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redfiona99Title: The Oak and the Mistletoe
Author: Red Fiona
Fandom: RDJ Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, Conan Doyle's estate do. Warner Brothers own this version, I think. No money is being made from this.
Characters/Pairing: Lord Coward / Lord Blackwood
Rating: PG-13
Notes/Warnings: Set pre-film. Contains historical attitude to homosexuality, religious themes, and is very much villain fic.
Summary: This is the one part of their lives that ritual does not touch.
~~~~
This is the one part of their lives that ritual does not touch.
Here they are humans, not ministers or devils. This is real, not the make-believe and pretence they spend their lives wrapped in.
Much like Blackwood, Coward was born into the Order. He wonders, quite frequently, whether he would have been the same as the others, following the Order in the sheep like way the general public follow the Church of England if he hadn't had Blackwood as his friend. For most of them, that's all it is, C of E while feeling superior. He wonders if the original leaders of the Order had deliberately structured it to be quite so hierarchical to ensure their own power, because that was the trick to it, every level peering down with superiority at the lower levels. It's no closer to truth than the Church of England, or any other church, not that you'd know it from how the Order held itself.
Coward admits his faults, he's a creature of the society that created him and he thinks he'd be just like them if not for Blackwood.
So much of his life has been surrounded by a chorus of "youngest this" and "youngest that" that people forget he is only a few years younger than Blackwood, and he's often strode comfortably in the footprints Blackwood left behind.
The Order held that in being born Blackwood had killed his mother, a portent of things to come. Science, and Coward tended to its views, held that it was probably bacterial infection from unsanitary conditions.
Coward had come more quietly into the world. Both his parents were high ranking in the order, not "powerful" as Sir Thomas would have it, but having those remarkable powers of money and breeding that did a man good.
In his early years, Sir Thomas kept Blackwood around him, excusing him as some distant cousin's orphaned child which was how Coward came to know him. They played together, not often, because what eight-year-old was interested in playing with the three-year-old that followed him around, but when the adults made all the children play together, he did, and so he at least recognised Coward.
They gravitated closer as they got older. The children began to pick up on their parents's attitudes, and everyone held that Blackwood was bad in some way. He was never shunned as such, but he definitely wasn't one of them. Coward, meanwhile, was seen as an incorrigible swot - intelligent, yes, but too desiring of praise and attention, and a damn poor cricketer, his small frame exempting his equally appalling rugby from quite the same criticism.
Plato did not follow Socrates more closely than young Coward followed Blackwood.
He was the first person that Blackwood spoke to about his philosophy. Blackwood was devious and careful, even at that age. He threw out a few minor blasphemies at first, to test whether Coward would live up to his name and go telling tales to the adults. When Coward didn't, Blackwood threw out a few more, in case Coward was more developed than most ten-year-olds and was playing a very long game. When he'd passed even that time, then Blackwood revealed his deeper thoughts.
At the time, Coward kept a daybook, his illustrated notes because he was that sort of child. It was habit as much as anything by that point. He'd taken notes, because it's what he did. At first, he'd carried on automatically, and then with growing horror, because why couldn't he stop himself from taking notes when this would damn Blackwood if anyone ever found it and he wanted nothing in the world less than that.
He'd handed the book over to Blackwood, a sacrificial offering for the fire. "Take it, burn it."
"Not the whole thing! You only took a couple of pages's notes." Blackwood was obscurely loathe to take so much from Coward. He knew how much effort the other boy put into his work, some misbegotten variant of illuminated manuscripts - if Blackwood, illegitimate disbeliever that he was, was the man of the future, Coward, with his ancestors and his pastimes, was of the past in a way their fathers, stuck in their era, could never be. Future and past, they'd bend the world to their will and make it better.
"If it keeps you safer."
Blackwood checked the pages. The thick paper, excellent quality, was immaculate on the other side, no ink had seeped through. Coward's broad penmanship, carefully measured, had dried before he'd laid another page on top of it, so no words had blotted onto the page before this section. No danger beyond the four pages he'd written.
"I cast into the fire only that which needs to be cast." Even at fifteen, Blackwood had a flair for the dramatic, and tore out the offending pages with one tug, launching them over his shoulder into the flames.
Something was settled that day, not that any outsider would have noticed it, as Blackwood led Coward to the wicket they oughtn't to have been playing on given the weather was still damp enough to need a fire.
Practise would make them perfect.
Practise would make Coward a passable bowler, which made him less of a target, which meant by the time he reached the upper forms at Harrow he was no longer the most likely target for the bullies. He'd learned, slowly, painfully, the art of being the boy slightly behind the second largest bully, not telling him who to hit, no, of course not, he never would, but convincing the larger boy that yes, the action had popped into his head of his own accord, and hadn't been planted in any way, it was all his idea.
It was a useful skill, and would remain useful in the wider world of his future, a world he would soon be launched into, buoyed up by the family money and name, to bring greater glory, a greater glory than even they can imagine.
Blackwood, already at university then, sends back news of the world beyond the school walls. He wasn't supposed to be there that weekend, it was nearly time for Finals and, no matter Blackwood's money, or rather Sir Thomas's, his professors were sticklers for him actually knowing about the subject his degree was in. Blackwood pooh-poohed Coward's fears, whispering in his ear that it was his lecture notes he was reading. They had found a shady spot under a tree, Blackwood causing no comment because he still knew how to dress like any other schoolboy. It was too exposed a place for any of their usual intimacies but Coward could be satisfied by sitting next to him reading.
The Order shared their prejudices with the Queen's church, even more bizarre for the utter lack of reasoning behind it. If you claim to have greater, deeper knowledge of the universe than the established ways, you ought to demonstrate it. Coward had to acknowledge his objection was partly self-interest, he was an invert, and considered himself unable to change. And unwilling. As far as he was concerned Blackwood deserved someone to worship him, and he was more than willing to be that person. He had always felt that way, at some point hero-worship had blossomed further.
He had been as discreet as he could be, but Blackwood had seen through him, as he always did.
"I can see you watching me." They had been alone, in some underlit room on one of Sir Thomas's many properties. Coward averted his eyes. "Even when you're not looking at me, I can feel you watching me." Blackwood had crept round to his left, standing next to him. Even deliberately not looking at him, Coward knew exactly where he was.
"I can put out my eyes, if you'd rather."
"Why would I want that, when they're such fascinating eyes?" Blackwood stepped in front of him. The only way Coward had of not looking at him was to close his eyes, screwing them shut in an effort not to peek. "And I do like that you've not offered to stop looking."
"Putting my eyes out is the only way I could stop looking." That was when he broke, opened his eyes and looked up at Blackwood, barely inches from him. He worried he was too bold, but he could not keep this in.
"But then I would miss them, and their looking." Blackwood kissed him twice, once on each eyelid. That was how Coward knew that there really was no such thing as magic, otherwise he would have levitated.
Coward didn’t ask how Blackwood learnt the things he teaches him about the act of loving, the only time he doesn't seek to know everything about him. Blackwood respected this petty jealousy and didn’t tell him.
At school, they do not stand out. They are affectionate, but so are others, they are slightly bookish, but not to excess, they hold themselves aloof, but what of it, they will obviously go on to power in the future, they do not need to mingle.
When Blackwood leaves university and splits from the mainstream of the order, Coward, in so far as the adults are concerned, flourishes. He grows into being his own man, makes friends, moves into society. By their own plan, he makes allies, develops contacts, identifies who they will need in the coming years.
Although young, they were already aware that they have different strengths. Blackwood leads imperiously. Coward documents and enacts.
Blackwood is the strong oak, and Coward is the mistletoe that feeds on him to grow.
After university, Coward married, relatively early. Not so early as to shock but younger than his fellows. His wife is an Order member too, but outer Order, no power in either Sir Thomas's use of the word or the rest of the world's, but she has money and connections, which will more than do for Coward and Blackwood’s requirements. His wife is a pretty thing, all satin and pink taffeta. Not his type, dark and masterful, but suitable. They have their official wedding, surrounded by Society, and then their unofficial one, held by the Order with all their silly rituals. The Order's High Priests say their rites over the wedding bed and their sheets are taken away for further ceremonies to bring them good luck and many, healthy children. Pure superstition.
Blackwood officially read Classics, as Coward had in his turn, but he spent most of his time studying natural sciences; chemistry, biology, geology, even physics when necessary, anything to understand the world and how it worked. Because science, innovation, technology, that was how they would rule the world. They would cloak it in mystic trappings, people did so enjoy those flourishes, but science would be their foundation.
Science enabled them to see through all the nonsense of their fathers.
A little knowledge meant they knew how the Order caused those marvellous events that meant people thought they had any power beyond money and influence.
They had been brought up in a faith that believes in sacrifice, and they understood the need for them. Not for them petty sacrifices of blood, not yet, though their time would come, these were sacrifices of honour and time, with Blackwood's name being sullied, and having to spend time apart to make the ruse stick.
Coward misses Blackwood more than he expected. Or rather, even now, he misses him the way his younger self would have missed him. He is aware of his own ridiculousness, and that pain is the price they are paying for glory. He goes about his business quietly, puts their separation out of his mind as best he can, and works to promote their goals. They chose to put him in this role in their plan because he can be more believably biddable. People will give him power because they think he is easily swayed. Blackwood laughed, bitterly, when he'd said that as he discussed their plans, "it's because they don't know you as I do. You are as immovable as the mountains, when you choose to be." Coward is wise to miss him and his affection.
They still met within the Order. The ways they have darkened Blackwood's name outside their halls, his esoteric thinking, his strange behaviour, none of it is enough to cause his expulsion from the Order. It would be more hypocritical than even they are usually capable of.
The Order play at secrecy, heavy hoods hiding faces, as though it isn't obvious who each member is. For goodness’s sake, Lord Rose has his family crest underneath the collar of his walking stick.
Henry is brave enough, or hungry enough, to pull him into empty rooms when they meet like this. He lends his body as ballast to Coward's slender weight when he presses him against the door when there are no locks. The secrecy they learnt to practise in school serves them well.
Coward feeds on these stolen moments, feasts on the memory when they are apart, as they now too often are.
Blackwood's reputation becomes darker even within their circle. The public do not know, of course, although some distorted rumour slips out. Blackwood is a lord, the only way there will be external consequences for him is if he murders a man in broad daylight. Even with the rumours, whispers of sordid affairs, debauched orgies, opium dens, gambling hells, the usual run of these things, the common man does not turn from Blackwood. People desire order, power, leadership. Blackwood will provide all that, given time, time which Coward is working to give him, and something within the populace already recognises this.
Coward rises through the political ranks, using his knowledge and skills to reach the position that they will need him in. Now when any think on their connection they see Coward as the strong noble oak and Blackwood as the poisonous mistletoe.
They do not understand the power of mistletoe, it is strong, tenacious, it is wise and powerful.
And here in this room they are neither of these things.
Henry has established a reputation as a recluse; none call on him or his house. Coward is gregarious, his house might as well be an inn with the number of visitors. No one is surprised when he is absent, he must be visiting someone, and anyway, his wife is an excellent hostess and everyone enjoys themselves. A lot of people are even willing to swear he was there, five minutes ago. Coward has invented the opposite of invisibility, being so welcoming and generally pleasant that people will believe you were somewhere you were not.
No one knew anything about Blackwood's house, other than it was dark and forbidding. People knew everything about Coward's house, who decorated it, its history, that lovely picturesque detail of the priest hole. No one knew that the priest lead to a tunnel between their two houses, because why would it? The history of the tunnel was clear only if you knew it. For all the lies the Order told itself, it was as old as it claimed, and had shared methods with the Recusants in Queen Mary's time and after.
They meet at Blackwood's house because no-one will seek them here, because no one seeks out Blackwood and Coward is at his house, bringing forth that, "oh he was here five minutes ago" when they can't find him.
Here, they are men, not the Empire's only hope of continuation and the next Prime Minister, or the one after that. There is no Order and their fake magic. There is the reality of Henry's leg against his own, the curls of the hair of his thighs as Coward runs his hands upwards, the solid meat of him underneath his fingers. This is real, no matter the lies they tell, there are no lies between them.
Coward needs these moments to keep his head while all around them is hysteria, idiocy, hidebound inefficiency, or sometimes all three at once. Henry kisses him, and he feels clarity descend over him.
Henry is his oak, his mistletoe, the earth that grounds him, and the sun that feeds him. He is his alpha and his omega, and Coward follows this path with open eyes, complete knowledge, and his full heart.
End notes: My second favourite thing about the film is the twist that it's all science and the art of suggestion. This fic is all about that. (My favourite thing is The Rocky Road to Dublin by the Dubliners)
Author: Red Fiona
Fandom: RDJ Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, Conan Doyle's estate do. Warner Brothers own this version, I think. No money is being made from this.
Characters/Pairing: Lord Coward / Lord Blackwood
Rating: PG-13
Notes/Warnings: Set pre-film. Contains historical attitude to homosexuality, religious themes, and is very much villain fic.
Summary: This is the one part of their lives that ritual does not touch.
~~~~
This is the one part of their lives that ritual does not touch.
Here they are humans, not ministers or devils. This is real, not the make-believe and pretence they spend their lives wrapped in.
Much like Blackwood, Coward was born into the Order. He wonders, quite frequently, whether he would have been the same as the others, following the Order in the sheep like way the general public follow the Church of England if he hadn't had Blackwood as his friend. For most of them, that's all it is, C of E while feeling superior. He wonders if the original leaders of the Order had deliberately structured it to be quite so hierarchical to ensure their own power, because that was the trick to it, every level peering down with superiority at the lower levels. It's no closer to truth than the Church of England, or any other church, not that you'd know it from how the Order held itself.
Coward admits his faults, he's a creature of the society that created him and he thinks he'd be just like them if not for Blackwood.
So much of his life has been surrounded by a chorus of "youngest this" and "youngest that" that people forget he is only a few years younger than Blackwood, and he's often strode comfortably in the footprints Blackwood left behind.
The Order held that in being born Blackwood had killed his mother, a portent of things to come. Science, and Coward tended to its views, held that it was probably bacterial infection from unsanitary conditions.
Coward had come more quietly into the world. Both his parents were high ranking in the order, not "powerful" as Sir Thomas would have it, but having those remarkable powers of money and breeding that did a man good.
In his early years, Sir Thomas kept Blackwood around him, excusing him as some distant cousin's orphaned child which was how Coward came to know him. They played together, not often, because what eight-year-old was interested in playing with the three-year-old that followed him around, but when the adults made all the children play together, he did, and so he at least recognised Coward.
They gravitated closer as they got older. The children began to pick up on their parents's attitudes, and everyone held that Blackwood was bad in some way. He was never shunned as such, but he definitely wasn't one of them. Coward, meanwhile, was seen as an incorrigible swot - intelligent, yes, but too desiring of praise and attention, and a damn poor cricketer, his small frame exempting his equally appalling rugby from quite the same criticism.
Plato did not follow Socrates more closely than young Coward followed Blackwood.
He was the first person that Blackwood spoke to about his philosophy. Blackwood was devious and careful, even at that age. He threw out a few minor blasphemies at first, to test whether Coward would live up to his name and go telling tales to the adults. When Coward didn't, Blackwood threw out a few more, in case Coward was more developed than most ten-year-olds and was playing a very long game. When he'd passed even that time, then Blackwood revealed his deeper thoughts.
At the time, Coward kept a daybook, his illustrated notes because he was that sort of child. It was habit as much as anything by that point. He'd taken notes, because it's what he did. At first, he'd carried on automatically, and then with growing horror, because why couldn't he stop himself from taking notes when this would damn Blackwood if anyone ever found it and he wanted nothing in the world less than that.
He'd handed the book over to Blackwood, a sacrificial offering for the fire. "Take it, burn it."
"Not the whole thing! You only took a couple of pages's notes." Blackwood was obscurely loathe to take so much from Coward. He knew how much effort the other boy put into his work, some misbegotten variant of illuminated manuscripts - if Blackwood, illegitimate disbeliever that he was, was the man of the future, Coward, with his ancestors and his pastimes, was of the past in a way their fathers, stuck in their era, could never be. Future and past, they'd bend the world to their will and make it better.
"If it keeps you safer."
Blackwood checked the pages. The thick paper, excellent quality, was immaculate on the other side, no ink had seeped through. Coward's broad penmanship, carefully measured, had dried before he'd laid another page on top of it, so no words had blotted onto the page before this section. No danger beyond the four pages he'd written.
"I cast into the fire only that which needs to be cast." Even at fifteen, Blackwood had a flair for the dramatic, and tore out the offending pages with one tug, launching them over his shoulder into the flames.
Something was settled that day, not that any outsider would have noticed it, as Blackwood led Coward to the wicket they oughtn't to have been playing on given the weather was still damp enough to need a fire.
Practise would make them perfect.
Practise would make Coward a passable bowler, which made him less of a target, which meant by the time he reached the upper forms at Harrow he was no longer the most likely target for the bullies. He'd learned, slowly, painfully, the art of being the boy slightly behind the second largest bully, not telling him who to hit, no, of course not, he never would, but convincing the larger boy that yes, the action had popped into his head of his own accord, and hadn't been planted in any way, it was all his idea.
It was a useful skill, and would remain useful in the wider world of his future, a world he would soon be launched into, buoyed up by the family money and name, to bring greater glory, a greater glory than even they can imagine.
Blackwood, already at university then, sends back news of the world beyond the school walls. He wasn't supposed to be there that weekend, it was nearly time for Finals and, no matter Blackwood's money, or rather Sir Thomas's, his professors were sticklers for him actually knowing about the subject his degree was in. Blackwood pooh-poohed Coward's fears, whispering in his ear that it was his lecture notes he was reading. They had found a shady spot under a tree, Blackwood causing no comment because he still knew how to dress like any other schoolboy. It was too exposed a place for any of their usual intimacies but Coward could be satisfied by sitting next to him reading.
The Order shared their prejudices with the Queen's church, even more bizarre for the utter lack of reasoning behind it. If you claim to have greater, deeper knowledge of the universe than the established ways, you ought to demonstrate it. Coward had to acknowledge his objection was partly self-interest, he was an invert, and considered himself unable to change. And unwilling. As far as he was concerned Blackwood deserved someone to worship him, and he was more than willing to be that person. He had always felt that way, at some point hero-worship had blossomed further.
He had been as discreet as he could be, but Blackwood had seen through him, as he always did.
"I can see you watching me." They had been alone, in some underlit room on one of Sir Thomas's many properties. Coward averted his eyes. "Even when you're not looking at me, I can feel you watching me." Blackwood had crept round to his left, standing next to him. Even deliberately not looking at him, Coward knew exactly where he was.
"I can put out my eyes, if you'd rather."
"Why would I want that, when they're such fascinating eyes?" Blackwood stepped in front of him. The only way Coward had of not looking at him was to close his eyes, screwing them shut in an effort not to peek. "And I do like that you've not offered to stop looking."
"Putting my eyes out is the only way I could stop looking." That was when he broke, opened his eyes and looked up at Blackwood, barely inches from him. He worried he was too bold, but he could not keep this in.
"But then I would miss them, and their looking." Blackwood kissed him twice, once on each eyelid. That was how Coward knew that there really was no such thing as magic, otherwise he would have levitated.
Coward didn’t ask how Blackwood learnt the things he teaches him about the act of loving, the only time he doesn't seek to know everything about him. Blackwood respected this petty jealousy and didn’t tell him.
At school, they do not stand out. They are affectionate, but so are others, they are slightly bookish, but not to excess, they hold themselves aloof, but what of it, they will obviously go on to power in the future, they do not need to mingle.
When Blackwood leaves university and splits from the mainstream of the order, Coward, in so far as the adults are concerned, flourishes. He grows into being his own man, makes friends, moves into society. By their own plan, he makes allies, develops contacts, identifies who they will need in the coming years.
Although young, they were already aware that they have different strengths. Blackwood leads imperiously. Coward documents and enacts.
Blackwood is the strong oak, and Coward is the mistletoe that feeds on him to grow.
After university, Coward married, relatively early. Not so early as to shock but younger than his fellows. His wife is an Order member too, but outer Order, no power in either Sir Thomas's use of the word or the rest of the world's, but she has money and connections, which will more than do for Coward and Blackwood’s requirements. His wife is a pretty thing, all satin and pink taffeta. Not his type, dark and masterful, but suitable. They have their official wedding, surrounded by Society, and then their unofficial one, held by the Order with all their silly rituals. The Order's High Priests say their rites over the wedding bed and their sheets are taken away for further ceremonies to bring them good luck and many, healthy children. Pure superstition.
Blackwood officially read Classics, as Coward had in his turn, but he spent most of his time studying natural sciences; chemistry, biology, geology, even physics when necessary, anything to understand the world and how it worked. Because science, innovation, technology, that was how they would rule the world. They would cloak it in mystic trappings, people did so enjoy those flourishes, but science would be their foundation.
Science enabled them to see through all the nonsense of their fathers.
A little knowledge meant they knew how the Order caused those marvellous events that meant people thought they had any power beyond money and influence.
They had been brought up in a faith that believes in sacrifice, and they understood the need for them. Not for them petty sacrifices of blood, not yet, though their time would come, these were sacrifices of honour and time, with Blackwood's name being sullied, and having to spend time apart to make the ruse stick.
Coward misses Blackwood more than he expected. Or rather, even now, he misses him the way his younger self would have missed him. He is aware of his own ridiculousness, and that pain is the price they are paying for glory. He goes about his business quietly, puts their separation out of his mind as best he can, and works to promote their goals. They chose to put him in this role in their plan because he can be more believably biddable. People will give him power because they think he is easily swayed. Blackwood laughed, bitterly, when he'd said that as he discussed their plans, "it's because they don't know you as I do. You are as immovable as the mountains, when you choose to be." Coward is wise to miss him and his affection.
They still met within the Order. The ways they have darkened Blackwood's name outside their halls, his esoteric thinking, his strange behaviour, none of it is enough to cause his expulsion from the Order. It would be more hypocritical than even they are usually capable of.
The Order play at secrecy, heavy hoods hiding faces, as though it isn't obvious who each member is. For goodness’s sake, Lord Rose has his family crest underneath the collar of his walking stick.
Henry is brave enough, or hungry enough, to pull him into empty rooms when they meet like this. He lends his body as ballast to Coward's slender weight when he presses him against the door when there are no locks. The secrecy they learnt to practise in school serves them well.
Coward feeds on these stolen moments, feasts on the memory when they are apart, as they now too often are.
Blackwood's reputation becomes darker even within their circle. The public do not know, of course, although some distorted rumour slips out. Blackwood is a lord, the only way there will be external consequences for him is if he murders a man in broad daylight. Even with the rumours, whispers of sordid affairs, debauched orgies, opium dens, gambling hells, the usual run of these things, the common man does not turn from Blackwood. People desire order, power, leadership. Blackwood will provide all that, given time, time which Coward is working to give him, and something within the populace already recognises this.
Coward rises through the political ranks, using his knowledge and skills to reach the position that they will need him in. Now when any think on their connection they see Coward as the strong noble oak and Blackwood as the poisonous mistletoe.
They do not understand the power of mistletoe, it is strong, tenacious, it is wise and powerful.
And here in this room they are neither of these things.
Henry has established a reputation as a recluse; none call on him or his house. Coward is gregarious, his house might as well be an inn with the number of visitors. No one is surprised when he is absent, he must be visiting someone, and anyway, his wife is an excellent hostess and everyone enjoys themselves. A lot of people are even willing to swear he was there, five minutes ago. Coward has invented the opposite of invisibility, being so welcoming and generally pleasant that people will believe you were somewhere you were not.
No one knew anything about Blackwood's house, other than it was dark and forbidding. People knew everything about Coward's house, who decorated it, its history, that lovely picturesque detail of the priest hole. No one knew that the priest lead to a tunnel between their two houses, because why would it? The history of the tunnel was clear only if you knew it. For all the lies the Order told itself, it was as old as it claimed, and had shared methods with the Recusants in Queen Mary's time and after.
They meet at Blackwood's house because no-one will seek them here, because no one seeks out Blackwood and Coward is at his house, bringing forth that, "oh he was here five minutes ago" when they can't find him.
Here, they are men, not the Empire's only hope of continuation and the next Prime Minister, or the one after that. There is no Order and their fake magic. There is the reality of Henry's leg against his own, the curls of the hair of his thighs as Coward runs his hands upwards, the solid meat of him underneath his fingers. This is real, no matter the lies they tell, there are no lies between them.
Coward needs these moments to keep his head while all around them is hysteria, idiocy, hidebound inefficiency, or sometimes all three at once. Henry kisses him, and he feels clarity descend over him.
Henry is his oak, his mistletoe, the earth that grounds him, and the sun that feeds him. He is his alpha and his omega, and Coward follows this path with open eyes, complete knowledge, and his full heart.
End notes: My second favourite thing about the film is the twist that it's all science and the art of suggestion. This fic is all about that. (My favourite thing is The Rocky Road to Dublin by the Dubliners)
