#Viking England

[memories-of-ancients]

Hey Everyone! Look at this Gold and Rock Crystal Bottle from the Galloway Hoard!

In September of 2014 an avid metal detectorist named Derek Mclennan discovered one of the grandest historical finds in Scottish archaeological history. While searching on church lands near Balmaghie, Mclennan uncovered the Galloway Hoard, a viking age treasure hoard consisting of over 100 objects dating to around 900 AD. While the hoard has some gold objects, most are silver including pieces of jewelry, hack silver, and silver ingots.

Among the objects, the most incredible is a rock crystal bottle that is decorated with gold. The bottle was found inside of a silk pouch, the silk coming from either Byzantium or Asia. The crystal jar itself is not from the middle ages but is Roman and dates to the 4th century. Later in the early middle ages the jar was decorated in gold filigree, at the behest of Bishop Hyguald according to an inscription on the gold work. While the identity of "Bishop Hyguald" is unknown, it is thought that he mostly likely came from Northumbria, an Anglo-Saxon kingdom in northern England. Northumbria would be conquered and occupied by Danish Vikings in the 9th century, which explains how the bottle became a part of the Galloway Hoard.

Today, the bottle along with the rest of the Galloway Hoard is housed at the National Museum of Scotland

[lucreziagiovane]

"When commanded by my husband, I even danced with my brother-in-law George: hand to hand and smiling into his handsome, boyish face. Again I am struck by how people like him on sight. He has all of the York easy charm and none of Edward’s honor."

[illustratus]

Olaf at London Bridge — English School (20th century)

[statementofjoespookie]

yo this baby valid af

[denshi-streetart]

はろーはろー

I've come to get it because I need to get ready for winter soon✨

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

My mom's watching a livestream of the riot (?) in Newcastle which seems to have been cut off before it could really start by counter protesters and two things from my brief watching of it

Hearing people chant "Say it loud and say it clear, migrants are welcome here" was so refreshing and not to be cliché but heartwarming.

Nazis really love posting the Norwegian flag, huh? Like I know why they do it, but it's real weird to watch your racist idols fail to start a riot about too much immigration to the UK and post the flag of Norway in response.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Part Nine: Drownings

Chapter Directory: Here

Current Installment: You are here!

Author's note: Inspired by the 1950s short story "The Man Who Came Early" by Poul Anderson. I rewrote this seven times and had an unrelated mental breakdown. I'm still not happy with it but at least everything that was in the outline is in this version. No major trigger warnings for this chapter. Also on ao3 here.

Burial Mound, Cumbria

Matthew slid beneath the water, practically consumed by the dark concentric circles flowing out and lapping gently at the stone. They had built the spring like an inverted broch, no mortar, all perfectly fitted stone.

“No!” Arthur was whipping off his coat. The wool would only become waterlogged and drown him. His body was a spring, energy coiling from shin to shoulder, arms thrown up over his head to break the surface tension, anything to give him an extra boost to get and clasp his son to him. Toes off the ground, arms snatched him back.

“No!” Rhys was slamming him to the ground like he was a boy, and Mother was a corpse upon a driftwood throne. There’s scuffling. He flipped himself over, white-hot rage replacing whatever desperation was before.

“Let me go!” It was always English when they argued, a force of speech as effective as a spear point since the Angles.

Rhys drove down, rolled him over, face in the moss and clover of the Cumbrian soil beneath his face, the heart of him a thousand years ago and forbid him in a dead language. More loss. He wouldn’t take more loss. But his arm would snap if he struggled anymore.

“Rhys.” Brighid was pulling him off. “Rhys, let him go.”

“No!” He shot back at her. “Absolutely not—”

“You have too.” She looked gentle now, not fearsome. Herself, St. Brighid, not the warrior goddess mother left her to inherit. Soft clover, her prized cattle roamed rather than the wine-dark seas that thrashed her shores. Her hand released him.

Rhys was protesting, but he wasn’t fighting or wrestling. Arthur couldn’t hear him or Brighid now. Their voices were silent; Alasdair was on the ground, shed of his clothes, bleeding from a cut on his hairline. He almost snorted. Brighid would have had to strike him as hard as she could to stop him. Alasdair was saying something, mouth open to the French that was so familiar, calling after his favourite nephew. But his attention was gone now. The water spoke to him with Alfred’s laugh.

He dove.

—

Sometimes, when Matthew hasn’t slept, the ice starts whispering at home. Singing or whispering, luring him with cracks in the seracs as serpentine as a woman’s hips. It whispers about how much of him is already frozen. He can rest as much as he wants if he lays down and slips into blue-black waters. It sighs and tells him he can close his eyes, and everything will be all right. Tempts him. He’ll be so numb, but for a good reason. Everything would slide away, and he would be as empty as he felt. Sometimes, the ice sings.

And sometimes, he answers. He’s laid himself down into a gap in the pack ice for a nap so casually that the frigid water rushing over him feels gentle, not cold and cutting. Matthew has closed his eyes and let himself float away. He could emerge in a few months with the spring melt, float up, and return refreshed and rebuilt. Any absence unconsidered, and anyone who might have eventually noticed usually yet unbothered. 

The spring sings like that, in a gentle burble instead of staccato groans but promising nonetheless. His brother’s laugh has gone quieter, disappearing under the water. The dry stone edge of the spring is cold under his hands, but the lure is louder, and the water is not so cold. Words his aunt sang drop from sounds flesh might make to the deep metallic of something like bronze clacking on stone. Like wind forced through chimes or a horn. The water sings like that, a hymn for the missing or maybe the mad, urging him on as he let himself sink and then swam down, searching for a bottom as he kept one hand on the round stone wall. 

Then, the world was rotating. The light had gone so bright. Turning, he slammed against the stone, what air he had left bubbling out of his mouth and gurgling away. Fuck. He tried to twist and paddle up; he could swim like a fish, but something had snagged—no! Something had grabbed and hauled him up from behind. He must have been running out of air. His vision flashed red, even against his shut eyelids, and he broke the surface. Heaving, he groped for stone but found green and freshly cut wood boards. A woman looked down at him, a bucket fitted together of wood in her hand. Her hair was pulled out of her face in a crown of braids. The linen shift she wore draped off her shoulders and dipped below the neckline of her bodice, a style that had been popular when he was a child, but it was her eyes he’d locked on.

“Katya?” She looked a bit healthier than he’d ever known her to be, but her eyes were the same sky blue. Hope and harvest blue. He would have recognized her if he didn’t have eyes, though, because that part of him that was hers sang louder than the water or the shout coming from behind him. Something was pulling at his shoulder. He didn’t care. Matt pulled himself closer. He could smell summer wafting off her.

Her surprise turned to something tender, and her hand lifted to his face and beckoned behind him. Someone else was saying his name from his shoulder. He didn’t care.

“I’m not what you’re looking for yet.”

“Yes, you are.” He said. “I’ll always look for you.”

“But not yet.” She insisted. Pushing his soaking wet hair off his face. “Return to my dreams, wraith.”

“Katy—” He was being dragged away then. She didn’t look sad but hopeful.

“Swim.”

“What the fuck— DAD?”

“My sons and their cocks, I swear to God.” Arthur was griping, and Matt was spinning, looking for a handhold to climb the wall of the… was it a well he was inside of? It was not a spring; the water was too cold and too dark. He was shivering. Katya was there, happier than he’d ever seen her, and he was stuck here, pushed away, banished.

“Matthew!” Two hands on his face, making him look. His father was soaked but deathly serious. “Focus.”

“What?”

“Focus on your brother and swim.”

His father’s voice cut the panicked babble of thoughts, and he heard the laugh again. He sucked in the air and dove. If it was one thing he was, it was a good swimmer, reaching out and down, striving forward. He has never seen such darkness. Only the odd, purposeful tap on his calf keeps him in contact with his father. They don’t have much time before Arthur begins to freeze, or they burst for air. His lungs are straining, individual bronchioles tracing branches of pain through his chest when light shines. Harvest gathering greens, mostly, then woad blues and sparks of red like fruit. If only stained glass could flow and distort light like tide pools, it would look like this. He can’t tell which way is up then. He can’t breathe. He’s blacking out, hand reaching for his father’s tumbling form next to him as they fell rather than swam. The colours drained from the world, and rushing water froze, black and fractal.

Then he’s on his back, and his father is slapping him across the face. He jackknifes into consciousness. Dad’s there, dripping like a drowned rat. But his body is normal. No blood showed, no bones were broken, and strength flooded back into his extremities as his body staved off hypothermia in the much warmer air.

“What the fuck was that?” He gasped.

“Breathe.” Arthur is a bit frantic. They’re both shivering. “Focus.”

“Where are we?” Matt was so confused. He recognized stones, the well. But there were so many trees. The trunks were as tall as any he had at home, taller than anything that had been replanted after they’d been hacked from him to build the empire. The rainbow of smeared colour still danced in his eyes and his vision smeared.

“Not where.” Arthur was pale. “When. I haven’t had this many oak trees since before your brother was born.”

“When?” Matt practically gagged on a shiver and laid back down. “Was that—Was that the rainbow bridge? Like the sagas?”

“The— Rainbow bridge? Really, lad? You gawking at Kateryna was the single most heterosexual thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

The less relevant his sense of humour, the more fucked they were. But the blood rushing back into his fingers and toes hurt ungodly amounts. He lost focus again, the trees blurring into the low clouds like brushes into well-used rinse water, only revealing the buttresses of his grandmother’s pre-Christian cathedral in the foliage. Better than stained glass.

He’s lying there, aware of Arthur having gotten to his feet, but not other people, until there are voices. He sits again. A small caravan of wagons heaped with goods stands at the edge of the clearing, and his father is speaking with them. He can only make out so many words. He almost thinks they’re speaking Dutch for a moment, those fluid, almost gurgly sounds Jan makes when he’s happy and well fucked. His body feels so normal now, warm and boneless, like he’s eaten and slept so much he needs to sleep more. He’s supposed to be alert but can’t understand what’s being said. He tried to learn Beowulf by heart once when he was a boy. Before Jack was born and no one cared enough to call a strange creature at the end of the frozen world kin, he’d poured over the pages of an ancient cracked book bound in even older leather. His father has no such issues, understanding or being understood.

“Hƿelċ tīd is hit nū?” He recognized the word for time, but the man laughed and replied in a way that took Matt the logic of forming half-forgotten grammar into a sentence that might not even be the same. That is something for the priests. 

More words. He only caught the last two. Ælfrēd Cyninġ.

He sat straight, lightning running down his back. Alfred. Ælfrēd. The pressure of normalcy pushed his consciousness from all sides, embracing that empty, silent despair of days and days. It filled him back with life, like warm water over the cold. Not so near, not so strong, but there. Alive. His brother was in existence.

[idkyetxoxo]

Vagabond | The Last Kingdom

A 21st-century woman is thrust into the past, where she meets Uhtred, a formidable warrior. She joins his band of warriors forming unbreakable bonds. Along the way, she finds herself drawn to Finan the Agile and the lines between friendship and something deeper blur with each passing moment.

Completed (all parts) →

Prologue, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty one, Epilogue.

finanxreader (the last kingdom series)

This story is also available on wattpad - Vagabond | The Last Kingdom by @Unofficalavenger3000 🤍

[kindercelery]

[illustratus]

Alfred the Great at the Battle of Ashdown, 871

by Morris Meredith Williams (1913)

[statementofjoespookie]

i'm back. bitches. and studying scandinavia at an academic level.

[amisthiosintraining]

03.20.2023 | Grantebridgescire

Captured on PS5.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Part Eight: Summons

First Installment: Here.

Last Installment: Here.

Current Installment: You are here!

Author's note: Inspired by the 1950s short story "The Man Who Came Early" by Poul Anderson. Red Sail Hall Present Day

“Don’t you dare,”

Arthur’s hand froze over Cromwell’s skull as Rhys slapped his fingers away and down and snatched up bone, gripping the jawless head by the temples and pulling it from reach. Arthur went to take it from him, but they froze as Matthew rolled over from his place and bundled into a quilt. When he didn’t wake, Rhys snapped his gaze back to Arthur, and he found himself being dragged from the study with its electric faux fire and his son draped over the sofa, sleeping like the dead. They were suddenly in the hall, and he found himself pinned against the wall by his brother’s forearm. “You are not waking mother again.”

Arthur thrust the arm away but found he couldn’t move Rhys. He’d always been denser, compact and heavy like a lead ingot. “I don’t need to. I only need the skull and the spring.”‌

“For what? You delusional bastard. Do you fancy you can open a portal?‌ You can barely make a curse box without me, much less this deep in your cups. And you are not sullying her grave with that man’s bones.”

“I have Alfred to consider. Don’t pretend you have the—”

“It’s my name he bears, you bloody bastard. How Saxon do you think Jones is? Hm? All of your children are as much us as they are you. Including Alfred.”‌

“Would you be reasonable?”

“No.” Rhys was very close, a spring force as he stood straight.

“Since when do you—”

“Since you rolled out of a bloody fairy ring and into my lap.” He prodded Arthur towards the stairs. “I am not letting you run off half-cocked because it’s easier to hurl yourself into a void than feel a fucking emotion. This isn’t you tossing yourself into a ship and running; this is a paradigm shift in the universe, you daft cunt.”

“Rhys—”

“May Mother strike me dead before I‌ lose two nephews and a brother at once,” He was very close now, and sometimes ‌Arthur remembered why there was a dragon on every flag his brother used. “You are a grown fucking man with four grown children. Take a fucking avomine, sleep more than thirty seconds, and we’ll make a move in the fucking morning. Go.”‌

Burial Mound, Cumbria The Next Morning

Matthew knows he is dying when his uncle’s arms catch and hold him and he doesn't care. He has bled to death more than once. His shoulder had nearly been torn from his body once; a lobsterback cavalryman had broken an infantry formation he’d been caught in trying to run from the cannon fire. The bare faces of his arm bones saw the sky that day. He never ran away from a fight again. He was a century older when a gaping cavern of flesh appeared where his belly once was. A‌ piece of shrapnel severed his spine and his jugular. And blasted a hole through his front. This is worse. This is much worse, but Alasdair kisses his head, and Matthew stands, blank and unmoving.

He has said goodbye to the two who were once his siblings, and he hopes the squeeze they gave him isn't the last good thing he ever feels. Now he is without them, standing before the ruins of a chapel. Trees soar to the sky, older than most in England, but spaced like the posts of a palisade. He can hear running water and whispers. Aunt Brighid is there. Father asks her something. Softer than he ever does, and she stands tall.

“I‌ wove the spells into his cradle, I‌ will not damn him to a grave so far from home. And the past is another country.”

His father is not often speechless, but the novelty is not enough to stop the bleeding. There is no trace of red, but he wishes it would be over, that it could all seep into the earth and let him go—anything to make the silence end. Even a scream will not pierce it now; it lays so thick over his thoughts. He is dying. Uncle Rhys lights a torch, then two more. Even here, lifting light, Matthew is redundant. He can only follow as his father and uncles follow their sister, lingering behind as she walks ahead. Alasdair, Rhys, and last, Arthur. Perhaps the first time in a thousand years his father has not led. His uncles carve sharp shapes into old indentations softened by exposure. His father cuts his hand and presses blood into the runes until it drips into the furrows and inks their carvings into contrast with the darkness. Matthew cannot read the shapes. His aunt sings, and he does not understand the words. As he always has, he clings to the tree line and watches others do their work. Something in him wants to die. Something in him knows his will, drowning in silence that will not let him hear his own voice anymore.

A woman’s figure appears. His father’s mother, but not his grandmother. Her time is too far gone for him to know her now if he ever did. Matthew’s hands are shaking now. They speak more words he does not understand. The Welsh vowels and little pieces of Scots Gaelic he can hear refuse to make any sense. He knows Gaelic the way he does his French, as natural as breathing, but he cannot put meaning to sound, and nothing makes sense. He wishes he would bleed to death already.

Then, Life.

His world broke open with a song. He doesn’t know which one. Something about a republic and grapes of wrath: the chorus is the laugh of North America, showing teeth and soaring like the sky. Alfred. A‌ branch nearly takes his head off as he smashes through the trees towards the sound. More laughter. His world was born from a bolt of it centuries before. The pool of a spring lap at the stones of the edge, and the water sings in his brother’s voice for a moment before Matthew realizes the sound is below the water. There is no bottom of the pool; the stone edges descend into a black abyss. He would not have understood the depth of it even a moment before Alfred cut himself free from their reality. Kneeling, he touched the edges of the stone and knew the rounded channels locking into place were his uncles doing, the same dry stone construction of a broch.

“Mattie,” Alfred spoke, only barely damped by the water. A week without Alfred and he'd lost more love than Francois had given him in 150 years. Just a thread of it wound around his heart, hearing his name on the piano notes of his brother's laugh and pulled him forward.

He dove.

[aemonds-wifey]

An Offer of Everything

Summary: Osferth has something he wants to talk to you about

The woods that you and Osferth walked through were heavy with vibrant early spring colours, winter had disappeared and new life was now growing everywhere . This wood seemed familiar to you but you had journeyed through so many forests in your time they could all be very similar .

The part of the forest Osferth had led you to was a beautiful site. The pink blossoms had began to grow , Osferth knew it was your favourite kind of tree- he always paid attention to the little things and that’s what you loved about him. In just under a year he had shown you just how moving and insightful it was to have somebody to love …and lord did Osferth Cherish you.

Osferth squeezed your hand gently as you both looked around , you let go of his hand as you were drawn to a tree that stood on the edge small remains of a camp fire , as if it had been used multiple times throughout the seasons . You examined it once more before turning back to Osferth.

When you turned around he stood still, smiling at you like a vision. He took one step forward, his hands clasped behind his back .

“My love it was here…I first laid eyes on you…do you remember?”

You nodded “My injury…Finan found me and brought me to your camp….you healed my wound …”

Osferth’s eyes lit up at your recollection

“But I was very…rude and not so kind to you and all you did was try to help…”

“You were afraid and injured ,good lady …I probably would have been the same in the company of us fighters .” He said sweetly “And in a strange land…fresh from Battle .”

You smiled “No my dear Osferth…you are the kindest of us…you would have behaved better…” you said noticing his hands fidget as he got closer to you .he took your hands and held them close to his chest, you felt the cool metal of his cross graze your knuckles .

“Y/N.” He started

You looked up at him, he was nervous but he took a moment before meeting your gaze again “This last few months we have grown close…well…”

You both smirked like teenagers when he said that, you knew what he meant. The passion that burned between you and a Osferth was a entity that would never die- he knew it and so did you, the more time you spent with each other you felt more connected - it was a intimate force you never thought you would experience.

“I have…never met anyone like you and…when I met you …you were friendless, no home and had no kin….”

You watched Osferth as he took a moment and one of his hands broke from the clasp he had over yours and it cupped the side of your face - he looked into your eyes, the vulnerability in him was evident .

“But you had a beautiful soul that I was entrapped by…you have bewitched me body and soul and I just …”

You shed a tear in joy at his praise for you, you had never heard anybody speak of you like this.

“I just want to take care of you lady…to be there for you, make you happy when you are sad, tend to your wounds…comfort and love you…for the rest of the time we have on this good earth….” He smiled at you

“Osferth I …” you breathed “No one has ever been so good to me….I thought …” you started

He looked at you intently , encouraging you silently .

“I thought …killing Haesten was my destiny …but I see now it was a stepping stone in the path leading me to you…I do not wish to be anywhere else in this world…you are my home …” you spoke with intense emotion you felt like you would crumble , But Osferth kissed your forehead quickly which made you smile.

His thumb rubbed his thumb across your cheek and sharply exhaled before locking eyes with you and you held your own breath “Will you be my wife …?”

Tears escaped your eyes as you gasped in delightful surprise and nodded “Of course my sweet Osferth.”

The ecstatic expression that left his face would forever be imprinted on your memory forever , in one swoop he kissed you with such fierceness you had never felt so content and at peace. As you kissed a few pink blossom petals fell around you, it was truly the most happiest moment.

TAGS

@schniiipsel @moonchildrenandflowercrowns @chainsawsangel @mischiefmanaged71 @bcon24

@virginslut08 @motley-baby @nolongereviliwantlove @lauraneedstochill @tssf-imagines @polkadotsocks1993 @bbyaemond @yentroucnagol @sscreamingbanshee @arcielee @talesofoldandnew

[theancientwise]

And so, i did it.

I watched the last episode of "Vikings Valhalla"

How do I feel?

Exactly this