eilonwyhasemu: Image of pre-Raphaelite woman with dark hair. (Default)
Before I completely forget... there's a third and final suitor to get married to Queen Eadlyn of Kiera Cass' Selection series! (Part 2 is here.) While the three chapters were originally inspired by the song "Nobody" from Nick Fradiani's album Hurricane, this chapter really calls for the new video for "Love Is Blind" from the same album. Check out why (and then flee spoilers if you haven't finished the series!).

It’s just like Mom to hug me before Jarvis helps me into my suit jacket, so she won’t rumple it.

Dad watches with his hands in his pockets. “Your mother and I are proud of you, Eikko,” he says in Finnish.

“Not as proud as I am of you.”

My parents had been blindsided by my sudden ascent from Henri’s translator to future prince-consort of Illéa.

Mom initially handled it best: before her new maids had her things unpacked at the palace, she was sitting at the piano in the Women’s Room, having a passionate discussion of music with Eadlyn’s mother, conducted mostly in gestures and arpeggios. When Eadlyn’s grandmother Singer arrived, Mom made a new best friend, though even I couldn’t understand their mix of Finnish, English, Spanish—how did Mom even know Spanish?—and something that might have been Yiddish.

Dad’s meeting with Eadlyn’s father reportedly contained more silences than words, but his ice broke when Princess Gunilla of Swendway arrived with the foreign entourages. Gunilla de Monpezat turns out to be the professor behind a theory absolutely opposite to Dad’s views on WWIII, so she swept Dad up in a vast sequined embrace and hauled him into the nearest library.

Read more... )
eilonwyhasemu: Image of pre-Raphaelite woman with dark hair. (Default)
I'm at the slow part of a holiday afternoon, so let's spend a couple minutes with incredibly cheerful EDM musician Mikey Wax. I know him from a delightful single that we'll get to last, so I didn't know he released a song celebrating marriage equality, "Love Always Wins." SInce it's EDM, you can simultaneously dance and cry happy tears.

The song I know him for is his most recent single, "Helium," which is just ebullient.
When it's late at night, when you're all alone, I'll lift you up, I could be your helium.

eilonwyhasemu: Image of pre-Raphaelite woman with dark hair. (Default)
 These are the darkest “blondies” you’re likely to encounter, thanks to tea, brown sugar, and chocolate chips! Thanks to coriander, ginger, and lemon zest, these also have a nice zing amidst all the sweet. Recipe below…

Preheat oven to 350. Grease your 8x8 pan. (I ran out of cooking spray, which is why things are a little craggy.)

Cream together:

¼ cup room-temperature butter
¼ cup olive oil 
½ cup brown sugar
¼ cup white sugar

Beat in:

1 egg
1-1/2 tsp powdered tea mix (not lemon-flavored)
½ tsp vanilla extract
1-½ tsp coriander
¼ tsp ginger
zest of 1 small lemon
1-½ tsp baking soda
pinch salt

Mix in 1 cup flour until thoroughly blended, then ½ cup milk chocolate chips.

Bake about 15 minutes, or until edges pull away from pan.

Feed to someone you love while playing “Love Is Blind” for them.

eilonwyhasemu: Image of pre-Raphaelite woman with dark hair. (Default)
Part 2 of wedding fluff based on Kiera Cass' Selection series, featuring three possible choices for Eadlyn Schreave. Inspired by the song "Nobody" on Nick Fradiani's album Hurricane. Part 1 with a different suitor is here. To protect you from spoilers, we'll start with the song.

Chef’s coat in heavy white satin is uniform. Shoulders pull back as Prince Gustav of Swendway is straightening blue sash, my chest across.

 Pysykää paikoillasi, teidän korkeutenne,” whispers new valet, my hair brushing hard. Stay still, your highness.

 Familiar words comfort. Your highness is not familiar.

 Your highness is not yet. Another few hours, Henri Jaakoppi is all I am being.


 Pysymme yhdessä,” says Prince Gustav when I stumble over thanking him in limo. We stick together.Enter your cut contents here.

 Even in native language, speaking with princes is new. Valet, his gift is. Man-in-waiting, his gift is. Tutor, his gift is. People cannot be given, literally, but to me they would not come without his finding. Winning heart of Queen Eadlyn, I need one helper only. Being husband of Queen Eadlyn, I need army.

 Gratitude fills me. Tutor, valet, man, sunny day in Angeles, cheering crowds outside limo, beautiful bride—gifts overflow my heart. I only wish Eikko was here to be sharing.


 Bishop pausing, halfway across sanctuary, hand raised. Prince looks to me. “Pysytkö mukana?”

 I answer before thinking if he means I follow his feet or his words.


 Smile returns smile, almost always. I smile to parents in front row, each with translator, gift from Prince Gustav. I smile to Prince Ahren and Princess Camille of France, holding hands in other front row.

 I smile to Queen—no, Princess America, dabbing eyes, her son beside. She smiles but still is crying. “Pysytte lujana,” I want to say. Be strong. Joy gives strength but also demands it.

 In days since Queen Eadlyn proposed, my heart is swelling with joy, and my head sometimes is bursting. Names of royalty, easy. Major products of provinces of Illéa, not too hard. Stand for fittings, easy and boring. History of Illéa, not so easy, much excitement. Politics of Illéa, more difficult, with many words meaning almost same thing, but not quite.

 Kissing Eadlyn, easy as easy, yet making knees tremble and head swim.


 Music always I know: Ode to Joy of Beethoven. Words are different but I hear more than I speak. Blue sky, green grass, all birds and creatures sing with joy to heaven.

 Cathedral doors open and little at end of aisle is Josie Woodwork, sister of Sir Kile, in blue. Solemn she is, starting. Lady Brice, wearing red, follows, then Eadlyn’s lady-in-waiting Neena, yellow dress glowing, her dark skin against. Josie skips, a hip-hop from one foot to another. Pysy tahdissa, I think to her. Keep the beat. Yet her joy I would not slow.

 When all three ladies on steps like Swendway flag, music is silent. So long silent, I count in heartbeats.

 Eadlyn comes.

 White she wears, like maiden, hands overflowing with daisies of Swendway. Father-prince in uniform, I barely see until he is putting Eadlyn’s hand in mine, for my bride is lovely as dawn and creation rejoices with trumpets as her eyes meet mine through lace veil.


 Rising and kneeling, I follow touches on my elbow from Prince Gustav. Too distracting to translate every word, we decided, Eadlyn and I and bishop’s secretary. I do not wish guests to lose joy in forest of unknown words. There are many words—more than in my village, but in my village, church has no gold, no paintings, no statues.

 Bible I know in Finnish. In Finnish, I help choose words read. Jos minä ihmisten ja enkelein kielillä puhuisin, ja ei minulla olisi rakkautta, niin minä olisin kuin helisevä vaski tai kilisevä kulkuinen.

 If I with tongues of men or angels speak, but I do not have love, so I would become like sounding brass or clanging cymbal.


 The words I must say, Eadlyn’s hand resting with trust in mine, I have in memory and in practice.

 “I, Henri Noel, take you, Eadlyn Helena Margarethe, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

 Veil-behind, her eyes are bright like stars.

 “I, Eadlyn Helena Margarethe, vie Henri Noel on mieheni. Lupaan olla totta sinulle hyvinä aikoina ja huonoina, ja sairauden terveys. Minä rakastan sinua ja kunnioittaa te kaikki elämäni päivinä.”

 Grammar limps like mine in English, vowels are hard not liquid, but I hear voice of angel.


 Pysyä polvillaan,” Eadlyn my wife whispers as she rises from where we kneel together.

 Bishop speaks. “Are you, Henri Jaakoppi de Schreave, willing to take this oath?”


 “Do you vow to uphold the laws and honor of Illéa, at home and abroad, with justice and mercy, in accordance with the will of our queen and the people?”

 What I know of Illéa is so little. Principal products of Midston are natural gas, goats, and cotton. Best maple syrup comes from Hudson. Legal age of adulthood is sixteen. Gregory Illéa funded revolution against Chinese occupation. Good King Maxon abolished castes and gave all education. Queen Eadlyn’s birthday is April sixteenth. Million facts crowd my brain, ten million still to learn.

 First time I am driven through streets of Angeles, people threw fruit at Eadlyn and usack.ect. They smile at me when I smile at thempalm trees, her. Lace falls, her face across. Her . Later is better. I see palm trees and sycamores, shiny towers and pink houses. In market, so much fruit, so many people at work. I smile at them and they smile back.

 “Promise to raise laws, I do not know them.” My words come out wrong, yet they are right. “All I promise, I have in my heart, to love Illéa’s people as I love their queen.”

 Eadlyn takes crown from bishop’s hands and sets it on my head.


 Crown sits heavy by end of photos. Cheeks ache from smiling, yet every time I look at Eadlyn, I smile.

 In limo, she rests head on my shoulder. “We’re married, Henri.”

 Torrent of words follows. I know one in three, but I feel in hands and heart what Eadlyn means. “Aion pysyä ikuisesti,” I say. I will stay with you forever.

eilonwyhasemu: Image of pre-Raphaelite woman with dark hair. (Default)
 Uh oh! It's a fic! This is the first of three weddings for Eadlyn Schreave of the Selection series (property of Kiera Cass), using three of her suitors from The Heir and The Crown. So it is (a) AU for at least two of the three and (b) SPOILERY if you have not finished The Crown. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK. It is inspired by the song "Nobody," from Nick Fradiani's album Hurricane, so let's do the song as a way of protecting y'all from spoilery text for a minute!


Chapter 1: How'd It Go From Just One Night?

“Come on, Kile, spill. What’s the medal for?” Samn Crane, my roommate from Fennley Advanced Technical College, folded his arms across his freshly starched uniform and smirked at our reflections in the huge gilt-framed mirror.

“Best kisser.” I shifted in my polished boots, to the annoyance of Tonzhir, who hadn’t quite finished arranging every strand of my hair to his satisfaction. “Wait’ll you see the one Eady gives me tomorrow.”

During Princess-now-Queen Eadlyn’s whirlwind Selection, I’d more-or-less gotten used to being fussed over and fancied up. Honestly, shaves and manicures and pomades aren’t so bad when they’re delivered by a team of professionals who treat Making Kile Woodwork Presentable as a tactical challenge comparable to inserting a spy in New Asia. It’s having my mother after me to tuck in my shirt that gets old.

“Why do we have to dress like Guards, anyway?” Samn’s own medal, half the size of mine, was basically for being my official best friend. I’d considered offering him hazard pay for it, too.

“It’s my job to guard her heart.”


Tradition was the answer I’d really been given. Tradition also said my soon-to-be-wife shouldn’t be beckoning me from a cracked-open door that belonged to the green parlor. She certainly shouldn’t be kissing me with her wedding dress on, though the way she had one hand tangled in my hair and the other pressed to the small of my back, I wasn’t likely to see the dress.

Kissing Eady only became more enticing with practice. That first kiss she’d bargained for, back during her Selection, had been as much a surprise to me as to her. The Royal Pain in the Ass wasn’t supposed to make my pulse pound or my hands want to hold her so tight that I could feel her own heartbeat in rhythm with mine.

I moved my lips to her bare shoulder, her neck, her ear lobe. Eady tasted like caramel, salt, and roses, and there was a spot just under her ear that was very ticklish.

Eady freed her hands and used them to give a little push against my chest. “Eloise took hours to get my hair like this.”

“Why are we here?”

“I wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing.” There was laughter in her voice, and her hazel eyes sparkled. She pushed back an artful curl while I wondered if Tonzhir would faint at the disarray that had been made of my head.


During the dull bits of services, I used to entertain myself by designing a modern cathedral. It would have soaring trusses of metal, set with glass so the sun traced the length of the aisle to the altar. The effect would be so much more awe-inspiring than frills and froufrou and fusty art from centuries ago.

As I followed the bishop from the robing room onto the stage—I mean, the sanctuary—frills and fust seemed plenty capable of knocking me over with awe. The painted vaults on either side of the central colonnade concentrated the murmur of conversation and the glitter of tiaras, until it seemed like every important person on the planet was packed in. My throat went dry and my palms went damp.

“What’s the medal for?” the bishop whispered.

“Climbing on the mountains and leaping on the hills.”

My mother, looking more like an older sister in a floaty gray dress, dabs at her eyes with a ribbon-trimmed handkerchief. Dad, the one dark spot in the front row, gives me a thumbs-up.


Once Lady Brice Mannor, Neena Hallensway, and my little sister Josie were lined up on the sanctuary steps—managing to look identical in lacy blue dresses despite being tiny and blonde, tall and dark, and a grinning bundle of look this was all my idea, respectively—the bouncy Bach bubbled into silence.

Tall inlaid doors at the far end of the cathedral swung open as if pushed by the trumpets’ blare, revealing Queen Eadlyn of Illéa, flanked by her parents.

She shone like a star, from the jewels in her ceremonial crown to the gold and diamond swirls of her dress. Eady outshone King-now-Prince Maxon in his Guards uniform, his chest covered with medals he’d earned. Next to her, Princess America was a shadow in deep red embroidered in silver.

As Eady progressed up the center colonnade to the tum-dum-de-dum of the organ, her dazzling figure wasn’t lost in the fuss and fust: she focused it, made it coalesce around her, as if she were a shooting star, sweeping everything in her wake like the thirty-foot cascade of her veil.

Then she was looking up at me with wide hazel eyes. As I clasped her hand and led her to stand in front of the bishop, she felt like a stranger—not even the Royal Pain in the Ass, but a woman I’d somehow missed growing up with.


“Into this holy union, Eadlyn Helena Margarete and Kile Ludwig now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

My shoulders tensed against the sudden certainty that one of Eady’s rejected Selected would jump to his feet, waving a hand, and insist that Eady had promised to marry him.

When silence stretched and stretched instead, my fear dissolved into inappropriate giggles. I brought a hand up to cover my mouth, but Eady caught the virus anyway. Before I knew what had happened, we were forehead to forehead, choking on laughter, Eady’s giant cascade of calla lilies weighting down my shoulder as she leaned on me.


My turn came first. “I, Kile. . . Ludwig. . .” don’t forget your middle name, Kile. . . “take you, Eadlyn Marga. . . Eadlyn Helena Margarete, to be my wife.” I’m getting married. I’m marrying the Royal Brat. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death.”

With each phrase, I gave her hand a squeeze, as if that could steady me. “This is my solemn vow.”

Then it was her turn. Eady didn’t stumble over my middle name, much less her own. The only signs that she wasn’t delivering a declaration in her usual clear, carrying tones were the gentle squeezes of my hand and the way she never looked away from me.


We knelt for a blessing. This had to be hard on white Guard pants. Then I stayed kneeling while Eady stood. She and the bishop raised above my head a crown—simpler than the one she wore.

“Are you, Kile Shreave, willing to take this oath?” We’d agreed that I’d take Eady’s family name: Woodwork just didn’t sound royal.

“I am.”

“Do you vow to uphold the laws and honor of Illéa all the days of your life, at home and abroad, with justice and mercy, in accordance with the will of our queen, Eadlyn?”

“I do.” My throat was dry again.

The crown was lowered onto my head, settling tight across the forehead. Then I was standing, exchanging with Eadlyn our most chaste kiss since she was four years old. The bishop turned us toward the crowd.

I had no idea so many eyes existed. I’m married to Eady. I’m married. Really married. The sparkling people were chanting words that slowly coalesced in my ears as God save Queen Eadlyn and Prince Kile.


“What’s the medal for?” General Leger asked as we bumped elbows beside a tray of tiny pastries that glittered like jewels.

“Courage under the fire of Eady’s temper.”

He clapped my shoulder and went to retrieve Miss Lucy from where Prince Ahren was putting her through the paces of a country dance. In the past five hours, I’d stood for endless photos, shaken endless hands, eaten barely ten bites of dinner, fed Eady a slice of wedding cake with the right amount of playfulness to make her giggle but not so much that I smudged her make-up, then danced with Eady, Princess America, Mom, Princess Camille of France, my own sister Josie, Lady Brice Mannor, Eady’s lady-in-waiting Neena, and sixteen foreign dignitaries.

Josie was now deep in conversation with Prince Kaden, which probably meant I’d better check the nuptial bed for frogs, confetti, squeaking toys, and people hiding underneath. My school friend Samn was on his third dance with the elegant daughter of one of the women from Mom’s and Princess America’s Selection.

Prince Ahren, in the blue-and-buff uniform of France, offered me a glass of champagne. “What’s the medal for?”

“Combat wounds sustained on the dance floor.”

“I could have told you not to waltz with Princess Clothilde.”

“But you didn’t.” We leaned against the wall, screened by a potted palm, and watched Eady—my wife—dance with one of her councilors.

“I’m glad Camille and I skipped all this fuss.”

“Eady suggested eloping only twice during the planning.”

“Third time, you would have accepted?” His raised eyebrow and half-smile gave him a sudden resemblance to Eady—to my wife—that usually was lost in his paler coloring.

“Damn straight.” I folded my arms over my chest, then unfolded them. “What’s it like, being Prince-Consort?”

Ahren shrugged. “Lots of paperwork, lots of listening, lots of knowing what meetings to skip and when it’s better to lurk quietly in the background. So business as usual, but in French.”

“How much time do you get for your own. . . stuff?”

“I’m writing a thriller based on the life of Camille’s grandmother.” Ahren sipped his champagne. “I never had that much stuff, though. I was trained to be someone’s royal husband. It was just a question of whose. I could be writing about Princess Angelica’s grandfather or Princess Clothilde’s step-great-uncle.”

“What did Princess Clothilde’s step-great-uncle do?”

“No idea.” My new brother-in-law shifted from foot to foot. “I’d hoped publicity from Eady’s Selection would launch your career. Not that it isn’t great to keep you as a member of the family, because it is. But don’t let this stop you from doing what you want to do. I mean it.”





eilonwyhasemu: Image of pre-Raphaelite woman with dark hair. (Default)
 For over a year, I’ve been intermittently obsessed with the painting in the background of this photo (from 19′s Kristin Collin) from when Nick Fradiani's video for “Get You Home” was shot. 

It’s a cheeky twist on the “sweetheart sipping” trope, which usually involves sharing an ice cream soda. But this painting is at Virgin Hotels Chicago, where everything is required to be cheeky. That’s… not a complaint. I sort of want to live there (in a pet-friendly room, of course).

The painting is called “Love Drug,” and the artist is Nina Palomba. In an interview on the Virgin Hotels site, she talks about creating art… let’s see…

1. She’s from Wyoming.

2. Yes, she does a lot of “street art,” but it’s not graffiti because the property owners want it there. (But she does paint with spray cans!)

3. The Virgin Hotels paintings are about “asking someone you’re swooning over on a date.” This is so cute and very much in line with the Virgin Hotels’ ethic that its dining, drinking, and hanging-out spots are supposed to be a (cheeky) fantasy about having the best date ever.

4. She listens to pop music while she paints. She mentions the Spice Girls, so I think we’ve got to include the song that Nick has mentioned in an interview as a guilty pleasure. <=things I know off the top of my head


Well, not literally waiting, since it was released in the spring of 2016. But waiting for me to get around to including it in the post. First, check out Nina Palomba’s Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/theninapalomba/

Now… the “Get You Home” video, shot entirely at Virgin Hotels Chicago, so you get tons of glorious hotel design (this place is chic, as well as cheeky – did I mention that I want to live there?). If you’re off-put by a teeny bit of Nick’s bare shoulders or the gorgeous Michelle Hicks in lingerie, this is not-safe for you (and if you’re looking for Nick-flesh than a flash of bare shoulders… just follow his IG, as sometimes he swims, that’s all I got for ya).


This is a re-post from one of my Tumblr blogs.

eilonwyhasemu: Image of pre-Raphaelite woman with dark hair. (Default)

As I am, at this moment, crazy in love with Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness’ “So Close,” so as part of the New Music Friday thing of giving some space to acts that are associated with Nick Fradiani in some vaguely plausible way… look, AMcMitW discovered himself to me when he played the Big Summer Show in Modesto, California, in June/July 2015, on the same bill as Nick. <=things I know off the top of my head

Three big reasons I adore this song:

1. The airplane metaphor. The VISUALS of just the first verse are awesomely bizarre and striking, and then it sticks around for the “so close to taking off, so close to going nowhere.”

2. The angsty electronic dance track. I love this kind of thing with Yaz and Erasure and the lighter Depeche Mode and Pet Shop Boys and basically everybody who was moody yet danceable in the late 1980s, especially if Vince Clark was involved. Pure anguish – yet with a beat you can dance to. Oh yes.

3. The wordplay, which was tantalizing enough that I had to look up the proper Greek scheme that applies to the bits I like. There are two, and I lucked into both being in the A’s. Anadiplosis is the repetition of “so close” at the end of the phrase “we were so close,” followed by the beginning of the phrase “so close to taking off.” Antanaclasis is using “so close” to imply emotional closeness, then using the slightly different sense that means “almost happened” or “so proximate in time.”

Antanaclasis (repetition of a word but with different meanings) is a big thing I like about Nick’s “All on You,” where the meaning of the key phrase shifts from “all your fault” to “all over you.” Here we go, and then I’ll chatter a little more about Andrew McMahon.

Anyway, the Modesto show – and a whole bunch where McMahon was on the same bill with Nick, to the point that I really wanted them to tour together – was in the era of “Cecilia and the Satellite,” which came off an album I liked immensely. My favorite song seems to be “High Dive,” which is just the essence of a certain kind of California autumn night, both for the imagery and the lovely distant wistfulness of the vocals on “headlights in the driveway.”


The essential Californiosity may be the line about “going 80 in a 45.” But I’d still argue that “headlights in the driveway” is vocally at the temperature of a warm September night when the leaves on the trees haven’t quite turned yet. “Dancing to someone else’s song” is arguably the saddest summary of a non-attainable or no-longer-attainable person from a musician’s POV.

Anyway, I was looking for video from that Modesto show (there never was much for the early acts, IIRC) and came across this curiosity from way back in 2009, when Andrew McMahon and Matt Nathanson got the urge to cover Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire” as a duet, with smoky vocals and inexorable piano.

I suppose if we’re going to be fair, I’ve gotta include Nick’s Springsteen cover, “Because the Night.” Unfortunately, I can’t find the really excellent, intense version from the 2016 Guilford Fair (if anybody ever gets the notion of selling soundboard recordings from full-band shows, I am so “there” that I’m drawing the damn map), so we’ll have to settle for the less-developed but still pretty compelling American Idol performance… as a video of someone’s TV. We’re rockin’ it low-fi here.

This is a repost from one of my Tumblr blogs.

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