mayfair are a short trip by foot, taxi, or public transport.
All guest rooms feature a private bathroom and modern amenities such as free Wi-Fi, a desk, and coffee-making facilities. A continental breakfast is served in the restaurant while alcoholic beverages are available in the evening. This will see budget travellers through until dinner while corporate guests can prepare their day ahead over a fresh cup of coffee and a selection of protein-rich items.
Furthermore, this is one of the best Central London hotels for corporate clients. The hotel contains a state-of-the-art space for hosting meetings, conferences, and small events. A dedicated events planner will ensure that any functions run smoothly.
A three-minute ride takes you to Queensway Underground Station. Served by the Central Line, this is one of the most convenient routes for travelling through the commercial and financial areas in Central London.
Royal Eagle London Hotel
Lodged within an elegant Victorian townhouse, the Royal Eagle is one of the most charming Central London hotels for travellers. In fact, this family-friendly hotel is even closer to Paddington Station and spares a taxi ride even if you have additional luggage.
As with its sister property, all guest rooms comprise an en suite bathroom and comfortable bed dressed with high-quality linens. This contemporary hotel is divided into single, double, twin, triple, quad, and quint rooms with a variety of bed configurations to choose from. As a result, the Royal Eagle is one of the best Central London hotels for groups of backpackers or families.
Both hotels are within walking distance of major London attractions such as Hyde Park, Oxford Street, Little Venice, the Royal Albert Hall, and the museums of South Kensington. A scenic walk will take you all the way to Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, and the London Eye. That way, you can reduce your travel expenses or enjoy a head-clearing stroll after a busy day of meetings. Hospitable staff are on hand to assist with tickets and tours.
Book your stay at any of the Central Park Hotels directly to gain the best possible rate. Hotel offers include corporate packages, romantic stays, and advance saver rates when you book a non-refundable room.
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Golden Triangle Tour Packages
Golden Triangle in India refers to the triangle shape formed on the map by connecting Delhi , Agra and Jaipur, and this triangular tourist circuit is the most popular tourist itinerary in India, hence, the term ‘golden’ has been coined. Golden Triangle Tour Packages encompass some of the most interesting and visited places in India. Usually, 5 or 6 days are recommended to explore the Golden Triangle of India well. The popular route is Delhi - Agra – Jaipur – Delhi but it can be done in opposite direction as well like Delhi- Jaipur – Agra – Delhi.
Delhi, the capital of India, is the starting point of the Golden Triangle Trip. Delhi is a growing mix of history and modernity. The Indian capital is a place where the past and the future meet. With its narrow streets, crowded markets and overflowing train stations, Delhi has a lot to offer. Old Delhi is inhabited around the famous Red Fort, built by the Mughal ruler Shah Jahan during 1638-48 AD. Red Fort, Jama Masjid (the largest mosque in the India), Akshardham Temple and Raj Ghat are the main attractions. Planning for New Delhi began in 1911 AD, and the new city was inaugurated 20 years later. Throughout New Delhi, there are shopping areas and restaurants, as well as modern temples, including the Lotus Temple in its southern part.
Agra, previously capital of the Mughal rulers, is known for one thing above all else, the iconic and impressive Taj Mahal. Located on the southern bank of the Yamuna River in Agra, the Taj Mahal draws millions of tourists to the city every year. Built by Mughal ruler Shah Jahan as an extravagant memorial to his wife Mumtaz Mahal, the mausoleum's white porcelain marble is an emblem of romance, love and adventure. Agra, lying in the shadow of its imposing monument, is a small and friendly city. The ancient Agra Fort from Mughal times is an attractive place to visit. The Agra Fort is built with red sandstone and covers an area of about 380,000 square meters with a semicircular shape. Its walls have a height that reach up to seventy meters.
When a traveller proceeds from Agra to Jaipur, he / she visits en route Fatehpur Sikri, a little-known place of incredible historical and architectural value.
Jaipur, the Pink City and the capital of Rajasthan, is home to beautiful Amber Fort, a storied and stunning complex perched on the hillside overlooking a lake. Located on the outskirts of the city and built in 1592, the grandiose citadel was also a palace for a while, but is now an impressive tourist attraction. Jaipur has legendary forts, wonderful palaces, temples and havelis that contrast with the chaos that exists in its streets, full of rickshaws, camels and bicycles. Jaipur is an ideal place to learn about the history of India by visiting its most famous monuments, such as Jantar Mantar, City Palace, Hawa Mahal, Jaigarh Fort, Nahargarh Fort, Govind Dev Ji Temple, Albert Hall Museum etc.
Golden Triangle Tour Packages in India are customizable according to your interests, budget and duration.
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Canada Water Station (H & T assignment 1)
The Canada Water station is essential if you take the overground from Crystal Palace, West Croydon, Clapham Junction or New Cross. It is the first station on those routes northbound that connects to the underground network the Jubilee line. Like most places, public transport can get pretty crowded, but there is always congestion when going down the escalator to transfer to the Jubilee line. There is only one escalator going down. You can also avoid congestion by going around the station as a little discreet sign points out, that people rarely look at while in the crush of people going to the Jubilee line.
One of the main problems with this intersection is the history behind the station itself. The East London Line of the overground started as a railway that linked New Cross and New Cross Gate to Shoreditch, which started running in 1869. In 1999, the Canada Water station opened, joining the north-south underground East London line with the east-west Jubilee line. (Haywood, 2008) The station itself is built on what is essentially docklands, with limited space. Which explains the shape of the station, which was built using a cut and cover technique (see fig. 1). It was built for up to 6 700 passengers an hour. (Architectural Journal, 1998) It was also built using the existing tunnel structure that the East London Line used, so it had to be built with the pre-existing tunnel in mind. The Brunel Thames Tunnel was constructed in the 1840s. The design style has been described as a strict engineering economy. (Paoletti, 1999) This results in a station with two platforms that form a slight ‘T' shape with the Jubilee line platform being longer than the overground one and the overground platform being placed at the end of the Jubilee line platform. Meaning that one side of the platform has more space to descend into the Jubilee line platform than the other. In 2010, the East London Line became part of the overground and extended the line. (Haywood, 2008) Thus adding the amount of passengers and the amount of trains incoming into the station.
The way that the platforms are laid out leaves the waiting and transfer space on the northbound platform much smaller than the southbound platform. So there is less space for passengers to disperse in the space surrounding the platforms, causing more congestion. Additionally, the London overground trains are too long for the platform so passengers can not exit through the last carriage, meaning there’s less passenger dispersion exiting the train and going down the escalator to the Jubilee line. (fig. 2)
While I was taking photos of the escalators, I noticed two older women standing at the back. I had often overlooked the physical aspect of the congestion, more the uncomfortableness of it. While there is an elevator it is only available at the end of the platform and if you’re at the front of the train you get cut off from the flow of people getting to the escalator.
Canada Water is a station that had to be designed for its location, and while it maximizes the space it can use. It also spreads the flow of passengers unevenly creating congestion that could be avoided with more ways to go down to the Jubilee Line and more space on the Northbound platform.
Bibliography:
Architects Journal (1998) The Concrete Challenge of Canada Water [Online] London: Architect’s Journal. Available: https://www.architectsjournal.co.uk/archive/the-concrete-challenge-of-canada-water (Accessed 02/02/2023)
Haywood, R, (2008)‘Underneath the Arches in the East End: An Evaluation of the Planning and Design Policy Context of the East London Line Extension Project’, Journal of Urban Design, 13.3, 361–85
Gomersall, H, (2013), ‘Reviews : "The Impact of the Railways in the East End : 1835-2010 : Historical Archaeology from the London Overground East London Line"’, Archaeological Journal (London), 170 324–324
Paoletti, R, (1999), ‘Architectural Design of the Jubilee Line Extension Stations’, Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers. Civil Engineering, 132.6, 19–25
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Wellness retreats
The peak lies in Kerala- Karnataka boundary, bordering to the Coorg Hills as an extension to the jungle of Kodagu Hills of the Western Ghat Mountains. The mountain and the hills of Paithalmala fleece over 300 acres of land with its print-perfect views. A 6 km hike throughout the timber and champaigns is necessary to reach the peak. Resort near me, Kannur Beach resort ,
Kannur Honeymoon resort
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Paithalmala Hilltop The overlook palace is seen at the extreme
Monsoon is followed by a cool rainfall in Vaithalmala and the field girding the hills grow to their fullest size, making it hard to walk through. Then you can enjoy Paithalmala treehouse with utmost comfort and installation.
By December, the jungle caretakers set fire to the champaign, taking care of the rest of the jungle, to ease out the touring familiarity. In a little while after this, the hill becomes infelicitous to journey as of the black formed but clears after a couple of weeks. The most excellent time for a journey is from Jan to March though the sun might be ruthless.
Climate normal Monthly Weather in Paithalmala,
What is the topmost time to go to Paithalmala in India? Then are several monthly rainfall data we collected from our once climate data Throughout the months of June, July, August, and October you're presumably to feel excellent Paithalmala season with lovely average temperatures.
On normal, the temperatures are constantly high.
On normal, the sincere month is May.
On normal, the coolest month is January.
July is the wettest month. This month must be avoided if you do not like too important rain. Wellness retreats, Wellness holistic stay, Homestay, Wayanad resort, Honeymoon suite , Camping site, Glamping tents, Gods own country . Workcation , Weekend trip, Backwater resort , Hill station , Waterfalls
Paithalmala Trekking
Both heavy rain and summer seasons are excellent for Paithalmala wildlife journey. The June- October thunderstorm period offers a great photographic prospect in the misty hills and timbers. In the cool rainfall following thunderstorm, the meadows and shops grow to their most, so walking becomes hard. Summer is a little tougher because moochers are ordinary and the rainfall is harsher. The most excellent time for Paithalmala trekking is conceivably between January and March.You can enter at the top of hill from Kappimala next to Alakkodu. The Pottenplave route has a motor suitable road till the original point of the journey. Plus, several resorts are coming up on this route. The hilltop is 6 km from the Kudiyanmala starting point. En route, there are fascinating falls and timber.
The overlook palace on the peak is a 45- nanosecond walk from the Paithal Valley. It offers a stunning view of the Kannur District. In fact, a walk from the impend to the timber reaching the end of the Kappimala trail is the most charming part of the Pythal Mala journey. Moving up, you can get a fascinating view of the Coorg Forest and Paithalmala cascade on one side and the Paithal Valley on the farther.To enjoy your vacation and journey without pressure simply holisticstay.in office for a better experience.
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We shall new shadows make the other way
He could have refused her, kept riding. It might well have been the more prudent choice, with an assassin’s blood dry on her cheeks, tight as a scar, but he’d pulled up the stallion and let her go off behind some trees to relieve herself without calling forth his shadows to conceal them. He offered her a cloth for her face and he began to explain what she was, tone clipped but civil until she exclaimed No! when he told her how it would be, and then he was sharp until she took a breath, turned and looked at the sky, the horizon obscured by low clouds, a distant forest. It was the future and the past and she couldn’t see how to get to either. The General’s black horse nickered softly.
“Were you tested as a child?” he asked, quieter, more curious.
“We hid. We were different enough already. Didn’t want to be even more alone,” Alina said, remembering, knowing the words sounded like an admission—of guilt? Weakness? General Kirigan regarded her with an expression she’d never seen on anyone who’d ever looked at her. He was furious, but not with her, and desperate, despairing and fierce, and there was something in his dark eyes she recognized as longing, though she’d never been longed for.
“You are Grisha. You are not alone,” he said, with such an ardent conviction she knew he was not only thinking of this moment but some other time when he’d the same declaration but hadn’t believed it. Alina was silent and realized she wasn’t scared but she was waiting. She felt the warmth of the sun on her lips, though the day hadn’t brightened. She opened her mouth to speak.
“I—”
“When we arrive at the Little Palace, we’ll marry,” he said. He made a gesture with his right hand, as if he’d reach for her or unfurl some darkness around her to coax her closer to him, but she couldn’t think what it meant after what he’d said. We’ll marry, not an order but not a question, nor a proposal. We, Alina, orphan of Keramzin in a dusty second-hand kefta a size too big she’d nearly sweated through, and the Darkling General, who could slay a man with a weapon he conjured from the most cold and dreadful night, time and absence his to wield, tall and beautiful, decked out in sable and silver.
“Marry? When we arrive? Why wait even that long—you can’t, I, it’s outrageous, insane—” she said, the shock loosening her tongue, sarcasm a brief refuge, one she would have been struck for as a girl.
“A handfasting now, without witnesses, won’t do,” he said. There was no curt rebuke, no admonition regarding their positions, his greater experience, expertise and perspective. He spoke so readily it was clear he’d considered the option, though it was quite rare these days. “It would require our examination—”
“Our examination? By who?” she interrupted.
“The Healers at the Little Palace would need to examine us for the evidence of consummation. I would not have that for you,” he said. How polite he was, how circumspect for the man who had already bared her skin to his touch in front of an audience, who’d killed the man who tried to kill her; she’d felt the General’s breath on her neck as they rode and his arm around her waist had kept her from falling from his horse over the past few hours. His strength had been a balm against the shock of the attack that had left her trembling. His remark reminded her of what he was capable of, reminded her of the admiring glances the women Grisha had given him, how greatly she was at his mercy and what little mercy he could show.
“But you would force me to marry you,” she said. “You are oddly deferential about my virtue, General, for someone eager to cut me open only a few hours ago. Speak plainly—you will marry me without asking for my consent but you won’t rape me, that’s where you draw the line?”
“Alina—Miss Starkov, I would never—" he began, retreating into formality almost immediately, though his cheeks flushed, making him look younger, uneasy. “Miss Starkov, you feel I presume and I understand why, I understand you have just discovered who you are, but I have been waiting for you and I cannot lose you—”
“Why would you lose me? I’m going with you to the Little Palace. You are General of the Second Army, I was an assistant mapmaker until today, the most junior of my team. Why do you have to marry me?” she said, keeping herself from saying I’m little, I’m nobody, I’m not what you think, what you expect.
“You’ve been the Sun Summoner for less than a day and there has already been a credible assassination attempt. If I had not been riding Opasnost nearly lame to reach you, you would have bled to death before I got to you. What you did, crossing the Fold, you lit the sky—it was seen for leagues, there was no concealing it,” he said. “You are an immensely powerful, completely untrained Grisha, you would be a prize to be taken by the Shu-Han, Fjerda, Kerch, mercenaries. Even the Tsar would take you from me if he could.”
“If he could? Our marriage would prevent that?” Alina asked. Some part of her, perhaps the most rational, expected Mal to shake her awake from what must be a dream, Alina discussing her marriage to the Darkling General, the Tsar, powers and personages as distant from her as the Moon was from Ravka. That same part of her reminded her it would have more likely have been Alexei who woke her, not Mal, Alexei with a lukewarm cup of what passed for tea, a dry rusk, except Alexei was dead and Mal was lost to her and General Kirigan had paused, watching her, waiting for her to listen to his answer rather than demanding her attention.
“It would be a narrow path to tread with him, to keep him from seeing how much I value you. To keep him from making you a goad or a threat, a knife at my throat, but Ravkan tradition says no claim can supersede that of a husband upon his wife and hers upon him. If he posed a risk to you, no Ravkan, Grisha or otkazat’sya, would question my right to defend you, whatever form that took. Whatever power I felt I needed to use, whatever the consequence.”
“You speak treason,” Alina said.
“I speak the truth and that is beyond any law of the Imperial Court,” he said and smiled, his lips curved gently, implacable. “If, when we wed, I can keep you safe. I will. I will make sure no one hurts you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “I don’t, I can’t believe this. It’s all a mistake, I’m not powerful, I’m not someone anyone would be interested in, Saints, I’m not someone the Tsar of Ravka would be interested in—”
She stopped because he’d reached out and taken her hand, his much larger but elegantly made, his grasp careful but firm. Within herself, she felt light bloom, suffused with the force, as sweet and compelling as the fragrance from a field full of blue irises, the quenching of a tremendous and terrible thirst. When she was able to, she glanced up at his face and saw awe and adoration, how ready he was to fall to his knees before her. He brushed his thumb across her knuckles and it made her breathless as a kiss. She blinked against the sudden brightness between them, the light that opened the petals of flowers at dawn.
“You shine, Miss Starkov. You are special,” he said. “If you don’t believe that, if you don’t believe me, it only means I’ll need to show you. I’ll need to make you trust me and yourself.”
“You can’t actually want me as your wife, though,” Alina said. A wife shared her husband’s bed and his embrace, she tended to his injuries and kept his secrets, she came to him in joy. He wanted to protect an asset or an ally, that was all. She might have to accept that, but she didn’t have to call it by another name.
“You don’t know anything about me except that I’m the General of the Second Army,” he said. “You can’t know what I want. Who I want—”
“I’m little and weak, I’m a half-Shu orphan. And I wasn’t even a very good mapmaker,” Alina said. Somehow it felt like lying, even though it was nothing but the truth.
“Any other Grisha would have died from the wasting illness, if they’d suppressed their power as long as you have,” he said. “Your heritage is no deterrent to me and I have no need for you to draw maps for me. I want you, Miss Starkov, and you can feel how my power seeks yours.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said.
“Not yet,” he said. “But it will and I will make sure you live to see it. But we must go. We must arrive in Os Alta before nightfall, we must be married before another day breaks. I’m going to ask you again, say you will come with me.”
“All right, General Kirigan,” Alina replied. He mounted his horse and stretched out his hand to help her up, settling her in front of him more tightly than before, her head against his broad shoulder. She thought he would order to the stallion to go, with a shout or his boots against the beast’s flanks, but they were still yet, though he’d said they must hurry.
“Aleksander,” he said. She couldn’t see his face but she heard how he was offering something to her, something he wasn’t sure she would accept. “That’s my name, that’s what you should call me.”
“When we are alone?” she asked.
“Yes, and when you think of me, if you do, call me so to yourself,” he replied. “In company, I may remain the General and you the Sun Summoner, but those are titles, positions, not our true-names.”
Hand-fasting and now true-names, she thought. He spoke of the old ways as if they were not nearly passed into legend, tales told to children tucked in their beds. She liked it, but she couldn’t tell whether it was some eccentricity of his or something more significant. He was warmly vital against her, his chest and his thighs, the hand at her waist, without a hint of frost or the soul-ensnaring cold that the gods before the Saints had been said to possess and deploy.
“Does anyone else call you Aleksander?”
“Very few. And most often in my dreams. It sounds good to hear you say it,” he answered. Before she could say another word, he cried out, “Opasnost, yak burya!” and the stallion galloped swift as the storm Aleksander had invoked, his hooves thunder and his neck angled sharp as a lightning bolt. They were away and when they stopped, she would become yet another Alina, the wife of a killer, a savior, bound to a future she had never imagined possible. She had the duration of the journey to consider what she would make of it; once they arrived, time would no longer be her ally. All she would have left was light and Aleksander.
#shadow and bone#darklina#canon au#arranged marriage au#romance#alina x aleksander#aleksander morozova#alina starkov#what-if#world-building my own#grishaverse#en route to the Little Palace#one-shot#for now anyway
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