june twenty seventh


Death of Elizabeth Woodville

Elizabeth died at Bermondsey Abbey nearly two months after making her will, on Friday 8 June 1492. Her body was conveyed by boat to Windsor on Whit Sunday, 10 June, the twenty-seventh anniversary of her coronation, accompanied by Prior Ingilby, Dr Brent, Edward Haute, her second cousin, and two gentlewomen, one of them her husband’s illegitimate daughter, Grace. The wooden coffin was taken ‘prevely’ (privately or secretly) from the Thames to the Castle and was received there at eleven at night by a single priest and a clerk. There was no ringing of bells nor formal reception by the dean and canons of St George’s Chapel, and she seems to have been interred almost immediately without any form of ceremony. The Marquess of Dorset, his half-sisters Anne, Catherine and Bridget, Edmund de la Pole (the slain Earl of Lincoln’s brother) and other relatives reached Windsor on Tuesday, and that evening the Bishop of Rochester conducted the services of dirige and requiem mass. The Queen was prevented from attending by her impending confinement; but the King, and the other senior peers and churchmen were all conspicuous by their absence, and one of the heralds present was shocked by the general modesty of the proceedings. His comment that ‘ther was nothyng doon solemply for her savyng a low herse suche as they use for the comyn peple with iiij wooden candilstikks abowte hit’ and that there was ‘ther never a new torche, but old torches, nor poure man in blacke gowne nor hoods, but upon a dozeyn dyvers olde men holdyng old torches and torches endes’ requires no elaboration, and it is unclear why the Dean of Windsor, who was present, played no part in the services himself. It is sometimes suggested that Elizabeth had requested a simple and inexpensive funeral out of a deep sense of piety and that was accordingly what she was given: but she would have been aware that a deceased’s estate normally bore these expenses, and that queenly obsequies were beyond her means. Elizabeth may have thought of piety in terms of poverty, although few great noblewomen would have chosen austerity or thought money and their faith incompatible. Margaret Beaufort, who was as pious as she was powerful, used her great wealth to found chantries and university colleges and to support numerous religious ‘good causes’, and when she died in June 1509 her total assets, in plate, jewels and rich materials still amounted to £14,724.61 Her elaborate funeral, which cost £1,021, was a far cry from Elizabeth’s impoverished burial when, it seems, Dorset paid the 40s in alms which was distributed after mass out of his own pocket.62 Requests for a modest funeral were a mark of humility, largely ignored by contemporaries who felt that the deceased should be buried in accordance with his or her rank in society, and it is difficult to believe that she who had once been Queen of England had insisted upon this dismal and unqueenly ending. Be that as it may, in the course of her life Elizabeth had mourned the deaths of all five of her brothers, all but one of her seven sisters, four of her five sons and two of her daughters, and she may have felt that there was little to detain her in this world when her own time came.

- David Baldwin. „Elizabeth Woodville: Mother of the Princes in the Tower”.

the world bows to you;

(feat. Dazai Osamu and others)

note: random inspiration from listening to “sad pain” and discussing bsd with a friend. please let me know what you think about this!

He dreams.

“I remember dying,” Odasaku says, sometimes. The sheets crinkle under the heels of his bare feet as he shifts, the blanket folded neatly against the wall. The lamplight is low and he’s dressed in the same clothes he had worn on the fifteenth of January and he’s sitting in the same way he had been on the twenty-first of March.

Do you really? Dazai wants to ask. Do you remember the bullet piercing your heart? Do you remember how I held you and how you insisted I let you go?

But he never does.

Odasaku’s gaze locks with his, eyes flashing with unreadable emotion as if he’s pleading for Dazai to understand. 

“I remember dying,” he says again. He repeats himself like there’s a point he’s trying to make but refuses to put it into words, just as he had done on the fourth of August.

There are many things that Dazai never does. Understanding Odasaku is one of them.

“I remember dying,” Chuuya tells him, once. There’s a wine glass next to him on the bar the two once frequented after missions, and when he looks he can see the familiar chipped tooth as his former partner speaks. His gloves aren’t one - it must be before the twelfth of December, and the pair of shoes he’s wearing are from February.

You never died, Dazai wants to insist. You’ll never die, not if I don’t let you. You’re my partner. An extension of my own body.

He doesn’t know if he ever said it, but Chuuya knows anyway. It’s in the way that Chuuya’s lower lip curls with distaste when he lifts the glass of wine, in the way that he angles his body sharply away from Dazai, refusing to look at him while he speaks.

Instead, Dazai asks, “What did I do?”

The unspoken words - this time - lies between them. 

“Nothing you should have,” is all Chuuya says. In one motion, he downs the entire glass. “I hope you swallow hot coals.”

Dazai doesn’t know what he means, maybe for the first time.

“I remember dying,” Akutagawa begins, but he cuts himself off and continues to stare at his mentor with those bottomless eyes. Hate rises up in those three words like they did on the seventeenth of April, and his fingers are curled into a tight fist like he’s entertaining the idea of strangling Dazai. He’s dangerous, the Silent Rabid Dog of the Port Mafia, but Dazai laughs in his face.

Do you, really? Dazai wants to mock. How was it? Were your insides ripped from your body? Were you stuffed into a coffin and buried alive and left to suffocate? 

He doesn’t have to say it, because Akutagawa has always known how Dazai sees him but still he chases after simple words that he will never receive.

Akutagawa is predictable and self-destructive. Dazai has told him time and time again, but he never changes. It’s become a pointless task, to shape him into anything but a tool, but perhaps that is all he is meant to be.

“I saw you,” Akutagawa continues.

Of course you did, Dazai scoffs. He doesn’t speak, only pushes the chair he’s sitting on away from the table and stands, with the intentions of walking off and forgetting about this encounter.

But Akutagawa stands as well, and he grabs onto his mentor’s wrist.

For once, there’s something about him that catches Dazai off-guard.

“You would burn the world down,” Akutagawa says. “And I don’t know if you would rebuild it.”

“I remember dying,” Atsushi says, sometimes. His clothes are wrinkled in the way it always is, at the collar and on the left side of his waist, and he’s lounging on Dazai’s chair. He’s never done that before, not on the sixteenth of June or on the twenty-seventh day of November or on the thirty-first of February, and it leaves Dazai unsettled in more ways than one.

You can’t, Dazai wants to shout, grabbing the boy’s shoulders and shaking him. You’ve never died. You can’t.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but Atsushi means something to him. It’s the fact that maybe, for the first time in his life, he’s doing something right. It’s the fact that Odasaku’s asked something from him and he wants to be able to deliver when he’s failed so many times before.

“What do you mean?” Dazai asks instead. He steps forward, advancing cautiously because the office is empty and it’s never been this way in the middle of a summer day.

Atsushi tilts his head, a motion purely catlike. “You watched me die. You let me die. What are you talking about?”

No, Dazai wants to say. I’d never let you die.

But he doesn’t.

He never does, because Atsushi’s spinning the chair and turning his back to his mentor and speaking.

“They were right about you.”

Dazai doesn’t know if the world is collapsing around him or if he’s the one who orchestrated it all, in some long ago night where he set unstoppable plans in motion.

He dreams, and the world falls because of him.

June 27th: the birthday of protective conviction.

People born on June 27th tend to be watchful, diligent, and very capable of defending themselves and their interests from attack. They are competent, driven, and persuasive, and those who dare to criticize or argue with their convictions may find themselves out of their depth.