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hadestownmodern · 4 years

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Wedding

(literally nobody asked for a wedding fic but someone did ask for soft young parents and...technically...this fits that a little bit?)

It’s a night in the middle of winter; a fresh coating of snow coats the rolling meadow behind Demeter’s tiny farmhouse. She’d offered her house up for their wedding with a wholehearted excitement, borrowed mismatched sets of chairs and tables and set them all out on the lawn. From the moment the day had begun she’d been busy-tending to the animals and putting them away for the night, starting small bonfires and heat lamps to keep the night warm. Fairy lights were strung between the large trees, lanterns hung around the line of the bordering forest. Even the garden, sparse from the winter weather, had been decked in a soft glow of lights among its posts. Bunches of deep purple flowers and earthy sage were scattered along the tables, clipped to the lights. Eurydice had been over during the week, begging to help to no avail; everything was meant to be a surprise.

“Don’t lift a finger,” Demeter chastised lovingly. “You just take care of that baby of yours. Let us do something for you.”

Hades moved around with a happy display of his culinary skill, having already prepared a decent amount of food throughout the week. It was enough to feed the whole city, they’d joked, and he’d beamed with pride. He set appetizers on whatever sorts of trays he could find, poured drinks into glass jars, set them in a beautiful array around the galley kitchen that made it seem beautifully overflowing. From time to time he’d bustle over to Eurydice and Persephone, shoving spoonfuls of food toward them with urgency, eagerly awaiting the inevitable grins and thumbs-up that would follow. Junie had long since draped herself across a majority of the couch, her own lace-flowered dress a compliment to her head of big angelic curls and the crown of sage-colored leaves around them. Junie’s eyes have been glued to Eurydice since she’d seen her, her hand aching to hold hers, to follow her as she walked.

“You look like a princess,” she’d gasped, reaching up to touch the baby in her arms. Melody wore a matching rendition of the softly flowing lace, a purple headband bow covering the dark hair upon her own head. Eurydice had yet to put her down for more than five minutes-had held her wide-eyed baby proudly as she’d gotten her cropped hair brushed and settled into their natural waves, gone for an earthily toned makeup look, soft and simple. Junie played games with her, hopped up and down and twirled in her dress, entertaining the smiling infant with adoration and purpose.

The guests arrived nearly all at once; friends from work, some of the people Orpheus played music with…the crowd was small, but intimate. Each face knew another, each with their own story to tell of the day Orpheus had told them about this girl in the coffee shop, or her name is Eurydice-I love her more than anything, or we’re having a baby. We’re going to get married. The endless songs of love that came from Orpheus knowing her echoed throughout the crowd, was shown in the way they bustled amongst each other, spoke words of blessing and happiness for the young couple. They poured over the tablecards, each printed with heartfelt photos of the short time they’d spent together-seemingly sprawling, judging on the way the two clung to each other in a photobooth, posed behind the bar, wrapped themselves in each other at Christmas with an ultrasound picture between them. The sunset-evening was glowing with these small sentiments of love, which only grew as a nervous Orpheus stood under the handmade archway beside the garden.

He waited with his eyes trained to the back door of his amma’s house, hands fiddling with the hem of his suit coat. Hermes and Hades stoodd on either side of Orpheus, watching as he fussed around with impatience. Hermes lifted one arm, patting his shoulder with a chuckle. Orpheus looked out at the gathering of their close friends, sat in those same mismatched chairs, arranged from their tables in a haphazardly beautiful sort of crowd with an aisle in between. A pair of musicians played their instruments, a guitar and a fiddle respectively, and the door flung open.

Junie ran out first, in a sort of twirling dance that showed off the carefree flow of lace coming from beneath her warm woolen petticoat. She threw purple petals from Demeter’s greenhouse, petals she helped pick and pluck that morning to keep her occupied. Her feet left tiny tracks in the dusting of snow they’d received; just enough to bless the earth with a perfect white powder, seemingly decorative rather than by the nature of the winter. Orpheus kept his eyes trained on the door, listened as the crowd fell helplessly to the joy she spread. Nothing else mattered except the girl behind the door, which opened only after he heard Hades scoop Junie up in his arms, felt her pat his arm relentlessly.

Everything stopped when the door opened again; a flood of warm light hit the now darkened night, wrapped itself around Eurydice as she stepped out into the snow. Persephone and Demeter stood on either side of her, hands on her back. Flanked in support, Eurydice began her trek down the aisle, and Orpheus wiped feverishly at the tears that spilled openly down his cheeks.

She was ethereal beauty, clothed in a sheer white dress with bell sleeves and a deeply dipped neckline. There are small bits of embroidery, hand-stitched in gold thread to resemble a universe of constellations telling stories of a young Demeter, Persephone about to be born, practicing her hand at a hobby that kept her busy. The dipping neck is hidden by the baby in her arms-their girl, in tiny long-sleeved lace and a completely encompassing petticoat, tucked as close to Eurydice’s chest as possible. He attempted this stand-still moment as he watched all of the important women in his life walk toward him, but then Eurydice was grinning, pausing to gasp, open mouthed and cry with him. His feet move before he can think about the etiquette of it all, meet her in the middle of the aisle. Orpheus reaches his hands to her arms, rubbing her shoulders and kissing Melody’s head.

“Hi,” He breathed, an ear-to-ear grin encompassing all of his features, spreading his own unfiltered joy through the crowd. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” She giggled, shaking her head as he wiped the tears from her eyes. From the archway Hermes cleared his throat, rolled his eyes and called Orpheus’s name.

“Come on, you two. Come up here and get married.”

There was a chorus of laughter, Hermes shaking his head as they stood in front of the crowd, Orpheus with an arm on hers and a hand on Melody’s back. He was shaking, nerves and excitement bubbling within him like carbonation just waiting for its opportunity to meet the open air-for permission to overflow. Eurydice wasn’t much different, then, simultaneously thankful for the presence of their daughter snug against her chest and aching to reach out and fold herself over Orpheus. Her tender poet, soft and adoring, looked between them both with stars in his eyes, content in the moment until Hermes poked at his arm.

“Your vows?” He reminded, and Orpheus took in a deep breath. Feeling the presence of their friends-the bite of the winter air against the warmth of the bonfires and lamps and Eurydice’s soft, glowing smile, he began.

“I know that everyone thought I was crazy when I bought you a ring two weeks after meeting you. I know that they thought it was crazy that four weeks after we met we were engaged, we were going to have a baby. They don’t know what I know. They didn’t get to see the way you looked the night we met, talking about your classes and your degree and your passions. They don’t get to know what it felt like to be loved by someone with every reason to run after I said ‘I love you’ way too soon. They don’t know what it’s like to watch the woman you love tell you she’s pregnant a month in and just feel…joy. Excitement…I was taught from a very young age that love is something rare, and special. That you know when it’s right. I was taught to believe that souls are supposed to meet each other here, that we’re lucky enough to share a physical space for as long as we get. I knew from the moment I met you that you were it. And I didn’t want to waste any more time. You’re it-and I love you endlessly, forever.”

“I’m going to say it before anyone else does-we clearly haven’t wasted any time here.” Eurydice kisses their daughter’s head, their friends and family laughing, Persephone’s distinct agreement above them all. “But I’m glad, because I love you. I love you for speaking too soon-for loving me in a way I’ve never been loved before. I love you for teaching me what love really is, for being the most giving, kind presence of light anybody has had in their life. I love you for your heart; you gave us Melody. You poured yourself into work, you wrote songs and changed diapers and held me even when I was being stubborn. I am so happy that our daughter gets to grow up with a father like you-someone who loves so openly and unconditionally, who speaks with honesty and kindness…when I met you, I met my family. I felt like I was home. And now, I can truly say that. Orpheus, I love you-endlessly, forever.”

Eurydice passes Melody over to Persephone with haste, flies eagerly and wholly into her poet’s waiting arms. She can feel the squeeze of his hug, his hasty lips on hers. She brings both her hands to the back of his neck and presses herself as close to him as possible, the cheering of their friends and family merely a muted background to their own happiness. A tiny squeaking makes its way past them-past the bubble they’d created-and Eurydice pulls away laughing as she takes a fussing mama’s girl away from Persephone. She holds Melody between them, Orpheus kissing her head and holding them both. He’s still holding them as they walk back down the aisle-as their friends begin to move the chairs back around, begin playing celebratory songs, gathering around them to smother them in well wishes.

The crowd is wrapped in doubling of warmth as Orpheus bends over to kiss his wife again, smiling as they laugh through a new round of their own blissful tears.

#hadestown #hadestownmodern #orphydice #young orphydice #orpheus #eurydice #melody #danielle writes #wedding

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okimargarvez · 4 years

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FIRST DATE

Original title: First date.

Prompt: Luke asks Pen a date in a particular way.

Warning: none.

Genre: romantic, fluff.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, Phil Brooks, Roxy.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 70 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 🐶.

Song mentioned: Persone silenziose, Luca Carboni feat Tiziano Ferro.

GARVEZ STORIES

Note: this is not about episode 15x10. I written it weeks before seeing that moment. It was just a dream (one of the little about garvez) I made.

FIRST DATE

There are some silent people, there are timid presences hidden among people... but silence makes noise, the eyes have an amplifier... those eyes that have always been used to listening...

Hearing his cell phone vibrate, for a moment Luke fears that they have a new case. He looks at the display and smiles. -Alvez.- he gasps, trying to catch his breath. Roxy runs around him, agitated by the unexpected break.

The friend on the other end of the line chuckles. -Hey, brother, how are you?- he caresses the dog, calming him down. -Am I bother you?- he sighs.

-Never! I was running with Rox!- she barks, greeting Phil in her own way.

-You really have to find a girl, Luke.- he lovingly scolds him. Latin smiles inside himself. I'm just working on it. -About this... Did I mention my physiotherapist, Lisa? She's very pretty. I was wondering... would you like to have a double date? She, Penelope, you and I.- Luke's brain freezes on hearing that name. The heart starts pumping blood again at a speed not recommended. -What do you say? Hey, man, are you still there?- he blinks several times to recover.

-Yes, yes, I’m, but... What does your proposal mean? Do you know? Is it so obvious?- he blushes, but at the same time he is unable to get that grimace of absolute joy out of his face that appears every time he accidentally thinks of her.

-I understand what? Oh, wait. I hoped I saw wrong... You like her, don't you?- Luke runs his tongue over his lips, sighs in a teenage way.

-Yeah, huh, in fact... I asked her out. Or...- he scratches his head, nervous. -Technically I wrote her a letter. So, I don't know if you can consider it…- he recognizes Phil's exclamation.

-A letter? You mean paper letter? Only you can do such an old-fashioned thing!- he struggles to stop laughing. -Let me know how it goes, heartbreaker!- he is about to hang up, but he understands that he still has a joke in store. -If it goes bad, remember that there is someone else interested, not too far away...- Luke shakes his head. He doesn’t have time to put the phone in the pocket, that it starts ringing again.

He answers without looking. -Any other ridiculous joke, Brooks?- but he soon realizes it's not Phil.

-Alvez, we have a case and it's pretty bad. How long does it take you to get here?-

People who can't speak, who put their thoughts in order, people full of fear that someone might know their little and big... contradictory thoughts!

Although not many are convinced of this, Penelope is capable of being a professional person. That's why she notices the envelope just beyond her office door. But she decides not to consider it until the case is resolved. And so, she does.

Leaning against the backrest, she yawns. Her eyes fall on that envelope, still sealed, intact. She looks more carefully at the only writing. Her name. Penelope. She recognizes the handwriting before opening it. She closes her eyes, thinking that when she opens them again, she will understand that it was a hallucination.

Instead it is always there. She starts reading.

Penelope,

I can't imagine what you're thinking right now. In fact, she has no idea what she should expect from the continuation. For this reason, she decides to go ahead. Maybe I should have started by calling you Garcia, like the rest of the team. But you are not only Garcia, for me, and especially when I think of you outside of work.

Here, now her head is definitely confused. She has to read the sentence a second time. It's the same. It is always there. She's not just Garcia for him. What else, then? I hope you are still reading it. I wrote you this letter instead of an email or a message, because I had too many things to say and I hope that a little of what I feel has been transmitted to the sheet and that you can believe me. He managed to snatch a laugh from her and he is not even physically here. She finds herself stroking those sentences with her fingers. He is really so sweet... And suited to his style. A cold email could never give her heart pounding. I'd like to go out to dinner one evening with you. She jumps, risking falling off the chair. Luke's next sentence scares her even more. He seems to read her mind. Yes, I don't mean as colleagues or friends at O'Keefe. I mean a real full-blown appointment. Considering how they have always been going around the issue, without ever taking an effective step that leaves no room for doubt... well, yes, it is quite strange. Romantic. Intimate. Just the two of us. He continues to puzzled her, every word he adds.

In case you haven't died from a giggle attack now, I'd like to try to show you that it's all true. For once he hasn't guessed her reaction at all, quite the opposite. Laugh? She is not thinking about it at all. No, rather, should this irregularity in her heart beat worry her? Is she by chance having a heart attack? Should she call someone? I have been imagining that moment for far too long (more than I would admit). Oh shit, if he goes on this log, she'll really have to call an ambulance. I see you as if you were now in front of me. I see your extraordinary beauty in every nuance. Holy crap, holy crap. Her extraordinary beauty? Was he by chance drugged when he started writing this letter? Does he really think this of her? So, this is the reason why he stares at her for so long even in the least indicated moments. And I see myself, awkwardly, with my heart rumbling in my ears and sweaty hands, forcing me to ring the bell. And listening with tension to every noise coming from beyond the door. And your steps. He is a cursed poet, a director, an artist, because he has managed to show what he has described as almost real, a film, an anticipation... a spoiler aimed at the future. And then I imagine your smile a little uncertain, as if you had feared that in the end it would turn out to be a joke. Damn profilers; how can you play with them equally? I would make a compliment, you would thank me by touching my arm, I would reach to heaven. In Heaven just for a light touch on the arm? She doesn’t dare, really, Penelope doesn’t dare to imagine what effect it would then have if she accidentally came into contact with a slightly more pushed area... like the chest. I don't want to irk you; I'll spare you the rest of the evening. Irk you; here's the mystery solved, it's a Reid joke! But she doesn't believe it, never for a second. I will just tell you that I am sure I would have a fantastic time. Just because it would be with you. Damn bastard, what creature, no matter the gender, could decline an offer presented in this way? Without feeling like an idiot.

Because you are this. When I am close to you, it is as if the words no longer want to collaborate with me and form sentences of complete meaning... She knows the feeling perfectly, bro. But at the same time, I'm fine, you make me feel good, otherwise I wouldn't want to spend so much time with you. Well, it has its own logic. When love is logical? And why she thought that damn word?

I don't want to tell you what I feel for you loud and clear. I'd rather do it face to face; however cowardly I may be. And you're smart enough (actually a genius) to read between the lines. Smart enough, he says. And she knows it's true, but she doesn't dare to make assumptions. Lie, she already did. She did so whenever their eyes chained themselves for more than four seconds. But does anyone know this rule? Luke definitely doesn’t. Over four seconds means that the person who is looking at you wants to do something more with you, besides staring at you. No, not just a kiss. Of course.

I look forward to your reply, with trepidation and I hope I haven't ruined everything. For me, even just your friendship is important, but I could no longer live without knowing the truth, without getting involved. In her heart she wasn’t convinced that he would ever be able to take the first step.

Wherever and wherever you are, I wish you a wonderful day,

Luke

She emits so many sighs that she looks like a teapot about to explode, or a steam train. Has she really read those beautiful (wonderful, other than beautiful) words addressed to her by the Newbie (which for some time now can no longer be considered such)? No, she must have misunderstood, misinterpreted something. Instead it's all there, black on white: Luke Alvez wants to go out with her, a real date, romantic, intimate. He has swept away all doubts and loopholes. And now it's up to her, to answer him.

When was the last time she picked up one of her colorful and oddly shaped pens to do anything other than close a call with the team?

Okay, come on, it can't be that hard. He exposed his soul with her. The least she can do is try to return the favor.

Luke didn’t expect an answer so soon, on the contrary, it would be more legitimate that he had not imagined to get a real reaction from his blonde colleague, only... he needed to get rid of that weight. He still felt good. He regretted to not meeting her before returning home after the case was over. It was strange, but it had already happened that she wasn't there waiting for them.

He would lie if he denied he has thinking about it until his brain went out. Or that it wasn’t his first thought when he woke up, while shaving with a little more attention than usual.

Yet he can't help but feel some fibrillation down the path to his desk. And when he sees that envelope on the smooth surface, he reacts more or less like Garcia. At first, he believes it is a projection of his mind. He must touch it to accept that it is a concrete object belonging to this dimension. Penelope imitated him in a sublime way. His name, only four letters, seems almost a drawing, traced by her fantastic hands. He tries very hard to hold back the cry of joy that has gone up to his throat. It may also contain a negative response; but he doesn’t even consider this possibility. Usually he is not a positive person, but this time... He looks around. There is practically nobody, here there are the positive sides of get there early. So how long has that envelope been there? Did she leave it here the night before? Or is Penelope already hidden in her office?

A lot of unnecessary questions. He opens it and instantly his nostrils are struck by a heavenly perfume. Gingerly, he brings it close to his nose. Yes, it is hers. Oh jeez, will he come out alive in the end? He takes a quick look. The first thing he notices is that it's much shorter than his. But didn't someone say that the synthesis is the maximum understanding of the text? Maybe he's confusing the areas.

He starts reading, calmly.

Luke,

but he bursts already after the first word, which is none other than his name again. He must close his eyes and press his fingers on his temple, to achieve a mental balance stable enough to be able to continue. wow, a letter, what... Anachronistic thing. And somehow, I must admit, fascinating. Never as much as she is, but the bottom line is that... she liked it! A good start. It is useless to dance around it: you completely puzzled me. I confess that I find it hard to believe that you want to go out with me as... As an interested man. Why does it have to be so complicated to accept? She thinks she is not live up to him? What nonsense! If anything, the exact opposite! She could have any one man, doesn't she know? But he hopes she wants only him. He wants to be the lucky chosen one, more than anything else in the world. But I decided to get involved, as you did. It seems to me a story a bit too elaborate to be a joke. Yeah, elaborate… why does he fall even deeper for her every word? And I suspected that there was a romantic under the beard and the hunter's skin. Caught, Alvez. Never been so happy to be discovered by a girl, since elementary school, when he played hide and seek. Are you glad I used your same method? And also one of my favorite pens; enjoy the perfume, and consider it an appetizer for that day... He doesn't resist, he tastes the aroma a second time, letting his lungs fill themselves with it, closing his eyes like a moron, hearing Garcia's voice in his head that repeats the last sentence. An appetizer. It is so erotic that... he is happy to sitting with the lower half of the body under the desk. And by the way: you didn't indicate a date. Oh shit, she's right! How could he have been so stupid? He blushes, cursing himself. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that Matt and Tara are entering. He must hurry to finish the reading.

I wish you and Roxy a good evening, and I apologize you for forgetting Sergio 😉 And, here is a second unforgivable omission. But no, she said the exact opposite. She's giving him a chance. For real.

Your fantastic Penny

Penny. He savors that name on his lips, slowly. Fantastic, she certainly is. He puts the letter in a drawer at random, he doesn't need to see it again, he has already learned it by heart, even if he doesn't have Reid's skills.

Luke proves even bolder than she thought. Taking advantage of the fact that no new cases have arrived, he manages to find a way to send the letter to her the same day. Now that he has received a first green light it is really difficult to refrain.

She could access the video of the camera placed outside her office to watch him put it under her door. But it would be a slightly maniac thing. So, she just picks it up from the floor and opens it with little grace. She reads all in one breath.

Penelope,

I thank you for your magnanimity. Yes, you cannot imagine what pleasure it is for me to can hold a handwritten script by your hands. Do you understand now how hopeless I am? She's starting to get an idea. They are on the same boat. Do you think that a joke would be worth this self-denunciation and humiliation? You're right, for the emotion (and stupidity) I forgot to indicate a date, or maybe I was afraid that you might be scared of it, as if I had already decided everything. Yes, it is a far from remote hypothesis. Unless we will get a case, what you think about tomorrow night? Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Just over 24 hours from now. She strives to breathe normally. And forgive me if I haven't been able to rely on post delivery times,

your Luke

Hers! Hers! Will he ever really be hers? Her boyfriend. Luke Alvez her boyfriend. It looks like a joke. It seems too real. And it frightens her.

She spends most of the day wondering what is the best way to answer him. She discards another letter because someone would surely notice it as she leaves it on Agent Alvez's desk. A message is too little and an email... Too detached. She wastes time so long that it is the moment to go home.

She is waiting for the elevator, always swimming in indecision. And it is at that moment that fate sets in motion. Luke appears from around the corner. At first, he seems almost frightened to find her there. Then his face melts into a smile. -Hey..- he is unexpectedly shy.

-Hey.- she replies with the same intonation. They look at each other for a few minutes. Weirdly, no one, stranger or part of the team, arrives to interrupt that moment. -Okay.- says Penelope after a century. Luke's eyes widen. She approaches him slowly, and puts her hand on his shoulder. -Okay, Luke, tomorrow is fine.- she whispers, making him shiver. -But you still forgot to indicate a time.- she smiles, going away.

Luke blushes. -Oh, you're right... it’s good 8.00 p.m.? Then you should have enough time to... You know.- she nods.

-It's perfect.- the elevator arrives, he lets her go up first. They are silent throughout the journey. Just before arriving, she approaches him again and places a kiss on his cheek. -Good night, Luke. See you tomorrow.-

The next evening

And suddenly you run away... without saying goodbye. Your eyes go down the stairs... I don't know what they are going to do, if to be moved or to dream... to get angry or to meditate...

Luke manages to hold back anxiety for the first twenty minutes. After another ten he goes into paranoia. Half an hour late seems to him a socially acceptable time to lose his head and call her. The phone rings empty. He waits a few more minutes and tries again. Ring endlessly, until the voice mail goes. Damn, why the hell isn't she picking up? It is on the third call that he completely loses his mind. He presses the repeat button practically without even realizing it. He takes strangely little time to reach thirty; thirty calls.

He doesn't even think for a moment if he should call the police. If something bad happened to her, what could a policeman do more than a federal agent (not on duty)? He drives like a madman to her house; he only went once but he has already memorized the route. Like whatever concerns her. He forces himself to park in a decent way and also to close the car; if someone would steal it, he would certainly be not be very clever, in case he had to take her somewhere, like a hospital... He climbs the stairs three steps at a time. He is already ready to knock down the door, he is mentally preparing himself for the act, when it opens wide and behind it there is her, perfectly healthy, intact, except that she seems very shaken.

He can finally start breathing again. Oxygen enters his lungs violently. -Penelope.- he coughs, as an inevitable consequence.

She just stares at him with terrified eyes. -You gave me... you gave a heart attack!- she puts one of her hands on her chest. Luke notices that she is wearing an open dressing gown that reveals a pajama. Did she prepare for their date or did she never give him a real chance? Did he just delude himself? He intends to get all the answers right now.

After the relief a little anger takes over, transmitted through a pungent irony. -Why, you thought you got rid of me forever?- but he doesn't last long, because she seems really too lost and fragile to be really angry. He already knows the reason for her behavior. He just needs to hear her say it.

-What?- Penelope asks, even more confused. Luke shakes his head.

-Forget it.- but he has a spasmodic need to touch her, any part of the body will be fine. -Why did you ditch me?- he caresses her arm, that thin layer of skin exposed to the outside world, and, surprisingly, she doesn't jump, she doesn't chase him away. -I waited until eleven o'clock.- is a reproach, but he has said it in the lowest and sweetest tone that is available in his vocal range. Penelope looks at him in passing. She doesn’t let her eyes fall into male ones. They are too magnetic. And she is in pajamas. And that's enough to embarrass her. Why does he persist in staying on her doorstep? She sighs, recalling the spirit of the Garcia of the past. The queen of ice. Anything just to get rid of him.

-You and the team wanted to play a trick on me and I ruined your party... I can't say I'm really sorry.- she is an excellent actress, even though she has never been able to exploit these qualities in real, private life... only on a stage. Luke seems to have taken really bad. As if... nope. It doesn't really care. -It's life, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose...- and instead, she seems to be rotten wrong. The man grabs her wrist that a second ago he was gently stroking and drags her dangerously towards him. Now she just can't avoid eye contact. And maybe it's better to not focus on his beautiful mouth.

That is now ranting at her. -What are you talking about?- the tone seems desperate, pained. -I will have called you thirty times and surely your voice mail will be clogged.- in fact it was really so. She didn't believe he would be able to go that far and listen to him beg her to tell him if she was okay, that the rest didn't matter, that he just needed to know that everything was ok... of course he shook her. But not enough to give her the strength to answer and reassure him. Why the hell was she so stupid?

Luke doesn't seem to think this of her, but the blonde continues straight on the road that will lead her to crash and collect the pieces of her heart. -I thought you would get there alone.- the voice, however, is already trembling, and she is wavering and seeking support in the door, rather than in him.

She reads sincerity in his face, yet she is unable to do anything other than boycott her own happiness. -Penelope, let's face it: did you think it was just a joke?- she doesn't nod, nor does she deny. Her eyes speak, confess. -Really? After everything we've written to each other?- a vein in his neck throbs, his face is red and his eyes are shiny. It's the first time she's seen him so furious. And to know that she is the reason... no, it is not at all good.

Even if she tells him exactly the opposite. -You're not cute when you're angry.- she shoots before she can stop it. This is not a thought that first formed in her mind and then was came out from the mouth. No, it born of nowhere.

Luke frowns. He is so puzzled that he lets her go. -What?- and she can no longer deny. She would like to have his arms around her back and his lips on hers. By this time, she could have already gotten it, if she wasn't an idiot and a coward. Never again, she promises. Never repeat the same mistake again.

-I won't take it back.- from now on she will be 100% sincere, even if it means having to suffer. She was never able to protect herself from the feelings that people cause her before Luke Alvez appeared on her radar. Why was everything different with him right away? She already knows the answer to this question too. She looks him straight in the eye. She could so easily fall in love with him... and it probably has already happened. -I said you're not cute when you're angry.- she tries to use a firm, stable tone of voice, even if a samba contest is taking place inside her.

Luke's face darkens. -But I'm not mad at you. I'm... just sad.- he has found a way to make her feel guilty, and almost certainly he is not aware of it. Both his attitude and tone are killing her. -It was so difficult to find the courage to ask you out and...- she interrupts him, practically caught by an electrocution. For a moment she sees him kneeling at his feet. No less insecure than now, despite they having been together for years. Willing to stay with her, even if she were to say no. And she can no longer really continue to doubt.

-Oh God. You really wanted to go out with me.- she starts shaking her head and at the same time her legs melt. Luke promptly holds her up, making her rest on his chest. He sticks his fingers in her blonde strands. Just to get this, the evening cannot be considered a fiasco, for him.

-I still want it.- he whispers. Then he sees her closing her eyes and trying to reach his lips. He barely rejects her, practicing violence against himself. -No, no kisses- Penelope teases him with a lost puppy look, abandoned in a cardboard while it's about to rain -don't look at me like that, don't tempt me, it wouldn't be fair.- he feels a jerk, but he has already waited so long that twenty-four more hours won't make much difference. Quite right? He could convince himself. -I want to do things right, with you.- because she deserves it, that's what he doesn't add. Because he doesn't want too much frenzy to extinguish their flame, even if he doesn't really believe it's possible.

She tickles him on the chest through the layers of cloth. -But between us has there ever been anything normal and ordinary?- she replies promptly. And she's right. Fucking right. Her scent, the same of the letter, clouds his brain. But he holds on.

-But I'd still like to try.- Penelope nods, giving up and contenting herself with embracing him and trying to merge with the male body. -Then, will you blow me off a second time?- it had to be a joke, but she catches the few shades of seriousness in it.

She sighs, touching his neck and catching his eyes. -I can't promise you that I will. I wish I could, but my... fears, sometimes... win and...- Luke nods too, because this is a fight he has often faced, since he met a certain Penelope Garcia, BAU’ computer technician.

He takes her face in his hands. -I hope you just know that on the other side there is a man waiting anxiously and with heavy heart.- the phrase seems too retro and artificial to remain serious. Straight output directly from a nineteenth-century comedy. -Look, I made you laugh, it's already something.- he rests his lips on her forehead. -It's all real, Penelope, you don't have to be afraid you can suffer. Do you believe me?- he feels her nod.

But she understands alone that he also needs to hear it from her voice. -Yes.- even if it's a murmur, just whispered.

Luke smiles. -Well.- he's going to do something again that is against what he really wants. Kissing her, entering her apartment, closing the door with his foot, as they do in the movies and scandalizing Sergio. What would be wrong with that? -Now I go home, I have to force myself, otherwise I would stay here with you forever.- her eyes are exactly asking him why he shouldn’t. -I put almost all the cards on the table, I think I can't do more.- he comes off with difficulty, it's really a painful action.

For her too. -See you tomorrow, Luke.- she greets him only. But then the man turns, before turning to take the stairs, and then she adds a simple, very small sentence. That changes everything. -I'll miss you!-

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

TAGS: @martinab26 @thinitta @garvezz @mercedes-maldonado @shyladystudentfan @pegasus-scifichick @paperwalk @inlovewithgarvaz @the-ellen-stuff @astressedwriter @symphonyashley @veronicafiore88 @kofforever @myhollyhanna23 @tootsienoodles @centiaaa shadowdreamer5 @penelopesluke @dumbdraws @onefail-at-atime @reidskitty13 @adorarapril @princesstreaclefanfic @glocknade111-blog @magiunific @fallen-novak @dreatine @hopelessdayydreamer Tell me if you want to be removed! ^_^

#garvez #criminal minds #cm #penelope garcia #luke alvez #penelope x luke #luke x penelope #tiziano ferro #luca carboni #persone silenziose

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triptuckers · 5 years

Text

Leave a message (Niall Horan)

Request: Yes: Could you write something with a socially awkward female reader with Niall which is really cuddly and soft and maybe there’s some angst as well..? [bonus points if she has geeky interests such as Harry Potter, Star Trek, Marvel, Disney, Vintage Movies, etc] Thanks!! Pairing:Niall Horan x reader Summary: You’re a really introverted person. So, when someone starts to leave you messages, you’re not sure how to react. But you’re anxious to find out who it is. Let’s say you’re not disappointed at all when you meet the person that’s been writing you messages. Warnings: None, this is pure fluff Word count: 4.7K (I got a little carried away) A/N: I loved this request and I loved writing it!! (That’s why it’s over 4K, I got a little carried away oops) I really love this piece, and I hope you do to! I added some of my personal favorite books and series to it, I hope you all like it. To the one who requested it, I hope it’s like you had in mind. Enjoy reading!!

Books & Coffee. A really simple name for the store your parents own. Simple. The best way to describe your parents’ store. It’s not a big, shiny store that’s up to date with all the latest trends. It’s not located on a busy shopping street in a big city. It’s a small and cozy store that’s filled with secondhand books, some with stains all over them. Some of the books have old letters in them, some are dusty, and some look like they have been read at least a hundred times. There’s even a shelf called the “Leave a message shelf”. Visitors can write a message, a note, a song, a poem, or anything else in one of the books, and put it back. For others to read.

Visitors can read the books while enjoying a homemade cup of coffee. No triple caramel shot frappe chino’s or latte macchiatos with a whole painting in the foam. Books & Coffee has regular coffee, tea, lemonade, and five or six cookies, muffins and cakes. Nothing special. Just simple, basic stuff. You’d think a store like that wouldn’t last long in today’s world. A world that’s filled with people that keep on wanting more and more. Books & Coffee isn’t located on a busy shopping street. It doesn’t have a fancy Instagram page, or a Twitter account, let alone Facebook. It has one simple website. Still, Books & Coffee has managed to survive after all these years.

Your parents loved running the store, and that’s why most of the customers loved it so much. A simple, cozy store, where one could read a book in peace while enjoying a cup of tea. Most of the regulars always dropped by to say hello, or to look at the books on the Leave a message shelf. You grew up between the bookshelves. You learned how to take orders, make coffee, organize books and how to make sure customers were happy from a very young age. No wonder you are now working in your parents’ store whenever you could.

You loved the store. With its dusty books, the faint smell of coffee that always seemed to be around, the regular customers. You’re a fairly shy and introverted person, but you always felt like home whenever you’re in the store. You talked to everyone in the store, unlike the rest of your days. Outside the store, you weren’t much of a talker. You mostly kept to yourself, observing others. You were never the one to start a conversation. But down at Books & Coffee, it seemed like you were a whole other person. You talked to people, walked up to them, laughed with strangers. Thank god the cute guy that lived a couple blocks away showed up at the store one day, because you were sure that if you had met him on the streets, you would have looked at the ground and kept on walking. But lucky for you, you met him at the store.

It’s a regular Saturday. The store is filled with some of the regular customers, along with new customers. Your father is taking care of the drinks and your mother is discussing something with a customer. They assigned you to making sure the store looks neat. So, you’re dusting the shelves, moving some books, putting them back on the shelves they’re supposed to. You’re distracted by a book on the Leave a message shelf. It’s a new book. Someone must have put it there because you don’t recognize it. You frown as you take it out off the shelf.

You read the words on the cover of the book. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. You smile. It’s one of your favorites. You open the book and flick through the pages. Your eyes land on a written message.Does the cute girl with the braids that works here have a name?You frown again as you re-read the words. You always wear your hair in braids. Either one, or two braids. Today, you’re wearing two braids. Your eyes look across the store, to try to find the one who wrote it. You can’t find anyone who looks like they would have written a message to you. It could be some kind of lame joke, but there’s no one around that looks like they would do that. You get a pen and hesitate before writing an answer. The girl does have a name. Y/N. And she would like to know who wrote this. You bite your lip and look at the message before putting the book back on the shelf. You can’t help but to smile to yourself as you continue to dust the shelf.

On Sunday, you are at the store again. You make your way over to the Leave a message shelf as soon as your parents open the door. You get the Harry Potter book and flick through the pages as fast as you can, looking for the page with the written message on it. The smile fades from your lips when you discover there is no new message. You left the store early yesterday, hoping the message writer would be back. But it appears you were wrong. Feeling a bit disappointed, you head over to the front of the store, taking place behind the counter to take orders from customers. At every dingof the bell hanging by the door, your head shoots up to see if the person entering the store could be the one writing you messages. There are a couple people that enter the store that look like they could have written the message. But from your place behind the counter you can’t see the Leave a message shelf.

Around 2 pm, your mother takes over and tells you to put the new books on the shelves where they belong. You basically run to the Leave a message shelf. Your fingers run across the books until you find the one you are looking for. Your heart jumps when you find it at a different spot you put it the day before. You open the book, look for the page and see the familiar handwriting. A bright smile appears on your face when you find a new message, written just underneath your answer. Pretty name for a pretty girl (cheesy but true). My name is Niall. And I would like to apologize for the fact that I wrote on one of your favorite books. The smile on your face grows as you read the words. Niall. He wasn’t one of the regular customers, you would recognize his name. And he called you pretty. Not a lot of people had called you pretty. Sure, your parents called you pretty, but that didn’t count. This was a boy showing interest in you. As exciting as it was, you were a bit scared as well. A part of you was still wondering if this wasn’t some prank. You read the words again, focusing on the last sentence. How did this Niall know it was one of your favorite books? You get out your pen to write a message back to him. Niall, how did you come up with the idea of writing me messages? And how do you know this is one of my favorite books? You look at the words. You bite your lip as you stare at the page. Then you add X, Y/N to it. You exhale as you close the book and put it back. You jump a little and walk toward the back of the store to get the new books.

Monday. It’s like the hours seem to pass by even slower than they used to. You’re sitting in the back of the room, listening to your professor going on and on about some sort of poet you’re not interested in. Normally, you’d pay attention in Literature class, given that you love books and everything that comes with it. But today, your mind is focused on Niall. Would he leave you another message while you’re at college? You watch the seconds go by slowly. You continue to listen to the dull voice of your professor. As soon as the bell rings, you throw your things randomly in your bag, you swing the straps of your bag around your shoulders and head toward the exit of the building. You have a lot of deadlines coming up in the upcoming weeks, and you should be heading home to work on the essays. But you can’t help but to go to Books & Coffee first. You have to know if he left you another message. When you enter the store, your father gives you a confused look, Monday isn’t one of your regular days. You tell him you need to check something before you’re going home to work on the essays. Your feet take you to the familiar shelve and you quickly look at the books. You find the one you’re looking for at the same place you put it back the day before. Nevertheless, you get the book and open it. Your eyes fall on the written messages. But there’s no new one. You look at the time. It’s nearly 4 pm. Maybe Niall had to go to college as well? Maybe he had to go to work? The store wouldn’t close until 7. You wanted to stay and wait in case he showed up and wrote you an answer. But you couldn’t fail college because you were waiting for a boy. You put the book back on the shelf and left the store. You would check again tomorrow. For now, your essays are waiting for you at home.

It’s Tuesday, another day at college. You had spent the entire Monday evening working on your essays. You didn’t bother going back to the store before it closed. The hours go by as slow as they did yesterday. Once the last bell rings, you head to Books & Coffee. You always scheduled Tuesday’s free, so you could help out at the store.

You open the door and your usual coffee is waiting for you on the counter. You take the cup and walk to your favorite chair. It’s a big green-blue-ish chair, and you can see the entire store from your spot. You look at the people entering the store and every now and then you hear a part of a conversation. You didn’t check on the Harry Potter book yet, though you couldn’t help but look at the shelf every once in a while. You still hope Niall shows up. Once you finish your coffee, you take the cup back to the counter and put it in the sink. Your mom asks you if you can check for new arrivals. You nod at her and make your way to the back of the store. There are only a few new arrivals which you can carry in a box.

You open the door to the store and your eyes land on someone standing in front of the Leave a message shelf. He’s taller than you are. You can’t see his face that well, but you notice his nice outfit. He looks like he knows what he’s doing. From what you can tell, he’s around your age. His eyes look at the books on the shelf, and he smiles when his eyes land on the book he was looking for. Your heart stops when he takes the book off the shelf. You recognize the red cover. It’s Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. You watch him as he opens the book. He reads a page and smiles before taking a pen out of his pocket. He writes something on the page. You can’t believe it. There actually is someone who writes you those messages. Suddenly, your eyes meet a pair of blue ones. He must have had the feeling someone was watching him. Instead of turning away, he holds up the book and smiles.

‘I still feel a bit guilty about writing in your favorite book.’ he says. You can hear his accent, and you immediately love it. You still have a shocked look on your face as you slowly walk up to him, still carrying the box of new books. ‘Hi.’ he says and he smiles. God, that smile. ‘I’m Niall.’ ‘Figured. Y/N.’ you say. You look at the box in your hands. ‘I- uh- would shake your hand.’ you say softly. ‘That’s okay.’ says Niall. You nod your head toward the familiar book with the red cover. ‘Can I ask what you wrote?’ you say. Niall chuckles. He gets the book off the shelf, opens it and reads what he wrote. ‘Dear Y/N, I decided to write to you because I don’t have the guts to talk to a pretty girl like you. And I know it’s your favorite book because you wear Harry Potter shirts all the time. Plus, I heard you talking to one of the owners of the shop once. Do you want to have coffee with me some time?’ says Niall. He closes the book and looks at you. ‘You really think I’m pretty?’ you say and you feel your cheeks heat up. ‘I do. I think you’re really beautiful, Y/N. And I would love to get to know you better.’ says Niall. ‘Well, thank you. You’re- uh- beautiful as well. Not at all like I pictured you. Not that I’m disappointed, no, not at all! I just- sorry. I suck at talking to others. Let alone talk to someone who thinks I’m pretty.’ you say, tripping over your words. But instead of turning you down, Niall chuckles and pulls out his phone. ‘Can I get your number? That way we can text about when we go grab a coffee.’ says Niall. ‘If you’re interested in that, of course.’ You smile. ‘I am definitely interested in that.’ you say. You give him your number. Niall explains he has work to do, but decided to drop by to see if you wrote to him. He smiles at you, and with a ‘Catch you later, pretty girl!’, he leaves the store.

For the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop smiling. You couldn’t believe Niall was so nice in person. And attractive. Not to mention his accent. You check your phone every five minutes, to see if he texted you. But you assume he’s busy, like he told you. Your parents ask you why you’re so happy but all you can do is smile and mumble a soft “it’s nothing”. Except it was everything but that. Your whole life you had been this invisible person. Classmates never knew your name and you never had many friends. You have always been a shy, introverted person. No one really payed attention to you. Which lead to lonely days at school and being single your entire life. But that was about to change. Niall showed interest in you, talked to you, and he called youpretty. You wait all night to get a text from him. But when you go to sleep, he still hasn’t texted you. You don’t mind, though, he’s going to text you eventually.

On Wednesday, you wake up and the first thing you do is check your phone. Your face lights up when you see a few messages from an unknown number. The first one says Hey Y/N, it’s Niall. Sorry for not texting earlier, had lots of stuff to do. And the second one is sent only seconds later. You’re probably asleep right now, I’ll see you at Books & Coffee, sweet dreams. It may sound cliché and cheesy, but you couldn’t help but to let out a squeal and hug your phone to your chest. Maybe you and Niall would turn out to become something beautiful.

Once you enter the store, your eyes scan the room for a pair of blue eyes. When you can’t see them, you head over to the Leave a message shelf. Even though Niall has your number now, he might write you a message in the book anyway. You get the book off the shelf and open it on the page that’s been written on. There’s one new sentence, written in the same handwriting as the previous one. Turn around. You look up and turn around. Niall is sitting in your usual chair, smiling at you. You put the book back and walk over to his spot. ‘I believe this is your chair?’ he asks smiling. ‘It is. But don’t worry, there’s plenty of chairs here.’ you say and you sit down in the chair across from Niall. ‘So, do you think we could get that coffee now and get to know each other?’ says Niall. You nod. ‘Yeah sure.’ ‘Choose anything you want, drinks are on me.’ says Niall. ‘Actually, I can get them for free.’ you say. ‘I work here, remember? So, if you could just tell me what you want, I can go and get it.’ ‘Right, I forgot about that for a moment. I’ll have a coffee, please.’ says Niall and he smiles again. You smile back at him and you head over to the counter to get your drinks. As you’re getting two coffee’s, your mom walks up to you. ‘Who is the cute guy you were talking to?’ she asks. You can’t help but to smile. ‘A friend.’ you say. She looks at you with the familiar are-you-sure-he’s-just-a-friend look in her eyes. ‘Do you want him to be more than a friend?’ she asks. You feel your cheeks heat up. ‘Maybe. Yes. I don’t know. We still need to get to know each other. But I do like him. He thinks I’m pretty.’ you say. ‘Well what are you waiting for? He looks like a nice guy, why don’t you invite him over for dinner tonight?’ she asks and you nearly knock over your mug. ‘Mom. We only just met. I just want to talk to him before I drag him home.’ you say. ‘Alright, alright, your call.’ she says before continuing to help customers.

You take the two mugs and grab two muffins and you walk back to Niall. You place the drinks and the muffins on the table. ‘There you go, on the house.’ you say. You sit down and look at Niall. He looks up from the mug in his hands and smiles at you again. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he asks. You take a sip of your coffee as you think of an answer. ‘I’m a really shy person. Really introverted. I never had many friends. I was always invisible to the world. No one talked to me or looked at me even if we were in the same room. But you, you notice me. You talk to me. And you call me pretty. No one’s called me pretty before. I just don’t get why you show interest in me. I am a nobody. And you are, from what I can tell, an amazing person who is not scared to talk to strangers.’ you tell him. Niall puts his mug down on the table and looks at you. ‘I show interest in you because I genuinely want to know you. Because I think you’re pretty and I want to know what you’re like. I want to know what your personality is like. I want to know your interests and the things you don’t like. I want to know what you do for a living and why you love this store so much. I want to know those things because I really am interested in you. And I’m surprised no one’s talked to a pretty girl like you before I did.’ says Niall. You look at him and he looks at you. The way he talks to you, how he’s always smiling at you, he’s not lying. He is interested in you. And you can’t deny it, you’re interested in him as well. Why not give it a shot?

You and Niall talk for hours, getting to know each other. He tells you he’s a singer and after a long time of asking, you listen to a few of his songs. His voice amazes you and you keep on wanting to listen to more of his music, but he turns off your phone so you can continue the conversation. You tell him about college and working in the store. You tell him it’s your parents’ store and you can’t remember not being in the store. You tell him how it was your idea to set up the Leave a message shelf. Niall laughs at your story and thanks you because otherwise “I never would have met an amazing girl as you”. The longer you talk, the more you realize how easy it is to talk to Niall. It’s not like any other first conversation. Those are usual filled with awkwardness and long periods of silence, but with Niall it is like you have known him for years. About twenty minutes before the store is going to close, your mom calls you, telling you the new arrivals are here. You jump up, completely forgetting about Niall, who was in the middle of telling you a story. You turn to Niall and smile. ‘I always get to look at the new arrivals first and I can pick some to keep. Want to come with me?’ you say. ‘Well, I don’t know if-‘ you cut him off by telling him it’s fun, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the back of the store. You open the door and immediately spot a few boxes. You head over to the first box and sit down on the ground next to it. You open it and look at the covers. ‘Finally!’ you say and you get out a book. ‘What is it?’ says Niall as he sits down next to you. You turn the book to him so he can read the cover. ‘The behind the scenes book of the series Star Trek Enterprise!’ you say and you smile brightly. You open the book and flick through the pages. ‘I have been looking for this since forever! I was always looking for it at book shops and markets and online, but I never found it. And now it just arrives at our store! I can’t believe it.’ you say. You look up at Niall and see there’s a soft smile on his lips. ‘What?’ you say. ‘It’s cute how you get all excited about little things.’ says Niall. You blush and put the book down next to me. ‘I spend the majority of my youth reading books, comics and watching movies and tv shows. I have a lot of favorites.’ you say. ‘I can tell.’ says Niall and he moves to sit closer to you. Your shoulder touches his and you blush even more at the contact. ‘That’s why I wrote in a Harry Potter book in the first place, because I knew you would take a look at it.’ says Niall. You turn your head to look at him and notice how close his face is to yours. ‘Look, I know we only just met, but I feel like we really have a connection. And I can tell you feel the same way. I really like talking to you, and just hanging around this beautiful bookstore with you. I don’t want to mess this up or move too fast, but I just really, really like you Y/N. Which is why I would very much like to kiss you right now. If you’re okay with that.’ says Niall and his blue eyes never leave yours. You take a deep breath and smile at him. ‘Yeah.’ you say softly. ‘Yeah, I’m okay with that.’ ‘Wonderful.’ whispers Niall. He leans in and holds your face with both of his hands. His lips brush against yours before he presses them against yours in a soft kiss. You close your eyes when Niall pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. ‘I think I really like you, Niall.’ you whisper. ‘Good. I really like you as well. But I think you already knew that, didn’t you, pretty girl?’ says Niall. You blush at the nickname. ‘Yeah, I did.’ you say and you hesitate for a moment, but then you lean in and press a kiss to his lips. The two of you quickly pull away when you hear footsteps approaching. The door opens and your mom walks in. ‘Y/N, dear, did you take a look at all the books?’ she asks. ‘Not all of them.’ you say. ‘I did find this.’ you hold up the Star Trek book. Niall chuckles. ‘She got really excited about that one.’ says Niall. ‘You should have seen her when she found a limited-edition Marvel comic book, she went completely nuts about it. Wouldn’t shut up about it.’ you mom says. ‘Mom, stop.’ you say, feeling a bit embarrassed. ‘Well, you can take a look at those new books tomorrow morning, I’m putting them in the store around lunch time. We’re closing now.’ she says. You get up and Niall does the same. ‘You two go ahead, I’ll close the door behind you.’ says your mom and she winks at you when Niall isn’t looking.

You walk toward the door and your hand brushes against Niall’s. He is quick to intertwine his fingers with yours as the two of you step out in the cold evening air. You turn around and look at Niall. ‘I had a great time, Niall.’ you say. ‘So did I, pretty girl.’ says Niall and you blush at the nickname. ‘Is that what you’re going to call me now?’ you tease. ‘Probably. But only because it makes you blush and that’s incredibly cute.’ says Niall and it makes you blush even more. Niall laughs and steps closer to you. ‘But seriously, I had an amazing time. Can I see you again?’ he asks. ‘I’d like that.’ you say. ‘Okay. I’ll text you. Or I’ll call you. I might leave you a message in a book.’ he says and he winks at you. ‘That’s fine with me.’ you say. You stand on your toes and give him a kiss on the corner of his mouth. ‘Goodnight Niall.’ you say. ‘Goodnight pretty girl.’ says Niall and you blush yet again. Niall laughs and you playfully roll your eyes at him. ‘I’m going that way.’ says Niall and he points at the street behind you. ‘I gotta wait for my mom.’ you say and Niall nods. ‘Talk to you soon.’ says Niall and he walks past you. ‘Bye.’ you say softly.

Your eyes follow him as he walks away. ‘Niall!’ you call and he turns around. ‘Thank you. For walking up to me. Talking to me. I know I said I normally am an introverted and shy person. But when I’m around you I don’t feel shy at all. I like being around you. So, thank you.’ you say. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Sweet dreams, Y/N.’ says Niall and he turns around and keeps on walking. You look at him until you can’t see him anymore. On the way home, you don’t talk to your mom, your mind is focused on Niall and the time you spend at the back of the store. He really did make you feel good. He made you feel confident. And it had been a long time since someone managed to make you feel confident. You smiled as you thought about the kiss. He kissed you. And he kept calling you pretty girl. You’re already looking forward to spending more time with him. You hear a faint ping coming from your pocket. You take out your phone and see Niall sent you a message. Had a great time. Sweet dreams, pretty girl. You smile at the message and at his name on the screen. You unlock your phone, open your contact app and add a little heart to Niall’s name. You’re confident you and Niall would last for a very long time.

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rules Here’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Jo

#carliehansonwya #niall horan #niall horan imagine #niall horan fanfiction #niall horan fanfic #niall horan fic #niall horan fluff #niall horan imagines #niall horan one shot #niall horan blurb #niall horan x reader #niall horan x you #niall horan x y/n #one direction imagine #niall horan x reader fluff

156 notes · View notes

etlunainmorte · 4 years

Text

🌙 EtLunaInMorte's 🌙

🎻 Fanfiction Music Masterlist 🎻

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1. Led Zeppelin's The Immigrant Song

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"We're almost there." Nico told him, her move to turn off the speaker finally blessing his ears with some much needed peace. "To be totally frank, I've never been in this part of the city before. This place has a reputation, ya know."

"Reputation, you say?" V repeated the word as he curiously looked back at his female companion.

Nico waved a single hand as her eyes rolled. "The place is nice, so are the neighbors. But, ya know, this place was rumored to be cursed. Had an endless chain of unfortunate events since the 1900s."

"Like what kind of unfortunate events?" This really caught his attention.

"Oh, nothin'. Just a few deaths here and there, rich neighbors goin' bankrupt all of a sudden, wives being left by husbands due to third party relationships, wives being left by husbands permanently, if ya know what I mean. Yeah. That kind of thing." Nico explained with slight amusement in her tone. "But, I believe none of them curses. Or in fate. It's just how ya live yer life. If ya do good, then no harm could be done to ya. If not, well," the woman chuckled as she sucked on her cigar once more, making V duck from the smoke she just blew. "... shame on ya."

~ I. The House At Swan Lane

2. Little Big Planet 3 Covers' Mister Sandman

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"Mister Sandman? Really?" Griffon sassed, slightly irritated at the song's cheesy lyrics.

"Hey, it's better than nothin', 'kay?" The woman answered as she went back to rearranging the mysterious wires that were scattered on the floor. "Or do ya want me to put in Zeppelin again?"

"NO! STOP! I BEG YA! PLEASE!"

"THEN, QUIT COMPLAININ' AND HELP ME HERE!" Nico screamed at the bird as she pointed a strange looking radio at him.

"AYE!" The bird obliged, swooping down on the floor near the wires to fix them.

~ IV. First Night

3. The Chordettes' Mister Sandman

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"Okay, Shakespeare! We better hurry! Something's really wrong about this place! I can't - "

"W - wait! P - please,..." He heard V stutter under his breath.

"Wait, what?"

"(Y/N),..." V muttered, his voice hoarse and broken. "Please,..."

"What the f - ?!" Griffon drew back, confusion now taking over. He slowly and cautiously looked up to where V was staring at and found, attached to the rotten ceiling like a spider waiting for its prey,...

... a woman with long blonde hair dressed completely in white.

For a few moments, Griffon was stuck where he was, unable to form coherent words or even make a sound. But, the moment she slowly turned to look at him, his eyes widened and his beak dropped open and it took him a few more seconds to finally make a move and grab V by his collar.

"FUCK!" The demonic bird howled in fear as he carried V away from the room and the menace of that blonde creature, who just dropped on the floor and went after them in all fours, its speed frightening the hell out of the, otherwise, powerful familiar. "FUCK! FUCK! FU - !"

"Mister Sandman! Mister Sandman!"

"FUCK! TURN THAT THING OFF!" Griffon howled helplessly as V's radio alarmed with the distorted song once more. Again, another hour has passed. "V, WAKE THE FUCK UP! WE'VE GOT A CCCRRRAAAZZZYYY WOMAN TO BURN! VVVVVVEEEEEE!"

~ VIII. Second Night

4. Air Supply's All Out Of Love

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"Victor!" She called. "Victor Blake!"

And then, V finally saw him as he turned.

Wavy shoulder length hair as dark as the night. Gentle, and yet deep and intimidating, eyes that gleamed like a pair of emeralds. Hollow cheeks that formed dimples when he opened his mouth in awe of what he just saw.

It was him.

The supple lips of the poet named Victor Blake formed a mischievous, and yet endearing, smirk as he left the group of women who was barraging him with a lot of requests and questions to make his way closer to where V, Daniella, and (Y/N) were.

And as he playfully twirled a familiar - looking metal cane with his long and slender fingers and made his way to them, he began quoting.

"The modest rose,... puts forth a thorn,... the humble sheep,... a threat'ning horn." He recited, his voice pure honey to everyone's ears. "While the lily white,... shall in love delight,... " He, then, stopped right where (Y/N) was as he looked down at her. " ...nor a thorn nor a threat,..." The women squealed in delight while some snickered in envy as Victor Blake kneeled before (Y/N) and gently took her dainty hand in his huge and calloused ones. " ...stain her beauty bright." And as he ended the poem, he placed a chaste peck on the back of her hand, making her cheeks red and her eyes widen.

~ IX. Victor Blake

5. Louis Armstrong's Dear Old Southland

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V smiled to himself as he watched the couple speak their vows and how they slid the ring on the other's finger. And when the people began cheering for them, Victor cupped (Y/N)'s cheeks and gave her a very sweet and gentle kiss that lasted for at least a minute.

The atmosphere changed once more and V saw (Y/N) dragging Victor upstairs towards her bedroom. He followed closely behind them and noticed the girl taking a folded stationery from her pocket and giving it to Victor. She, then, pressed a kiss against two of her fingers and pressed them on the note on Victor's hand. She smiled, stood on her toes, and gave the man a chaste peck on the cheek. She waved good night and opened her door, went in, and gave him another smile before finally closing it.

Victor didn't wait a moment longer and unfolded the note, and what he read there made his eyes widen. He abruptly knocked on the door, and when (Y/N) opened it, he hastily engulfed her in a tight embrace.

V felt his heart swell as the lovers shared a very passionate kiss.

Hands caressing and exploring. Lips moving in a rhythmic pattern. For a moment, V saw himself as Victor.

For a brief moment, he saw himself passionately kissing and caressing (Y/N).

The girl stepped backwards, leading Victor inside but never breaking the sweet kiss. After a while, V's eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he saw Victor's, his, metal cane flying from the room to the hallway, along with his cravat and one of (Y/N)'s shoes. Victor came out a few seconds later, looking so in love and excited, to retrieve the items. Then, he entered the room and closed the door.

~ XI. (Y/N) And Victor

6. Sergei Rachmaninov’s Sonata For Cello Andante as played by Narek Hakhnazaryan on cello and Noreen Plera on piano

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July 27, 1898

My dearest and humblest poet, Victor,

I will never forget the very first time we met. You kneeled before me, took my hand, then you kissed it, reciting to me a very sweet poem as you looked into my eyes.

I will never forget the days after that, of our little talks, of our how are yous and how's your days, of the way we embarrass each other when we caught ourselves looking into each other.

I will never forget the first time I sang for you as you played the piano, of the sweet melody that conveyed how I felt towards you. I will never forget the days, and nights, we read poetry together. I will never forget those mornings we have to sneak away from father to have little chats and laughs in the garden.

And most importantly, I will never forget those nights we wrote to each other and passed those notes through that crack in the door as you sat just outside my room while I waited on the other side.

Such little trivial things that other women might have done for you that I will always remember. You may forget me in the future when you meet others more memorable than I' am. You may tell them amazing stories as you did for me. You may find other reasons to laugh and smile with another as you have laughed and smiled with me. You may play the piano for another belle who would sing willingly for you. You may find more pleasure reciting and reading poetry for someone else. You may call another your "Little Wanderer", "Evening Star", "Beloved Muse", "Little, Innocent One", and "Little Lamb".

And most importantly, you may exchange little notes in the middle of the night with someone else.

All of these may happen when you finally meet the one for you, and you may fall for them just as easily as I have fallen for you.

I'm aware of all these things. How could they not love you? How could anyone not offer their heart to you?

We will part ways within a month, maybe a week, as my father has decided to enroll me in a boarding school in Paris. But, I want you to know how honored I' am to have met you. Of how grateful I' am when you indulged my foolish fantasies.

Of how thankful I' am that, in a very short time, you have made my dull and unhappy life meaningful and filled with hope.

Please, don't forget me, my dear, humble poet, and of those times we spent together.

I will cherish those moments for as long as I live.

I will never forget May 11. I will never forget I have met the most wonderful man in the whole wide world.

I will never forget you for as long as live, V.

Yours truly,

(Y/N), your Little Wanderer, Evening Star, Beloved Muse, Little, Innocent One, and Little Lamb.

P.S.

I Love You

~ XII. Christopher Lancaster

7. Alessandro Moreschi’s Ave Maria

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"Day twenty - one: Bloodletting and purging."

V heard Lancaster's voice in the phonograph a few seconds later as the atmosphere around him changed one more time.

And what he saw next made his stomach turn.

Three nurses wounding (Y/N) on both arms with a knife as she was restrained on a metal chair inside a sickly bright room, letting her blood stain the perfect white floor. He turned and saw Lancaster speaking to the cylinder of his phonograph as the poor girl screamed in pain and begged him to stop.

"Please, stop! I beg you!"

"Internal biochemical relationship was behind mental disorders. Bleeding, purging, and vomiting will help correct these imbalances in the body and would help heal the physical and mental illness.”

"I'm not insane! Please! Pl - !" (Y/N) screamed before one of the nurses stifled her howls of pain with a gag.

"One trait of mental illness is denial. The patient often finds itself unable to grasp what's truth and what's not. At times, they would even go as far as hurting the people they love. And worse, themselves."

V looked away, wishing the visions to stop plaguing him, to stop showing him these painful memories,...

"Day forty - six: Hydrotherapy."

The poet looked once more, and this time, he saw the nurses tying the girl's hands and feet and throwing a sheet over her head, twisting it roughly around her throat so she would not scream. They, then, put her in a bathtub filled with what looked like ice water.

"This turn of the century technique proved to be highly effective in reducing the patient's agitation by submerging it in cold water, especially during manic episodes. I will keep her submerged for extended periods of time, instructing my assistants to add more - "

"ENOUGH!" V howled as he chased the visions away.

And with just one blink, he's back to his own reality.

~ XIII. Descend To Madness

8. Wojciech Killar’s Mina Dracula

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"These letters," V began as he looked back at the poet's grandchild. " ... Victor,... tried to get your mother back?"

"Indeed. He told me he wanted to raise her and give her the life she once promised to (Y/N). But, as you can see, Lady Daniella refused. Victor admitted to burning and discarding all of (Y/N)'s mementos in the past but, he regretted it later. Lady Daniella, on the other hand, hid everything, including those documents and the old photographs. She may have refused Victor his very own child, but she refused to burn the last remnants of her best friend's happiest memories on earth. She showed them to my mother before she died.

"And those letters you have in your hand? They were the only things left that reminded Victor of his relationship with (Y/N) and the child born out of their love. That was,... all he had,..."

The woman wiped her tears once more and went on.

"So, I made it a point to bring these photographs the next time I visited England. I showed them to him, and for the very first time, he looked really happy and emotional. He refused to let go of these photographs. He told me everything that happened between him and his beloved (Y/N), of those little letters passed in the middle of the night, of the times they played music together, of those times when they read poetry together, of that one time she confessed, of that very first night he shared with her. He told me all of those with tears, and he told me that he regretted every foolish decision he has made in his miserable life, of leaving her, of hurting her, of marrying another just to forget her.

"He had his marriage to the American woman annulled just to take his beloved under his wing. He took her to England. Despite his own disability, he took care of her, fed her, bathed her. He did everything he can to make up for his own mistakes. But, due to her own disability due to a lot of complications and trauma, she was never able to reciprocate. She died in his arms a month later in the year of 1899. He became even more depressed and crippled with pain and regret and guilt. He slowly lost the ability to walk, and he lost his fame as a writer due to the Lancaster scandal that was forever linked to him. He died without even seeing his daughter in person."

V and Roman watched with difficulty as the old woman wept for her grandfather, and V actually felt sorry for the poet. He may have hated him for what he's done, but he realized that all his life, Victor did everything he can to make up for his mistakes.

But, he knew that the poet was too late.

~ XIV. The Lovers' Grandchild

9. Kenny Rankin's Haven't We Met

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"Come here, V!" Roman said with a huge smile ( still unaware of what's happening to the wedding cake ) as he took the poet's arm and dragged him towards the center. V arrived just in time to see Avery dragging the lucky girl who caught the bouquet towards the center to where he was. Avery looked up at V, smiled at him, and moved to the side, revealing to him the girl who was now holding her bouquet.

And as he looked at the girl, he couldn't help but get mesmerized and emotional at the same time. The girl, who laid her (E/C) - colored eyes on his green ones, felt the same as some kind of unknown emotion started to form in her chest.

She brushed a wayward (H/C) lock away from her face and placed it behind her ear. She, then, gave him that smile that V was longing to see once more.

And with an achingly familiar voice that he thought he would never hear ever again, she spoke to him.

"Haven't we met?" She asked him.

"My,... Evening Star,..." V whispered as he smiled at her,...

~ Epilogue

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🌙🎻

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#devil may cry 5 #etlunainmorte's fanfiction music masterlist #volume 2 #p.s. i love you #vitale sparda #v x reader #v x you

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girlbossfrankshepard · 4 years

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Hey guess what! I just took upon myself the fun challenge of transcribing this early version of Rich And Happy from Broadway previews, and I managed to get most of it pretty good! If anyone could help me fill in the blanks, I would much appreciate it, because uh. It’s A Lot

[TERRY] So we bought this little condominium...

[KATE] So we found this little Chinese gardener...

[JEROME] It's a clear case of studio politics...

[PHOTOGRAPHER] We were stuck on the freeway till half past six...

[TERRY] So we bought this little condominium...

[FOUR GUESTS] Great… Hmm... Yeah...

[ALL] Party!

[FRANK] Life is swinging Skies are blue and bells are ringing Every day I wake up singing "Look at me, I'm rich and happy!"

Days are sunny Working hard for lots of money Filled with people smart and funny Filled with people rich and happy!

Who says, "Lonely at the top"? I say, "Let it never stop!" It's my time coming through All my dreams coming true: Gorgeous house, gorgeous wife Who wants any more from life?

Skies are beaming Future bright and prospects gleaming Best of all, I don't stop dreaming Just because I'm rich And happy And- oh, yes! Famous, too!

[KATE, speaking] Oh Frank! I am paralyzed with joy tonight! And I cannot tell a lie, so, you look very young and very handsome!

[FRANK] Ugh, I needed to hear that today! Only this morning I was asked to come back and speak at my old high school’s commencement next year! I will have been out 25 years.

[KATE] Oh, be still my heart! You going to go?

[FRANK] Ha, who knows what I’ll be doing a year from now? If my life is falling apart and I need some good press, I’ll go.

[KATE] Ah, come, come, my dear! This is your year!

[RU singing Good Thing Going in.. French I think? Also a bit of chatter I can’t make out]

[TED, singing] Which one is that one?

[RU] That one’s the rich one, Married to which one?

[TED] I think it’s that one. (scatting??)

[ALL] Party!

[MARY, speaking] Come on, Frank, get me a double vodka. Straight up. And a floor plan (?).

[RU laughs, MARY mocks his laughing]

[MARY] Could you have been so upset? After all, it’s only lies. And if I have to keep playing this one more depressing day… Who wrote that song?

[RU] The host.

[MARY] What? It’s been 20 years since he wrote it, inspire (?) anything else. What’s your name?

[RU] Ru, like the poet.

[MARY] My name’s Mary, like “good old Mary”. Ru, if you were somewhere else in the world, where would you be?

[RU] (something about living on a farm?) It’s got everything.

[MARY] So have you.

[RU] Excuse me?

[MARY] I was being a brat. I’m a 42 year old brat. Is this empty cup yours?

[RU] Well, it was.

[MARY] Can I just borrow it so everybody doesn’t know all my business? I want to have one simple double, and that’s all. Oh God, now you’re gonna think I’m a drunk, right? Well, I’m not. I happen to be a captain. (??) That guy over there is just crazy about me, but he hates it when I drink. Hehehe…

[ALEX, singing] Perfect house, perfect wife Yes, my dear And yet the hostess isn’t here I wonder where could she appear

[Sounds of frustrated people, “are you kidding?”]

[TERRY] So we bought this little condominium…

[Crowd chatter]

[TERRY] So we bought this little string of laundromats...

[ALL?] Great! Smog Points

{SOME GUY 1] These are the movers These are the shapers These are the people That kill the papers

[SOME GUY 2] Looking good!

[ALL] We are the friends of Frank!

[SOME GUY 2] Everybody’s looking good!

[ALL] We all have Frank to thank!

[MARY] These are the movers These are the shapers These are the people That give you vapors

[GUEST, speaking] Ah, there are oceans and champagne! This is all just set for the occasion! I believe we’re going to see some fabulously important movie premiere!

[RICH BACKER] And just wait until you see our darling child in it! Gird your loins!

[MEG] Mother!

[RICH BACKER, singing] Twenty years ago, Who’d have thunk? Who’d have thunk we’d be standing here? Hours of sobbing and overrun (?) You (?) with Frank

[GUEST] Looking good

[RICH BACKER] Now you represent Frank! And I’m his personal bank!

[“Everybody’s looking good” and “These are the movers” overlapping]

[ALL] Life is swinging Skies are blue and bells are ringing Every day I wake up singing "Look at me, I'm rich and happy!"

[MEG] Gosh, he’s attractive Gosh, he’s so smart Gosh, it’s exciting being here Gosh, it’s my start! This is my first premiere I should be acting looser Gosh, this is my first affair With a first-rate producer

[Some guy fucking scatting again]

[ALEX, speaking] Mary! Come! That last review you wrote, I do not have the words! I read it over and over!

[MARY] Didn’t you get it the first time?

[ALEX] I do wish you wrote fiction instead of reviewing movies. I’d love you to write about our house last week when we thought we’d lost our little dog. All of us searching the house, the yard, everywhere, and you know what? Ha! I had forgotten I’d put it in the car!

[MARY] How can I get the rights? Excuse me, I promised that shy guy over there by the piano I’d (?)

[ALEX] See you later!

[MARY] I hope so!

[ALL] Days are stunning (?) stars are slumming

[TED] (?) The right one?

[RU] That’s their employer

[TED] Who’s the uptight one?

[RU] That one’s his lawyer And that one’s his agent And that one’s his banker (?)

[TED] And then there’s his “yes man”

[RU] Now where is his yes man? ...Oh yes.

[TED, speaking] You making money?

[RU] Sure. (I think I may have gotten these two mixed up a few times)

[GUEST] Shut up.

[ALL] Party!

[Frank and Jerome are playing Backgammon]

[JEROME] That’s two-thousand, I’ll take a check!

(?)

[FRANK] Did I say on the invitation “cocktail party” or “drinks before my premiere”?

[MEG?] Frank-

[FRANK] Meg, be a good girl, I’m trying to write a bad check.

[JEROME] After producing this movie, he now joins an income bracket that’s limited to oil barons and drug producers.

[FRANK] (Seemingly sullen) Yeah, and isn’t it wonderful? Now I have everything I have ever wanted. I have nothing more to wish for. My every want, my every dream has finally come true.

[KATE?] I guess that’s (?), Frank

[FRANK] God, Jerome. Don’t you wish you could put on your 18 year old glasses and see life the way Meg does?

[KATE?, singing] Twenty years ago, He parked cars

[A bunch of people overlapping here, “he was out of a job”]

[GUESTS] Now just look at us superstars Worth the national bank (I make cars) Each as big as his (?) (I own cars) Friends of president (?)

[GUEST] I’m still out of it!

[Too many people]

[GUESTS] Twenty years ago, Who’d have thought We’d be setting the trends? Who’d have guessed we’d be friends? Who can tell where it ends?

Making it (Get in line) Everybody’s making it (Get in line) Everybody’s got that hard-earned hungry look in their eyes

[TERRY, speaking] I think the last of the old contract-slayers here is falling apart! You got something on your nose, Jerome. (playfully) Your finger! Ahahaha!

[FRANK] Terry, you know Meg who is starring in my picture.

[TERRY] (to MEG) Not too gorgeous, huh? Oh, and don’t feel bad you don’t have bosoms like mine. It’s gonna take growing to have bosoms like these, (?) put silicone in their training bra! Meg, while you can, cause they don’t last long after (?) Oh well, tut tut. I used to have class like that. See you at the movies! Which is more than you can say for me! (gasp) Is that Mary?

[MARY] No. You see, Ru, I can’t marry you. No, I can’t, there’d be too many changes in my life. So don’t ask me. (approached by ALEX) What?

[ALEX, singing] Perfect house, perfect wife Yes, my dear And yet, well, Gussie’s not here I need the time

[Some overlapping voices, then a really uncomfortable long silence]

[TERRY?] So we bought this little piece of property…

[ALL] Days go zipping Even when they’re less than gripping Mostly though it’s like you’re tripping High on being rich And happy

Most fulfilling Even when you don’t get billing Every day you wake up willing Happy to be rich And happy (lol isn’t that kind of redundant)

Who says all our dreams get burned? Every bit of this was earned It's our time coming through All our dreams coming true All our days full of beans This must be what happy means!

Skies are beaming Future bright and prospects gleaming! Best of all, we don't stop dreaming Just because we're rich— And happy

[GUEST] And maybe-

[Bit of chatter]

[ALL] Famous too!

#merrily we roll along #merrily obc #merrily we roll along 1981 #stephen sondheim

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argentvive · 5 years

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Dany’s Alchemist Illyrio: An Alchemist for Tyrion Too? Pt 1

I’ve just started A Dance with Dragons, and who turns up again--finally!--but Illyrio. It’s been a long time since I talked about him and identified him as one of Dany’s alchemists, so for recent followers, here’s what I wrote.

Illyrio Mopatis is a rich merchant of Pentos, who shelters Daenerys and Viserys at his home. He then brokers her marriage to Drogo, fulfilling the alchemist’s role of putting her into the crucible. (Does anyone think Viserys has the smarts or negotiating skill to make that arrangement?)

What is Illyrio’s motivation for helping the impoverished Targaryen heirs? All we’re told is that he is seeking the Targaryen restoration in hope of being named Master of Coin. (This is actually a bit of an alchemy joke. A real alchemist would be the best possible choice for Master of Coin, since he could use his transmutation skills to produce all the gold and silver any monarch could need.)

I wonder whether there is more to the story. How do the two come under his protection in the first place? And where exactly is the house with the Red Door? How was Daenerys educated? Jon was taught duty and right from wrong by Ned Stark, Maester Luwin and the rest. Who did the same for Daenerys? Maybe we’ll find out more when the final books are published. As of now, though, we can definitely say that Daenerys had far less guidance than Jon–and terrible guidance actually when you think of Viserys’ endless I am the dragon rants. It’s no wonder she acts erratically from time to time.

Illyrio turning Dany over to Drogo and the scythe-wielding Dothraki formally places her in the NIGREDO (black) stage. (The scythe is standard iconography for the god Saturn, who is a symbol for the nigredo; see my earlier post.) Illyrio doesn’t leave her defenceless. As her alchemist he must give her a gift–and it’s a doozy. He gives her three dragon eggs as a wedding present, though as far as we know he doesn’t realize they are alive and hatchable.

The eggs eventually become not only her children but the source of her power. Illyrio’s gift is even more significant than Mormont’s gift of Longclaw to Jon, though in both cases our heroes receive a weapon.

After playing his crucial role selling Dany to the Dothraki in GOT, we don’t see Illyrio again until Tyrion I of ADWD. Jaime and Varys rescue Tyrion from King’s Landing and have him transported in a round wine cask across the sea.

The world went round and round as the cask rolled downward....

Tyrion ends up at Illyrio’s house. On the show, Illyrio doesn’t appear and his role in goading Tyrion to change his life is taken by Varys.

I will discuss the scene as it appears in the book, not the show.

Tyrion’s name is quite alchemical, as I’ve discussed before. (Tyrion is a homonym for Tirian, the king of Narnia, and both spellings refer to Tyrian purple, the red-purple color of the Philosopher’s Stone.) But until now, I haven’t noticed Tyrion going through the usual stages and experiences of being an alchemy hero. He loses his nose-a minor dismemberment--but that’s about all.

In Tyrion I, however, alchemy is everywhere. He wanders into the walled courtyard and sees a woman “washing clothes at a well.” This is promising: washing clothes symbolizes the washing of the Stone. You may remember Mrs. Weasley washing the Trio’s clothes in the final Harry Potter book. Laundry day didn’t add anything to the plot; Rowling simply included it as a nod to Plate 21 in the famous Splendor Solis series.

http://www.hermetics.org/solis/solis21.html

Tyrion talks to her about what he should do now, join the Night Watch perhaps?

“...Do you think I might stand taller in black my lady?...Shall I atone for old sins or make some new ones?”

This is very clever. GRRM has already established the Night Watch as the nigredo experience for Jon Snow: the brothers all wear black, they are called crows, most live in Castle Black, and Jon undergoes the Black Death there. Is Tyrion experiencing his own nigredo now? He is certainly questioning his past life and thinking about his life to come. He speaks to the laundry “flapping on the line.”

Next he spies some mushrooms. After a glancing mention of black, we now get white and red. Albedo and rubedo?

...he saw some mushrooms growing up from a cracked paving tile. Pale white they were, with speckles, and red-ribbed undersides dark as blood. The dwarf snapped one off and sniffed it. Delicious, he thought, and deadly.

As far as I know, mushrooms are not a symbol of anything in alchemy. Adam McLean’s website identifies only one use of mushrooms symbolically, in Shigeo Otake’s Kinoko Tarot of 1995, which includes 22 paintings, each associated with a species of mushroom. The chance that GRRM knew about this is close to nil, I think.

GRRM needs a way to test Tyrion, however, and poisonous mushrooms is a way to do it. He makes sure to let us know that Tyrion believes them to be “deadly.”

Up to now, Tyrion has been consistently portrayed as a drinker, whoremonger, and master of sarcasm and cutting insults. But after his time in the wine barrel, this begins to change. He refuses the bedmate Illyrio has sent him, and swallows the insult that comes to his mind: “The words were on his tongue, but somehow never passed his lips.” (Something similar happened with Jaime along his path to transformation.) Instead, he asks for a bath.

Yes, a bath--the easiest and most common way GRRM incorporates the dissolution stage of solve et coagula into the books. After the bath, we see a few small changes in Tyrion. A stark realization--I despise myself--and a confession to his murder of Shae.

He is now ready for the dinner with Illyrio that will forever change the direction of Tyrion’s life. Illyrio is revoltingly fat, but among the many rings he wears are a ruby and a sapphire, symbols of the Philosopher’s Stone. He wastes no time in getting to the point:

“There are troubles in the east. Astapor has fallen, and Meereen. Ghiscari slave cities that were old when the world was young.”

When Tyrion points out that “Slaver’s Bay is a long way from Pentos,” Illyrio responds with a metaphor that recalls the most basic idea of alchemy, the One.

“...the world is one great web, and a man dare not touch a single strand lest all the others tremble.”

Or as the English metaphysical poet John Donne puts it, “No man is an island.”

No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

#a song of ice and fire meta #alchemy #tyrion lannister #illyrio mopatis #a dance with dragons #daenerys targaryen #game of thrones meta #jon snow #john donne #solve et coagula #tarot

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i-am-made-of-memoriies · 5 years

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Okay, so I’m going to shamelessly post a fic that I wrote for my O.C Amathel. She is not a self-insert ( @spideypan would never forgive me for that), but a completely independent character who is incredibly different from me. This will probably be a two shot (maybe more?), but you never know!

The characters and themes of this story will be a mix of the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings movies and the books, because though I’m not really a fan of the Hobbit movie, some characters have potential!

Summary of the first chapter: Amathel of the Woodland Realm has been sent on a scouting mission with a young and promising silvan elf, Tauriel. Though the scouting mission is Amathel’s priority, she can’t help speaking at length with Tauriel and sharing the trials and tribulations that come with being part of the Mirkwood royal family.

Amathel closed her eyes briefly, imagining the targets around her, the way her bowstring cut into her fingers, and the weight of the bow in her hand. Breathing in the sweet air of the forest, she opened her eyes and loosed arrow after arrow. Much to her pleasure, each arrow met their mark, impaled deep into the target.

“Sister,” A familiar voice called from behind Amathel, “Father requests your presence.”

She turned to face the voice, meeting the gaze of Legolas, her brother. “Thank you for the message. You may use the field now, if you’d like. I just need to pick up my arrows first.”

“Thank you, but I think I will go for a ride through the forests,” Legolas mused, “I am in need of a quick trip.”

“So be it! I will see you at dinner?”

“Of course.”

Amathel reached the throne room, still clad in her training gear, bow in hand. “You called.”

“Indeed, I did.” Thranduil sat askew on his throne as he often would, nursing a glass of wine in his right hand.

“Is there a task you would like me to perform?” Amathel did not dare make eye contact with Thranduil; from a young age, she had been afraid of her father’s cold aura and had subsequently grown distant from him. After the death of her mother, the distance only grew until she considered herself more of one of Thranduil’s guards than an offspring.

“There is a Silvan elf I would like for you to scout with. She has rising potential and I believe you could help her grow as a hunter.”

“I will gladly take this assignment. What is her name?”

“Tauriel.” Thranduil took a long sip of wine, “You are to meet her in half-and-hour in front of the throne room.”

Amathel nodded in acknowledgment and lifted her bow from the ground. In the time between her meeting with Tauriel, she opted to retire briefly to her room and read. To pass time, Amathel enjoyed the grace of elven poetry. Though she felt duty bound to protecting her people and home, she secretly hoped that she could settle down one day and become a poet. After she was done fighting and killing, she could only hope for a simple life, full of art and peace.

The minutes flew by and before she knew it, the bells of the hour had rung. Grabbing her cloak and bow, Amathel fastened her quiver across her chest and jogged through the meandering hallways of the palace. In front of the grand doors of the throne room, a tall, lean elf stood, checking her arrow tips.

“You must be Tauriel.” Amathel nodded her head as a sign of respect, “I am Amathel, daughter of Thranduil.” Though she uttered those words with frequency, they never failed to feel foreign and leaden on her tongue.

Tauriel nodded back, “Your father has asked us to attend dinner then depart.”

“We are to leave in the evening?” Amathel knew that the woods were the most treacherous during the night; in the darkness, creatures who would not likely show their ugly countenances in the daylight found courage to venture out of their dens.

“I suppose we are,” Tauriel chuckled, “I’m sure the king has his reasons.”

“But of course.”

Dinner was quiet as usual. Amathel’s eldest brother and heir to the throne, Elyon, sat to the right of Thranduil, his posture perfect and his bites dainty. Legolas, the youngest, sat properly as well, glancing towards Amathel every few minutes, as if imploring with his eyes, “who is the girl next to you”.

Finally, Thranduil spoke up, “You may have noticed an addition to the table this evening.”

Legolas nodded, relieved that his question was finally being answered.

“This is Tauriel, a Silvan elf with whom Amathel is to go on a scouting mission.” Thranduil announced, extending a graceful arm to towards Tauriel, “They are to leave tonight.”

“About that,” Amathel began, “I mean this with no disrespect, but why are we to leave at night? Night is when danger is greatest.”

“I trust you to defend yourselves,” Thranduil met Amathel’s gaze, “Perceive this as an exercise.”

Amathel nodded and returned to her meal, taking small sips of her wine. As much as she hated to admit it, she was quite a lightweight, and though she could beat any man or dwarf in a drinking contest of their own ale, she could seldom finish more than a glass of elven wine.

Tauriel, on the other hand, finished her glass in two hearty gulps, thanking the servant that filled her glass again. Amathel watched her intently from the corner of her eye, observing her motions. She was bold, each movement strong, but still beautiful. Her features were delicate, yet defined, and her long, red hair cascaded down her back. Unlike Legolas and Thranduil, Amathel and Elyon possessed darker shades of hair instead of the near-white. This was a feature taken from their late mother. Instead of hair color, Legolas had his mother’s thin face and bright eyes.

The remainder of dinner passed in silence. As soon as Thranduil finished his meal, he stood up, his robes billowing out around him.

“You two may grab supplies and depart within the hour.” He motioned towards Amathel and Tauriel, “Be back by nightfall tomorrow.”

“Of course, my lord.” Tauriel bowed her head respectfully and Amathel followed quickly in suit.

Before the two could leave, Legolas caught Amathel’s wrist. “I saw you looking at her.” He mentioned, his voice full of faux nonchalance.

“Indeed.” Though Amathel was caught off guard, she pretended to expect the question, “I am to go on a scouting mission with her tonight, I’d like to get to know her as well as I can.”

“By gazing at her profile throughout all of dinner?” Legolas teased, a playful smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

Amathel huffed quickly, “I must leave. I’ll see you tomorrow, brother.”

“Be safe.” Legolas, placed his hand on Amathel’s shoulder.

“You know I’ll be fine.”

Amathel and Tauriel set off into the forests just as the sun receded behind the peaks of the mountains.

“Tell me about yourself,” Amathel began a conversation, “My father says that you are a proficient hunter.”

Tauriel chuckled, “I’m sure he exaggerates. I am average at most.”

“I’m sure you’re being modest. Why did you learn archery? If you were male, I wouldn’t have to ask, but for women like us, learning to fight is a choice.”

“I wished to be able to protect those that I love.” Tauriel’s horse moved in perfect synchronization with Amathel’s so that they were able to converse with ease. “Also, growing up alongside my brothers, I hated to be the weak one. Learning to fight only felt natural. And you?”

“I am the daughter of Thranduil,” Amathel chuckled, clenching her fist as she uttered the words, “I could have chosen to live my life as a doted-on princess, but like you, raised alongside two brothers, I loathed being weak.”

“You must be an apt fighter.”

“I am not bad, no, but I do not enjoy killing. One day, I hope to live a life of peace. Though I want peace, I don’t want to be weak; I want to know how to defend myself and my people, but never have to use it.”

“You do not enjoy killing?” Tauriel’s eyes widened, “When your father spoke of you, he mentioned the ease in which you have ended the lives of orcs in the past. He says you are a natural.”

“I suppose he would. I spent little time with him while I was younger.” Amathel remembered the first time she had to kill an orc. She had never fought anyone in open combat, only regulated training matches. While on a ride through the forest with one of the elven generals that was in charge of her training, they came across a few errant orcs.

Amathel remembered the terrifying faces of the orcs getting closer to her. Quickly, they would be too close to hit them with arrows and she’d be forced to resort to close combat. She could run away and let the general deal with the orcs. There were few enough for that to be possible; but if he reported back to her father that Amathel was a coward, she’d only be asserting her weakness compared to her brothers. By the time she had mustered enough courage to fight back, the orc was in close combat range. Amathel had been trained extensively with a sword. Unlike her brothers, who preferred daggers, she had chosen a sword.

Unsheathing her blade, she pivoted on her heel, her moves circular and flowy, typical of elven fighters. With well-practiced ease, she parried the blows from the orcs, finally getting into a position to finish it. Holding her breath, she ducked under the orc’s messy blow and plunged the blade into the chink of its armor. Caught by surprise, it stumbled back, allowing Amathel to strike it over the head with the butt of her sword. The orc crumpled to the ground, bleeding black blood over the grass, its body completely motionless.

By the time Amathel had killed a single orc, the elven general had taken out the rest of them.

“Are you alright?” He ran over to where Amathel was frozen, leaning heavily on her sword.

“I killed it.” She murmured, her voice shaking. Glancing at the corpse again, a wave of nausea and dizziness overcame her. Her body heaved as she retched violently, disgusted in what she had done.

“I will take you home to your father now, you are not well.” The general helped her to her feet.

“I am fine!” She pushed the general’s hand away, standing on her own, “It was my first kill, that’s all. I can go on. I need not to return home.” Amathel was afraid that her father would quickly deem her a coward and disallow her from training further. She refused to be seen as weak; not in the eyes of her father.

“I will take you word, then. We continue now.”

“Amathel?” Tauriel’s voice snapped her back into reality.

“Ah yes, my apologies! I was merely spacing out for a moment.” Amathel waved her hand dismissing Tauriel’s concern, “Ah, what was I saying? Right! I truly do dislike killing. The first time I killed an orc, I threw up, in fact.”

“Oh! Well I’m sorry to take you on a fighting mission, then.” Tauriel looked concerned. She expected Amathel to be a stone-cold killer, trained extensively in warfare. Instead, she seemed to be quite the pacifist.

“Worry not! As long as there is danger, I have no qualms against fighting it. I can only hope for a peaceful future.”

“Good, for the orcs have become more bold.” Tauriel’s tone grew serious, “They now venture further into the forest.”

“We will take out as many as we can,” Amathel agreed, “We are nearly at the border of the forest.”

“Shall we make camp and begin scouting?” Tauriel suggested, motioning to the pack on the side of her horse.

Amathel nodded, dismounting her horse gracefully, landing on the ground without a sound. Unpacking the supplies from her horse, she gazed at Tauriel inconspicuously. Amathel noticed how graceful Tauriel was in all movements, as if dancing; the more Amathel observed, the more enthralled she was by Tauriel. Not only was she graceful in movement and speech, but she was strong of will and similar to Amathel herself. Maybe Legolas had a point. Amathel was interested.

After placing her bedroll on the ground, she beckoned Tauriel to sit beside her.

“Tell me of your childhood.” Her voice was quiet and inviting.

“But, we must scout.” Tauriel appeared opposed to the idea. Behind the determination in her eyes, Amathel could spot a yearning for conversation.

“We can spare a minute.” Amathel chuckled, “We will be efficient.”

Tauriel capitulated, settling onto the bedroll, her legs crossed. “My family is small,” she began, gazing off indefinitely, “Very typical, in fact. My father was a royal guard, which provided some privilege, and my mother stayed home and cared for me and my siblings. My brothers were ambitious children. They aspired to be royal guards like my father, training in archery as soon as they could grasp a bow. My parents encouraged it. Strong sons make a prosperous family. They were not nearly as enthusiastic when I expressed interest in warfare. They allowed it nonetheless. My first few centuries were uneventful, sweet childhood. After I was old enough to marry, my parents encouraged it. I refused and found my own way. Though they weren’t pleased, they respected my opinion. That is all.” She smiled softly, looking to Amathel, whose eyes had not left her face. “And you?”

Troubled childhoods were a token of one of royal lineage. If your father was Thranduil of the Mirkwood elves, life was that much more exciting. “I am the middle child.” Amathel started with the obvious fact. As a middle child, she had neither the privilege of the first-born nor the intrigue of the youngest. “My older brother, Elyon, was the perfect heir, similar to father in his sense of...superiority. Though, I will admit, he lacked father’s flamboyance. Before Legolas was born, I spent most of my time with my mother, following her everywhere. Though she was the queen, she was independent and strong. I admired that. Once Legolas was born, I had a playfellow. We got along splendidly; both of us despised the stuffy haughtiness of the palace and would often embark on long rides through the forests. It was nice. Mother died when Legolas was still young. Father never spoke of it, he didn’t spare us the details. All we knew was that she had died. That is all.”

Tauriel simply nodded, her brows creased, as if trying to formulate a response.

Breaking the tension in the air, Amathel stood up. “Let’s scout.”

“Yes, good plan,” Tauriel replied, flustered. Quickly, she assembled her supplies and fastened her quiver over her chest. Signalling to Amathel, she ran deeper into the forest.

#lord of the rings #legolas #oc #tauriel #the hobbit #thranduil #I love writing all dramatic #elves #Mirkwood elves #the fellowship of the ring #lotr #writing #lord of the rings fanfiction

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justonehappyvictory · 6 years

Text

The Flower

Ye Jae Wook/Woo Bo Young

Check out this website for Korean Poetry translated in English (it was very helpful in the creation of this fic)

He curls the book into his chest. Finishing words he'll never experience for the first time again. The last page fills him with ease, radiance. A sigh. A wish to express all she could in a word or gesture. Woo Bo Young; the name releases all the restraints he places upon himself.

That alarm on his phone rings him out of his bliss. He jumps up, grabs his jacket and rushes out the door. The book is tucked deep into his pocket for safe-keeping.

The Flower by Kim Chun-soo

꽃/김춘수

The banner thumps against the sweet spring wind. His heart beat with it. Her smile, her bright eyes, her warmth not even the sunlight can compare to filters through even in print. Sparkling. Dazzling. Kind. MEET AND GREET WITH UP-AND-COMING POET WOO BO YOUNG, and in smaller letters Get your copy of ‘One Step: an act of moving’ signed today!

The days since his gaze last fell upon her crept, slow like molasses. He’d kept up with her tour as he went on his. This was her fifth book store appearance; that her schedule matched up with his was a happy coincidence. A rare smile brushes his lips, but his was not the only one. Inside and outside, her fans line up, jittery and jolly.

He notes their books. One well worn, creases overlapping on the spine, thick with dog eared pages. Another with neons advertising each feeling and connection, fingerprints embedded into the cover. One crisp and new, barely opened. He strokes his thumb over his pocketed book filled with highlights and underlines, notes and thoughts, flowers and leaves pressed between pages.

내가 그의 이름을 불러 주기 전에는

그는 다만

하나의 몸짓에 지나지 않았다.

Before I called her name,

she was nothing

more than a gesture.

Her laugh rings through the room, tingling like the bells over the door he passed through. The man in front of her the cause of it; a blush rose on her neck at his compliments. She hides her face in her hands. An employee whispers in her ear. There’s a time limit for each customer and she’s not good at counting the seconds. With a pout, she thanks the man and beckons the next in line.

Jealous. He recognizes the twinge, the tug in his middle. Not for her ease with the man ― maybe a little for the man ― but for her open nature. Bo Young never shied from herself, from whatever she felt in the moment. Here, surrounded by so many people who connected to her words, she was in her element. The best advice he ever gave himself was to be more like her.

She’s fanning her tears now. He dips his head low, giving the floor his smiles. He wants to keep this admiration, adoration, appreciation of her to himself longer. Feet in front of him bounce up and down, making his nerves bounce. His whole being vibrates with anticipation. The distance grows shorter the longer the minutes become. How many more steps before he stands in front of her again?

내가 그의 이름을 불러 주었을 때

그는 나에게로 와서

꽃이 되었다.

When I called her name,

she came to me

and became a flower.

Bo Young freezes when their eyes meet. Confused. Delighted. She clears her throat. Her gestures dim, but her eyes are stars in a night sky. A nod of her head and the employee ushers him forward.

“Doctor Ye,” she says, “you’re here.”

He pulls his book from his pocket; a subject presenting a precious gift to a queen. His fingers brush hers as she takes the book from him. His insides flutter, prompting a smile ardent and untamed and hers. Her blush requires no words from him, only his sincerity.

“I couldn’t resist a meeting with my favorite poet.”

“Is is because I'm adorable? I think I remember you calling me that once.”

“Woo Bo Young-ssi, the time,” the employee prompts. And Jae Wook resents him for cutting this time.

Bo Young scrunches her nose. She opens the book, flipping through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. Her pen scurries over the page, hidden from his view by her hand. She pauses, reading over the words she’s gifting only for him.

She hands the book back, biting back all she wants to say but won't. Not in front of so many people. “It’s one you haven’t read before. I was going to-” the employee taps on his watch “-um, later.”

“I look forward to the next meeting.”

On a whim alone, he takes her hand, placing a swift kiss before the employee notices or sweeps him away or both. She’s the color of blossomed camellias at the dawn of spring as he walks away. He doesn’t read what she wrote when he passes through the door. Instead, he takes out his phone and sends her a text. He’ll wait.

내가 그의 이름을 불러 준 것처럼

나의 이 빛깔과 향기에 알맞은

누가 나의 이름을 불러다오.

그에게로 가서 나도

그의 꽃이 되고 싶다.

Like I called her name,

will someone please call my name

that suits my light and fragrance?

I, too, long to come to her

and become her flower.

He looks over tomorrow’s presentation for the tenth time. The images blend with the words and his voice becomes croaky around the edges. It’s time for a break. He leans back in his chair and rubs the tension out of his eyes. Looking out the window and sees the sun hovering on the horizon; it gleams through the room in oranges, pinks, and golds. This looks how it feels to be in love with Woo Bo Young, he thinks.

His hotel door beeps and that fluttering returns to him.

“Doctor Ye,” her voice floats in, affectionately annoyed, “you should've told me you would be in town earlier.”

“I like surprising you. You look adorable when you’re surprised.”

She flops into his lap, wrapping her arms around him. He’s invaded by warmth and her honey scent. “I missed you.”

“I have two more seminars and then I’ll be patiently waiting for you back at home.”

“And, by patiently, do you mean you'll go to every one of my book signings with a new book for me to sign? Like you did the last time? I don’t make money off the books you buy with our money.”

“Of course we do. I sell them online for huge amounts of money.”

She hits his arm, a wicked gleam in her eye. He steals a kiss. And then another. He steals away deep into her heart and she lets him.

“What did you think of my message?”

“I didn’t read it yet. I was waiting for you.”

They move to the bed, settle into each other, limbs tangling in that comfortable way only long-time couples have mastered. Jae Wook reaches into the nightstand and plucks the book on top. He’s careful she doesn’t see the multiple copies of her books beneath; ones he bought in every book store he encountered in his travels.

우리들은 모두

무엇이 되고 싶다.

너는 나에게 나는 너에게

잊혀지지 않는 하나의 눈짓이 되고 싶다.

We all long to be something.

You, to me, and I, to you,

long to become a gaze that won’t be forgotten.

#a poem a day #You Who Forgot Poetry #ye jae wook #woo bo young #kdrama #fanfiction #guys this fic is so in line with ep 11 #i couldn't have planned this better myself #live your dreams bo young!!!!!

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aspenbloomfieldyr2fmp · 4 years

Text

Tolkien

Who Was Tolkien?

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien (1892–1973) was a major scholar of the English language, specialising in Old and Middle English. Twice Professor of Anglo-Saxon (Old English) at the University of Oxford, he also wrote a number of stories, including most famously The Hobbit (1937) and The Lord of the Rings (1954–1955), which are set in a pre-historic era in an invented version of our world which he called by the Middle English name of Middle-earth. This was peopled by Men (and women), Elves, Dwarves, Trolls, Orcs (or Goblins) and of course Hobbits. He has regularly been condemned by the Eng. Lit. establishment, with honourable exceptions, but loved by literally millions of readers worldwide.

Childhood and Youth

The name “Tolkien” was believed by the family to be of German origin; Toll-kühn: foolishly brave, or stupidly clever—hence the pseudonym “Oxymore” which he occasionally used; however, this quite probably was a German rationalisation of an originally Baltic Tolkyn, or Tolkīn. In any case, his great-great grandfather John (Johann) Benjamin Tolkien came to Britain with his brother Daniel from Gdańsk in about 1772 and rapidly became thoroughly Anglicised. Certainly his father, Arthur Reuel Tolkien, considered himself nothing if not English. Arthur was a bank clerk, and went to South Africa in the 1890s for better prospects of promotion. There he was joined by his bride, Mabel Suffield, whose family were not only English through and through, but West Midlands since time immemorial. So John Ronald (“Ronald” to family and early friends) was born in Bloemfontein, S.A., on 3 January 1892. His memories of Africa were slight but vivid, including a scary encounter with a large hairy spider, and influenced his later writing to some extent; slight, because on 15 February 1896 his father died, and he, his mother and his younger brother Hilary returned to England—or more particularly, the West Midlands.

The West Midlands in Tolkien’s childhood were a complex mixture of the grimly industrial Birmingham conurbation, and the quintessentially rural stereotype of England, Worcestershire and surrounding areas: Severn country, the land of the composers Elgar, Vaughan Williams and Gurney, and more distantly the poet A. E. Housman (it is also just across the border from Wales). Tolkien’s life was split between these two: the then very rural hamlet of Sarehole, with its mill, just south of Birmingham; and darkly urban Birmingham itself, where he was eventually sent to King Edward’s School. By then the family had moved to King’s Heath, where the house backed onto a railway line—young Ronald’s developing linguistic imagination was engaged by the sight of coal trucks going to and from South Wales bearing destinations like” Nantyglo”,” Penrhiwceiber” and “Senghenydd”.

Then they moved to the somewhat more pleasant Birmingham suburb of Edgbaston. However, in the meantime, something of profound significance had occurred, which estranged Mabel and her children from both sides of the family: in 1900, together with her sister May, she was received into the Roman Catholic Church. From then on, both Ronald and Hilary were brought up in the faith of Pio Nono, and remained devout Catholics throughout their lives. The parish priest who visited the family regularly was the half-Spanish half-Welsh Father Francis Morgan.

Tolkien family life was generally lived on the genteel side of poverty. However, the situation worsened in 1904, when Mabel Tolkien was diagnosed as having diabetes, usually fatal in those pre-insulin days. She died on 14 November of that year leaving the two orphaned boys effectively destitute. At this point Father Francis took over, and made sure of the boys’ material as well as spiritual welfare, although in the short term they were boarded with an unsympathetic aunt-by-marriage, Beatrice Suffield, and then with a Mrs Faulkner.

By this time Ronald was already showing remarkable linguistic gifts. He had mastered the Latin and Greek which was the staple fare of an arts education at that time, and was becoming more than competent in a number of other languages, both modern and ancient, notably Gothic, and later Finnish. He was already busy making up his own languages, purely for fun. He had also made a number of close friends at King Edward’s; in his later years at school they met regularly after hours as the “T. C. B. S.” (Tea Club, Barrovian Society, named after their meeting place at the Barrow Stores) and they continued to correspond closely and exchange and criticise each other’s literary work until 1916.

However, another complication had arisen. Amongst the lodgers at Mrs Faulkner’s boarding house was a young woman called Edith Bratt. When Ronald was 16, and she 19, they struck up a friendship, which gradually deepened. Eventually Father Francis took a hand, and forbade Ronald to see or even correspond with Edith for three years, until he was 21. Ronald stoically obeyed this injunction to the letter. In the summer of 1911, he was invited to join a party on a walking holiday in Switzerland, which may have inspired his descriptions of the Misty Mountains, and of Rivendell. In the autumn of that year he went up to Exeter College, Oxford where he stayed, immersing himself in the Classics, Old English, the Germanic languages (especially Gothic), Welsh and Finnish, until 1913, when he swiftly though not without difficulty picked up the threads of his relationship with Edith. He then obtained a disappointing second class degree in Honour Moderations, the “midway” stage of a 4-year Oxford “Greats” (i.e. Classics) course, although with an “alpha plus” in philology. As a result of this he changed his school from Classics to the more congenial English Language and Literature. One of the poems he discovered in the course of his Old English studies was the Crist of Cynewulf—he was amazed especially by the cryptic couplet:

Eálá Earendel engla beorhtast

Ofer middangeard monnum sended

Which translates as:

Hail Earendel brightest of angels,

over Middle Earth sent to men.

(“Middangeard” was an ancient expression for the everyday world between Heaven above and Hell below.)

This inspired some of his very early and incohate attempts at realising a world of ancient beauty in his versifying.

In the summer of 1913 he took a job as tutor and escort to two Mexican boys in Dinard, France, a job which ended in tragedy. Though no fault of Ronald’s, it did nothing to counter his apparent predisposition against France and things French.

Meanwhile the relationship with Edith was going more smoothly. She converted to Catholicism and moved to Warwick, which with its spectacular castle and beautiful surrounding countryside made a great impression on Ronald. However, as the pair were becoming ever closer, the nations were striving ever more furiously together, and war eventually broke out in August 1914.

War, Lost Tales and Academia

Unlike so many of his contemporaries, Tolkien did not rush to join up immediately on the outbreak of war, but returned to Oxford, where he worked hard and finally achieved a first-class degree in June 1915. At this time he was also working on various poetic attempts, and on his invented languages, especially one that he came to call Qenya [sic], which was heavily influenced by Finnish—but he still felt the lack of a connecting thread to bring his vivid but disparate imaginings together. Tolkien finally enlisted as a second lieutenant in the Lancashire Fusiliers whilst working on ideas of Earendel [sic] the Mariner, who became a star, and his journeyings. For many months Tolkien was kept in boring suspense in England, mainly in Staffordshire. Finally it appeared that he must soon embark for France, and he and Edith married in Warwick on 22 March 1916.

Eventually he was indeed sent to active duty on the Western Front, just in time for the Somme offensive. After four months in and out of the trenches, he succumbed to “trench fever”, a form of typhus-like infection common in the insanitary conditions, and in early November was sent back to England, where he spent the next month in hospital in Birmingham. By Christmas he had recovered sufficiently to stay with Edith at Great Haywood in Staffordshire.

During these last few months, all but one of his close friends of the “T. C. B. S.” had been killed in action. Partly as an act of piety to their memory, but also stirred by reaction against his war experiences, he had already begun to put his stories into shape, “… in huts full of blasphemy and smut, or by candle light in bell-tents, even some down in dugouts under shell fire” [Letters 66]. This ordering of his imagination developed into the Book of Lost Tales (not published in his lifetime), in which most of the major stories of the Silmarillion appear in their first form: tales of the Elves and the “Gnomes”, (i. e. Deep Elves, the later Noldor), with their languages Qenya and Goldogrin. Here are found the first recorded versions of the wars against Morgoth, the siege and fall of Gondolin and Nargothrond, and the tales of Túrin and of Beren and Lúthien.

Throughout 1917 and 1918 his illness kept recurring, although periods of remission enabled him to do home service at various camps sufficiently well to be promoted to lieutenant. It was when he was stationed in the Hull area that he and Edith went walking in the woods at nearby Roos, and there in a grove thick with hemlock Edith danced for him. This was the inspiration for the tale of Beren and Lúthien, a recurrent theme in his “Legendarium”. He came to think of Edith as “Lúthien” and himself as “Beren”. Their first son, John Francis Reuel (later Father John Tolkien) had already been born on 16 November 1917.

When the Armistice was signed on 11 November 1918, Tolkien had already been putting out feelers to obtain academic employment, and by the time he was demobilised he had been appointed Assistant Lexicographer on the New English Dictionary (the “Oxford English Dictionary”), then in preparation. While doing the serious philological work involved in this, he also gave one of his Lost Tales its first public airing—he read The Fall of Gondolin to the Exeter College Essay Club, where it was well received by an audience which included Neville Coghill and Hugo Dyson, two future “Inklings”. However, Tolkien did not stay in this job for long. In the summer of 1920 he applied for the quite senior post of Reader (approximately, Associate Professor) in English Language at the University of Leeds, and to his surprise was appointed.

At Leeds as well as teaching he collaborated with E. V. Gordon on the famous edition of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and continued writing and refining The Book of Lost Tales and his invented “Elvish” languages. In addition, he and Gordon founded a “Viking Club” for undergraduates devoted mainly to reading Old Norse sagas and drinking beer. It was for this club that he and Gordon originally wrote their Songs for the Philologists, a mixture of traditional songs and original verses translated into Old English, Old Norse and Gothic to fit traditional English tunes. Leeds also saw the birth of two more sons: Michael Hilary Reuel in October 1920, and Christopher Reuel in 1924. Then in 1925 the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professorship of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford fell vacant; Tolkien successfully applied for the post.

Professor Tolkien, The Inklings and Hobbits

In a sense, in returning to Oxford as a Professor, Tolkien had come home. Although he had few illusions about the academic life as a haven of unworldly scholarship (see for example Letters 250), he was nevertheless by temperament a don’s don, and fitted extremely well into the largely male world of teaching, research, the comradely exchange of ideas and occasional publication. In fact, his academic publication record is very sparse, something that would have been frowned upon in these days of quantitative personnel evaluation.

However, his rare scholarly publications were often extremely influential, most notably his lecture “Beowulf, the Monsters and the Critics”. His seemingly almost throwaway comments have sometimes helped to transform the understanding of a particular field—for example, in his essay on “English and Welsh”, with its explanation of the origins of the term “Welsh” and its references to phonaesthetics (both these pieces are collected in The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays, currently in print). His academic life was otherwise largely unremarkable. In 1945 he changed his chair to the Merton Professorship of English Language and Literature, which he retained until his retirement in 1959. Apart from all the above, he taught undergraduates, and played an important but unexceptional part in academic politics and administration.

His family life was equally straightforward. Edith bore their last child and only daughter, Priscilla, in 1929. Tolkien got into the habit of writing the children annual illustrated letters as if from Santa Claus, and a selection of these was published in 1976 as The Father Christmas Letters. He also told them numerous bedtime stories, of which more anon. In adulthood John entered the priesthood, Michael and Christopher both saw war service in the Royal Air Force. Afterwards Michael became a schoolmaster and Christopher a university lecturer, and Priscilla became a social worker. They lived quietly in North Oxford, and later Ronald and Edith lived in the suburb of Headington.

However, Tolkien’s social life was far from unremarkable. He soon became one of the founder members of a loose grouping of Oxford friends (by no means all at the University) with similar interests, known as “The Inklings”. The origins of the name were purely facetious—it had to do with writing, and sounded mildly Anglo-Saxon; there was no evidence that members of the group claimed to have an “inkling” of the Divine Nature, as is sometimes suggested. Other prominent members included the above—mentioned Messrs Coghill and Dyson, as well as Owen Barfield, Charles Williams, and above all C. S. Lewis, who became one of Tolkien’s closest friends, and for whose return to Christianity Tolkien was at least partly responsible. The Inklings regularly met for conversation, drink, and frequent reading from their work-in-progress.

The Storyteller

Meanwhile Tolkien continued developing his mythology and languages. As mentioned above, he told his children stories, some of which he developed into those published posthumously as Mr. Bliss, Roverandom, etc. However, according to his own account, one day when he was engaged in the soul-destroying task of marking examination papers, he discovered that one candidate had left one page of an answer-book blank. On this page, moved by who knows what anarchic daemon, he wrote “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit“.

In typical Tolkien fashion, he then decided he needed to find out what a Hobbit was, what sort of a hole it lived in, why it lived in a hole, etc. From this investigation grew a tale that he told to his younger children, and even passed round. In 1936 an incomplete typescript of it came into the hands of Susan Dagnall, an employee of the publishing firm of George Allen and Unwin (merged in 1990 with HarperCollins).

She asked Tolkien to finish it, and presented the complete story to Stanley Unwin, the then Chairman of the firm. He tried it out on his 10-year old son Rayner, who wrote an approving report, and it was published as The Hobbit in 1937. It immediately scored a success, and has not been out of children’s recommended reading lists ever since. It was so successful that Stanley Unwin asked if he had any more similar material available for publication.

By this time Tolkien had begun to make his Legendarium into what he believed to be a more presentable state, and as he later noted, hints of it had already made their way into The Hobbit. He was now calling the full account Quenta Silmarillion, or Silmarillion for short. He presented some of his “completed” tales to Unwin, who sent them to his reader. The reader’s reaction was mixed: dislike of the poetry and praise for the prose (the material was the story of Beren and Lúthien) but the overall decision at the time was that these were not commercially publishable. Unwin tactfully relayed this message to Tolkien, but asked him again if he was willing to write a sequel to The Hobbit. Tolkien was disappointed at the apparent failure of The Silmarillion, but agreed to take up the challenge of “The New Hobbit”.

This soon developed into something much more than a children’s story; for the highly complex 16-year history of what became The Lord of the Rings consult the works listed below. Suffice it to say that the now adult Rayner Unwin was deeply involved in the later stages of this opus, dealing magnificently with a dilatory and temperamental author who, at one stage, was offering the whole work to a commercial rival (which rapidly backed off when the scale and nature of the package became apparent). It is thanks to Rayner Unwin’s advocacy that we owe the fact that this book was published at all – Andave laituvalmes! His father’s firm decided to incur the probable loss of £1,000 for the succès d’estime, and publish it under the title of The Lord of the Rings in three parts during 1954 and 1955, with USA rights going to Houghton Mifflin. It soon became apparent that both author and publishers had greatly underestimated the work’s public appeal.

The “Cult”

The Lord of the Rings rapidly came to public notice. It had mixed reviews, ranging from the ecstatic (W. H. Auden, C. S. Lewis) to the damning (E. Wilson, E. Muir, P. Toynbee) and just about everything in between. The BBC put on a drastically condensed radio adaptation in 12 episodes on the Third Programme. In 1956 radio was still a dominant medium in Britain, and the Third Programme was the “intellectual” channel. So far from losing money, sales so exceeded the break-even point as to make Tolkien regret that he had not taken early retirement. However, this was still based only upon hardback sales.

The really amazing moment was when The Lord of the Rings went into a pirated paperback version in 1965. Firstly, this put the book into the impulse-buying category; and secondly, the publicity generated by the copyright dispute alerted millions of American readers to the existence of something outside their previous experience, but which appeared to speak to their condition. By 1968 The Lord of the Rings had almost become the Bible of the “Alternative Society”.

This development produced mixed feelings in the author. On the one hand, he was extremely flattered, and to his amazement, became rather rich. On the other, he could only deplore those whose idea of a great trip was to ingest The Lord of the Rings and LSD simultaneously. Arthur C. Clarke and Stanley Kubrick had similar experiences with 2001: A Space Odyssey. Fans were causing increasing problems; both those who came to gawp at his house and those, especially from California who telephoned at 7 p.m. (their time—3 a.m. his), to demand to know whether Frodo had succeeded or failed in the Quest, what was the preterite of Quenyan lanta-, or whether or not Balrogs had wings. So he changed addresses, his telephone number went ex-directory, and eventually he and Edith moved to Bournemouth, a pleasant but uninspiring South Coast resort (Hardy’s “Sandbourne”), noted for the number of its elderly well-to-do residents.

Meanwhile the cult, not just of Tolkien, but of the fantasy literature that he had revived, if not actually inspired (to his dismay), was really taking off—but that is another story, to be told in another place.

Other Writings

Despite all the fuss over The Lord of the Rings, between 1925 and his death Tolkien did write and publish a number of other articles, including a range of scholarly essays, many reprinted in The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays (see above); one Middle-earth related work, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil; editions and translations of Middle English works such as the Ancrene Wisse, Sir Gawain, Sir Orfeo and The Pearl, and some stories independent of the Legendarium, such as the Imram, The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son, The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun—and, especially, Farmer Giles of Ham, Leaf by Niggle, and Smith of Wootton Major.

The flow of publications was only temporarily slowed by Tolkien’s death. The long-awaited Silmarillion, edited by Christopher Tolkien, appeared in 1977. In 1980 Christopher also published a selection of his father’s incomplete writings from his later years under the title of Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth. In the introduction to this work Christopher Tolkien referred in passing to The Book of Lost Tales, “itself a very substantial work, of the utmost interest to one concerned with the origins of Middle-earth, but requiring to be presented in a lengthy and complex study, if at all” (Unfinished Tales, p. 6, paragraph 1).

The sales of The Silmarillion had rather taken George Allen & Unwin by surprise, and those of Unfinished Tales even more so. Obviously, there was a market even for this relatively abstruse material and they decided to risk embarking on this “lengthy and complex study”. Even more lengthy and complex than expected, the resulting 12 volumes of the History of Middle-earth, under Christopher’s editorship, proved to be a successful enterprise. (Tolkien’s publishers had changed hands, and names, several times between the start of the enterprise in 1983 and the appearance of the paperback edition of Volume 12, The Peoples of Middle-earth, in 1997.) Over time, other posthumous publications emerged including Roverandom (1998), The Children of Húrin (2007), Beowulf (2014), Beren and Lúthien (2017), and most recently The Fall of Gondolin (2018).

Finis

After his retirement in 1959 Edith and Ronald moved to Bournemouth. On 29 November 1971 Edith died, and Ronald soon returned to Oxford, to rooms provided by Merton College. Ronald died on 2 September 1973. He and Edith are buried together in a single grave in the Catholic section of Wolvercote cemetery in the northern suburbs of Oxford. (The grave is well signposted from the entrance.) The legend on the headstone reads:

Edith Mary Tolkien, Lúthien, 1889–1971

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Beren, 1892–1973

Source

https://www.tolkiensociety.org/author/biography/

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newstechreviews · 4 years

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When protesters began flooding the streets of Minneapolis last month after the police killing of George Floyd, they were decrying police brutality and systemic racism. There’s little doubt that something as far-removed from that grave situation as The Golden Girls was anywhere near top of mind.

But that 1980s sitcom, unrelated as it may seem, is one of the cultural institutions that has been affected by the reverberations of protests as they spread across the country and the globe. Statues are coming down; leaders are resigning after being accused of perpetrating racist structures; cultural works from the present and past alike are being scrutinized through new lenses. And when, on June 27, Hulu pulled an episode of The Golden Girls in which Blanche and Rose wear mud masks resembling blackface, it was just one of many concrete actions taken in recent weeks as platforms, gatekeepers and creators reconsider both past output and the future of their organizations.

Here are the many ways in which the cultural world is changing in response to the protests.

TV shows are being canceled or reconsidered

20thCentFox/Everett CollectionA still from the 23rd season of the TV series ‘Cops.’ The show was canceled by Paramount Network in early June.

As calls to defund the police have intensified, networks have canceled two reality shows that some say glorify police violence: Cops, which was about to air its 33rd season on the Paramount Network, and Live PD, which was A&E’s top-rated series.

Another cop show, the comedy Brooklyn Nine-Nine, is changing its new season to reflect the protests. “We have to start over. Right now we don’t know which direction it’s going to go in,” cast member Terry Crews told Deadline.

Jenna Marbles, one of YouTube’s early stars, announced she would discontinue her main YouTube channel, which included scenes in which she wore blackface and used slurs to mock an Asian man. “I’m sorry if any of that holds any nostalgia for you, but I’m literally not trying to put out negative things into the world,” she said.

TV episodes are being removed from streaming services

In addition to The Golden Girls, dozens of other shows or episodes that have featured blackface are being scrubbed from streaming services. Tina Fey requested that four episodes of 30 Rock containing blackface be removed from streaming, digital rental and TV syndication; Greg Daniels, the creator of The Office, edited out a scene of the episode “Dwight Christmas” that features a character briefly in blackface.

Episodes of Community, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Scrubs were pulled for the same reason. And Netflix removed both Little Britain and several of comedian Chris Lilley’s shows, including Summer Heights High and Jonah From Tonga, for their extensive use of blackface.

While many creators apologized for their usage of blackface, some defended their work, saying they deployed it in a critical and self-conscious manner. After an episode of the sketch show W/ Bob & David was pulled from Netflix, for example, co-creator David Cross wrote on Twitter that “the point of this was to underscore the absurdity” of a “ridiculous, foolish character.”

Disclaimers have been added to outdated works

Getty Images—2011 Silver Screen CollectionVivien Leigh, left, with Hattie McDaniel in 1939’s “Gone With the Wind.”

In mid-June, HBO Max pulled Gone With the Wind from their catalog before reinstating it with a pre-movie note that reads, “the film’s treatment of this world through a lens of nostalgia denies the horrors of slavery, as well as its legacy of racial inequality.” They also tacked on a spoken prologue, which can be viewed on YouTube, from film professor and Turner Classic Movies host Jacqueline Stewart.

A 1975 episode of the John Cleese sitcom Fawlty Towers underwent a similar process. Initially, The BBC removed the episode from their streaming service, as it contained a number of racial epithets. But Cleese and others lobbied to keep it up, saying it was a critique and not a glorification.

I would have hoped that someone at the BBC would understand that there are two ways of making fun of human behaviour

One is to attack it directly.

The other is to have someone who is patently a figure of fun, speak up on behalf of that behaviour

Thank of Alf Garnett…

— John Cleese (@JohnCleese) June 12, 2020

The network then announced it would put the episode back up with “extra guidance and warnings … to highlight potentially offensive content.”

Shane Dawson, who has been called the “king of YouTube,” came under fire for videos in which he wore blackface, mocked those with disabilities, sexualized minors and made anti-Semitic comments. While YouTube did not remove his channel, they did take away his advertising revenue for an indefinite period of time.

White actors are stepping down from voicing Black characters

It has not been uncommon for Black characters on animated shows to be voiced by white actors—but that’s beginning to change. Jenny Slate announced that she would no longer voice the biracial character Missy on Netflix’s Big Mouth, writing, “Black characters on an animated show should be played by Black people.” Kristen Bell followed suit, ceding the role of Molly on the new Apple TV+ show Central Park, and so did Mike Henry, who has voiced Cleveland on Family Guy and The Cleveland Show for two decades. (Following his announcement, Wendell Pierce threw his hat in the ring to play the character.)

The Simpsons announced that longtime Springfield residents of color like Dr. Hibbert and Carl Carlson would no longer be voiced by white actors. (In February, Hank Azaria stepped down from the role of Apu.)

Bands are changing their names

Two ultra-famous bands with names tied to the Confederacy have rebranded. Lady Antebellum shortened their name to Lady A, writing in a statement that “blindspots we didn’t even know existed have been revealed.⁣⁣⁣” (Unfortunately, they missed the fact that a Black singer has gone by Lady A for two decades.) The Dixie Chicks dropped the “Dixie” from their name to become The Chicks in advance of a new album, Gaslighter.

Meanwhile, Splash Mountain, which is not a band but a water ride at Disney World, is shaking its connection to the antebellum south: it will replace its Song of the South-based plotline with one derived from The Princess and the Frog.

Leaders of arts organizations are stepping down

The CEO and co-owner Second City stepped down from his post after being called out by many former Black members. In his resignation note, he wrote that he “failed to create an anti-racist environment wherein artists of color might thrive.”

The executive director of the Victory Gardens Theater in Chicago resigned; so did the president of the Poetry Foundation, after a scathing open letter was signed by more than 1,800 poets. And the artistic director and co-founder of the Signature Theater in Arlington, Va., stepped down after accusations of sexual misconduct.

Other performers and creatives have been fired

Writer-producer Craig Gore was fired from an SVU spinoff after posting a message online threatening protesters. The actor Hartley Sawyer was fired from The Flash after old racist and misogynistic tweets resurfaced.

On Vanderpump Rules, four cast members were fired: two for sending racist tweets, and two for reporting a Black co-star to the police.

Gatekeeper organizations are making internal changes

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced it would be amending its rules to help make Oscar eligibility more inclusive. Netflix said it would give 2 percent of its cash going forward to financial institutions and organizations that directly support Black communities.

The Flea, in downtown Manhattan, was called out for “racism, sexism, gaslighting, disrespect and abuse,” and responded by announcing that it will pay all of its artists. And the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis announced it would cut ties with the police.

#Blogger

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mikemortgage · 5 years

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Burberry catwalk showcases streetwear, elegant classics

LONDON — Victoria Beckham doesn’t need celebrities at her fashion shows — her A-list family provides more than enough star power.

The designer’s husband, retired soccer superstar David Beckham, and the couple’s four children turned up as guests of honour Sunday to support her London Fashion Week show. The former Spice Girl was among the big names showcasing their latest designs in the British capital, alongside Vivienne Westwood, Burberry and Roland Mouret.

Westwood used her show to spotlight climate change and warn of impending doom, Burberry featured a diverse show of streetwear and elegant classics, and Peter Pilotto showed a wide variety of lovely dresses and jumpsuits.

A look at Sunday’s highlights:

——

BURBERRY SHOWS WIDE RANGE, HONORS HERITAGE IN CATWALK SHOW

Burberry earned its place — again — as one of the top shows in London Fashion Week on Sunday with a widely ranging catwalk show that honoured the British brand’s long tradition but showed it is still ready to mix it up and set trends.

Chief Creative Officer Riccardo Tisci showed in his second collection that he is perfectly comfortable stretching the Burberry look to keep its younger fans happy while easily switching gears to create classic, severely tailored ensembles that ooze chic.

The two sides of the Burberry coin were reflected in the two adjacent rooms where the collection was shown: one a sedate auditorium with comfortable, padded seats; the other a raucous wide-open space ringed by a climbing gym of the type young kids would use.

“I have been thinking a lot about England as a country of contrasts, from the structured to the rebellious and free, and I wanted to celebrate how these elements coexist,” Tisci said.

He said he had four characters in mind when putting the collection together: a girl and a boy, and a lady and a gentleman.

The transition was obvious as models went from street-style clothes — oversize puffer jackets, metallic ornamentation, revealing slip dresses, silver boots, faux fur, big red plastic sneakers — to subtle, timeless outfits in muted fall colours.

There were occasional references to the brand’s earlier incarnation as a purveyor of fine, traditional menswear as a few models were dressed in classic suits and ties, including one double-breasted throwback.

Tisci made ample and imaginative use of the traditional Burberry trench and check, and paired a number of sexy evening dresses with full-length coats for a look at once provocative and classy.

There were a few eccentric touches, including an outfit set off by a giant scarf that paid homage to “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Tisci seems to be enjoying his time at Burberry, treasuring tradition but refusing to be overwhelmed by it.

——

FAMILY AFFAIR AT VICTORIA BECKHAM

The front row at Victoria Beckham’s runway show has a younger average age than the VIP seats at other shows. The designer’s youngest, 7-year-old Harper, sat on her dad’s lap for a cuddle as he chatted amiably with American Vogue editor Anna Wintour.

Like everyone else, Beckham family members in the audience whipped out smartphones to take a picture of Victoria Beckham when she came out for a bow at the end of the display.

The designer said she wanted to channel “modern femininity” and cinematic drama for the collection and had in mind a particular image of the woman wearing her clothes.

“She’s proper but she’s definitely not prim,” Beckham wrote in her show notes.

The result was a mix of ladylike classics — tailored check blazers, tweeds, argyle jumpers, silky blouses neatly tucked into pencil skirts — with saucy, eye-catching details like knee-high, open-toed sock boots in lipstick red or leopard, or bright satin stilettos in citrus, bright fuchsia and chartreuse.

The bell-bottomed trouser, a style the designer has adopted as her signature, made an appearance. So did the trend for checks, which still appears to be going strong. One ensemble featured a wide-lapelled coat, trousers and a tote bag in the same brown check pattern.

——

SUITED AND BOOTED AT ROLAND MOURET

Roland Mouret, the designer once best known for his skin-tight “bandage” dress, has moved on. For the upcoming autumn and winter season, his clothes are all about oversized shapes and mannish suits.

Mouret, whose fans include Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex, said he was interested in proportions and styling pieces without regard to traditional gender divides.

There’s a creamy white double-breasted trouser suit, and boxy wide blazers were worn over silky, flowing dresses. A slouchy, checked suit with drawstring trousers was paired with a low-cut Lurex top.

For those looking for a properly oversized piece, Mouret offers up a huge, shaggy faux fur coat that is sure to be the talk of the party wherever it goes.

There’s still much that’s traditionally soft and feminine, though. Asymmetric, handkerchief-hem skirts caress the calves and swish beautifully with movement. Strategically draped bodices slyly reveal a shoulder here and a collarbone there. The shimmering metallic Lurex adds luxury, and the show’s closing look, a pale blush gown worn under a matching faux fur coat, is made of a fabric so light it billows like clouds.

——

VIVIENNE WESTWOOD GOES GUERRILLA Theatre

The grand dame of British fashion, Vivienne Westwood, put fashion on the back burner Sunday and turned her catwalk show into a broadside against climate change, corporate greed and other ills.

Westwood has moved in that direction in recent years, but she went into guerrilla theatre mode for this latest show. It featured angry models stopping in the middle of the catwalk to denounce the planet’s problems, finding time to complain about artificial intelligence, robots, Brexit and a whole lot more.

The first model set the tone by announcing the world would be dead unless something is done this year. The models warned, to a percussive, threatening sound track, that humanity would soon go deaf and blind and have squished internal organs.

A free speech advocate wore a slogan-covered jacket, saying it was to honour Julian Assange, the founder of WikiLeaks who in 2012 took asylum in Ecuador’s Embassy in London to avoid extradition.

One model with a microphone proclaimed “Hollywood has made us into zombies.” A wittier riposte came from the model who announced, “England is going to die from irony.”

The clothes on offer were distinctly androgynous. Many male models were outfitted in dresses or tops and skirts, though others wore beautifully made suits with distinctive draping and a very English look.

Westwood is a fashion legend dating back to the punk era who seemingly can do no wrong with her legions of fans. She was greeted with adoring applause when she emerged at the end of the show and sang that Britain can once again lead the way.

——

LOVELY DRESSES, JUMPSUITS, TAILORED OUTFITS BY PETER PILOTTO

Designer Peter Pilotto seems to be moving from strength to strength as he solidifies his place as one of London Fashion Week’s leading lights.

He showed a wide array of very soft, feminine dresses, jumpsuits and tailored tops and skirts Sunday, including some asymmetrical, off-the-shoulder dresses made of luscious silk and other fabrics. Pilotto and Chrisotpher De Vos said the collection contained “a nod to the gilded splendor of bygone empires” and there was a timeless quality to the collection.

Pilotto is fond of high-waisted trousers matched with revealing top. There were sparkly jumpsuits galore, an array of the silk print dresses that he’s known for, and a bounty of tailored, shaped floral suits and wraparound dresses that could be seen as a celebration of beauty.

Some of the models set off their outfits with long, sparkly gloves that added a metallic sheen to the ensembles. Others wore blouses with dreamy, billowing sheer sleeves. One of the few misfires was a series of pleated skirts with contrasting tops that didn’t really shine.

Pilotto seems to be hitting his stride, buoyed by the buzz surrounding his wedding dress for Princess Eugenie last year. His collections have become a highlight of fashion week.

from Financial Post http://bit.ly/2GJmaDP via IFTTT Blogger Mortgage Tumblr Mortgage Evernote Mortgage Wordpress Mortgage href="https://www.diigo.com/user/gelsi11">Diigo Mortgage

#IFTTT #Financial Post

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emmagreen1220-blog · 5 years

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New Post has been published on Literary Techniques

New Post has been published on https://literarytechniques.org/motif-in-literature/

Motif in Literature

Examples of Motif in Literature

Motif, in essence, is a recurring element, whether a concept, a phrase, an image, an object, an event, or a situation. This element can reappear within a single work, but also across many works written by one or numerous different authors (not always consciously imitating each other). Modern scholars tend to distinguish these two meanings of the word “motif” in literary studies by labeling the recurrence of elements in a single work with the German word leitmotif (“leading motif”)—borrowed from early analyses of the music of Wagner—and by referring to the repetition of concepts and themes across literary works with the rather old term topos (pl. topoi; “(common) place”)—borrowed from ancient rhetoric. So that you can understand better this distinction, below we provide examples of both topoi and leitmotifs, i.e., the two different types of motifs.

Across Many Works (Topoi)

Example #1: Ubi Sunt

“Ubi sunt” is Latin for “where are… [they]?” and it is one of the oldest and most pervasive motifs in world literature. It is a melancholic comment on the transience of life, usually made through a series of rhetorical questions concerning the fate of the most exemplary people of the past, be they the bravest, the wealthiest, or the most beautiful. Sometimes, ubi sunt can also take the form of a nostalgic yearning for “the good ol’ days;” in this case, the mood it tries to convey approximates the one captured by the numerous variations of another widespread motif: the “golden age” motif.

The Bible

You can find one of the earliest appearances of the ubi sunt motif in the Book of Baruch (33:16-19), a deuterocanonical book of the Bible (meaning: it is considered to be part of the Bible only by Catholics and Orthodox Christians). In fact, the expression ubi sunt is derived from the Latin translation of the first two words of this passage:

Where are the rulers of the nations, and those who lorded it over the animals on earth; those who made sport of the birds of the air, and who hoarded up silver and gold in which people trust, and there is no end to their getting; those who schemed to get silver, and were anxious, but there is no trace of their works? They have vanished and gone down to Hades, and others have arisen in their place.

Medieval Poetry

Medieval poets attempted to bring to mind this feeling of fleetingness pretty often, and you can find the same motif expressed in numerous poems written in many different languages during this period of time. Thus, the Old English poem Wanderer asks “Where is the horse gone? Where the rider? Where the giver of treasure?/ Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the revels in the hall?” and 13th-century French trouvère Rutebeuf sings “What has become of my friends/ That I had held so close/ And loved so much?”

One of the most famous evocations of the ubi sunt motif can be found in another French poet of the Middle Ages, the notorious François Villon. In his “Ballade of the Ladies of Times Past,” he sings that all the most beautiful maidens in history have disappeared just like last year’s snows. The poem contains perhaps the most imitated and alluded-to refrain of this kind: “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”

On a more positive note, the well-known academic commercium song “Gaudeamus igitur” contains the verses “Where are those who trod this globe/ In the years before us?” but only so as to inspire those who listen to seize the day, which is another prominent literary topos sometimes associated with the ubi sunt: the carpe diem motif. But we’ll get back to it later.

Renaissance and Romanticism

Shakespeare revisits the ubi sunt motif in the “Alas, poor Yorick” speech given by Hamlet in the fifth act of his most celebrated play, as does James Macpherson in his pseudo-translations of Ossian, Fragments of Ancient Poetry: “Where is Fingal the King? where is Oscur, my son? where are all my race?”

From the Romantic period come two more personalized and, thus, more devastating manifestations of the ubi sunt motif. The first one can be found in Goethe’s “Dedication” to Faust, in which he bemoans the fact that the people he wrote his poems for can no longer read them:

They hear no longer these succeeding measures, The souls, to whom my earliest songs I sang: Dispersed the friendly troop, with all its pleasures, And still, alas! the echoes first that rang!

The second example comes from Charles Lamb’s brief poem “The Old Familiar Faces” which opens with this heart-rending tercet:

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

We can list many more examples, but we guess the above should suffice. As you can see, all of the works quoted here essentially say the same depressing thing—namely that life ends and that even the most remarkable among us will eventually die. Because of this, they can all be considered variations of the same theme, in this case labeled the ubi sunt motif.

Example #2: Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

Ars longa, vita brevis is another Latin phrase which is used as a common designation for a recurring theme in literature. Meaning “art is long, life is short,” this motif is essentially the optimistic other side of the ubi sunt coin. It says that even though our time on earth is short, and our beauty, bravery and wealth mean little when death arrives, our artistic creations remain long after we’re gone and can outlive us by centuries; death may conquer life, but art triumphs over death. The phrase is most frequently used with reference to the timelessness of the written word, or more particularly, poetry.

Ancient Rome

Interestingly enough, the antithetical phrase “ars longa, vita brevis” is a misinterpretation of an aphorism by the Father of Medicine, Hippocrates, who actually says (as translated by Chaucer): “the life so short, the craft so long to learn.” It is in this manner that Seneca quotes him in On the Shortness of Life from where the Latin phrase originates. However, the word “ars,” which originally meant “craft” or “technique,” in time came to mean “the fine arts,” which inspired many poets to reinterpret this initially pessimistic quote into the much more hopeful idea that art outlasts its creator.

The most celebrated ancient meditation upon this ars longa motif is the final poem of the third book of the Odes by Horace, in which the poet confidently—and correctly—predicts that, through his poetry, he has built himself a monument as enduring as time itself (tr. Sidney Alexander):

I have erected a monument more durable than bronze, loftier than the regal pile of pyramids that cannot be destroyed either by corroding rains or the tempestuous North wind or the endless passage of the years or the flight of centuries. Not all of me shall die. A great part of me shall escape Libitina, Goddess of Death.

William Shakespeare

If that first line from Horace above rings any bells, it is because you’ve probably already read it rephrased into English by none other than Shakespeare in his Sonnet 55: “Not marble, nor the gilded monuments/ Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme.” However, as he informs us in the second stanza of the same sonnet, Shakespeare is interested in the timelessness of poetry not because of his own fame, but because of the beauty of his lover:

When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.

Shakespeare restates these feelings several times, most famously in the closing couplet of Sonnet 18, which, referring to itself, claims that:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Romanticism

Far from being the only one, Shakespeare is merely one of the hundreds and hundreds of poets who adapted Horace’s ode and generated their own variation of the ars longa motif. Alexander Pushkin directly imitates Horace in “Exegi momentum,” and both Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and Shelley’s “Ozymandias” comment upon the timelessness of art in connection with the brevity of life—though in a much less confident manner. One of the most popular Romantic poems which uses this motif is certainly Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life” which, among others, contains these verses:

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

Example #3: Carpe diem

Of course, in addition to producing artistic creations which may outlast you, there’s another way for you to confront the brevity of life; and that is by living it to the full. Made famous by the 1989 movie, Dead Poets Society, this motif is most succinctly referred to as the “carpe diem” motif, which is Latin for “seize the day” and which, once again, comes from Horace (I.11): “Even as we speak, envious Time is fleeing./ Seize the day: entrusting as little as possible to tomorrow.” Horace himself has written quite a few verses expressing this very same feeling, and who knows how many poems written after him are no more than variations of this motif! Here are just a few.

Pierre de Ronsard, “Sonnet to Helen” (II.43)

Pierre de Ronsard was the first French poet to be called “a prince of poets,” and it is only because he wrote in French that he is not that famous in the English-speaking world. Few of his poems have, nevertheless, reached a wide audience. Famously adapted by W. B. Yeats under the title “When You Are Old,” the most famous of Ronsard’s numerous “Sonnets to Helen” is undoubtedly one of the most memorable expressions of the carpe diem motif in any language. In it, Ronsard warns Helene that one day he will be dead and she just an old crone, sitting by the fireside and regretting the fact that she had once scorned the advances of one who loved her and thought her beautiful; however, the poet doesn’t want Helene to recognize this as a reason for concern, but as an invitation to enjoy the pleasures of life (tr. Humbert Wolfe):

And since what comes to-morrow who can say? Live, pluck the roses of the world to-day.

Robert Herrick, “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time”

Writing a century after Ronsard, English Cavalier poet Robert Herrick voices the very same opinion in the 208th poem of his lifework, the collection of verses, Hesperides, with language which obviously echoes his French predecessor:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today To-morrow will be dying.

Andrew Marvell, “To His Coy Mistress”

In the last stanza of Herrick’s carpe diem masterpiece, the poet urges the virgins to “be not coy, but use [their] time” while they still can. Written probably just a year after “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time” was published, “To His Coy Mistress,” Andrew Marvell’s most famous love-song, is merely a modification of this advice, in this case, addressed to one particular lady.

In the first stanza of the poem, Marvell explains to this shy maiden that if they had “but world enough, and time,” he would have courted her for millennia, praising her eyes for at least a century and adoring each of her breasts for twice that time. However—he goes on in the second stanza—he can always hear “Time’s wingèd chariot” behind him, making him fully aware that, before too long, his lust will turn into ashes, and his beloved’s “long preserved virginity” will be tried by worms.

And if that is the case—Marvell finally gets to the point in the third stanza—then why all the coyness? “Let us sport us while we may,” the poet urges his beloved, “and tear our pleasures with rough strife/ Through the iron gates of life.” That way the two will have nothing to regret when they die because they’ve made the most of their lives:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

In a Single Work (Leitmotifs)

Example #1: William Shakespeare, Macbeth (1606)

Back in the time when there were no computers and Ctrl+F shortcuts, an English literary critic by the name of Caroline Spurgeon managed to diligently index every single image and metaphor in all of Shakespeare’s plays.

“It is a curious thing,” she notes at the beginning of Chapter XV of her pioneer study Shakespeare’s Imagery and What It Tells Us, “that the part played by recurrent images in raising, developing, sustaining and repeating emotion in [Shakespeare’s] tragedies has not, so far as I know, ever yet been noticed. It is a part somewhat analogous to the action of a recurrent theme or ‘motif’ in a musical fugue or sonata, or in one of Wagner’s operas.” And then she proceeds to trace “the recurring images which serve as ‘motifs’” in each of Shakespeare’s great tragedies, after having done the same with his histories, comedies, and romances in the previous three chapters.

Spurgeon singles out Macbeth’s imagery as “more rich and varied, more highly imaginative, more unapproachable… than that of any other single play.” However, among the several motifs she registers, one seems to stand out—that of Macbeth’s ill-fitting garments. Shakespeare makes recurrent allusions to this humiliating image of “a notably small man enveloped in a coat far too big for him.” First, it is Macbeth who brings attention to it, after he is named the Thane of Cawdor in the third scene of the first act (I.3.108-9):

The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow’d robes?

Just a few moments later (I.3.144-6), Banquo explicitly calls it to mind by claiming of Macbeth that:

New honours come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use.

And when Lady Macbeth later scolds her husband for his hesitation in relation to the murder of King Duncan, she admonishes him with these words (I.7.36-7): “Was the hope drunk/ wherein you dress’d yourself?” Macduff also resorts to clothing imagery in an ironic comment on Macbeth becoming the new king just as he sends Ross to the coronation in Scone (II.4.37-8): “Well, may you see things well done there: adieu!/ Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!”

Shakespeare returns to this same motif twice more in the second scene of the fifth act when, first, Caithness describes the already shaken Macbeth as someone who “cannot buckle his distemper’d cause/ within the belt of his rule” (V.2.15) and, furthermore, when Angus, just a few verses later (V.2.20) “sums up the essence” of Macbeth:

now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe Upon a dwarfish thief.

The motif of Macbeth’s “ill-fitting garments” is probably not something one is capable of noticing at first or even third reading; however, as Spurgeon demonstrated, it was always there in the verses, appearing over and over again across the play, so as to serve as a sort of a soundtrack for its main protagonist; just like a Wagnerian leitmotif.

Example #2: William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury (1929)

William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury is one of the indisputable masterpieces of 20th-century modernist literature (though Wyndham Lewis and Vladimir Nabokov would probably disagree). Similarly to a few other books which share comparable reputation—think Proust’s In Search of Lost Time—Faulkner’s novel deals prominently with the topic of subjective vs. objective time. Faulkner uses several motifs masterfully, not only so as to periodically suggest and hint at the theme (mainly that of arrested development), but also so as to provide some unity to his highly experimental work.

And this is especially evident by Faulkner’s prominent use of motifs in the first two parts of his work, which are narrated, respectively, by the intellectually disabled Benjamin “Benjy” Compson (who acts as if he is 3 even though he is 33 years old) and the depressed and deteriorated Quentin on the day of his suicide. Since both of these parts are presented in a stream of consciousness fashion, it can be difficult for the reader to make out the chronology of the described events or detect any intelligible storyline. However, by saturating Benjy’s and Quentin’s accounts with sporadically reappearing motifs, Faulkner successfully compensates for this lack of narrative clarity, transforming the first half of his novel into a sort of a lyrical exposé, rich with refrains and repetitions.

Think of these Faulknerian leitmotifs as conspicuous cues planted in the text so as to remind the reader from time to time that it is still the same story he’s trying to get to the bottom of, even though occasionally it may not seem like that. To understand this better, just consider how the word “caddie”—often uttered at the golf course—reminds Benjy of his favorite sibling’s name and stirs his mind into a whirlwind of unrelated associations of his sister Caddy. The word “caddie” itself doesn’t stand for anything here, i.e., it is not a symbol; it is merely a cue for a stream of connotations, a motif Faulkner spins out into something more important for the overall theme: the brothers’ relationship with Caddy.

Another thing that Benjy is passionate about is fire. It is an image he is fascinated and calmed by, and it often comes to his mind for no apparent reason whatsoever. A few examples should suffice: “I liked to smell Versh’s house. There was a fire in it…;” “There was a fire in the house, rising and falling…;” “He was just looking at the fire, Caddy said”… The fire-motif here works the same way choruses work in songs: reemerging from time to time to create a lyrical pattern. It is difficult to say whether the fire is meant to represent something: to Benjy, it is probably a friendly element and, just like caddies, it seems to have some kind of a warm connection to Caddy.

However, the fire-motif is infused with other meanings when it reappears in the second part as in this meditation by Quentin:

If it could just be a hell beyond that: the clean flame the two of us more than dead. Then you will have only me then only me then the two of us amid the pointing and the horror beyond the clean flame.

In Dante’s Purgatorio, poets are purified by passing through a wall of fire; it is what Dante has to do in order to see Beatrice. However, Quentin’s love for his sister seems something beyond purification, which is why he associates fire with both “clean flames” and “hell” at the same time: on the other side of the “clean flame” there is no Paradise, but “pointing and horror.” The phrase “amid the pointing and the horror beyond the clean flame” reappears four times in Quentin’s musings, thus becoming a sort of a sub-motif which always recalls and points to something more than what the phrase itself contains.

It is difficult to say here more without getting into unnecessary details with regards to our keyword, but, if you are interested, an excellent place to go on with your research is Sartre’s exceptional essay “Time in the Work of Faulkner”: large parts of it treat some of Faulkner’s time-related motifs, mostly in Quentin’s part (reference).

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