#14thC

[aisphotostuff]

Parish Church @ Clayton Village Sussex by Adam Swaine Via Flickr: St John the Baptist's Church, Clayton..St John the Baptist's Church is the Church of England parish church of the village of Clayton in Mid Sussex District, one of seven local government districts in the English county of West Sussex. The small and simple Anglo-Saxon building is distinguished by its "remarkable" and extensive set of wall paintings, dating from the early 12th century and rediscovered more than 700 years later. Much of the structural work of the church is 11th-century and has had little alteration. The church, which stands in the middle of a large churchyard and serves the small village of Clayton at the foot of the South Downs, is part of a joint parish with the neighbouring village of Keymer

[rosewatergrapefruit]

One of my favorite things is that I have very clear memories of both of my parents crying to music (dad bawling his eyes out to one of those simulcast music performances during Covid / mom pulling over the car because she was crying to guantanamera a lá Pete Seeger) it’s like yes. This is why I am this way

[woolandcoffee]

Along with all my other sewing activities (Capsule Wardrobe 2k23, 18th c ballgown, etc.), I need to put together a medieval kit, for Reasons.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Have I shown off my incredibly appropriate knife yet? Why yes, yes I am Merie.

Bought from the Tod Cutler store, inspired by 13th-16thC knives with wording from 14thC. Which means Ash could be gifted one to remind him to stop being such a grumpy bastard ❤️

[ginandoldlace]

Charterhouse, near Smithfield, was created as a Carthusian monastery in the 14thC. After its dissolution, in the early 16thC the buildings came into the ownership of the wealthy Thomas Sutton who established it as almshouses for 'decrepit' men and a school for boys. The school moved elsewhere in the 19thC but the almshouses for 40 men and women remain. 

[avocado-writing]

i absolutely ADORE the little universe you've made for the light the dark and the spaces in between and i don't really have any specific requests, all i'm requesting is whatever work in that universe that you've already come up with or if you do get an idea for something for my favourite throuple this is an excuse to post it hihi

Notes: first of all, fav throuple? 🥹 I’m asking for your hand in marriage. Second of all I got an ask about reader being nonbinary in this series but this fic explicitly discusses them being AFAB (but GNC, could be read as trans or not). set in TLTDATSIB verse, ish, the time period is a bit wonky (14thC ish) — consider this an au where reader follows aziraphale to France after their initial meeting, finds Crowley there too and everyone is pointing at each other like that Spider-Man meme going !! Immortal!!!

words: 2k

rating: T (sex references, mild peril)

pairing: crowley x reader x aziraphale

tags: TLTDATSIB, polyamory, Fem/Masc!Crowley, Fem/Masc!Aziraphale, GNC!Reader, historical, jousting

“Are you sure? It’s terribly dangerous.”

“Aziraphale,” you sigh, “I don’t do it because it’s safe.”

“Well why do it at all?” she whines, grabbing onto your hand beseechingly. Crowley looks up from where she’s been admiring her reflection in your armour. You turn to her for support, instead she shrugs. 

“I don’t know. For glory? For honour? To prove that I can?”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley to join in but is met with the same reaction. It seems that Crowley is determined to stay neutral in this scenario. How annoying. Just like a demon to find the most awkward solution for both parties.

You tie the linens around your chest a little tighter. Under your full plate it should be difficult to tell the shape of your body but you don’t want to take any chances. Aziraphale pouts and you sigh, turning back to her to take her hand in earnest.

“My darling, I’m not like either of you. When they look at me, they will only ever see one thing. I can’t change my body around and be whoever I want to be. I have to take these measures to be viewed as anything other than what I was when I came squawling from my mother.”

You cup her cheek and she nuzzles into your touch. 

“Besides,” you add, wickedly, “am I not good at wielding a lance?”

You grin, thinking back to the three of you laying together last night. Aziraphale harrumphs and Crowley laughs at her.

“They’ll be fine, angel,” she finally pipes up. Aziraphale doesn’t seem certain but finally relents, letting Crowley adjust her surcoat and take her hand.

“Good luck,” Crowley says, but the smile on her face suggests she doesn’t think you’ll need it. You give her a wink.

“With my two ladies cheering from the crowd, how could I lose?”

You give them both a kiss goodbye before Crowley finally wrestles the angel away, likely to get her a drink and a pep-talk before the tourney starts. As they leave, your squire begins to enter, his face turning beet red as Crowley ruffles his hair.

“Hello, Oliver. Make sure our good knight doesn’t fall from his horse, will you?” she says as she goes. Oliver tries to form a sentence, fails, and winces as Crowley sways away. 

A tiny slip of a lad, you took on Oliver not only for his immense courage despite his small stature, but because you both shared a secret - one which you uncovered when accidentally walking in on him changing. You’d recognise a bound chest anywhere. You thought no less of him for it, and told him he needed not beg for your silence: you’d keep it gladly.

“Sire, I’m here to help you finish dressing,” he states, when he finally manages to get a handle over his own tongue. 

“Well timed, Oliver. Help me with this breastplate.”

He heaves and helps with the leather straps, buckling you in place. You’re swelteringly hot. Ah well, time for that to get even worse when you ride out into the sun. You take a moment to check yourself over, only noticing Oliver’s quietness when he fails to point out one of your pauldrons is loose. You furrow your brow and turn to him.

“What’s on your mind, lad?”

“Might… Might I ask a question, sire?”

“Me saying no has never stopped you before,” you jest, but when you see him scuff his foot against the floor, you drop down to be able to look him in the eye. “What’s the matter, Oliver?”

“Your ladies… you’ll fight for them both, yes? For their honour as one?”

“Yes, I will.” You don’t go into great detail about your relationship but you trust Oliver with the truth. He sees Aziraphale and Crowley clucking around you like hens before a joust all the time anyway, and the boy isn’t a fool. He can do the arithmetic of it.  

“And they’re happy with that arrangement?”

You laugh a little, but put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Those two love each other as much as they love me. My life would not be a happy one without them both in it, and they feel the same.”

Sacrilege, but really, little in this room would be considered holy by the church. And besides, you have an angel as one of the willing participants of your relationship. You think it’s probably fine.

Oliver nods. He seems to understand, but still appears like something else is weighing on his mind. You really do smother your smile this time.

“Oliver,” you tell him, gently, “I also think that you might be a bit young for Lady Crowley.”

He blushes.

🗡️

You can barely see with your helmet on, so you keep it under your arm for the time being. You cut the figure of a man well enough anyway so for the moment there’s no need to worry about your face being on show. In fact, you’ve gained a reputation for being quite handsome.

Handsome but very spoken for. Apparently there was a lady discussing giving you her favour to joust, and Crowley spilt wine all over her skirts. Then again, she did the same when a knight rode up to ask to fight for Aziraphale’s honour, and suddenly found that his helmet crest had inexplicably burst into flames. 

Crowley knows how to mark her territory.

You run a hand over your horse’s nose, humming a soothing little note as she nickers and whinnies.

“I know it’s hot, girl. Let’s give them a show and then we’ll both get out of this damned armour.”

You saddle up, letting Oliver pass you your helmet and your shield. You ride as a freelancer so neither of them are burdened with some noble’s crest; instead you ride under your own: a pair of wings, one white, one black. A little nod to the two who matter the most to you.

You ride onto the field as horns herald the start of the joust. You know a few of the knights competing, and are well aware of your first opponent - Kenelm the agile, a man you’ve faced several times over and are at equals wins against. He nods at you from his steed, hailing the crowd as he’s announced. You look across the seating, and see Aziraphale and Crowley in the front row. Where they always are, whenever you compete. With an ineffable inevitability.

“And, riding under his own banner, Sir Kerkylas of Andros!”

Even with her glasses on you know Crowley is rolling her eyes at your chosen pseudonym. You ride up to the pair of them, grinning.

“Be careful,” Aziraphale begs for the umpteenth time. She passes you her favour: a little ring, golden, set with a pair of wings on it. 

“I will be,” you say, kissing her hand, then quieter: “You do remember that I can’t die?”

“Yes, but we don’t know if dismembering will do you any good!”

Crowley reaches over to present you her token, a pin embellished with a silver snake. You stow both in your saddlebag. 

“I’ll buy you a drink if you take the helmet clean off his head,” she whispers. 

“You’re on,” you agree. Crowley reaches out to caress your face, then stops and retreats abruptly.

“Better not lay that on too heavily. I think I might kill your squire.”

A glance over your shoulder reveals that Oliver looks like he might combust. Taking mercy on the poor boy, you nod your goodbyes to the two of them and ride up to greet Kenelm.

“Ken! Didn’t think I’d see you back in the saddle so soon after that humiliating defeat in Dover.”

Kenelm rolls his eyes but holds his tongue.

“Ah, Kerk. Sorry, didn’t see it was you. I was blinded by the pomp of your armour. I forget that you need to compensate for something.”

Ha, if only he knew. 

Despite the ribbing the two of you exchange a smile.

“Good luck, Ken. And remember, aim the lance at me. Poor Cynisca was dreadfully irritable after last time, when it seemed you were trying to skewer her flank.”

He grimaces at being reminded of the faux pas before putting his helmet on and readying himself. You trot to your side of the tilt where Oliver is heaving up your lance. 

“You’ll win,” he says confidently, “Kenelm always rides worse the earlier it is in the day. If you can get a solid enough hit in, it’s over, one round.”

“I hope that your faith in me isn’t misplaced, Oliver.”

You helmet up, resigning yourself to see what little of the world you can through the frog-lip, and clutch your lance. It’s heavy but you’re used to it by now. 

An expectant silence settles over the crowd. Aziraphale buries her face in Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, I can’t look–!”

The flag is waved, and you charge.

🗡️

You reflect on how Crowley never bought you that drink. She insisted that knocking a man clean off his horse didn’t count as taking his helmet off. A technicality, flimsy at best - but Aziraphale was too relieved at your victory to argue either side. You went on to place second at that particular tourney, the fire of it inciting you to ride to victory in your next. 

You stopped for a while after that. It was doing Aziraphale in a little, and you loved him too much to keep his nerves that frayed.

But, nowadays, reenactments are becoming somewhat of a fad. Usually you find them a little gauche, and it’s more than a bit uncomfortable to relive some aspects of your past, but you never truly lost your love for jousting. So you allow yourself a little vice in it. Your heart aches whenever you’re reminded of Oliver, but you kept tabs on his family, and his descendants are doing quite well. One of them lives in London and works for a charity helping LGBT youth. It seems fitting. 

Plus, Aziraphale is a lot calmer about you jousting this way. 

“Are you alright?” you ask the man you just took off his horse. He looks a little winded and gladly takes your help getting up.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Think it’s just my pride that’s bruised. You’re really good at this!”

You beam.

“I’ve had practice.”

You exchange socials so that he can follow up with any questions he might have, then turn to take your horse back to the tent the organisers have set up for you. Aziraphale and Crowley are waiting. Your angel has an ice-cream for you, which he passes over before tucking into his own.

“Who was he?” Crowley sniffs, peering over your shoulder. You roll your eyes.

“Just some kid interested in the sport. Stop being jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, jealously.

“You did marvellously, my love,” Aziraphale interjects. You smile at him.

“Thank you, darling. I can be a fiend with a lance when I want to be. Even if I am a little out of practice.”

“Hmm, not out of practice as of last night,” Crowley says and Aziraphale chokes on his soft-serve. It’s good to know that even after seven hundred years, your sense of humour hasn’t changed a jot.

“Oh, and,” you say, reaching into your bag, “your favours. Returned to you after they brought me luck.”

Aziraphale slips his ring back on, Crowley affixes the pin to his jacket. Your hands linger on each other’s, as they usually do.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

“You didn’t remove his helmet, so I’m not buying.”

“Oh, you utter bastard.”

-

taglist: @angiestopit@dazed-soul@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@specter-soltare@candlewitch-cryptic@cool-ontherun-world@emilynissangtr@willbedecided@cool-iguana@bdffkierenwalker @ilyatan @civil-groupie@foolishprincipalitee

[olympic-paris]

My favourite medieval doodle in the library collection is this weary- looking man who looks like he would really appreciate some coffee.

(William of Heytesbury's Sophismata 14thC)

[brassandblue]

Sketch dump of Arthur.

We’ve got uhh Tudor teen, 17thc teen sailor, 14thc baby teen, Tudor again, 18thc smug lad, the rest are 19thc to modern day mix.

Which is ur fave??

[drsilverfish]

Dean’s Soul in the Bardo -   The Art of Dying 1x06 The Winchesters

Catching up British-time, so a bit late to the party as usual, and coming to it fresh, as I like to do, without jumping into the time-line first. 

Screeches a bit because I am overwhelmed.

This episode suggests that, on one level, we can read every character in The Winchesters as manifestations of Dean’s consciousness, as he hovers in the “bardo”, the liminal realm in Tibetan Buddhism, between death and reincarnation. 

Mary - the leader and hunter who wants to get out of hunting; John - filled with wounded rage, Daddy-issues and violence; Carlos - the fabulous bisexual who dares to get into therapy and to go after the men he wants; Lata - the abused child who manages to chose love over violence - ALL OF THESE ARE ASPECTS OF DEAN WINCHESTER’S being, his experience/ soul/ desires <sobs a little because it’s beautiful>. 

Now I’m back on my meta, I’ve previously mused on The Winchesters as a reparative narrative told by Holy Ghost Dean Winchester; a counter-point to the traumatic narrative of Supernatural.

1x06 The Art of Dying offers further illumination and elaboration on that concept, namely:

The episode title, “The Art of Dying” is a George Harrison song, the right time-period for The Winchesters (1970), from his album All Things Must Pass. 

The Beatles, in keeping with the hippie counterculturalism of the time, were interested in Eastern spirituality, particularly Hinduism and Buddhism, and this Harrison song was inspired by his reading of Timothy Leary’s The Psychedelic Experience: A Manual Based on The Tibetan Book of the Dead (1964). 

Harrison’s lyrics are about the religious philosophy of perfecting the soul through cycles of reincarnation:

“There'll come a time when all of us must leave here There's nothing Sister Mary can do, will keep me here with you As nothing in this life that I've been trying Can equal or surpass the Art of Dying....

There'll come a time when most of us return here Brought back by our desire to be a perfect entity Living through a million years of crying Until you realize the Art of Dying “

A theme which fits well with the Ouroboros (serpent swallowing it’s own tail as it ascends) narrative of latter-day Supernatural, which drew on Jung and esoteric alchemy to manifest the Winchesters’ journey as the journey of the soul towards God.  

The Tibetan Book of the Dead is the Bardo Thodol, which means “liberation through hearing in the intermediate state”. It is a 14thC esoteric text (or possibly older but that’s when the written text we have dates from).

John, Mary, Lata and Losy all struggle with pain, parent-induced and violence-induced and hunting-induced trauma, but they are able to communicate their feelings to one another in a way which is strikingly and remarkably different from the enormous struggles with emotional articulation which animated Supernatural, which we watched Dean suffer with throught his life. 

So we can read The Winchesters as Dean’s revelatory hallucinations in the liminal state between death and liberation (or rebirth) - his revelatory sexual and emotional healing soul-dreams (in which, and what could be more Freudian, he returns to the scene of his parents).

And look, Lata is teaching John, who surived being possessed by the vengeful spirit of abused-as-a-child and violently out-of-control Mac, how to meditate and achieve higher consciousness (with an image of a globe in the background):

And isn’t it interesting that the rare type of vampire which Mac’s vengeful spirit first possesses is called a “soucouyant”, which means (incongrously, one would think) “carefree” in French. But not so incongruous if The Winchesters is about the journey of Dean’s soul to liberation, to bliss, to being “carefree”...

[copperbadge]

Figgy Pudding SPAM. Seriously 😳?! The name is its OWN WARNING LABEL. I thought I’d been whatever the Monty Python equivalent of rickrolled is-“Spam, spam, spam,”🎼-when I saw the label. Good GOD, your poor tastebuds, Sam. Have you ever had REAL figgy pudding? (Which is 14thc Spam, btw.)

I've never had real figgy pudding, no! I do think the basic conception of spiced meat, with pork and the spices mentioned, is perfectly fine -- I even thought the Spam might be okay, to be honest, and it probably would have if they hadn't gone so heavy on the orange.

At some point, in one of my fics, I have JARVIS list off all the different kinds of Spam there are, because Cap wants some Spam but didn't realize it now comes in like, Flavors. :D

[kultofathena]

Tod Cutler – 14th Century Effigy Rondel Dagger

Mid to late 14thC Rondel dagger. Featuring a flower shaped pommel and disc guard in bronze with a fluted wooden grip. A very strong double sided, diamond section blade. This type of ‘gentle’ motif of a flower was typical of knights of the 13th and 14th C. You can see motifs and daggers like this on effigy’s and artwork throughout the period. Later rondel daggers had a top ‘disc’ style guard as well but early ones had a more normal shaped dagger pommel as seen here. The unsharpened blade is crafted from EN45 high carbon steel and the guard is a composite of bronze and wood; the pommel is cast from matching bronze and the blade is peened over the pommel to complete the dagger. The grip is polished wood.

As well as the dagger being typical of the period it comes with a very distinctive ‘cupped’ leather sheath which has been shaped around the bottom rondel with a brass shaped shape with fluting and a heart motif cut out.

[missouri-and-woe]

should i...?

[doctorwhoisadhd]

when ur really into a piece of 14thc polyphonic music . call that blorbo from machaut's

[gentlyepigrams]

Glove, probably made for the coronation of Frederick II in 1220. With some 14thC additions. (Kaiserliche Schatzkammer Wien)

[nulfaga]

finally got a record player....omg my vinyls. Holy shit my vinyls. Beat the champ vinyl my beloved. black orpheus ost vinyl my beloved. 14thc flemish chansons vinyl my beloved. 3 PART HOTLINE MIAMI OST VINYL MY BELOVED. LIMITED EDITION ALL HAIL WEST TEXAS YELLOW VINYL MY BELOVED.

[sourkitsch]

Whats a medium of art you would try if you were given the materials and opportunity?

This is going to sound. Wild. But I would absolutely KILL to explore historic icon making. Like learning how to make my own gesso with rabbit glue and chalk. Using red clay to lay leaf and buff it w agate. Milling my own pigments and making my own egg tempera…….. it all sounds like a dream. There’s a translation of Cennino Cennini's Il Libro Dell'arte, (medieval text that records the processes used by 14thc. Italian artists) I’ve been meaning to track down, the nearest copy is in special collection in Boston.

But this stuff is also like. Prohibitively expensive and time consuming for me at the moment so it remains a hope for the future!!!!!