#alas. the holy spirit wanted me to lust after these men | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rosheendubh · 3 years

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Plant Ylis, or...Rheinwen's Vision

Me, flooking around with horrid photo edits again:::

Ongentheow upon Igrena, fathered Ohthere on a spring tide night when her lord husband, Vortimer-Embreis Wledig-serving the high king, his father, Vortigern, was absent from his home, directing the marriage truce of their daughter, Anna, to Hlot, son of exiled Huns deposed after Atli’s shameful death, and newly commissioned as warden of Alba, southern lords claiming dominion over northern chieftains

And Vortimer ap Vortigern, of Sinfjotli’s/Vitalis’s progeny, passing Volsunga blood, that Vortimer too, slept with his wife after, ignorant of Ongentheow’s insult to her body, dark secret locked away in her heart

So in Uthyr’s veins runs both Ylfing and Yngling/Scylfing, mingled with the blood of emperors, yet Igrena, whose honor was violated and bore a son against her will knows not which man, perhaps both, claim his siring

Infant despised and cast off as an orphan, sweet Madrun-womb-twin of Anna and aunt and mother-raises him as a fosterling in the household of her husband, YnyrGwent/Cyngar of CaerGoch

Until such time as Rheinwen, seeking vengeance for her father’s death, scandalous queen of Vortigern’s aging years, Horsa fallen at Catigern’s blade, Catigern slain in later treachery saving his elder brother, accuses Igrena of adultery and witchcraft, suspicious of this boy of Madrun’s household, boy with no father, she witnessed all the years before, Ongentheow’s ravaging of Vortimer’s beautiful wife, eve of Vortimer’s return from Caledonian lands, her belly swelling forthwith, and no living child proclaimed 9 moons later

Rheinwen, seeking dynasty for her son, Pascentius, by Vortigern, and later, by Cerdic, Cynric will she bear, Plant Ylis, mother of the Saxon race upon British shores, in truth Hibernian and Jute origins, cares not how much ruin from her actions comes, only that Vortimer’s progeny falls, and her own sons stake hegemony on British soil

Igrena, though, seeks justice of her own, and through her unwanted son, boy of 2 fathers or none, is Uther sent abroad to Gaulish colleges, for safekeeping from Rheinwen’s devices, for learning such as the ancients prized, and finally, with his mother’s cool words embedded in his heart

*Do not return to these shores, nor seek my company ever, unless you’ve satisfied blood-price for the wrong done upon me, that was the cause of your life, and are ready to claim rule over this land with the death your father’s father—until Vortigern and Egil Ongentheow hasten to Hela’s gates of reckoning...*

*Obviously, bleached out damsel is Rheinwen, daughter of Horsa (sometimes, Hengist, but it depends on who ya' read)

*Old hippy dude with Bling-Egil Ongentheow (look up Swedish-Geatish Wars-they make for a wondrous tie-in with my Arthurian head canon)

*Blindfolded cloaked person with bambino--maybe baby Uther getting carried away in the night, by Madrun, his older sister (twin of Anna--based off the Tale of St Madrun, daughter of Vortimer and the granddaughter of Vortigern...in combo with St Anne/Anna, my rendition of Morganna/Morgan) at the command of his mother, Igrena, who wants no squalling little mite reminding her of her humiliation at Ongentheow's hand, Vortigern's approval, and Rheinwen's plotting

*Kneeling Roman commander, Vortimer, trying to comfort his dying brother, Catigern, after the Night of the Long Knives, sons born of Sevira, the granddaughter of Magnus Maximus, from Vortigern's first marriage-the house of Vitalis/Sinfjotli, shattered by betrayal and deception, Vortimer/Emrys Wledig, and his brother, Catigern, in open revolt against their father, the OverLord of Britain south of the Walls, where Vortimer, exiled rebel prince, escapes to the Continent, his legions following him, deceived into service by a rising barabarian commander, Earp/Odovacer/Hryp/RithaGaer, to serve in the Western Emperor's desperate power play against the Visigoth army, 12,000 British troops holding the field for Roman reinforcements that never arrive, and 10,000 of them slaughtered

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander, ready to die at his side, until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*To Avillion, and the college of holy women and men residing, into the abbess’s care does does Vortimer slowly recover, as do his wounded comrades, under Vivian’s direction, the widowed and clever daughter of Macrobius Ambrosius Theodosius, who had tutored Vortimer and Catigern in their youth, Vortigern, a son of Odin from his father’s side, perhaps, but from their mother’s, Roman heritage and Roman learning for Roman princes of British and Volsung nobility *And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western emperor who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*Uter-Uhthere-Ohthere-Ueter-named after the centurion’s god, the common soldier’s god, Veteris, the guardian of legionaries, bringing Victory in battle, and with each Victory, one day closer to honorable retirement, the judge of warriors to the northern troops recruited along the borders of German forests, the peculiar syllables of Latin, assimilating the Brythonic enunciation to Ucter, to Victor, and back again to Wythr *That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, her status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth husband, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, an orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade on sacrosanct ground, or risk death before the witnesses of sky, earth, and sea, and his confusion of amusement or amazement, by that point, tried warrior, the commander of the fleet of Black Danes, seasoned by 5 years of raiding, journeying in lands, amid people more exotic than even his old studies might have painted (based on the Travels of the 9th century Ohthere/Wulfhere...), having recently won victories in his father’s reclaiming of Britannia’s overlord ship, against Vortigern, Uther, provoked by the woman’s confidence, commanding in the company of fighting men, taunted her, asking just what would happen if he refused her order, and kept his blade unsheathed, whereby Venaura, unflustered and entirely serious, replied simply, *You’ll die.*

*By whose hand*, he returned.

*By mine*, she stated, firm, without hesitation, her gaze flat upon him, emotionless. *With laughter, and a mocking bow, did he comply to this woman, haughty in manner, but her eyes reminded him of sunlight breaking through the gray mists of fog and storm, flashing with the fire of her spirit, a mind quick and ever questioning. A mind, a will, to match his own.

*And that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged into iron, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and to Vortimer, grandson worthier than his own son, did that god-blade pass, iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword Vortimer knows will one day, at his own death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son, who salutes him with a bow, one arm crossed over his chest, the honorific spoken in a firm voice, resonant of the West Country where he’d spent his early childhood, his Latin shaped in the precise inflections of the orators of old, *Your Eminence, my sorrow the late word of your dire straits, that we hadn’t arrived before such losses accrued.* His son, who comports himself as one accustomed to circles of authority and rank, but there’s that expectancy flashing in his gaze, not quite experienced enough yet, to disguise the curiosity, hope, eagerness perhaps, though they’ve met once only, a decade ago, at the conclusion of that humiliating tribunal before the bishops of the Papal sees, a mock investigation, the crux of Rheinwen’s scheming, to see Igrena humiliated and dishonored, where Madrun was accused of dark rites, conceiving a half-human child, conjugating with an incubus, and Uther, judged devil spawn, to be consigned to some horrid trial meant to prove his humanity, forced Igrena to protect her treasured daughter, revealing the shame Ongentheow had wrought upon her, and the truth of Uther’s conception, that vile night, during those years when mercenaries from across the North Sea, and the lands of the Sueones, were serving under Vortigern’s hire *his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*he sees, in those moments of mutual scrutiny, that searching mirrored in his own thoughts, wondering on commonality of feature, of expression, or motion, his muscles stiffening from the exertion of battle, mind reeling from the magnitude of disaster, reeking of sweat, dried blood, and mire, and realizes in the young warrior’s countenance, whether it’s his or Ongentheow’s seed, an amalgamation of each, it’s Igrena’s beauty, ultimately, in her son, the mettle, the bold flash of fire spurring intellect, and Vortimer knows, the assurance rising, the sword he bears, Mimung, blade of the Waelsungs, will pass on to this man coming of age in an era of upheaval, shifting loyalties, and turning tides *this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, suggests they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*he eyes the younger man skeptically, mentioning he has no desire in getting caught up in the factional strife of Rome or Ravenna, his men even less so, Uther replying, *Neither do I.* He notices Vortimer’s puzzlement, the sharpened look, a pique of interest clearing the morbidity of thought in these monotonous weeks, *I want to go north, to the lands of our fathers, and beyond that. Where they say the sun never sets in summer, and the sea becomes a sheet of ice that never melts. Carausius’s fleet disappeared beyond that distance two centuries ago-*he breaks off at Vortimer’s scowl.

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force*, Uther continues, undeterred by Vortimer’s jaded assumption, *a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name.*

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune,* Vortimer, unable to mellow his cynicism, *I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.

*Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering as Vortimer’s chuckle grows deeper, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own domestic wars to not chance stirring foreign rivalries further. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?**

—

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western empower who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return to will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, and status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, a orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade

*that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and Vortimer instead, wielding a god-blade of iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword he knows will one day, on Vortimer’s death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own eyes, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force, a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name. *

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune. I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.*

Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering at Vortimer’s scathing laugh, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own wars to not chance steeping ourselves further in their rivalries.” Leaning forward, attention narrowed upon the younger man, he challenges this youth, son, or not his son, seeking a better answer than a quest for vengeance. *What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?*

*Recompense for the crime committed against my mother,” he answers, anger dark on his features.

*That’s not your blood-debt to collect, Uther—* at which, Uther’s frustration boils over, venting back about the charge Igrena set upon him. *Despite your mother’s instruction, boy!* Vortimer’s voice raging through the quiet hall, slamming his palm down on the table, stunning both of them into silence. Uther exhales in frustration, frowning where Vortimer’s powerful hand rests, splayed by his tension, thickened by callouses, the index finger twisted from a long forgotten injury. Gathering what calm he’s able, Vortimer attempts with more patience, willing the younger man to understand, *Let it go now, Uther.* *Uther’s jaw stiffens, protest rising, but Vortimer’s explanation chokes off his response. *Unless you wish the sin of patricide upon soul, leave it. It’s not for you, avenging the wrong done your mother. Do you understand me?* *Stubborn lad, he sees the storm of struggle over Uther’s face, resistance or acquiescence. And the slow, reluctant nod, the way he casts his gaze down the length of the table, refusing to meet his acknowledged father’s eyes. The fierceness commanding him alters gradually, something numb and tormented, tone rasped by disgust. *It’s true, then? He-that-abscess of filth could have sired me?*

*Resignation falls heavy upon Vortimer. *As your mother counted the days, it’s hard to consider it untrue.* He let’s Uther work through that revelation, the long breath, a quiet sigh following, indicating some kind of acceptance, he hopes. A moment more, offering of truce, and Vortimer says, *Now, try again, Uther. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture?*

*The amber hued gaze grows distant, as Uther ponders what he envisions such exploration might hold. A young man, and his fellow warriors, clawing out some foothold of status or wealth upon the rise and fall of competing nations, left from the West’s decay.

*Rose tinged rays lengthen past the watery glass of the windows encased in the high stone walls of the chamber. Longing pierces Vortimer’s heart, Igrena’s essence vivid in the youth’s contemplation. Sweet soul, she had been younger than her son now, at the time of their marriage. A union she’d entered unwilling, a widow and mother already, barely out of girlhood at 16 summers. A rebellious princess of the Hibernian Cennsaleigh (Leinstermen), fleeing from an unwanted match arranged by her father, without her consent, Crimmthann, ruler of the Cennselaigh, desiring truce with the Hibernian High-King, Loeghaire, and joining the dominant tribes of Hibernia’s northern and eastern facing coasts. With her lover, a reckless prince of a minor sept, and the collusion of her brother, they’d fled, like the tales of Deirdre and Naoise, to Pretania/Pictland. Refugees with the Fidach, whose lands composed endless mountain ranges, fangs of snow-covered rock, soaring to the skies, gating off the foreboding lakes speckled through deep ravines, the strip of the Nessa’s water plunging to the Underworld, dividing Alba’s vast wilderness, had kept even the Romans in the days of their greatness, at bay. Alas for Cyddbar, chieftain of the Fidach, sympathetic to the young lovers. And far too confidant in the rugged terrain defending his fortress, carved into a bluff, along the Western strand of that long lake, the Nessa (Uquart Castle). He hadn’t accounted for Vortigern’s mercenary custom, nor the hammer of savagery inflicted by the combined forces of the Tyrant’s legions, allied with Jutish companies from across the North Sea. In those years, it seemed no spring or summer passed without some incursion of Picts or Scots, Fidach included, into the territories of southern Caledonians, residing in the lands stretching between both Walls—Valentia—as it was known. A lost name now, lost territory of a shattered Empire. In that first decade of Vortigern’s supremacy, attracting Germani warlords as paid mercenaries with the promise of land and stipend was like baiting sharks with fresh blood. Especially when they were kinsmen, Hengist and Horsa, supplying men and ships, and eager to escape Hunnish submission to Atila’s grasping hegemony, which recognized no bounds, even to the far reaches of lands beyond the sea, since the decimation of the rival Burgundian Gepids. Their hire allowed Vortigern to neutralize 2 problems with one solution. Cull the raiding Picts and Scotti, whilst negotiating leverage with notoriously insubordinate northern warlords of these buffer zones extending from Eboracum to the old Aelian divide, who kept uneasy relations with the Caledonian monopoly of Votadini and AlClut, peopling the cinch zone Of fertile river valleys between the Clota and the Forth. Many of their leaders who retained a model of legate, perfect, and centurion, in their command, accommodating civic governance to ensure secure roads and borders, even some sea-trade if they access to harbors, across that region of mist-shrouded mountains and bleak moors, lost forests where the veins of roads, towns, and forts connected the hinterland of Empire to civilization.

Under the direction of Vortimer and Catigern, combined forces of British and Jute, some Anglen with their related cousins from neighboring lands further to the north, joined too, by Scotti tribes of the Cennsalaigh and Ulaidh, Crimmthann and Loeghaire amongst them, who in other years, would have been enemy, now shared common cause in restoring Crimthann’s wayward daughter, together razed the isolated hamlets of the Fidach, leaving a trail of destruction, and death, right to the path leading to the heights of Cyddbar’s fortress. Self-preservation dictated Cyddbar to accept terms, turning over the decapitated head of Igrena’s lover, tendrils of the flesh still dripping with fresh scarlet to the pebbled ground where both sides had assembled for the surrender along the strand of shore lapped by Nessa’s pewter waters. And Igrena, whose beauty men claimed to be fey-born, even in her stricken sorrow, slender and graceful as a young willow, proud and defiant against her father, a lone, lost figure holding her toddler son in her arms, shaming the grim scrutiny of battle-hardened men with her cold grief, when she was brought before that unforgiving audience. No ally, no appeal, her brother’s life spared, but her son, the bargaining piece to buy her cooperation, submission to the Hibernian high king. Smug Loeghaire, oozing self-satisfaction, eyes shifting like a greedy weasel’s, thinking himself merciful in his justice, accepting Igrena back, despite her infidelity.

When she refused, coloring him with an insult so degrading, the men in immediate ear-shot looked away in discomfort, the sputtering Loeghaire convulsed into rage. With his sword raised to her white throat, he threatened death to her and her bastard child. And before the hard gazes of a 1000 upon another 1000 men, and the impassive attention of her father, Crimthann, who seemed impatient more than anything, to be done with his errant daughter whose impetuosity had cost him gold, men, and status, Igrena merely lifted her chin, pressing the thin flesh of her neck into the edge of Loeghaire’s blade, drawing a thin line of crimson on pale skin. *I’d rather death for myself and my boy, than expend an instant of life as your bride, Loeghaire.*

An instant, as well, when Vortimer could no longer stand to see such a magnificent creature cast off to an obvious fool. Catigern never grew tired of ribbing him for his infamous disdain of female company, unless seeking a temporary physical release from the distraction of desire. Women were diversions from the weightier contentions men were forced to manage in the outside world. Trouble without home and children to occupy their wandering attentions and soft minds, or locked away in a convent somewhere, they became like bored hounds finding mischief when not appropriately engaged. As Catigern sensed as well, the truth of Vortimer’s reticence to female wile stemmed more profoundly with the memory of their mother, Sevira.

Chaste, devout in faith to her Christian God, as to her brother’s attempts at maintaining cordial relations with Roman authority, she suffered Vortigern’s growing abuse as events accelerated toward Britannia’s break with Rome, consequent to her father, Flavius Constantius’s, failed claim to Emperor. An act that stole the life of her eldest brother as well, hastening to their father on the Continent, with the vestiges of Britannia’s last legions. Vortigern’s official invite to his Jutish brethren, promising alignment with the pro-Imperial factions led by her surviving brother, Urbogenus/Erbin, arose from Sevira’s skilled diplomacy, her marriage joining the lines of Mascen Wledig with the Aurelii of Glevum. And catapulting Vortigern to Imperator In all but name. Factionalism inevitably was born when Vortigern, exploiting the nativist divisions of old British tribalism, garnering the support of separatist chieftains from the remnants of prominent southern and western districts, rising war-lords in this new Britannia without Rome, gambled with his Jutish foederati, and moved to dissolve the civitas councils. To that point, Vortigern’s charisma, his decisiveness, the wise advice of his Roman wife, persuasive at her salons, to his opposition, allayed even her brother’s ambivalence over Vortigern’s ambitions. But from that moment, when Vortigern elevated himself with the proclamation of ‘Imperator’, exiling or executing any who opposed his authority, Erbin refused fealty, named Vortigern *tryant*, fleeing to his Dumnonian queen’s family, and for his life, eventually finding refuge amid the British houses of Aremorica, deposed and disgraced. Deserting Sevira to the denigration of her husband, for what Vortigern viewed as her betrayal to his cause, and subjecting her to emotional abuses an aging Sinfjotli was helpless to prevent. And adolescent Vortimer, his younger brother by a year, Catigern, bore witness with ever increasing rebellion to their father’s contemptuous regard of their patiently suffering mother. Sinfjotli, proud of his son’s achievement, but disgusted by how he treated his noble wife, he took charge of his grandsons’ education, sending them abroad to Gaul, into Macrobius Ambrosius’s tutelage. And when they returned, young men ready to take up service in their father’s court, gifted with the rare qualities of intelligence, fortitude, ambition, and temperance, as well as a rare affection to each other, Vortimer and Catigern found their mother swaying from a hemp cord, hung from ceiling rafters, her death-sallowed skin crusted in dried tears that kept falling into her last death throes.

A suicide Vortimer never forgave as a murder, inflicted by his father’s grasping callousness. Sevira’s corpse, suspended in ghostly vision before him, as he challenged Loeghaire, individual contest, for the right to this Hibernian princess, never mind that she viewed all the gathered warriors there, on that beach, with the same revulsion, who’d brought an end to her lover’s life. But her one act, the absolute defiance of death, pierced not only her skin, but Vortimer’s heart, touching a rare tenderness, desire for her obvious beauty, a willowy limbed maiden, whose clean lined harmony of cheek, pale and freckled, a high brow, crowned by a bounty of ashen strands lit by gold, whipped by the driving wind, her sorrowing eyes, long lashed, holding the shades of sea and sand, washing over the gray-green lichen blanketing rocky shores, but it was the taut pride of slender shoulders, lift of her chin, the vitriol of her gaze fixed on every one of those men’s faces, that captured him, and forever bound him to her. Nothing in her look softened upon Vortimer, as her father joined their hands, his trembling, hers slack, in her humiliation and disbelief, being bartered off to a southern British lordling, son of a usurping tyrant, treaty solidifying Leinster loyalty for British wealth, and ensuring no more harassment of new Hiberni colonizers to the territories of Demetia, where previous communities of Scotti had settled over the last century.

Nine years her senior, as Vortimer reckoned his experience and maturity, Igrena’s resentment at their betrothal wrought forth a chasm of isolation and hurt between them, in those first months, he didn’t know how to mend. Gruff by nature, Vortimer was more accustomed, and so preferred, the company of his war-band to that of women. Where he exploded with impatience at his young wife’s stubborn reticence, especially when he demanded she send her bastard son back to her dead lover’s people in Hibernia, it was his brother, a fury in battle, but by contrast, more attuned to a woman’s mind, and her affections, belying a sensitivity in Catigern’s nature neglected in Vortimer, who convinced Vortimer to allow the child in his home. At least temporarily. A comfort to his still grieving bride, who eventually agreed, by Catigern’s orchestration, as compromise with her husband, to send the child for fostering when he reached his 7th year, back to his father’s Hibernian tribe of the Ui Bairrche.

Indeed, It was Catigern who brought out the enchantment of Igrena’s spirit, the weave of her thoughts, reconciling her to the abandonment of her pagan upbringing in Crimthann’s halls, requisitely adopting the faith of Christ when she married her British husband. And it was Catigern who introduced his older, worshipped brother, to the dialogue of respect between lovers. The first time Her acerbic wit, parodying of Britannia’s competing aristocracies, vying for political and martial dominance, sparked Vortimer’s humor, responding to her for once, with more than condescension, and realizing the wisdom she possessed, deeper than her youth. The asset of her talents, yet emerging, as confidant and advisor, partner, equal sovereign, pending Destiny’s preferences. Months passed. Igrena’s pain at her lover’s death gradually faded. And one night, in Vortimer’s modest hall, the old magistrate’s quarters of Venta Silurnum, she graced that chamber with a voice of sweet crystal, delicacy and longing, embodying a magic in the ancient tales of old gods, heroines, lovers, wars, and heroes. Some of her original improvision, fingers wise on the harp. When Vortimer’s tenor, deep and steady, flowed into her song, Igrena’s eyes widened in astonishment, a quaver in her chords, and stirred a murmur amongst his men, of surprise and admiration, not unpleasant for the momentary shock, their lord, usually so stoic in demeanor, suddenly relaxing reservation, a trait commended by a race styling their heritage as warriors and poets. A rare indulgence for Vortimer, the art of song, but a talent freely displayed with the glory of his wife’s yearning melody. Followed later, by other sounds of ecstasy resounding from their private quarters, that first night, and many after, nearly three months following the hastened elopement, born of shame and death, turned into something precious and tender. A passion still too new, viewed ambivalently by both Vortimer, and his golden wife, more so at her confusion, how quickly she ripened in pregnancy to his seed. As like to clash in temper, as treat in gentleness, Vortimer’s happiness, boy-like almost, at the prospects of her growing belly, envisioning a home abounding with children, mocked her guilt, memories of first young love, the son she bore him. The father dead, the boy tolerated as courtesy. Both strong-willed, Igrena seconded Catigern’s description of her husband as sentimentally constipated, while Vortimer reprimanded her quick-temper, biting judgement of the opportunists who plagued his own court, sent by his father. Vortigern ever-thirsting to strengthen his position, his sons the weapons ensuring future dynasty. Their daughters were born on the eve of Vortigern ceding the Cantici lands, to his Jutish brethren,

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johnchiarello · 7 years

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Friday

FRIDAY- 4-7-17

Psalm 2:2 The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD, and against his anointed, saying,

Psalm 2:3 Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.

Psalm 2:4 He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh: the LORD shall have them in derision.

SYRIA ATTACK https://youtu.be/CoEutkUfc7I

.Russia

.Trump

.Response?

.Russian economy crippled- why?

.Sanctions

.Graham- McCain

.China- Japan- N. Korea

Matthew 21:42

Jesus saith unto them, Did ye never read in the scriptures, The stone which the builders rejected, the same is become the head of the corner: this is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes?

CCPD- RUSSIA [Update] https://youtu.be/EsYTvE_yvek

.Russian ship storms U.S. ship

.Wallet stolen

.CCPD decides not to ‘solve’ the case [my daughter]

.TMRS

.Police- fire retirement systems

.Dallas police retirement goes bust- Why?

Hebrews 4:12

For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.

THE SURVEY https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfC9z0Poeng&t=1s

.Federal court

.Obama by passed congress- Trump too

.More on Syria

.District attorney

.Fire Dept. stuff

.Flour Bluff

Micah 6:9

The Lord's voice crieth unto the city, and the man of wisdom shall see thy name: hear ye the rod, and who hath appointed it.

SUMMARY- [Verses below]

Today I talked a bit about the Syrian attack yesterday- and made a few comments. On the last video [survey] I noticed that CCPD has sent out a survey to the public- asking how they feel about the Police.

I’m sure most will give a positive response. Simply because many of the new cops are indeed nice- and most of them do a good job.

Huh?

The things you have seen me write and talk on- about CCPD- were the long term abuse of the homeless by cops.

And in many cases- cops committing crimes against the homeless.

And for all the years I have ‘been on the streets’- when these things were brought to the attention of their supervisors- they simply covered them up.

Yes- maybe they told the ‘bad cops’- don’t do it anymore- but in many cases they ‘relapsed’.

So you had a minority of the overall population of the city- who bore the brunt of actual police abuse.

Recently the police chief of Taft was fired- because he told a homeless guy ‘leave or I will arrest you’.

There have been thousands of cases- and much worse- that have happened in Flour Bluff- with little or no repercussions at all.

So- I’m sure the survey will come out ok.

A few years ago I went to Queens- the hometown of John Gotti.

Many people form Gotti's neighborhood actually liked him.

He did ‘block parties’ and fed people.

To ‘those people’ he was a good guy.

And of you did a survey from that block- well- it would turn out well.

But to the people Gotti ‘whacked’- they would tell a different story.

So surveys are good- but we want is a survey from all the people- even those who don’t have mailing addresses.

Or as my homeless friend Albert often quips ‘I’m not homeless- I’m address challenged’.

VERSES-

Zephaniah 3:1 Woe to her that is filthy and polluted, to the oppressing city!

Zephaniah 3:2 She obeyed not the voice; she received not correction; she trusted not in the LORD; she drew not near to her God.

Zephaniah 3:3 Her princes within her are roaring lions; her judges are evening wolves; they gnaw not the bones till the morrow.

Zephaniah 3:4 Her prophets are light and treacherous persons: her priests have polluted the sanctuary, they have done violence to the law.

Zephaniah 3:5 The just LORD is in the midst thereof; he will not do iniquity: every morning doth he bring his judgment to light, he faileth not; but the unjust knoweth no shame.

Zephaniah 3:6 I have cut off the nations: their towers are desolate; I made their streets waste, that none passeth by: their cities are destroyed, so that there is no man, that there is none inhabitant.

Zephaniah 3:7 I said, Surely thou wilt fear me, thou wilt receive instruction; so their dwelling should not be cut off, howsoever I punished them: but they rose early, and corrupted all their doings.

Zephaniah 3:8 Therefore wait ye upon me, saith the LORD, until the day that I rise up to the prey: for my determination is to gather the nations, that I may assemble the kingdoms, to pour upon them mine indignation, even all my fierce anger: for all the earth shall be devoured with the fire of my jealousy.

Zephaniah 3:9 For then will I turn to the people a pure language, that they may all call upon the name of the LORD, to serve him with one consent.

Zephaniah 3:10 From beyond the rivers of Ethiopia my suppliants, even the daughter of my dispersed, shall bring mine offering.

Zephaniah 3:11 In that day shalt thou not be ashamed for all thy doings, wherein thou hast transgressed against me: for then I will take away out of the midst of thee them that rejoice in thy pride, and thou shalt no more be haughty because of my holy mountain.

Zephaniah 3:12 I will also leave in the midst of thee an afflicted and poor people, and they shall trust in the name of the LORD.

Zephaniah 3:13 The remnant of Israel shall not do iniquity, nor speak lies; neither shall a deceitful tongue be found in their mouth: for they shall feed and lie down, and none shall make them afraid.

Zephaniah 3:14 Sing, O daughter of Zion; shout, O Israel; be glad and rejoice with all the heart, O daughter of Jerusalem.

Zephaniah 3:15 The LORD hath taken away thy judgments, he hath cast out thine enemy: the king of Israel, even the LORD, is in the midst of thee: thou shalt not see evil any more.

Zephaniah 3:16 In that day it shall be said to Jerusalem, Fear thou not: and to Zion, Let not thine hands be slack.

Zephaniah 3:17 The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.

Zephaniah 3:18 I will gather them that are sorrowful for the solemn assembly, who are of thee, to whom the reproach of it was a burden.

Zephaniah 3:19 Behold, at that time I will undo all that afflict thee: and I will save her that halteth, and gather her that was driven out; and I will get them praise and fame in every land where they have been put to shame.

Zephaniah 3:20 At that time will I bring you again, even in the time that I gather you: for I will make you a name and a praise among all people of the earth, when I turn back your captivity before your eyes, saith the LORD.

Revelation 18:1 And after these things I saw another angel come down from heaven, having great power; and the earth was lightened with his glory.

Revelation 18:2 And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.

Revelation 18:3 For all nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication, and the kings of the earth have committed fornication with her, and the merchants of the earth are waxed rich through the abundance of her delicacies.

Revelation 18:4 And I heard another voice from heaven, saying, Come out of her, my people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.

Revelation 18:5 For her sins have reached unto heaven, and God hath remembered her iniquities.

Revelation 18:6 Reward her even as she rewarded you, and double unto her double according to her works: in the cup which she hath filled fill to her double.

Revelation 18:7 How much she hath glorified herself, and lived deliciously, so much torment and sorrow give her: for she saith in her heart, I sit a queen, and am no widow, and shall see no sorrow.

Revelation 18:8 Therefore shall her plagues come in one day, death, and mourning, and famine; and she shall be utterly burned with fire: for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her.

Revelation 18:9 And the kings of the earth, who have committed fornication and lived deliciously with her, shall bewail her, and lament for her, when they shall see the smoke of her burning,

Revelation 18:10 Standing afar off for the fear of her torment, saying, Alas, alas that great city Babylon, that mighty city! for in one hour is thy judgment come.

Revelation 18:11 And the merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn over her; for no man buyeth their merchandise any more:

Revelation 18:12 The merchandise of gold, and silver, and precious stones, and of pearls, and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet, and all thyine wood, and all manner vessels of ivory, and all manner vessels of most precious wood, and of brass, and iron, and marble,

Revelation 18:13 And cinnamon, and odours, and ointments, and frankincense, and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat, and beasts, and sheep, and horses, and chariots, and slaves, and souls of men.

Revelation 18:14 And the fruits that thy soul lusted after are departed from thee, and all things which were dainty and goodly are departed from thee, and thou shalt find them no more at all.

Revelation 18:15 The merchants of these things, which were made rich by her, shall stand afar off for the fear of her torment, weeping and wailing,

Revelation 18:16 And saying, Alas, alas that great city, that was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and decked with gold, and precious stones, and pearls!

Revelation 18:17 For in one hour so great riches is come to nought. And every shipmaster, and all the company in ships, and sailors, and as many as trade by sea, stood afar off,

Revelation 18:18 And cried when they saw the smoke of her burning, saying, What city is like unto this great city!

Revelation 18:19 And they cast dust on their heads, and cried, weeping and wailing, saying, Alas, alas that great city, wherein were made rich all that had ships in the sea by reason of her costliness! for in one hour is she made desolate.

Revelation 18:20 Rejoice over her, thou heaven, and ye holy apostles and prophets; for God hath avenged you on her.

Revelation 18:21 And a mighty angel took up a stone like a great millstone, and cast it into the sea, saying, Thus with violence shall that great city Babylon be thrown down, and shall be found no more at all.

Revelation 18:22 And the voice of harpers, and musicians, and of pipers, and trumpeters, shall be heard no more at all in thee; and no craftsman, of whatsoever craft he be, shall be found any more in thee; and the sound of a millstone shall be heard no more at all in thee;

Revelation 18:23 And the light of a candle shall shine no more at all in thee; and the voice of the bridegroom and of the bride shall be heard no more at all in thee: for thy merchants were the great men of the earth; for by thy sorceries were all nations deceived.

Revelation 18:24 And in her was found the blood of prophets, and of saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth.

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