#and I'm also sad because i'm no longer the same age as the poets when they were living their best lives

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Wait i forgor about my boy. 13, 37, 38 for Willis 💖💖

Our boy Willis!

Fun fact, I've seen him show up in random other people's Discworld fic for the Guild Era and I'm certain it's because people think he's just some background character and not an OC and I think that's hilarious.

13. Dumbest thing they’ve ever done

Hahahahahahah oh gods. What hasn't Willis done?

Probably the dumbest was falling in love with this Genoan pianist with a possessive husband.

Her name was Emilie and she was a concert pianist in Genoa. Willis met her when he was on a job in the city in his mid/late twenties. They fell madly, deeply, passionately in love.

Truly in love, too, on Willis' side. Since he's more in love with love rather than the woman in front of him. This was certainly something.

Anyway, she had a husband. Willis said, 'That's no matter, I'll call a friend and he'll do me a deal to Take Care Of your old man.'

And Emilie was like, 'Gods bless you, Willis, but I still love him and there is much about him to love. I'm going to make a choice and that choice is to leave you.'

Willis is very heart broken over the entire thing.

A few weeks later, a man shows up at the door of the place Willis is staying demanding satisfaction. Willis slept with his wife, Willis therefore must pay the price.

This is, of course, Jacques, Emilie's husband.

Jacques challenges Willis to a duel. Willis tries to talk him down, expalining that he is an assassin and this will only end badly etc. etc. but Jacques is set on it. He will see revenge taken against the man who dared seduce his wife.

Willis: To be fair, it was a mutual seduction. I didn't swan in and woo her away or anything.

Emilie: Not helping babe. Not helping at all.

Anyway, Willis ends up killing Jacques in the duel because Willis was trained to kill people from the age of ten and Jacques was just some sad opera singer who was a good swordsman, but not as good as a trained assassin. No one will beat a trained killer 1:1 except another trained killer. Which Jacques was not.

Willis did warn him!

Due to the fallout of all of this, Willis was banned from Genoa for ten years and he and Emilie no longer speak and she may have had his child, but he'll never know and the daughter will grow up thinking Jacques was her father because that makes life easier for everyone.

And man, that's not so much "dumb" as "tragic". But also, Willis, don't sleep with married women then challenge their husbands to a duel after offering to hire your friend Downey to inhume them!!

--

There was one time when Willis rode his mattress off the Guild roof like a roller coaster ride and somehow he lived and had precious few injuries.

Dumb but miraculous.

Still dumb though.

37. What they really think about themselves

Willis, like Downey, actually has a solidly positive view of himself. It's not nearly so egotistical as Downey's sense of self can be, but Willis knows his self worth and that he is worthy of love, respect, and dignity. As are all people.

The big thing is that Willis truly believes he has a stalwart personality that will stay the course on a life choice and that is not, at all, true. So if he decides he's going to turn poet, he truly believes he will always be a poet. Now that he's decided. But he won't be. He'll be a poet for six months then change course again.

However, he still somehow thinks he's a steady, always doing the same thing, sort of guy.

That said, he is loyal to his friends to death. Always has been and always will be and knows this about himself.

38. Favorite holiday

Hogswatch! It's all the warm and fuzzy feelings combined with Old Gods and Blood and Willis is here for it. Mostly he's here for the aesthetics of coziness and familial bonding, even if he hates his grandfather who he lives with.

Willis is one of those people who will construct the narrative of what his childhood with his grandfather should have been rather than say the truth of what it was. Therefore, he's big on Family Holidays and talking about all these things that didn't happen but he wished had happened.

So, he'll be making cocoa and telling Downey about caroling with his grandfather and putting up stockings and all that rot when there was never any caroling or stockings.

Willis loves love because he so very much wants someone to love him as much as he loves the idea of being loved.

-----

I love Willis so much. He deserves a happy family! Downey, invite him over for Hogswatch!! It will do both of you a world of good!!

-----

Thank you so much! <3 <3 <3 <3 I love talking about Willis. Both him and Jocelyn are probably my favourite creations (other than Jorunn from over in LOTR world). <3 <3 <3 <3

[ashtrayfloors]

In the grand tradition of me, I started this journal entry ages ago, but then more stuff kept happening before I could finish it. Let’s see if I can get it all down—

I’ll start with the hard things.

There's my perpetual broke-ness; trying to prepare for the impending holidays while not having a lot of money to buy gifts. And that's fine for my friends and most of my family members—they appreciate handmade gifts. But for my kids? Well, I'm hustling every day to have enough money to buy them some gifts. (It's especially difficult because C.’s birthday is four days before Xmas, so we have to buy gifts for that, too.)

There's a struggle I'm having in regards to my mom; I've written about that extensively in my private journal and don't feel like rehashing it here right now, because it makes me too upset.

And D.'s been struggling again, with anger, and with (lack of) focus. I’m not sure if we need to increase the dosage of his meds or what. I hope that he gets into equine therapy soon (he’s on a waitlist), because my cousin S.’s daughter M. tried years of different meds and talk therapy for her depression and anxiety and PTSD, and none of that has helped her as much as equine therapy has. In the meantime, we’re trying to limit his video game time, because even though gaming is his favorite thing, it also brings out his rage like nothing else.

There are my own mental illnesses and disabilities, which can make even good days turn pretty shit.

And there have been some writing rejections, which have sucked on two levels. One being that these were paying publications, and I fucking need the money. The other being that getting rejected just fucking sucks. (At least rejections no longer send me into a I'm never writing again spiral like they used to; though they do occasionally send me into an I’m never submitting again, fuck traditional publishing, I’ll self-publish everything from now on spiral.)

But then there’s so much good (or at least happysad) stuff, too. I’ve been writing a lot; mostly poetry but also some prose. I’ve been working on my Rimbaud translations again, and now I finally know what I’m going to do with them. I’ve been reading a lot—new and new-to-me stuff, plus rereading some of my perennial favorites. Same with music and television/movies—I’m spending about equal amounts of time on discovering new things and rediscovering old favorites. I’ve been doing as much as I can both dayjob-wise and side hustle-wise and activism-wise, but also trying to take it easy on myself when I need to rest. Speaking of rest and self-care, I’ve been drinking less coffee and more tea. (Even caffeinated tea is better for me than coffee; too much coffee makes me jittery and anxious, whereas caffeinated tea does not do that, no matter how much I drink. Also, I’ve been having a lot of stomachaches lately, and coffee makes them worse whereas tea actually helps.) And speaking of dayjobs, P. has started actively applying for work again. I’ve been spending a lot of time in my favorite places here in Racine, and thinking about how much I love it. It’s funny, for a lot of years I thought I’d rather live anywhere other than here. Even when I did move back, I thought it was only temporary. But sometime in the past eight years (around the time I became Poet Laureate) it started to feel like home, and I will be sad when I do leave it.

On the 9th, I drove down to DeKoven (a place I have written about a lot over the years, including in one of the pieces in my most recent zine), to the art gallery there, to set up for our art and poetry event. It was a perfect fall day; leaves wet from recent rain, a chill wind off the lake. I helped hang the art and set up the sculptures; I also hung my poems on the wall next to the pieces which inspired them, and added relevant decorative embellishments with oil pastels. I remembered how much I like being involved in the actual set-up of an art show. And I got to see some folks I hadn’t seen in a while, and also met a few new people, including a gorgeous woman named K. It was her birthday; she was wearing a gold glitter jacket, shedding sparkles everywhere, and she brought cupcakes and sparkling grape juice to share with everyone. By the time I left, it was full dark, and there, over the lake to the south, was the skyline of Kenosha, glittering gold in the blue-black.

Two nights later was the art and poetry event, so it was back to DeKoven, hat on my head and boots on my feet, jazz on the radio. It turned out to be one of the best nights I’ve had in a few months. I drank a La Fin du Monde; one of my favorite beers since I first tried it in Montreal twenty goddamn years ago. All the art was amazing; all the poets writing in response to it wrote amazing stuff. I love poetry readings like that, where everyone has very different styles but they are all so fucking good.

I got to see two more old friends for the first time in quite a while—J.E. and N.R. N.R. is one of my favorite people ever, like he is just the type of person who makes friends with everyone and is chill with everything. We were both drinking beer, and laughing about how back in the day we would’ve been smoking weed, too, but how now we can’t do both at the same time anymore or we just get sleepy. During the intermission, J.E. and I stood outside smoking cigarettes, and we talked about everything. I asked how he was, and he said, “Well, I don’t want to die most days anymore, so I’d say I’m doing alright.” And then he said: “I hope that’s okay to say, it’s just, you’re this person I trust that when you ask me how I’m doing, I can be honest about it, no bullshit.” And I said: “You’re absolutely right.” And then I went on to talk about how sometimes I still think ‘I wanna die,’ but it’s not really that I want to die, it’s that I want my life and/or the world to be completely different, and he totally understood what I was saying. Then we talked about parenting, the great parts and the hard parts, and we talked about living in poverty, and I just. I know I’ve mentioned it before but I’m so glad that we are friends now. As fucked up as we both were when we first met back in 2008, I’m so glad that after years of not talking to one another, over the past almost four years we’ve become close and now I consider him not just a casual acquaintance but a good goddamn friend.

I got a bunch of compliments on my poems/performance, including people saying my stuff reminded them of the Beats but that I’d surpassed them, and the poet who was set to perform after me saying “how am I supposed to follow that?!” I met a bunch of new amazing people that night, too. Like P.W., a Romanian man who was one of the artists that had work as part of the event; he had the sexiest accent and looked super sexy, too. I’m pretty sure he’s a bit younger than I am, but he’s fully silver-haired, and gorgeous. Like T., who was one of the artists and one of the poets, and he was wearing an amazing shirt—a button-down with a print of ink pots, fountain pens, and notebooks. And K. was there, too, because she was one of the poets, and her words were fire, and she was gorgeous in a tight dress and tall boots and a beret. After the performance part of the night was over, I hung out for a while, finishing my beer, talking with people. T. and I talked about God, and the mycellium network, and mycellium-as-God; we talked about Beat poets and bisexuality. He has such an interesting story. He’s in his 60s. He married a woman in his early 20s, and always knew he was also into men, but they were monogamous and he loved his wife very much. She died about five years ago, and he still loves her (I could tell just by the way he talked about her), but now he’s dating a man for the first time ever in his life, and loves his current partner very much, too. He also told me he found me fascinating, and wanted to write a poem about me. I talked with P.W. again for a bit, he said he’d like to paint me sometime if I’d be interested in modeling for him, and uh, well. I didn’t commit to anything, because I felt a spark of attraction and though I wasn’t sure if he felt one, too, I knew if he did it could turn into a complicated situation.

Then I went outside to have a cigarette. J.E. was already outside smoking, and P.W. and K. joined us, as well as K.’s friend that had come with her to the event. K. was out of cigarettes, so I rolled one for her. J.E. said: “I’m not gonna lie, your ‘Blue’ poem was kinda long, and I started getting a little sleepy while you read it.” P.W. said: “I didn’t think it was too long. I liked listening to you read it. If it did make me feel sleepy, it was in a good way. Like a beautiful lullaby.” Which, well, wow. We all stood quiet for a minute, smoking; smelling the shit smell wafting from the wastewater treatment plant. K. and her friend left.

Then this very drunk young woman walked up to us. She was swaying slightly on her feet, holding a plastic cup of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Turned out she was there for her sister’s wedding reception, which was being held in the great hall part of DeKoven. “Most of the people there other than my girlfriend are super boring and straight, but I didn’t want to stand alone while I smoked, and I saw your hat,” she pointed at me, “and decided to come over here. You’re not straight, are you?” she asked me. “No, no I’m not,” I said. “I knew it!” she said. “No straight person could pull a hat like that off so well!” Then: “Anyway. I’m L., I’m gay, and I have a useless English degree.” J.E. and I laughed, and said: “Join the club! We have useless English degrees too!” She said: “No, you don’t understand, mine is with a concentration in creative writing, so it’s extra useless.” “Us too!” we said. She went on to talk about how she’d tried to write fiction but her stories sucked so she gave up and now just worked in customer service. J.E. said: “Have you tried writing poetry?” But he said it in this sort of creepy, Waits-y growl, like he was some criminal or pervert in a trenchcoat, lurking in a dark alley, like: “Hey, kid, you wanna try poetry?” So I just fucking lost it at that. When I’d stopped laughing, J.E. and I both tried telling her in all seriousness that well, of course most writers, including ourselves, do non-creative writing work to pay the bills, but that we still write. We told her that, in fact, that’s why we were there that night; we’d just done a poetry reading. Then the topic moved on to where we were from/lived. L. said she was from San Diego originally but now lived with her girlfriend in Brooklyn: “But not the cool part. The part that sucks.” Soon after, a very dapper, short butch woman came running over: “There you are!” she said to L. “Oh, hey everyone,” L. said, “this is my girlfriend.” Then, to her girlfriend: “I came over here because of her hat,” she said, pointing to me again. “It is a great hat,” said her girlfriend. “Thank you for taking care of my lost puppy,” she said. “I was in the bathroom when she disappeared and I got worried.” “We should probably get back to the reception,” L. said, rolling her eyes. “You guys should come crash it! There’s plenty of free beer and wine!” And they walked away. I considered it for a split second; that’s the kind of thing I would’ve done in a heartbeat in my younger days, and it has been a very long time since I’ve done anything that spontaneous and wild—but it was already 9:30 and I had to get home to put C. to bed.

“I should probably get going,” I told J.E. and P.W. “Yeah, we’re gonna leave soon, too,” J.E. said. “I’m crashing at P.W.’s place because he only lives a few blocks from here, and I’m too drunk to drive all the way back to Kenosha.” “You could stay there, too,” P.W. said to me, “I mean, if you don’t feel safe driving far.” The smile on his face told me everything I needed to know: Yep, he felt something, too, and may not have been offering his house as a crashpad for wholly gentlemanly reasons. Again, I considered it for a split second. Again, something I would have done in a heartbeat in my younger days… “Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine. I’ve only had one beer and I don’t live that far away.” I waved goodbye and walked to my car. A little sad that I wasn’t crashing a wedding or crashing at a relative stranger’s house, but mostly just buzzed from the great night, the art and poetry and all the beautiful people I met. I remembered, for the one millionth time, how much happier I am when I can get out in the world and be among other people.

Two days later, C. and I went to the library. Everything was beautiful, the lake and the wind and the golden light. They were having craft day in the kids’ department, doing a Diwali craft, so we stayed for that. They showed a short video about Diwali and then had the kids do a modified version of Diwali sand art—glued onto plates, rather than just free-form. C. had a lot of fun with it. That day was also D.’s birthday, my first baby is twelve now, which is wild to me. We celebrated at my parents’ house. D. really loved his disco ball piñata; I’m so glad we were able to make that happen. Two days after that, C. and I met my mom downtown. It was another gorgeous day, sunny, warm for the time of year; we walked around, went into some shops, I took photos of jukeboxes and cigarette machines sitting in the window of a closed-down store. And another two days after that, P. and I took the kids to Mound Cemetery, to visit the Native American burial mounds, as well as to see some of the old graves. The next week and a bit was work, activism, the dailinesses of life, taking food to my favorite neighbor. Then Thanksgiving, which was less stressful than holidays with my parents often are, though not without some hiccups because I don’t think there can be a holiday without some kind of stress.

Two days after that, I drove to DeKoven again; I was meeting some of my poetry friends there so we could record our videos for next year’s Woodland Pattern Poetry Marathon. I had to run a couple errands first, and on my drive through downtown, I saw a group of young (late-teen or early-20s, I couldn’t tell) punks, and they reminded me so much of myself and my friends at that age, and it made me so happy that there are still punk kids stalking the streets of midsized midwest cities, looking simultaneously tough and awkward. N.R. and J.E. were at DeKoven for the recording session, along with S.K. and J.P. N.R. had brought a small cooler full of beer, and so he and J.E. and I each drank one. In between recording, the five of us talked about relationships and food and publishing and poetry and various other topics. After I’d recorded my poems, both of which mentioned ghosts, we talked about ghosts. J.E. asked me if I believed in ghosts. He said he’d had weird experiences that could’ve been ghostly, but he wasn’t sure if he wholly believed or not. I said I’m kind of the same way—I’ve had experiences that I can’t explain away with a more ‘rational’ explanation, but I can’t say with 100% certainty that they were paranormal experiences, either. “I guess you could say I’m a ghost agnostic,” I said. Then I mentioned that DeKoven and the area surrounding it is supposedly one of the most haunted places in Racine; I said I’d had weird experiences on the grounds in the past but never any in that particular building. Less than thirty seconds after I said that, we all heard a noise in the room above us, like footsteps walking across the room, and then a door opening and shutting, softly. There was no one else in the building at the time. It was really as though a ghost heard our conversation and was like: “Oh, you’ve never had an experience in this building before? Oh, you’re not sure you believe in ghosts? How about now???” After we’d finished recording, we all hung out for a bit, and then I got ready to leave. N.R. said: “I’d like to hug you, if that’s okay,” and it was, and I was pleased because I love hugging my friends, but there are times when I’m not in the mood, and it’s nice when people check. When I left, it was dark, and I saw the waxing moon and Saturn, both rising over the lake. My parents were watching the kids for the afternoon/evening, so P. and I got to have an at-home date night. We had good sex and then cooked a great dinner.

The next day it got a lot colder, and snowed, and we had a cozy-at-home day; I spent most of the day drinking tea and reading, and also made some cookies. The day after that I felt under the weather—not an illness, just a flare-up of my recurrent issues—but I took it easy, with more tea and reading. The day after that, my period started, much earlier than I was expecting it. Over the past couple years, when my cycle changes due to stress or illness, my period now starts early; when I was younger, stress or illness always made it late. I don’t miss the pregnancy scares, but I do hate that I have to bleed even more frequently now. But it wasn’t so bad, no cramps this time. And that evening, P. and I got to have a delicious holiday stout at the pub where we went to pick up dinner for us, the kids, and my parents. The night after that, I got the news of Henry Kissinger’s death, and said good fucking riddance, it was nice to hear about a death that in no way made me sad.

And then, within five minutes of waking up on Thursday morning, I saw the news that Shane MacGowan had died. And I just…I don’t know how to explain all the things this has brought up for me. I’m working on a longer piece for my newsletter, about Shane and The Pogues, but in the meantime, I’ll just say… I mean, I already had a bunch of Pogues songs saved as drafts on my blog, and I’d already been listening to them a lot, starting in mid-November. November and December are Pogues months for me. Because of the weather, but also because of certain November/December memories which are attached to Pogues songs. And Filia and I were texting about it, because she gets it, understands why this is so devastating, was just as devastated, and I miss her, I will always miss her. And of course it got me thinking about Joe Strummer’s death, twenty-one fucking years ago, how she was the one that broke the news to me, over the phone, after I’d just gotten home from visiting her, and somehow Shane’s death feels close to Joe’s death. I don’t mean time-wise, obviously; I mean, in terms of how sad it makes me. Or something. Fuck. And I said on my main blog that Filia is the only person I know IRL who gets it, but of course that’s a lie. Because there’s also fucking Derry. He fucking knew Shane, like, personally (not super well, but still), and the night he first kissed me is one of the November nights attached to a Pogues song (see: A Foggy Night in Lakeview, the lyric essay/mini-zine I wrote about that night and “A Rainy Night in Soho.”), and. Well. We’ve already opened up the lines of communication between us again in the past year and a bit and I knew that if I didn’t email him he was going to email me anyway, so I sent him a message. He responded later that day, and I miss him, I will always miss him.

The rest of the day wasn’t terrible. I made that Saint MacGowan art piece. It was a warmer day, so C. and I took a long walk around the neighborhood. We picked up nature treasures, and saw the silliest doggo, who barked at us and then kept bringing toys up to the window and shaking them, as though it wanted us to come inside and play—and when we of course did not, he’d go get another toy and bring it over, as though it was the toy that was the problem and not the fact that he was inside and we were out. Later, I made a delicious tikka masala for dinner. Then, I rearranged my altar, lit some candles, turned on The Pogues, and said a slainté for Shane. I was having this conflicting feeling about drinking that night, given Shane’s lifelong struggles with addiction, and my own past struggles with it. Part of me thought about never touching a drop of alcohol again; part of me wanted to get shitfaced. Ultimately, I did neither. I drank one Guinness, and the shot of Jameson I’d been saving for some unspecified occasion—Thursday night was that occasion.

The next day, I got double-vaxxed. CoViD and flu. The pharmacist that administered the vaccines was cute and kinda punky looking, and the vaccines themselves didn’t feel too bad. But I started feeling woozy within in an hour of receiving the vaccines, and felt like death warmed over for about 48 hours afterward. Sweats, chills, body aches, fatigue, brain fog, painful swollen lymph node in my armpit, the whole bit. I took it super easy Saturday; just laid around in bed drinking tea, reading, watching documentaries, and crying a lot. P. made stir fry for dinner. Yesterday I still took it pretty easy, and I felt mostly better by late afternoon. We roasted a chicken and some potatoes and asparagus for dinner; a simple comfort meal that was perfect for a chill-damp Sunday night.

I have jury duty this week (which is the reason I got double-vaxxed), and I’m hoping I don’t have to go in. I called in last night about today, and there are no new cases going to trial, so I’m off the hook for today at least. Today is National Cookie Day, and the kids want to make gingerbread cookies, so that’s my main plan for the day. Next Saturday is the last BONK! ever, and I’m so fucking sad about that, you have no idea. It has been going on for fifteen years. I have been a performer and an attendee so many times. I have given some of my best performances there, and seen so many other amazing poets and musicians. It makes me want to start my own performance series, just to keep something like that going in this town, but I have no idea how to go about it.

Other things from these past weeks: Intense, vivid dreams. Some hot ones—I’ve recently had sex dreams about both [redacted] and [redacted]. Others that wreck me when I wake up and realize they’re just dreams—like the one I had last week, in which Jack Terricloth was still alive, and Maggie and I were still friends. Memories of old friends and lovers—those gone from the world or just gone from my life, and those still alive and in my life (but the memories of how we were, back when). Moments of intense, unbidden nostalgia; of slipping in and out of times past. A certain hat or pair of boots, a certain smell or taste, a certain song, and suddenly it’s 1999, 2003, 2004, 2007, 2008, 2010, 2015, 2019. Moments of the DJs on my favorite radio station playing songs that are deeply relevant to either my mood or what I’m thinking about, as though they’re reading my mind. Watching possums in the yard. Melancholy weather—when it got colder and snowed, everything was beautiful for a few days, but then it warmed up slightly, and now it’s that late November/early December season. “Locking,” Kurt Vonnegut called it. Or, to misquote Sylvia Plath: the best of autumn gone, the new winter not yet born. Cold, but not cold enough to snow. Mist and fog and rising damp.

And my heart breaks every goddamn day. From the pain of life and the world, but also from the beauty.

[st4rqirl]

my dudes i just turned 18

[coinofstone]

5x12 The Diamond of the Day pt 1

Final two episodes! Big finale! Why am I making myself cry in the middle of the afternoon! Both eps in this post.

I do love that they made Arthur a sore loser

Enter treacherous white woman #2. Srsly it was lazy writing when they did it for Mordred, it's worse now with Gwaine.

I do love the actual Round Table war room discussion but a) why isn't Merlin seated at the round table and b) why does Leon have so much goddamn faith in Camelot's walls? Like??? You literally said the same thing last year and yet Camelot *did* fall when Agravaine brought an army through the tunnels!

Poor Aithusa. Kid's had a rough life.

I do love Arthur responding to Merlin presenting him with all his supplies ready - which he prepared without his magic mind you - with suspicion 😂

But then he calls Merlin a coward and it's sad

Katie has such a great voice. That entire thing in the cave from her taunting to her laughter to the spell, it just just beautifully played.

Whole ass battle to prepare for and Arthur is just walking around moping cuz Merlin isn't there

So, Merlin's father-vision telling him he's magic itself and he just needs to believe in himself to get his magic going again, does this mean he *didn't* need to go to the cave to get it back? Cuz it seems like he needed to recharge in the cave itself, his injuries were healed when he woke up. That seems like magic cave stuff to me.

Also that "always have been and always will be" - I'm taking to mean 'always have been' in the sense that since he's 'magic itself' even before he was born, his magic existed in other, intangible forms, like we are all stardust etc. But now that he is, he will always be, aka he will not die.

Arthur waking up with his wife in his arms and Merlin's name on his lips, jumping out of bed to act on dream-info.

Balinor telling Merlin to trust in what will be.... like bitch that is literally not how this ends.

5x13 The Diamond of the day pt 2

You know that gif of the cat knocking everything off the table? That's literally Merlin shooting lightning at everyone from his perch on the ridge.

I have a lot of snarky things to say about Merlin coming out of the cave in full Dragoon gear and riding a horse instead of teleporting like the other witches but I'ma keep that to myself.

Mordred is a bitch and Aithusa has terrible aim. At least Aithusa's loyalty to Morgana makes sense.

Arthur said oh shit I'm magic - oh wait no it's that old man again

He also straight up "No! Bad dragon!"-ed Aithusa

Y'know, for all I've watched this episode and screamed about Arthur's death, I don't think I've ever focused on the exact moment he gets stabbed before.

Mordred catches him from behind and he meets it, no fault there. But as soon as he realizes his assailant is the knight who turned on him and joined Morgana, what does he do? HE LOWERS HIS FUCKING SWORD

He leaves himself wide fucking open and vulnerable and Mordred seizes the opportunity. I understand wanting the moment of recognition for Arthur, but on what planet is a trained warrior going to drop his sword mid-attack because he recognizes his attacker as a dude who only just recently decided to forsake him? It's soooooo dumb

There was a whole sequence a few episodes back where Mordred and Arthur are sparring, the point of it was to show that Mordred has become a skilled swordsman. So what exactly was the point in having Mordred run Arthur through as soon as Arthur idiotically lets his guard down? This should've been a meticulously choreographed sword fight, with Mordred getting the upper hand and sticking Arthur properly. Not this nonsense. Look at Arthur's FACE! Oh, Mordred... 👉👈 do you maybe wanna be friends again- STAB ... guess not

Uther's been rolling in his grave but he's taking an extra tumble watching Arthur forget all his skills and training in that moment.

I do appreciate Arthur getting Mordred back though. Like that moment of merciless anger followed by the hurt and regret playing on Arthur's face, warring with surety and responsibility. It was good.

I've rewatched the big confession scene about 16 times just now.

I don't quite understand why Merlin took Arthur to the woods to begin with. Instead of bringing him to the med tent in the battlefield or back to Camelot. What was the reason?

Merlin saying it feels strange (to use magic freely in front of Arthur) and him just going 'yeah' completely deadpan makes me laugh every time.

I really feel like Arthur's head should be elevated at a further incline if he's going to be fed.

Gaius refusing to outright expose Merlin as the sorcerer but nonetheless letting Gwen figure it out on her own warms my heart.

My God Arthur is sitting there dying, feeling betrayed about his best friend 'lying' to him, and still he can't stop himself from looking at Merlin's mouth.

Percival summoned MUSCLE POWER

Hey um random but why does Gwaine even know where Merlin and Arthur are headed? Why would Gaius tell him?

Arthur looks at Merlin so lovingly after he's killed Morgana 😭😭

And now he's literally grabbing at the man's hand 😭 "just hold me, please"

That's gotta be the gayest death scene in television history. If you can watch that without thinking Arthur puts his hand on the back of Merlin's head because some part of him wants to bring him down for a kiss, or that "just hold me, please" is in any way shape or form a 'bros' thing, and certainly not at all an intentional mirror/callback to Isolde dying in Tristan's arms, then I'm afraid you are what we professionals refer to as a dumb-as-nails fucknugget, more commonly phrased as 'willfully ignorant'.

"All that you have dreamt of building has come to pass" yeah except for the whole, y'know, magic still being illegal thing.

I've said this before, but, while I'm sure there was a determined intention to have Arthur die in his armor, probably in some kind of attempt to make sure the audience knows he's died a warrior's death, I *really* think it was kinda stupid that Merlin never removed it, despite Arthur being weak, despite the fact that there was something like five days between him getting stabbed and him actually dying, despite that for the duration of that time they were traveling or hiding out. Merlin managed to produce a cloak to put on Arthur, why did he need the full armor on that whole time? Like even if they left the chainmail on, those plates on his shoulder were just getting in the way, and it looked quite uncomfortable.

Also not for nothing but Lancelot got like, every flower in the forest surrounding lush verdant greens in his death boat, Arthur gets a bunch of sticks.

It suddenly occurs to me, watching this now, that the reason Leon/Percival is such a common side pairing in Merthur fics, is because these two motherfuckers are the only original Knights of the Round Table to survive the series. 🤦‍♀️ I dunno how I failed to notice that before now. My stupidity amazes me.

I'm *really* glad they decided to do this scene with Gwen wearing the Pendragon red dress instead of the black mourning dress. Yes she looks fabulous in it but it's more the symbolism than the 'reality' - with Gwen wearing her house's colors it represents a continuation rather than a finality. Camelot will go on, Gwen will undoubtedly end the war on magic and with Morgana dead (and frankly, I think by now she already brought about the death of all the angry incel type rulers in Albion) there stands to reason her reign will begin with a period of peace, possibly longer than Arthur's. We kind of have to assume that the 'time the poets speak of' is, inevitably, Gwen's reign - which only came about through Arthur's death. It's a little bit toooo subtle in my opinion, but at the same time, I understand the need for the focus on Merlin and Arthur - after all, this show was their journey - not leaving much time to focus on Gwen and Camelot in the aftermath of Arthur's death.

I will just say, the first time I watched this that fucking truck scared the ever living shit out of me. I also just immediately, viscerally hated that scene and declared it invalid - but I think it was because the truck made me jump out of my skin. It has since grown on me, particularly once I started reading 'Arthur Returns' fic.

Everything beyond this point is post-series spec and headcanon, so if that's not your jam you can exit safe in the knowledge that as usual, if there's anything worth commenting on in the S5 extras, I will create a separate post!

For those interested, my go-to post-series fic is We Begin Again by katherynefromphilly I fully headcanon this series as the continuation of the series.

I have a lot of thoughts about Gwen and Merlin post-Camlann.

For one, poor fucking Gwen. She's lost her father, her brother, and her husband, all by what, age 30? That's rough. And who knows what happened to her mom, that was pre-series and I don't think it was ever mentioned.

Merlin, dear god poor Merlin. First of all, I just wanna say straight off that my instinctive headcanon about Merlin was that he never returned to Camelot. I couldn't really say why exactly. I just don't think he could stand being there after Arthur's death. But practically speaking, Merlin's still got Aithusa to deal with, that dragon needs some godsdamned house training asap. He's still the last Dragonlord, it's reasonable to assume he'd immediately take that on considering Aithusa is partially responsible for Arthur's death (the sword Mordred killed Arthur with, only succeeded in killing Arthur because it had been forged in Aithusa's fire-breath) so he's either going to attempt to train the bad behaviors out of Aithusa, or...well...

The only thing is, I do not believe Merlin would abandon Gwen, or Gaius. So my hc is inherently flawed. I do think Merlin probably spend a couple months with his mum, and I do think he ultimately settled near lake Avalon waiting for Arthur's return.

But I do wonder, what must their relationship have been like? Gwen, surely, would've sought his guidance in establishing laws governing the use of magic. And surely, peace cannot last indefinitely, so Merlin absolutely would've defended Camelot and protected Gwen. There's just no way he could've completely turned his back on them, but I doubt he could bear living in Camelot. And Gwen is both strong and practical enough to get on without him there 24/7, even though I'm sure she'd miss him.

I also think she would've found love again. Whether with Leon, as many people hc, or someone else not in the series.

ANYWAY.

Thanks to everyone who came on this journey with me. I will post comments on the extras if I have anything worth saying - and I think I'll do a master post linking all these episode posts after I clean them up once I get time to sit at a computer and do so. Until then! 💙💚

(Gif source) (h/t @shut-up-merlin)