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creaturedom · 2 years

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The Thurible

I can’t believe I had to actually sit down and do research for this incredibly self indulgent thing, I’m not religious LOL. @kazewohiita , this one goes out to you. To everyone else… My only warning is mess, let’s hop on the gross priest train X’D

“Father Izaak,” a voice fretted as charcoal so carefully clasped between tongs sparked under a fresh flame, “please, I can prepare that for you! I used to always help Reverend Father Tully with…” The nun’s voice trailed off as the name left her lips, a visible sadness flashing quick as the reddening charcoal as she looked away. It had been some time since the passing of their last priest, but she like many others of the church still found great sorrow in it.

This didn’t disturb the process by any means as the thurible closed gently, chain pinched between the father’s rich dark fingers to fan the flames within. He was a bit of a quiet man compared to the more open Father Tully; spiraled hair styled in a short afro, dark brown eyes that carried a certain warmth to them, not as tall as Tully, but broad shoulders that filled out his cassock nicely. Square jawed, a beautiful rounded nose, and the way he formed his words with each sentence…

“I like to do it myself. Makes me feel… More connected.” The priest explained, already shifting to hang it and gather the various scents to go inside. He paused to sniffle a bit, glancing over to her with that spark she had noticed earlier. It wasn’t uncommon for a new priest to be chosen beyond their walls by any means, though maybe due to their last priest being there so long she was feeling hesitant. Something about how he carried himself today seemed sluggish, but her thoughts snapped as he spoke again. “A few things will be done differently from this point on, Sister Margret, though I appreciate your offer. I’ll take it from here…” Though she hesitated the nun simply dipped her head and left the room, leaving the man to resume his work and methodically fill a mix of incense into the thurible.

In her absence he began to rub his knuckles against his septum, squinting as the fragrance began to flow in heavy clouds of smoke within the room and invade his reddening nostrils with a smirk. “That’ll do…”

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All stood to attention as music rose loud and true to the high ceiling above, the thurible swinging faithfully towards the pews with its swirling smoke. A few whispers were shared here and there as Father Izaak passed, some rather curious and others already passing rumors. Nothing too serious really, he’d been through this song and dance before. What Izaak was really focusing on was the sharp sniffling just barely buried beneath the echo of song all around them.

If one looked carefully enough they could see a tinge of redness around his nostrils, his upper lip carrying a light sheen to it. His eyes were beginning to grow red as well, and yet he continued to swing the thurible rhythmically, smiling warmly and nodding to those who met his eye. His nose felt like it was crackling with a heat intense enough to summon the devil itself, and yet he seemed excited as he got into position and handed off his rather precious tool.

As the air grew quiet and still he did his best not to clear his irritated throat as someone from the clergy stepped forward to introduce their new priest. His mind was starting to feel fuzzy and the cassock felt a bit too warm at the moment. And yet he still stood, smiling as the sensations grew worse, nearly missing his own name: Father Izaak Hartley. Nodding gratefully he stepped forward to the podium and looked to the crowd with a quiet but watery sniffle.

“Welcome, and thank you for joining us on this Sunday of celebration…” The priest breathed, wincing a bit when he swallowed back and found a sharp ping of pain. For the most part things were going smoothly, the crowd surprisingly gravitating towards his words and new style of preaching rather quickly. He was formal enough, but he liked to pace a bit, speak more with his hands, and pause to punctuate the meaning of his words a little more. On top of that the little jokes he managed to sneak passed the clergy got the crowd chuckling, and Izaak was quickly winning them over.

“In John 3:16, we learn that God so loved the world that he gave us his only son. What greater gift is there, and what does it mean for h-hihhm to…” His pacing stopped as his heart began to flutter. For a moment there was silence before his breath sagged, quickly dipping into both hands a harsh “hih’bTSCHhh!” Startled a few in the crowd offered him blessings, but by the look on his crumpling face it was too soon. “T-To give uHSTCHHH! H-Hih—tSCHhhoo!”

He didn’t mean to but a soft, savory moan escaped his lips, partially grateful it was harder to see how red his cheeks felt. “Whew, excuse me… Quite the entrance on the first day, huh?” A few chuckled so he waved his hand, his smile a bit more watery now that his system was rebelling against him. “… I have a question for you all. Doesn’t it feel good sometimes, to let go and be yourself…?” An unsure murmur arose, causing him to half chuckle and stifle a few coughs.

“I’m not talking about sins of the flesh or breaking any rules laid out by God, but rather the gift he gave you: yourself. Jesus took our sins to allow us to find ourselves, but most live in guilt for that which we will always inherently do. They each teach us every day how to be better people, it’s just a matter of how… Gh’tshxx!” He managed to stifle at the last minute, though it was wetter than he expected.

Sniffing thickly he swiped a quick hand under what he felt was a growing mess, spinning on his heel with a bit of flourish. “How we live by His word. Pleasure can take many forms, a delicious meal, the joy of being around one’s family, even… E-Even—huh’tSCHZZzew! Ugh, a good sneeze, am I right?” He grinned as laughter filled the room again. “Song of Solomon 4:7 states: ‘You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.’ So the danger of pleasure is not within your own body, or your own simple joys, it is in acts which affect yourself and others for the worse, beyond the call of God!”

This seemed to stir the crowd a bit, some of the older ones a bit thrown, but a few… A few he could see he had attention in a different way. A few eyes trailing as he so carelessly sniffed back and merely dabbed at his increasingly itchy nose with a handkerchief offered to him. If they chose to stare that was on them, but he wasn’t about to give up his own passionate remarks and certainly wasn’t going to step off the podium as a few mortified members of the clergy seemed to want him to.

Burying his nose his eyes screwed shut as he took a long, shuttering breath, a few tears slipping as he bobbed into the handkerchief with a few wet sneezes “HHEGTSCHH! H-Hih—HEHD’JSCHHhhew! HeH’JESCHHhh! Hah… O-One moment… A-Almost—! KhhH—! Hiih’tSCHHHhhoo!” It took everything in his power not to moan aloud as a visible shiver ripped through his body, crushing his nose with a squelch under the ruined handkerchief. Whether this was from a nasty set of chills or something more, hardly anyone could say. Though from the faces of members in the audience, there may have been some doubt as to whether or not they were fully honed in on his preaching.

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“The body of Christ…”

“Amen.”

“The body of Christ…”

“Amen.”

“The body of Christ…”

“A… Amen…”

Through it all the priest managed to stand strong, no one managing to shoo him off even as he seemed to grow worse. The crowd was oddly enamored with him, his presence magnetic and mystifying, after all who could compare to his style? Each careful motion and charming flash of a smile glued the people to their seats, and seeing that he still took it upon himself to still provide this service to the people. He found himself quite amused as some shyly cast their gazes away, others boldly meeting his weary eyes or even dropping a quick word of wellness.

Their focus helped them see past the glazed look in Father Izaak’s eye, the wet sheen of his upper lip combined with the mess he kept sniffling back and shaky exhales in a fruitless effort to keep his nose in line. If only everyone could be impressed so easily though. As soon as the Holy Communion ended and people began to shuffle out he was tugged roughly to the back, the church echoing with the heavy slam of one of its old wooden doors as older nun narrowed her eyes at the sniffling priest.

“You’re ill, Father?”

“No, I believe I’m Father Izaak…” Sister Margret didn’t seem to appreciate his joke, hanging the still smoking thurible on its proper stand. She was squawking about something or other as his eyes trailed ever so slowly back to the mischievous smoke behind her. He was always a little sensitive to such things, especially when he added a few extra things to make it smell nice and strong. A few extra scoops of myrrh in the frankincense, a little copal resin to really dig into the sinuses…

“… Father Izaak… Father Izaak!” He was snapped back to attention as she grabbed both of his shoulders, looking down to see an expression mixed with frustration and worry. “Are you listening? If you’re ill or feel under the weather you could have asked to preach next week, or at least asked someone to help lead! This is serious, you made a fool of yourself!”

“Really..? I thought they rather liked it…” He mused as he tried to bring a hand up to swipe at his nose though Sister Margret forced his arm down again. “Ah—careful—“

“That wasn’t at all professional, not at all gracious! If Reverend Father Tully was present he would have known to pace himself, or ask for help—!”

“—H-Help, wait, khhih—“

“Exactly! Is that so hard to ask, to plainly say out loud that you, the great Father, need—?”

“Hih—! Hih’tsCHHHhh! HeH’JESCHHhh—tschh, tSCHhh!” His head bobbed back up with a heavy sniffle, cracking an eye open to look once more to her. All things considered not the worst thing, but her clothes were certainly splattered and she was locked in shock. “… A tissue, Sister Margret? I would kindly like to ask to be r-released before I’m forced to give another bahpt… Baptishhiih…” Thankfully she got the hint, releasing him just in time to grab the soggy handkerchief again and bury a fit of wet sneezes, visibly darkening the delicate cloth in his hands.

When Izaak finally pulled back he was breathless, yet looked oddly at peace. As if God himself came down to offer a gentle blessing and a kiss to his warm forehead. Sister Margret muttered a bless you to the Father while he cleared his leaking nose. “… Do you remember what I said earlier?” Her head turned curiously to him as he neatly folded the handkerchief in his hands. “I said many things would change from here on out. While I respect the path laid out before me, I felt in this time of need the people of this church needed a true show of faith and dedication. A priest willing to be with them through thick and thin, to guide them without knowing each face, willing to put aside his own suffering… For the good of the people.”

Something shifted in the priest as he stepped forward to the nun below him, his smile still soft yet his stance more stern. “I won’t apologize for displaying my faith proudly, and for wanting to make as good an impression as possible. And from the look of that crowd, I’d say I did a rather nice job.” The nun diverted her gaze with a huff, making Izaak hoarsely chuckle. “I’ll do better in the future, Sister Margret. I can at least promise that much, though I…” His breath hitched again, a frantic hand raising to catch his dipping nose, only to find purchase in something firm but almost silky “Huh’tsSCHHmphf—! Gh’pmphf!”

“… Bless you, Father Izaak.” The nun lowered her own handkerchief from his quivering nose and sighed heavily. “There’s no time like the present. I understand you’ll be taking the former priest’s quarters in the courtyard?” Dazed, Father Izaak offered a small nod, managing to make her huff in amusement. “Very well, Father. I’ll ask someone to send you an extra blanket as well as prepare some food for you, while you settle in.”

“… Thank you, Sister Margret.”

“Don’t get used to it, I’m no mother hen.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Sister!” He playfully placed a hand on his chest, earning a short but true laugh from her. “Off to bed with you, we’ll take care of things from here.”

“Yes, Sister…” No better timing in his opinion. As he departed one last glance at the thurible was spared, smiling to himself as the last of the smoke seemed to billow out. “Thanks for the help, old friend.” He breathed to it, smirking as he reached both hands into his pockets and felt his fingertips brush against some ‘borrowed’ incense inside. With that he spun on his heel and made his way to his new quarters, the last of the smoke and embers dying with a harsh, wet sneeze echoing through the halls once more.

#cw priest #creaturedom #sneeze fic #cold #contagion #Father Izaak #mess #snz #sus bastard #genuinely nervous so we'll see if people vibe with this LOL

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dutch-and-flemish-painters · 3 years

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Izaak van Oosten - The Fall of Man -

oil on copper, Height: 69.5 cm (27.3 in); Width: 105.5 cm (41.5 in)

The fall of man, the fall of Adam, or simply the Fall, is a term used in Christianity to describe the transition of the first man and woman from a state of innocent obedience to God to a state of guilty disobedience. The doctrine of the Fall comes from a biblical interpretation of Genesis, chapters 1-3. At first, Adam and Eve lived with God in the Garden of Eden, but the serpent tempted them into eating the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, which God had forbidden. After doing so, they became ashamed of their nakedness and God expelled them from the Garden to prevent them from eating from the tree of life and becoming immortal.

For many Christian denominations, the doctrine of the Fall is closely related to that of original sin or ancestral sin. They believe that the Fall brought sin into the world, corrupting the entire natural world, including human nature, causing all humans to be born into original sin, a state from which they cannot attain eternal life without the grace of God. The Eastern Orthodox Church accepts the concept of the Fall but rejects the idea that the guilt of original sin is passed down through generations, based in part on the passage Ezekiel 18:20 that says a son is not guilty of the sins of his father. Calvinist Protestants believe that Jesus gave his life as a sacrifice for the elect, so they may be redeemed from their sin. Lapsarianism, understanding the logical order of God's decrees in relation to the Fall, is divided by some Calvinists into supralapsarian (prelapsarian, pre-lapsarian or antelapsarian, before the Fall) and infralapsarian (sublapsarian or postlapsarian, after the Fall).

The narrative of the Garden of Eden and the fall of man constitute a mythological tradition shared by all the Abrahamic religions, with a presentation more or less symbolic of Judeo-Christian morals and religious beliefs, which had an overwhelming impact on gender roles and sex differences both in the Western and Islamic worlds. Unlike Christianity, Judaism and Islam don't have a concept of "original sin", and instead have developed varying other interpretations of the Eden narrative.

Izaak van Oosten, Isaak van Oosten or Isaac van Oosten (sometimes, due to a repeated typographical error: Izaak van Costen)[1] (10 December 1613 – December 1661) was a Flemish Baroque landscape and cabinet painter active in Antwerp.

#Izaak van Oosten #golden age #baroque #antwerpen #biblical

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“...On June 26, ad 4, Augustus adopted Tiberius. Livia’s son, forty-four years old, now became officially the son of her second husband. Henceforth he is called Tiberius Julius Caesar and is clearly the man designated to succeed the emperor. As he had in the past, Augustus made provision for the possibility that Tiberius might not necessarily survive him. Agrippa Postumus had not given any evidence of being temperamentally suited for high office, but Augustus perhaps hoped that in the general way of things an unruly youth could mature into a responsible adult. Hence the emperor adopted Postumus on the same occasion.

Moreover, Tiberius was obliged, before his own adoption, to adopt his nephew Germanicus, who would thereby become Tiberius’ son and would legally have the same relationship to Tiberius as his natural son, Drusus. The marriage of Germanicus and Agrippina followed soon after, probably in the next year. There is no reason why the unconcealed manoeuvring on behalf of Germanicus should have upset Livia unnecessarily, despite the clear implications of Tacitus that it did. Germanicus, after all, was her grandson as much as was Drusus Caesar. The arrangement reinforced rather than weakened the likelihood of succession from her own line, as was to be demonstrated by events.

The marriage would prove extremely fruitful. In time Agrippina bore Germanicus nine children, six of whom survived infancy. The first three were sons, great-grandsons of Livia: Nero, the eldest (not to be confused with his nephew Nero, the future emperor); Drusus (to be distinguished from the two more famous men of the same name: Drusus, son of Livia, and Drusus Caesar, son of Tiberius); and Gaius (destined to become emperor, and known more familiarly as Caligula). She also bore three surviving daughters, Drusilla and Livilla, and, most important, the younger Agrippina, mother of Livia’s great-great-grandson, the emperor Nero. The adoption of Tiberius in ad 4 would have been an occasion of joy and satisfaction for Livia, and would have helped to efface any lingering grief that still afflicted her over Drusus’ death.

If we are to believe Velleius, not only Livia but the whole Roman world reacted jubilantly to the new turn of events. Needless to say, his account should be treated with due caution. There was, he claims, something for everyone. Parents felt heartened about the future of their children, husbands felt secure about their wives, even property owners anticipated profits from their investments! Everyone looked forward to an era of peace and good order. A colourful exaggeration, of course, but there probably was considerable relief among Romans that the succession issue seemed at long last to be settled.

…In the immediate aftermath of the adoptions the ancient authors inevitably tend to focus on Tiberius and the campaigns he conducted in Germany and Illyricum, and they virtually ignore Agrippa Postumus, whose name was to be invoked later by sources hostile to Livia. A few details about Postumus emerge. In ad 5 he received the toga of manhood. The occasion was low-key, without any of the special honours granted Gaius and Lucius on the same occasion. It also seems to have been delayed. Postumus would have reached fourteen in ad 3, and under normal circumstances might reasonably have been expected to take the toga in that year. Something seems to be wrong. Augustus had certainly endured his share of problems with the young people in his own family. The pressures facing the younger relatives of any monarch are self evident, given the sense of importance that precedes achievement, to say nothing of the opportunists attracted to the immature and malleable, and prepared to pander to their self-importance.

As Velleius astutely remarks, magnae fortunae comes adest adulatio (sycophancy is the comrade of high position). These pressures must have been particularly intense in the period of the Augustan settlement, when no established standards had yet evolved for the royal children and grandchildren. Gaius and Lucius, the focus of Augustus’ ambitions and hopes, caused him endless grief by their behaviour in public, clearly egged on by their supporters, and on at least one occasion Augustus felt constrained to clip their wings. Gaius’ brave but distinctly foolhardy behaviour during the siege of Artagira is surely symptomatic of the same conceit.

There is no reason to assume that Postumus would have been immune from the pressures that turned the heads of his siblings. Whatever traits of haughtiness Postumus might have displayed in his early youth, they were not serious enough to have entered the record, and the exact nature of his personal and possibly mental problems is far from clear. The ancient sources speak of his brutish and violent behaviour. Some modern scholars have suggested that he might have been mad, but the language used of him seems to denote little more than an unmanageable temperament and antisocial tendencies.

For whatever reasons, eventually Augustus decided to remove him from the scene. The details of this expulsion are obscure. Suetonius provides the clearest statement, recording that Augustus removed Postumus (abdicavit) because of his wild character and sent him to Surrentum (Sorrento). The historian notes that Postumus grew less and less manageable and so was then sent to Planasia, a low-lying desolate island about sixteen kilometres south of Elba. Tacitus has no doubt about where the ultimate responsibility for Augustus’ actions lay. Postumus had committed no crime.

But Livia had so ensnared her elderly husband (senem Augustum) that he was induced to banish him to Planasia. Tacitus’ technique here is patent. The use of the word senem is meant to suggest that Augustus was by now senile, even though the event occurred eight years before his death. Incapable of making his own rational decisions, he would thus be at the mercy of a scheming woman, just as later Agrippina the Younger reputedly ‘‘captivated her uncle’’ Claudius (pellicit patruum). No reason is given for Livia’s supposed manoeuvre—which as usual, according to Tacitus, was conducted behind the scenes—except the standard charge that her hatred of Postumus was motivated by a stepmother’s loathing (novercalibus odiis).

Yet nothing in the rest of Tacitus’ narrative sustains his assertion, and the historian himself admits that the general view of Romans towards the end of Augustus’ reign was that Postumus was totally unsuited for the succession, because of both his youth and his generally insolent behaviour. Moreover, Augustus had made the strength of Tiberius’ position so patently evident that Livia would hardly have considered Postumus a serious candidate. This seems to be confirmed in a remarkable passage of Tacitus which uncharacteristically reports public reservations about a potential role for Germanicus, supposedly Tiberius’ rival.

After reporting the popular view that Postumus could be ruled out, Tacitus says that people grumbled that with the accession of Tiberius they would have to put up with Livia’s impotentia, and would have to obey two adulescentes (Germanicus and Drusus) who would oppress, then tear the state apart. Tacitus concedes that even the prospect of the reasonable Germanicus and Drusus being involved in state matters caused consternation. This surely offers some gauge of how far below the horizon Postumus was to be found. The precise reason for Postumus’ removal to Sorrento, if it was not simply his personality, is not clear. The initial expulsion may have been provoked by nothing more serious than personal tension between him and his adoptive father.

Whatever the initial reason, it soon became apparent that if Augustus had hoped that sending his adopted son out of Rome would solve the problem, he was mistaken. Dio places Postumus’ formal exile to Planasia in ad 7. If, as Suetonius claims, he was sent first to Sorrento, what might have precipitated the change in the location and the more grave status of his banishment? We have some hints in the sources. Dio suggests that one of the reasons for Augustus’ giving Germanicus preference over Postumus was that the latter spent most of his time fishing, and acquired the sobriquet of Neptune.

Now this could point simply to irresponsibility and indolence, but the picture of Postumus as an ancient Izaak Walton serenely casting his line does not fit well with the very strong tradition of someone wild and reckless. His activities may well have had a political dimension. The choice of the nickname Neptune could allude to the naval victories of his father, Marcus Agrippa. The fishing story might well belong to the period after Postumus’ relegation to Sorrento. This could have proved a risky spot to locate Postumus, because it lay just across the bay from the important naval base at Misenum that his father had established in 31 bc. The innocent fishing expeditions might have covered much more sinister activities.

Augustus may well have concluded eventually that Postumus was too dangerous to be left in the benign surroundings of Sorrento. During Postumus’ second, more serious phase of exile, on the island of Planasia, he was placed under a military guard, a good indication that he was considered genuinely dangerous rather than just a source of irritation and embarrassment. This final stage of banishment was a formal one, for Augustus confirmed the punishment by a senatorial decree and spoke in the Senate on the occasion about his adopted son’s depraved character. Formal banishment enacted by a decree of the Senate would be intended to make a serious political statement and should have buried completely any thoughts that Postumus might have been considered a serious candidate in the succession.

We cannot rule out the possibility that Postumus became involved, perhaps as a pawn, in some serious political intrigue, if not to oust Augustus then at the very least to ensure that he would be followed not by a son of Livia but by someone from the line of Julia. If Postumus was being encouraged to think of a possible role in the succession, it might reasonably be asked who was doing the urging. Although there is no explicit statement on the question in the sources, many scholars have accepted the notion that there existed a ‘‘Julian party,’’ responsible for much of the ‘‘anti-Claudian’’ propaganda directed against Livia and Tiberius that is found in Tacitus in particular and possibly derived from the memoirs of Agrippina.

…Whatever the intrigues in Rome, Livia’s son was able to keep himself aloof and to play the role that suited him best, that of soldier. Tiberius conducted a brilliant series of campaigns in Pannonia for which a triumph was voted in ad 9. (This was postponed when Tiberius was despatched to Germany in the aftermath of the disastrous defeat of Quinctilius Varus, in which three legions were lost.) When the Pannonian triumph was voted, Augustus made his intentions crystal clear. Various suggestions were put forward for honorific titles, such as Pannonicus, Invictus, and Pius.

The emperor, however, vetoed them all, declaring that Tiberius would have to be satisfied with the title that he would receive when he himself died. That title, of course, was Augustus. It also appears that a law was later passed to make his imperium equal to that of Augustus throughout the empire, and in early 13 his tribunician power was renewed. His son Drusus Caesar received his first accelerated promotion, designated to proceed directly to the consulship in ad 15, skipping the praetorship that should have preceded this higher office.

The virtual impregnability of Tiberius’ position should be borne in mind in any attempt to understand the final months of Augustus’ life. In the closing chapter of her husband’s principate, Livia reemerges in the record to play a central and, according to one tradition, decidedly sinister role. This is perhaps the most convoluted period of her career, where rumour and reality seem to diverge most widely. To place the events in a comprehensible context, it is necessary to note one later detail out of its chronological sequence. As we shall see, after Augustus’ death there was a rumour reported in some of the sources that Livia had murdered her husband.

In the best forensic tradition, a motive would have to be unearthed to make the charge plausible, especially since sceptics could hardly have failed to notice that Augustus had never enjoyed robust health and was already in his seventy-sixth year. Death from natural causes could hardly be considered remarkable under such circumstances. The requisite motive would indeed be produced, and the kernel of the intricate thesis that evolved is found in a brief summary of Augustus’ career by Pliny the Elder. Among the travails that afflicted the emperor, Pliny lists the abdicatio of Postumus after his adoption, Augustus’ regret after the relegation, the suspicion that a certain Fabius betrayed his secrets, and the intrigues of Livia and Tiberius.

Pliny’s summary observations are clearly based on a more detailed source, which suggested that Augustus felt some remorse about Postumus. This simple and not improbable notion is developed by other sources into a far more complex scenario that creates an apparently plausible motive, because it could be claimed that Livia would have wanted to remove her husband before he could act on his change of heart. This reconstruction of the events is clearly reminiscent of the closing days of the reign of Claudius, when the emperor supposedly sought a rapprochement with his son Britannicus, to the disadvantage of his stepson Nero, and thereby inspired his wife Agrippina to despatch him with the poisoned mushroom.

But it is important to bear in mind that as Pliny reports the events he limits himself to the claim that Augustus regretted Postumus’ exile, without further elaboration, and although Livia and her son supposedly engaged in intrigues of some unspecified nature, Pliny assigns no criminal action to either of them. Pliny’s ‘‘skeleton account’’ is to some degree validated by Plutarch. In his essay on ‘‘Talkativeness,’’ Plutarch, in a very garbled passage, relates that a friend of Augustus named ‘‘Fulvius’’ heard the emperor lamenting the woes that had befallen his house—the deaths of Gaius and Lucius and the exile of ‘‘Postumius’’ on some false charge—which had obliged him to pass on the succession to Tiberius. He now regretted what had happened and intended (bouleuomenos) to recall his surviving grandson from exile.

According to Plutarch’s account, Fulvius passed this information on to his wife, and she in turn passed it on to Livia, who took Augustus to task for his careless talk. The emperor made his displeasure known to Fulvius, and he and his wife in consequence committed suicide. This last detail was perhaps inspired by the famous story of Arria, who achieved immortal fame in ad 42 when she died with her husband Caecina Paetus, who had been implicated in a conspiracy against Claudius. Plutarch’s confused version of events does not inspire confidence, and in any case, although he gives Livia a more specific role than does Pliny, he follows Pliny in not attributing to Augustus any action, only supposed intentions.

Dio’s account is a much contracted one, but derived from a source that has added a very important wrinkle to the story and has Augustus taking action on his change of heart. Dio says that Livia was suspected of Augustus’ death. She was afraid, people say (hos phasi), because Augustus had secretly sailed to Planasia to see Postumus and seemed to be on the brink of seeking a reconciliation. This bald and surely implausible story, involving a round trip of some five hundred kilometres, is given its fullest treatment in Tacitus, clearly drawing on the same source as Dio.

He says that people thought that Livia had brought about Augustus’ final illness, because a rumour entered into circulation that the emperor had gone to Planasia to visit Postumus, accompanied by a small group of intimates, including Paullus Fabius Maximus. Fabius, clearly Plutarch’s ‘‘Fulvius,’’ was a literary figure of some renown, a close friend of Ovid and Horace. He was also an intimate of Augustus, consul in 11 bc, governor of Asia, and legatus in Spain (3–2 bc). He would thus be a plausible participant in this mysterious expedition. Tacitus reports that the tears and signs of affection were enough to raise the hopes of Postumus that there was a prospect of his being recalled. (It is striking that Tacitus is ambiguous about the meeting’s purpose and is too good a historian to bring himself to claim that Augustus had gone there to commit himself to Postumus’ rehabilitation.)

Fabius Maximus supposedly told the story to his wife, Marcia, and she in turn passed it to Livia. The text of the manuscript is corrupt at this point, but Tacitus seems to say that this indiscretion came to the knowledge of Augustus (reading the text as gnarum id Caesari). The subsequent death of Fabius, Tacitus says, may or may not have been suicide (the implication is that Augustus ordered it, as Plutarch suggests). Marcia was heard at the funeral reproaching herself as the cause of her husband’s downfall (this presumably is how the story got out).

After this detailed account Tacitus undercuts his own case when he goes on to say that Augustus died shortly afterwards, utcumque se ea res habuit. The force of this phrase is essentially ‘‘whatever the truth of the matter.’’ It hardly inspires conviction. The story of the adventurous journey to Planasia and the tearful reconciliation has generally been greeted with scepticism by modern scholars. Jameson is an exception. She uses the Arval record to argue that Augustus did take the trip, noting that on May 14 there was a meeting of the brethren for the cooption of Drusus Caesar, the son of Tiberius, into their order. Fabius Maximus and Augustus were absent from the ceremony, and submitted their votes, in favour of the co-option, by absentee ballot. But is there anything remarkable in their absence?

Clearly, the election of Tiberius’ son was not in reality a particularly important occasion, for Tiberius himself failed to attend. Moreover, Syme notes that no fewer than five other arvals were absent from this meeting, and that there could be a host of explanations for Augustus’ absence. Also, if the co-option was seen as an important family event, then it would surely have been the very worst time for Augustus to try to slip away unnoticed. The emperor was by this time in declining health, so weak that he even held audiences in the palace lying on a couch. In ad 12 he was so frail that he stopped his morning receptions for senators and asked their indulgence for his not joining them at public banquets.

Yet we are supposed to assume that he made the arduous journey to Planasia, and that he did so without Livia realizing what he was up to. It is also important to observe that both Tacitus and Dio drew on a source claiming that Augustus was on the verge of making amends with Postumus. An actual reconciliation seems to be ruled out by the later sequence of events. Certainly he did nothing whatsoever on his return to strengthen Postumus’ position or to weaken that of Tiberius. Finally, one might ask whether Augustus could ever have seriously considered recalling Postumus. He had put him under armed guard. There were plots to rescue him. His supporters published damaging letters about the emperor. It all seems implausible. Syme suggests that the details of the journey might have been added soon after Augustus’ death, a ‘‘specimen of that corroborative detail which is all too apparent (and useful) in historical fictions.’’ Syme bases his argument in part on aesthetic considerations. The episode as it appears in Tacitus is introduced in an inartistic fashion and appears to have been grafted on as an afterthought, introducing two names, those of Fabius Maximus and his wife, Marcia, that will not be mentioned again in the Annals. Moreover, neither Pliny nor Plutarch mentions Planasia.

…The plot described by Suetonius might then have been a last desperate effort to rescue her. In any case it seems to have come to nothing. In addition to the supposed political intrigues in the period immediately before Augustus’ death, there was no shortage of signs that the gods, too, were feeling distinctly uneasy, ranging from the usual comets and fires in the sky to more opaque portents, like a madman sitting on the chair dedicated to Julius Caesar and placing a crown on his own head, or an owl hooting on the roof of the Senate house. But Augustus seems to have had no premonition that he had little time left when he set out from Rome in August 14.

At that time Tiberius was obliged to leave the city for further service abroad, and he departed for Illyricum with a mandate to reorganise the province. Livia and Augustus joined him for the first part of the journey. This very public gesture is an affirmation of the emperor’s faith in Tiberius—a very odd signal to send if only a few months earlier he had become reconciled to Postumus and had changed his mind about who would succeed him. The party went as far as Astura, and from there followed the unusual course of taking a ship by night to catch the favourable breeze. On the sea journey Augustus contracted an illness, which began with diarrhoea.

They skirted the coast of Campania, spent four days in Augustus’ villa at Capri to allow him to relax and recuperate, then sailed into the Gulf of Puteoli, where they were given an extravagant welcome from the passengers and crew of a ship that had just sailed in from Alexandria. They passed over to Naples, although Augustus was still weak and his diarrhoea was recurring. He managed to muster up the strength to watch a gymnastic performance. Then they continued their journey. At Beneventum the company broke up. Tiberius headed east. As Augustus began the return journey with Livia from Beneventum, his illness took a turn for the worse. Perhaps he had a sense that his end was near, as he made for an old family estate, in nearby Nola, where his father, Octavius, had died.

Augustus was not to leave Nola alive. His condition quickly grew worse, and on August 19, 14, at the ninth hour, in Suetonius’ precise report, he died. According to Tacitus, as Augustus grew more sick, some people started to suspect (suspectabant) Livia of dirty deeds (scelus). Dio is more specific, but is still cautious about the charge. He notes that Augustus used to gather figs from the tree with his own hands. She, hos phasi (as they say), cunningly smeared some of them with poison, ate the uncontaminated ones herself and offered the special ones to her husband. As can be seen in his handling of other events, Dio does seem to relish rumours of poisoning.

He relates, for instance, that Vespasian died of fever in ad 79, but adds that some said that he was poisoned at a banquet. It was similarly said that Domitian murdered Titus in ad 81, although the written accounts agree that he died of natural causes. In the case of Augustus it may be possible to discern the origins of the rumour. Suetonius confirms that the emperor was fond of green figs from the second harvest (along with hand-made moist cheese, small fish, and coarse bread). Given Livia’s interest in the cultivation of figs (she even had one named after her), she may well have had an orchard at Nola to which she would have given special attention during her stay.

Dio in fact seems to have had little personal faith in the fig rumour, for he goes on to speak of Augustus’ death as ‘‘from this or from some other cause.’’ By its nature the fig story is unprovable yet impossible to refute. It falls in the grand tradition of such deaths, the best-known being the supposed despatch of Claudius by a poisoned mushroom. If Livia murdered Augustus, then her timing was oddly awry, for she had to go to considerable trouble to recall Tiberius, who was by then en route to Illyricum. Why not do the deed when he was still on the scene?

It is perhaps worth bearing in mind that Livia had an interest in curative recipes. It is possible that she would have inflicted one or more of her own concoctions on her husband. In the unlikely event that he was poisoned, alternative medicine might be a more plausible culprit than the murderer’s toxin. From Beneventum, Tiberius headed for the east coast of Italy, where he took a boat to Illyricum. He had barely crossed over to the Dalmatian coast when an urgent letter from his mother caught up with him, recalling him to Nola. There are different versions of what happened next. Tacitus describes Augustus in his final hours holding a heavy conversation with his entourage about the qualifications of potential successors. Dio and Suetonius allow him a lighter agenda.

They recount that he first asked for a mirror, combed his hair and straightened his sagging jaws. Then he invited the friends in. He gave them his final instructions, ending with his famous line of finding Rome a city of clay and leaving it a city of marble. In conclusion, he asked how they would rate his performance in the grand comedy of life. He seems to have taken a high score for granted, because just like a comic actor, he asked them to give him applause for a role well played. (The curious coincidence of the comic actors brought in during Claudius’ last hours should be noted.)

He then dismissed his friends and spoke to some visitors from Rome, asking about the health of Tiberius’ granddaughter Julia, who was ill. The most serious discrepancy arises over the part that Tiberius might have played during the emperor’s final hours. Dio preserves one tradition, which he says he found in most authorities, including the better ones, that the emperor died while his adopted son was still in Dalmatia, and that Livia for political reasons was determined to keep the death secret until he got back. Tacitus reflects a similar tradition, reporting uncertainty about whether Tiberius found Augustus dead or alive when he reached Nola. The house and the adjoining streets had been sealed off by Livia with guards, and optimistic bulletins were issued, until she was ready to release the news at a time dictated by her own needs.

The story is reminiscent of Agrippina’s arrangements after the death of Claudius. She was similarly accused of keeping the death secret and posting guards as Claudius lay dying. The suspicions about Livia do not appear in the other extant accounts. Velleius reports that Tiberius rushed back and arrived earlier than expected, which perked up Augustus for a time. But before too long he began to fail, and died in Tiberius’ arms, asking him to carry on with their joint work.

Suetonius is even more emphatic about Tiberius’ role. He says that Augustus detained Tiberius for a whole day in private conversation, which was the last serious business that he transacted. His final moments were spent with Livia. His mind wandered as he died—he thought that forty men were carrying him away—but at the last instant he kissed his wife, with an affectionate farewell, Livia nostri coniugii memor vive, ac vale (Livia, be mindful of our marriage, and good-bye), then slipped into the quiet death that he had always hoped for.

That Livia might have kept the news of Augustus’ death secret for a time is certainly plausible—there are all sorts of sound reasons why the announcement of a politically sensitive death might be postponed, although the similar delay after Claudius’ death is disturbingly coincidental. She also may well have put pickets around the house, but no sinister connotation need be placed on the action. The final hours of Augustus would doubtless have attracted the concerned and the curious, who in such situations follow a herd instinct to keep crowded vigils. After Agrippina the Younger had been shipwrecked near Baiae in ad 59, crowds of well-wishers streamed up to her house, carrying torches.

The same would surely have happened in Nola, and some sort of control might have become necessary to give the dying emperor some peace. The house certainly became a place of pilgrimage afterwards, and was converted into some sort of shrine. The romantic account of Augustus expiring in Tiberius’ arms may be highly coloured, and Suetonius’ claim that Augustus and Tiberius spent a whole day together sounds exaggerated, given that Augustus’ health was fading so fast.

But it is difficult to see how that whole sequence of events could simply have been invented if it did not have at least a basis of truth. In any case, rumours surrounding the events at Augustus’ deathbed were totally eclipsed by dramatic developments across the water. As an immediate consequence of the emperor’s death, Postumus also lost his life: primum facinus novi principatus fuit Postumi Agrippae caedes (the first misdeed of the new principate was the slaying of Agrippa Postumus), as Tacitus words it.

The events of this first and possibly murkiest episode of Tiberius’ reign have been much debated, and it is probably now impossible to disentangle fact from rumour and innuendo, since there is considerable ambiguity in the ancient accounts of the incident. The general outline of the events is not particularly controversial. The officer commanding the guard at Planasia executed Postumus after he had received written instructions (codicilli) to carry out the deed. Postumus had no weapons other than his powerful physique, and he put up a valiant but ultimately futile struggle. A desperate attempt by a loyal slave, Clemens, to save him was frustrated when the would-be rescuer took a slow freight ship to Planasia and arrived too late.

After the execution, the officer then reported to Tiberius, presumably still at Nola, that the action had been carried out. He did so, as Tacitus describes it, ut mos militiae (in the military manner), presumably in the sense of a soldier reporting to his commander that his orders have been discharged. Tiberius denied vehemently that he had given any such orders. According to Tacitus, he claimed that Augustus had sent the order, to be put into force immediately after his death, and insisted that the officer would have to give an account to the Senate. Tacitus at this point adds a new wrinkle to the story, and gives a role to a figure not mentioned in any of the other sources in the context of this incident.

The codicilli, he claims, had been sent to the tribune by Augustus’ confidant Sallustius Crispus. This man was the great-nephew and adopted son of the historian Sallust. Although his family connections had opened up the opportunities for a brilliant senatorial career, Sallustius chose to fashion himself after Maecenas and seek real influence rather than the empty prominence of the Senate. He rose to the top through his energy and determination, which he managed to conceal from his contemporaries by pretending a casual or even apathetic attitude to life.

He acquired considerable wealth, owning property in Rome, and among other landed estates he could list a copper mine in the Alps producing high-grade ore. More importantly, at least until his later years, he had the ear of both Augustus and Tiberius, as a man who bore the imperatorum secreta (secrets of the emperors). When Sallustius learned that Tiberius wanted the whole matter brought before the Senate, he grew alarmed, afraid that he personally could end up being charged. He interceded with Livia, alerting her to the danger of making public the arcana domus (the inner secrets of the house), with all that would entail—details of the advice of friends, or of the special services carried out by the soldiers—and urged her to curb her son. Beyond this general framework the details are highly obscure, and, it seems, totally speculative.

Tacitus says that Tiberius avoided raising the issue of Postumus’ death in the Senate, and Suetonius observes that he simply let the matter fade away. There would thus have been no official source of information. Yet fairly detailed narratives have been passed down, which could have come only from eyewitness accounts. In particular one has to wonder how the supposed secret dealings between Livia and Sallustius could ever have become known. This uncertainty over the source and reliability of the information clearly makes it impossible to determine who was ultimately responsible for Postumus’ death.

Suetonius summarises the problem nicely. He states that it was not known whether Augustus had left the written instructions, on the verge of his own death, to ensure a smooth succession, or whether Livia had dictated them (dictasset) in the name of Augustus, and, if the latter, whether Tiberius had known about them. Dio categorically insists that Tiberius was directly responsible but says that he encouraged the speculation, so that some blamed Augustus, some Livia, and some even said that the centurion had acted on his own initiative.

Tacitus found Tiberius’ claim that Augustus had left instructions for the execution hard to believe, and describes this defence as a posture (simulabat), suggesting that the more likely scenario was that Tiberius and Livia hastily brought about the death, Tiberius driven by fear and she by novercalibus odiis (stepmotherly hatred). Velleius may have been aware of these speculations, for he is very cagey about Postumus’ death. He insists that ‘‘he suffered an ultimate fate’’ (habuit exitum) in a way that was appropriate to his ‘‘madness’’ ( furor). Velleius may well have been deliberately ambiguous to avoid becoming enmeshed in a contentious and sensitive issue that might reflect badly on Tiberius.

Scholars have generally been inclined to exonerate Livia, and only Gardthausen has held that Livia was totally responsible, without even Tiberius’ complicity. Syme accuses Tacitus of supporting an imputation against Livia ‘‘which he surely knew to be false.’’ The implication of Livia has been challenged by Charlesworth in particular. He sees it as emanating from the same tradition that had her poisoning Augustus. Certainly Pliny’s brief summary imputes no criminal action against her. She seems on principle to have refrained from taking independent executive action. (The picket she set up around Augustus’ house would be the only known counterexample.)

At most, it is possible that she knew of such an order, but it seems highly unlikely that she initiated it. Even if a meeting did actually take place between Sallustius and Livia, as Tacitus alleges, this need not mean that anything sinister had necessarily been underfoot. Sallustius may have wished simply to appeal to the wisdom and experience of Livia to counter the political naïveté of a son who had spent his career on military campaigns and had not yet become adept in the complexities of political intrigue. The suppression of information about the activities of the soldiers could just as easily have been meant to refer to Augustus’ instructions as to Livia’s, in a system where secrecy for the sake of secrecy was considered a vital element in the fabric of efficient government.

If Livia had somehow been involved with Sallustius in carrying out Augustus’ instructions, there would have had to be secret and dangerous communication between Rome and Nola, unless Sallustius was also with Augustus at the end (and Tacitus would surely have mentioned his presence). Tiberius seems largely exonerated by his own conduct. If he had been guilty, he would hardly have wanted an investigation by the Senate, and could simply have claimed that the execution was carried out on Augustus’ orders or even have reported officially that Postumus had died from natural causes. We can surely eliminate Dio’s barely tenable suggestion that the guard might have executed Postumus on its own initiative, and the hardly more convincing notion that Sallustius Crispus similarly might have acted on his own initiative.

On balance, the most plausible suspect is Augustus, although plausibility is far different from conviction. Augustus might well have issued standing orders to the tribune to execute Postumus the moment news of his own death arrived. Sallustius could well have sent the announcement of the emperor’s death in Tiberius’ name (with or without his knowledge), which could account for the centurion’s coming to Rome to make a report to Tiberius.

When he needed to, Augustus could behave quite ruthlessly against those who threatened him. He put to death Caesarion, the supposed son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, for purely political motives. He also could be harsh towards his own family. He swore that he would never recall the elder Julia from exile, refused to recognise the child of the younger Julia, and would not allow either Julia burial in his mausoleum. It was he who had set the armed guard over Postumus. Moreover, Augustus did make meticulous preparations for his own death.

He left behind three or four libelli, with instructions for his funeral, the text of the Res Gestae, a summary of the Roman troops, fleets, provinces, client-kingdoms, direct and indirect taxes—including those in arrears— the funds in the public and in the imperial treasuries, and the imperial accounts. There was also a book of instructions for Tiberius, the Senate, and the people. Augustus went into considerable detail, with such particulars as the number of slaves it would be wise to free and the number of new citizens who should be enrolled.

He was clearly a man determined not to leave any issues hanging in the balance, and the future of Postumus would have been an issue of prime importance. Postumus’ death was the final blow for Julia the Elder. From this point on, she simply gave up and went into a slow decline, her despair aggravated by her destitution. She received no help from Tiberius, although he had earlier tried to win leniency for her from her father.

According to Suetonius, Tiberius, once emperor, deprived her of her allowance, using the heartless argument that Augustus had not provided for it in his will. As we have seen, Livia might well have helped the exiled Julia at one point by giving her one of her slaves, and she certainly helped Julia’s daughter when she was sent away from Rome. But she does not seem to have tried to intercede on this occasion. Julia died in late ad 14 from weakness and malnutrition. The new reign had got off to a bloody start.”

- Anthony A. Barrett, “The Public Figure.” in Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome

#livia drusilla #postumus #octavian #tiberius #roman #ancient #history #anthony a. barrett #livia first lady of imperial rome

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Text

Trinity Blood: William Walter Wordsworth

Name: Doctor William Walter Wordsworth

Nickname: Professor (Codename), WWW

Age: 41

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexual Orientation: Polysexual - not overt (being a Catholic priest comes with some hang-ups...)

Birthday: 14 February

Astrology: Aquarius Sun, Scorpio Ascendant, Gemini Moon. Metal Rooster.

Personality Metrics: ENTP - 8w7

Alignment: True Neutral

Vocation: AX Founding Member / Agent, Professor at the University of Rome, Priest, Inventor

History

Born 623 (3023 AD) in Albion to aristocracy, William Walter Wordsworth grew up with finery and comfort. Florence, his mother, was a respected English lecturer, and Arthur, his father, was an eminent physician. Sadly his mother died when he was seven years old and his father when he was eleven. Both deaths were deemed accidents, though young William did not immediately accept that to be the case. Unable to process his grief in a conventional manner, he turned to learning all he could about the most cutting-edge investigative techniques in criminology in an effort to uncover what actually had happened.

On a day to day level however not much changed for William following his parents’ deaths. He continued to be raised in the same house in Londinium, having access to the same wide range of tutors and other caretakers, as well as quite enough money to maintain a certain standard of living from his heritage.

As a young man he gained entry to a number of classes at the University of Londinium. He was accepted full time onto a Natural Sciences and Philosophies course, though he petitioned for - and was given credits for - attending other lectures across Literature, Science and Moral Science subjects. His keeness for learning meant that he excelled as a polymath.

It was through attending such a wide variety of lectures that William met some rather exceptional peers. Not only was he acquainted with Gilbert, the Crown Prince of Albion itself, and Albert Boswell, who would go on to become Deputy Prime Minister, but he also met three other geniuses: Isaak Butler, Gepetto Garibaldi and Catherine Lang. They - alongside himself, of course - went on to become known as the ‘four great prodigies’ of the University.

Garibaldi specialised in bioengineering, Lang in aeronautical engineering and Butler in medical sciences. William was immensely interested in all their work and they all ended up spending a fair bit of time together despite being academic rivals. That was due, in a large part, to the fact that the University manoeuvred it that way - they were regularly paraded out at parties or other functions in order to raise more research funding and capital for the grand, old Alma Mater.

Regardless of any competition between the four, William greatly enjoyed the company of Izaak Butler. Here was an erudite, intensely charismatic man with a mind that far exceeded anyone he had ever known. He delighted and thrilled William in equal measure, and never a dull moment was to be had together. They rapidly began to share ideas and theories, and William was entirely pleased to find that Izaak also had a practical bent, just as he did.

For what is Science good for, if not to be used?

His enthusiasm around his dark friend however was to be his eventual downfall. They started to discuss ways in which the boundaries of biology - as set down by God Almighty himself - could be circumnavigated. How they could push the fundamentals of chemistry, physics, and even metaphysics. Both men had an interest in Lost Technologies and any research from the New Empire that they could uncover. At first it was mere ideas but, as time went on, the thought experiments moved into the practical realm. From animal modelling, it was not too far of a leap into human experimentation...

William was not often in the labs himself, as he was attending to his own sprawling studies, so he was not aware of everything that was happening following his discourses with Izaak - or indeed the extent of his friend's cruelty and depravity. He was also spending more time with a young woman called Julia Bertram, who was on the same course as his friend. William knew he was distracting himself away from his more ‘deviant’ thoughts about Izaak using Julia, but soon he came to genuinely care for her grace, kindness and high-minded devotion to progress. Realising that he had fallen in love with her, William asked for her hand in marriage, which Julia readily accepted.

Despite a difference in their intellects, Izaak appeared to treat Julia with the utmost respect. However there were moments when it was just the two of them alone that William would sense that the other man found Julia as an individual, and his relationship to her… amusing. It was at these times that William saw Izaak’s mask slipping, revealing something far more sinister for the briefest of moments. But whatever it was disappeared so quickly and so effectively, that William could not help but doubt himself. Izaak had always had a way of confounding his usual rational mind.

At one of the university's Galas, a wealthy Duke offered a large sum of money to resurrect his daughter from the dead. Izaak readily accepted the proposal. He and William developed a technology far beyond anything they had been experimenting with previously. Yet whatever went on in those labs did not bring Lady Frances back from the grave. Instead the experiment resulted in massive damage to the university and the death of Julia, who had been assisting in the project. Izaak and William were both immediately expelled.

William then found himself accused of the crimes of reckless scientific endangerment as well as the murder of his fiancee, Julia Bertram. Izaak had framed him and disappeared without trace.

He too fled Londinium, although he was later exonerated of his crimes. With grief and betrayal flooding through his veins, William found himself pursuing Izaak throughout Europe, hell bent on either revenge or the truth. Sometimes he did not quite know which one he needed more. Though he quickly tempered his emotions regarding his old friend - taking the opportunity for learning even more during his travels - Izaak remained the true reason he searched. His own darkness simmering away under the calm confidence and burgeoning eccentricity.

At the age of 27 he found himself in Bruges, where the leading noble family of the town - the de Watteaus - were being attacked by a vampire. The entire clan were wiped out brutally aside from the youngest son, Hugue, and his younger sister, Anaïs, who went missing and was presumed kidnapped. William found Hugue at death’s door. The other man had lost significant portions of both arms during the incident.

Perhaps because he held some understanding of the grief the young man was facing and recognised the lust for revenge in the other, William took Hugue in. He helped mend his body and fitted him with new arms. These advanced bio-prostheses gave Hugue even greater strength and dexterity at the expense of requiring diligence with regards their upkeep.

William also made attempts to help heal Hugue’s preoccupied mind by engaging the eighteen year old in fencing practice, as well as other disciplined physical and mental methods. Hugue soon showed himself to be a prodigy all of his own with regards to swordplay, and would go on to be codenamed “Sword Dancer” by William after the formation of the AX.

Hugue looks to him as a mentor to whom he owes a debt. When they are both in Rome he assists William in the labs, cooks him food and helps with the upkeep of their shared living spaces. However they have different reasons for living, different people that they search for, and often different orders to fulfil, so spend much time apart. William also appears to be quite critical of the other. He advises against Sword Dancer’s involvement in certain missions - knowing as he does what truly drives Hugue and the full extent of what the other man is prepared to do in order to enact his revenge and find his sister. He also refers to Hugue as his ‘incompetent student’ to Tres Iqus.

His criticisms however are borne of his concern. Privately he laments that he has been unable to help Hugue more, for the younger man is like the darkest reflection of his own desires.

In his own pursuit of Izaak (now Izaak Fernand von Kämpfer, second-in-command of the Rozencruez Orden) William followed a lead to Rome. The illegitimate daughter of the Pope, Caterina Sforza, had recently entered into the clergy and Abel Nightroad, a powerful being infused with Kresnik bacillus, had followed her in her footsteps.

William became involved in an attempt by the Orden to take down the pair, an incident that was being investigated by Vaclav Havel who was a young Inquisitor at the time. The Vatican nun, Sister Kate Scott, was also there and was grievously wounded in the battle. William had been unable to save her from attacks by the Red Baron. In the end they prevailed, yet he was left none the wiser about his old friend’s ties to the incident.

Following the defeat of the Orden, William decided to stay on in Rome with his new acquaintances. He was given a commission by Caterina to complete the Iron Maiden airship, once more drawing on what he had learned from his peers at University. However he went beyond even what Lang could produce. In an effort to make up for his inability to save Sister Kate, he designed an onboard system that would interface the ship with the consciousness of the comatose woman, thus allowing her to continue to do her duties within the Vatican and in her care of Caterina.

A physical form of Sister Kate could also be projected holographically using the ship’s technology. William often calls Kate beautiful as a charm offensive in an effort to get his own way. However she is fully aware of his games, and responds accordingly. Their interactions can have a level of playful banter between them, and in some ways they have an almost sibling vibe. She is the only one who readily calls him out or disagrees with him at times. The usual unflappable Professor jokes that this holographic, demure beauty is the one who actually scares him.

Sister Kate is also one of only a handful of people that William admits to getting a ‘bit too sentimental’ around, for he normally does not display emotionality over rationality. When contemplating the possibility of his own death, he asks that she remain ‘healthy and strong’. Having no living relatives of his own, he entrusts that role to Kate, asking her to stay alive so that there will be at least one meaningful person left to attend his funeral.

But despite what he might think about his lonely legacy, William does become close to the others. He quickly becomes indispensable to Caterina and later on Vaclav Havel calls William his oldest friend (after he has drugged him into unconsciousness...). With regards Abel however, he seems oddly indifferent and even a bit dismissive of the silver-haired priest.

Considering his normally rampant scientific curiosity and the fact that his mental counterpart at university (Izaak) has become obsessed with Abel’s physical counterpart and twin (Cain) this comes across as especially strange. Even when moved to the point of dropping his pipe upon coming across Abel’s headless corpse, the only words he mutters under his breath before confirming the death to Sister Esther is “how foolish...”

It seems that he deliberately keeps himself disengaged, because he knows the Crusnik stirs up strong emotion with regards his very existence. William does not want to continue to follow the dark path that he used to tread with Izaak. Instead he wants to forge his own way with Science and with his reclaimed religion. For during this time in Rome he too became ordained as a Priest. He was also given tenure as a lecturer at Rome University where he teaches in both literature and science disciplines.

Gepetto Garibaldi, who had become a Vatican science professor, staged a revolt against their employer. Garibaldi’s work in developing homo coedilius - the HC Series "Killing Dolls" - had initially been funded by the Vatican but the project had been terminated for being too inhumane. Believing his ten prototypes to be works of art, Garibaldi confiscated their bodies and used them as soldiers in his rebellion. The month after the new Papal elections, the Killing Dolls seized control of Castle of San Angelo in Rome. The newly ordained Abel Nightroad aided the counterattack to seize back the castle, defeating all ten cyborgs. Garibaldi took his own life and Caterina, alongside Abel, confiscated unit HC-III X to the Ministry of Holy Affairs.

William - knowing much about his former peer’s methods - took over the care and rehabilitation of this model who was named Hercule Tres Iqus. The bond between them was thus established immediately and in many ways it could be seen as a paternal relationship. William continues to act as the cyborg’s caretaker, and introduces new upgrades and programming in order to help Tres Iqus grow. Having been unable to form a family with Julia of his own, William does often think of his own mechanical creations as children - such as his gigantic Poseidon WWW whom he so lovingly compared to Esther during their first meeting.

However, Tres Iqus was not originally his own creation and has the form of a full grown humanoid man. As such it is not quite so simple as William viewing himself in the role of a Father figure. Neither does Guardian fit either, for the gunslinger is built to endure and does not require his constant vigilance (only countless hours of his oh-so-precious time devoted to repair - compelled as Tres is in carrying out his orders come what may).

And providing a ‘guiding hand’ seems somewhat superfluous to coding imperatives and protocols, where the basis for the machine’s morality is made up in a binary sequence of zeros and ones. The question of whether or not there is (or could be, or should be) emotions in the machine remains something that William toys with in his mind. Regardless, even if there is no love to be found, or indeed generated in Tres Iqus, William does himself feel something akin to a form of love for the cyborg.

In May 655 (3055 AD) the Papal State Affairs Special Operations Section ("AX") was formed within the Ministry of Holy Affairs. With Caterina as their leader, William took on responsibility for code naming each of the other agents in the group. This included Abel Nightroad (Crusnik), Vaclav Havel (Know Faith), Hugue de Watteau (Sword Dancer), Kate Scott (Iron Maiden), Tres Iqus (Gunslinger) and himself who was code named Professor.

As a founding member of the AX he is quite often sent where his myriad talents can be useful. This has included resolving a slave trade syndicate war in the Kingdom of Hispania, running distraction to aid in the finding of Cherubim in Brno, interrogating the Cherubim and holding off an attack by Kaspar von Neumann, providing legal representation at Caterina’s trials, investigating strange incidences at sea, accompanying the Lady Saint to Londinium and helping Esther navigate high society there, blackmailing threatening working with a journalist to uncover the next heir to the Albion throne, facing off with Jack the Ripper, preventing an attempted coup d’etat and revealing who actually killed the former Queen, protecting Esther from Sweeney Todd, dealing with the “Mist” threatening to swallow his home town, defeating a werewolf using the chemical found in alliums and ensuring Esther’s ascension as her Royal Highness over the Kingdom of Albion.

However he spends a lot of time within Rome itself and is often to be found conversing with Caterina - who seems to rely upon him for his objective and rational perspectives - as well as teaching at the university, though his tolerance for his students’ sloppy work is notoriously low. Most importantly he has his own workshop in the Palazzo Spada, where he spends much of his time inventing new creations. He dabbles in a myriad of scientific disciplines and invents both useful and bizarre contraptions alike. A lot of inventions are successful, yet others end up as failures and can quite literally blow up in his face.

One of his earliest inventions was his cane which houses a sword, can dispense various types of chemical concoctions and has firepower that can rival that of a Howitzer (it is likely he also created Hugue’s rod that conceals the Sword Dancer’s blades). Other inventions include Doppler radars for Tres to help him target concealed/invisible foes, the ‘Swallow WWW’ remote control bird-like reconnaissance device, the ‘Ear man’ earbuds (under patent negotiation~) and the massive ‘Poseidon WWW’ heavy android for sea combat. He also has created a flying vehicle, one that runs on dangerous oxidising reactions and is prone to imbalance by too much shifting around in the backseat. Despite its flaws and ridiculous design, it is one of his pride and joys - his much beloved flying car.

Despite being a man of significant scientific curiosity, since his experience with Izaak, William has formulated a new doctrine:

Science should never be misused.

Appearance

According to the light novel [Sword Dancer]: “if this world had a picture of supreme confidence, then it would be a portrait of the Professor.”

The Professor is an well presented middle-aged gentleman, who - despite having to be reminded to eat and sleep by Hugue when inventing - maintains himself in tip-top shape both physically and mentally through various forms of exercises. He has very slightly wavy brown hair, medium-short in length which he keeps swept back in a side parting. It frames a clean-shaven face that is long and thin with sharp features - typical of Albion nobility - and his blue-green eyes are as bright as the finest-cut aquamarine. He holds himself with a bearing that often makes him appear taller than his 5’11” (180cm) height.

Whilst he wears the complex clerical garb that denotes him as a travelling Vatican Priest in the first instance, the Professor does dress more ‘casually’ quite often. However casual to William usually consists of something like a tweed three piece, or a dashing morning suit replete with silk top hat. In a workshop setting, that can get stripped back to a shirt and trousers and work gloves, even a jumpsuit or overalls. Yet even then it is not uncommon for him to wear an ascot or antique watch chain as an accessory.

When not in the near two-tone of his vestiges, William leans towards gold, sky blues, light pinks and lavender as well as neutral tones such as browns, khaki and cream.

He wears reading glasses on occasion but is never seen without his smoking pipe and his gold tipped cane. The former had been a somewhat strange gift from Caterina back when he used to be a non-smoker, the latter is his own invention within which he conceals his rapier as well as various chemical tricks. Other accessories include a variety of hankies in various patterns and Oxford dress shoes polished to a shine.

In his manga portrait, blue roses and a white owl feature alongside the Professor. These symbolise mystery and wisdom, respectively. There is also a serpent coiling up his cane, resembling the Rod of Asclepius and hinting at the tempation of man.

Personality

The Professor is associated with the Tarot card “Strength”, which - in an upright position - indicates elements relating to inner strength such as stamina, persistence, determination, commitment, strong will and control. The card represents overcoming self-doubts and knowing that life’s obstacles can be endured with an indomitable human spirit. Situations are effectively controlled without excessive, outward force but through significant internal power and an ability to influence others with composure and maturity. Which rather accurately sums up the Professor.

He is a man of exceptional intellect, calm rationality, artful deductive reasoning and sophisticated logic. Though that hardly speaks to any measure of guaranteed common sense! In fact, at times, he can be scattered and forgetful or come across as rather ridiculous. He could certainly be considered a bit of an eccentric.

The Professor can play mental games with relative ease and enjoys bouts of verbal sparring. However he does not do this in order to cause harm, unless he deems it necessary. In such times he can be exceedingly threatening. Even though he is shown to be capable physically (with a surprising speed and deftness to his movements considering his age) William dominates with his mind.

He is loquacious, often semi-soliloquising or lecturing about chemical formulae or some other nugget of his esoteric knowledge. This only adds to his eccentric air and ridiculousness, meaning that others underestimate the actual level of power and control he can be exerting in a situation. As a purveyor of and sponge for all kinds of information, he can also come across as quite the gossip. The Professor however can be very direct and clear when it is needed, and is clever enough to know what to hold back in conversations, and when.

He is remarkably collected in a vast variety of situations, whether in combat or in conversation. He does not shy away from conflict and remains calm, always thinking about the best solutions to whatever problem is facing him.

In some ways he can be a bit too calm and measured, bordering on a detached indifference unless he finds something novel or interesting to spark his interest. He often complains of boredom or wanting to be off elsewhere doing something more exciting if he is feeling constricted - such as having to grade his students' reports or other solely administrative tasks. This 'perversity' of his nature is noted by old chum, Albert Boswell, who tells him outright that he has to keep his cards close to his chest in order to keep the Professor's intrigue.

Very rarely does he show any extreme emotion, and certainly no genuine weakness. In times when he is being sincerely sentimental or heartfelt, he often covers it up with a dry sense of humour. As such he is incredibly hard to get close to, despite being such an outwardly affable and charming gentleman.

He can also be critical and judgemental if he feels emotionally vulnerable or wounded - such as worrying about someone he genuinely cares for, or if he is betrayed. His assuredness, status and intellect might make him seem a little pompous or even arrogant to those who know no better. Indeed, he does not suffer fools gladly and is unimpressed by laziness or people who do not make all effort to use their skills or abilities effectively. However he is open-minded and curious to new perspectives. He does not like to have biases that close off his mind.

Positive Traits:

Exceptionally intelligent and knowledgeable

Able to apply his intelligence and knowledge practically

Innovative and creative

Calm and collected, even under extreme pressure

Confident, charming and gentlemanly

Negative Traits:

Dislikes overt emotionality, in himself or others

Can be detached and even indifferent

Prefers to remain objective, hard to truly get close to

Easily bored, needs to remain active (especially mentally)

Can be critical and judgemental

Key Relationships

Isaak || Panzer Magier

A friend from university that has indelibly marked his mind, heart and soul. Izaak betrayed him and killed his fiancee. He is the man that William continues to search Europe for. His very own private obsession.

Hugue || Sword Dancer

William saved the life of Hugue, providing him with new arms and training. They have very different goals, motivations and personalities but Hugue often helps William in his labs and with housekeeping of their shared living spaces at the Vatican.

Caterina || Woman of Steel

William provides sound counsel to Caterina and acts as her legal defence representation in the Vatican trials. It is clear he respects her leadership and shows concern at the thought of her illness worsening (and the implications thereof).

Kate || Iron Maiden

William created the Iron Maiden that acts as a repository and projector of Kate’s consciousness and holographic form. He feels guilt for being unable to protect her. They challenge each other but she is important to him, almost as if she is family.

Tres Iqus || Gunslinger

William maintains and upgrades the functions of the last remaining Killing Doll series: Vatican Papal State AX Agent HC-III X, Patrol Priest Hercule Tres Iqus. The Gunmetal Hound. Codename: Gunslinger.

Vanessa || Young Lady

A methuselah that Willliam rescues who becomes an important part of the next stage of development in the Kingdom of Albion. He is irritated by her calling him old man, but appreciates her kindness to creatures weaker than her.

Esther || Star of Hope

The secret heir to the throne of his homeland, the Kingdom of Albion. William is instrumental in uncovering the truth and enabling her ascension as Queen. He is troubled by the tragic sadness and pressures that keep being piled upon on such young shoulders, but greatly respects her strength, determination and courage in overcoming or facing up to these difficulties.

No matter what happens next, he will be committed to his young Queen and is here to offer Esther his unflinching support and considerable counsel if she should ever need it.

#Trinity Blood || William Walter Wordsworth #WWW || Professor - Let each one prove his own work (rp)#Trinity Blood RP

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ceciliaaa-youre-breakin-my-heart · 3 years

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Sooo I decided to start by re-uploading some of my old art I drew before deciding that those two dorks would become my oc's.

Everybody, say hello to Anthony (on the left) and Arthur "Art" (on the right).Those designs are not exactly how I would envision them right now, but sadly my drawing skills seem to come and go, so I'm at the moment unable to create anything better. I can't say everything about their backstories because it's still kinda a work in progress and would also be a little spoilery, so instead here are some random facts:

ANTHONY MARLOWE (born 19 august 1948)

- his mother left when he was 5, so he was basically raised by his father. It's very important.

- despite talking all the time about "high literature" his favorite genre is actually science fiction, which he discovered by accident when he was around 9. Will defend Izaak Asimov with his life

-In sixth form he auditioned for the titularrole in his school's production of "Hamlet". When he learned he didn't get the role and was instead cast as Rosenkrantz, he never showed up to rehearsals which prompted other students to kick him out of the drama club for being "a terrible sport".

ARTHUR O'RILEY: (born 25 November 1949)

-1/4 irish from his mother's side

- has 2 older sisters- Sarah (2 years older) and Joanne (5 years older)

- learned how to sew from his mother and dreamt of becoming a tailor when he was younger. Let's just say his father wasn't a fan of that

- probably has a bunch of undiagnosed health problems. I'm sure it won't become a problem later down the line...

I'll try to make a reference sheet and inspirations for both of them, but right now that's all i guess

#oc art #oc lore #look at those boomers #tagging my own shit feels so weird #don't be surprised if i occasionally spell his surname Marluv #I just find it funny #Also #you may wonder why I would name both of my characters with names starting with the same letter like isn't it a little confusing #and to that my answer is #shutup #anthony marlowe #arthur o'riley

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frostsinth · 4 years

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Burdened by the Stars - Pt. 2

Part 1 - MasterList

I am having so much fun writing this story so far. I had a bit of a struggle to figure out how I wanted it to go, but I think I’ve got that down now. And so it’s getting a bit easier. I hope you guys love this part as much as I do, because it has some returning characters.

I’ve already got most of the next chapter written, so I might post it 12/24 or so if I have enough interest and get far enough along to continue to be ahead of myself.

If you like my work, please think about going to BuyMeACoffee (which you can access from my MasterList above or through my header) to support me. If you would like to commission a piece, DM or shoot me an ask for details.

All the best!

We reached the outer walls of the goblin city an hour or two shy of nightfall, and I heard the trumpets announcing our approach as the gates swung wide. I smiled eagerly, and spurred my mount into a graceful canter through the streets of the outer city. The majority was below ground and deep into the mountainside, but since the signing of the Peace Treaty between the Kingdoms somewhere around a dozen years before, the goblins had set up a trade haven here on the surface. During the day, the streets were often bustling, but with night fast approaching and temperatures dropping they had a quiet air of productivity about them now. A mixture of goblins spattered with the occasional human were closing up shop as I rode, and I heard a few happy cries of greeting and murmurs of excitement when they recognized me as I passed them by. My hair billowed and bounced out wildly behind me, and I offered a friendly wave to the merchants and shoppers who greeted me as I left the royal carriage far behind and rode up the slope to the castle proper.

Those gates opened as well without delay, and the echo of my horse’s hooves clattered about the cobblestones. A herald darted from one side doorway, quickly straightening his tunic. He had only half my name out before I passed him, and he gave a tiny puff of air as he realized the pointlessness of his loud announcement of my arrival was overshadowed by the racket of hooves. But news certainly did travel fast here regardless. It had only been maybe ten minutes since I had first crossed the threshold of the outer city, and already someone was waiting for me at the top of the long, shallow steps. I pulled up my mare short before the wide stairs of the main doors at the head of the courtyard, and my smile grew at the familiar figure I saw standing before them with his shoulders squared and his hands clasped behind his pin-straight back.

I called out to him loudly with a cheery greeting, already swinging out of the saddle before my mount had come to a full stop. A few attendants rushed forward, and I passed her reins over with a kind word of thanks to them and a pat to her thick neck.

The second eldest of our family looked down at me with a slightly exasperated expression. It could be hard to tell with him sometimes; like our oldest brother, he tended to conceal most of his emotions beneath a stony façade. Remnants of a childhood with our strict father, I had been told, though I recalled only very little of that time myself. Not to mention that the etiquette of human court still aired towards a more stoic and reserved composure. But I knew both my brothers well enough to read the tiny changes which denoted their thoughts behind their masks. So I already knew King Nikostratus was not particularly pleased to see me on his doorstep that evening even before he spoke.

“Chickadee, what are you doing here?” He exclaimed as I skipped up the steps to him. “Valerianus assured me he would send word ahead for when to expect you.”

Despite the scolding edge to his voice, he enveloped me in a warm hug when I reached him. It had been more than three months since we had last seen each other after all, though of course we wrote to each other regularly. I forgot how much I had missed him myself until I was firmly enveloped in his arms and his familiar scent. I saw his expression had softened a little by the time I pulled back, and he fondly pushed my hair out of my face as he must have done a million times before.

“The roads were perfectly clear, Niko!” I told him, not fighting his fussing over my wild locks. “I don’t know what Val was waiting for, but I got tired of waiting for it.”

“Please tell me you at least informed our brother you were leaving?” He bemoaned, a slight frown pinching at his brow. I gave him a tiny, sheepish grin, and he sighed heavily in defeat. Gesturing over an attendant. “Morgana, you cannot just ride back and forth across the countryside whenever you very well feel like it. You are a Princess for goodness sakes. It’s dangerous!”

“But Niko-!”

“Auntie Gana!” Came a shouting chorus of gleeful voices from behind my brother in the castle, interrupting his reprimanding and my planned defense.

I dropped to one knee with a returning grin as two of my nephews and one of my nieces sprinted into my arms. They very nearly knocked me over with their combined weight, and I laughed as I fell back onto my bottom.

“My goodness!” I gasped. “Look at how you’ve all grown! Izaak, is that you?? I can barely recognize you! And Lorette! You’ve grown your hair so long!”

I scooped up their youngest, Viktor, into my arms as his remained stubbornly latched around my neck. The other two let me unwrap them so I could stand once more, but clung to my legs and tunic excitedly. I vaguely overheard my brother giving instructions to the attendant to send word to Val about my surprise but safe arrival. I placed a hand on Izaak’s head, scruffing the eleven year old’s hair. He pushed my hand away with a soft yelp and a fussing word before quickly working to smooth out the messy blonde curls as best he could. Lorette tugged on my shirt.

“Auntie Gana, are you here for the rest of winter now?” She asked eagerly.

I looked up at Niko, raising one eyebrow pointedly. I heard the creak of the carriage arriving in the courtyard, followed by the click of its doors as my Ladies emerged from within. My brother looked over at it, then gave another heavy sigh, shaking his head.

“Honestly, chickadee, I should send you straight back.” He told me, but belittled his words by turning and leading the way into the castle proper. “This behavior is absolutely unacceptable and-”

“Ah, I thought I heard the trumpets! And look who’s come to call!” Came a cheery voice, interrupting us for a second time. We turned as a group to face the goblin King as he strode down the hall with an excited skip in his step. “Finally! I thought our little bird might just end up staying south for the winter this year!”

Viktor wriggled to be released at the sight of his father, squealing with delight. I put the four year old on the ground to sprint over to the King next, who scooped him back up with a small touch of difficulty. Even at four, the little human boy was starting to outgrow his tiny 5’2 foot goblin parent. But if the weight bothered him, the goblin King didn’t let it show, sauntering over with a toothy grin and his son perched on one hip.

“Grier, thank goodness,” I greeted him, giving my brother’s husband a warm and grateful smile of relief, “Just in time to talk some sense into Niko! He wants to send me back!”

“Send her back??” Exclaimed Grier, his brow shooting up as he looked over at Niko. “Whatever for?? She just got here!”

His voice was full of his usual vibrant lightness, and it echoed about the large hallway around us. I felt like I was floating on air at its sound. I loved the vibrancy of the goblin kingdom, especially compared to the solemn human court of Geriveria, and that vivacity was in no small part due to its monarchs. It always made me feel so happy to see both of them, though it might be hard to see how they were compatible at all at first glance. Where my brother was soft spoken, stoic, and as unreadable as stone, his husband was everything the opposite. Grier was flamboyant, loud, and wore his emotions on his sleeves for everyone to see. While Niko wore dark solid coats with sensible black or grey pants and subdued gold buttons, Grier wore loud prints, usually several of them at once, with strange cuts, frills, and styles. His long blonde hair was absolutely wild in contrast to Niko’s short cropped black. He wore bangles and bobbles and earrings, where the most my brother ever wore was a decorative belt or a ceremonial sword at his hip. One would be hard pressed to find a more unalike pair of men. But one would be equally hard pressed to find a pair that somehow worked as well together as they did. Or made each other half as happy.

Niko gave Grier a look which equaled the same level of exasperation he had given me just a few moments prior. “She snuck out of the castle, again,” he told him, his voice as level and smooth as always but hinting at his frustration around the edges, “She didn’t inform King Valerianus she was leaving. And she didn’t send word ahead.” His hazel eyes shot back to me, narrowing slightly. “What if something had happened to her on the road? We would never have known until it was far too late.”

I took the scolding with a slightly bowed head, biting my tongue, and even Izaak and Lorette hid behind my legs with the sternness of my brother’s voice. Perhaps out of sympathy; I was sure they had heard that tone more than once themselves. It had the quality of making one feel not fearful of punishment, but instead horribly guilty for their actions. And longing to correct whatever disappointment one had inadvertently fostered. I rested a hand on each of their heads reassuringly.

Grier, however, seemed unaffected by the tone, and waved his free hand with a loud scoff that echoed about the stone hall. “Nonsense! She’s here safe now, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He nudged his husband with his elbow. “Let the girl be, Nikostratus. I’m sure she’s learned her lesson and won’t ever scare you like that again.” His scarlet eyes flicked to me, and his slender brows raised high. “Right, little bird? Certainly your brothers have enough to worry about?”

I nodded solemnly, silently thankful for his intervention. Otherwise the lecture might have continued all night. “Yes, you’re right.” I glanced over at Niko. “I’m sorry, Niko, I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise I won’t do it again.”

“See there? No harm done.” Grier shifted his grip on Viktor, cocking one brow at Nikostratus. “What do you think then?”

My brother gave another long, deep sigh, shaking his head. He considered the goblin for a moment, then I saw his hazel eyes flick down to the children at my knees. I saw the sternness lift from his features again, and Izaak released my leg to move over and stand at his side with a shy smile.

“I suppose I am outnumbered.” He mused, sounding almost indifferent to the fact as he tenderly smoothed Izaak’s hair behind one ear. But then lifted a scolding finger to point at me. “Just this once, I’ll let it go. But never again, chickadee.” He warned.

Grier was already grinning wide before I could offer a response. “Excellent! I’m so happy that’s settled!” He turned to me. “You are just in time for dinner! Would you like to go to your rooms to wash up before? You’ll have to forgive the state of them, we didn’t have a chance to have them fully prepared for your arrival.” He gave a friendly wave to Safa and Lisbet over my shoulder. “I’m sure your Ladies might be able to help to that end, and would remember where everything is should you require aid.”

I smiled back at him. “I should change at the very least. I probably stink of horse.”

That made the goblin laugh, and he hoisted his youngest over one shoulder so that he squealed with delight as well. “You can’t be any worse than these little beasties of ours!”

His words had Izaak and Lorette giggling as well.

“Inunu! I took a bath today! I don’t stink at all!” Lorette proclaimed, going over to wrap herself around his leg. “Izaak is the smelly one! Boys are always smelly!”

“I am not!” He whined angrily, stamping one little foot at his sister. “I take a bath everyday! Right, papa?”

“I know you do, Izaak. You smell wonderful, of course.” Niko reassured him, gently tucking his fingers under his little pointed chin briefly.

“Where are all the rest of the little beasties then?” I asked, looking around as we made our way down the main hall. “Or perhaps I should just follow my nose?”

“Oh, they’re around here somewhere, getting into mischief I am sure.” Grier replied, waving his hand about errantly as his present children burst into a fresh set of giggles at my teasing. “They’ll be down for dinner, gods know they are always hungry.”

“Chickadee,” my brother began as the two older children sprinted off down the hallway ahead of us, bickering amid themselves, “What made you leave without telling Valerianus? That’s not like you, and you know he worries-”

I groaned, shaking my head. “Come on, Niko.” I grumbled, surprised to find myself quite irritated at his prying. “I’ve only been here two minutes! Can’t the nosy brother act wait until later? I’ve got to go get washed up for dinner.”

He looked slightly appalled by my words. “But-”

“I’m here all winter,” I reminded him before he could finish, hopefully curtailing the conversation successfully again, “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up. Right now, I want to go get out of these clothes. Plus I’m famished! And I still haven’t seen Corwin and the twins yet!”

I saw him open his mouth to speak again, and darted over before he could. Springing to the tips of my toes and wrapping my arms around him for a quick hug. His response sputtered on his lips, and I used the opportunity to dart away, my Ladies trailing as fast as they could behind me, hiding their own giggles behind gloved hands. His words had struck a chord of guilt in me that had nothing to do with how I had left without telling Valerianus, and my Ladies’ giggles had me flushing a little darker... I certainly did not want to remember the strange visitor that had driven me out of Geriveria’s castle. But couldn’t help lingering on the thought of him, as he had come unbidden to my thoughts anyways… I wondered if he had anyone to worry about him…

“Was she always this difficult?” I heard my brother mumble softly as I made my way to the nearest stairwell to head to my tower rooms. “I swear, I don’t remember having this much trouble with her when she was little.”

“She’s always been trouble.” I heard Grier chuckle quietly in response. “But she’s all grown up now, Nikostratus. You can’t keep her a little girl forever.”

Another sigh. “... Perhaps if you cast that time spell on her...”

The goblin King’s laughter followed us the rest of the way up the stairs.

...

I sighed deeply, kicking about the powdery snow with my boots as I trudged over to set up my targets by the riverbed again. The forests were quiet this time of year, and a lingering storm from the night before crunched fresh snow underfoot as I moved. I didn’t bother to walk with a lighter step; it didn’t matter. I wasn’t far enough away from the outer castle wall to be in danger, nor was I trying to be particularly stealthy to hide from the old bottles I had brought along for target practice. I didn’t suppose they would much care if I were upwind or down. The forests surrounding the castle were at a high enough altitude that they were mostly inaccessible to anyone coming from beyond the kingdom borders, though it ran alongside the main road in places. I could be alone, but wouldn’t run into any patrols. And was close enough to return with haste should I hear the distinctive alarm bells that signified my absence had been noticed.

Not that it should be today, though perhaps Safa and Lisbet would be looking for me at the castle. I had given them and everyone else the slip that morning when I had left without a word. Tired of their prying and longing for some time alone. I doubted they would spend much time looking for me; I had long outgrown any need for chaperones or nursemaids. Their positions as my Ladies were mostly ceremonial. Occasionally they would help me dress (for my more elaborate and highly disdained ensembles) and they made sure my chambers were kept neat. Otherwise, their only other responsibility was keeping me company. As of late I had pushed for them to take more time for themselves, and they had reluctantly agreed. Giving me long afternoons or sometimes almost full days to myself. They would likely think today no different.

As I collected the bottles and set them back on the fallen tree, I couldn’t help my thoughts wandering again. As they had frequently over the past few days since my arrival at the goblin castle. And Niko’s pestering desire to speak to me had not made my stay any easier. Luckily, he was King after all, and his Royal duties kept him pretty busy. Add that to the overall huge size of the castle, and it was pretty easy to avoid him. Especially as he had quite the knack for getting very lost in its halls without a proper guide. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how he had managed to call the castle his home for the last decade and still not know how to get from the dining hall to his own bedroom without getting lost. But as it was to my advantage this time, I decided to take it as a blessing.

It was my only blessing at the moment, as it seemed my conscience was weighing rather heavily on me. Every time I had even a breath without something to occupy it, my mind raced to the thought of the strange half-orc I had met in the palace gardens of Geriveria. The sky was as dark as my thoughts as I fretted and worried over him. Was he alright? Had I sent him to his death? Certainly, the trek to the crags of Almayit was not an easy one in fair weather, let alone in the deep of winter. Or so I had been told. And the forests of Pyejara? I had read such stories of the beasts that lurked there. I shivered, both against the chill that had descended upon the world with a vengeance for the mild weather days that had preceded it, and for the thought of that fool orc lost somewhere, perhaps in the rocky outcropping. My mind supplied ample visions of misfortune for the poor fellow, to which my stubbornness gave offhanded replies that only left me feeling a little guiltier. His shoulders were bare, and it’s been so cold! Well, then he should have worn a cloak. The footing there is hazardous, what if he twists his ankle out there all alone? Then he shouldn’t have gone alone. I did warn him it was a dangerous place. If he got hurt or lost, it was his own fool fault! Especially for having taken the word of a woman he had just met, after all!

Still, I couldn’t help my thoughts wandering to him, even now as I set my targets and stared at the icy cold water of the small riverbed. I wished perhaps I hadn’t been quite so impulsive and brash. Surely there were other ways to rid myself of a pesky suitor, orc or otherwise. I could have simply told him the truth; that there was no way in hell I was getting married. That was not the path for me, nor had it ever even remotely interested me. I had never fawned over fairytales of true love, or imagined myself a Queen of anywhere. I didn’t want to be some polished princess set on a sparkling throne and no more useful than a flower painted on a wall. I didn’t want to be seen as a reward, or a trophy wife. And I certainly didn’t want to stay in one place for the rest of my life. It may have been a perfect and happy ideal for my brothers, but I had loftier goals for myself.

I paused, thumbing the bowstring thoughtfully. I welcomed the change as my thoughts shifted to wondering how much longer I would have to wait for my own adventure to start. I had spent my life reading about them, or prying them from travelers and merchants. How did one start these things anyways? In the stories, there was always a catalyst. Something that came along to change the main character’s routine. I wondered what mine would be, or if I could in some way instigate it. Perhaps I needed to simply leave. Pack a saddle and go out into the world. I felt the itch of it in my palms, the biting urge in my legs. I imagined with glee the freedom of the open road, of wandering wherever I wished without the binds of my title weighing me down. Out in the world where no one knew nor cared who I was or where I had come from...

Grier had always said there was a natural magic to the world. When I was little, I used to get jealous of the way he could snap his fingers, mutter a word, and simply manipulate the world around him. I poured over the spell books that I managed to sneak out of the royal library, trying my hardest to understand why it worked for him and the other goblins but not for me. When my efforts had been discovered, when Niko had tried to explain to little twelve year old me that humans weren’t able to learn magic... I had been mad; mad at Niko. Mad at Grier. Mad at magic for refusing me, even though I wanted it so much and tried so hard.

Then Grier had taken me to the side and in that soft way he was so good at, said something to me that stuck solidly in my mind even to this day. So much so that I could hear it now as clearly as if he were standing beside me speaking the words anew.

“Magic does not exist to be bent to our will.” He had told me, handing me a handkerchief to wipe at my tear stained cheeks. “It is not made to be commanded about; it has a will of its own.”

“But you command it!” I had argued.

He then shook his head. “I ask of it, and it accepts.” He had replied. “It is a partnership, an understanding… and goblins have been speaking with magic for many, many centuries.”

“.... So Niko was right? I’ll never be able to learn magic?” I had whispered sadly, swallowing back a fresh wave of tears.

He seemed to think about this for a moment, then shook his head again. “You may never hear it,” He admitted, “... Not in the way I do. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be able to hear you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Magic is all around us.” He explained. “It’s in the air we breathe, and in the stone at our feet… It is always listening.” His toothy grin had filled his face. “How else do you explain the rain starting just as you’re thinking things can’t get any worse? Or when you’re already having a bad day and you accidentally drop your dessert? Or when you spend hours looking for something just to find it in your pocket? Or what about when you bite into a pastry and it brings you back in time to when you used to bake with your brother?”

“...That’s magic?”

He nodded, still smiling. “Sometimes if you think or worry about something enough, magic will hear you. And who knows what it’ll do when it does.”

I was forcibly reminded of this fact when I heard the snap of a branch in the trees behind me. I spun gracefully on one foot, raising my bow and notching an arrow all in the same motion. So that by the time I was facing my would-be attacker, I already had the string drawn level to my ear.

I nearly let it loose in shock when my eyes fell upon the hulking yellowish-green figure standing before me.

Erramun scowled at me, his brow becoming more pronounced as he scrunched it together. Despite the cold, he still wore nothing but the pauldron on his shoulder and the furs about his hips. He was clutching one large hand at his side, and I noticed he was hunched over slightly. He was also filthy. Covered from head to boot with dirt and mud, and gods knew what else. The recognition must have hit him at the same time it hit me, because he shook his head.

“The gods certainly have a sense of humor,” He growled, “To put you back in my path.”

I hesitated, but felt the strong urge to keep the arrow notched. As I was suddenly reminded he was larger than me, and obviously quite cross. Though I was sure he had a good reason to be. My stomach twisted in knots as my hazel eyes darted over him, accessing every inch. Trying to decide how best to handle this particular situation.

“You are certainly the last person I expected to see as well.” I replied coolly. “... Did you find the flower then?” I added, as if it were no more than a casual comment about the weather.

The half-orc laughed, a booming sound that reverberated around the trunks of the trees surrounding us. “Some flower, eh? Magical and rare?” He replied, his scowl deepening. “I searched high and low for it. Then I go back to the castle-” He took a slow, almost menacing step forward, and I matched him for a wary step back “-and the staff tells me that the Princess left.” He cocked his head to the side, considering the tip of my arrow as I straightened a bit taller nervously. “You forgot to mention I had a deadline.”

“We left rather suddenly.” I told him, careful to keep my voice steady. “How did I know you would be back so soon?”

Honestly, I hadn’t expected him to come back at all! Being sent on a wild goose chase, only to return and find out the one person he had sought to impress had left for the winter. By the gods, how had he even managed to get this far? I glanced about, but he seemed to be alone. No one had guided him here. Were orcs so good at hunting that he had been able to track me like a dog, despite my trail being nearly a week cold? I highly doubted that, narrowing my eyes at him suspiciously. I doubted also that the palace staff would have told him where I had gone, especially to a stranger at court. So how had he managed to charm that out of them? What else was he hiding?

He shifted, considering me with an equal wariness. “... So the goblin Princess is here?”

I was very good at keeping emotions from my face, especially the ones I didn’t want anyone else to see. Human court was no place to let such things slip, and I was very practiced there. But I still nearly lost my composure at his words. My lips twitched, and I was much more aware of the distinct pull of the bowstring against my fingertips than I had been previously. I wasn’t sure which was more surprising; that he was still interested after all I had put him through, or that he still didn’t realize who he was talking to.

I chewed over my words for a long moment. “... And if she is?”

He growled from somewhere deep in his chest. I almost winced, but quickly realized the sound wasn’t menacing. It was… affirmative, almost.

“Then I want to meet her.” Emerald eyes fixed on the tip of my arrow again. “Will you put that toothpick down, girl?” He grumbled. “You said you would help me. And I think you owe me now.”

His words sparked a bit of fire in my belly. “Owe you?? Are you really that desperate?” I scoffed. “Are there no orc ladies for you to court back home? Why are you even still here?”

His expression shifted drastically at my sneering, and I drew in a deep breath at the way it made his whole face seem to change. He glanced down, as if burdened by something he could not find the words to describe. But I knew that look. I had seen that look on Val’s face. On Niko’s. That weight of a thousand weights… I swallowed hard, but felt a little of the tension leave the bowstring as my tight grip relaxed. When he looked back up at me, his previous scowl was gone. Replaced by something I wasn’t quite sure how to name. But it made me lower my bow the rest of the way. Who was this man?

“I am a stranger to these lands… I cannot do this alone, but it needs to be done.” He told me, his voice quieter than I had yet heard it, but determined. He sighed, almost in irritation. As if resigned to his fate. “... Will you help me?”

I looked over his shoulder, back towards the castle. I felt guilt and stubbornness in equal parts, fighting for position inside me. But I couldn’t. How was I supposed to help him, when I knew what he wanted? And knowing that what he wanted went against everything I had ever dreamed for myself? I could feel the looming trap of his intent like a heavy iron cage dangling over my head. Following my every move. Ready to drop at the slightest provocation and take away the last of my freedom for good. I had already let this go on for far too long. I couldn’t keep up the lie any longer, but felt the truth was far too heavy to speak. Best to just toss both out the window.

I shook my head, resolved. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” I replied, returning the arrow to the quiver at my back with one smooth motion and slinging my bow over my shoulders. “I’ve already made enough of a mess of things. Now, if you’ll pardon me-”

I went to collect my pack from the snowy ground and saw him open his mouth as he stepped forward to intercept me. Likely with some argument or further point for his case. But as he stepped forward, barely a yard away, he staggered, wincing heavily. I moved forward instinctually as he fell to one knee, and found my hand on the pauldron plating his shoulder before I had fully realized where I was.

His big head pulled back, emerald eyes meeting mine. Barely a hair’s breadth between our faces. I had dropped to a crouch beside him, and after a long pause where I found myself trapped in his eyes… I pulled back my hand.

He growled quietly, glancing off to the side.

“Are you alright?” I asked tentatively.

He offered a grunt, shrugging one big shoulder. “I will be fine.”

The half-orc shifted his weight, nearly bumping into me as he moved to yank himself back to his feet clumsily. He got almost halfway there before he started staggering again. Once more, I jumped forward, forgoing my previous embarrassment and hesitation to shove my shoulder into his. Propping his larger body up with mine to the best of my ability.

“You certainly don’t seem fine.” I shot back. I saw his hand move from his side as he tried to find his balance, and my eyes went wide with shock to see his side gashed and bloody beneath. “You’re bleeding!”

It was his turn to scoff. “It’s barely a flesh wound.” He grumbled.

“Barely a flesh wound?” I echoed, shaking my head incredulously. “You can’t stand straight. I think we’ve passed the notion of ‘barely’.”

Erramun shrugged, shifting his weight and slowly easing himself back to his own feet. But I noticed him look me over again. I wondered what he was thinking as he did. Did he find me as annoying as I found him? Some errant fly he just couldn’t seem to get rid of? I shuffled my feet in the snow, casting my own attention over towards the castle. Then back at him. I realized now that some of that previously unidentified substance smeared across his filthy skin and furs was probably blood. I could smell it a little now that I was closer, the air had a tangy iron bite to it. It made my stomach twist a little more in guilt.

“... Where are you headed?”

He shrugged again, wincing as he did and his hand returning to clutch at his side. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

I groaned. He was an idiot. An absolute, bonafide dumbass. I was quickly realizing that I couldn’t in good conscience leave him again. But I couldn’t exactly bring a bloody and wounded orc through the front gates either. I didn’t imagine I would much enjoy the lecture I would get from Niko once the truth came out. My stomach twisted further with dread at the thought. My mind raced through the other options. Leaving him in the outer city? The stubborn ass would probably end up on my doorstep again. Send him away? I was surprised he had made it as far as he had already. I wasn’t sure he would make it to the road without help now. So what did that leave me with? I almost groaned again, but settled for a sigh as I made up my mind.

“How did you get here?” I asked him, collecting up my bag.

“Eh?” He blinked at me.

I sighed again, more heavily this time, and hoped it was the blood loss making him thicker than a brick wall. “How did you get here?” I repeated. “Did you ride?”

He nodded after a moment. “I have a horse.”

“Well, that’s how most people ride, yes.” I returned, shaking my head. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“You’ll introduce me to the Princess?” He asked, and I thought his voice sounded a few octaves higher with his suddenly piqued interest.

I resisted the urge to wince myself, clearing my throat and shouldering my pack. “I didn’t say that.” I followed him as he staggered back along his own trail in the snow. “But if I leave you out here, you’ll probably freeze to death or something. And I don’t want that on my conscience.”

He snorted, shaking his own head. “I would not die.”

I almost laughed at that. “Indeed. You seem far too stubborn for such a thing.”

We had emerged to a break in the tree line, not far from the road, and found a large horse waiting there with its back legs hobbled. The big white mare whinnied excitedly as we approached, tossing her head up and down to make her mane slap upon her neck. Erramun grinned as he neared, smacking her side fondly and using her for support to maintain his balance.

“Get on.” I ordered him, giving the mare a friendly pat myself. She turned her head, flicking her ears toward me with her nostrils flaring curiously.

Erramun considered me for a moment, still leaning heavily on the mare and smearing more than a little of his blood against her white hide. Perhaps contemplating the order, and the tone with which I had issued it. Watching as I removed her hobble. He raised one eyebrow and peeked about.

“Where are we going?”

“To the castle.” I tucked the hobbling rope into a pouch on her saddle, and took my own pack off to hook over the horn of it. “I’ll take you the back way.”

“Why?”

“To avoid attention. I don’t feel like explaining to the guard why I’m dragging a bleeding orc around the city.”

“Half-orc.” He corrected me, his voice light with his teasing edge.

“So you like to remind me.” I grumbled in response, watching as he carefully hauled himself haphazardly back into the mare’s saddle. “What’s the other half? Ass?”

He laughed, and I felt a slight stiffening to my spine as the sound bounced around us. “Human.” He assured me. “Like you.”

I took up the mare’s reins, patting her nose. She lipped at my fingers, and I tickled under her chin until she gave a pleased whuff.

“Who says I’m human?” I replied lightly, careful to keep my voice overly flat as if to add to the mystery of it.

He laughed again, though softer this time. More a petering chuckle that remained trapped behind his teeth. “You smell human.”

“Smell??”

Erramun nodded. “Orcs have a good sense of smell. Not like ma’iitso, and not so much when only half-orc… but I can tell you are human when you stand close.”

I ignored the shiver that went down my spine at the reminder of our previous proximity, swallowing as I began to lead the mare back through the trees. “Ma’iitso?” I echoed the unfamiliar term by way of distraction.

The half-orc rubbed at the back of his neck, making some strange sounds in his throat. “Eh… the big wild dogs. They hunt in packs.”

“You mean matsio.” I said, realizing what he meant. “Wolves, in Common.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, and I could almost feel his eyes boring into the back of my skull. I ignored him to the best of my ability, leading the mare not to the main road, but to a small deer trail that ran along the outside wall. Luckily, the goblins depended pretty heavily upon their enchantments. I wouldn’t have to worry about being spotted as we approached the wall and followed along the smoother track I had picked out years ago. Guards did not frequent the turrets, and I knew we would not set off the magical triggers here. Once we got into the castle? That would be a different story...

UPDATE: Part Three HERE

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