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#sweet swan of avon
shakespearenews · 1 year
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Beyond “compelling” stylistic evidence, the sonnet, titled To the Deserving Author, is signed with the mysterious pseudonym Cygnus, after the mythical figure who was turned into a swan – evoking Jonson’s very own tribute to Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon as the “Sweet Swan of Avon”.
Dr Chris Laoutaris, an associate professor of Shakespeare and early modern drama at the Shakespeare Institute, University of Birmingham, told the Guardian: “This is how Jonson referred to him in his long poem in honour of the playwright in the first folio mourning Shakespeare’s ‘flight’ as the swan, whose living presence shall never again grace England’s stages.”
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cto10121 · 9 months
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…Yeah, this really needs its own post. You’re in for a wild ride, @pisces-hideout.
So yes, William Shakespeare and Ben Jonson were total frenemies and their Goku-Vegeta dynamic is as good as historical fact. And it is absolutely glorious.
So Ben Jonson was eight years younger than Shakespeare, a bricklayer-turned-soldier who came into playacting/writing around the late 1590s (seriously, what’s with all the most important people in Shakespeare’s life being 8 years apart from him in age?). Shakespeare and Jonson first met (per Shakespeare’s first biographer Nicholas Rowe) when Jonson submitted his first play, Every Man In His Humour, to Shakespeare’s troupe, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. The LCM disliked the play and were ready to refuse it—except Shakespeare, who gave it a quick look and persuaded his troupe to perform it. After that they became friends and even drinking buddies…but that didn’t stop Jonson from giving Shakespeare hell, though.
Because from the get-go Jonson was the complete opposite of Shakespeare in every way. Arrogant, irascible, macho, scholarly, and opinionated, he 1) was a consummate artiste who wrote super slowly and 2) fought with and made enemies of other play poets, wrote plays, poetry, social and lit criticism, and pretty much doing everything under the sun. He was also very political and spoke truth to power; a controversial play he co-wrote with Tom Nashe literally got him arrested and thrown in the Tower (where he famously converted to Catholicism). While a lot of his plays were commercial failures, he was renowned for his literary work and got an intense following by other pretentious fans called the Tribe of Ben—and of course his satiric social comedies were all the rage in the 1600s.
Oh, and he also killed people. In war, yeah, but also one guy in a duel. Gabriel Spenser, a fellow actor. Got his thumb branded for it. Yeah.
And yes, homeboy ragged on Shakespeare. He straight up told his buddy that Shakespeare “wanted [lacked] art.” He criticized him for his awful geography, particularly giving Ilyria (Czechoslovakia) a coastline. And when Shakespeare’s fellow actors gushed about how Shakespeare was such a genius that he never blotted a single line, Jonson tartly replied, “Would he had blotted a thousand!”
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He also had this to say about Shakespeare:
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In the end he was a tsundere a softie. After Shakespeare’s death, he wrote an especially great dedicatory poem (“To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr William Shakespeare”) for Shakespeare’s First Folio, famously calling him “Sweet Swan of Avon!” With regards to his family, he was a total yandere; he called his wife “a shrew, but honest” and wrote the most touching tribute to his son Ben when he died.
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Shakespeare, meanwhile, wrote fast and effortlessly (per the actors), had a good reputation, did not involve himself in ~theater drama, did not court followers, was consistently successful…and by all accounts trolled Jonson superbly. Check it out:
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🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
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dawnettsemporium · 7 months
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VINTAGE Avon Winged Princess Swan Decanter Sweet Honesty Splash Cologne .5 OZ.
Sweet Honesty (Cologne) is a popular perfume by Avon for women and was released in 1973. The scent is floral-powdery.
THIS PERFUME BOTTLE IS THAT PEACHY OIL SLICK COLOR OF MANY CARNIVAL GLASS ITEM PIECES.  MARIGOLD.
THE SWAN LOOKS LIKE IT'S IN MOTION BECAUSE IT IS LAYERS OF WINGS.
I'M PRETTY SURE THIS IS UNUSED, BUT I BOUGHT IT IN A LOT SO AM NOT 100% SURE. THE LABEL STICKER ON THE BOTTOM STILL LOOKS FRESH AND NEW.  STAMPED WITH #31881.
HAS ROUND PLASTIC GOLD TOP.  NO CHIPS OR CRACKS.
VERY FEMININE. GREAT FOR THE COLLECTOR OR LOVER OF SWANS.  PLEASE SEE PICTURES OF THE EXACT ITEM YOU WILL RECEIVE.
FREE SHIPPING.  VOLUME PRICING.  THANK YOU!
#BEAUTIFULMERMAIDQUEEN, #DAWNETTSEMPORIUM, #SHAUNALYNNSFOOD.
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tex-treasures · 1 year
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In response to my Texiarty Spontaneous Proposal AU fic
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@limey-self-inserts my dear Limey, I'm extremely grateful to you for taking the time to read my fic ;----;!!! Please know that I deeply appreciate the effort you took to not only do so, but also the fact you left me such thoughtful, sweet comments; I've gathered them all like wildflowers and I am keeping them in a glass vase on the windowsill that looks out from the inside of my heart---- thank you so much ✨️💚🫂
Please allow me to attempt to give back to you what you have so kindly given me through an imagine 💌✨️💚
Please think of Avon and Aniketos camping out in a field near a river within Aniketos' forest, one where they can see the stars glisten above them and glitter over the water. Maybe it's to celebrate a birthday or an anniversary or maybe they are simply escaping to carve their own time for a bit-- it's up to you. Regardless, think of Aniketos waking early to forage, of Avon waking up a bit later to him gently petting their hair, telling them food is ready.
Think of them quietly watching a herd of deer migrate nearby, neither speaking but sitting closely, holding hands as they simply marvel at the beautiful spectacle before them. They don't just spot deer. They spot heron, swans, eagles, and on one lucky occasion while out stargazing, a family of raccoons.
Speaking of stargazing, imagine Avon resting with their head on Aniketos' chest as the latter gently pets their hair while they talk about anything and everything and sometimes nothing at all. Aniketos's heartbeat is steady and strong, Avon's warmth is soothing-- together, they've built a home not out of trees or brick or stone but of fingers intertwined, of unflinching and adoring gazes, of quiet "I love you"s.
Again, thank you so much for your support and kind comments, I appreciate you ✨️💚🥺!!
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rentcampervan · 1 year
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Places to Visit in Perth Australia During Winter
Winters in Perth mean more fun and a lot of cold winds. Being the biggest city, it offers a lot to enjoy around. You might have a lot of fun exploring the town as well. If you plan to spend a week or some part of your winter holidays here, you should definitely get campervan rental Perth to enjoy the places around you. Here, we will discuss the top places that you can move around in your campervan to explore the city. 1.    One of the finest day trips from the city includes landing in one of the biggest European settlements around Australia York. The colonial architecture talks volumes about the settler history. If you want to explore and view the beautiful landscape, you should go atop Mount Brown. You can spot wildflowers during winters here. The town houses some of the best traditional sweet shops. You should definitely plan a visit to the York Motor Museum while here. 2.    Cervantes is another destination that you can plan to explore while in Perth. It is about 250 kms from Perth, and is a crayfishing town. It also houses the famous Nambung National Park, which hosts the 4km loop road that you can walk along. There are several limestone pillars in this place that you can walk around. Lastly, you might enjoy the wildflowers during the winters. Make sure to take your motorhome hire Perth during your stay here. 3.    The Avon Valley is home to almost seven localities that go from Beverley to New Norcia. You can also go to Northham to enjoy the windward balloon adventures as part of your day trip. There are plenty of bakeries in this place that you can visit to enjoy nut cakes and breads. Explore the town to enjoy the century old wood-fired oven in the monastery. You can take your campervan rental Perth to visit these places. 4.    Kalamunda and Walistan are excellent places to explore when in Perth during the winters. You will find the Mundy regional park and Rocky Pool walk, known for being exceptional winter trails in this route. You should visit the Kalamunda Farmers Market when in this town as it is full of good food, baked goodies and fresh vegetables. The S&R orchard is one of the finest destinations in this place. This town is an excellent day trip as it is located half an hour away from Perth city. 5.    If you love going to a city full of lakes, dams and weirs, you should add Waroona to your list. It also houses several spots for water skiing and paddling. You might get several opportunities to swim along the lakes. There are camps along Waroona Dam and Lane Poole Reserve. You can also enjoy the Yalgorup National Park while in thiscity. Fishing and horse riding are popular activities of the people in this place. 6.    Fremantle is another day-trip that you can take from Perth in your motorhome hire Perth. It is about 30-minutes away from CBD and is located in Swan River. It comes with a Bohemian feel. You can park your motorhome and explore the town on foot as all the areas are at a walking distance. It also houses several shipwreck galleries.
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louduvelleroy · 1 year
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// Shakespeare or not Shakespeare
Last Friday, we went to a theatre called l’Épée de bois. It was a school outing organised by our new French teacher. La cartoucherie is a cultural scene which is lost in the middle of the woods, but still in Paris, and where you can find some theatres with really strange names like l’aquarium, la tempête but also an equestrian centre. I must say the atmosphere was in line with the play we were about to see and the revelations we were about to learn that night. The Épée de bois theatre is a beautiful location where I had been before and I was really glad to come see another play here. The entire place is made of wood, a little cafe is set up on the ground floor and smells of baking cake are floating in the air. One of my close friends was employed in this theatre for a while, and told me that working here was like being part of a little family and now this place feels like home to her. 
If we set aside the beauty of the venue, we understand that the place was not the only significant and marking thing of the evening. In fact, this play was also a conference and there were only two actresses on stage. They were here to tell us about a story that I had never heard of before, and when they started I was quite sceptical. Their statement was that Shakespeare didn’t actually write the works attributed to him. A woman, Mary Sydney Herbert, countess of Pembroke might be the real author. During the first minutes of the play, I told myself, how am I supposed to believe such a thing ? Well, Aurore Evain, the director and Fanny Zeller, who was the costumed actress, had two hours and ten minutes to convince us. 
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Speaking for myself, it worked very well. Aurore is not only an actress and a director, but also a theatre historian, so she knows exactly what she is talking about. She based her play on an essay written by Robin P. Williams, called Sweet Swan of Avon : Did a woman write Shakespeare ? No need to say that the theory presented on stage was backed by rigorously analysed and strongly convincing evidence, such as written documents and social rank reasons. What’s more, I really appreciated the way the play was constructed. The session was divided into three parts : first they revealed the long standing doubts about the authorship of this art work by connecting the lives of Mary Sydney and William Shakespeare. Then, they went over the entire life of the countess of Pembroke, and examined every single element and event that links her to these texts. I was astonished, everything about her fitted remarkably into the hypothesis about the authorship of the Shakespearean plays and sonnets. I think that you can’t leave of this theatre with doubts still in mind. And that led me to another question. 
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After the play, I was asking myself : Why is Mary Sydney Herbert's authorship still controversial in spite of all the arguments and research proofs provided to assign Shakespeare's plays to her name ? Apparently, Mary Sydney is not the only potential candidate, and many areas of uncertainty still remain. A list of many historical figures is regularly updated, including Francis Bacon, The Earl of Oxford, Christopher Marlowe and many more. Nothing is proven and the truth has a long way to go before it comes out. But, as Robin P. William wrote in her book, the important is not to prove that Mary Sydney wrote the plays and sonnets attributed to William Shakespeare, but to provide enough documented evidence to open the inquiry into this intriguing possibility. Mary Sydney may not be the author of these treasures of the English literature, but for me something is certain : neither is William Shakespeare. 
Lou Duvelleroy. 
Publié le 02 octobre, (3622 caractères). 
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gwydionmisha · 5 years
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Sweet Swan of Avon: Did a Woman Write Shakespeare? - Robin P. Williams
I am extremely skeptical of arguments about the authorship of Shakespeare's plays.  So many of them boil down to men claiming that poor people can't make high quality art, so they replace scant evidence with no evidence and a collection of wishful thinking based arguments.  I have seen competing computer analyses.  I have seen logic tortured to the point of breaking, and where this is the best thing on offer, I tend to choose Occam's razor over Classicism and academic fanfic.
When I tell you that the Sweet Swan of Avon has presented the most plausible theory of who wrote the plays and sonnets I have ever seen, you can trust that I don't bestow that accolade lightly.  It can not be absolutely proved that Lady Mary Sidney wrote the plays and sonnets absent a document or documents that we simply don't have, something the author freely admits.  We can't disprove it either, absent the same.  However, Robin P. Williams has marshaled some amazingly good arguments based on what is clearly an exhaustive amount of research, which makes a great deal of sense.   It helps that her theory has an immediately obvious reason for concealment that most of the other theories lack (except the Marlowe faked his death silliness which has it's own glaringly obvious problems), but the things that are more convincing to me are proof of access to manuscripts well before they were published, the mass of provable connections between Lady Mary Sidney and the various sources and people referenced in the plays.  Her life, skills, and interests look a perfect match for the poems and plays, etc..  It also actually does make the Johnson poem make more sense, which doesn't prove anything, but is suggestive.
Again, not provable, but the best fit for extant facts.  Also, the book is just generally interesting, given the way the Sidneys were woven into the Tudor Courts and her sons' rather intimate involvement with king James.
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Janet Wingate: How I Became an Oxfordian
January 19, 2021 Janet Wingate comes from Bermuda, but has been living in the Czech Republic since 1992 with her Czech husband and four children. She teaches English and is a silk painting artist. When I read about how others became Oxfordians, I’m always surprised how people know so clearly. My experience was a slower evolution. As an English literature graduate of Oxford University, of course I…
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whereforebase · 3 years
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guys my boss got me Sweet Swan of Avon: Did a Woman Write Shakespeare? for my birthday, a formidable book in her life which she ‘looks forward to discussing’ with me once I’ve read it I WANT TO DIE
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A Fool for Love| Steve Harrington x Reader
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MASTERLIST
Words: 7,354 OOF
Warnings: swearing, Shakespearean English, general fluff
Author’s Note: So I got inspired by @jxnehxpper‘s headcanon on Steve being a secret theatre lover and set to giving us what we deserve-Steve being a little theatre kid. And then I told her about it. And then I reread it. And now I’m doubtful of what this even is and how long it is. Good luck I guess
Tag List: @marvelslut16 @shinydixon @jxnehxpper 
The laces were too tight. You couldn’t breathe. You were going to faint once you got up there. And your sleeves were too tight. You were already sweating through the long sleeves. Damn your overconfidence and crappy old patterns. And damn the seventies for making their bodices too tight and tan suede lacing so pretty over rouge coloured linen. And your shoes were too loose; they were going to fall off the second you took a step. Stupid Tammy Thompson and her stupid wide feet. You weren’t even supposed to be here.
Mrs. Blackburn loved to plan out a big spring show without thinking about how many students would be there on auditions. She chose these bombastic plays without thinking about who was actually going to be there. The drama club was made up of about ten members, who’d all be there on audition day, and that was usually it. And Mrs. Blackburn would throw a fit about it to you, her trusted right hand man with a plan. Then she’d spend her classes kissing ass to get students to come out for promised roles after stroking their egos enough to get them to bother with extracurricular theatre. Most kids took the class for an easy A, a quick passing grade that would boost their GPAs without making them want to claw their eyes out. Only a certain type of student would go through with this sort of embarrassment.
So when Mrs. Blackburn announced the spring show to be an abridged version of Twelfth Night, a choice you thought was decent enough. Cutting down the b-plot with Malvolio and the servants made the story run smoother and cut a metric crap ton of roles. Unfortunately, Mrs. Blackburn didn’t have the heart to cut the fool, which meant that she needed another guy to be in the show. And your little crew of nerds only had two boys. If only cross dressing was something she deigned to allow, alas Mrs. Blackburn believed firmly in women playing women and men playing men, which made it even harder to cast anything. It was ironic, knowing the actual plot of the play she’d chosen. Still, now she had a little challenge to hum and ha over for a month before casting the thing.
It was during this casting point that you heard quite possibly the worst idea you’d ever heard.
You often ate lunch in Mrs. Blackburn’s classroom. The entire drama club did. It was a nice, quiet place where no screaming teens or bullies could attack a boy for trotting around in a kilt from costume cupboard and kick a girl for her looks if they didn’t conform to what was considered pretty by the rest of the school. A hodgepodge of personalities grew in there like bacteria. Usually, there shining saviour would eat in the teacher’s lounge with the rest of the staff, but as shows got closer, she’d make sporadic appearances.
“Y/N!” the door slammed open, Mrs. Blackburn standing in the doorway, her wild red curls bouncing wildly around her tiny face, her thin pointed glasses slipping off her nose. “I’ve done it!”
“You’ve done what?” you looked up from your sack lunch. Mrs. Blackburn looked a mess. Her olive green paisley skirt was stained with coffee and her raggedy cream blouse was flashing her bra to the world. She looked as if she’d gotten dressed in her donation bag. You had a sort of love-hate relationship with the woman. She was like a second mother to you, which meant that you loved her unconditionally but hated her in the moment.
“I’ve found us a diamond in the rough,” she marched over to the desk. As always, you’d taken over the teacher’s desk. You were the only person she trusted to sit there with her unmarked tests and unopened lipsticks gifted to her by Lisa Gardner’s Avon selling mother. Her hands slapped the fake wood “I’ve found our Duke Orsino.”
You watched from behind her as both Gordon Fisher and Dale Michaels deflated behind you. The only boys in the club would kill for a leading role. They shouldn’t have to kill, there were only two of them; there shouldn’t be a fight at all. But Mrs. Blackburn liked to do a bit of stunt casting within the Hawkins High School student body.
“No one has been chosen yet!” you turned you attention directly to them. Of course, that was a blatant lie. Both you and Mrs. Blackburn already had pretty much the entire show cast before auditions had even been announced. Dale would play the jester, who Mrs. Blackburn had flagrantly rewritten as a sort of narrator, believing herself capable of rewriting Shakespeare, and Gordon would play Sebastian. He was fundamentally much more attractive than Dale, and much less mockable. Dale was the kid hiding in the classroom in a kilt from Tommy H, which he was wearing because he ripped his pants and didn’t want to walk around with his stained tighty whities.
You turned your attention back to Mrs. Blackburn, a small excited smile spreading across your face. “Who is it?” you asked.
“Oh he’s simply marvellous! He’s in our afternoon class, a Mr. Harrington!” Mrs. Blackburn had a dreamy grin spread across her face, her hands linked together in front of her chest.
Your smile dropped “Steve? Really?” This had to be a joke. Steve was in your drama class so to speak, he was never there. He skipped every class and only showed up for tests and to do graded performances. And his performances were shit. He was never off script and even with the script in front of his face he couldn’t keep the lines straight. He was useless!
“Oh yes yes! We had a very interesting conversation just a few moments ago and he’s very intrigued by our production and I think that he’ll make an interesting, dynamic choice for the role!” Mrs. Blackburn mused, her arms floating around as she spoke as if she was performing Swan Lake instead of properly explaining her decision.
“So, he’s coming into audition?” you asked slowly, leaning on your elbows. Mrs. Blackburn nodded. That was a surprise. The great king of Hawkins high bothering to join the unwashed, artistic masses? That was a shock. You expected him to just demand the role to be his. Not that you thought he’d read the play. You doubted he’d even skimmed the Cliff’s Notes.
“Yes, I’ve already signed him up. By the looks of it, if all the auditions go well we’ll have a full cast without call backs.” She turned her attention to the cowering masses behind her, all staring up in awe. Well, all except Robin Buckley. She wasn’t really a part of the collective though; she was just there for Tammy Thompson.
“Alright, then I can’t wait to see what he does…” you replied with a small smirk. Everyone else in the room was thinking the same thing: Steve Harrington was going to choke. The second Mrs. Blackburn left the room, everyone began their muttering and musing. The only person who seemed to sympathize with the kid was Tammy, who kept whining about poor, poor Steve and how he was going to make a fool of himself. Everyone had seen Steve’s failings with performance, most of the room either spent their free period in your drama class or had taken drama with him in freshman year. His misgivings were known throughout the little crew, even Robin seemed to understand that the kid just wasn’t talented.
And when auditions rolled around, you except the worst. As always, you were playing stage manager slash costumer for the production, your chosen role, and you sat at the back of the classroom with a clipboard and red pen in hand. You had the audition list copied on a few sheets of paper with the role presumed to fit them best. You’d seen most of the room audition a million times before. Both you and Mrs. Blackburn had a clear idea of what was going to happen. And, for the most part, it all fell into place. Tammy, despite her pleas to be Viola, was much more suited to the prissy and rich Olivia; Dale actually wanted to be the fool, which made your life easier, now you wouldn’t have to crush him dreams; Heather Holloway would happily play Viola, which you were more than happy to give her; and sweet little Nicole Chandler would play the nursemaid Maria.
Then, there was Steve Harrington and Gordon Fisher. Gordon had come in and bashed all of your notions of him being fabulously brash and boisterous Sebastian by auditioning instead for the powerful and yet underwhelming awkward Duke Orsino. And he was great! He was better than great!
And then there was Steve. He was terrible. Just plain awful. He didn’t look up once from the crumpled photocopied pages he held in his fist and he didn’t seem to know what he was saying. No, scratch that he had no idea what he was saying. He wasn’t so much playing a character but instead just trying to pronounce the words on the page and string them together in complete sentences. It was painful. But, to Mrs. Blackburn, it was perfect. She clapped when he finished, smiling far too wide as she egged him on. She kicked you under the table to follow suit and you added in a few slow claps. With a hefty dose of praise hefted on him like whipped cream, she sent Steve off and turned her attention to you.
“He’s perfect,” she said. You almost expected her to let out a dreamy sigh, like a love struck teenager instead of a married middle aged woman. She just looked so happy about the whole thing. You took a bit of secret joy in popping her bubble.
“Gordon was much better for the part.” You slipped your pen behind your ear and crossed your arms over your chest. Mrs. Blackburn’s thin mouth dropped open into a tiny ‘o’, only really defined by her cherry red lipstick.
“What?” she cried before composing herself “No, no Gordon was fine, he’ll make a fabulous Sebastian, but Steve is what I want for the Duke.”
“Are you sure I mean-” You couldn’t help but try to argue the point. You knew in your heart that the little shows you helped put on weren’t award worthy by any means but you still took great care in making them as good as possible, if only as a self-serving move to make them watchable from the booth.
Mrs. Blackburn shook her head, her tiny mouth pulling into a stern frown. “The decision is made. You cannot change my mind, Y/N.” she said flippantly, turning away from her to collect her papers. “We’ll have the list up by Monday, yes?”
You swallowed and nodded once. Mrs. Blackburn swept out of the room, her silver bracelets clattering together as she left. Once the door shut, you let out a heavy sigh and put away your clipboard. You’d type up the temporary list and deal with your temperamental director. First, you had to find Steve.
You found him hunched over at his locker. If you didn’t know him better, you’d say that he was ashamed. But he was too much of a cocky shit to ever feel ashamed of his own showboating. And what you just saw was showboating. There was no other way to explain it. He didn’t care about the show, or the play, he only cared about himself and showing off.
You tapped him hard on the shoulder. Steve turned his head. He wasn’t certain of your name but he recognized you from only a few minutes prior. He wanted to disappear. He’d just made a complete fool of himself and now had to atone to his butchering of words he didn’t quite get.
“Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if you’re just signing onto this thing to fuck around and make fun of people, I suggest you back the fuck down. Fisher and Michaels might stand down to your asshole buddies but I won’t.” you sneered, planting your hands on your hips and straightening your back to reach your fullest height. You had never been in a fight before, at least not one that wasn’t staged and within a classroom setting, but you’d stand up for those kids. Anyone who volunteered themselves for theatrical productions were doing something vulnerable, and vulnerability wasn’t something that could be taught or captured in a bottle, it was something given that should be protected. And you vowed to protect them from someone with ill will, if only to make your show better.
“Look,” Steve swallowed hard, looking away from you. Your gaze was searing into him and he was already embarrassed as is. He didn’t think he could blush any harder. “I’m not bullshitting. Mrs. Blackburn offered and I said yes, that’s all. No buddy’s gonna find out about this.”
You watched him squirm like a worm on a hook. He looked genuine. His eyes spoke more volumes than his words. You nodded, letting out a sharp breath through your nose. “Alright…” you turned on your heel and walked off without a goodbye to the thoroughly embarrassed boy.
Once the work started, it was a wash of a production. You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Tammy was over the moon that Steve Harrington was joining them to play pretend and thrilled to explain to him that his character was in love with hers. He seemed horrified by the idea but dutifully played along. Gordon was beyond pissed, having to watch Steve stumble through lines and direction given by Mrs. Blackburn while he waited for his shot to do any acting at all. Robin was pissed too. Mrs. Blackburn had roped her into the production to do a few flute solos in pivotal scenes, which meant her having to watch the scenes she’d be playing in and you’d have to make her a little costume to wear. You’d been given your budget and some ancient patterns from Mrs. Blackburn’s collection, a 1970s renaissance faire dress pattern that didn’t fit in at all with the period. You bit back complaints about how little money you had to make anything nice.
You silently thanked god for Heather Holloway and her rich parents. They would pay to have her costumes done separately from your handiwork and all you’d have to do was make some decent things for the rest of the cast. You’d be sewing until your fingers bled. You were just thankful that you had made patterns for men’s pants in the same style of the dresses. You wouldn’t have to draft different sizes off a thin parchment pattern for them. Nicole, Tammy, and Heather were all around the same size so you’d only need to two different sizes of pattern. The project would be fairly simple.
Which meant that Mrs. Blackburn had to throw a wrench in everything.
She asked you to speak with her after your afternoon class one month into rehearsals. You stood awkwardly in front of her desk, your trapper keeper clutched tight to your chest, a few fingers bandaged from pricks and pokes from rouge pins and needles. You’d spent the night before alternating between putting blocking notes into your script and hemming the skirt of Tammy Thompson’s pale yellow dress. You’d bought a very pretty pale yellow brocade fabric with thin gold laurel patterns over the material and it was heavier than expected but it looked rightfully rich enough for a duchess to wear.
“Now, I might have overestimated Mr. Harrington’s acting abilities,” she said quietly, looking between you and the door. Steve was the first out of the room when the bell rang, he wasn’t lurking by the door waiting to hear you shit talk him. “He’s not performing well.”
“Well yes, I tried to tell you that when we auditioned him.” You replied, trying to hold back an eye roll.
“There’s no need to be bitter, he’s salvageable.” Mrs. Blackburn turned her attention to erasing the board. She had a freshman year drama class after this and the smelly youths would burst through the door at any moment. “What we’ll do is simply give him some extra help, less time working with the others and have him focus on really working on his lines. He’s not off book anyway.”
You nodded “So, what do you need me to do here?” Mrs. Blackburn reached into her desk and pulled out her pads of excused late slips, pulling out a pen and scribbling out your student information.
“Well, I can’t very well stop blocking the performance and we need to start heading over to the theatre soon. So you’ll handle helping Mr. Harrington from here on out.” She said nonchalantly. Her hoard her stinky children burst into the room, taking over the class with sound and fury, signifying nothing but an assault on your eardrums.
“So, and just for clarification here, you want me to make all the costume, stage manage the production, and teach Steve his lines?” you asked, taking the green slip she dangled out in front of you.
“Well yes of course that’s what you signed on to do and we always come through on what we choose to do.” Mrs. Blackburn turned her attention to her classroom, clapping twice to grab their attention. You knew that this was your cue to leave and you slinked away with your tail betwixt your legs, put back in your place by the older woman. You could’ve screamed. Teaching lines was not what you signed up for. Working with Steve was not what you signed up for. You signed on for making costumes and stage managing. Steve was not a part of the equation. He wasn’t even associated with the equation. He was a whole separate equation that you weren’t supposed to be tasked with solving.
And yet when Mrs. Blackburn announced that the rest of the cast would be heading to the theatre and you’d be staying behind with Steve to run lines, you didn’t complain. Steve did, he wanted to see the theatre, but you stayed silent, waving them goodbye as they left the cramped classroom. You and Steve stared at each other for a moment, silent and awkward, before you reached down and picked up the paper grocery bag you’d brought along with you and pulled out the pretty rouge pink linen you’d bought to make Nicole’s dress. You lay it flat on the desks and unfolded your newspaper patterns.
“Alright, sit.” You pointed to the desk in front of you and opened your patterning kit, pulling out your white tailor’s chalk and sewing scissors. Steve obeyed, tucking himself into the desk. You looked up with a forced smile “Alright, this is how we’re doing to do this. You are going to perform the lines without your script. When you need a line, say line and I’ll give it to you. Repeat it and then start again from the top. We’ll do that until you can say the whole thing without stuttering or calling line. Got it?”
Steve swallowed hard “Got it.”
“Alright, we’ll start from the first scene.” You pulled out your copy of the abridged play. Steve looked at you for a moment, confused and you summoned him to begin.
He took a heaving breath and you began pinning your pattern pieces to the material. “If music be the food of love, play on, give me…” Steve began, already stuttering. He went silent before shamefully asking “Line?”
You looked up with a raised eyebrow. You were hoping for at least a few lines to be known before he needed help. Mrs. Blackburn underestimated how little he knew. “Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting the appetite may sicken, and so die…that strain again!” you read out, monotone before turning your attention to Steve “Start again.”
He spouted out the dialogue, just a nervous as before and stuttering all the while. You managed to get through pinning the skirt piece down before he called line again. He only got through a line of dialogue past your last prompting. Steve looked utterly defeated and small in his seat. “I can’t think like this…” he muttered.
“The stand up. Or pace. Whatever you need to do. Just get through the speech here,” you said with a sigh “Do you need the line?” Steve nodded sadly and you read out the next line and Steve started again.
“If music be the food of love; play on, give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die…that strain again! It had a dying fall: o’ it came o’er my ear like the sweet south that breathes upon a bank of violets; stealing odour…enough, no more!” he took a heaving breath. He was halfway across the room now and staring at the wall. You had turned your attention to him and were watching almost in awe. He knew the lines. He knew the whole speech. When he finished, he looked to you as if for the next line. You didn’t give it, instead you stepped out from the desk.
“You know the lines…” you breathed. It wasn’t a good performance, but he was off book. He was putting in work. You were impressed. Surprised, but impressed.
“When I’m walking around the room I do…” Steve chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with a small smile.
“But you have no idea what you’re saying…” you breathed, watching as Steve deflated, giving a small nod.
“Why can’t he just write what he means, I get it’s supposed to be like poetry or whatever, but it makes no sense.” He pushed himself up onto the desk, crossing his legs under him.
“It helps to think about the character as a whole. What do you know about the duke?” you asked, taking a step back to approach the scene with script in hand.
“I mean…he’s a duke, which is an important person with a lot of people who work under him, and he’s in love with Olivia, who’s a rich duchess,” he counted them off with his fingers, chewing on his lower lip as he thought.
“Exactly!” you stopped him mid-sentence, pointing excitedly “He’s in love with Olivia and Olivia doesn’t love him back, right?”
“Right?” he had a right to be confused; Mrs. Blackburn had given Tammy the note to stop playing Olivia so moony eyed over Orsino for weeks now. She hadn’t stopped, despite swearing up and down that she wasn’t trying.
“She doesn’t, and so when he’s talking about love and music, do you think he’s happy to hear the music or not?” you asked.
“I mean…I guess yes and no?” you raised an eyebrow at him. That wasn’t the exact answer you expected. He continued “Cause he’s love sick, and being love sick is fun and terrible at the same time. He talks about being sick in the speech.”
You nodded “Yes! And when he says that he wants to surfeit, that means to like overdose. He wants to die from all the love. He’s overwhelmed by it all.” Steve’s smile grew. For the first time, he felt like he was getting it now. When you explained it, the scene made sense.
You reached for your scissors and picked up the material, taking a deep breath before making the first cut in the fabric. “Alright, now I want you to take all that stuff I told you and try to put it on the words.” You said, gesturing with your finger for him to start again.
And he did. He did the scene over and over again, pacing the room while trying to feel different things. It was easy to be overwhelmed-he was overwhelmed. Everything he was doing overwhelmed him. It didn’t help that you were watching him. He didn’t like being watched. And you kept smiling at some parts and frowning at others. He wanted you to smile all the way through it. That meant that it was good, that he was doing good. And he liked your smile. This was the first time he’d seen it directed at him.
“Alright,” you stopped him mid sentence, holding out a flat palm out “Enough pacing. The blocking has you seat in like this big chair.” You stepped out from behind the desks and pulled out a chair, placing it in the centre of the room. “Sit down, we’re going to put it altogether.”
Steve gingerly sat in the chair, positioning himself the way Mrs. Blackburn had instructed with his legs splayed wide and his right elbow propped on his knee, holding his head up. With a heavy breath he started again “If music be the food of love, play on…fuck!” you looked up from your work curiously “I forgot the line already! I keep thinking about the words and the meaning and the emotions and the meter-I can’t do it all.”
You nodded, pulling the pins out of the pattern and marking the pieces numerically. “Tap your foot to the beat of the words, one less thing to think about.” You said, capping the pin box. “Do it one more time and then we’re done. They’re finishing up at the theatre now, we have to vacate ASAP.”
Steve tried your trick. It worked. He was shocked. You knew so much about this stuff. He didn’t know anything about any of this. He felt like a doofus. But you helped him through. He thought it was a onetime thing, but every rehearsal you’d take him aside and work on the words. Mrs. Blackburn had cut the thing down to about two acts, still longer than most parents wanted to sit through, but better than five acts and two intermissions. He didn’t know how he was going to do this at all. Still, he felt safe with you watching. He could perform to you instead of the audience.
For your part, you liked working with Steve. You didn’t think that you would, but he was pretty self sufficient with the piece after you gave him your Cliff’s Notes version of the text to help him understand the scenes he had to do and the context of the play as a whole. And he was funny. You didn’t know that he was funny. And he hated Tammy. Anyone who hated Tammy was a friend of yours. She was brutally annoying in rehearsals and at this point was refusing to kiss Gordon. And poor Gordon was more than over having Steve there, he swore that the guy was doing something to distract Tammy. Of course he was, he was existing in her world for the first time, but you were quick to defend him, because he was trying. It wasn’t his fault that Tammy couldn’t keep it in her pants or that Heather was more focused on her costumes than her performance. Still, nobody understood why he was there.
Sat with Steve at the back of the Hawkins Community Playhouse, you decided to ask him. “Hey,” you asked quietly. Gordon and Tammy were doing their little love scene on the stage below and Mrs. Blackburn would kill you if she could hear you talking. “Can I ask you something?” Steve nodded, looking up from his script.
“Why are you doing this show?” Steve frowned and you backtracked quickly “I mean, this isn’t your bag I just was curious…”
“Honestly?” Steve asked. You gave a half nod, trying not to appear too curious. “Mrs. Blackburn promised me that if I did this, she’d pass me for the year and that I can skip out on the final.” Your eyes blew wide. You were pissed. Not because he was only doing the show for a decent grade, but because you still had to prepare a monologue performance to perform for your final on top of all this work.
“That bitch…” you murmured “I wanna skip out on the final!”
Steve laughed “Ask! She was only gonna pass me, I haggled for the final.”
“She’d never. She wants to work me to death, I swear.” You chuckled darkly. You flipped up the tan suede Bodice you built, the lace dangling loosely from the eyelets. It looked good. It would look better on Nicole, for now it would have to look good on the floor.
Steve was called up to the stage and you returned to Mrs. Blackburn’s side, watching the ending go down, as Viola’s true nature is revealed and Sebastian is reunited with his sister. It was a messy scene, with the Malvolio plotline cut there wasn’t a scheme to reveal or a villain to unmask, so the scene became instead a bit of a wedding. You still wished you’d done A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, you would’ve actually auditioned for that show. Still, Twelfth Night was turning into a half decent show. You hadn’t expected Steve to bring anything, but he played the duke like a sort of well meaning dunce, a loveable yet hopeless fool. He just seemed to have fun, especially when Nicole and Dale were acting silly behind him. He just seemed to have fun with them, unlike Tammy and Heather who had no interest in playing and seemed to be fighting for who could look the most bored. It had been a long day, it was nearly eight o’clock at night and Mrs. Blackburn had sent her husband to go pick up pizza for the cast an hour ago. Everyone was exhausted, but you were supposed to do a full fitting for the cast after they were done.
Thankfully, Mrs. Blackburn ended the torture. “Alright,” she clapped once, calling an end to the scene “Let’s call it quits there. Y/N has brought all the costumes for the show with her today, let’s have a try on and then we’ll take our pizza to go. Sound good?” the whole room let out an exhausted half cheer and you picked up the massive duffel bag you’d brought from home.
“I hope everyone remembered their shoes,” you said, pulling out the first hanger, holding the intense yellow brocade with the golden Bodice for Tammy to take. “Heather, your stuff is here, right?” Heather scoffed, taking the three off the stage and picking up her own bag. You handed Nicole her dress and passed out the brown faux burlap pants and white puffy shirts. You’d made separate vests for each character-Steve’s a rich navy blue, Dale’s a jaunty royal purple with a matching jester cap from the prop closet, and Gordon a dull olive green. Their colours would have to do to differentiate them to the audience. Everyone left to do their try on and when they returned you were transported to the ren faire.
You stepped off the stage, joining Mrs. Blackburn in the fifth row. You smiled; the brocade looked lovely under the lights, as did the silver buttons you’d put on Steve’s vest. It was a bit wide. “Alright, Tammy you’re good to change, Steve stay put.” You jumped back onto the stage, stepping behind him. Up close, it was hard to look at him. He was too attractive. You were stunned that any man could look sexy in a stupid puffy shirt, but there Steve was, ruining your work relationship with him.
“Stay still, I’m putting pins in your vest, I don’t want to poke you.” You whispered, pulling a couple pins from your cushion. You felt Steve suck in a deep breath as your fingers grazed his lower back, tingles running up his spine. You pulled the material in a bit, pinning it flat. You noted that you’d have to add a couple darts to each side to make it fit better. It only took a few moments, but when you came back around to look over Steve he looked as if he might faint. “Steve,” he looked to you with blown out eyes “Breathe.” He nodded twice and you stepped off the stage. It was only a week until performances. He must have been scared shitless.
Steve was scared shitless. Of you. He didn’t know how to act when you were watching him. Well, he knew how to act, you’d trained him to play Orsino, but he didn’t know how Steve fit into your relationship. All he knew was that when he had to kiss Heather at the end of the show, he only had you on his mind. He couldn’t even look at you when it was over, he felt like he’d cheated on you. Which was insane, but the feeling stuck in his gut.
When the day of performances came around, Steve was shaken. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He hadn’t told any of his friends about what he was doing and yet word had gone around the school. All of his friends were coming opening night, he swore with pitchforks and rotten fruit to throw. When he got the theatre at four o’clock that afternoon, however, the whole cast was in a tizzy.
Heather was an hour late. And, according to Nicole, she wasn’t coming. “Her father’s hosting a benefit at the Carmel Country Club tonight, there’s no way that she’s showing.” She moaned. Mrs. Blackburn was already in the phone book, looking up the number of the club. She left to make a call, promising that Heather would never do such a thing.
Tammy was crying off her makeup in the corner, with Robin consoling her while trying to not get blackened tears on her white shirt. “She’s going to ruin my show! She’s ruining it!” she sobbed.
You were stood in the corner, unsure where to place yourself. Luckily, Mrs. Blackburn returned quickly. “I’ve just spoken to Heather,” she announced. The room fell into a hush.
“And?” you asked, looking up from the hot rollers you were putting in Nicole’s hair.
“And she’s not coming. She told me about this and I said it was okay. I guess I forgot.” Mrs. Blackburn replied. You knew that was bullshit, but you held your tongue.
“What’re we going to do???” Tammy cried out. That sent the room into an uproar, everyone talking over one another. Steve stayed silent. In truth, he was a bit glad to be rid of Heather. Maybe they wouldn’t have to perform.
“Now, now as we know in the theatre the show must go on!” Mrs. Blackburn cried. “Y/N, as stage manager, has been learning the blocking and pacing for the show. She will go on as Viola and I will make a speech before we go on! It’s all we can do!”
Everyone turned to look at you. You turned your attention to Mrs. Blackburn, walking over to her and whispering in her ear. “If I do this, I don’t have to do the final. You grade on this.” She looked you over and then turned once. You turned to the cast and sighed softly, nodding “The show will go on.” You shrugged, heaving up your trapper keeper.
“She doesn’t look right. She doesn’t have a costume.” Tammy whined.
“I will go to the school and get what we have left. I’m sure we have a pair of trousers and a puffed shirt for her to wear.” Mrs. Blackburn grabbed her purse off the makeup counter “Girls, work your magic on her.”
You put the last roller in Nicole’s hair and she grabbed your arm, pulling her into the chair next to her. “Grab that green skirt from last year!” Nicole called after her teacher “You’re gonna wear this dress for the opening. I’ll wear the skirt and whatever else she brings back, now let’s make you Viola.”
You were poked and prodded and burned until you were as close to looking like Heather as you were going to get. Then, you were stuffed into Nicole’s dress. Thankfully, Mrs. Blackburn had found two leftover puffy white shirts and a bodice, and the decision was made that you’d wear the rouge dress and she’d wear the green skirt from last year. It was a nice enough gesture, as was Tammy being forced to give up her extra pair of character shoes, which she did begrudgingly at the behest of Robin.
And then, you were stood offstage. And you were terrified. You’d never done this before. In your four years of stage managing, no one had ever called out of a performance, you’d never had to take over a role last minute. Your mind kept focusing on the discomfort of the costume. Nicole had tied your bodice too tight. Tammy’s shoes were too big. The skirt was too long. You were too wrong for this. You wanted to run. And then, the lights came up on Steve. Your breath caught in your throat as he spoke the opening lines so well and Robin began her first flute solo. Steve was doing wonderfully. With his left foot tapping lightly on the wooden stage floor, he knew what he was saying, even with distraction surrounding him. Internally, he felt as close to someone else as he’d ever felt in his life. Steve didn’t like that you weren’t in the audience to watch him, but he couldn’t see anyone with the lights on anyway. The audience clapped as he finished his scene and left with Dale, the lights going out fully as Robin cleared her chair and music stand and Gordon carried off the throne. Steve reached out and squeeze your shoulder with a kind smile.
“You have this,” he said softly. You heaved out a breath and stepped on the stage. You went right to the centre and right up to the edge, sitting down so your legs dangled off. You had no idea how Heather did this. You were too close to the audience. As the lights came up, you looked down at the lines in front of you. Dale stepped onto the stage in a sailor’s cap. He really had to play everyone in this stupid show. He nodded to you with a smile.
“What…” you voice came out in a whisper. No one could hear you. You took a breath, closing your eyes before trying again. “What country, friends, is this?” you asked loudly.
Dale’s smile grew. The scene was actually happening. “This is Illyria, lady.” He said, doing his best to sound like an old man.
The first scene was bumpy. Dale wanted to show off a bit and make the audience laugh, even though the scene was an info dump, which meant that you could just read the lines back to him and follow the blocking. You were more comfortable moving than you were speaking. But it got easier. Once you were dressed as Ceserio and working with Steve, things went smoother. You knew those scenes very well, the lines were almost memorized on your part from playing scene partner to him. Steve was fun to work with, he constantly made you smile.
It wasn’t hard for you to pretend to be in love with Steve. You felt like you were. Well, maybe not love. But like. Like a whole lot. And you were sure that he liked you to. Or maybe he was just that good of an actor.
The show went so fast. It was refreshing. Sat in the booth, it was a slog to get through, but onstage it went quick. You were nervous over the ending. You knew Heather’s last scene was a kiss with Steve. It wasn’t the passionate, intense kiss that Tammy and Gordon would do a scene before, but it was still a kiss. No matter how he felt about you, this was going to change your friendship forever.
You joined the cast last on stage, the who’s who of the plot being broken down, Steve was supposed to be mad when you came onstage, but he smiled like he’d seen what heaven looked like. You smiled up at Steve as the changed scene began, cutting the duel that leads the group into their explanations of the mix ups. Mrs. Blackwell hadn’t had the heart to cut a bit of Viola’s dialogue, so it lead the group into the explanations instead.
“After him I love, more than I love these eyes, more than my life, more by all the mores than e’er I shall love my wife.” You had no direction for what to do with the line. Heather had said it dramatically towards the audience. You turned your attention to Steve, caressing his face with your thumb. It was greedy, you were using the scene to get a bit of affection from the boy. You knew you shouldn’t, but you couldn’t help it. Steve seemed bewildered but happy, he fit the moment perfectly.
The scene continued as planned, with all the reveals shown to the characters and couples happily coupled off. Sebastian and Olivia were revealed to be married and that all was okay between Viola and Olivia once her gender was revealed.
Steve turned to you, smiling ear to ear “Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times thou never shouldst love woman like me.” He took your hands in his squeezing them tight.
“And all those sayings will I over-swear, and all those swearing keep me as true in soul as doth orbed continent the fire that severs day from night.” You replied, matching his giddy grin. The kiss was coming soon, he had one more line and then he’d plant one on you.
“Give me thy hand,” you both looked down at your still clasped together hands. The audience chuckled. Steve pressed on “And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.” You and Nicole rushed offstage and quickly changed you into the dress again. You were all butterflies and pins and needles, shaking in your loose heels. Nicole brushed out your skirt and smiled, escorting you back onstage.
The audience clapped politely on your return, you tried your best to smile although was hard to breath with Steve looking at you like that. He scooped you up in his arms and kissed you quickly before you had a moment to react. You swore that he had a line before this happened but you didn’t care. Your script was out of your hands anyway, he’d knocked it out of your hands when he lifted you off the ground. You swore you were flying.
And then you were on the ground. Steve cleared his throat. He was blushing madly. He remembered his line. He turned to Tammy, who was holding back a laugh before turning back to you.
“Cesario, come! For so you shall be, while you are a man; but, when in other habits you are seen, Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen.” He announced, grabbing your hand and sweeping you off the stage, Gordon and Tammy in close pursuit. Dale and Nicole still had a scene, which Mrs. Blackburn had changed for them to share. You weren’t paying attention to them though.
“Nice work,” Steve breathed, squeezing your hand in his.
“You surprised the hell outta me,” you chuckled “Made me lose my script.”
“You look really pretty like this,” Steve said. You looked at him carefully. He was sweaty and shy, his eye barely met yours.
You smiled “Thank you, you look good in cheap period costumes.” You knocked your hip into his, making him stumble just a bit. He grabbed your hip, pulling them parallel to his.
“Yeah?” he asked, bring his left hand to grab your chin.
You smiled “Oh yeah, definitely,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him down to kiss you again as Tammy and Gordon ran to grab you for curtain call. You didn’t care. Looking into Steve’s eyes, you knew he wasn’t a good enough actor to fake the way he looked at you. And you swore the world went silent in that moment, nothing standing between you and the swirling stars and hearts in his eyes.
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esmeraude11 · 3 years
Text
Till All Aches Are Embers
Summary:
Elros was gone. He had chosen the Gift of Men.
His was the choice of Lúthien. He would never walk through the front door of the house she had built in Dor-Rodyn. She would never meet the woman he had married. Never get to see the children he had welcomed into his life. The grandchildren that had filled his heart with the same joy that he and his brother had given her.
Elrond was still parted from her and Elwing could only hope and pray that he would choose to sail someday.
Word Count: 5358
on ao3:
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"I thought...I thought that we were going to be killed. I thought..." Elwing struggled to speak. To breathe. Tears tightened her throat. Grief clung to her as thoroughly as the sea spray to her dress each morning. "Eärendil, forgive me. Forgive me."
"I forgave you long ago, dear heart." Eärendil's voice was gentle. His hand warm as it lay between her shoulder blades. "You forgave me for my abandonment of you.”
"You did not intend to leave me. You were seeking your parents in Dor-Rodyn and aid from the Rodyn. You meant to return."
"And yet I did not. Not in time. Elwing...." Her husband's gaze was soft. His eyes filled with a familiar sadness. "It is long past time that you forgive yourself."
"Our son is dead. Our son does not know us." She could hear the rasp in her voice. The delicate rattle of air slipping from her throat as she curled into herself. Her forehead pressed against the wind-worn fabric of Eärendil's tunic. Elwing could taste the scent of wood and tar that clung to his skin. It stuck to the back of her throat. His hair, tied low and flung messily over his shoulder, was coarse with salt against the curve of her cheek. The pale golden strands caught in her fingers as she dug them into firm muscle.
The sound of the gulls crying seemed to echo her grief in the skies beyond her home.
It had been built against a cliff. The fine white limestone had gone into the creation of the house she called her own. A small settlement had sprung up around it as those of her people that could be counted among the dead had been slowly released from the Halls of Mandos and come to settle within the lands she had, in her grief, claimed.
The cliff face was home now to many small burrows and nooks that had taken shape at the mercy of her sorrow-filled songs. Many songbirds had made their homes within them. Birds that Elwing would normally say had no place in such spaces. The little creatures were drawn to her, however, and would remain by her side much as their brethren had oft remained by her grandmother’s.
She would gladly admit that the early years of her stay in the sheltered seaward cove had been filled with ready entertainment. Her songbirds had quarreled often with the native gulls of the region. Both had sought the cliff-side nooks and crannies for their nests and her mornings had been filled with the sight of birds wheeling above and below and alongside exposed stone for desired nesting spots.
Elwing could not say if her people would remain at her side in the future. Her father and mother had not yet been released from the Halls. There were few among the Sindar who believed that her great-grandfather would be re-embodied before them.
She had been told that guilt and grief weighed heavily on his spirit.
Many among the Sindar said that the King of Doriath took comfort in the company of his old friend, the King of the Ñoldor, as such she would likely remain Lady of the Sindar and Queen of Doriath-in-exile until her father's return.
Perhaps then she would know where she stood amongst her people.
Elwing did not know if her father would desire his crown and title back. Nor did she know just what he would wish to be called.
Their people, the Sindar, clung to the past. They sought assurance in old titles and names. Her father may or may not desire the same.
Elwing could not say.
She could only act as was required of her and hope for the best.
There were many who still saw her as the Princess of Doriath and the Sindar. As Dior's youngest child and King Elu's surviving heir. They had named her Queen of Doriath and Lady of Beleriand as soon as they were released from the Halls. These were the elves that had fallen in the Hidden Kingdom.
Those of her people that had fallen in the Havens in turn referred to her as Queen of the Sindar and Lady of the Havens.
The chosen name of their little realm was still under spirited debate in the public meeting hall that had been constructed at the center of their settlement. Many desired that it be named for Doriath. Others thought that the cove should be named for the Havens and the sea it bordered.
Elwing did not see them coming to a decision any time soon. She did not know if the Sindar who had slowly joined her would wish to rejoin her parents but she was grateful for their presence and continued support nevertheless.
A tall lovely tower had been built at the top of the cliff overlooking both the wide brilliantly blue sea and the steadily growing village camped within the cove.
Every morning was spent walking up a slow winding path from the base of the ridge to its top. A handsome door greeted her upon the completion of her small journey. The wood had come from the maple trees that shadowed the river that had cut a winding path through white limestone to empty into the sea and created the cove in the process. They were beautiful trees and grew tall and fragrant in the way that was pleasantly common in Avon and so rarely seen in Beleriand.
The door had been a gift from Queen Eärwen for Elwing and Eärendil.
Swans spread their great wings over a wide endless sea. A shoreline so distant as to be nonexistent. The sea churned and frothed underneath them. A tiny glimmering ship seemingly bobbed along into the distant horizon.
A great amount of detail had gone into the images construction. Pearls and shells had been polished and ground and set into wood. Delicate veins of lapis added color and definition to the water. Pale aquamarines, deep blue topazes, and dark shimmering sapphires twinkled from their settings within the fine grained wood.
It was beautiful. Perhaps a touch too ostentatious for what should be a simple external door. But such was the way of the Eldar of Dor-Rodyn.
Certainly a work of craftsmanship fit to be seen among the Noldor. But the Queen of the Ñoldor had commissioned the piece from craftsmen of renown among the people of her birth.
She had, Elwing remembered, smiled. Understanding shining within queer lamp-stone eyes. The sight altogether sweet and sad. An old bitterness had clung to the corners of her lips as she commented in a voice that echoed a song of wine-dark seas and a grieving people standing knee-deep in murky fouled waters that it was enough to have a home built by the Ñoldor.
No matter that the buildings were of Elwing's own personal design. There was no need for the entirety of Elwing's hearth and home to have been built by the hands of a people that she had only ever known terror from.
The knowledge that Eärendil had thrown himself into the task at hand had made the presence of his forefather's kin more bearable. But the Queen, his great-aunt, she had understood and Elwing had seen that understanding mirrored in the subtlest of ways.
Large white stones had been raised from a nearby quarry. The same white as the cliffs her house sat against. These became the walls of both her achingly empty manor home and her lighthouse. Its roof, and the roofs of many of the houses in the Sindar's new settlement, was made of a pretty blue stone. Near marble-like in texture and appearance. It ranged from a dark blue-black to a purer lilac in color and the Sindar had delighted in decorating their spaces with them.
These had been cut, carved, sanded, and polished by the Glinnil stonemasons that had been leant to her at Eärwen’s gentle suggestion to her father.
A vein had been discovered nearer the woods to the west within her chosen realm by the Noldor that King Olwë had sent for. A gift, he had said, for the great-grandniece he'd only just met. She could only smile and agree.
No matter that these Noldor were entirely unlike the ones that had attacked the Havens. They were men and women with the same grey-hued eye and features that carried more than a passing familiarity with the Fëanorean soldiers of her memories. She had, however, been surprised to see a fair number of green and amber eyed elves among them. To find faces as fair as the Fëanorean host with blond hair and grey eyes.
These, she had been told later, were the sons and daughters of the Minil that had intermarried with Ñoldor of Dor-Rodyn in the wake of Queen Indis’s marriage to King Finwë. They were the same as Eärendil and she remembered the easy and interested manner in which they had interacted with him. He was, regardless of his royal heritage, simply another blond-haired Ñoldo among their number.
They were the finest craftsmen among the Elves of Dor-Rodyn. The finest left among the followers of High King Finarfin. King Olwë's son-by-marriage. Eärendil's own great-granduncle. They had mined and shaped the stone for her home and the tower whose addition she had insisted upon.
A lighthouse to guide Eärendil home. To brighten the skies around her in the dark of night. To make her stay seem a touch less lonely.
Elwing could not deny that her home was too large by far.
Long hallways.
Sweeping staircases.
Echoing floors and wide windows.
All things that her caretakers could not afford to build in the Havens of Sirion. Eärendil had breathed life into her wishes and wants. His mother had been a skilled architect and had taught him as much of the arts that had constructed the White City of Beleriand before she had sailed. Seeking for her husband’s sake the land of her birth.
The house he had built her was beautiful. It would withstand a siege with an ease that the Sindar built homes within the Havens could not. Her people for all their skills could not claim the same prowess and powers that a Noldor prince could. Certainly not one of King Turgon’s line and trained in the arts that had built Gondolin. His was the mind that had constructed the Hidden City and seen it endure centuries in a war-torn land, after all.
She had not been able to quiet the smallest hope within her heart in those days that one day it would no longer be quite so large and empty. Elwing had dreamt that her uncle and cousin and their families would join her. Her sons with them.
She knew better now. Celeborn was a lord of elves far inland and beyond the shattered and sunken remains of Beleriand. Oropher was a king and had joined his people with those who called themselves the Tawarwaith. Her sons would never rejoin her.
Not together at least.
Elros was gone.
He had chosen the Gift of Men. His was the choice of Lúthien. He would never walk through the front door of the house she had built in Dor-Rodyn. She would never meet the woman he had married. Never get to see the children he had welcomed into his life. The grandchildren that had filled his heart with the same joy that he and his brother had given her.
Elrond was still parted from her and Elwing could only hope and pray that he would choose to sail someday.
There were days when she could not bring herself to return to the echoing quiet of her house at the base of the cliff. Her home was, more often than not, the Lighthouse's compact little apartments. Tight and confined. Filled with whittled bits of wood and spun threads ready for embroidering. Loose dust and wood shavings littered her workspace in small piles from countless hours spent carving and smoothing hand-sized pieces.
"By all accounts Elros was happy. He died surrounded by family near and dear to him." Eärendil's voice was hoarse now. With grief. Regret. Elwing could not discern the emotion within. But she could feel them as surely as she felt her own. His lips pressed, warm and wind-chapped, against the crown of her head and he continued. "Elrond is happy. He is married, the elves from Mithlond say, and his home is filled with laughter. The Enemy does not trouble them in the little haven that he has built for himself."
"I am glad." She felt the grief, ever present and yawning, press at the cage of her breastbone with every beat of her heart. And she was. Glad, that was. Nevertheless, she could not help the feelings that thrummed through her at the loss of her sons.
Elros had died and she had been unable to sit at his side. His had been the choice of Lúthien and he was lost to her now as surely as Lúthien was to her great-grandparents.
He had had children. Children that she would never meet. One had been named Tindómiel in the tongue of the people who had stolen him from her side. She could not forget that it was also Eärendil’s mother-tongue and the language of the Gondolindhrim that had once followed him and his mother and who must now surely follow Elrond on those distant shores. For her last living child was as much a prince of the Noldor as he was a prince of the Sindar.
Elros's decision to enshrine the dialect of the elves that had taken him from her within the culture of the kingdom he had founded was a pointed one.
It spoke of the feelings he must have had for the Fëanorians. The elves that had raised him and his brother. Men that had completed a task that should have remained with his parents not the people that had absconded with them.
But he had honored her in his only daughter's name and Eärendil in the name he had given his eldest son.
A nightingale and a jewel yet lived in the Land of Gift.
And yet... Elros had chosen to walk a path that honored the Fëanorians as well. A young and vibrant kingdom that sought knowledge and answers to all the questions that could be asked under the stars.
Perhaps it was in the nature of Men and their interactions with the Noldorin kingdom of Lindon. Elwing, however, could only compare it to that which she knew. And the Men of the Western Gift resembled the Noldor in such a heartbreaking manner that could bring nothing but grief to her heart.
He had been happy. And Elwing would never know the man that he had become.
There was some small part of her, a part that was mean and petty and grieving, that wished to lay blame upon the Sons of Fëanor for her son's decision. But...it had been his choice. None could force a child of the line of Lúthien to do anything that went against their own desires.
It would be wrong of her to deny him his choice.
Elrond had chosen the Path of the Elves.
Elros’s choice had lain with the Gift of Man.
Could she deny him his choice when Eärendil had given her his? Her choice had been her own heart’s desire and a selfish one that had allowed her to keep her husband. Had she any right to resent Elros the path he had chosen to walk?
"I am glad, Eärendil. I am glad and yet my heart weeps. And I...why do I grieve so? He was happy and that should be enough. It should be enough and yet it is not."
Why do you not weep as I do. Why- She could feel the questions bubbling up within her. They sat at the tip of her tongue and weighed heavily upon her mind.
It was terrible enough to have thought them knowing as she did that he might hear. She could not bear to speak them aloud and have them stain the air with their bitterness.
She felt his sorrow wax and wane in tandem with her own and Elwing tilted her chin up, pressing a kiss to her husband's jaw in silent apology. Eärendil’s arms tightened around her. His mouth sought hers out and he deepened the kiss for a fleeting moment.
"I do grieve, Elwing." His voice was soft and firm as he spoke into the space between their lips. "I am grateful that his life was happy in spite of all the terror and horrors of his youth. I am glad that the Fëanorians were kind to him in those by-gone days of captivity. It was never what I would have wanted and I will always grieve what was lost to us. But my heart rejoices too for Elros lived a life all his own and resides now in that unfathomable place beyond the circles of the world where all Men's spirits must go. "
"Eärendil. I-" She felt distress spark within her at his words and hastened to speak. Eärendil pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth and continued once she had quieted.
"Do not misunderstand me, my love. Some part of me will always wonder. My fëa will always ache for the fate of the Children of Man. But I do not regret my choice. For it was my own and in the end how could I choose anyone but you? She whom I had in ignorance and innocence both named 'daughter of moonlight' by the mouth of the River Sirion.
"He is gone and our grandchildren might very well walk the same path. We may never have the pleasure of meeting them and I will always mourn that. But Elwing. He was happy. He was happy and it is alright to feel as you do. For he was your son, same as mine. The manner of your grief is no greater or lesser than my own. He was our son and we had only a few short years with him. We were parted on such unhappy grounds.
“Should the Fëanorians be found repentant and remorseful of their actions and allowed re-embodiment for a chance to atone their fell deeds. Should they be able to atone for them. It will have changed nothing. For we will always be haunted by our loss and should Elrond sail for Aman, his brother will not be beside him. Elros will never again step foot into our home and we will still have lost our son when he was but a boy."
Eärendil was smiling now. His eyes bright with the light of the Silmaril that he had carried for these last centuries. He was a vision of beauty in his sorrow and tears clung to golden eyelashes like dew as he met her gaze.
But there was a tentative joy shining within the Mariner. A strength that bolstered his shoulders in the wake of his grief. Eärendil stood before her. Tall and proud. An Elven prince as beautiful as any of the lost kings and princes of Beleriand. Strong and unbent as his father Tuor was.
Elwing wavered there. Her eyes fixed upon his. Her hands pressed firmly against skin-warmed cloth.
"Elros was happy." It was as much a reminder to herself as it was a statement of fact. She returned his smile and sighed softly into the gentle breeze her grief had stirred. "I am glad. Truly. And I pray that his children and their children will have blessed lives in the Land of Gift, his Númenor, should that in-turn be their choice. But I shall always wonder." Here her smile turned bleak and Elwing looked away.
Her husband's gaze softened. He pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple and hummed low in his throat.
"Such is the fate of the Peredhil, I suspect." We who linger on these shores will always struggle with the fates of those who have chosen another path. His voice echoed clearly within her mind and Elwing allowed herself to take comfort in the gentle touch of his mind against her own.
Eärendil had come about his gift with osanwë naturally for all that he was one of the few members of his family outside of the House of Finarfin to do so. It had become stronger in the years that had followed his decision to plight his troth in marriage to her.
The power of the Silmaril had strengthened his reach all the further. As had her own influence upon his mind and fëa.
It was a comfort knowing that she would never truly be alone now.
Elwing could always reach out and know that Eärendil would be there in mind if not in body. Eärendil himself often made use of the unusual strength of their bond to share glimpses of sights that only he and his crew could see as Vingilot sailed across the star-strewn heavens above Ennor.
"He was a king." She tilted her chin up and tracked the movement of Anor far above them. The fruit of Galadlóriel sat heavy and golden-red in the center of a cornflower-blue sky. "He ruled a land that was fair and free."
"His mother was a queen." Eärendil's voice filled with a gentle warmth. Grief fading into the background as he pressed a calloused palm against the small of her back. "She is the lady of a people fair and free."
She smiled at that and met his unflinching gaze.
"Is she?"
Eärendil grinned, an impish curve touching his lips as he leant forward a touch.
"She is. A white-clad lady unrivaled by any in might or in beauty. She is lovelier than even the silver flower itself. A fair compliment, I should say, for all know that mariners love none more than Ithil.” Eärendil paused. A smile tugging at his lips as he peered down at her. “She is the fairest maid in all the land and fairer yet for she is my wife."
Eärendil’s mouth met hers in a gentle kiss and she could not help the smile that graced her lips. His eyes still red-rimmed and shiny with unshed tears, her husband dragged his fingertips up the knobs of her spine. His lashes were long and beautiful. They glimmered golden underneath Anor’s light and she sighed once more.
It, unfortunately, only encouraged him.
"Elrond is a lord." Elwing leaned into his touch and pressed her forehead against his. A smile tugging reluctantly at her lips as she stared into her husband's eyes.
"A fair lord indeed for he is his mother’s son!" Eärendil laughed now. His voice still tight with grief but a balm to her soul nonetheless. His eyes crinkled at the corners in well-trodden lines as he smiled. Eärendil’s eyes, normally a lovely blue-tinged grey, gleamed like brightest silver in his happiness. He pressed a chaste kiss against her lips as he pulled her closer to himself. As though they were not already so close as to be one person.
"His father is fairer yet for the Mariner-Prince is my husband." Elwing faltered then in the midst of this sweet moment. Her joy wavering as she stared up at the man before her. "I miss him. I miss them both."
Eärendil's mouth twisted unhappily and he sighed. His hold tightened around her the moment her own regret curled within her mind and he kissed her once more. As much a gentle rebuke as it was a comforting gesture.
"I know. I miss them as well. But there's naught we can do about it now. Elrond may yet join us here. His children with him should he have any in Endor. We will be reunited someday and that day will be filled with all the tears and joys of ages spent apart." Her husband’s fingers combed through the wispy curls at her nape and Elwing could hear the smile in his voice as he turned away. His face tilted towards the East. "I suspect that these feelings will never fade. But I pray that we will find some measure of happiness here."
"I am afraid." Afraid of.... Elwing trailed off within her own mind. And Eärendil's eyes filled with a quiet understanding.
"Afraid of replacing them?" Do you truly think that our sons would begrudge us our happiness? That they would resent the possibility of siblings in any measure? His voice was filled with a gentle warmth. The sound akin to the cresting waves that had once washed clean the sides of his ship. The taste of starlight and cold darkness echoing within the mental vowels of his words.
"Would they see it as such?"
"We could never replace one child with another." Eärendil’s voice deepened and hardened as his brows wrinkled in a rare show of displeasure. "Nor would I wish it." I do not think they would see it as such, no.
A song of rumbling skies and churning waters rang bright as bells in his voice to her ears. There was a light so bright and fierce in his eyes that Elwing could not help but wonder if this was how his grandfather, noble and doomed Turgon, had looked in his final moments in fair Gondolin when confronted with the destruction of that which he held dear.
She could not bear to look away. She had rarely seen Eärendil so overtaken with passion and it was as captivating a sight now as it had been then.
"One day Elrond will return to us. And..."
"Perhaps he will come to Aman and find a bright and happy home. One filled with laughter and moonlit smiles rather than grief and a cloying sadness."
A vision teased at the edges of her mind. Elwing could not say if it was touched with foresight for it was a nebulous gift and difficult to discern at the best of times even for one such as she. It was, nonetheless, a beautiful dream.
Elrond stood in the Lighthouse’s doorway. He was tall and fair. She could have easily mistaken him for herself if not for his height and the breadth of his shoulders. Those were his father’s.
Elwing could see hints of her husband in the man before her. His long dark hair was braided and bound in the manner of the princes of the Noldor, however. While Eärendil was likely to keep his hair tied in a simple mariner’s tail or leave it unbound and unadorned in the manner of the Sindar.
Her son’s eyes were filled with emotions she could not name as they stared at her. Ithil's soothing white light washing over her entryway and casting shadows into deep contrast.
A woman, silver-haired and lovely and oddly familiar, at his side dressed in the colors that she had come to recognize as belonging to the High King of the Ñoldor in Tirion. Though her gown resembled the cut that Queen Eärwen tended to favor rather than the high fashions of the City of the Ñoldor. A ring sat on her finger. Delicate silver and sturdy mithril to match the ring on Elrond's left hand. Both of such exquisite quality that they could only be Noldorin in nature.
Eärendil stood before them. A smile tugging at his lips. His eyes were bright with happiness and a child sat upon her husband's strong shoulders. Dark hair tumbling over narrow shoulders as they peered down at Elrond and the stranger.
She could not say if the child was male or female. But she could see herself in their face. Melian's influence lingering in yet another child. In the shape of their face, the color of their hair, and the light in their eyes.
But they had Eärendil’s beautiful wind-spun curls. His smiling mouth and laughing eyes. They had Elrond’s unfaltering gaze and she could Elros’s own sweetness in the child.
The vision was a lovely thing. It filled her with hope.
"Perhaps." Elwing could not help the smile that tugged at her lips then. Nor could she stop herself from pulling Eärendil into a kiss this time.
Her father might return someday. Her mother and brothers as well. Perhaps not. Elwing would always mourn what had been lost. But she would hope for the future too.
Elros was lost to her. To them. But Elrond would join them in the Uttermost West some day in the distant future.
Elwing would always grieve and she was right to do so. As her husband was in his hope and unfailing belief.
But... there was a glimmer of light in the darkness.
She would be happy someday.
Maybe not now and not always. But she would be. And there might yet be fair voices and sweet faces tumbling about within the wide echoing halls of her home at the base of the cliff.
Laughter would someday fill the still air of the lighthouse and lift stone dust and wood shavings in gentle whorls and eddies of joy.
Eärendil was here and they would never be parted.
None would invade their home now for a fair blood-soaked jewel.
Eärendil would come and go but he would always return in the end. She need not fear him lost to the sea. The Silmaril would light his way and the song her heart sang would always lead him home.
Elwing reached up and with gentle hands cupped her husband's face. She met his gaze and smiled with all the sweetness his love and her own happiness could muster.
I love you. Her words echoed the song of the nightingales and the gentle rustling of river-reeds swaying in a warming breeze.
Eärendil's mouth softened into a crooked smile. The silver of his eyes fading into a gentler cleaner shade of blue all too reminiscent of the waters that surrounded their home.
"And I, you."
They were here. They would wait. She could be content with that. Happiness would come in the future and might deem itself ready to stay one day.
The present was bleak but a light gleamed in the distance. It whispered of long-awaited reunions. Elwing could only hope that they would one day be reunited with Elros but she would look forward to the day that Elrond came westwards on a grey swan-necked ship.
She had waited so long already…
She could wait as long as was needed. So long as she had Eärendil at her side. Elwing turned in her husband’s arms and pressed herself against his side. Her eyes sought the distant horizon where the sky met the sea and she breathed a gentle sigh of contentment.
"We will be here."
Always. A promise within his voice and she could feel the determination that unfurled within him.
They would wait as long as it took for there was no hurry. She would take comfort in that and she suspected that Eärendil would as well.
That was alright.
Elwing would shoulder his burdens as readily as he did hers.
It was no true hardship.
The Enemy was defeated and though the Free Peoples of Ennor yet fought his lieutenant the greatest of threats had been beaten and locked away. The monsters forged of his corruption, gone with him. Eärendil had slain the Great Dragon himself. Elrond might still die in the Hither Shores but it was no longer as certain a fate. He might choose to sail rather than be forced to return through the Halls.
She could wait.
She would wait for his return.
The future awaited them all and she would meet it with eyes turned always to the East and a mind in-tune with her husband's.
Elwing would be the first at the docks of the Swanhaven to welcome her son to Dor-Rodyn. But she would graciously accept second-best only to Eärendil.
Elrond would come and their home would no longer be quite so empty.
Yes. Elwing would await that day eagerly with her heart in her throat and her eyes fixed upon the clear blue skies and the trembling blue waters of the sea by her home.
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shakespearenews · 1 year
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Here are a few assertions they offer. “Lonely” is one of several dozen words Sidney introduced into the English language that Shakespeare later used. She provided patronage to Pembroke’s Men, one of the early companies to perform plays that were later attributed to Shakespeare. Sidney’s extensive library included many of Shakespeare’s sources, and she was familiar with pursuits as varied as falconry, alchemy and cooking, whose vocabulary Shakespeare drew on.
Shakespeare’s First Folio, published about seven years after his death, is dedicated to Sidney’s sons, William Herbert and Philip Herbert.
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cto10121 · 1 year
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What it feels like to call authors by their last name: In 1956 Shakespeare was at a severe crisis regarding his career and private life. Just three months after his son Hamlet’s death, a restraining order is issued against Shakespeare and several others by one William Wayte, “for fear of death,” a context we are to this day unsure of. Had Shakespeare quarreled physically and even violently with Wayte? Had our sweet Swan of Avon struggled with that which had ruined the lives and fortunes of lesser men? Have we caught a glimpse of the flesh and blood man beyond the legend? Even in this clear documented instance, Shakespeare is still as remote and mysterious than ever before.
What it feels like to call authors by their first name: So Homeboy called me up and was like, “What up bitch, you’ll never guess what just happened” and I’m like “ooh what bitch give me that ☕️” and he’s like “I threw hands with some bitch ass Puritan and now he’s put a restraining order on me” and I’m like “whaa no fucking way!!!!” and he’s like “yeah lol i’m just crazy that way I guess 🤣 I dunno I guess I’m sad because my son died” and I’m like “your son just what” and Will’s like “yeah, Hamlet’s dead, so my mental health is not all there if you know what i mean” so of course I tell Homeboy “Booooo you whore stop fighting and go get therapy” and Will’s like “I know” and then he just cried for like seven hours straight but that’s Will for you he’s Like That
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omegaradiowusb · 4 years
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MAY 9, 2020 (#228)
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Misster Spoon “Heatwave”
Sophrosyne “A Thousand Wounds”
Strangling Glass “Grained N Brained”
Ye Gods “Configuration”
Yokel “Pappa’s Got A Brand New Cornea” (f. Franco Franco)
Half Nelson “Sweet Sensation”
Calles “Nnux”
Kah X McKenzie “Decree For A Refugee”
Giant Swan “Architectural Hangover”
Lanark Artefax “Corra Linn”
Gladio “Fist Of Gladio”
KL/BE/DH/RS “Land”
Kasra Kurt “Tumbleboy”
Corporate Park “Benevolent Surveillance”
G.S.O.H. “Interlude 1″
Nick Klein “Microscopic Cop”
Scandinavian Star “Regal V”
Daniel Avery “Glitter”
Burial “Claustro”
Bvrth “Warden”
Christoph De Babalon “Raw Mind”
Lurka “Choke”
Ossia “Hell Version”
Rezzett “100%Profit”
Pedazo De Came Con Ojo “Maybe Don’t”
Debby Friday “Neight Fictive” (f. Chino Amobi)”
Powell Tillmans “Feel The Night”
Flying Lotus “Auntie’s Harp” (Rebekah Raff RMX)
Springtime for Omega Radio is on its way to a close. For now, it’s unloading two hours of current non-straightforward electronics as always.
New sounds from Calles, Rezzett, and Pedazo De Came Con Ojo.
Recent sounds from Lanark Artefax, Gladio, Corporate Park, Nick Klein, Burial, Bvrth, Christoph De Babalon, Ossia, and Debby Friday with Chino Amobi.
Also featuring sounds from the Avon Terror Corps roster.
Final Omega Spring 2020 broadcast airs May 23, 2020 (10PM, New York City).
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poem-today · 4 years
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A poem by Ben Jonson
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To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much; 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For seeliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd or whore Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and indeed, Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin. Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses, For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee, I would not seek For names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus, Euripides and Sophocles to us; Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Tri'umph, my Britain, thou hast one to show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines, Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please, But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art, My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion; and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame, Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made, as well as born; And such wert thou. Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned, and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanc'd, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage; Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. 
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Ben Jonson
1572-1637
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lizbennett2013 · 5 years
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Tagged by @princess-of-france
Relationship
Long-term, one-sided love affair with the Sweet Swan of Avon, William Shakespeare
Favorite Color
blue
Ships
Stormpilot, Henry V and Catherine, Hotspur and Kate Percy
Lipstick or Chapstick
lipstick - the darker the better
Last Song
“In the Heat of the Moment” by Noel Gallagher and His High-Flying Birds
Last Movie
Captain Marvel
I tag @eca19875, @officerfreindly, @crystal-methionine, @flufflepuffthehufflepuffstuff, and whoever else is interested!
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