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onceuponaoneshotfanfic · 11 months

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Playing Pretend (Part 3)

Dinner, dessert, and realizing someone might get hurt.

Roy Kent x Reader

2.8k words

Warnings: Language, plenty of pining, "only one bed" trope I guess

A/N: Came out a bit longer than I intended, but I'm not complaining!

Series Masterlist

Roy’s arm was still wrapped around your shoulder, fingers tracing circles on your bare skin as he laughed at something your brother-in-law said. Another reason you’d picked Roy to be your fake boyfriend: he got along perfectly with your family and didn’t need to create some fake personality to make them like him. They adored Roy. It was probably your dad’s deepest dream to have the two of you get together.

You had caught the look on your dad’s face as he watched you across the room. His smile was that soft, gentle smile, the one he’d worn when you were a kid receiving an award, or when you learned to ride a bicycle, or when he helped you move into your first place all on your own. It was his proud, I love you so much smile. And it broke your heart a little, knowing that he’d be so sad when you and Roy “broke up” after the wedding. Almost as sad as you would be when the weekend ended, and Roy went back to just being your friend’s big brother who you pined after in silence.

But for now, you laid your head on his shoulder as your older sister shared some silly story about your nephew, enjoying the rumbling you felt when he chuckled, that gruff sound that made your heart skip a beat.

He leaned close and whispered in your ear, “How’m I doing?”

Ignoring the shiver his breath sent down your spine, you nodded. “Perfect,” you answered quietly. Just as your gaze flickered down to his mouth, wondering how many kisses you could get away with by excusing them as part of the “act”, a housekeeper came in and announced dinner, asking everyone to follow her to the dining room.

Roy was on his feet immediately, holding his hand out to help you up. “Feel like I’m on an episode of fucking Downton Abbey,” he hissed, smirking.

“What do you know about Downton Abbey?” you teased with a laugh.

“I know you’ve got a fucking thing for Matthew Crawley,” he shot back, raising his eyebrows at you.

Feeling like you were being watched, you gripped Roy’s arm affectionately. “Is someone jealous?” you cooed.

“Maybe,” was the small growl before Roy’s lips connected with yours again for a brief, heated moment that made your heart skip a beat. “Is this alright?” he whispered, nose brushing affectionately against yours as everyone else walked past the two of you. “The kissing?” His eyes were full of concern, a look he often gave you when he got protective. As any guy would of his baby sister’s best friend- right?

You shrugged coyly. “Getting to spend my weekend snogging a handsome footballer kind of helps take the sting out of the whole ‘my sister is marrying my ex’ bullshit.”

The smile he wore was a surprised one. “You think I’m handsome?”

“Oh, shut up, you know you are,” you tutted, giving him a playful shove as you moved past him into the dining room. With your back to him you missed the fierce blush that covered his face as he shook his head and watched you, that big smile remaining despite no one being around to see it.

Once everyone had settled in their seats, Jim’s dad raised a glass. “Thank you all for joining us to celebrate our only son and his lovely bride-to-be,” he started, nodding to Jim and Lauren, who sat directly across from Roy and yourself. “It’s going to be a very busy weekend, so it’s nice to have the opportunity to have our first official meal as a family before the festivities.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment, wistfulness flickering across his face for a brief moment.

When you and Roy had arrived at the house and were searching for your room, you’d bumped into Jim’s parents in the hall; there was a lot of clearing of throats and avoiding eye contact from all three of you as you re-introduced them to Roy, informing them that the two of you were now dating. Jim’s mother looked almost disappointed at the news, the corners of her mouth tugging downward, before recovering and offering her congratulations.

Jim’s dad continued his little toast. “I hope this weekend is full of wonderful memories for our new family and that this is the first of many celebrations we share.”

As everyone raised their glasses in agreement, Roy reached under the table for your hand, despite the fact that no one could see it. While you marveled at how determined he was to convince the whole table of your farce, Roy knew the truth: he wanted to hold your hand, plain and simple. And after all this time, this weekend finally gave him excuse to hold it as much as he wanted. There was no way he was going to waste that.

He did reluctantly have to let go once dinner was served, but not without bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your hand first. Across the table, Jim’s eyes narrowed slightly, before he turned to Lauren, acting like the picture of the attentive fiancé. You couldn’t help but notice the more Roy leaned over to whisper jokes in your ear, or found an excuse to touch your hand, or acted generally boyfriend-y, the more Jim mirrored that affection with Lauren. You did your best not to dwell on the observation, instead focusing on how nice it was to have Roy Kent by your side.

When dessert was served, Jim’s mum suggested taking it outside to enjoy the lovely night. Roy grabbed your bowl before you could and planted a kiss on the top of your head.

“Just grab the spoons, yeah, love?”

Love. Roy Kent just called you love. You’d seen him with other women he’d dated- really dated- and you’d never heard him call any of them love. The word stopped the breath in your chest as you reminded yourself that he was playing a role, acting as the perfect doting boyfriend.

But goodness, you liked the way it sounded.

You led Roy to the garden, where Roy nodded to a bench nestled under a low tree, a bit away from where everyone else was sitting.

“Mind if we sit over here?”

Your chest purred with pleasure at the idea of being alone with him in the secluded little corner, even if just for show. “Sounds good,” you managed.

Roy watched you carefully as you sat down before joining you on the bench, sitting closer than he had to, pressing his thigh against yours. He knew, deep down, that he was kind of taking advantage of the situation, that he was just a friend doing you a favor, but fuck, when was he going to get another chance like this? To dote on you, to touch you, to kiss you, to show you how mad about you he was. He would worry about getting his heart broken later.

“How you feelin’?” he asked, trading your dessert for one of the spoons you held out.

You shrugged as you took the bowl that he handed you. “Alright.” Your gaze flickered to Jim and Lauren, who were chatting with Jim’s parents. Jim’s eyes locked with yours for a brief moment before you turned back to Roy, who watched you with a frown. “How are you? You’re doing a great job with this whole boyfriend thing. You’re a natural.”

Roy turned his focus to his dessert, ignoring how tight his chest felt. “I’m fuckin’ fine. More concerned with you, actually. I’m sure all this… is hard.” He lifted his head to look at you. “It fucking sucks. Watching the love of your life be in love with someone else. Really fucking sucks.”

Something in the fiery way he looked at you sent a shiver down your spine. “Yeah. This is pretty damn difficult.” After a moment, you shook your head. “But… I don’t think Jim was the love of my life.” Roy’s raised eyebrows urged you on. “I mean, I loved him. Really, I did. And I would’ve married him. And it hurts like hell watching him marry someone else, never mind who it is.” You shrugged. “But he wasn’t the love of my life,” you repeated firmly.

“How d’you know?” Roy leaned towards you intently, both of you completely forgetting about the sweets in your hands.

“I don’t,” you admitted with a soft chuckle. “But I have to keep telling myself that, don’t I? Have to keep hope that the real love of my life is still out there, looking for me as much as I’m looking for him.”

Roy’s heart was on fire listening to you. He wanted so badly to tell you that he was right fucking there, that he’d been there for years. He wanted to give you a real kiss and whisk you away to the swanky bedroom you were sharing. Fuck, he wanted to offer to take Jim and Lauren’s place in front of the officiant on Saturday if you were keen.

Instead, he gave you a small, understanding nod. “Should write that down, it’s fucking beautiful.” And you knew he meant it. “Right. Well. I am… going to find a fucking bathroom.” He stood, putting down his bowl and forcing a playful smirk. “Don’t eat my fucking dessert, and if I’m not back in an hour, send a search party, see if I fell into a moat or got caught in a dungeon or some shit.” He bent down and kissed the top of your head before walking briskly into the house, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You two were having a pretty serious conversation from the looks of it,” your father’s voice mused.

You looked up at your father, who was observing you carefully. “Just about how weird this weekend is,” you half-lied. “He just wanted to make sure I was okay.”

He nodded. “Well, I’m sure it’s strange for him too. Watching you watch your ex get married.” He bobbled his head. “Be easy on him.”

You shook your head. “Roy knows there’s no feelings there. Just awkwardness, really. He completely understands.”

“He’s a good guy. You know I’ve always thought so.” He laughed. “We’re all just glad you two finally figured it out.”

“Right. Right.” You thought for a moment about the way your family wasn’t completely surprised by your new “relationship”. “You know, I’m still not sure what I was missing all those years. What did everyone see that I didn’t?”

A smile crossed his face. “Really, love? You never noticed the way that fella looked at you? All wide-eyed and flushed? Or the way he’d run himself ragged during matches when he knew you were there, just to impress you? There was one Christmas he came home, and I swear he took one look at you and looked ready to quit football just so he could stay with ya.” He chuckled. “Just glad he finally made his move.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You giggled weakly, pretending you’d noticed those things. “And was I just as obvious?”

“God, maybe worse,” your dad chortled, slapping his hands together with glee. “Where to start? Always finding a reason to talk to him, screaming like a banshee whenever you watch him play, and your mother and I overheard more than one late-night call to Sunderland when he was away. I’m just surprised it took him so long to realize how in love you’ve always been.”

Roy chose that moment, with your face starting to warm, to return. He nodded to your dad as he resumed his seat beside you. “Alright there?” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “Your face is all red.” He leaned close and planted a kiss on your cheek, relishing the heat against his lips. “Fucking cute when you blush,” he hummed. His own cheeks reddened when your dad cleared his throat, reminding Roy that he had an audience. “Fuck. Sorry,” he hissed.

Your dad held his hands up in defeat. “Can’t blame you two for wanting to make up for lost time.” He clapped your shoulder lovingly and returned to your mother, who was watching you with a soft smile.

Deciding to let yourself lean into things as much as Roy, you leaned your chin on his shoulder, gazing up at him adoringly. “Feeling kind of tired,” you murmured. “Thinking I’ll head to bed.”

Sure enough, he pecked your forehead. “I’ll join you.”

Rather quickly, you noticed, Roy grabbed your forgotten desserts and carried them to the table Jim and Lauren sat at. You followed him, offering a small wave to everyone.

“Goodnight,” you called.

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “More alone time?”

You wrapped your arms around Roy’s middle and squeezed tight. “Just a bit knackered. And I know tomorrow’s a busy day, want to be well-rested.”

Jim offered a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Goodnight then.”

Conversely, Roy’s smile was wide. “Have a great night, Jim.” He nodded to everyone else before taking your hand and leading you inside.

As the two of you walked down the hall to your room, you couldn’t help but realize that Roy was still holding your hand; you told yourself it must be in case someone happened to see you. That had to be it; Roy committing to this whole fake-relationship thing.

Once you were in the room, you each silently went about getting ready for bed, with Roy letting you use the restroom to change. You quickly removed your makeup, brushed your teeth (longer than usual), and changed into your pyjamas, feeling suddenly a bit shy in your sleeping shorts and oversized shirt. But Roy’d seen you in pyjamas plenty of times; how was this really any different?

For Roy, it was completely different. His breath caught in his throat when you walked out of the bathroom and his grip on the t-shirt he was about to put on tightened. It wasn’t necessarily the view- which admittedly drove him mad- but the knowledge that, in just a few minutes, you’d be in bed. With him.

Likewise, your heart hammered as you once again saw his bare chest- or “bear chest”, as Paul once joked at a pool party. You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed when he tugged on his black shirt, covering the hair and the light blush that covered his skin.

“D’you care which side?” he grumbled, pulling back the covers. He knew he should offer to sleep on the floor or something, but he knew you didn’t mind; how many times had you fallen asleep leaning against him on the couch? Or that time your families had gone camping and you had begged him to cuddle with you because it was so fucking cold?

Sure enough, you shrugged and helped him pull back the blankets. “Up to you.”

With a grunt, Roy threw himself on the bed, grinning when you did the same. “Only took, what, thirty years. But look at us, our first slumber party.”

You rolled your eyes and brought the blankets over yourselves; Roy couldn’t help but notice the tender way you made sure he was covered. “Roy, I spent the night at your house so many times growing up. We absolutely had slumber parties.”

He shook his head with a small breathy laugh. “Come on. You weren’t there for me.”

Not knowing what came over you, you turned onto your side and propped yourself up on your elbow, your eyes tracing Roy’s profile. “Who said I wasn’t?” you teased.

It was Roy’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, fuck off,” he grumbled, smile playing on his lips. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

With that, he turned and clicked off the lamp that sat on the nightstand, leaving you in darkness, wondering how you were going to sleep with the knowledge that Roy Kent was right next to you. Miraculously, you did finally fall asleep, listening to Roy’s soft snores that you knew you’d have to tease him about.

The next morning, you woke up with your head on Roy’s chest, his arm wrapped around you tenderly as he continued to snooze.

Fuck.

Your breath became shallow as you tried to figure out what to do. Gently pull out of his grasp? Stay this way and hope he woke up and removed his arm? Part of you- fine, all of you- wished you could wake up this way every morning.

Carefully, you removed Roy’s arm, the spot where his hand had been quickly becoming cold, and rolled over as slowly as you could, not stopping until you were flat on your back, a safe distance from Roy. Holding in a sigh, you stared at the ceiling, wondering if you’d be able to get through this weekend with your heart in one piece.

#he's here he's there he's every fucking where #roy kent #roy kent playing pretend #roy kent x reader #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent fic #roy kent fluff #roy kent fanfic #ted lasso #ted lasso fluff #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fic #ted lasso fanfiction

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une-sanz-pluis · 5 months

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Philippa of England, Queen of Norway, Denmark and Sweden

Philippa of England was the youngest daughter and last child of Henry of Lancaster and Mary de Bohun, Earl and Countess of Derby, and was born on, or shortly before, 1 July 1394, when her mother died from complications in childbirth. Little is known of Philippa’s early childhood but when her father usurped the throne in 1399, becoming Henry IV, her future changed dramatically. No longer the youngest daughter of an earl, she was now a princess.

The new king almost immediately began searching for marriage alliances for his two daughters. 1401 saw Henry enter into marriage negotiations with Margrete of Denmark for Philippa to marry Margrete’s adoptive son and heir, Erik of Pomerania. Like Henry, Margrete was hoping for an alliance to strengthen her domestic position and that of the fledgling Kalmar Union of Norway, Denmark and Sweden. It wasn’t until 1405 that the marriage was formally agreed upon and in December, Philippa was proclaimed Queen of Norway, Denmark and Sweden. In August 1406, the 12-year-old Philippa sailed from England in August 1406. She married Erik at the cathedral of Lund, and her coronation soon followed. Famously, Philippa is the first documented European princess to wear white at her wedding.

She spent the next three years at Kalmar Castle in Sweden, the first year under the guidance of Katarina Knutsdotter (the granddaughter of Saint Birgitta of Sweden), and probably owing in no small part to her youth, Philippa remained in the sidelines of rule until Margrete’s death in 1412. She retained close ties to Sweden, serving as Erik’s de facto regent there, and was the only queen of the Kalmar Union to ever achieve popularity in Sweden. Of particular note is her patronage of Vadstenna Abbey, the motherhouse of the Bridgettine Order. She often stayed there when in Sweden, was a generous patron, and petitioned the pope multiple times on the Order's behalf, even enlisting the support of her brother, Henry V of England. In 1425, Philippa donated a choir dedicated to St. Anne, where she was later buried. This may have had particular significance for Philippa, as she had no surviving children..

Philippa was deeply involved in the rule of all three kingdoms of the Kalmar Union. In 1420, demonstrating Erik’s trust in her, it was decided that she would serve as regent to his heir, Bogislaw of Pomerania, should the marriage remain childless, and her widow’s pension would effectively give her a ‘queendom’ in Sweden. In 1423, Erik went on pilgrimage and Philippa served as his regent, with all power that entailed, until his return in 1425. She also obtained the resources and support Erik needed for his war against the Hanseatic League. Indeed, it was Philippa who organised the defence of Copenhagen against the bombardment of the Hanseatic League in 1428 to great acclaim.

In late 1429, Philippa, apparently in good health, travelled to Sweden to secure further support for the war against the Hanseatic League. She was staying in Vadstena Abbey when she fell seriously ill and died on the night of 5 and 6 January 1430, possibly following a stillbirth. Philippa was remembered almost universally favourably, a reputation that was surely deserved.

Sources: Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS Lat. 17294), "Filippa, drottning", Svenskt kvinnobiografiskt lexikon (article by Charlotte Cederbom), Steinar Imsen, “Late Medieval Scandinavian Queenship”. Queens and Queenship in Medieval Europe, Mary Anne Everett Green, Lives of the princesses of England from the Norman conquest, Vol 3.

#philippa of england #edits #on this day #historyedit #henry iv #henry v #medieval scandinavia #kalmar union

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ri-writing · 5 months

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Ri rants about Northanger Abbey

Now that I have finished Northanger Abbey, I'm reading/watching/listening to academic thoughts on it. I do not have a degree in literature, but it feels like a whole lot of people are missing that Henry and Eleanor's dad is emotionally abusive. ??? I'm not the only one noticing this, right? It seems to be The Thing To Do to criticize Catherine for thinking he's a bad dude and I'm here going, "but he IS a bad dude."

His kids are afraid of him. They pull into themselves when they're around him. Eleanor doesn't have any friends when we meet her. At one point, she's scared about being a few minutes late to dinner. In her own house. Meanwhile, Henry's got a massive ironic-humor-defense-mechanism.

Catherine picks up on this. She's aware that Something Is Wrong. Her only knowledge of the sorts of people whose children are afraid of them comes from books and she doesn't have the vocabulary to express what she's picking up on. She's trying to figure it out. When Henry finds her in his mother's room, she isn't immediately forthcoming about her concerns. He pries it out of her. She tries to change the topic numerous times; he keeps coming back to it.

It's not like Catherine ran into dinner and did a whole Grand Detective Reveal accusing General Tilney of being a murderer. She's noticed his children - her friends - are afraid of this man and she's trying to figure out why. It seems unlikely she'd have said anything but-for Henry not letting it go when he found her.

Catherine isn't stupid. She's not letting her imagination run away with her. She's got a bad feeling in her gut that she doesn't understand but her gut feeling is correct. General Tilney is not a safe person. We see this for ourselves when he turns on her and puts her in a dangerous situation. She's seventeen, and has never traveled by herself but he sends her out of the house to fend for herself. He refuses to send anyone with her, so there's no one to protect her if someone wants to rob her or harm her. She doesn't know how the public transit works. She didn't even have money to get home; Eleanor has to sneak some to her. He throws her out and he doesn't care what happens to her. (That she figures out how to get home safely evidences that she's brave and clever).

So basically: (1) Catherine's gut is suggesting this guy is a bad guy; (2) the guy is a bad guy; and (3) the guy even puts her in a situation where she could be harmed. And if something had happened to her because she was forced into this situation - if she fell in front of a coach and got run over or if something more nefarious happened - that's at least partially General Tilney's fault and would mean he was...negligent or even worse.

Have none of these great academic minds ever considered that it's Henry who changes? When Henry finally gets Catherine's fears out of her after finding her in the hall outside his mother's room, he defends his father. This is a really common thing with people who are emotionally abused (I defended my abuser for years even when I knew deep down something was off). Because the abuse is not physical, it's harder to identify. You start to think that maybe you misunderstood or are exaggerating things in your mind, that you're being overly emotional or that you're reading into things that aren't there. An abuser even knows how to play into those thoughts until you find that it is easier to explain away and lie to yourself (he cares "in his way"). Henry knows deep down that his father does not treat him or Eleanor right, but he's lived his entire life in this abusive situation. I wonder how much of Henry's speech to Catherine about being reasonable is actually him voicing the things he says to himself.

When General Tilney puts Catherine in danger, Henry's finally able to admit the truth to himself. Once that happens, he's able to free himself.

That's the book I read. I'm still not sure I read the same book the academics read.

#ri reads northanger abbey #northanger abbey

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emilykaldwen · 5 months

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy Rating: Explicit Chapters: 10/25, part 1 of 3 Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong, Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

READ ON AO3

Chapter Ten - I Let You Stop Me

“Are you implying, Lord Bracken, that the results of the survey ordered by this very council were not upheld by your liege lord?” His mother’s voice cut smoothly through the bickering lords, and it sent prickles along the back of Aegon’s neck. He knew that voice. The earnest curiosity that hid the trap she lay before her was more familiar to him now than the gentle crooning from his childhood. Aegon gazed from the corner of his eye past Lord Wylde to where his mother rested her primly folded hands on the table. “Just beat each other and be done with it,” he muttered, taking a mouthful of wine as he tried to figure out what was lying before him. He did not realise a silence had fallen across the table at his mother’s question. “Aegon,” rasped his father, and it took everything in him not to give a start at the king calling him by name, and the correct name at that. “My boy, if you have something to share, you are welcome to it.” All eyes swiveled to him, and Aegon’s gaze stayed upon his father. A prickle of heat crept along the back of his neck, familiar and stomach churning. All that missed was the fire crackling at his back, his brother maimed and in pain in the chair before him. Instead, it was lords of the realm, and Edmund Vance’s poncy, square cut jaw and curls like a crown on his head all looking at him.

Reblogs and Comments are always appreciated!

@fyeahhotdocs, @ocappreciation, @stannisfactions, @fragilestorm, @starcrossedjedis, @darkwolf76, @arrthurpendragon, @dopedaegus, @hiddenqveendom, @mantillon, @lightofthearrow, @songsonacliffside, @acrossthesestars, @insabecs, @moireia, @azoraahai, @corporalicent, @jadore-andor, @selfproclaimedunicorn, @gwenllian-in-the-abbey, @notbloodraven, @impales, @arcielee, @thesunfyre4446, @duxbelisarius, @thatmagickjuju, @dream-beyond-the-fantasy, @qyburnsghost, @godswood-girl, @randomdragonfires, @mimikoflamemaker, @kingsmakers

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molly-ghuleh · 8 months

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Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 4

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: Sister Imperator gives you an ultimatum, and Papa helps talk you through it.

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Here is where it gets interesting!! I'm proud of this one hehe, I hope you all enjoy!! <3

Warnings: Religious trauma, anxiety, brief mentions of family trauma

AO3 / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

“You are telling me,” Sister Imperator eyes you sternly, “that you have only translated one word?”

You shrink under Sister’s harsh gaze. She’d come to the restricted room just before the dinner hour, touting a poorly-masked frown of annoyance, to inform you that she’d scheduled a meeting after breakfast the next morning. There were no pleasantries whatsoever. No good afternoon, Sister, how are you? No How are you settling in? No How is the translation coming along? Simply a raised eyebrow and a request for your presence in her office at nine o’clock sharp.

You’d tossed and turned all night, trying to figure out a way to say ‘I’ve been working for three days straight and have almost nothing to show for it’. With sleep evading you, you’d trudged back up to the restricted room in the middle of the night to stare at the diary again until dawn.

Part of you had hoped Papa would come to the library again. A very large, very noisy part of you centered somewhere in your chest had pounded at the mere thought of seeing him. Maybe you’d get the chance to ask him what he’d been looking for the first night you met? He was poking around the romance section…

But you stamped that feeling down. You are no use to Elizabeth if your mind and heart are preoccupied with a man you know you shouldn’t be thinking about. He is just taking care of his flock, you’d told yourself. He’s Papa, it’s his duty.

He had been so sweet to bring you oranges.

Despite your efforts, you’d gotten nowhere this morning. You’re still stuck on Today, with no hints or prospects of figuring out what happened on that first Today of the diary. So here you stand, feeling rather like a kicked puppy in front of Sister Imperator. She’s frowning again but this time she has good reason to do so.

“Yes, Sister,” you say, hanging your head. Your face burns hot under her scrutiny. “But you must understand, the journal is in a—”

“I don’t care if it’s written in hieroglyphs, Sister. You are here to figure it out. Are you telling me you can’t do it?”

You shake your head. “No, Sister, I can—”

“Then do it.”

You’re eleven. Your mother stares down at you, holding your secret (or, what you’d thought to be secret) diary in front of your face. It’s opened to the page you’d hoped your parents would never see. The page which prompted your visit to Liège. If God loves me, you’d written, why does He make me question myself? Is it because I doubt Him that he makes me doubt myself?

“Yes, Sister,” you nod.

Sister Imperator lifts her glasses from the chain around her neck to the tip of her nose. It’s a sign of dismissal, you know, but you are almost scared to move without her permission.

“Come see me tomorrow. I expect progress, Sister. Otherwise I will have to look elsewhere.”

“Yes, Sister.”

You turn with a small bow (which she doesn’t acknowledge) and make for the door. Your heart pounds in your ears. If you don’t figure out Elizabeth’s method, you’ll be sent home.

You’ll be sent home to Marseille.

Perhaps you should allow her to send you home. That’s what you’ve wanted the whole time, isn’t it? Though you’re not sure which outweighs the other: your homesickness, or your curiosity about Elizabeth.

You hadn’t exactly been given a choice when Sister Imperator summoned you to the Abbey, but that doesn’t mean you hadn’t been intrigued. You had known you’d miss home, and you were somewhat prepared for it. What you hadn’t been prepared for, however, was to discover just how badly you want to unravel the history written in the diary. Elizabeth must be a significant figure in the Ministry’s past. Why else would Sister Imperator want it translated so urgently?

It doesn’t matter. If you don’t make some sort of breakthrough in the next twenty-four hours, you’ll be on a plane back to France in forty-eight and you’ll never find out just who Elizabeth was.

Why is that idea so abhorrent to you?

You close your eyes and try to calm yourself down. Sister Imperator is not your mother. She is not holding your faith over your head. No one is holding your faith over your head. Your worth as a person doesn’t go away if you fail just this once, you tell yourself, breathing intentionally slowly. Lucifer will not value you any less.

When you finally push yourself away from Sister Imperator’s closed door, you find Papa standing at the next door down the corridor, regarding you. His brows are furrowed, which carves the line between his brows a little deeper. He holds a key, slotted into the brass doorknob of what you assume is his office door. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn the key and push the door to enter his office, just… stands there, and looks at you.

You look back.

He’s wearing a leather vest with intricate gold clasps over a black shirt with a high, frilly neck. His sleeves are puffy, but cinched in at the wrists. On anyone else the shirt might look overly antiquated, but Papa wears it well. The high neck frames his jaw and chin, the black contrasted with the full Papal paints he’d decided to wear this morning. His trousers are, of course, black, and tight. Tight enough to make your face flush with heat when your eyes involuntarily wander down, following the curve of his spine as he stands sideways.

Oh, Hell.

“Sorella? ” Papa speaks. Your eyes flick back up to meet his and you find that your heart is pounding in your ears yet again. “Are you alright?”

You nod and attempt a smile. “Yes, Papa, thank you.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, and if you’re honest, you wouldn’t be either. He moves his gaze from your face to the closed door of Sister Imperator’s office, and then back to you. “She can be, eh…” he searches for the right word, “...harsh. Don’t let it get to you.”

You huff out a small laugh. “That is easier said than done.”

“Yes, it is,” Papa smiles back. The crease between his brows fades. “Will you… come in, for a bit?”

His invitation catches you off guard. You think it catches him off guard, too, because his eyes seem to flick back and forth between your own with an uncertainty like he’s anticipating your refusal.

Should you refuse? You do have a deadline to meet, but… It’s very likely you won’t find the missing link in time for your meeting with Sister Imperator. If you haven’t found it by now, chances are you won’t ever find it.

It’s not just about the deadline, though. You realize this as soon as you contemplate turning his invitation down—the thought of saying no and bidding him a good morning leaves a heavy weight in your chest. Satan, this hadn’t been part of your plan. You’d planned to keep to yourself, keep your head down. You weren’t supposed to crave connection with someone. You weren’t supposed to want to agree to invitations, to accept oranges, to hope he’d be in the library in the early hours of the morning. You weren’t supposed to want to stay, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to be for Papa.

But you do, and it is.

“Actually, you know what,” Papa says. Your cheeks blaze with heat again when you realize you must have been staring at him like a loon. He removes the key from his office door and pockets it. “Let’s go for a walk, eh? Have you seen the Abbey gardens yet? There’s a wonderful little path that goes all the way around the grounds. It might help you to clear your head. And then you’ll tell your Papa what’s wrong, yes?”

He extends an arm, inviting you to walk beside him. You push yourself up from where you’d been leaning on the wall and fall into step with him. “Thank you, Papa. I… I think I need fresh air.”

Papa leads you past the rest of the Clergy offices and down the staircase which leads into the main hall. The opening of the staircase had taken you longer to find than you’re willing to admit. It’s flanked on either side by large potted plants, making the doorway leading to the stairs virtually impossible to see until you’ve already passed it. You wonder how many other corridors and stairwells and secret doors you’ve missed because of conveniently-placed decorations.

Instead of turning towards the large front doors of the Abbey, Papa guides the two of you towards the refectory. The large room is empty at this hour, save for a few Siblings who use it as a meeting place. It’s a different way than you’d expected, but you don’t question the route Papa takes—he must know the Abbey like the back of his hand.

He leads you through the refectory and into the kitchens. Several Siblings are already working hard to prepare lunch. The large, brick-walled room is a whirlwind of smells and heat and aprons flitting about. Whatever it is that the Siblings are preparing today smells delicious, and it makes your stomach twist with hunger. Oh, Papa would be angry at you if he knew you’d skipped breakfast again.

The two of you skirt along the walls of the kitchen, careful not to get in the way of any Siblings at work. They hardly even notice you. One Brother of Sin nods his head respectfully at Papa and gives you a smile, which you shyly return, but he misses it when he ducks his head back down to focus on not mincing his fingers into the large pile of garlic under his knife.

Despite the delicious smells swirling around the kitchens, you breathe a sigh of relief when Papa leads you through a creaky wooden door and out into the chilly morning air. It’s an overcast day but not too dark, casting the grounds in a cool glow. A thin, grassy dirt path leads from the kitchen door down a hill to the Abbey gardens.

You understand why they’re called the gardens now, rather than the singular garden.

Four large greenhouses and a garden shed are lined up at the bottom of the hill. Through the transparent glass, you can tell that each greenhouse is filled wall-to-wall with greenery. Several Siblings carry baskets and walk up and down the greenhouses, checking soil, pruning leaves, and harvesting ripe vegetables. A basket full of ripe red tomatoes sits outside the rightmost greenhouse. The path from the kitchen door leads directly to the greenhouses, likely a result of Siblings carrying fresh ingredients directly to the door you’ve just stepped through.

About halfway down the gentle hill, the path forks to the left. It veers off and disappears into a labyrinth of shrubs. The only thing flowering this early in the year are the bright yellow daffodils, which flank the garden path leading into the flower bushes.

From this vantage point atop the hill, you spot another building off in the corner of the Abbey grounds, nestled just outside the edge of the forest. You hadn’t noticed it until now. It almost looks abandoned, but the neatly trimmed garden at its front suggests otherwise. The tiny steeple with an inverted cross, made of red and yellow stained glass, tells you that it’s a small chapel.

The step from the kitchens to the worn dirt path is a large one. Papa hops down with a small oof, and before you can step down after him, he turns and holds his gloved hand out for you to take.

The leather feels like smooth, warm butter against your palm. His fingers gently grasp your hand, and you meet his eyes as he guides you down the tall step. For a moment you understand the swell of music, the stray flower petals, the slowing of time that moments like these are described with in books. While it is a simple gesture, Papa handing you down off the step seems incredibly… intimate. You are not the type to swoon but you can see how a Lady might, while being guided down from a carriage or a grand staircase.

You almost reach down to gather expensive silk skirts, but the moment is broken when your foot lands on the ground. This isn’t a romance novel and you aren’t a Lady. Even if you were a Lady, Papa is the King and you are the third daughter of some country Baron with a tiny homestead and a measly dowry.

“There we go,” Papa says as you land on the ground. He gives you a warm smile and squeezes your hand for a brief moment before letting it go. “Now, would you like to tell me about what happened with Sister?”

You stroll next to him down the hill, following the left fork of the path which leads into the labyrinth of flower bushes. “Well,” you sigh. “Last night she asked me to come to her office this morning to discuss progress. She was… less than pleased that I’ve only been able to translate a single word so far. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I can,” Papa says sympathetically. “What did she say?”

A humorless laugh escapes you. “She said that if I haven’t made significant progress by tomorrow morning, she’ll send me home.”

Papa’s head, which had been slightly bowed to watch his footing as he walks beside you, shoots up. “Home? To–-to Marseille?”

Oh, no no. Copia doesn’t like that idea at all. He is just starting to know you, to figure out why he feels so drawn to you. So attracted to you. You can’t leave him. Not yet.

You nod, but leave the conversation at that. The silence floats in the air between you like a mutual understanding. There’s something here, it says in the breeze. And there is something—regardless of how desperately you’d tried to stay detached, how adamantly you tell yourself you don’t care about him at all. There is something, and it will be gone tomorrow morning.

“I will talk to Sister,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “No, Papa, it’s alright. I will—”

“Copia.”

You blink. “What?”

“Call me Copia,” he asks gently. His gaze meets yours and you notice that there’s an errant lock of hair in front of his eyes.

He wants to hear his name leave your lips. Just once. Sweet Satan, just once.

“Copia,” you say, as if you read his very thoughts. And oh, you sound so sweet saying his name like that. He’s grateful for the full paints he’d decided to wear today, otherwise you might catch his very hot, very red face. Though, perhaps his ears give that away. He never does paint them.

The two of you finally reach the labyrinth of flower bushes. The sounds of the Siblings working in the gardens fades away until it’s just you and Copia, together on the gravel path.

“Let me talk to Sister,” Copia tries again.

You smile at him, grateful for his offer. “I tried. She didn’t seem to care that it’s written in a cipher. She said,” you paraphrase, “‘I don’t care if it’s in hieroglyphs, you’re here to figure it out.’”

That brings an unexpected bark of laughter from Copia. “Hieroglyphs might be easier. At least there would be some pretty pictures to look at.”

You laugh with him, then settle into another, more comfortable silence for a few moments. “I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to just accept it and go home.”

“And the other part?” Copia asks.

“The other part of me wants to go back up there and try like hell,” you admit. “But what can I do? I feel like I’ve tried everything. I can’t think of anything else.”

He regards you for a second, then looks forward. “Maybe you need to, eh… take your mind off it for a little while. Think of something else, yes?”

Your stomach does a jaunty little flip. Is… is he suggesting—?

“Will you tell me about Marseille?” Copia asks. “I’ve never been.”

Oh. No, he’s not suggesting. Of course not, désespérée.

“I will tell you about Marseille,” you agree, turning to him as you walk side-by-side, “if you tell me about where you’re from.”

Copia looks at you as well, his heart swelling with fondness at the mention of his home. He adores that you want to know about him, about his life before becoming Papa. He finds that he wants to tell you everything, if only to draw out that shine that grows in your eyes when you’re happy. Copia remembers how your eyes had shone when telling him about La génie, and when you’d finally uncovered that first word of Elizabeth’s diary.

He hates that Sister Imperator is threatening to send you home. Does she not realize that to translate one word at all from that enigma of a diary is an accomplishment in and of itself? Does she not realize how hard you’ve been working, sacrificing meals and sleep for work? It’s one of the things he admires about you, but it makes him worry to no end. He hadn’t seen you in the refectory for breakfast this morning, but can he blame you? You must have been anxious to Hell and back about the meeting with Sister. He could see that from the second you stepped out of her office door.

Yes, he will tell you about his home. Because he wants to see you happy and distracted from the weight on your shoulders.

“Deal,” he says with a smile. “You first, cara.”

You’re happy to talk about your home. There’s a warm fluttering in your heart when you think about it, and even more so when you talk to Copia about it. You tell him more about the Marseille Abbey, about how it’s ancient and drafty but it breathes life into you. You tell him about your windowsill full of prayer books. You tell him about Bishop Beaumont, and about each Sibling who lives at the abbey, as well as the few Siblings who don’t. Then your focus shifts to the area outside your Abbey, to the hilltop it sits on as it overlooks the sea. You tell him about the wildflowers that bloom in the tall grass all through the summertime and how they must be budding this very second.

Copia asks about the city proper, and about the area surrounding your Abbey. You tell him that your small cathedral is nestled on a grassy hillside, between steep, rocky slopes which overlook the water. Not many people in Marseille actually know it’s there—it’s hidden from the city proper, and not a short drive away. The roads leading up to the Abbey are long, winding dirt paths that are hardly roads at all. You tell him that if one was in a hurry to run an errand, they would be better off using the ancient stone steps which lead into a smaller village and are likely older than time itself.

You tell him about Alphonse, a tomcat who lives in the village and who sometimes makes the journey up the hill for ear scratches and to sunbathe on the flat stones which surround the Abbey walls. He is scraggly and old but sweet as sugar, and yes, you spoil him whenever he visits.

And then, Copia asks about Liège.

“I… I was eleven,” you tell him. You find yourself wanting him to know, wanting to speak about what had happened. “I was going through a crisis of faith at the time, and my mother found my diary. She read all about how I was doubting the Catholic faith, how I was angry at God for one thing or another. I don’t even remember what I wrote at the time, but it was enough for my parents to bring me on a trip to Liège.

“They told me it was to tour Saint Paul’s Cathedral. And we did, but…” you pause and bite the inside of your cheek. “My mother said she wanted to bring me to the Cathedral so I could find the glory of God again. She said, ‘l'amour de Dieu est perdu en toi’. ‘God’s love is lost in you.’ Funny, how that was the day I found where I would eventually put my faith.”

Copia watches you silently. The line between his brows is back now, and deeper, but it isn’t a look of pity.

You laugh through your nose. “They told me we were touring the Cathedral. They didn’t tell me they were leaving me there.”

Copia gently takes your arm and slows the two of you to a stop. You’re somewhere in the bowels of the flower garden, far enough in that the bustle of the Abbey and the gardens has faded to a soft murmur. Somehow, despite how early it is in the year, the bushes around you aren’t dormant. No, they’re nearly bursting with color—white and pink flowers with layers upon layers of petals, so dense that you can hardly see the deep green leaves of the bushes they grow on. The chilly breeze carries their sweet scent and wisps it between you and Copia.

A neatly handwritten sign in the soil reads Camellia. You wonder how something so beautiful can bloom so early.

He dips his head down to meet your lowered gaze. “Tesoro,” he says so gently that you almost want to cry. The wounds you’ve just told him about are old and scarred over, but the way he coos at you in Italian… It rips open the hurt and stitches it back together at the same time.

“They enrolled me in a Catholic school run out of the Cathedral,” you tell him. “Do you know how far Liège is from where I grew up? Quite far. In a completely different country, in fact.”

Copia is silent. You realize that the warmth of his hand never left your arm. His thumb strokes small circles where it rests.

You smile at him, but there’s no joy behind it. “I had to leave everything behind. Everything I knew, everything and everyone that was familiar was gone in a moment. So you know what I did?”

He shakes his head.

“I left God behind, too.”

Copia wants to hug you. He wants to pull you into his arms and never let you go, even if you begged him to. He wants to whisper little reassurances in your ear. Lucifer below, he hates what happened to you. He understands now why you are so reserved. How could someone not be, after going through what you’d gone through? But… look at who you’ve become.

He’s proud of you. Not just as your Papa, but as… something else entirely.

“What happened after?”

The two of you start walking again, and he removes his hand from your arm. You wish he wouldn’t. You move past the blooming camellia bushes and the air loses that slight sweetness. “Well, I spent a lot of time with La génie du mal while I was there,” you smile, this time with a bit of fondness. “And then when I was old enough to leave the school, I enrolled in a University and learned all I could.”

Copia watches you as you speak, as he had been the whole time during your stroll in the gardens. Though now, the path leads you out of the flower grove and along the tree line at the back of the Abbey grounds. It’s even quieter here, with only the light birdsong of Spring to interrupt you.

From this far, the Abbey looks like a dollhouse. It sits pretty on the hilltop, with little figurines dressed in black flitting back and forth between the kitchens and the greenhouses. Everything seems so distant, so small from where you are now, that even the worries you’d had fade away into the background. The only things that matter are the birds, the trees, and Copia. Just Copia. Not Papa, not the figurehead of the Satanic Ministry, just… Copia.

You feel as though you’ve talked his ear off. All through the flower labyrinth you’d talked, answering his questions or telling stories of your own. But now you find that he knows much more about you than you do about him.

After a brief pause as you walk past a small cluster of stone benches, you turn to Copia. “Your turn,” you say. “I think I’ve talked enough for half a lifetime by now.”

Copia laughs. “I’ve said it before, cara. I enjoy listening to you talk. But, eh… I suppose we did have an agreement, yes? What would you like to know?”

“Everything,” you say before you can stop yourself. And it’s true, you do want to know everything, but you weren’t supposed to say it out loud. “Uh, I-I mean, whatever you wish to tell me.”

He wishes you wouldn’t censor yourself like that, but watching you nervously flick your gaze around to everything except him makes his heart do strange flips and jumps against his ribcage. You are so honest with your emotions, even if you don’t mean to be. You might say one thing but your face betrays another, and it’s something Copia adores about you—how expressive you are. Perhaps he’s just good at reading people after having been a fly on the wall for most of his life, but you are something different. You seem to trust him past the mantle of Papa. And, well, if he’s honest, he trusts you as more than just a member of his unholy flock. Like he could tell you his secrets with full confidence that you would keep them.

Copia wonders if you’ve noticed he hasn’t called you by your title since you stepped foot in the gardens. He wonders if you’ve noticed you haven’t called him Papa, either.

“I was born in Rome,” he begins, “but I was raised in the Florence Abbey until I was ten.”

“Away from your brothers?” You ask, hoping you’re not prying too far already.

Copia nods. “Eh, yes. My brothers were born and raised in Rome, with my father. I was sent to Florence because my mother… Well. I believe she didn’t want my father to know about me.”

You want to take his hand and squeeze it. You don’t.

“So I stayed in Florence, raised by the Sisters of Sin there until I was ten. Until I started to ask questions about this.” He gestures to his white eye. “And then, people started to wonder why a nameless Florentine boy had the mark of the Morningstar, like all the Papas before.”

You watch as he turns about, as if looking for someone. He tilts his head back to peer over the tall shrubs of the flower labyrinth, which you stand outside. The tops of the greenhouses are just visible, as well as the spire of the small, stone chapel far beyond. Seemingly not finding who he’s looking for, Copia turns back to you. “Primo came to the Florence Abbey after he heard about me. Word travels fast in the Ministry, sì? Until then it was common knowledge that Papa Emeritus Nihil only had three sons. But Primo took one look at me and said, 'sì, sei mio fratello', and scooped me up and took me to Rome.”

The way Copia says the last few words makes your heart warm as if the memory was your own. He seems to remember it fondly—there’s a small, warm smile on his black-painted lips. “Were you happy to leave Florence?”

“Yes—eh, yes and no. The Sisters who took care of me were kind, and I hold them in my heart dearly, but… they were no Primo.”

“Papa Primo raised you, when you went back to Rome?”

“He did,” Copia tells you. “He raised all of us, you see, and very well, too. I would like to think we all turned out alright. Our father was… he was busy being Papa, I suppose. No time for three little rascals and a teenage son more responsible than him.”

There’s an unmistakable edge of bitterness in his tone, and you can imagine why. To find out he had a father, a father who was Papa no less, but to learn that he had no regard for children as anything other than proponents of a bloodline… it must have hurt him terribly. You remember craving approval at that age, doing anything and everything you could for your parents’ praise. But you can’t imagine how it must have felt to be pushed aside by the father you didn’t know you had, who you’d craved your whole life.

“Copia,” you whisper. “That’s… I’m so sorry. No one deserves that, especially not a child.”

He looks at you then. His hair, slightly graying at his temples, is a little disheveled from the chilly breeze at your backs. He still holds that smile, but now it’s rueful. “It’s alright, cara mia. I had my brothers. I still do.”

Your hand is in his before you realize. His palm is warm underneath the leather.

“And your mother?”

Copia looks ahead but his gaze drops to his feet. “I… never found out. Not for sure.”

You don’t want to pry any further. It’s obvious that this is a sore subject for him, and so you let it hang in the silence between you.

You feel as if you could peacefully coexist with Copia. Both of you know that nothing more needs to be said. You let the quiet float between you, enveloping you like a warm blanket. Neither of you interrupt it with forced small talk about the weather, or your favorite books, or what might be served for dinner tonight. You can talk about those things later.

It almost startles you when you realize that you want there to be a later. You want for there to be a tomorrow, a next week, a next month. You want for there to be stupid little chats about favorite books and food and weather, and you’re still holding his hand but you don’t want to let go of it. You want to hold his hand on walks like this, or when you’re both sitting quiet on a loveseat and reading those favorite books you might have talked about, or when he raises it up above your head to twirl you around and then pull you into him and kiss you sweetly.

But oh, if you only knew how he felt the same. How he wishes you’d come and work in his office so the two of you could just exist in the same space, even if you don’t talk for hours. How he wants to drag you back to the Abbey to work on Elizabeth’s diary, and help you think until you both are sleep deprived and a little loopy, just so you can figure it out because he doesn’t want you to leave him. You can’t leave him so soon after he’s found you. Sweet Lucifer below, you’re the only bright spot in the lonely darkness that he’s seen in so long. You’re the flowers blooming in the early spring, beautiful and sweet and unexpected after walking through a labyrinth of routine. You’re his camellia.

The two of you stroll on the path behind the row of greenhouses. Copia doesn’t remove his hand from yours. He doesn’t care that Siblings or ghouls or Primo might see. The two of you find comfort in each other, and holding onto that feeling is the most important thing in the world to him right now. This feeling, and you.

A fat drop of rain lands against the side of your nose. You reach your free hand up to swipe it away, and pull your finger back to look at the offending droplet. “Oh,” you hum. “I think it’s going to rain.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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t-top-apologist · 8 months

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At the end of the day the average civilian wishes to be catered to like an old money steel baron or perhaps one of those chaps from Downton Abbey. The entirety of modern society has come together to enable this, mass-producing cheap facsimiles of fortunes that should rightly either be built on child labor or perhaps serfdom.

Their lawns, taking up what could otherwise be used to grow crops or serve as "outdoor garage space," exist to ape the wide ranging estates meant for the nobility to chase down a fox while adorned in silly jackets. Their houses sport columns and stupid windows meant to imitate three different classical artforms at the same time because of something called "economies of scale." They even have male-centric social clubs meant for parlour games, discussing sports, and dining with friends, in this case franchised out under such names as "Buffalo Wild Wings."

This aping of the upper class continues to the hire of "artisans" to do relatively simple work deemed too complicated to warrant the time of the average citizen. It's not that the jobs are too taxing for your average person, but rather that the market has crystallized around the desire to live like budget royalty. Therefore they take their wafer-thin computers to artisans (now more commonly called "experts" or "Apple geniuses") for repair and have democratized the position of carriagemen to 22 year old dealership lube techs named Ryan who will turn a 15 minute job into a 30 minute endeavor thanks to frequent vape breaks and a brief brush with what the industry refers to as "a misplaced drain bolt."

The mid-40s project manager and mother of 3 is no less competent when changing oil than her grandfather before her who knew what "Valve Lash" is, but what separates the two is a series of wars in the 1900s that required an entire generation of men to become very familiar with operating and repairing machines better than the Germans and Japanese (an exercise that Chrysler would later abandon in favor of the phrase "if you can't beat em, join em").

This conflict ended with a surge of able-bodied men finding themselves returning to their project management jobs (like their granddaughters after them) but armed with captured German weapons and a comprehensive understanding of tubochargers. Just as a line can be drawn from troop drawdowns to political violence, there's a distinct correlations between GIs returning home and the violence with which Ford Flathead V8s were torn apart by inventive supercharging methods paired with landspeed record attempts.

Give a man a racecar and he'll crash it on the salt flats in a day. Teach a man to repair a racecar and it will sit in the garage of his suburban house for a few years in between complete engine rebuilds required by what can only be described as "vaporized piston rods."

Of course this hotrodder generation created the circumstances we live in today, as the market saw their fast cars cobbled together from old prewar hulks and simply stamped out new ones from factory, faster and more convenient for the next generation than building one from scratch. Now the project manager mother of 3 drives a 4wd barge with climate controlled seats boasting more computing power than the moon mission and an emissions-controlled powertrain with more horsepower than her grandfather's jalopy and her fathers factory muscle car combined. And she doesn't care at all.

Yet Amongst the average civilians there walks a rare breed: people who know how to change their own oil. We the chosen move among you silently, bucking the system, operating outside the cultural helplessness and trading in forbidden knowledge in almost-abandoned forum threads (flame wars over conventional vs synthetic).

While we do have a marked air of superiority about this, I can't say I haven't stooped to imitating the rich myself. I've been known to wear a silly jacket from time to time.

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spiritofjustice · 11 months

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I know Abbot and Abbey throwing themselves super deep into consumerism in Mother 3 is to kinda show the naïveté of a lot of the Tazmily villagers with the Pigmasks, but I almost think that it’s no wonder Abbey in particular becomes deeply invested in this materialism. She, far as we know, has no job or hobbies (considering her and Abbot appear to have stopped their gardening/horticulture work entirely), and she is stuck at home while Abbot has a job and gets to have fun at Club Titiboo, a place she is not allowed access to because she does not work at the mine. She, like most women in town, has no access to the common bonding experience / hobbies that men in town get. But she clearly wants to be a part of it, she just can’t be. The meaningless distraction of the newest shiny thing seems to be her only escape and interest, though something about her strikes me as almost profoundly empty at points.

And I don’t think she’s any different than a vast majority of the other adult women in town. The Pigmasks really reinforced gender roles that likely already existed to an extent and created a deeper divide between men and women in town. You see a lot of misogynistic thoughts the male villagers have come out after the timeskip, for example. It’s just another example of the divide the Pigmasks enacted within Tazmily. A united town is a dangerous town, after all.

#psy's no punctuation posts #mother tag #mother 3 #the gender stuff in M3 is so interesting to me idk #idk if I’m onto nothing here but I just think about it so much!!!#i love Abbey she deserves more happiness

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sazeracs · 1 year

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I’m sure someone else has beaten me to it, but here’s a translation of the ledger Andreas can find in the abbey library, with my translation notes – long post below the cut:

Mother Katharine, Prioress AD 1459[1]

Sister Hildegard, 16 years old Named Anna Gölderich, of Ravensburg. Proficient in Latin. Studious and obedient, with a soft, pious voice. 150 florins donated by her father. Additional 15 florins annually.

Mother Hildegard[2] AD March 1481

Sister Cecilia Daughter of the Welser family of Augsburg[3]. Named Adelheit. She is wise and learned in Latin and French. 200 florins given by the family before her arrival. Additional promise of 20 florins annually. AD August 1505

Sister Gertrude Named Metze[4] Huberyn, born in the Variscan Court[5]. Minimal proficiency in Latin. Kind and knowledgeable about herbal medicine. Most knowledge passed down by her father, an apothecary, who donated six florins to the monastery.

Sister[6] Matilda, 17 years old From Kempten[7], named Matilda. Moderately proficient in Latin. Calm, disciplined. Daughter of a Frisian merchant who donated ten florins and a large quantity of ultramarine pigment for the Scriptorium’s use. Mittenwald Ascetarium, May 1515 to September 1515[8]

Sister Illuminata Named Angelina, from the noble Capocci[9] family of Perugia, who were close to Abbot Rudolf[10]. Extremely learned in Latin as well as French and Germanic languages[11]. Restrained[12], sensible, and perceptive. The Capocci family donated 50 florins before her arrival, with an additional promise of 20 florins annually. 1507

Mother Cecilia, Prioress February AD 1510

Sister Sophia Born to the Hafner family in Birgitz. No knowledge of Latin but gentle and reverent. Parents are humble paupers. Three sacks of flour donated. AD 1512

Sister Lijsbet, 34 years old Born in Dutch Trecht[13], from the Hack Woutersen marriage[14]. Moderately proficient in Latin but proficient in Saxon. Hardworking and pious. Merchant parents. She has long been connected to Kiersau through her mother’s family, the Kaufmanns of Rothenburg ob der Tauer. They gave 12 florins, with an additional promise of two florins annually. AD 1514

Sister Margarete From the Auer family in Krimml. Mostly blind due to glaucoma. Can see colours. Moderately proficient in Latin. The daughter of wealthy peasants who each donated bags of wool and pastureland in Krimml. AD 1515

Sister Zdena The third daughter of the Rožmberk family of Tábor[15]. Very learned and proficient in Latin. The Rožmberks paid 100 florins before her arrival, with an additional promise of 30 florins annually.

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[1] In the original text, the year is written as MCCCCLVIIII. Typically this would be written as MCDLIX, in accordance with subtractive notation (i.e. how we normally write Roman numerals), but there are historical examples of additive notation sometimes being used, for some reason – sometimes both would be used interchangeably in the same document, or even the same number.

[2] This entry likely documents Hildegard’s promotion as opposed to there being two Hildegards in the abbey, as there’s no other information included and the same is done for Sister, later Mother Cecilia below.

[3] The Latin here is originally pretty clunky and obscure (“Welser daughter of the Augsburg Vindelici”); Andreas explicitly mentions Cecilia’s family as well (and telegraphs other important information for the player this way). The Welsers were a German merchant family that rose to prominence in the 16th century as financiers for the Habsburgs along with another family, the Fuggers. They accumulated their wealth mainly through trade and the German colonisation of the Americas, including enslaved labour, so. Yikes! The Vindelici were a Gallic people based in present-day Augsburg; I don’t actually know if the Welsers themselves were descended from them, but I’d assume so, given that the region is correct.

[4] Diminutive form of Mechthild.

[5] The contemporary name for Hof, believed at the time to be the seat of the Varisci/Narisci people.

[6] Sister Matilda is an oblate, as are Lijsbet and Magarete. Oblates aren’t professed monks or nuns, and so are technically part of the laity, but have associated themselves with a monastic community. They make formal promises – either annually or for life, depending on their affiliated monastery – to follow the Rule of the Order; as a result, they’re considered an extended part of the monastic community.

[7] I initially was stumped by this word and thought it referred to Matilda’s occupation in the abbey as cellarer, but then remembered Andreas reads she’s from Kempten, the old Latin name for which is, indeed, Cambodunum.

[8] Matilda’s age is either current in 1518, which would’ve meant she was 14 when Lorenz Rothvogel attacked her, or her record was retroactively updated to reflect her leave in 1515, making her 20+. Unfortunately, I think both are equally plausible, though being in her 20s would mean her relationship with Brother Wojslav, who imo appears to be older, has (slightly) less of an age gap.

[9] A quick search reveals the real-life Capocci were mostly associated with Viterbo, which is not Perugia lol.

[10] Another clunker originally.

[11] Theodiscus was the contemporary term referring to West Germanic languages; it comes from a Germanic adjective meaning ‘of the people.’ Since Latin was the language of science and religion, theodiscus was its opposite, i.e. the language spoken by the people.

[12] Retinēre very broadly means ‘to keep or hold back’ and so usually gets translated as either ‘to restrain’ or ‘to uphold.’ In describing a person, it can suggest any number of things: literally, physically restrained, or emotionally restrained, as in temperate or even repressed; someone who is steadfast and firm, or simply just is intelligent – as in, literally retains information well. Illuminata is all of these things, but I think ‘restrained’ suits her most compared to, say, tenacious.

[13] Utrecht. The city takes its name from the Roman fort Traiectum on the Rhine.

[14] Imma be real with you chief, other than Hack and Woutersen both being Dutch names, I have no fucking clue what this references – if anything – and I’ve found nothing that would help shed some light on it, either.

[15] The Rožmberk (Rosenberg) family was one of, if not the most powerful noble family in Bohemia from the 13th century until the early 17th century. Zdena is RICH rich, but her story is also pretty sad; it’s little wonder she’s Like That.

#pentiment #pentiment spoilers #.txt #long post #here's how my main can still win

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kidstemplatte · 8 months

Text

one step more

summary: terzo catches his daughter sneaking out of the house.

it is stated that violetta has a mother (presumably reader). more notes at the end. i hope you enjoy <3

“One step at a time, Violetta.” The drunken teenage girl thought to herself, walking down the dark hallway to your section of the abbey. The hall had never felt this long before. Sure, she complained like a bitch every time she left something in the commons after just getting comfortable in bed, having to walk through the lengthy corridor in her pajamas to retrieve it, but it was never this bad. With every step she took, it seemed as if the corridor seemed to stretch just one step more.

She inched down the hall, her jet-black hair dirty and tangled, the makeup she spent hours perfecting beginning to melt away, her platform boots in hand. Those stupid fucking boots. So cute but so damn inconvenient. She almost bust her face open twice on the walk home, drunkenly stumbling on the sidewalk before taking them off. She knew it was stupid, sneaking out to go to concerts and parties instead of studying or spending time with her family. But recently, she hadn’t been feeling like herself. She couldn’t explain it, she just felt… off. And if taking a few too many shots and jumping around to the sound of ear-splitting screams with a bunch of strangers let her forget about it for a moment, she was willing to do so.

She blinked, and she made it to the entrance. A large black door containing elaborate engravings around the frame and the name “Emeritus” carved on the top stood before her. Slowly and carefully, she turned the door knob and pushed gently. Damn it, this door was old and creaky. If anyone asked what the noise was about in the morning, she would just say she left her headphones in the commons, which was a common occurrence. She opened her phone to check the time. 1:56 am.

She tiptoed her way in, turned around, shut the door slowly until she heard the satisfying click, and let go. Setting her boots down by the door, she inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of relief.

Phew.

“How was the party, Violetta?”

And as she lifted her gaze from the floor, there sat her father, Terzo, in the large recliner by the fire, swirling a glass of wine in his hand.

Shit.

Violetta stood by the door dumbfounded , painted lips agape yet not able to produce any words.

“And the one before that?”

The silence was deafening. The only thing audible was the repetitive ticking of the grandfather clock, typically gone unnoticed during the day.

“And the one before that?” he continued.

He took an extended sip from the glass, pretending to wait for a response, knowing damn well he wasn’t going to get one.

“There was even one on a Tuesday. Who goes to the club on a Tuesday?” he remarked.

Like this man hadn’t been to the club on a Tuesday.

“I’m sorry.” was all she managed to get out, staring at a singular spot on the carpet rather than into his eyes, trying to maintain her balance.

“Sit.” He said, gesturing to the couch across from him.

Violetta dragged herself over to the couch, putting a concerning amount of thought into each step. While she sat down, Terzo placed the glass onto the coffee table as she attempted not to look at it. She’d rather stare into her father’s disappointed eyes than look at any kind of alcohol right now. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn.

“Are you drunk?” Terzo asked, leaning forward, his tone eerily indistinguishable.

“Uh…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

There was no point in trying to hide it.

“Violetta…” her father said, rubbing his face with his hands.

He then started rambling, going off on what was presumably some sort of lecture about sneaking out. But as he kept talking, he kept getting quieter, and everything else got louder. A sickly feeling in her stomach began to grow, and a dull ache in her head was becoming more and more noticeable.

“Give me one moment.” Terzo said, standing up and exiting the room.

Fuck, he was gonna tell Mom.

Violetta shut her eyes, focusing on her breathing as the fatigue grew by the second with each tick of the clock. Her body was heating up, a tingling feeling spreading throughout her body. She was so embarrassed, caught by her dad while she was shitfaced out of her mind. She wanted to go to bed and wake up and feel better, and pretend this was all a bad dream.

When she opened her eyes, she was not faced with her mother, rather than her father, kneeling in front of her, wiping off the smudged black and white paint on her face. She really was her father’s daughter.

Terzo looked down at his daughter’s face, his heart growing with each swipe of the makeup wipe, as more and more of her was revealed. It had been so long since he’d seen her. His daughter. After he was done taking off her makeup, he tossed the wipe on the table.

The walls were spinning. Her stomach was churning. Her head was pounding.

“I think I’m gonna-“

Terzo quickly grabbed a large plastic bowl he had set on the table, previously gone unnoticed, and handed it to his daughter.

Just as the discomfort reached its climax, she retched into the bowl, emptying the contents of her stomach. When she was finally done, she set the bowl on the side of the table.

Much better.

“Better?” Terzo asked, sitting beside Violetta on the couch.

“Yeah.” She said, shooting him a weary thumbs up. Her headache was fading away, her stomach settled, and her body began to cool down.

“Good.” he replied.

And just moments after she felt the relief from the physical pain, another pain started to settle in: emotional pain. She didn’t know why it happened. It just did. Her chest started to ache, her throat tightened up, and her vision started to blur with tears.

“Are you mad at me?” she squeaked timidly, voice cracking.

“No.” he replied.

“You promise?”

“I promise.” he confirmed with a brief nod.

“Being a parent is weird, even after all this time. Of course when I see you leaving the house and partying I at first want to get upset. You know, I did the same things when I was your age. Worse. I was a party animal. Maybe ‘was’ is not the proper word. But I settled down after we had you. But nobody ever talked to me about it. I was scolded before I even understood the consequences of what I was doing. So I want to ask, how are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” she replied, somewhat honestly.

The tears welling up finally escaped her eyes, uncontrollably streaming down her face as she let out soft gasps and hiccups.

“Oh, la mia stellina, do not cry… It’s okay.” He reassured her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly.

It had been so long since they had hugged like this, since they had had a moment, just the two of them together. “I’m sorry it has taken me this long to check in on you.” He said as the two pulled away from their embrace.

“No, it’s okay, I’m sorry I’ve been sneaking out.” Violetta apologized, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Maybe we are both sorry. That’s okay.” He reassured her.

“Yeah.” She sniffed.

“I mean, honestly, it’s not all because I’m feeling weird. Going out is… fun.” She admitted.

“Trust me, I know. You are a teenager. You will go out and do teenage things. I cannot stop that. You are growing up. But I also want to make sure you’re being safe. That is my greatest concern. No taking anything from strangers, no walking alone at night, you know. You know this. You are smart, Violetta. That is why this is worrying me that something else is going on.”

“I’ve just been feeling weird. Different. I don’t know if depressed is the right word-“

“You have not been thinking of hurting yourself, have you?” Terzo interrupted, his facial expression morphing into one of panic as he collected both her hands in his.

“No.” she replied.

“You promise?” He said, voice dropping into a low whisper.

“Yes.”

“You promise me?”

“Yes, Papa. I promise.” she reiterated, looking into his eyes.

Papa.

He missed that word.

“Okay.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t really feel like myself. Just different. Like I’m watching my life go by and I’m just… inside my body.” she explained.

“Violetta, you can tell me these things. I am always here for you. I want to be a part of your life. I have no idea what an ideal father looks like. But I try my hardest to be one. I miss talking to you. The longest conversations we have are when we’re arguing. I do not want it to be this way. But that is how it has become.”

A looming silence spread throughout the room, leaving nothing but the faint sound of ticking until Terzo let in a shaky breath.

“Tell me, Violetta, what can I do to change this?”

And in a newly adopted, weaker tone, Terzo muttered,

“What can I do to be a part of your life again?”

“You will always be a part of my life, Papa. Even if you aren’t always with me. You don’t have to do anything else. This is all I needed. A reminder.” She reassured him.

“I will always do more. Take the extra mile. Even just one step more. Always for you.” Terzo professed.

“Thank you, Papa. I love you.”

“I love you too, Violetta. La mia stellina.” He said, pulling her in and holding her tightly.

“Tomorrow we can go for a car ride and listen to music, like we used to? Sound good?” he asked as the two pulled away from each other.

“Only if you let me have the aux.”

“An ox? That’s an odd pet, no?”

“No, Papa, like the- the aux cord.” She explained through laughter, mimicking plugging in the cord.

“Oh. I see. Sure, you can have the aux.” Terzo laughed, waving his hand.

“Oh, and now that we’re being open with each other, can you please tell me about the time you showed up drunk to mass and started freestyle rapping?”

“The time I- how?”

“Mom told me about it.”

Per l’amor del cielo.

☪︎ ִ ࣪𖤐 𐦍 ☾𖤓

AAAAAAAAAAAAA!

this one was so fun and challenging to write but so worth it!!! i’m obsessed with their relationship. 😭

i really hope you enjoyed!!

more violetta content is coming soon!! and maybe another child as well 🤭

❤️, alice

#the band ghost #ghost band #papa emeritus iii #terzo #ghost #papa emeritus #terzo x reader #papa emeritus x reader #papa terzo #papa emeritus iii x reader

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