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doctorstrangeaskblog · 2 years

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Please give me motivation to finish my thesis, I’m so tired but I have to graduate this semester. Scream at me, haunt my dreams, astral project to make sure I’m working on it, ANYTHING will be fine.

If you're almost having a burnout about it, I have some hints- first take a break so you can breathe and reorganize your ideas- spend a whole day without thinking about your thesis if you need. Then, take an afternoon to divide the objectives in smaller tasks, change your workspace, maybe try to write outside, prepare a nice tea or latte, grab some cookies, put a nice music in the background- try to make the moment you're working more pleasant. Normally it's hard to start the task, so if you give yourself nice reasons to start, you'll feel more motivated seeing your results later. Also, try to put your ideas on a paper sheet without worrying about details or fomat, just write your ideas, like brainstorming- once you have enough, then you proceed to organize them. Remember to take breaks, like...every 40 minutes you're working take a 20 minutes break- our brain normally only stays focused for 40-50 minutes, after that, quality begins to fall. If you get used to that, if you study 3 hours, you'll be having 1h of fun and 2h of peak produtivity, and that's way better than 5 hours of studying in pain without the proper attention. You can adjust the productivity/break proportion with time- as long as studying and working for you becomes something rewarding.

#doctor strange #studying #study hints #studying hints #college #school #college hints #school hints #how to study #studying better

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bibuck-saved-me · 3 months

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it’s a selfish thought and arthur knows it because merlin has spent so much time hiding a vital part of his existence, his very being, all because of arthur. so he presses it down into the deepest recesses of himself and focuses on doing everything he can to support merlin, to give merlin the world he deserves. a world where he is free.

but sometimes, when he’s alone in his room surrounded by his endless responsibilities, he will think to himself, i am nothing.

merlin and the old religion hold him as this once and future king, but no matter what they say, he can’t understand why they think any of this is about him. it was never him. everything he’d done, every accomplishment and fight he’d won had never been his to claim. he was a fraud. he was a lonely king with nothing to his name beyond the blood on his hands, the blood staining his every crevice.

he isn’t the once and future king. he doesn’t deserve any of the praise. he is the moon, a piece of rock in the sky that shines only because of the sun. without the sun, the moon is worthless. without the sun, no one would have ever looked at the moon twice.

arthur had never been proud of his mistakes and his inaction when it came to his father’s slaughter, but he had been proud of the things he had done to keep his kingdom and his people safe and healthy and happy. he has fought and fought and fought only to discover he had never even landed a punch. every knockout, every victory he had held up to hide the ugly nothingness of his true, empty self was never his to hold. with the discovery of merlin’s magic, any worthiness he thought he’d earned had slipped through his fingers like sand through a sieve.

merlin is beautiful and powerful. merlin is a god amongst men, a gift given to this world, given to arthur, and for what?

this prophecy for arthur was always about merlin. he carried the weight, he fought and fought and fought and he won, merlin was the one who had carried this kingdom on his back until they reached the safety of the golden era of the current day.

it’s a selfish thought, to be thinking of himself in relation to merlin’s magic when merlin has suffered every single day because of arthur. and yet, in those moments, he can’t help but wonder why he was born at all, why he was named savior of a group of people who would’ve never died if only he had stayed unmade, a whisper of nothingness in his mother’s womb.

his first breath caused a massacre, a genocide, and yet he was given an angel and a title and a prophecy of greatness he could never actually fulfill.

he would never tell merlin about these thoughts he had. merlin would end up feeling guilty somehow, would carry the weight of arthur’s worthlessness even more by taking on the deserved revulsion arthur had for himself.

no, he couldn’t tell merlin about this. merlin would tell him he was wrong, would try to talk him up and fix it. would use that endless kindness to tell arthur endless stories about his own importance. merlin would shine his sunshine on arthur until arthur forgot he was just a lump of rock. he wouldn’t rest until arthur loved himself, until arthur took all the credit for merlin’s own accomplishments again.

no, he would keep this to himself. he would give merlin the attention and love he deserves. this story isn’t actually about arthur pendragon. it never was.

#idk what this is #anyway #sorry #me? projecting? never #also to clarify uh this is obviously not how i feel personally about arthur!!#i love that man i just wanted to explore how the insecurities we see him have in the show would look post magic reveal #merlin #arthur pendragon #bbc merlin #bbc arthur #merthur #it’s hinted at more than anything though #character study #character introspection #might delete later #ficlet #angst

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theshadowrealmitself · 1 month

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I’ve been getting a ride every now and then from a friend and I never have cash on me so I wanna give them something back by Saturday hopefully (that’s the day of our final. at 8 am. yes this Saturday. for my worst subject. end me.)

But I’m not sure how much would be a decent amount? It’s going to be about 10 rides total (give or take) at the end of this week and the drive is 10 minutes, so what’s a good amount for that?

#asking as someone who doesn’t have a car and never looks at gas prices #no fandom #they never ask or even hint at paying them back but I feel so guilty #I say at the end of this week cause they’re planning on picking me up Friday for another study session #wish us luck 😭😭😭

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kaeyapilled · 11 months

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kavetham different meeting au where theres a sort of fair for people who want to study in the akademiya to get to know each darshan, yknow those college fairs? where they talk to you about universities and courses? like that. and the kshahrewar and the haravatat booths are next to each other and kaveh and alhaitham are responsible for them and despite having just met they bicker with each other all. day. every future akademiya student that passes through one of their booths might as well have passed through both because they will not stop arguing about which darshan is better and which one the people talking to them should go to. its a very amusing experience to all involved except for kaveh and alhaitham themselves. and anyways. nuisances to lovers

#inspired by real life situation in the university/career fair i am at rn with my school lmao #the sociology girl and the law school guy wouldn't stop bickering about which major was better it was so funny #not hinting romance between them though that's weird they're real people. it just reminded me of kavetham because i have brainrot #anyways yeah that's my pitch for a 200k words slow burn academic rivals to lovers rated M kavetham fic #kavetham #haikaveh #my posts #alhaitham #kaveh #also what i described might sound like the interdarshan but no that was focused on games this is focused on studying

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intothegenshinworld · 6 months

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🍂*₊“𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧”

wc: 1.2k (no beta, we die like the light in Childe's eyes) prompt used: "sharing scarves" for the falltober prompt 'event' of @astronetwrk! a/n: this post has been queued weeks in advance.

The sweltering summer days had given way to gloomy ones. From dusk to dawn, rain would fall down from the skies, the once bright colors of blooming flora now replaced by stale brown, further intensifying the bleak atmosphere.

And just like the seasons, your clothes had changed these past weeks as well. The once short and breezy outfits had been replaced by sweaters and jeans, and it still left you defenseless against the cold winter zephyrs in Snezhnaya. Every breeze made you shiver, and the only solution was to clutch your jacket closer to your body and bury your hands as deep as you could in your pockets.

You had been waiting for your boyfriend, Ajax, who definitely should’ve been back by now. He had told you to wait at one of the lonely benches out in the town streets while he’d fetch hot chocolate from a small cafe, but when you checked your phone, ten minutes had already passed, and you knew the lines couldn’t be that long.

So here you were, idly watching other people pass by as you waited for his return.

If you knew Ajax (you did, you’d been with him for a while now), you’d bet money on the fact that he’d gotten distracted by the new Halloween decorations hanging everywhere in the town.

These last few days, Ajax had been rambling non-stop about ‘Halloween’ and how he’d bring his younger brother, Teucer, for trick or treating, something he’d done for many years now. He wanted to get matching outfits with him, but when Teucer threw a fit, saying; “I’m not longer a kid”, he turned to you instead.

If he was taking this long, he’d probably be stuck behind a window, eying a decoration he hadn’t seen before and thinking of the next matching outfit to suggest to you.

A ping chimes from your phone. It successfully throws you out of your daze and you grab the phone with a sense of urgency. The sooner you’d be able to put your hands back in the safety and warmth of your pockets, the better.

After you unlock the screen with your numb fingers, you click on the notification from Ajax. It’s a selfie.

Half of his face is hidden behind his red scarf, his nose that barely peeked out from behind the fabric is dusted a soft shade of pink, it brings a nice contrast to the freckles coating his cheekbones and bridge of his nose. In his left hand, he holds a small flimsy-looking tray with two paper cups (the hot chocolate, you assume), and behind him is an adorable illustration of two ghosts.

A puff of air escapes your lips. You can’t hide the smile that forms on your face.

Quickly, another notification pops up and you send a message back before he has the chance to scavenge the internet for white sheets with cut-out holes.

The message is read, and his status turns from online to offline soon after. It only takes a few seconds before you see your boyfriend rushing to you through the streets.

“Are you alright?” Ajax’s eyes glance up and down your figure. His face is scrunched into an expression of guilt and worry.

He moves his free hand to yours as he sits down next to you on the bench, frowning when he feels your cold hands. He gently rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “We’ll need to buy you gloves. I don’t think it’s healthy for you to get cold so quickly.”

“I wouldn’t need any if my boyfriend would keep me warm instead of hunting ghosts on store windows.” You retort back with a cheeky smile. His mere presence is enough for you to feel warmer again.

His worry falters for a moment, replaced by a smile before returning. “Here, —” He removes his hand from yours and wiggles one of the paper cups from the flimsy tray. “Drink up. It’s the best you can get in Morepesok”

To your delight, the hot chocolate is still warm when you bring it up to your lips. You don’t need to wait for it to cool down, it’s the perfect temperature, and you sigh in content after downing half of it in one go.

Ajax brushes the back of his hand against your cheek. “You can have mine as well. I’m used to Snezhnayan winters, I can handle it.”

You roll your eyes as you huddle closer into your jacket. “It’s autumn, dumbass.”

A snort escapes his lips. “You call those flimsy two weeks of ‘brown leaves’ autumn?”

Fair enough.

You scoff, and the puff of air that escapes your lips forms into a small cloud before it dissipates again.

While you were both studying in Liyue, Ajax had often mentioned how gentle the weather had been compared to the conditions he grew up in. He’d talked about ice fishing, a thing he still does, and made fun of the foreigners coming to visit the Nation during the winter months.

It’s ironic how you’re one of those people now.

“Hold this,” Ajax shoves his own cup into your hands and removes the scarf from his neck. He seems adamant about keeping you warm and doesn’t give you time to question him as he wraps the fabric around your face in a delicate manner.

With the scarf out of his face, you’re able to see how he purses his lips in concentration as he tucks the end of the red fabric into a loose loop, preventing any cold air from attacking your neck any further.

It smells like him. You first catch a hint of lavender from the laundry detergent his family uses, but with the scarf right at your nose, you also notice how it failed to fully cover his natural body scent.

In a way, the scarf comforts you. Not only is it warming you up and preventing you from the cold breezes, but it also reminds you of the moments spent in his arms.

You look up into his eyes when he finally stops fussing over you.

“But now you’ll get cold.“ Your voice comes out muffled.

Ajax bumps his shoulder gently into yours. “See it as payback for making you wait.“

He takes the paper cup he had previously shoved into your hands and drinks his own share of hot choco. “If you feel bad about it, you can always offer to share.“ He turns to you with a cheeky smile on his face.

And while you know he wasn’t being serious, you urge him closer.

Like he had done with you before, you shove your now half-empty cup into his hands before removing the fabric around your neck. With a little bit of help on his side, you’re able to wrap the scarf around the both of you. Admittedly, this doesn’t nearly provide as much warmth as it did before, but Ajax was already making up for that.

His shoulder is comfortably pressed against yours, and when he turns his head to face you, your noses are but a mere inch away from touching each other.

You smile. “Tell me about the diy ghost outfit?“

He lets out a chuckle as he hands you your half-full paper cup. “Couldn’t let me enjoy the moment for a little while longer?”

#childe x reader #childe #tartaglia x reader #genshin x reader #astronetwrk #modern au #tartaglia #if you liked the fic- consider commenting or reblogging <3 #btw #you and childe studied in liyue #now youre either living together back in Snezhnaya or you're visiting his family and u return to liyue later #whatever floats your boat #also #Childe is not traumatised in this au #he's living his best life tormenting you with matching outfits <3 #I also HC him having adhd so I'm sorrynotsorry for hinting at that anywhere LOL

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aurorangen · 6 months

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Keon's true colours

Transcript:

Mickey: Wow we are crap at football. Robbie: Admit it, I'm better than you though. Mickey: Sure, you got hit as many times as I did!

Robbie: A bit of practice and we'll be playing in the NFL [jokes] but sport is not my thing. Mickey: I can tell! What do you like doing then Robbie? Robbie: [sighs] I don't know what I like. I just do the things that I do.

Mickey: Honestly same. Robbie: And why is Keon so late? He wanted us to hang out. Mickey: Who knows. I can't predict that guy or what he's up to...look who's finally shown up.

Keon: Hey! I swear this studying is killing me…you guys look so bored without me. Robbie: You studying? That doesn't sound like a Keon thing to do.

Mickey: Knowing Keon, a girl got his attention. Bro, stop messing around with her. Keon: You could say that, it is some girl [smirks at Robbie] I'm seeing how things go I guess.

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #postcard legacy #postcard gen 2 #robbie reichmann #keon mahelona #mickey kealoha #a full 360 turn in events from that studying post #did anyone see it coming?#i tried to hint it in his 1st appearance #honestly idk what im doing with the story i always change my mind #so yeah the things i planned are all very different now ahaha!!!

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queenlucythevaliant · 6 months

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Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night.

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.”

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs.

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her.

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes. “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.”

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.”

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun.

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud.

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too.

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in.

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke.

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes.

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: visiting the imprisoned #with a tiny little hint of #theme: visiting the sick #story: complete #so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can #when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me #Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.'#Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc #so that was the basis for this story #somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power #and also illness worked itself in there. go me #anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise #i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes #but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way #on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do #hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong #i think that covers all my bases #i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it #and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone #pontifications and creations #leah stories #i enjoy being a girl #the unquenchable fire

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booksandpaperss · 1 year

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A Look Inside Max Mayfield’s “last word” letters to the party: El

…

Hey El,

Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve written those two words. Too long, really.

How are you? Are you.. are you doing okay? I know that’s a silly question considering the shitty circumstances of this letter but I hope you are, you deserve every good thing that happens to you. Even if that was me… leaving. Or, pulling away, I guess.

This vecna asshole better leave you alone. Tell him he better not mess with you. It doesn’t matter that I probably won’t be here soon, he better leave you alone. I’ll make sure he does. Somehow.

Shit, I’m so fucking sorry for not writing to you. I miss you so much, you have no idea. And now you’re not even going to see this until after… well. I’m not stupid, I know you miss me too, or… at least that you care, even though I tried to convince myself you didn’t. I got your letters, I read all of them. You’re too good for me El, way more than you even know. I know we technically haven’t known each other for that long but, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. I really wish I did, honestly. My life is better with you in it… it still is.

Lucas and Dustin and Steve, they’re all set on saving me, but this vecna guy… he’s really strong. He’s like you, with powers, but like, way less awesome of a person. I don’t think I’m going to make it. Is it selfish of me to wish you weren’t in California? Just so I could see you before I.. go? I’m glad you’re safe though. I just miss you, is all.

I have a bit of a confession. Multiple confessions, technically. And since this is like… my dramatic last words or whatever I should probably tell you. You’re my best friend, so if anyone should know, it’s you.

I’ve never really felt totally in with the party, you know? It was nothing they did, they’re great, really, even Mike. Don’t tell him I said this but I kinda get why you like him, under all his shit, sometimes he’s kinda sweet. Seriously please don’t tell him I said that, if I actually manage to live he’d never let me hear the end of it. Not that… well if you’re reading this that means I wouldn’t really, well. Be here.

Anyway, I got off topic, it’s so easy to do with you though and I wish we could talk more, and I miss you so much and I but anyway my point was, Mike and Lucas and Dustin and Will, they’ve all known each other for so long. They’re all so close and I’m just… I’m just here yknow? I’m just me.

But then I met you. Like, really met you. And I don’t mean when I just vaguely heard about you from Lucas and Dustin who talked about you like you were some otherworldly mystical sorcerer, and then saw you once right before you had to go off again to close a massive supernatural gate. I mean when I met you. And really… you were “just you” too. Just like me.

And El, you is so much. I don’t mean your powers, I just mean you, who you are. You got me, in a way no one else has, not even Lucas sometimes and that’s what and you didnt even have to say it, you just understood. We’re both outsiders, even with the party sometimes, but… never with each other.

El, you’re so fucking special to me. I hope you know that. Please know that. You’re more than your powers, than what you can do for other people, you’re just… so amazing, and supportive, and kind, and beautiful just as you.

Although, I guess if you’re reading this that means I’m not here so… you deserve to know. I think you’re beautiful, El. This is going to sound so cheesy but I really think you’re so beautiful, inside and out. Even when I’m not here, you can’t let anyone make you think otherwise okay? I know you won’t, you’re strong, without anyone else.

I wish I could say more but if I let this keep going I’ll be here all day, and I won’t get to our other friends letters, and then of course Mike would whine to you and Will about it, so I gotta save you guys from that. You’re just… I feel safe with you. Talking with you. Even if you’re not really here.

I’m sorry El. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll try to fight him okay? I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t, because you don’t deserve this shitty letter as my last words to you. You don’t deserve any of this. Or me. I’m sorry.

Love,

Max

#no one:#me: writes the most ambiguous elmax letter ever #ngl guys the end made me tear up just a lil #enjoy! more letters for the other members coming soon but I rlly wanted to do El’s first #if u liked this pls rb it! it would mean a lot <3 #and id love to hear yalls thoughts too #anyway #max mayfield #elmax #el hopper #bi max mayfield #(it’s hinted at)#max mayfield analysis #character study #st ficlet #stranger things 4 #elli’s writing #a look inside Max Mayfield's letters: elli's version

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soup-scope · 11 months

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I feel like gba would work so well with castlevania style animation

Specifically the bastard warrior series but I can def see the other ones working too

#this definitely isn’t me hinting at anything wdym #I mean albus already gives me belmont vibes #so the vibes are already there #I’ve been doing style studies recently so...#just for funsies...#good boy audios #gba #gba bastard warrior #goodboyaudios #gba space pirates #gba moth #gba fourseen

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soldatrose · 7 months

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i feel like the de repetundis trial is even funnier when you consider the whole grieving process cicero goes through between the de maiestate trial and this one so i put together a few extracts of his letters for demonstration :) (< girl who's very much not helping her absolvo plea)

cicero's reaction to gabinius's de maiestate trial: a chronological compilation

denial

2. anger

3. depression

4. bargaining

5. acceptance

6. whatever the fuck this is

#look who did their research ��#every letter contains a “i'm completely normal about this” and that's how you know he's seething the entire time #when i was reading stuff on it i was trying to find gradual hints of pompey's pressuring cicero but fantham was right he goes RADIO SILENT #the last letter though. it's like the five stages all at once #'COULD I have done anything else? no. this trial was DISGRACEFUL but really i'm totally fine about it #i'm SO FINE about it that i see the republic as doomed and will lock myself in my study until pompey comes knocking like a madman'#and then he just stops talking about it altogether and that's when you know pompey's sending him letters like ''sooooo about that defence''#my posts #ringletted dude

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stagefoureddiediaz · 2 months

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Me seeing that we’re getting 141 as a new fire crew in weewoo world and my brain immediately thinks about psalm 141 and sonnet 141 (Shakespeare)

Bearing in mind the fact that 911 loves to play on religious theming and has been know to play into some Shakespearean themes before as well, I think it’s v era much worth paying note to both the palm and the sonnet!

Sonnet 141 is about the conflict of senses and desire - the pain of desire and love is equally soothing.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who, in despite of view, is pleas’d to dote;

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone:

But my five wits nor my five senses can

Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,

Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:

Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

Part of the sonnet hints at the ladies unfaithfulness and at her being displeasing sexually and that should be enough for him to leave, but his heart hasn’t caught up with (essentially) his brain!

It’s one of the dark lady sonnets Shakespeare wrote which was the sequence of sonnets that followed the fair youth sonnets sequence.

There is thought among Shakespeare scholars that the dark lady sonnets, because they display a distaste for women, are meant as a counterpoint and juxtaposition to the fair youth sonnets which are homoerotic in their nature and therefore this sonnet is meant to play into the idea of love and desire overcoming sense and societal expectations!!

Psalm 141 to all intents and purposes plays to a similar theme, albeit one of asking god to protect one from enemies but also from the temptation to sin - to resist the enticements of the wicked.

Can’t wait to see if these themes play out in anyway across this season

#I’m gonna say it - hints of an upcoming battle with sexuality and allowing oneself to follow one’s desires is being hinted at #the idea of following your heart despite you head (religious teaching) telling you it’s wrong!!!#I may have just totally lost my marbles #but it’s fun to explore the theming none the less #all I’m saying is that maybe we’re gonna get some sort of nod/ move towards Eddie unrepressing himself sexually?!!!#911 spoilers #911 speculation #911 discourse #media studies 911 style!

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