NOW IN THE STREET THERE IS VIOLENCE AND LOTS OF WORK TO BE DONE
THEODOR LUNDIN, a Swedish advisor. knees scraped raw, a heart like an open wound, old parchment that crumbles at your touch, the realization that love is not enough for anything at all.
This line of the Lundin name should never have been and soon will cease to be. Their father’s foreign surname, garbled by Swedish tongues until it was given up entirely. Their six hopes of siblings, none surviving into adulthood. They are not the first Theodor, and they are the last of their line of Lundin, and so Lundin is all you can call them.
Their childhood was defined by cracked and calloused hands. Their father was a strong and patient man, a stablehand for the Swedish crown. He knew horses beyond parallel, could soothe the wildest beast; Lundin was never half as comfortable with them, barred from learning on the royal stock. Their father taught them to ride on an old mare he tended to for a local baker, and she bucked them until they learned to copy their father’s voice, his low, steady tones. It has been their calling card through every fever pitch since. Their mother was a quick and clever woman, a maid for the Swedish crown. Every day, she cleared away the remnants of royal dinners, the luxuries left uneaten and disposed of, and came home to cook a simpler meal. She taught them to read, her tight curls spilling over her shoulders as the two of them poured over the small tomes she would bring home, as she helped him sound out every word. They are rarely seen without a book in a hand.
They expected that they, too, would work in the palace one day, and they spent plenty of time playing in the servants’ corridors, unleashed to explore the grounds when there was little chance that they would bother any royals. Better there, their parents thought, than in the city with the boys who had first taught them to fight, taught them the rough and tumble games of youth. Yet was there that they met their undoing, in the form of a boy and a girl. The three of them were fast friends; the three of them were trouble, mischief personified, and Lundin ignored their father’s reproachful look, their mother’s quiet warning, their own level head. What the three of them had, they knew, was worth it. They slotted together perfectly, missing pieces fitting into place, and Lundin could keep them all out of the worst consequences easily enough. They could protect them.
They grew and this love did not leave them. They became a palace gardener, gained solid muscle through hours of labor, returned home every night to a cramped bed and a small stack of readings. They listened to their love tell stories of possessing royal blood, of his rightful claim to the throne, and they humored him. They watched their loves marry, the beautiful pair that they made, and they were glad for them. They grew used to dirt beneath their nails. They grew used to keeping their head bowed, gaze lowered, to sirs and ma’ams and Your Majesties. A tight and unspeakable knot formed in their chest.
And then the impossible became real to the touch. The plague came, and he turned to them with that look in his eyes, that look that said he had a terrible idea, and she nodded, and they nodded, and the King of Sweden died, and the beating heart of their childhood took his place. Planning and dreaming paid off, and - overnight, they became a royal advisor, valued for brain rather than brawn, drenched in finery. Overnight, they had everything. The three of them had everything. It was beautiful.
But cracks can grow in the foundations of even the greatest of cities. Their King began to make promises he could not keep, to show off the gleam of the crown with endless parties. Luxuries, left uneaten and disposed of. With a gentle touch, Lundin urged caution, urged prudence. They had plans in mind, reformations to promote the common folk, assurances of domestic stability. They were not certain when their low, steady tones began falling on deaf ears. They asked their parents to come behind the palace walls, protected from the sickness of the lands. Their father and mother died in the home that Lundin had been born in, the home that they had abandoned and that their parents refused to, and they did not speak of it. The cracks grew. And yet love conquers all, they hoped.
Then came the coup attempt.
Screams in the night, fire in the palace, and Lundin could not say that they understood what it had been like for their King and their Queen, to have very nearly died, attacked in their own bed. They knew this: they had been pacing the gardens that had once been their duty of care when it had happened, unable to sleep. They had grabbed a rake left abandoned, had gone tearing through the halls - had slammed it into the head of an invader until he stopped moving beneath them, and then they had continued. Calling for the guards, yelling orders until their throat grew hoarse, defending the palace with their very own blood, as if they had any idea what they were doing. As if all of their reading and all of their working could have prepared them for this. As if this place had ever been worth dying for.
When the smoke faded, the killing began. Their King was on a rampage, for there was no other word for it, aching for revenge. Lundin stood, tongue numb in their mouth, and watched the bodies he had ordered left to rot hanging for hours at a time until the weeks had passed and they were finally taken down. They could not imagine a worse horror. They could not see death as anything but the greatest sin. But it seemed as though their King slipped farther and farther away with every moment. Decisions turned harsher, trust rarer, the people dismissed. The counsel of an advisor, of a love, of a friend faded to whispers, a despot forming before their very eyes. They remembered the old king well. They had thought they knew this new king better.
Lundin cannot say they are an honorable man. They had read the story of Caesar and Brutus with their mother as a child, of the would-be tyrant and his naive assassin. A grand republic might be too great a hope for Sweden, but their childhood was defined by cracked and calloused hands, and they are tired of seeing soft and bloody ones hold the scepter. They do not want to be the king, do not know what the future holds, are too wise to make a move without the solid assurance of a plan, but - things as they are cannot continue. They cannot sit, silent, as danger grows on the throne of the homeland that their father adopted as his own, that he labored to give them a place in.
They love their King and Queen. They have killed for them. They have given them their childhood, their adolescence, their heart in willing hands. They are going to stop them. They are going to find a way to live with that.
PLAYLIST.
I. THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER JIMI HENDRIX II. WORKING FOR THE KNIFE MITSKI III. THAT POWER CHILDISH GAMBINO IV. SELF CONTROL FRANK OCEAN V. ELECTRIC AVENUE EDDY GRANT VI. ONE OF ME LIL NAS X VII. TAINTED LOVE GLORIA JONES VIII. SAMSON REGINA SPEKTOR IX. ISCARIOT WALK THE MOON X. DEAD HEARTS DEAD MAN’S BONES
“King Augustine.” The Dane gave a short bow of her head to the king. “May I extend my congratulations on the betrothals of your children?” The festivities had been large, nearly overwhelming. Dagmar had tried not to think of her own engagement celebrations- it seemed everything these days brought up memories. “I look forward to seeing our families joined together.”
“Queen Dagmar, thank you kindly.” He gave her a friendly smile that was very nearly genuine. Of the foreigners that Josephine had betrothed their children to, he found he liked the Danes best. They were a fierce family, and he thought Clara would lead well. “As do I, of course. I’m certain my wife will reach out to you to plan the wedding.”
It wasn’t Marcelo’s choice to be here, it would never be his choice unless he had his own crown on his head. But he didn’t, he had the title of bastard son and celebrated general. He’d placed himself closer to the kitchens and servants, less of a chance that he’d find anyone of the royals hanging around there. But to his surprise and… distaste, he found himself in front of the King of England himself. “King Augustine.” He bowed, “I’m afraid I hadn’t expected you here, I would have been more presentable if I had.” He’d been leaning against the wall and probably looked a mess. As much as he didn’t care for the man, he still had to keep up appearances.
Of course, someone was here. There was always someone here. Augustine wasn’t a man who often preferred solitude, but that familiar nervous energy, his urge to step outside and break into a run, was rising up in him again, and he resented the work he’d have to put in to maintain his composure in front of an audience today. “Ah, it’s quite alright, General,” for even half distracted he wouldn’t forget the list of names and faces he and Anne had so carefully practiced. He didn’t like to be caught unawares. “How are you faring?”
In the war film, a soldier can hold his buddy–as long as his buddy is dying on the battlefield. In the western, Butch Cassidy can wash the Sundance Kid’s naked flesh–as long as it is wounded. In the boxing film, a trainer can rub the well-developed torso and sinewy back of his protege–as long as it is bruised. In the crime film, a mob lieutenant can embrace his boss like a lover–as long as he is riddled with bullets. Violence makes the homoeroticism of many “male” genres invisible; it is a structural mechanism of plausible deniability.
Brintnall, Kent L.; Tarantino’s incarnational theology: Reservoir Dogs, crucifixions and spectacular violence (via ramsayosbolton)
one moment of much-needed reprieve from the madness was all clara had wanted — a corner of one’s own to breathe in peace. as a princess she was no stranger to the limelight, but as an individual, courtiers clamouring for her attention when her betrothed hadn’t even been able to entertain one civil conversation with her thus far only frazzled her nerves, making her wish for the ground to open and swallow her whole. it was beginning to dawn on her that perhaps, she wasn’t cut out for this. perhaps it would take far more than she’d realised to live with the disappointment seething in her veins. augustus’ words still rang in her ears, words she couldn’t seem to push aside no matter how hard she tried. the unmistakable look of sorrow written across tyr’s features crossed her mind next, thinking then of hagen and she wondered if they would all simply run out of time to speak of the unspeakable. she knew only then could they learn to live with their brother’s death, only then might they find a way to move forward — and still, clara felt almost outside herself, as if she was looking upon a shipwreck in half-time.
she pinched the bridge of her nose and pressed her eyes firmly shut, willing all this nonsense away for she had no room for it tonight. her gaze fluttered open once more and widened when a voice resonated, none other than the king of england himself. after the initial twinge of panic, the danish princess greeted him with a dazzling smile. “your majesty. are the festivities to your liking?”
He watched her expression shift, pinched nose turning into a brilliant smile, and raised a hand as if to stop her in her tracks. “Please, call me Augustine. We’re to be family, are we not?” It had been quite some time since he had attended an engagement party within his family. The last - had been his own, more than three decades ago now. He had been a different man entirely. Josephine had been a different woman. She had been ever at his side, blonde curls pulled from her face in a delicate little updo, and he had been glad to twirl her around the floor rather than chat with her nightmarish brothers. It was a surprisingly happy day. Now, they had uninvited Swedes and missing betrothed princes, and his smile was somewhat strained as he returned hers. “Certainly, but your opinion on them must matter more - it’s your night, after all.”
Lord above, what nonsense this all was. Your night. It wasn’t as if she was marrying for love. He remembered Anne’s betrothal celebration, his clever twin dazzling the crowds in the arms of an undeserving duke, looking so young and utterly gutted when none but him could see her. He shook his head slightly, settled his sharp gray eyes on her. “I should let you have a moment for yourself.”
maude bid her partner goodbye as she settled to the sidelines of the ballroom. she was rather fond of dancing so she was perfectly content to be waltzed around for the evening, even if it was exhausting. she knew not everyone was in good spirits tonight, but hopefully that would change. she inhaled and exhaled to catch her breath, her cheeks red and warm from exertion. maude settled besides someone and offered them a smile. “have you done much dancing tonight?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as Augustine glanced over at the Scottish princess and smiled in return; there had been plenty of dissatisfactions throughout the night, but the father-in-law to be must surely still be proud, no? He could not publicly behead the Swedes or any of the rumormongers who thought he could not hear them, so there was little to do but maintain appearances. “I fear I’m growing too old for dancing,” he replied, amused if only with himself. “Have you enjoyed it?”
it was a silly thought, given the privilege to live amid such splendour and pomp — intruding upon her mind as she looked at the throng with a polished smile. she would’ve liked sunshine. clara had never thirsted for power, much less desired a crown, though she possessed the steadfastness and integrity to wear one with aplomb. she didn’t expect to find love either (had caught hold of it once in the most unexpected circumstances and lost it; though she believed it made her a person far richer than most), hoped only for mutual respect. but if she was to leave denmark, she would’ve preferred to trade it for some place warm. for the opportunity to bask in the sun’s heat all year round, taste it in her food, watch her locks lighten yet under its gaze. indeed, it was a senseless wish, a request never uttered for it wouldn’t have made a difference. this was duty. duty to act as though a betrothal to a crown prince was a golden opportunity, a dream come true even. to pretend the notion wasn’t one of youthful foolishness, as if clara wasn’t entirely too jaded to buy into that.
marriage was the best way to cement alliances whether she was enthused by the prospect of marrying into england or not — and as a daughter of denmark, she would stand tall and show no signs of tumbling. the princess greeted guests, invited or otherwise, with an affable gleam in her blue eyes, only allowing fatigue to slump her shoulders when she found a moment of peace. clara stood by a window, a chalice of wine in her hands she’d nearly forgotten about as she stared into the distance.
This was Josephine’s crowning glory, not Augustine’s, though of course no alliance could be made without the King’s approval. He made his rounds, charmed and shook hands, ensured everyone was content with food and drink, and watched the Swedish interlopers with a gleam in his eye that could only be called dangerous - but today was Josephine’s day in the sun, and he let it be so, let her run the show. She needed him for very little. His eldest sons did, too - grown, ready to start families of their own. Though all three had been old enough for marriage for years now, tonight was the night it sunk in. It was a good thing. It was a good thing. Besides, Peter was still safely at home, at his side for most of the party. They weren’t all gone yet. But he drew away from cheery conversation with his youngest, making for a moments peace at the windows. Wished, as he always did, for a rainstorm.
His chest tightened as he realized that he was far too close to back away now, and that the person who’d beaten him to the view was not dismissable company, not tonight. Another future daughter in law. One of the foreign ones he kept getting mixed up. But she was older, had a shade to her eyes that reminded him of her brother, the King - the Dane. Clara. He cleared his throat lightly, regretful of disturbing her. “Princess.”
& in the end, isn’t that what we all want?
To not feel so split?
To carry an image of ourselves
inside ourselves & know exactly what we mean
when we say I—
I—
Cameron Awkward-Rich, excerpt of “The Child Formerly Known As—”, in Transit
(via antigonick)
“I’ll add it to my list, then.” They unintentionally mimic, nodding. Perhaps it’s the hour, or the solitude, the way this almost feels less like speaking to the king and more like speaking to their father. Maybe it has to do with cracking under the weight of everything they have not spoken to this point. For whatever reason, it slips. A flash of vulnerability. “I– we won’t lose another. It will be fine this time.” They correct their mistake quickly, shaking it off. They couldn’t guarantee it, but that wouldn’t stop them.
He paused. England had lost much, in recent years. To plague, to flooding. But this sounded...personal, and he could not think of a loss in the household he knew of that would strike such a chord. John’s loss was his grief, his and Anne’s, but that was one thing, and this seemed another. “You won’t lose another?” he asked, voice quiet, utterly careful in the lack of force behind it, attempting to offer rather than pry. “Auggie...” And for once, he did not flinch when he said their name, did not allow it.
It was quiet around the castle, but there were enough whispers around for Amitis to have plenty to do. People loved to talk when they thought no one was listening. She’d never blend in, but when she spoke, people heard strange words in a strange voice. So some felt they could talk more freely. Things outside were anything but quiet, “I’ve heard things from the servants… outside these walls there is apparently an abundance of rumors.” @1642hqzstarters
They watched the other monarch carefully, wary as they always were, these days. “Of plague or of assassins?” they wondered, unsure which was truly worse. Assassins, at least, they were well versed in surviving. Danger lurked around every corner. Danger that could be beheaded. Plague, though, had little such weakness. They had lost much to it. They all had.
THE ITALIAN princess was sitting on the window closed, with a dish of cookies on her lap, and drinking wine. Small things makes her happy, like watching the snow falling outside, the weather wasn’t good to stay on the gardens, at least not today. God, she was bored again. Normally, when she is bored she’d play some instruments or read, but she does not feel like doing neither of these things. She noticed a presence near her so… ❛ Do you want some cookies?! ❜ The Italian princess was timid, so her face automatically blushed for interact with anyone who isn’t her family, but she was making effort to be less ’anti-social’.
location: inside of the palace | @1642hqzstarters
Augustine pondered the snow as he left yet another meeting solidifying the betrothals Josephine had relentlessly worked to secure for their children, wondering if it was worth going out into. It wasn’t one of his beloved rainstorms, but it was close as he was likely to get here. He paused, though, to see one of the subjects of that very meeting - it took him a moment to place which one. John’s bride to be, wasn’t she? Italian. Martina. “If you don’t mind sharing,” he said with a small, surprised smile. Best to be friendly to future family.
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