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petermorwood · 7 months

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YA or not YA, that is the question...

This started out as a response to Diane’s post here about YA literature and its long history prior to what some people think inspired it, but got longer (Oh! What a surprise!) and wandered far enough from the initial subject that I decided to post separately.

So here it is.

*****

Many years ago my town library (in Northern Ireland, so following UK library practice, I suppose) had just two sections, Adult and Children. There was no YA section, and the Children’s section covered everything from large-format picture books through to hardback novels and the usual amount of non-fiction.

(Library books were almost always bought in hardback for better wear, and even the softback picture books were rebound with heavy card inserts.)

There were classics like “Treasure Island”, “Kidnapped”, “King Solomon’s Mines” “Under the Red Robe” and “The Jungle Books”.

There were standalone titles like “The Otterbury Incident”, “The Silver Sword”, “The Sword in the Stone” and “The Stone Cage”.

There were series about characters like William, Biggles, Jennings and his counterpart Molesworth, the Moomins, Narnia and Uncle.

There were authors like Alan Garner, Nicholas Stuart Grey, Rosemary Sutcliffe, Henry Treece, Ronald Welch… And of course there was J.R.R. Tolkien.

The first time I got "The Hobbit", "Farmer Giles of Ham" and "Smith of Wootton Major" they were shelved in the Children's section. This was about 1968-69.

In the early 1970s the library moved to larger premises, which allowed room for Very Young Children (where the picture books now lived) and Children (everything else), still with no YA section, though with more advanced picture books like “Tintin” and “Asterix” * in a sort of no-man’s-land between them.

( * These included editions in the original French, which turned out very useful for making language lessons at school a bit more fun and gaining extra marks in exams through judiciously enhanced vocabulary.)

“The Hobbit” et cetera were still on the Children shelves, but now that the library was larger and more open-plan, volumes of "The Lord of The Rings", normally in the Adult section, occasionally got shelved there as well by well-meaning non-staff people.

I never saw “The Hobbit” mis-shelved alongside “Lord of the Rings” among the Adults, but Farmer Giles” and “Smith” sometimes turned up there, courtesy of those same well-meaning hands.

It’s probably because the first, with its sometimes complex wordplay and mock-heroic plot, reads like a humorous parody of more serious works, while the second, if read in the right frame of mind, can seem quite adult in the style of Sylvia Townsend Warner’s “Kingdoms of Elfin” - which is in fact a good deal more adult than “Smith of Wootton Major”, even if you squint.

*****

This “Hobbit” / “Rings” confusion is a lightweight version of assuming a particular author writes every book for the same age-group. This is very much not the case.

Sometimes the thickness of the book is a giveaway. Compare, for instance, @neil-gaiman’s “American Gods” with “Coraline” or indeed “Fortunately, The Milk”.

Sometimes the cover is a hint, for example the difference between “Live and Let Die” by Ian Fleming...

...and “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”, also by Ian Fleming...

...although the original James Bond novels are – apart from some extremely dated attitudes – a lot more weaksauce than many YA books nowadays.

(More weaksauce still now that Fleming, like Roald Dahl and Agatha Christie, has been censored to conceal the extent to which - let's call them Certain Attitudes - were a standard feature in British popular fiction. Apparently (I haven't read any Newspeak Bond so can't confirm) the redaction was done in a curiously slapdash way, removing some things while leaving others.

These novels have become, IMO anyway, period pieces as much as Kipling, Doyle, Dickens and Austen, and erasure probably has less to do with sensitivity - maybe with some "brush it under the rug and they'll forget about it" involved - than with keeping them marketable, so Fleming doesn't go the way of other once-bestselling writers like "Sapper" and Sydney Horler.)

It would also be a mistake, despite advisory wizards Tom and Carl, to think that @dduane’s “Young Wizards” books are meant for the same age-group as her “Middle Kingdoms” series – although, once again, the later YW books and all of the MK slot into what a modern YA audience expects from its fiction.

But sometimes there’s absolutely no doubt that This Book by This Author is not meant for the readership of That Book by The Same Author. I’m thinking of one example which caused a certain amount of amusement.

“Bee Hunter” by Robert Nye is a retelling of the Beowulf story for children, though IIRC occasional bloody episodes as Grendel takes Hrothgar’s housecarls apart make it more suited to older children.

I’d brought home a copy from the library when much younger, and borrowed it again years later in company with another Nye novel, “Falstaff”...

...which was poetic, historic, melancholic, often bawdy, frequently funny and at all times most emphatically NOT for children, as indicated by some of these chapter headings - I draw your attention to XX, XXII, XXXII and especially XL... ;->

Yes. Quite... :->

*****

I was familiar with card index systems from quite early in my life, because my grandfather’s grocer’s shop had a fairly simple one for keeping track of customers, suppliers, stock and so forth, and since the library’s index card system cross-referenced in the same way, I was already home and dry.

If I could remember a title, I'd find the author, and once found I could track down other titles by that author (which, as shown above, can be educational...) Even if I could only remember the subject - historical, adventure, comedy - I'd still have narrowed my search window more than somewhat.

(This from-here-to-there mindset later became virtual train travel by way of the electronic timetables which SBB – Swiss Railways – used to issue on CD, and which let me “travel” anywhere in Europe, complete with a map. Those CDs are long discontinued, but I can still do virtual travel courtesy of the SBB website. Complete with a map…)

This is the last one we got, kept for sentimental reasons and occasional outdated train-travel on an equally outdated XP netbook.

As you do.

Or as I do, anyway. :->

*****

I also knew about title request cards and interlibrary loans, and was a frequent user - never more so than when I started reading “The Lord of the Rings” for the first time.

The town library didn’t have all three volumes, just “The Fellowship of the Ring” and “The Two Towers”, so I checked them out on a Friday to read over the weekend.

You can already see where this is going… :->

I finished “Fellowship” late on Saturday afternoon, went straight into “Towers” and by Sunday evening was all of a twitter (no, not that one) or as my mum would have said, up to high Doh, as I fretted about Not Knowing What Happened Next.

Fortunately school was no more than a brisk bike ride from the library, so I devoted my Monday morning break to zooming down and filling in one of the most urgent title requests I’ve ever made, then spent the rest of the week on tenterhooks, looking in every lunchtime and each afternoon on my way home.

Just In Case.

Some kindly librarian must have pulled strings or stamped the request "Expedite Soonest", because when I went back to school after Thursday lunch, I had “The Return of the King” burning a hole in my saddlebag.

I wanted to start reading it at once, but good sense prevailed; imagine getting caught between chapters at the back of a boring Geography lesson and Having The Book Confiscated…

I didn’t pay much attention in class on Friday, due to being half-asleep after starting “Return” in the evening after prep and finishing it in the wee hours of the morning.

But being tired didn’t prevent me from starting with “Fellowship” again on Friday night, and this time being able to read right through to the end without needing to stop.

It Was Great…

#YA books #library age categories #library use #don't judge a book by its cover #don't judge an age group by author #anecdotage

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rosella-writes · 3 months

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and here's the thing, I was looking at the prompt list and I was like but what if. what if I also sent one for Loghain & Tabris uwu

❛ you’re not getting rid of me that easily.❜

>:] thank you beloved. For @dadrunkwriting

Rating: T Words: 617

~~~

The Warden was naught but a girl, but she carried a familiar sense of indignant rage — it did not help matters that she still wore her hair in two braids, pinned at the nape of her neck, as the ladies in Denerim did. The rage — and the blonde wisps of hair coming free of her plaits — was as familiar to Loghain as the back of his own hand.

But he blinked, and the remembrance of his own daughter was gone.

Rosalie Tabris still paced before the fire. She had not removed the armour she’d met Riordan in, and it was stained with an echo of blood in its seams from her encounter with Loghain’s second in command. Loghain doubted that the rusty red would ever come out.

“You heard the man,” Loghain grumbled. He turned his gaze towards the hilt of his sword, and picked at the leather wrapping it until it swung from his hip. “He plans to take the fall, but if he fails —”

“He won’t fail,” Rosalie snapped.

“If he fails,” Loghain repeated, and he heard the same tone in his voice as he’d used in conference with Cailan, “we must be prepared. It must be one of us. Better that I make the final blow, if I am to be any further use to Ferelden.”

The fire crackled on the grate. Rosalie’s pacing resumed, and her boots clicked on the stones. “I could leave you at the gate. Guard my retreat, prevent them from following and cutting us off. That’s how your mind works, right? You’ve got it full of military strategies and —”

“No,” Loghain sighed.

Rosalie halted in her tracks and glared at him through lividly gold elfin eyes that reflected the fire near her feet. “You’ll do as I say.”

He felt a sad smile crease his craggy face. “You will not be rid of me so easily.”

Rosalie’s jaw tightened. Her ears flicked back, one at a time, with the force of her anger.

“We will remain at one another’s backs,” he insisted. “I am surprised at you. You should know better than to give me a chance to repeat the same tactic I used at Ostagar.”

Her expression did not change, but the droop of her ears still betrayed her. “I had hoped,” she finally grumbled, “that you would, in fact, quit this particular field. It would be utter folly to kill off all Fereldan Wardens in one fell swoop.”

Loghain shook his head tiredly — his braids brushed his shoulders with the motion. He closed the distance between himself and the Warden with a few loping strides, then took up her hand with awkward hesitance. She turned that hand into a fist between his palms, but she did not jerk it away.

“Against all odds,” he muttered, “I have grown fond of you. You are a better friend than I ever thought to find, and all despite the harm I have done to you and your family. Let me give you this.”

Rosalie’s glare was scorching, but her eyes were no longer hard mirrors of flame. They instead were oddly glossy and wet as they stared up at him from beneath furrowed brows. He gave her hand a quick shake of emphasis as he went on.

“Think of your bard. Think of the flowers you have yet to give her. Think of the songs she has yet to sing to you. I would not deprive you of them, not when I have so little life of my own worth living.”

Rosalie finally lowered her gaze and clenched her eyes shut — two tracks of tears fell down her cheeks, cutting through the dust upon them like rivulets of melting snow.

#rosalie tabris #loghain mac tir #my writing #dadwc #dao

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the-pen-pot · 7 months

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The Oldest Fairytale (Merthur, 4.3k, complete) Merlin swore as he stubbed his toe, sending pain ricocheting through his foot. A single torch burning fitfully in his hand lit the way, painting sallow light on the stone walls around him. Each one looked the same, worn smooth as if eaten away by the passage of wild water or some great, slithering beast. He had been walking for what felt like hours, tripping along in the dark as he tried to find his way to the centre of the subterranean labyrinth.

It was Arthur's fault. They had been making camp on a nice, boring, routine patrol, where nothing horrible had happened and no one had attacked them from the undergrowth. Merlin had just started to relax when she appeared. A young woman with inky hair and an elfin face, deep brown eyes and a too-sharp smile.

Fey, Merlin had decided. Not Sidhe, but something else. Something irritating that liked to play tricks. And of course, Arthur and the knights had given her their real names before Merlin could bark so much as a warning.

Idiots. The lot of them.

A test, she'd said, her voice like nails over slate to his ears: utterly wrong. All he had to do was find the centre of the maze without using his magic, and he would get back the others, whole and unharmed.

He sighed, pausing for a moment to watch the shadows press down around the halo of the torch, thick enough to chew. The air tasted stale and dead, like that in the catacombs under Camelot, and his head was starting to ache. Worse, he could feel the magic around him. It was subtle, little more than cobweb filaments, but every now and again it would twist in a way that set alarm bells ringing.

She'd said he couldn't use magic, but it seemed she had no qualms about using her own to bamboozle him.

With a loud groan, he leaned back against the cool stone, considering his options. Something told him that if he played by the rules, he would be walking, lost and baffled, until he died down here in the dark. The knights would never be free, and Arthur would never return to claim Camelot's throne.

Running his tongue over his teeth, he contemplated trying to be subtle about it. Perhaps he could unpick her spells and leave them in tatters, which would at least stop the labyrinth from moving and make it passable, but that could take too long. Besides, he suspected she would notice his efforts. If he was going to break the rules, he might as well do it properly. It wasn't like he had to hide what he was from Arthur and the others any longer, which made things a bit easier.

Not that they'd seen him do any big magic, before. The days and weeks after they'd found out had been fragile. If not for Lancelot's quiet reassurances, Merlin might have despaired that things would ever be the same again. Yet they had come around, each and every one, and Merlin had done his best ever since to keep his spells small and helpful, harmless and tame. Or, if he couldn't manage that, then he'd at least kept his efforts subtle.

That wouldn't work with the fey. The few small scraps of information he had about the various Fair Ones that had once inhabited Camelot's lands were piecemeal at best. The Sidhe were not unique in their arrogance or their power. The one who took the knights might not be of the same sort, but he was not about to underestimate her. A show of power – true power – might be enough to make her think twice about continuing her tricks.

At least, he hoped so.

First things first, he needed a way through this labyrinth, and if she would not let him find one, then he would to make one.

He lay the torch on the floor, its stuttering flame dimming as his shadow capered on the wall. Thankfully, it did not go out, and he bowed his head as he pressed his palms to the cool, clammy stone. These tunnels were old, the raw bones of the earth themselves formed into shapes by fey magic. He could feel that now: not a deep, churning sea but a web that connected everything, spidering through his mind's eye like new roots cleaving dark soil.

He could simply punch his magic through, but there was who knew how much stone above his head. He did not want to bring half of the Darkling Woods crashing down around his ears. Instead, Merlin reached into his magic, plucking free an incantation to help guide his power: the clean stab of a sword rather than a merciless bombardment as he bade the earth to hold while also opening the way.

'Stímæger eorðgrá clēofe andgiete foldweg elemidde.'

The rock around him shivered, trembling beneath his touch as it answered the call of his words. A fine shower of grit rained down around him, but the tunnel didn't collapse. Beneath his feet, the ground shuddered as a crack split the wall between his hands, etching its way up the stone: a flaw into which Merlin could pour all his strength.

It was like pulling on a heavy door, slow at first, then with increasing speed as it found its momentum. Merlin's magic curled and heaved until the earth itself roiled, jerking open to reveal a golden path cleaving through the labyrinth's walls and straight to the chamber at its centre.

Scooping up the torch, Merlin marched along it, his jaw set and his magic sparking around him. It cut the web of the fey's power before it could take root and try to knit the stone together once more.

Sprinting into the unnaturally round chamber at the end, he squinted at the sunlight that poured through a hole in the ceiling. It was a long way up, the sky an unreachable lens of cornflower blue. Sunlight glinted off of the knights' armour, shifting as they struggled against their bonds. Five men. Not six.

Arthur was missing.

He swore under his breath as he skidded to a stop and dropped the torch. 'Are you all right? Are you hurt?'

'No,' Leon promised, looking more angry than anything else. 'She took Arthur and bound us here. We can't get out.' His eyes darted over Merlin's shoulder, taking in the passage he had made with a considering eye. 'She seemed to be of the view that you wouldn't be able to get in, either.'

'Yeah, well. She was wrong.' Merlin bit his lip, looking at the ropes that bound the knights. They were made of nothing so simple as mere twisted fibre, and he heaved a sigh. 'This might sting.'

'They won't shift, Merlin, mate,' Gwaine murmured. 'Not without her say so. Don't waste your –'

Merlin grasped the magic bonds, feeling their fretful hum, and ripped.

It hurt, cutting into his skin as his magic heaved and clashed with the fey power imbued with the ropes. His blood dripped onto the dry, dusty floor, but he paid it no mind as, inch-by-inch, the bonds began to unravel, spinning into nothing but splinters of light before vanishing completely.

'You cheated!'

The voice sounded scandalised, melting from the shadows as she stepped forward: a slender figure in a gown made of little more than gossamer tatters. Yet the glamour that had made her seem vulnerable and delicate had unravelled at its edges, allowing her features to take on a more predatory slant. Bones pressed beneath the surface of her skin, and her eyes were too large for her face to appear truly human.

'You cheated first,' he pointed out, getting to his feet as the knights scrambled to do the same, their swords in hand. 'What have you done with Arthur?'

She tossed her head, eyeing him with annoyance as if she were a child whose playtime had been called to an abrupt end. 'Perhaps I won't tell you,' she mused, waving a hand and turning the knights' blades into wooden sticks. 'Your punishment, for breaking the rules.'

Merlin sighed, rubbing a hand over his brow and grimacing as the cuts on his palm stung in high, searing notes. He probably looked a state, covered in dust and blood and the gods alone knew what else. If he was honest, he had run out of patience hours ago. He had not spent years saving Arthur from one calamity after another just to lose him now.

'Do you know of the Sidhe?' he asked, baring his teeth in a parody of a grin when the fey nodded, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. 'I'm thinking of two in particular: Aufric and Sophia.' He shifted, stepping towards her, each stride closing the distance.

'I always wondered what happened to them.'

'Me.'

Merlin tilted his head, something feral and fierce racing through him. It was the matter of a moment to reach for his magic and pull it to the fore, drawing the huge, nebulous cloud into something she could sense in its entirety.

He could feel its weight at his back, the furl of dragon wings and the roar of thunder, the weight of the world and the far-flung starlight of the night sky: the infinite possibility contained in the power that was his to wield by right if he so chose.

The knights saw it too. He heard Percival swear softly as Gwaine made a choked noise. Armour chimed as they shifted their weight: not away, as he had always feared, but forward, as if they were, to a man, captivated. He did not know what it looked like to them, but it was clear that the fey woman saw the truth of it. She did not cringe or quail, but she lowered her eyes, downcast and demure.

'I see.' Her fingers fluttered at her side, and the chamber vanished, stone peeling away to let in chill, misty air. His hands stung as the wounds there mended themselves, fading to thin white scars as the blood and dust vanished from his clothes. There was an odd, metallic clatter behind him, and he turned to see the knights were gone, whisked away as if they were nothing but figments.

'I have returned them to your camp,' she explained, her pale lips pursed tight to hide her sharp teeth. Delicate, spidery fingers twisted around each other: fretful.

'I passed your so-called test?' He managed not to sneer, but it was a close-run thing. He felt raw and exposed, as if he'd been left with no choice but to reveal himself in a way he would rather have kept tucked out of sight. His only comfort was that Arthur, at least, had not witnessed it.

'No. I never said I was testing you.' Her smile took on a wicked edge. 'That was just a game.'

Merlin drew in a deep breath, fighting the urge to shake her. 'I don't care what it was. All I want is Arthur. What have you done with him?

She gestured again, and the tendrils of mist parted to reveal the looming shapes of some standing stones. They formed a circle around an altar at their centre, and on it, his eyes closed and his face pale, lay Arthur.

Merlin darted between the monoliths, his boots skidding on the dew-drenched grass as he dashed to Arthur's side. His sword lay to his right, the pommel on level with his hip and the blade striking a silver line parallel to his leg. His hands were lax at his sides, and his face was the colour of alabaster. He looked like the carving atop a tomb, lifeless and monochrome bar the golden flax of his hair.

'He lives,' the fey promised, watching the press of Merlin's fingers to the pulse beneath Arthur's jaw. 'It is merely a deep sleep.'

'What have you done?'

'Please.' She shifted, prowling around them both. 'You know this story. A youth locked in an eternal sleep, waiting for the one thing that will stir them to the waking world once more. It's a tale almost as old as the world itself.'

Merlin closed his eyes, blowing out a breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 'True love's kiss? Are you joking?'

She raised one eyebrow. 'It's more than a fairy-tale; it is a test. Not of you, but of your love for him.' She simpered at his strangled sound of protest. 'Would you argue with me? Is loyalty not love? Devotion? Self-sacrifice? Do you deny that your every action is directed not by the demands of your own heart, but by him?'

'That's not the same.'

'Is it not?' She seemed to age as he watched her, the youthful sparkle of her eyes growing stronger and more certain until she looked upon him with a kind of wisdom that went beyond the known world. 'You would have given your own life for him more than once. You saved his tyrant father simply because you knew how his death would grieve him.' Her eyes narrowed. 'What do you fear more? That your kiss won't wake him, or that it will?'

Merlin swallowed, shaking his head. He refused to answer that. He had grown used to his own, quiet longing. He could not pinpoint when it started, only that now, looking back, "friendship" was not the limit of his regard for Arthur. There were some days when he ached to just hold him, to press chaste kisses to his brow and offer him what comfort he could, just as there were some nights where he could barely breathe for the want that uncurled through him, turning every inch of him hot with its strength.

'What if he doesn't wake up? What if it's not enough? Will you leave him like this?' he demanded.

Her only response was an eloquent shrug, and Merlin clenched his teeth hard enough to make his jaw creak. For a moment, he considered damning her stupid test and trying to unravel the curse himself, but even as he reached out with his magic, he realised it was a bad idea. She had not been lying: this power was old, and messing with it was more likely to plunge Arthur into death than bring him back to the waking world.

'Sorry,' he murmured, feeling like a thief. He doubted this was something that Arthur would consent to if he were able, but try as he might, he couldn't think of any other options.

Nervously, he wet his lips, pressing one hand to the cold stone by Arthur's ear before lowering his head to press his lips, chaste and sweet, to Arthur's own.

It was definitely not how he had ever imagined kissing him, and his heart ached to feel the complete lack of response from the man beneath him. There was no waking tension or sharp, indrawn breath. It was like kissing a statue, and Merlin braced himself, ready to push himself away, his chest sore and his stomach in miserable knots.

He did not notice the flutter of Arthur's fingers or witness the colour gently blooming in that handsome face. He knew nothing of his wakefulness until he went to retreat, only to find a hand in his hair and Arthur's lips chasing his own, his body arching up to capture another kiss.

The first had been tentative and distinctly one-sided. The second? Arthur's gasp was a whisper of benediction, sparking sensation like a lightning strike crackling down Merlin's spine. His lips were warm and certain, firm and slightly parted as he shifted the angle, nipping at Merlin's bottom lip. A moan slipped between them, quiet but needy, and it took Merlin a moment to realise the sound came from him.

Arthur broke back with a soft huff of laughter, joyful, not mocking. When he spoke, his voice was a rasp, his words lilted with traces of ill-hidden disbelief. 'True love's kiss, Merlin?' he asked, tilting his head where he lay. 'Really?'

Maybe it would be worse if he couldn't feel the nature of the fey magic around them and the strength of its foundations. For once, there was no trickery underscoring its power. This was not a matter of tragedy or heartbreak, because it was built on the notion of reciprocity. His love for Arthur would not have been enough to wake him. Not unless Arthur loved him in return.

'Really.'

Arthur's smile was like a midsummer sunrise, bright and beautiful. If Merlin hadn't already lost his heart, it would have been forfeit in that moment: Arthur's prize. He wanted to steal him away, to find somewhere quiet, private and safe so that they could explore this new frontier together, but even as the last remnants of the spell faded from the world, he realised there was still some power trapping them in the circle of stones.

He looked to his left, piercing the fey woman with a hard glare. 'Now what?'

Arthur blinked, turning to stare at her. That brief expression of shy, unmasked delight faded from view, replaced by a grimace as he propped himself on his elbow, murmuring his thanks as Merlin grabbed his hand and helped him sit up on the altar. 'We've played your game. Now let us go. All of us. My men as well.' The fingers of his right hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and Merlin reached out, resting his hand over Arthur's knuckles and shaking his head.

'Don't. You won't win.' He cocked his head towards the fey woman, sensing her power gathering like a cloak around her, braced for an attack. 'And neither will you. She says the knights are safe. I got them out of the labyrinth.'

'By cheating,' the woman snapped.

'You started it.'

Her nostrils flared as she drew in her breath, her lips pressed into a thin line. 'Once the test has begun, it cannot be brought to a halt. Not until it reaches its natural end.' Her narrow hands curled into fists at her side. 'There is one more step. One more thing he needs to see.' She tilted her head in Arthur's direction. 'You must show him what you revealed to me back in the labyrinth. Show him what you are.'

'I already know about Merlin's magic,' Arthur said, resting his left hand on the hub of Merlin's shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze before easing him aside. He slid off the altar, his boots thudding on the grass as he gained his feet. 'I know what he is.'

'No, you do not.' Her gaze took on a pitying slant, as if she did not envy either of them their position. All her mischief had faded, now. 'It is one thing to know a man is a knight, but another to see how he fights. It is one thing to know a man has magic. It is another to understand his power.'

Arthur looked at him, tense and uncertain, his brow creased as he turned to face Merlin more fully. 'What does she mean?'

Merlin swallowed, pursing his lips as his fears ran riot in his head. The knights had seen it more by accident than anything else, mere bystanders left to witness his efforts to intimidate the fey. At the time, he had been relieved that Arthur was not there. It was one thing for him to accept Merlin's magic, tame and useful. It was another entirely to let him see the fullness of its potential.

Part of him longed to keep it hidden – to not challenge the limits of Arthur's acceptance or test the newly acknowledged strength of his regard. Yet at the same time, he deserved to know the truth. Hiding this from him felt like a betrayal, even as the thought of revealing it scared him half out of his wits. Arthur's opinion was the one that mattered most, and Merlin never wanted him to look at him with fear in his eyes.

Yet what choice did he have but to show him?

Taking a deep breath, he swallowed hard, reaching out for his magic once more. 'This.'

He swallowed a whine as Arthur jolted back, his eyes wide as his gaze flew up to look over Merlin's shoulders, taking in the sprawl of his power brought into focus. There was no way to make it look diminutive, nor any method by which he could hide the primordial potential of his strength.

He could see the swirl of starlight and the glint of dragon-scale reflected in Arthur's eyes. Power gilded his armour and caught like diamonds in the golden strands of his hair as he bore witness to all the possibility of Merlin's magic: harm and healing, creation and destruction. The good, the bad, and everything in between.

Merlin closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a painful rush. Yet before he could shift the world to hide his magic from sight once more, the sound of boot-steps whispered over the grass. They were not hesitant or creeping, but a solid, confident stride, and Merlin felt his magic enfold Arthur in its embrace, welcoming and joyful. When he dared to look, Arthur was right in front of him, bold and brave, as if he knew Merlin's power would never cause him harm.

Warm fingers captured Merlin's cold ones in their grasp, the gentle pressure of Arthur's strength urging him closer. Their noses brushed, and Arthur's whisper was like a secret between them, for Merlin's ears alone.

'Thank you.'

His kiss was a vow upon Merlin's lips, warm and heady with words unspoken, but Merlin struggled to care. All that mattered was that Arthur had seen him – all of him – and he had not recoiled. He had learned not just of Merlin's magic, but the power he could wield, and he had not shied away. It felt as if the last shadowed parts of him had been dragged out into the light, but rather than being left raw and vulnerable, he was safe in the curve of Arthur's embrace.

The rush of the breeze through the leaves made him pull back, blinking at the emerald canopy above their heads. Dappled sunlight played around the woodland glade, and there was no sign of the standing stones or the fey woman who had trapped him in the labyrinth.

It seemed they had passed her test, whatever it may have been.

'Are you all right?' Arthur asked, his fingers tightening where his hands rested on Merlin's hips.

'I think I should be asking you that. I wasn't the one she enchanted.' He eased back, looking Arthur over with a sharp eye. There was no obvious sign that he was stuck under some sort of thrall. If anything, he looked calm and settled, content, despite the strange day they'd had.

'You broke it,' Arthur murmured, a hint of colour darkening his cheeks. 'I – She told me what it would take to wake me just before she cast it. Love both given and returned.' He swallowed, and Merlin wondered what Arthur had felt in that moment just before the spell took hold: hope, or despair? 'I didn't know you thought of me that way.'

'Clotpole,' Merlin replied, soft and fond, the glimmer of his smile falling away. 'You're not worried about what I showed you? My magic, how it really is?'

Arthur drew in a breath, taking a moment to give it some thought, which Merlin appreciated. 'I always suspected you could do a great deal more than trip up a few bandits and keep the fire lit. I didn't want to ask – didn't want to make you feel like you had to keep proving yourself to me again and again. I suppose she took that choice out of our hands.' He shook his head, and when he spoke again, it was both tender and certain, shorn free of any doubt.

'You're beautiful, Merlin, you and your magic both. I respect it for what it can do and you for your control of it – especially now I know the truth.'

'You aren't scared of it? Of me?'

'No. No more than I am scared of a beautifully crafted blade or a skilled knight loyal to Camelot. Your magic alone cannot hurt me, and you would never command it to do so.'

Merlin could not deny that, not when he would rather cut out his own heart than see Arthur come to harm. He let out a quiet sigh of relief as he swayed forward, resting his brow against Arthur's and taking a moment to simply breathe.

When he had woken up this morning, he had not imagined that the day might end like this. He had never thought that Arthur might return his quiet longing, and yet here they were, every last secret of note torn away thanks to the fey and her tricks.

The sound of the knights calling their names echoed through the trees, rough with concern, and Merlin winced in sympathy as he pulled back. 'We should probably tell them we're okay,' he decided, regretful. More than anything, he wanted to linger here in this stolen moment and relish Arthur's company, but reality seemed determined to intrude.

Judging by the expression on Arthur's face, he was equally reluctant to let Merlin go. Beyond this moment lay a realm of knights and kings, crowns and expectations, all waiting to press their burden upon Arthur's shoulders.

It would take time to work out what they were to each other in that world – to judge the shifting boundaries of their relationship and forge a place just for them, but Merlin would not turn his back on the challenge. Not now that he knew Arthur's heart was his to claim.

Stepping back, Merlin held out his hand, tilting his head back towards where they had made camp before the fey had whisked them all away. 'Are you ready?'

Arthur looked at him, his blue eyes dark with promise, and his quiet reply sounded as if he were talking about more than just re-joining the knights.

'I'm ready.'

He slipped his hand into Merlin's, and they walked side-by-side into their future.

#Merthur #Merlin

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gumballavocadoharry · 5 months

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First lesson; wit:

*This is Yn's POV*

The tall stone building seemed to collapse around me. I was standing in front of the castle like university in front of me, my legs trembling in discomfort, heart pounding out of my chest and stomach turning like I saw a billion maggots sliter under my shoes. My backpack was slung around me, and my suitcase full of my clothes and other things were tightly gripped into my hand. Any minute, I could tumble over and it would be the first embarrassment of my new school as luck would have all my classmates see the clumsy schmuck fall onto the hard pavement of concrete mixed in stone.

This was my first choice. I never had to face the despair of not being accepted into the school of my dreams, considering how much work I would have to put in to be a exceptional author. This was one of the best schools that was a recommendation from high school once I graduated. A chill crept down my spine before I carefully opened the large green tinted doors and walked into something so futuristic, that it shouldn't be exposed to the public now. Like Black Panther type technology. I swallowed my breath and managed to make it into the main office where I was given a number to my dorm room and and passes to the cafeteria, the library, gym, special classes and of course my main class. I was also handed three sheets of paper; one with the list of classes I had, the second was the classes I took and the third was a mini map of the entire school.

"I'm Mrs. Beachem, just let me know if you need anything." The older lady flashed a kind smile, which I courteously reciprocated. "Thank you very much." I gasped before darting off the elevators and taking the bridge to the dorms. 825, My room. A solo room; no roommates or anyone, just me. I laid out some cheap lavender sheets with a plum quilt over the mattress and started adding pictures on my walls. The frames complimented the room decor I was going for and the aesthetic. Lavender, plum purple, blue and gray were all the colors that took my plain white dorm to the next level. Classes didn't start until tomorrow, so that left me plenty of time to scan the different classrooms and shortcuts on how to get to them.

I sat on my bed and looked at the first paper that was stapled to the other two of my classes. My homeroom teacher- main class I took- was directed by Mr. Styles. He was one of the new professors on campus, only starting here three years before I did. I had heard about him from other students who went here and said he was one of the best teachers and that he was very resourceful in his knowledge of writing. The other two classes were taught by Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Vincent. I grew nervous just thinking about the morning ahead of me tomorrow. The thick river of vile held me at knife-point to spill up from my stomach in complete fussiness.

Maybe it was just my stomach gurgling in hunger. I checked the map again and practically uprooted myself from the soft mattress and walked to the cafeteria.

After filling my belly with banana pudding, a chicken burrito, diet coke and a bag of fritos, I promptly started walking through corridors to find the complex classes I was destined to take. I found Mrs. Vincent's class first. It had this cozy, quell aroma to it. The room was a piece of Mrs. Vincent, making the class as relaxing and educational as possible. Next was Mrs. Campbell's room which looked like any classroom. But with elfin traces of friendliness. Last was Mr. Styles's class. Entering it was like entering a lecture hall from a movie. This was nothing like some little kiddie high school classroom, but something from a movie. The class was the size of an auditorium with seats that has tables attached to them in rows. It wasn't stadium huge, but big enough to feel overwhelmed by it all.

I ventured back to my dorm across the bridge and settled into bed for the night as the sky was turning it's dark navy blue color with faint glint twinkles spotting around in the background. I took one last look around the room, darting my eyes all over the walls of my brand new shelter for the next year or so. I crawled into bed and rubbed my eyes hard enough to fall asleep.

I awoke to the sound of my blaring alarm and the morning birds chirping their usual matinal melodies. My first class, Mrs. Campbell's, started around 9:30. It was 8:30 now, so I didn't hesitate to rush into the shower, change clothes and run across the bridge to the cafeteria for a small bowl of cereal. I scanned my pass, grabbed a tray and plopped a bowl, a carton of milk and a small buffet box of cereal onto my tray and picked a random table by the window. I consumed my breakfast before grabbing a small cup of coffee and leaving straight after for class. Upon entering the first classroom of the day, I was greeted with cheerful smiles and the smell of cake.

My eyebrows pinched themselves together wondering where that smell was coming from until I realized it was a lit candle that was blooming on Mrs. Campbell's desk. I took my seat towards the back and unpacked my yellow notebook with a pattern of daisies and hearts. I assigned this particular one to the English class because it had a springtime theme to it, while my teddy bear one was assigned to Mrs. Vincent and a stone royal blue was to Mr. Styles. "Hello class." She walked in; floral print dress, beige cardigan and black flats with the most cheerful smile and professional demeanor. She took her stance at her chalkboard, writing her name and introducing herself to everyone.

"I'm Mrs. Ann Campbell, but you can all call me Mrs. Campbell." She sat perfectly ladylike at her desk, shining off the top layer of it for any dust particles that may have collected. Her perky tone in describing the basics of English literature made it seem anything but a dull pointless subject. At least, not to the credits who predicted that English was a key point in writing......which was correct. I jotted down as many notes as I possibly could before the bell rung and the class was dismissed. I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed the stream of students pouring out of the door. My next was Mr. Styles.

I entered the classroom-styled lecture hall- and took my seat towards the middle. A slew of students crammed themselves into the large hall, taking their seats just as the young teacher entered the class. He wore this white dress shirt tucked into some black slacks with a thick black watch almost riveting up his entire wrist. "Hello, I'm Mr. Styles," He wrote his name slickly across the chalkboard in a tight pinched manner. "And this is creative writing." His voice almost had this monotone echo that snapped all eyes in his direction. He was nothing like Mrs. Campbell, and her warm cheerful smile and cake scented classroom. No, this was a rigid college class that expected...demanded full attention and the best of your intelligence. And Mr. Styles fit that description perfectly.

The man's chalk sketched across the green board with speed; not stopping to take a breather in for even a slight pause for the sake of his wrist. "Mark Twain was a famous author; famous for writing short humoristic stories about his character's misadven-" Mr. Styles paused to see a boy in his front row giggling from a note he passed. He didn't hesitate to snatch the note, rip it up and slam the pieces of it back on the boy's desk.

"Young man, your first day of kindergarten is over. This is a complex class that details writing, its history of it and knowledge to be a writer," He leaned in closer, eyes squinting only a little, "You can come to this class fully prepared or not at all to this class, this school, this university. But don't think for a minute I'll tolerate anything in between!" He sneered spitefully, before gathering back over to the chalkboard and continuing the lesson.

He cleared his throat and continued his Mark Twain lesson, despite leaving the boy in such engrossed humiliation that tears torrent over. But no one was watching him....they were all focused on Mr. Styles and his very comprehensive speech of how Mark Twain's writing influenced how much nuance writers used to this day. The class was of a quiet echo; only Mr. Styles's voice was heard throughout the class. I looked down at the royal blue notebook on my desk.....Yep. The notebook matched the class's theme perfectly; straight to the point, no nonsense, and solid. If there were any mistakes, there would be a whip across the back....if not a flat out execution.

The bell had rung, stripping everyone's cast iron focus on Mr. Styles to their bags and books. I scampered out with everyone else, only glancing back to see Mr. Styles looking upon his pupils in a now deserted lecture hall.

I took a breath in, trying hard to release the pent up tension from the suffocating walls of Mr. Styles class. I've had strict and unruly teachers before....but this was something singular. With the snap of his fingers, Mr. Styles could make the universe look into his aloof, stolid eyes. A chill quivered through my body like a snake slithering against its tree. It was lunch time, and then next would be Mrs. Vincent's class.

I managed to make it to the cafeteria where it seemed like everyone was on the dot. I grabbed a tray and plopped a couple sandwiches, a bottle of gatorade, doritos and blueberry yogurt onto my tray before snatching a table by the back windows. My neighbor was no other than the boy who had his handed to him by Mr. Styles. We were both diffident, reserving our eyes to our plates that we somehow had a hard time manipulating into moving the food into our mouths untouched.

"That's some class?" I finally broke the ice, showing the boy that I wasn't a snoot who blindly agreed with Mr. Styles harsh correction. "Yeah," He gave a soft chuckle, still in shame from the latter incident, "The guy seems to be fond of Mark Twain right?"

I giggled, "Yeah. He described him so vividly and passionately, that I was beginning to wonder if he was there with him in person and had a personal conversation with him." The boy laughed, "Yeah....." He was still unsure of my interaction, so I had to let my cards fall onto his lap. "Look, what happened in class....I didn't agree with. Mr. Styles seems like one of those teachers and you seem really nice. I'm Yn by the way." The boy finally gave a full beam. "I'm Lucus." I returned the smile and suddenly stuffed my sandwich into my mouth, finally enjoying the savoring flavor of a mitigate stomach. And I think Lucus did too.

I remembered my shortcut across the way to Mrs. Vincent's class. The motherly like class that had the aura of protection, yet didn't slack in education. But I knew this would be the easiest class. It was nice break from the parky dry institution that was to be Mr. Styles class. Speaking of the devil, on my way to Mrs. Vincent's class, Mr. Styles walked past me; skimming a tight lipped smile with quiescent intractable eyes. But even his polite expression was dry. There was no real passion inside of it. But yet, the very presence of this man demanded obedience and austere behaviour. The aura of his presence still haunted me as I took shattered steps into Mrs. Vincent's cozy haven. "Good afternoon class!" She squealed with such warm sugary vocals.

"I'm Mrs. Vincent. And this is American literature," She wrote it on her whiteboard, easing the eardrums of the brash blackboard sounds of the chalk against a chalkboard. "Before we start, does anyone have any questions?" I held back from anything as I just wanted to get this class over with so I could squirm back into my dorm and bury my head in my studies. Mrs. Vincent started the class and from I learned so far- her class was the easiest. Not too much homework, nor too much fast talking and just an overall laxed mien in the environment. I took notes and once I finished my last page, class was over. The bell rang and we were dismissed.

I followed the wave of students out of Mrs. Vincent's classroom before breaking off independently onto the bridge. It was like a glass tunnel where you could see everyone on campus walking around with their schoolbags and their schedules. I made it back to my dorm where solitude surrounded me. There was no chatting or yelling among students, teachers, or staff members....just peace. In exhaustion, I flopped onto my bed after dropping my bag on the floor. I circled face up and stared at the ceiling. Can I do this? Is this worth it? Two classes are amazing and the other....no....I took his class to challenge myself. He's one of the best professors on campus....give it a chance. Besides....you didn't screw up with him...yet.

Those thoughts raced through my head like a hamster on a wheel. But my mind couldn't help but ruminate over Mr. Styles. He's a demanding to please....but what about everyone else? Was he married? Did he have kids? I bet he's a total sweetheart to them; giving them big hugs and using a more soothing reserved tone, never daring to speak one harsh critical word to them. I uprooted myself from the bed and glued myself to the cotton swivel chair at my desk and took out my first book of creative writing. After all, Mr. Styles said either "come to the class prepared or not all" but he will refuse to "tolerate anything in between." Out of sheer fear, I swallowed as much information about Mark Twain that I could cram into my brain.

I almost missed dinner. I sped down to the cafeteria and grabbed leftover lasagna with a glass of lemonade and salad. I figured I needed the brain food. The cafeteria was mostly empty except for the last few people trying to gather in the last traces of their meal. I ate quickly before taking my tray up to the counter and returning to my dorm. "Yn!" I turned to see Lucus heading towards me on the bridge. "Hey," He caught his breath a little, "I just wanted to say thank you again for being so nice to me. It was a rough day but.....I appreciate your kindness," I smiled, "You're welcome Lucas....I know....I took Mr. Styles class for the challenge. I knew he was an excellent teacher and very detailed in teaching creative writing....if you can ignore his style of teaching that is....you'll make it."

Lucas swallowed hard, "You're right. I shouldn't have passed that note in class," "That doesn't excuse Mr. Styles of course, but.....you seem really smart. My point is- don't let that get to you or ruin the class. Give yourself a chance to rise up to the challenge and make it worth your while."

Lucas looked at me like I was some all knowing elder. "Thank you again Yn...you're so wise." I knew it. I smiled and gave Lucas a pat on the shoulder. I watched as he walked away to the left side of the dorm area. I turned right to mine and locked myself in for the night. My studies continued until I fell asleep after barely taking off my clothes.

I arose to the freckled spots of sun hitting my face. I rung into the shower, got dressed, grabbed my backpack and headed to the cafeteria. Everyone seemed to be celebrating Friday. I guess me and Lucas weren't the only ones who had a grueling first day. Tomorrow would be the weekend and that meant I was free to visit friends, family go to the movies or even just study. I know how it sounded. I didn't want to be one of those book dependent people where you only ever just studied and totally shut out life itself. But it was just creative writing. The thought of it made my heart beat faster and my stomach twist itself into my throat. Even if I wasn't the one getting scolded, just the thought of some clown deliberately testing the waters with Mr. Styles made my legs ping.

That man could stare Satan in the eyes and make the devil himself shudder in terror. The hand-me-down feeling of watching someone get punished by him was different than some uptight high school teacher letting one of her students have it. They usually deserved it. But the slightest offense in Mr. Styles class would be a lesson that one would learn very quickly: Your second chance is sitting in that chair and still being able to finish the class. Not taps on the wrist, no timeouts. Nothing. Either you sink or swim.

This chapter is sooooo long that I figured I'd make a part two...

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles and yn #professor harry #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagines #harry one shot #harry styles fanfictions #harry styles oneshot #harry styles love #harry and yn #harry x yn #harry x reader

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poemoftheday · 5 months

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Poem of the Day 14 December 2023

Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866

The Grave of Love

I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave.

I press'd them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.

#poetry #poem of the day #poem #thomas love peacock

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powderblueblood · 2 months

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ohhhh 18, 9, and 2 for your Steve and Eddie (any verse you'd like

interrogate me about my characters

you are FEEEDING MEEEEE i'm sorry this took me like a couple of days my brain had to power back up after the weekend

2. THEIR EMOTIONAL/MORAL WEAK SPOTS

hellfire & ice/sequel!eddie starts off as your garden variety drug dealer and progressively adds a couple more tools in his criminal belt as the years go on and honestly? doesn't really see that much of a boohoo about it. yes, it's what the world expects from all munsons, yes, it's bad bad work for bad bad men but eddie can't see himself working a straight job. ever. he's not equipped for it. and, he's made peace with the fact that he'll never be a rockstar (jk no the fuck he has not he's so bitter) so he's all, might as well make the wasted years i have on this stupid earth a little more interesting. he's got a little bit of a robin hood complex going on once we meet him in his late 20s.

clear cut!steve is also a criminal albeit the smoother kind, and kind of works off a similar thing of i've never been good at anything else, so this might as well be my career. except for steve, it's banking on how far he can get with that tireless, bottomless, all-consuming harrington charm. working in insurance, or whatever the fuck his father did, never quite scratched the itch of bold faced robbery that... well, robbery did. it's funny, though. steve's never had the aspirations towards grandeur that his fellow thieves have had, because he knows what it's like to grow up in a cushy rich household. steve's just doing it for the thrill of fooling everybody. and he is, by the way. fooling everybody. even you. remember that.

9. HUMILIATING MEMORIES

hellfire and ice!eddie, like.... do you mean his entire life up to this point and actually, beyond. he once got so unbelievably fucking stoned that he thought calling a phone sex line was a good idea but then once the sexy operator lady picked up, he got so freaked out that he could only talk in fozzie bear voice and he couldn't drop the bit for 20 minutes. fun conversation with wayne about that phone bill. he's also written so much bad poetry, so many embarrassing near-self insert stories (one of us, one of us) where he romances many a comely elfin lady. he once slipped one of these stories into chess club captain martha peterson's locker in freshman year as, like, an effort at wooing her but then he got pulled into the fucking guidance counselor's office because she said he was stalking him.

old hollywood!steve... again. regrets. humiliations. he has a few. one could be punching bela lugosi out after a stage production of dracula because he thought he was a real vampire (drunk). another could be punching out an extra on the set of the merry widow in 1925 because he was sniffing around mae murray, who steve was also sniffing around at the time (jilted). steve was replaced by 'that rodent-voiced bastard john gilbert' and the extra he clocked? none other than clark gable. among other embarrassments; not securing a finalized divorce from his first wife before he married his second (drunk), the time he fully pissed his pants when buster keaton played a prank on him during a seance (stoned), getting caught wailing for a second chance outside joan crawford's room at the garden of alla hotel (that woman was inside having lesbian sex).

18. THINGS THEY'LL NEVER ADMIT

old hollywood!eddie knows his entire career is based on fluke, but he's too embarrassed to nurture his real talent, which is writing. to be honest, he does stunts because he kind of has a death wish. not being able to express himself was killing him, but he was always too full of piss and vinegar and cowardice to kill himself. but now people see him, or what the studios have made of him, and it's glorious and horrifying and naked and fake and full of possibility that he's too scared to touch.

hellfire & ice/burning up & burning out!steve (moreso sequel relevant, but) has always thought lacy was a fucking weirdo honestly and blames lacy for nancy pulling away from him during his senior year, not like nancy becoming a person was a factor or anything... until they're older and steve and lacy grow increasingly fond of each other. he wishes he took the job that his dad laid out for him on a silver platter sometimes and married someone stable, like tina or whoever. steve's increasingly more anxious socially as he ages, knowing that most people see him as some kind of joke, but he has to put on the face and be the guy, whatever that means to him in 1994. he's terrified that he's built his life around constructs that are flimsy; being independent from his family, following a path when he's not sure of himself as a person, desperately trying to make the thing with nancy work when she's there because he's familiar and he's there because he's afraid.

#powder room talk #slowdancer #e. munson by powder #s. harrington by powder #hai brainrot #clear cut #bubo #burn like nitrate

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ponderingrandomthings · 6 days

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youtube

I was amazed (long back) to see this video. I didn't know Andy Williams sang a version (with them!) as well.

This song itself is fascinating as well. I took time (as I often do - ha ha), to read through and research the lyrics.

Apparently, these are two separate folk songs that Simon and Garfunkel put together. Scarborough Fair and Canticle.

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Extracts from Wikipedia:

The song lists a number of impossible tasks given to a former lover who lives in Scarborough, North Yorkshire.

The famous melody was collected from Mark Anderson (1874–1953), a retired lead miner from Middleton-in-Teesdale, County Durham, England, by Ewan MacColl in 1947.

… the 1960s folk rock duo Simon & Garfunkel, who learned it from Martin Carthy.

The lyrics of Scarborough Fair appear to have something in common with a Scottish ballad titled "The Elfin Knight", collected by Francis James Child as Child Ballad #2, which has been traced as far back as 1670. [An elf threatens to abduct a young woman to be his lover unless she can perform an impossible task.]

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Lyrics Open Text = Scarborough Fair (Text in Parenthesis) = Canticle

. Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there She once was a true love of mine

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt (deep forest green) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (Tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground) Without no seams nor needlework (Blankets and bedclothes a child of the mountains) Then she'll be a true love of mine (Sleeps unaware of the clarion call)

Tell her to find me an acre of land (On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves) Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (Washed is the ground with so many tears) Between the salt water and the sea strand (A soldier cleans and polishes a gun) Then she'll be a true love of mine . Tell her to reap it in a sickle of leather (Blazing in scarlet battalions) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (Generals order their soldiers to kill) And to gather it all in a bunch of heather (And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten) Then she'll be a true love of mine . Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there She once was a true love of mine ---

List of Recordings (is staggering)

Field recordings

1939. Georgia Ann Griffin of Newberry, Alachua, Florida. Recorded by John Lomax

1958. Allie Long Parker of Hogscald Hollow, Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Recorded by Mary Parler

1966. Sara Cleveland of Brant Lake, New York. Recorded by Sandy Paton

1976. Elizabeth "Liz" Jefferies. Recorded in Bristol by Barry and Chris Morgan

Commercial recordings

1955. Actor/singers Gordon Heath and Lee Payant (album Encores from the Abbaye)

1956. A. L. Lloyd and Ewan MacColl, using Kidson's melody (album The English and Scottish Popular Ballads vol IV)

1947. Mark Anderson (retired lead miner, who sang to Ewan MacColl) - this melody was used by Simon & Garfunkel in "Scarborough Fair/Canticle".

1956. Audrey Coppard (album English Folk Songs)

1957. Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger's LP Matching Songs of the British Isles and America

1960. Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger's album The Singing Island

1965. Martin Carthy (eponymous debut album) inspired by Ewan and Peggy's songbook

1966. Marianne Faithfull (album North Country Maid)

1967. Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger's a capella version on The Long Harvest

1968. Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66

1969. Vicky Leandros (several versions - English, German, French, and Greek)

1989. The Stone Roses (their own words to the melody for "Elizabeth My Dear")

2007. Celtic Woman (album A New Journey)

2009. My Dying Bride (EP Bring Me Victory)

2012. Nox Arcana (album Winter's Majesty)

2003. Queensryche (remastered version of album Empire, though recorded in 1986)

2020. Dan Avidan and group Super Guitar Bros

---

#Youtube #Scarborough #Scarborough Fair #Canticle #Mark Anderson #Ewan MacColl #Martin Carthy #Francis James Child #Paul Simon #Art Garfunkel #Simon and Garfunkel #folk songs #folk music #music

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mikeladano · 11 months

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REVIEW: Kick Axe - IV (2004)

View On WordPress

#Brian Gillstrom #Canadian rock #Elfin Stone #Gary Langen #hard rock #heavy metal #IV #Kick Axe #Larry Gillstrom #Raymond Harvey #Victor Langen

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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 2 months

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Greensleeves Chapter Thirteen: Dirty Paws

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Wordcount: 4.4k Warnings: Canon-typical violence, description of injuries

The party confront the last of the goblin leaders and conclude their business at the Selunite temple. They set their sights on the Risen Road and the wardevil Karlach

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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He wakes to the sound of her laughter again. It tricks him into thinking they’re still camping in the woods, but when he crawls inelegantly out of his tent he’s confronted with stone. Still in the snake pit, then. Not for much longer, hopefully. Fire still crackles in a pit before the statue of Selune, their only source of light unless a spellcaster throws sprites into the air. Gale does a headcount. Avoiding looking at Xaph for as long as possible. Shadowheart is lying flat on her back, staring up at the stone ceiling. The artefact rests on her stomach while she toys with it. Lae’zel is in her underthings, stretching each of her limbs until they look fit to dislocate. Astarion’s tent is still closed, suggesting that he’s still asleep. The other three are sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall opposite Gale’s tent. Wyll has found a stick and is getting the dog to turn around and around in circles to chase it. The druid Halsin is smiling, though he still has the dark circles and scratches from his imprisonment. He’s a mountain of muscle that makes Xaph and Wyll look small but waves Gale over with an even wider smile when he sees him awake.

Xaph tosses Gale an apple from the stash of fruit the wizard and the warlock had found in the storage cupboard the goblins had been keeping Volo in. Xaph. He needs to talk to Xaph. Preferably without other people around, so for now he’ll settle for group breakfast. Not on the floor though. It’s far too early for his knees to even consider that. There’s an upturned crate nearby. That’ll do. Xaph. She’s working through a peach. She’s wearing those loose trousers and a cropped undershirt. Her midsection has bloomed indigo and plum overnight. He makes an educated guess that the ranger and the druid had stayed awake together despite the set night watch. At least they’ve made friends, bringing the party’s number of arguing duos back down to one. The dog bumps into his knee and reminds him other people are around. His hand drops to ruffle the dog’s ears and Scratch pushes his head up into his hand. Idle conversation is made, an activity at which Gale knows he excels, though he forgets it temporarily when Xaph drags her tongue up the length of her forearm and across her palm to collect drips of peach juice.

She answers a question from Halsin several minutes later and he rolls away from them and into bear form to plod across the chamber to a section of wall ivy has pushed through. Xaph and Wyll engage in an admittedly childish game of fire-water-wood to decide who has to go and wake Astarion. Wyll loses and rises with a sigh. Once Astarion’s up the party will have to leave and face the carnage of the camp and the consequences of acts they’ve already committed. Gale can see the appeal of leaving the vampire in his elfin trance, but Shadowheart would start cracking the whip soon enough. Xaph rakes a hand through her hair and lets her head fall back against the wall. They’ve been left alone. For how long?

“He didn’t sleep at all last night, poor thing,” Xaph says quietly, sadly, watching bear-formed Halsin slump, then stand to move somewhere else, sit again, up again- “I know the feeling.”

“Did you?” Gale asks, “Sleep?” he clarifies a moment later. Xaph nods.

“Surprisingly, I did. After Gut I was sure I’d spend several nights awake, remembering the House of Hope,” a hand creeps up to her throat, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone, and he wonders if she’s aware of the movement. Now is not the time to ask. “But you gave me something better to think about. Thank you. You’ve brought me much comfort during nights that would have been sleepless. I’ll figure out how to pay you back.”

“Kindness isn’t bought, Xaph.”

“Well, no, but it should be returned. Besides, I hate owing people,” her head rolls to the side so she can look at him, and she pulls a knee up to her chest, “Listen, Gale, about last night…” his shoulders pull back, just a little, correcting his posture,

“Oh, I was surprised. But pleasantly so, like I said,” he tells her, “Amid the madness that has befallen us, it’s important to recall what makes us human. Well. You know what I mean,” a sharp exhale through her nose tells him he’s caused no offence, “A stolen glance. That sudden heartbeat. Sometimes the little things are worth more than kingdoms,” there it is. Their eyes meet and it feels secret and stolen and exciting, “They promise things to come.”

“What’s to come?” Xaph asks. Her eyes drop to his lips then back up and the bursts of want and sympathy that flash between their worms are as quick as a coin flip. How far open is this door? No. They should close it. They don’t want to.

“Divination’s not my school.” Gale quips, and there’s the little exhale again. It unravels another string from around his rib. He’s letting her answer, of the opinion that he’s made his feelings on the matter clear. Xaph thinks - he can practically see the cogs turning in her mind - before she lifts her hand into the space between them. Her pinky finger is extended.

“Tell you what. We make it through this, and I’ll take you to the mountains. I’ll even let you portal us, and we can see where the thyme grows,” she says. Gale hooks his finger with hers, mimicking the way he’d tried to make contact the night before. She squeezes a promise into his finger before she pushes up onto her feet and unlinks their fingers to flatten her hand in a more general offering, “Give me your hand, if we be friends.”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” He knows the line, of course he does. Knows the play. Xaph’s smile is one partly of relief that he’d understood, and it grows when he accepts the hand though he doesn’t really need the help to get up.

“It’s my favourite. I’ve seen it a half-dozen different times, and it’s always different. And always beautiful.”

“I propose a trade then,” Gale says, “If you show me your mountains, I’ll take you to the finest theatres in Waterdeep.”

She nods in agreement, and her eyes are bright. He’s smiling and there’s warmth in his face and his hands. They’re going to die, but maybe for a little while they can pretend otherwise.

***

Blood fills the day. Now that the goblins have finally sobered up - those who hadn’t been poisoned and gargled to death that is - they notice there are rather a lot of bodies scattered around their stronghold. Dror Ragzlin, their fearless and until-now undefeated leader, is slumped on the floor of his chamber stripped of his weapons and his vault ransacked. The priestess might not be in seclusion at all, though this is unconfirmed because no one can find her. The druid they’d been keeping in the worg pens is gone. So is their new bard pet. And the prisoner from the grove. They don’t even have a chicken left to chase. All had gone to hell as soon as those True Souls turned up…and they can’t be True Souls, can they? Would the Absolute punish them so severely when they’d done nothing but follow Her word?

It’s not a delicate operation. Halsin shifts from rat to bear when a goblin blade slices Xaph’s calf open and if further hell can break loose it does so as his captors realise where their captive has gone. However, he’s an incredibly useful asset for batting enemies away while Wyll wraps a rag around Xaph’s leg to staunch the bleeding. Shadowheart and Lae’zel have found harmony in their shared fervour for battle, the former finding great joy in swinging her new flail into the skulls of goblins who get too close. A goblin heretic caught in a wooden cage howls that this is a punishment from Maglubiyet for their sin of straying to another god. The party retreats to the stairs to find the drow Minthara and at the top of the steps Gale twists, claps his hands, detono, and a fistful of goblins clatter down onto the stone floor of the sanctum again. This wing is clear of goblins, and the party aren’t sure if that’s because the drow was sure they wouldn’t make it this far or if she’s collected the strongest around her. The former proves to be the truth. When they spill into the room functioning as the office where she delegates raids, she stands alone. Her name is Minthara, and she’s intent on destroying the grove. To cleanse the ground of druids believing in the ‘false god’ she perceives Silvanus to be. To wipe out the treacherous surface-dwelling tieflings who should have stayed in the hells. To find the artefact trembling in Shadowheart’s pocket. She stands on the opposite side of the room, across a rickety bridge that covers a gap in the floor. Her armour is incredible - drow have many expert leatherworkers in their numbers - and she wields a heavy sword. A lyre is strapped to her back but no one is about to make the mistake of thinking she’s a bard. Illusory shields circle around her and further yellow light puffs up from the ground like dust where she walks. Her body hums with enough magic that the hair on the back of Gale’s neck prickles. He has to say that their ragtag group looks intimidating between the githyanki wielding a sword almost a quarter of her weight, the tiefling with her tail thrashing despite her bleeding leg and the giant bear looming behind them. Gale himself brings pinpricks of red energy to each of his fingers, ready to fire. He’s fast running out of spells and he has to make what he’s got left counts. Wyll stands beside him with a crossbow he’d lifted off a body ready and loaded and Shadowheart on his other side levels a spear at the drow. She’s crossing the bridge now, still silent but more menacing for it. The sword twists in a bright circle. Scratch cowers behind a bookshelf.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Astarion. Gale had almost forgotten about him. “Ignis.” He casts spells lazily - as though they don’t take massive effort - but credit where credit is due, his ability to aim is indisputable. He lands his hit now, his firebolt eating into the wood of the bridge. The drow laughs, high and cruel, thinking he’s missed. Her mouth opens into a wide O of shock when she hears the snapping and cracking of the bridge beneath her feet. Astarion’s flames have burned through the rope securing the supports of the wooden planks. Without the rope, the wood falls into the chasm. The drow follows with hardly time to scream. Silence sits on surprised shoulders, none of them willing to relax quite yet, but the drow doesn’t rise back up from the chasm.

“Well. That’ll do it,” Wyll says eventually, “Let’s get out of here before her backup arrives.”

“As solid a plan as any.” Shadowheart agrees, turning without further ceremony.

“Good spot, Astarion.” Xaph hits his shoulder and he pulls away from the contact but he doesn’t insult her.

The party slink out of the room and back towards the makeshift torture chamber. It’s the only exit they know of besides the front door and none of them want to face a second horde of goblins. Slowly, with many helping hands, they climb the rocks and squeeze out of the cragged hole that Liam had escaped through. The goblins must have been aware of this bolt hole because there are traps every few feet along the grassy path that Liam has pushed sticks into. On one side the stone wall of the temple rises upwards and on the other, the grass drops off into the river at a height that would break limbs if they were to jump. They have little choice but to inch their way along the grass single-file, hopping over traps Liam had missed, bones clattering when Astarion or Shadowheart stop to check skulls for weapons. Xaph carries the dog. Halsin morphs into a bird - Gale doesn’t know what kind - and flies above them, stretching his wings. He and Xaph call back and forth and he directs them away from any goblins until they wind their way back to the copse of maple trees. Their campsite is untouched, the grass where their tents had been set still flattened, as though the last few days hadn’t happened.

Once she’s decided they’re an adequate distance from danger, Shadowheart strips off her armour and wades into the river in her clothes. Xaph flops onto the ground and sets to pulling off her boots and trousers to get to her injured leg. Halsin plummets to earth and she watches him with a fondly knowing expression as he becomes himself again and pushes his fingers into the grass and mud. She also conjures some of her goodberries and deposits them in a bowl Wyll offers her, which he then carries around to the rest of the group. Lae’zel kneels at the riverbank to clean her blood-coated sword. Astarion pointedly distances himself from the bleeding members of the party. Wyll collects a bowl of water and takes over Xaph’s treatment after seeing her groaning when she bends to try and reach her leg. When she beckons Gale over he obeys. An arrow had caught his arm and his clothes are sticky with blood. He undoes the purple robe and rolls his sleeve so Xaph can get to it. They form a funny little line, Wyll gently holding and cleaning Xaph’s calf and testing the length of her tail for further injury while she tears strips from clean clothes to wrap Gale’s arm and wrist in.

“Spell check?” she whispers to him, turning his arm over in her hands. She draws a circle on his skin with her thumb, indicating that she’s asking about his magical malady.

“Manageable, for the moment.” The pain is no worse than usual, there’s no need to consume magic, but with quick fingers Xaph presses an agate ring into his palm.

“Astarion nicked this off that goblin with the foot fetish. He won’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“Ow!” Wyll has found a cut in Xaph’s tail and she can’t stop it from slithering out of his grasp.

“Sorry.” Wyll grimaces in time with the tiefling.

“You’re alright.” Xaph assures him, not unkindly. While he refocuses his attention on her leg she waves Halsin over. The elf sits in front of her, but doesn’t speak. With his nodded agreement Xaph takes his chin between her fingers and lifts a damp rag to his face. She sets to wiping the mud and goblin viscera off his face - discovering that the red marks on his face are in fact tattoos - and the druid’s eyes close as he lets himself relax into the ranger’s hands. Slowly he comes back to himself. Xaph makes small clucking noises, and they seem to bring him comfort.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel permit them a half hour of respite. Gale’s changed his shirt and tried to beat the blood out of his robe with river water and a stone. When he pulls it back on the sleeve is still soaking wet, but hopefully the sun will dry it. Astarion returns to them with a little colour in his cheeks, thanks to some squirrels he doesn’t tell Halsin about. The druid has grounded himself and speaks to the group at large,

“The grove owes you a debt beyond measure. All of you. Killing’s never my first choice, but those three were too dangerous to leave alive.”

“The debt might be beyond measure, friend,” Astarion starts, leaning back on his hand, “But I do hope we can count on some compensation,” Xaph pokes him with the toe of her boot, “What, that was a lot of work.”

“When you return to the grove, I’m sure I can arrange something,” Halsin tells him, “But I must return as soon as I can to stop Kagha.”

“We can’t go with you,” Wyll says, “At least, I can’t. I think we should check on that settlement the goblins raided. Waukeen’s Rest. The trader I spoke to said that some of the buildings were already burning when they got there and the fire couldn’t be put out.”

“Hellfire.” Xaph says. Wyll nods,

“Karlach. I’m honour-bound to make her my priority, and I cannot deviate further from my path.” It’s the first mention of his quarry since they’d met him. He’d set his mission aside for the tieflings. Appreciation buzzes in the tips of Xaph’s ears as she replies,

“I’ll come with you. I want to find out where those gnolls came from.” It was gnolls that had attacked the tieflings on the Risen Road and tracked them halfway to the grove. It was gnolls that had attacked Scratch’s master. They don’t normally track along roads, particularly not such a prominent road as the one between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate.

“If it gets us closer to the creche, I will join you. If not, I go on alone.” Lae’zel decides. That’s three out of six. Shadowheart is pulling at the leather straps of her armour to secure it but she looks up to nod her assent to Xaph,

“Like I said, I’ll go where you go…” her eyes slide to Lae’zel, “Within reason.”

“As will I. Though I think my limitations of reason are quite different.” The brevity of Gale’s answer carries sincerity. Astarion rolls his eyes,

“Well, you’re hardly going to leave me behind.”

“I understand. Of course, you have missions and motivations of your own,” Halsin says, “Though I do ask that you return to the grove before you leave the wilderness entirely. No doubt the tieflings would give their thanks to you as well,” he rises to his full height, taller than everyone else in the camp, “Thank you again. I must say, even though I am unable to help you, the bonds you have formed will. They will aid you in your search for a cure as much as any sword.” With these parting words said, he shrinks down into a rat once more and leaps away.

“Fat lot of good friendship’s going to do us,” Astarion sneers, “Bloody druid.”

***

The Risen Road has become the Ruptured Road. Following their map, the party comes to a stone bridge that has fallen in the middle. It’s a manageable gap that everyone can jump across, though Xaph’s injured leg buckles under her and Shadowheart pulls her back up by her collar. Crates litter the bridge, debris from a broken-down cart. When Astarion prises one open he finds fresh produce. Cabbages, onions. Garlic he deliberately leaves when he brings his spoils back to the party. Other crates are broken into and the food is taken from them. Someone wonders aloud what had happened to the cart. Wyll reminds them of the goblins, the gnolls, the drow, Karlach. There are many possibilities. Xaph’s limping noticeably now, but she doesn’t ask them to stop and she waves Gale’s helping hand away. At a fork in the road, they turn right based on a hunch Wyll has. There are more crates here, but no fresh food. Just the smell of death. There are hyenas on the road. They look dead. Lae’zel makes way for Xaph to creep forward, dragging her injured foot a little.

She sinks to one knee and passes a hand over the creature’s bloated stomach. It’s still breathing, shudderingly. At Xaph’s touch, its entire body jerks as though taken by a seizure.

“Weapons,” Xaph says simply, and she hears the shink of daggers sliding into Astarion’s palms. The hyena writhes under her hand. Its life isn’t ending. It's evolving. This is how many gnolls are born. A shocked noise startles from Gale when, lightning-quick, Xaph extracts a goblin arrow from her hip quiver and plunges it between the unfortunate creature’s ribs and a second through its ears, “How many?” she asks.

“Five.” Wyll answers. Xaph pulls her bow from her shoulder, angling it so it doesn’t scrape the ground when she draws.

“They’re turning. Gnolls can spawn from infected hyenas, and all-” Xaph’s explanation is drowned out by high whining, howling, the snapping of bones. Her companions watch in horror as the hyena bodies in front of them contort and burst like boils. Creatures, far bigger than the hyenas they came from, crawl out and up onto surprisingly steady feet. Signature hyena laughs erupt from the beasts and it chills the party to the bones.

“Fight or run?” Astarion asks in a hushed voice.

“Fight.” Lae’zel insists. She races forward before anyone can protest, and both Shadowheart and Gale groan god-related curses while Wyll darts after her. Xaph sends an arrow along their path to stick in her target’s leg.

“Astarion, bow,” she calls back, “Stay back.”

“Ex textura!” Shadowheart pushes her hands out, then spreads them apart. A thick line of golden light follows her movement, moulding itself into the shape of a greataxe. At a word from its caster, the axe flies forward to chase a gnoll. Astarion falls into a good stance directly behind Xaph, so he can see where she’s aiming and course-correct accordingly. All four of the other gnolls zero in on Lae’zel and Wyll, their nearest targets. One falls behind, peppered with arrows. Another enters into a duel with the magical greataxe Shadowheart is micromanaging, her fingers crooked as she manipulates the Weave to her will. Gale lunges forward and takes one of the daggers Astarion had hurriedly sheathed in favour of his bow. The vampire whips around, fully intending to use the other dagger to threaten Gale, but the wizard is too quick. With a flick of the wrist, the knife morphs into an icicle and is sent into the face of a gnoll. It explodes into smaller shards of ice, covering both beasts in frost. The one that had taken the hit directly howls as its head snaps back with the impact, and two quick-fire arrows from Xaph are enough to tip it over onto the freshly iced surface below its feet. Wyll’s rapier ensures the creature isn’t going to get up again. Gale glances down at the blade a few inches from his throat and raises his eyebrows at Astarion.

“I don’t think you want to do that.” Gale is surprised at the lightness of his own voice because his breath is most definitely caught in his throat. The bright blue tendrils of his spell’s light swirl around his arm and find painfully cold refuge in his arrow wound.

“Oh, I do,” Astarion’s teeth aren’t bared, but the growl is implied, “Don’t touch me.” Gale glances down again, at the fist screwed into the front of his robe. He doesn’t know what move he can make that doesn’t get him sliced open. Xaph yelps and Shadowheart roars. A gnoll is within clawing distance and neither of the men are providing cover. Xaph rolls backwards, holding her bow up to protect it, and rises to wobbly feet beside them.

“The fuck are you doing?” she doesn’t even look at them, already drawing her bow to loose yet another arrow into the juggernaut this particular gnoll is proving to be. Shadowheart grunts in exertion, trying to keep up her magical greataxe to aid Lae’zel and Wyll while also sending tiny motes of blue flame at the creature barreling towards Xaph. “You can measure each other’s dicks later,” the ranger tells the men, “Astarion.” The elf turns his attention and his blade to her and hisses. She hisses back. More of her teeth end in points than his. Shadowheart spits the wizard’s name through gritted teeth. Gale takes his chance, ducking under Astarion’s arm and consequently twisting his wrist to the point where he has to let go. A marble from the bag in his pack appears in his palm. Blue. Perfect. He hurls it at the gnoll, yanking on the Weave to turn the simple little marble into a semi-solid sphere of freezing cold energy that finally stops the beast.

When he turns back to his companions, he finds them with blades at each other’s throats. His worm wriggles in his head and he knows that they are communicating through their own parasites. Slowly, the knives are lowered. Slowly.

“The hells is happening over here?” Shadowheart is furious, stamping towards the trio as the last gnoll falls at Wyll’s hand.

“Pointless peacocking,” Xaph answers, “They’re good now. Right?” her eyes are daggers in themselves, and Astarion’s voice is tight when he answers, perfect, darling. She looks at Gale with the same sharpness and he agrees. “ Right. We need to find this settlement soon, we haven’t got long until the sun starts to set.”

“I think he’s got something else in mind.” Shadowheart jerks a thumb in Lae’zel’s direction. She’s collecting melons and apples from another cart, but past her Wyll is already marching away.

They walk a few miles before Wyll even thinks about slowing down. Xaph’s using her bow as a makeshift walking stick to keep up, having wedged herself between Gale and Astarion in the walking formation. They’re nearing the river again. Shadowheart and Gale both try to talk Wyll into making camp or changing direction, but he won’t hear it. Somehow, he knows this is the way he has to go. Another mile and Wyll is stalking rather than walking, and the change of pace suits Xaph.

“Sulphur.” Astarion mutters.

“Hells.” Xaph curses.

“Indeed.” Gale sighs. None of them are in a condition to put up a strong fight except for Wyll and Astarion, but the warlock shouldn’t count on the rogue’s loyalty after his earlier outburst. He’s too prickly. Xaph relents and takes Gale’s arm to ease her down the slope that will take them to the riverbank. Shadowheart opens her mouth, presumably to call Wyll’s name, but the word dies on his throat. A bonfire is raging on the riverbank. And it’s moving. There’s a person there, encased in flame. Wyll draws his rapier,

“One horn. The stink of Avernus. Advocatus diaboli.”

“Well, I’ll be godsdamned. The Blade of Frontiers.”

#rae's writing #greensleeves #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 oc #bg3 oc #rae's ocs #xaph [tav]#gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #halsin #astarion #astarion ancunin #shadowheart #lae'zel #karlach #karlach cliffgate

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thecorpselight · 2 years

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Charm for Rheumatic Pains Close God about thee, Look people over thee, To Christ, or else - Lift from us the gallows, Away, away, Thy poison in the ground, And thy pain in the stone. Otherwise: An arrow thrown with sudden terror, Salt to cure the wound, Jesus Christ to keep the Elfin arrow quiet, The charm of God about thee, Blind are people over thee, Thy covering about Colum-Kil, And the covering of Colum-Kil about thee, To protect thee and watch over thee Against the people of this world And of the next. Witchcraft & Second Sight in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland. John G. Campbell.

#fairy faith #healing magics #traditional witchcraft #folk magic #folklore #colum cille #colum-kil

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mermaidsirennikita · 1 year

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to be honest, i rlly enjoyed the menu but my biggest issue was with anya taylor joy. i just didn’t find her believable at ALL and it felt like she was playing dress up the whole time, especially when she had scenes with ralph fiennes’s character. he was ACTING and she was just… doing her job i guess?

Yeah, everyone I've discussed it with has had similar complaints, even a couple of people who are more ambivalent about Anya. I had like a whole murder board going on about why she was cast lol, but things to note:

--Emma Stone was originally cast in this role, and I think that while Emma would've been better (I'm not a big fan of hers, but I think she would've been better) she still... was a type that Anya basically fits now that Emma has aged out of it. Ingenue, white, elfin, one of the current It Girls. They basically transferred what they wanted from Emma over to Anya, down to the red hair.

--Anya is not believable to me in a lot of "types", but the type I find least believable is Anya as A Woman of the People. Like, I don't know, maybe that's partially my bias coming in, but that's who you cast to represent the service industry workers? I don't know man.

--But then it's like "oh, so you buy Ralph Fiennes in that sense?". Well, not exactly; his character by the time we meet him is completely above it all and disconnected with his former self, which is part of the point. But yeah, I do buy that he is at that point because Ralph Fiennes is a very good actor and was giving? Honestly? One of the best performances of his career in that movie. Every time he was in a scene with Anya, it felt just... painfully forced. For her to be there. Because I could literally see like... 10+ expressions going across his face in a MINUTE, giving me so much without the dialogue (and I'm not even someone who's seen allll of his work lmao, I'm not a Dedicated Ralph Expert) and she was just. Normal. Flat.

--Same with Nick Hoult. Nick Hoult is, imo, a criminally underrated actor, and HIS big scene with Ralph? Fabulous. The back and forth, the way they were both giving those micro expressions and the contrasting energy and the tension? So good. The "Tyler's Bullshit" scene was my favorite moment of the movie because of the ACTING. And Anya just. Wasn't great?

--Everyone in this movie was really doing a great job and going for it, tbh. Leguizamo and Aimee Carrero did a lot with their characters' relationship with a little screen time, Janet McTeer was HILARIOUS, Judith Light was killing me, Hong Chau was INCREDIBLE!!! Another huge moment for the movie was her delivery of "tortillas", I can't. I just felt like Anya was there to be there.

I mean, Aimee Carrero could've done that role. Elle Fanning could've done that role and had more of a witty repartee with Nick. One of my friends pointed out Camila Mendes (and honestly, her dry sarcasm in Do Revenge would've been perfect for this). There were lot of girls who I think would've done a better job. I feel like Margot was supposed to be a starkly sardonic character, and instead she just came off as forced.

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ajgrey9647 · 11 months

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Elaborate Theatrics of a Psycho

So I got this little plot bunny and it creeped me the hell out. I should make this a series of the outlandish fuckery Drakkon wallows in.

December:

At this point, even the Red Sentries thought Drakkon had absolutely lost it. They tried not to stare or act in any way that this behavior was bizarre. Staring squarely ahead into the lightly falling snowflakes, the men merely nodded as the tyrant passed by.

Skull’s amused eyes tracked along as Drakkon skipped and pranced through the gathering drifts, the frigid air not seeming to bother him in the least. The warlord pranced and twirled along the path through the courtyard as he approached the door to the dungeons. He even merrily waved a thick white gloved hand at the guards.

What would normally be considered eccentric theatrics was positively horrifying in this scenario. It was not funny in the slightest. Whoever Drakkon was on the way to visit was most likely in deep shit.

‘Poor bastard’, Skull thought to himself, shaking his head.

Drakkon shouldered the door open, his arms carrying a wrapped gift topped with a shiny red ribbon knotted in a bow. He whistled cheerfully, his heavy black boots thudding on the stone walkway. With every movement, the delicate tinkling of bells could be heard.

When he rounded the corner to the cell where Jason crouched on the floor, knees drawn to his chest protectively, the psycho grinned. It was barely visible but wouldn’t have comforted the frightened teen at all. Drakkon’s normally hazel eyes were almost black, his pupils dilated widely the way they always did when he was in the throws of some outlandish fuckery.

Jason could only gape up at Drakkon, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He pressed his back flush against the icy wall and braced for whatever game was in the works. The sight was absurd, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t hallucinating.

Twirling grandly so his captive could appreciate the intricate detail of his costume, the evil Ranger chuckled in a deep voice.

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, sunshine!” he bellowed in a faux Santa Claus voice.

The costume he wore was custom made and very expensive considering it was only created to enact this shenanigan. It was bright red and very soft, the overcoat cinched at the waist by a wide buckled black belt. A white fluffy beard covered most of the lower part of his face and an elfin red hat with a white puff dangling off the end perched on his head.

Holy fuck, Jason shuddered. He’s going to kill me! He’s fucking lost it!

Drakkon looked like he walked off the pages of a Stephen King novel.

“Have you been a good boy, Red Ranger? Be honest,” he continued in the same Santa-esque voice. “You know how the song goes, right? ‘Santa knows whose been naughty or nice.’”

Jason squeezed his eyes shut; a tear rolled down his cheek beside his trembling lips.

“Awww, don’t be scared. I brought you a gift!” he soothed, holding up the garishly decorated box. “Feliz Navidad!”

Opening the cell door as he whistled ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’, he crossed to where his prisoner cowered and crouched in front of him. Drakkon plopped the offering near Jason’s hand and waited expectantly.

“Open it!” he chuckled deeply again.

The Red Ranger shook his head and hugged his legs tighter.

“I don’t want to,” he whimpered, eyeing the gift in terror.

Drakkon tilted his head, the bells on his costume jingling ominously.

“What’s the matter, sunshine? Need some help?” he cooed.

Reaching out he removed the red velvet bow stuck to the top of the present and pressed it onto the top of Jason’s head. The terror gripping the teen made it impossible for him to move away as Drakkon christened him, mockingly. The decoration attached haphazardly to the dark hair.

“Come now! I put a lot of thought into this! You don’t want to know what the bad boys on Santa’s list get,” he whispered, stroking Jason’s cheek with a white gloved finger.

Shoulders heaving and his breath hitching, the former Ranger reached out and pulled the box into his lap. Who knew what fucked up thing was inside? Hesitantly, he started pulling the tacky wrapping paper away.

Drakkon eyed him, eyes still a deep black, and whistling ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’. Periodically he would move slightly making the bells sound again in the cold room. The puff attached to his hat jiggled with every merry head bob.

“This is something special that made me think of you,” he murmured. “I thought you might enjoy using it as well.”

Jason’s muscles were tensed as he waited for something painful to happen. He was down to the cardboard box itself now and he paused, struggling not vomit.

“Please, just tell me what’s in here,” he begged.

“But that’s no fun!” Drakkon moaned, cupping the teen’s cheek.

Continuing his silent sobs, Jason freed the flaps from the tape holding the box closed. Inside, all he could see was white feathery packing peanuts. Obviously, the expectation was for him to put his hand blindly into the contents.

“Go on, feel around in there,” Drakkon Claus prodded.

Slowly, he moved a tremulous hand and tried subtly to move the peanuts as he lowered it in. Straining to see between the annoying fluff, Jason hoped he could discern what hateful item was lurking beneath. It was useless.

The tearful captive nearly jumped when his fingers brushed something soft and warm. He wrapped his fingers around the mystery object and pulled it out. Confused, he blinked the moisture from his eyes as tried to understand what he was looking at.

The battered, brown stuffed dog hung limply in his hand, one black button eye missing and its nose rubbed threadbare.

“What is this?” he whispered carefully, not wanting to set Drakkon off.

The man in question was quiet a moment as he gazed at the little dog. Finally, he sighed.

“That’s a little puppy that’s seen a lot of pain, mopped thousands of tears, and heard endless, broken prayers,” he answered. “I kept him all this time, hidden away from the world.”

Those devilish black eyes slid back to Jason’s face.

“And now I have you. My good boy.”

Reaching into the box himself, Drakkon pulled out a thick metal choke collar. Jason sucked in a horrified breath as the asshole slid it over his head.

“It’s time we started working on your training, my little speckled pup.”

#Lord Drakkon #Coinless Jason #Lord Drakkon x Coinless Jason Scott #messed up #fanfic #possibly a collection #fuckery #psycho #wtf #power rangers #boom! comics power rangers #red ranger #red sentry skull #i have issues

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