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Over Goldengrove unleaving

FOR ALL Flesh

↳ Episodes: Prime number Crew (1x04)

"I'chiliad not trying to exist some goddamn office model for women! I'm merely a pilot!"

"No. Y'all're an astronaut."

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Seated Woman Dressed in Black, 1893, Edouard Vuillard

Medium: oil,board

We take our Bridgerton watchparty outfits ready. Which one would you lot wear to promenade?

"Adult female'south Dress," around 1805–10, England

"Woman'southward Riding Ensemble," around 1820, U.s.a.

"Fan," effectually 1805, France

Which alters when it alteration finds

Originally posted by ladybeniko

IIX. "Let me make this good for you," Anna said, sprinkling in herbs and petals, her cheeks as red as the roses she'd stripped to their stems. Her hair was curling madly in the steamy air and if Kristoff's dorsum hadn't ached so much from the day of demonstrating ice-harvesting to the delegation from Montebianco, he'd had taken her into his arms and kissed her with no uncertain intent. It seemed, however, that his relatively brief tenure as the Lord of Tyholmen, Queen Anna's husband, had softened him up so that what would have been some unremarkable hours of work had nearly forced him into bed-rest; he'd argued with the palace doctor that a hot bath would set him to rights and now he had to hope he hadn't been lying. Or incorrect.

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Evening Gown

Jacques Doucet, 1890s

The Mint Museum

politicalmamaduck asked:

75. "Hope me only one matter…" for Darklina? Sending lots of dearest and hugs your style!

qqueenofhades answered:

75. "Hope me only one thing…"

The swell Basilica of the Saints is huge, echoing, and crammed with thousands of people that Alina has never met before in her life: diplomatic delegations from Fjerda, Kerch, and the Shu Han, the serried ranks of the Ravkan nobility, the Grisha in their formal keftas, Commencement Regular army in dress uniform, and everyone else who has traveled to Os Alta in order to see this happen, and craft their new plans and cunning political stratagems accordingly. Information technology's all on this. All on her.

Alina stands by herself in the vestry, her veil obscuring her face up, her first-class white-and-gold gown glittering with painstakingly handmade embroidery. Her heart rattles like a cleaved dish in her breast, and her hands tremble where they clutch the bouquet. Genya stands backside her, silently belongings the heavy rim of her railroad train. She has kept her opinion of this to a tactful minimum, but Alina knows that she, to say the to the lowest degree, has reservations. All of them practice. But if this is the only manner – if she tin end the war and bring back peace and peradventure reach the idealistic, good-hearted male child that the terrifying man used to be –

She can hear the patriarch praying the nuptial liturgy, hands upraised to the gilt eyes of the icons that gaze down from all sides of the dome. Then the real eyes of the crowd plough to her like a thousand candles, burning into her more brightly than her own sun, and Alina quails. For a moment, she nearly breaks. Almost throws downwards the flowers and turns and runs. Doesn't want to exercise this at all. Can't. Can't.

But she does.

Slowly and regally, she moves out of the shadows, as Genya gets a better grip on her train and matches Alina'south measured, advisedly rehearsed steps down the alley. The ii of them walk what seems an endless length, a mile, downwardly the nave, past all the watching optics and the wary guests, waiting to encounter if this is, in fact, a new era or but the great and terrible culmination of the erstwhile. The patriarch glitters in his tall hat and ceremonial stole. And at the chantry, waiting –

Aleksander looks very handsome, of grade. He always does, and even at present, later all they have been through, it's still enough to turn Alina a lilliputian weak in the knees. For once he'south shed his trademark blacks, and his bridegroom's clothes are as white as hers. It's a lie, Alina thinks. Information technology's a lie, merely I take to make it true. Somehow.

She reaches the foot of the altar. This is her last chance to abscond, if she'southward going to. But she doesn't. This is her duty, her choice, and she's fabricated it. She mounts the steps, careful not to trip on her beaded hem, and reaches the waiting men. Aleksander holds out a hand to assist her, and Alina braces herself non to flinch at his impact. Whether from fearfulness, desire, or both, she doesn't know.

"You look lovely," Aleksander says nether his jiff, equally if he's truly seeking to put her at ease. "Truly."

"I… thank you. Sir." The formality helps her, a petty. But Alina screws upward her courage, looks him in the eye, and swallows difficult. "Aleksander," she corrects herself. "Hope me only 1 matter."

His optics hold hers, unblinking. "Of course."

"Please," Alina whispers, then quietly that she can barely hear herself. "Please don't betray me again."

The almighty Darkling flinches, but a piffling. His hand squeezes hers, holding her tight, drawing her in and turning her to face the patriarch, who raises his psalter and prepares to begin the ceremony. "I'm lamentable," he says, not looking at her. "I know I've hurt you before, and I can't hope that I won't practice information technology once more, fifty-fifty by accident. But y'all have my word, Alina. I'll…. I will attempt my all-time."

That might non be the respond she wants, but Alina tin grudgingly respect the fact that at least, this fourth dimension, he won't lie to her. That's not much to build on, non nearly what they used to be, merely it's a start, and she is adamant to seize it. Then, as the voices of the choir swell toward the sky, the congregation sits with a whisper and a murmur and a scrape of chairs, she draws a deep breath, tells herself to be brave, be brave, and turns to marry Aleksander Morozov.

[fic prompts]

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