#des composants nobles

[theostrophywife]

le coup de foudre.

pairing: regulus black x reader.

song inspiration: my love mine all mine by mitski.

author's note: this was a result of me binging dune and call me by your name. whoever fancasted timothee chalamet as regulus deserves a forehead kith cause look at him. he's so boyfriend coded it makes me sick.

Regulus Black did not believe in love at first sight. 

It was a foolish notion. One that contradicted his pragmatic beliefs. At his core, Regulus was a realist. In his world, love was not a luxury one could afford. Regulus was raised with the expectation to marry according to class, wealth, and most importantly, blood status. The noble and most ancient house of Black only took the purest of the pure. 

After all, toujours pur, always pure, has been his family’s motto for centuries. There has never been any doubt in his mind that he’d marry another member of the sacred twenty eight. It wasn’t a matter of if, only a question of when. 

During his sixth year, his mother made her intentions very clear. Walburga Black was adamant that he begin his search for a suitable bride. Leave it to his mother to compose a list of ladies she deemed suitable to become the future Mrs. Black. Regulus was to adhere to the carefully curated roster. They were names that he’d seen a million times before. Greengrass, Prewett, Rosier. Girls he’d grown up with and inadvertently had absolutely no interest in. 

Still, his mother was insistent so Regulus complied. He took the girls out on dates. The formula was rather simple: dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town followed by a walk around the city square in which he offered to buy his date a dessert like the proper gentleman his mother raised him to be. Despite the fact that Regulus had the entire process down to a science, the dates were always unsatisfactory. 

He was polite, of course. Opened the door, pulled out their chair, asked the appropriate level of questions to get to know his counterpart, but by the time the appetizers arrived, Regulus was on the verge of stabbing himself with the butter knife just to rouse himself from boredom. 

Regulus placed no blame on the girls. They were only doing what their families had raised them to do. Sit pretty, chew gracefully, agree with his opinions. All while wearing breakneck heels and a smile to boot. It was all terribly fucked up, but this was the world they lived in. 

The more he went on these dates, the more he realized that he didn’t want some pretty, docile wife. What he truly needed was someone who was willing to challenge him, to call him out on his bullshit, to argue with him when his own stubbornness prevented him from seeing reason. Regulus came to the horrible, earth-shattering realization that he probably wouldn’t find a woman like that on his mother’s list. 

As he walked back from another mind numbing date, Regulus grappled with this newfound dilemma. He didn’t want to endure another one of these disastrous dates. He didn’t want to sit through an entire meal making small talk. He definitely didn’t want to disappoint another girl by not kissing them at the end of the night. 

It wasn’t like any of them liked him anyways. Though they loved the idea of Regulus Black, he was quite certain that they wouldn’t afford the same affections to Reggie—the real and true version of himself. The one that Sirius often said Regulus kept in a neatly locked cage.

He wished he could be more like his brother. Sirius had always been the brave one. It was that infamous Gryffindor boldness that prompted his older brother to rebel against his family’s expectations. Instead of heeding to their mother’s ridiculous list, Sirius chose to date Remus in open defiance to Walburga’s orders. It resulted in him getting kicked out of 12 Grimmauld Place and burned off the family portrait, but Sirius didn’t seem to mind one bit.  

In a lot of ways, Regulus envied his brother. Sirius had the guts to stand up for himself. He wasn’t burdened by the crippling pressure of pleasing their mother. In all honesty, Reggie wondered if such a thing was even achievable. As he brooded, Regulus found himself on the shores of the Black Lake. His body had taken him here on autopilot. It was his only place of refuge in the castle. 

Regulus paced the rickety wooden dock. His mind was working so fast, so many thoughts spinning in his head, that it felt like he might work himself up to a fit. This has always been his problem. Sirius often said that he lived in his head too much. He frowned, trying and failing to get ahold of himself. For once, he wished he could just shut his brain off entirely.

Just then, Regulus felt a drop of water hit his head. He looked up and found dark, gray clouds hovering over the horizon. The stormcloud broke open and unleashed torrential rain all around him. Fucking fantastic. The world truly couldn’t give him a bloody break, could it? 

With a sigh, Regulus began making his way back. The ground was sodden underneath his feet, his boots sinking into the sand and dragging behind his black coat. The waves lapped violently across the shore as the wind lashed against the murky waters. Regulus was almost at the edge of the beach when he spotted you. 

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Regulus stopped dead in his tracks. There, at the mouth of the Black Lake, in the middle of the pouring rain, stood a girl with the most breathtaking smile he had ever seen. 

Regulus was fairly certain that you had History of Magic together. He sat behind you in class, passed by you in the halls, even reached for the same book in the forbidden section of the library once, but Reggie had never once seen that smile. The gravity of it threatened to knock the very breath from his lungs. 

There was something carefree about you. The way you spread your arms, tilted your head back, and laughed in the midst of the rain and thunder. Almost like you were welcoming the storm. 

It was only when your eyes locked that Regulus realized he was staring. You cocked your head at him, trailing your gaze from the curls plastered against his cheek to the nice button down and freshly pressed trousers that were now soaked from the rain, down to the shiny leather boots that were now digging into the sand. You seemed amused at the sight of him.

Ever the perfect gentleman, Regulus snapped out of his daze and jogged over to you. Without hesitation, he raised his coat over your head to shield you from the rain even though you were already both drenched. 

“What are you doing out in the rain?” Regulus asked, his voice full of genuine concern. “You’ll catch a cold.” 

You stepped out of the refuge of his expensive looking coat and held your hand out, catching droplets in your palm. “I don’t mind. I just…I just needed to feel the rain on my skin, that’s all.”

You supposed it must’ve seemed strange to him, but the rain always made you feel better. Lately, life had been just a little too overwhelming. There was so much pressure to do well in classes, to hang out with friends while balancing your clubs and sports, as well as making time to write back to your parents. When it all became a bit too much, you tended to come to the Black Lake for some sort of refuge. The rain was just an added bonus. 

If Regulus found your behavior bizarre, he didn’t say. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Well, you got your wish. It’s soaked out here.” 

“I know,” you responded with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

“Standing out in the pouring rain? On a beach where lightning can strike me down at any second? Yes, it’s absolutely splendid.”

Your mouth quirked in amusement. “No one’s telling you to stay out here.” You nodded towards the castle. “You’re more than welcome to take your brooding inside where it’s warm and dry. Not to mention, free of the dangers of lightning strikes, which are extremely rare by the way.” 

“With my luck, I might be the poor one in a million git who gets torched while getting insulted by a pretty girl.” 

“Did I insult you?’ you quipped back. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You accused me of brooding.” 

“I didn’t accuse, I stated. Even the Wizengamot would have to rule that you were, in fact, brooding.” 

Regulus raised a brow. “What happened to innocent before proven guilty?” 

“Unfortunately, the evidence is overwhelming and the verdict is set. You, Regulus Black, have been sentenced for glaring at the Black Lake so menacingly that even the giant squid refuses to come to shore. Off to Azkaban you go.” 

“Do you promise to write me letters? Update me of how the world’s progressed without my dazzling presence?” 

“It would be my genuine pleasure.” 

Regulus chuckled at your dry humor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bantered like this with anyone, much less with a strange not-so-stranger. You sat down on the wet sand and patted the spot beside you with a grin.

“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me all about your troubles.” 

Beyond the bleak horizon, the spires of the castle peeked through the gray clouds. Regulus thought of the common room where his housemates would no doubt be gathered around the ornate fireplace for warmth. Knowing his friends, they’d probably be indulging in spiked hot chocolate and playing some childish drinking game. A few minutes ago, nothing appealed to him more, but now Regulus found himself choosing the violent rain and soggy sand. All because of you, his mystery girl.

You leaned back on your elbows and cocked your head at him. “What ails you, Mr. Black?” 

“That depends. How much do you bill per hour?” 

“Fortunately for you, I’m in a generous mood so I’ll throw in a free session. Consider it my pro-bono work.” 

“How kind of you,” Regulus said with a serious expression. “My brother’s been nagging me to see a mind healer for years. All that childhood trauma, you know.” 

A small smile tugged at your lips, revealing a set of dimples that he found rather charming. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” 

“My brother is Sirius. I’m Regulus, remember?” 

You snorted in a very unladylike manner, which only made Regulus grin. There was something so unapologetically you in your laugh that was absolutely endearing to him. Regulus smiled and knocked his shoulder against yours. 

You mimicked the action and smiled back at him. “All sarcasm aside, I was being genuine. If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.” 

"Do you often offer therapy sessions to complete strangers?"

"Only to surly Slytherins with sad eyes and pretty curls," you quipped back. "And we're not strangers. I sit behind you in potions. We're practically best mates."

"You think my curls are pretty?"

"Like a little cherub's. Are you quite sure you haven't escaped from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? You look like one of Michelangelo's angels. Except with way more scowling." Regulus grinned. He got the feeling that you always said whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. It was refreshing. "There's a smile. See? Our session is already progressing."

"I think you might get more than you bargained for with me, I'm afraid."

You met the challenge in his words head on. "Try me."

“You were right. I’m definitely guilty of brooding.” 

“What happened?” 

Regulus hesitated for a moment. He had never been the type of person to be candid with his feelings, especially not with someone he barely knew. Usually, he just kept his thoughts to himself and ruminated on them in the privacy of his dorm until he drove himself mad by overthinking, but your presence brought him an unexplainable ease. For once in his life, Regulus chose not to question it. 

“I’ve had a long night,” he said, tucking his knees up to his chest. “I just got back from a date.” 

“It didn’t go well?” 

“It was…fine. It’s always fine. But it’s the same thing over and over again, just with a different girl.” 

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a playboy, Regulus Black.”

Regulus chuckled. “I’m not some unscrupulous rake, I assure you.” 

“Yes, that much is obvious from your use of the word unscrupulous.” You tucked your legs underneath you. “So why go on all of these dates if you find them so tedious?” 

“It’s my mother,” Regulus explained. “She has this list.” 

“A list?” 

“Yes, a list of girls that I’m to court. Noble, pureblooded, proper ladies of society that my mother has deemed worthy of marriage.” 

“You’re seventeen years old. Shouldn’t you be worrying about quidditch games and potions exams?” 

Regulus nodded. “Yes, one would think. But my family has always been different. Since my brother left, my parents have been obsessed with grooming me into becoming the perfect heir.” 

“How do you feel about that?” 

He sighed. “Stifled. Exhausted. Smothered. I can feel the weight of their expectations weighing me down every second of every day.” 

“I’m sorry, Regulus. That’s a terrible burden to carry.” 

Regulus shrugged. “Others have it worse.” 

“It doesn’t mean that your problem is any less heavy.” 

To Regulus, the acknowledgement felt oddly validating. Even though you knew nothing of his circumstance, there was wisdom in your words and you delivered it delicately, like you actually cared to hear his troubles. You were devoid of the judgment he'd grown accustomed to and he found that rather freeing.

“It’s just…sometimes I think that I’ll never be the perfect son. My brother, he’s always been the brave one. Classic Gryffindor,” he said with an eye roll. You chuckled, but stayed silent. It was obvious that Regulus had a myriad of thoughts to unpack tonight and you were more than happy to just listen. “Sirius has never cared what anyone thought about him, least of all our parents. I admire that about him, but I just don’t think I’m wired that way. I care too much.” 

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you said softly. “Apathy is so common nowadays, finding someone who can admit that they care is refreshing. Though, I think it’s not without limits. You can’t please everyone. No matter what you do, someone is going to have something to complain about. You might as well be yourself.” 

“That’s exactly the problem,” Regulus pondered. “All of these girls on my mother's list, I think they like the idea of Regulus Black, but he’s an illusion. It isn’t the real me.” 

“Then who is the real you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m just Reggie. I like playing quidditch and reading depressing literature and memorizing obscure history facts. I hate messy rooms and orange juice and anything that crawls.”  

You smiled. “And what kind of girl does Reggie like?” 

“Someone witty. Someone funny. Someone who’ll argue with me. Someone who doesn’t just nod and agree with everything I say."

"So what you're saying is that you don't want a nice girl?"

Regulus shook his head. "No, I think I need someone who challenges me. Who sees me for who I am rather than what I represent. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the girls on my mother’s list are lovely, but I don’t think they’d actually like me if they knew who I really am.” 

“I don’t know, Reggie seems like a great guy. That Regulus bloke, on the other hand…” you scrunched your nose in disapproval. 

“Hey!” Regulus chided, “I’m pouring my heart out to you. That took a lot of courage, you know.” 

“You’re very brave, Reggie,” you said with a grin. “But you know what would be even braver?” 

Regulus squinted in the rain as you stood to your feet. Lightning crackled over the horizon, illuminating you with an ethereal silver glow. You held out your hand to him. “Come dance with me.” 

“Deathly afraid of being struck by lightning, remember?” 

“Sorry, what?” You asked as you shimmied around him. It wasn’t graceful by any means. It was the goofiest thing he’d ever seen and yet he’d never been so enthralled. You danced without a care in the world and it made him genuinely laugh. “I can’t hear you over all the fun I’m having.” 

"This is ridiculous," he said over the roaring thunder.

You shrugged. "Perhaps. But everyone's allowed to be a little ridiculous sometimes. Besides, I was asking Reggie not Regulus."

“Are you really trying to peer pressure me into dancing with you?” 

“That depends,” you replied with a cheeky smile. “Is it working?” 

Regulus conceded with a sigh and leapt to his feet. The youngest Black brother bowed like a proper gentleman. “May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may, good sir.” 

You grinned up at him as he took you by the waist and waltzed with you across the sand. Surprisingly, Regulus let you take the lead. He chuckled when you stepped on his toes and laughed even harder when you tried to twirl him. Towering a good foot over you, Regulus had to fully crouch for the maneuver to work. 

Finally, you gave up the formality and just spun around in dizzying circles. There was absolutely no rhyme or rhythm to it. Just two idiots dancing in the rain with the biggest smiles on their faces. 

Your coordination, or lack thereof, caused you to almost faceplant into the sand. Regulus yelped as you took him down with you. By the time you recovered from the laughing fit, the two of you were red-faced, out of breath, and laying side by side along the shore. He turned over to you and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“That was the most fun I’ve had in years.” 

“See? There’s more to life than just being moody and melancholic.” 

“So this mystery girl of mine keeps reminding me,” Regulus said with a smile. “You never told me your name, by the way.” 

“Wow, you don’t even know my name? I’m offended, Reggie. We’ve only been in classes together since fifth year.” 

“I—we’ve never been introduced—” 

You broke out into a smile and giggled. You thought it was cute that Reggie was so easily flustered. “I’m just kidding, Reggie.” 

He sighed in relief as you stuck out your hand. “Y/N. My name is Y/N.” 

Regulus slipped his hand into yours. He cocked his head, studying your eyes and your smile and those cute little dimples. 

Y/N. The last name on his mother’s list. The one he saved for last because he didn’t know who she was. 

The French had a saying—le coup de foudre. The infamous phrase translated to a bolt of lightning or love at first sight. Regulus had long dismissed it as flowery prose, but thanks to his mystery girl, he started to think that maybe the Parisians were onto something because meeting you tonight felt preordained. A date with fate. Like a bolt of lightning streaking through his dark, endless skies.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.” 

You grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Reggie.” 

Regulus smiled and laced your fingers together. He was frozen, it was raining, and he was fairly certain that you were both probably going to catch a cold, but he didn’t care. In that moment, as he stared up at the sky, blinking back the rain, and intertwining his fingers with yours, Regulus had never felt more content. 

So no, Regulus did not believe in love at first sight, but love at second, third, and even fourth glance? He smiled a little as he gazed back at you, letting his gaze linger as he drank in that infectious laugh and sunny grin. 

You made him think that maybe, just maybe, a girl like you could convert a skeptic like him into a devout believer.

[francis-writes]

loved the feyd-rautha harkonnen/servant reader headcanons! what do you think would happen if a visiting noble took interest in the reader before she formally became his lover?

This is certainly a very problematic situation. If he could, Feyd would kill his rival at first occasion but since that was a noble, he had to hold back his urges (if it was a person from common people, they would probably be executed in a moment and nobody would bat an eye but dealing with rich elites require more subtlety). Fortunately (for him, not sure if for you as well) he's more composed than his brother. No offense for Rabban but he probably would get carried away by his emotions and either start a fight or straightforwardly threaten that noble. Which wouldn't help anybody and moreover it would make Baron Harkonnen mad.

But Feyd, while as sadistic as the rest family, is more machiavellian and able to achieve his goals in more planned way (he may not be a mentat but he probably learned a few things from Peter de Vries).

His reaction also depends on your attitude towards the whole situation. If you already seem interested in Feyd, or at least you aren't interested in that noble in the slightest, Feyd just deals with the situation behind your back and you won't know a thing. He goes to talk with that man and gently suggests that: 1.You're not interested 2.You're Feyd's favourite servant 3.Harkonnen's hospitality has its limits and sharing servants as lovers is far past the red line. Anyway, there's no chance you would become lover of that man.

Maybe noble is smart, has self preservation instinct and he gives up on the potential affair. If not, Feyd has a few ideas how to get him away from you. First, he threatens him. But not with violence, at least not yet. He starts subtly, with suggestion of blackmail an ruining that man reputation. If this doesn't work either, situation may end up in assasination before noble leaves Giedi Prime.

But what in the case where you actually reciprocate noble's attraction? Well, situation gets complicated for you. Feyd decides to definitively prevent any development of those affair and orders to isolate you from the guests. You aren't really locked in your room (but btw Feyd has some yandere vibes), but for some time you work only in rooms for servants, when you can't accidentaly meet that noble. Situation looks like that until guest leave and you (as Feyd hopes) forget about your potential lover.

[slickchickchocolatier]

ROMAN HOLIDAY

Part one

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰:

Some fluff, minor comedy, slow burn type romance. Part 2 will have smut.

Had to take a break from MT's final chapter (it's almost done I promise) but I needed a break from Heedam (trust me…the man is getting juicy with his y/n.) so please enjoy this heartwarming piece based off the film with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Sorry not proofread.

"Princess Y/N of (home country) has safely arrived to Italy as part of her European tour, becoming the diplomatic voice for the troubled youths of today's generation. The heir to King (your father's name) throne has received the warmest welcomes as she is greeted by the local nationals and the royal families of Europe.

Tonight, a grand ball will be held in the Princess’s honor, attended by the most pristine global guests at the Il Colosseo Rosa, where the sole heir will personally greet and address both, the royal and political unions of the continental divide.”

You gracefully appeared before the massive audience as General Hector Lucino, head of the royal guards, escorted you to the head of the ball room. The guests sigh and gasp at the sight as you delicately take your steps, greeting them with a warm smile and gently nodding your head in modesty. The level of class and sophistication within your aura wasn’t just a part of the years of royal grooming. No, this was the natural inheritance of your pure bloodline as the sole heir of your father’s nobility. 

Taking his place by your side, the general stands by amidst the colonels and high ranking officials, along with your closest staff, the Duke of Sagewick, the Marquis of Pemberton, and the Duchess de Barbarac, your personal headmistress that cared and looked after you religiously. 

The national anthem was played beautifully by a live performance, followed by your formal introduction as the announcer represented you to the public. Lined up before you, was the lengthy row of ambassadors, military officials, royal members of various continental houses, and more. As the announcer formally calls out their names, you greet them with grace and a formal introduction. 

The gems of your necklace, earrings, and tiara shined brightly, yet still was no match against your heavenly smile. Your eyes, glistened by the chandelier lighting, twinkled like the stars in the sky, while your gown flared your noble appeal. 

Moments after greeting the first ranking official, you lost track of the time. You were quite certain it had been at least thirty minutes since the announcer called the first name, and your feet were reminding you of it. You swore, it never mattered how often you wore these low heels, your body could never adjust to the extension as the balls of your feet began to beat with a sense of soreness. You did your best to shift between each foot, uncasting them from the intrusive pressures of the silkened pumps. Back and forth, between left and right, you shifted out of the pumps and wiggled your toes, stretched the arch, and returned back to your modest posture, never letting out a clue as to what was going on beneath your dress–at least, up until you mistakenly lost your balance, a rookie move for a seasoned princess. Failing to feed your foot back into the heel, you shifted in motion, causing a slight disruption when greeting the Grand Duke Casta of DeLatitia. You remained composed; your smile stayed ever so gentle as you tried your best to not pay any attention to the sudden note of humiliation. 

Finally, the last member was called, and you would have felt relieved if it weren’t for the fact that your right, silk threaded pump falls over. You did your best to delicately put it back in place so that you could slip it back on, but to no avail. Between the sheer, slick material of your stockings and the smoothness of the pump’s material, you lost all will to place it back on foot. The audience all wait for you to take your seat, you nearly forgot as you remained ever so focused in getting your slipper back on, when the Duchess de Barbarac gently places a hand on your elbow, giving you a slight tug as she guides you back into your chair. Admitting defeat, you take your position and watch as everyone takes a breath and is relieved to finally sit down, only to find that laying lonesomely before you, was your abandoned slipper. 

The general and royal staff members all signaled to the Duchess with a sense of urgency in their expressions. It took a few seconds for her to notice, but once she did, a frown of dismay nearly disrupted her calm look, but she caught herself and remained unperturbed, something she had mastered from years of training you. 

The General whispers into the Marquis’s ear. Standing straight and tall, the man presents his hand, a formal gesture to ignite the first dance, in which you took the hint and accepted as you placed your palm in his. Taking a step down, he levels your balance as you were able to strategically hover over your slipper, and slip it back into place. All was well. 

After spending the evening with the routines of royal responsibilities, it was finally time to lay the night to rest. 

“Duchess?”

“Yes?” 

“May I request a readjustment of my wardrobe?”

The duchess continues her tasks without pause, merely raising a brow in slight vexation. “A readjustment? What for?”

You finish brushing your long strands, placing the gold victorian brush down on your vanity. “My nightgown…I hate it.” 

“You shouldn’t use the word ‘hate’ my dear, it’s very unsuitable for someone from your station.” 

“But I do hate it–and I hate all of my underwear too.” 

Slightly rolling her eyes, the Duchess bids you to come to bed. “Come to bed Y/N, we have crackers, and milk in a fine glass.” Tucking you in, she sets the tray table over your lap while grabbing onto her filefax, preparing to go over tomorrow’s schedule. “Now my dear, I know you dislike going over tomorrow’s events, but it must be done. Finish your milk and crackers, I will proceed.” 

She places her thin glasses over the bridge of her nose, penciling her notes as she reads off the strict time hacks of all the press conferences, the visit with local orphanages, and the meeting with the Commandant of the Italian military forces. 

“First thing, we have the press conference to address the rising concerns of global inequality within the woman’s workforce and illegal recruitment of children conducting factory labor.” 

You sigh out as you munch on the saltine cracker. “I’ve visited this topic many times, how must I change the world when I am the sole individual addressing these concerns?”

“Oh my dear, that’s not proper language. You will have to accept and review the notes on the daily report.” Pulling out the document, the Duchess goes over the new avenues of approach to further emphasize the issue at hand, one that you had expressed on many occasions. Reading off each bullet point, you whispered out “Please…enough.” 

“And statistics also show that many women have…”

“Please stop.

“Then there are the points of view of the religious community that you will have to address.”

“No thank you…”

“Furthermore, there are many cultural aspects that interfere with the viewpoints of women in the workplace that you must take into consideration as the diplomatic figure of your family’s household–.” 

“STOP!!!”

The Duchess jumps at your tone, you finally snapped. It was long coming, yet the pressures of maintaining appearance and dignity only created a passive ball of depression that stormed in your chest, and tonight, it decided to burst out. “I can’t take it anymore! Just stop!”

“It’s alright Y/N, calm yourself, it's just nerves.”

“Nerves?! How dare you? Why does it always have to be this way? Why can’t I just be away from it all for once?”

“Your highness!” The Duchess raises her voice, doing her best to bring you back to a rational level, yet you continue to burst out in tears as you whimper out your absolute unhappiness with everything. The duties, the schedules, the constant controlling of your movements, the way you spoke, acted, thought, and felt–everything was too much, and you reached your breaking point. 

“I will get doctor Rue.” The Duchess dismisses herself, hastily telling the guard to quickly alert the general and royal staff that their presence was urgently requested at once. 

Moments later, the royal physician arrived with the royal staff following suit. You continue to cry and voice out your bitter disappointment; you certainly didn’t mean to act out, but who in the world could ever understand you? Everything was so mundane and dull, you lacked any excitement and spark in your life. WIth all the regulations and overhaul of agendas to fill your day, you barely had any time for yourself, much less to do anything memorable. The life of a princess, it was only glamorous and fashionable in the eyes of the public, but within closed walls, it was a disastrous lifestyle that you wish you could trade out in a heartbeat. 

Doctor Rue fetched out a syringe and needle, his face remained poised as he presented the solution to your ‘problem’. “Your highness, here is a little something to help you rest.”

“I don't need to rest…I want out! Out! I want out of this life!”

“Now, now.” Pinching the flesh on your arm, he sticks you with the needle tip, injecting the clear fluid. “What’s that?” you asked while hiccuping your tears. 

“Just a little something to help put you to sleep. By tomorrow morning, you’ll be good as new.” 

After taking your vitals, he and the staff left you alone; you laid fully awake, gazing at the cathedral ceiling. From outside your window, across the river, you could hear the laughter, dancing, and musical air that flowed and graced the night. How wonderful to be that free and joyful? 

“...I wish to be that happy.” you remarked to yourself, when your own mental voice presented you an ultimatum. So why don’t you? 

You quickly got up and out of bed, dressing yourself in modest casual attire, if you could even label it as casual. Everything you owned was sophisticated, elegant, and lavish. The most basic pieces were still eye-catching, regarding the most high end fabric and design. But that wasn’t going to stop you, not one bit. 

You peeked out through the door, to find the guards caught up in chit-chat. They stood in one end of the corridor, leaving the opposite path open, but just barely. You slipped through, hiding behind statues until the two pairs of eyes were looking away, which afforded you a chance to get by. Getting out from the inside was easy, it was the perimeter of the entire building and exiting the gate that was problematic. You were determined, which was further fueled by your success in getting out and hiding in the royal garden. Thankfully, you knew all the station points of where each guard and camera was set. The viewpoints of the camera lens were expansive, yet there were just enough blind spots for you to hide under as you swoop through, finding the organic market truck delivering fresh produce and meat for the chef and kitchen staff. Quickly, you snuck in the back of the cart, hiding behind a wooden cart of milk bottles as the driver closed up the tail, and started the vehicle. 

With a left turn, and straight ahead, you took a quick peek to find that the truck left the gates behind, closing for the night as everyone contained within are left thinking you are still in your bed, when in all reality, you were finally free. 

I did it…

You couldn’t believe it, this was entirely too good to be true. You finally made out and left the Colosseum. Resting your chin on the wooden crate, you watched all the happy couples taking their nightly stroll laugh and enjoy the Roman night. How dazzling it must be to be able to meet new people, go on dates, dress the way you see fit and to build companionship–a close and personal one at that. A world without having to be politically correct, not involved with the aggressive issues of world affairs and global diplomacy…just a life of chosen happiness and freedom. What a blissful and wonderful life that would be to have. 

The truck finally stopped, subtly waking you as you began to drift off. It would seem that doctor Rue’s medication was starting to take effect, but you had come so far to just merely return and fall asleep. You had to see and experience more, ride a motorbike, go sightseeing and even drink real Italian soda, or eat ice cream from a cone, for once. 

Walking along the sidewalk, you admired the dazzling architecture and fountains, graced by such remarkable statues. 

“I can’t wait to see everything.”

…………………………………..

“Alright, show face gents.”

“I got nothing.”

“Got a straight.”

Ethan strokes his chin, leveling out his hand, revealing a full house. “Oh, a full house. Bet you were feeling lucky, eh Ethan?” Jake, Ethan’s best friend remarks with a devious tune in his voice. “Let’s have it.” Ethan mumbles out, already figuring he lost this round as he tosses the remainder of his poker chips. 

“Royal flush! Go ahead and weep boys.” Jake announces delightfully as he scoops up his entire night’s winnings. 

“Whatever, I’m out. I got a early morning tomorrow.”

“Ah, the press conference with Princess Y/N?”

“Yup.” Ethan lets out a tiresome sigh while placing his jacket on. “You heading out soon?” He raises a brow and extends an inquiry towards Jake. “Yeah, after a bit.”

“Cool, see ya.” At his que, Ethan leaves. 

With his casual suit and tie, he takes a nightly stroll as his hands remain nestled in both pockets. What a night, another game ending with him losing a week's worth of pay, so much for a fun night out with the boys. 

Up ahead, he spots a peculiar view. Drawing closer in, he notices you asleep on the bench. Odd. Why would a young lady, neatly dressed be asleep on the street. 

“Miss?…Miss! Wake up.” 

You mumbled as he dipped down to shake your shoulder. “Miss, you shouldn’t be sleeping here.” 

“Mmm…not…not sleeping…”

“Uh huh.” Rolling his eyes, Ethan buries his hand back in the pocket before mocking your pitiful state. “You know, typically if someone can’t handle their liquor, they shouldn’t drink. Especially at this hour.” 

“Mmm…” you flutter your lashes as you blink, all the while Ethan half-heartedly sits you up. “Mm…Art thou afeared to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire?” You drew out your tired voice as you reiterated your favorite verse, succeeding in impressing the rather stoic young man at your side. “Do you know who wrote that?” You questioned as your eyes go back to being shut. 

“Huh…so you’re not only well dressed, but you’re also well educated.” Ethan tosses a small pebble in the air, catches it before skipping it against the placid surface of the water. “What is someone like you out here charting lines from Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”?” His tone was playful and teasing, but you hardly noticed as you drifted off. A nearby taxi drives close, and Ethan waves it down. “Well, see ya chica.” 

He opens the car door before taking another pitiful glance at you. Your body goes limp as you lay yourself back down, nuzzling against the backrest of the bench. 

Ethan comes back and taps your arm. “Hey, you take the cab. Come on, take it and go home.” 

“Mmmmmmmngh….”

“Come on…” lifting you, he rests you against his shoulder as he helps you inside the back of the taxi. “Senor, where to?” 

Ethan shuts the door as he does his best to stabilize you in the back seat. No matter how he tried, you kept slouching over, mumbling out tiresome moans as you expressed may times, over and over that you merely needed to sleep. 

“Senor—“ 

“I know, I know.” Ethan appeases the cab driver as he grips your shoulders, and inquires your home address. “Miss, where do you live?”

“Mmmmmnnnngh.”

“Miss?”

“Mmmm….the….the colosseum..”

Ethan and the cab driver both exchange looks before proceeding once more to get a legitimate answer. “Uh…miss? Miss, where do you live?”

“Mmmm.”

“야!” Growing impatient, Ethan’s Korean roots comes out as he takes a harsh tone and verbiage to you ”진지하게…“

“Signore, per favore devo andare—“

“Okay, okay.” Rubbing his temples, Ethan winces out of frustration as he reignites the question once more. “Miss, where do you live? Don’t say—“

“Mmm colosseum….”

“…the colosseum.” He whispers in defeat as faces the cab driver. “Please driver to Casa Gabriella.” 

“Ah! Thank you Signore!” The cab driver enthusiastically thanks Ethan before driving to the street belonging to his own residence. 

Between going back and forth with trying to get an answer out of you, and reasoning with the driver, Ethan found himself in a pickle, having no choice but to take you in for the night. “Damn…” he huffed under his breath.

He pays the driver before seeing you in through the gated entrance. Thumbing through his pocket, he fetched for his keys, yet paused upon feeling a sudden density resting against his back. He looks over his shoulder to expand his peripheral sight, catching the subtle image of you sleeping on his back and barely standing with his frame as support. Clearing his throat, he faces back forward as he unlocked the gate.

Leading you through the entrance, Ethan guides you in by the hand. You walked closely behind, practically sleep-walking with your eyes glued shut. He knew that your ‘inebriation’ was the cause in your lack of functionality, yet he couldn’t help but think of how childish you appeared as you rubbed your eyelids, tucked in your chin, and gently stomped your heels while being dragged through the outer corridor. 

He proceeds to climb the staircase, when your hand began slipping through his grip. He looked back, only to find that you managed to continue forward, but on the opposite of the stair rail. 

“Oh come on…” Ethan sighed tirelessly, raising your hand above head and once again, guided you all the way back around and on to the steps. 

He fishes through his key ring, grabbing the one that unlocked his front door. You stood behind, eyes shut, swaying as you waited, not at all coherent. He only looked away for a second as he grabbed the house key, when he looked back just in the nick of time. Aiming for the door, you recognized the structure of the entrance to Ethan’s neighbor, even at your sleeping state, you managed to not only realize that there was a door beside you, but also decided to act brazen as you marched straight for the frame with your fist balled up, seemingly ready to knock at such a late hour. 

“Shit!” Ethan harshly whispers as he leans forward and by the grace of God, was able to catch onto your wrist before you made contact with the door. 

“Wheeeeeeeew….” Breathing out steadily, Ethan regains his posture, while pulling you back in and behind him. He quickly enters and drags you to his apartment, finally able to take a breath. This was much harder than he expected. 

You merely stood by his bed, your chin still tucked in with your eyes closed. Now that you were in a stable environment, Ethan was able to take a breather and sipped on some scotch, trying to take the edge off from being bestowed as your babysitter. 

“Mmmmmnnn…do you know my favorite Shakespeare verse?” You mumbled out, drawing your words in a somber tone. 

Eyeballing you as he sips from the glass, with hand in pocket and his frame casually leaned against the wall, Ethan tucked in his lips as he relished the taste of liquor gracing his tongue. “Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he sets the glass down and digs through his drawers. 

“Here.” Presenting you with a pair of cotton, checkered seat pants and an oversized tee shirt, you lazily received them as your eyes opened just a sliver. “Pajamas?” 

“Yup. The bathroom is to your right, you can change in there.” His tone expressed annoyance, watching as you half wittingly untied your neck tab. “May I have a silk nightgown with baby rose buds on the hem?” 

Ethan raises a brow, tucking his hands back in his pockets. Did you seriously just request for something so lavish after all you had put him through? ‘Huh…typical rich girl.’

“Sorry princess, you’re gonna have to rough it out with these tonight.”

He turns back over to fetch his glass and finishes off his drink. “May I have some?”

Ethan nearly choked out upon hearing you request for a drink. “No! Go change and get to sleep!” 

He wipes the leaked beverage from his lip and checks the time on his wrist watch. “I’m going to step out for a bit. Change over and you’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“Will you assist in my undressing?” 

‘What did she just ask me to do?’……

“Come again, young lady?” 

“Please undo my attire  so that I may retire to bed.” You expressed as you tilted your nose up into the air. Your eyes remained closed as you slightly spread your arms apart. 

Peaking a perturbed brow, Ethan rolled his eyes before ‘assisting’ in undressing you. He squares up and looks down and reviews your sleepy countenance. “Uhh….um…here.” Pulling the neck sash loose from your collar, he hands it to you and watches as you barely grabbed onto it. “There. I helped.”

Turning hastily, he locks up the scotch before grabbing onto the knob. “I’m going out for a bit. Remember, you sleep on the couch, got it?” 

You loosened the fabric belt and unbuttoned your skirt, turning around, you flared your wrist and delicately graced the air with a fingered motion. The moment you rotated, your skirt drapes downward and falls to the floor. “You have my permission to withdraw.” 

Ethan simply rolled his eyes once more as he shuts the door. “Whatever princess, don’t touch anything.”

……………

Walking back up the stairs, Ethan rubbed his eyes. He was so tired, while he was out, he effortlessly asked around to see if he could find anyone that recognized your description, but it was futile. Guess you really had to stay over in his apartment until you sober up in the morning. Re-entering his apartment, he tosses his keys before noticing, much to his dismay, that you were nestled into his bed. 

“Oh Hell no! Come on! I said couch…couch!” 

He flings his jacket aside as he loosens his tie. Placing both hands on his hip, what a night this turned out to be. 

He changed over to his own set of pajamas before attempting to configure a way to fit himself in the bed. Placing a row of pillows between both your bodies, he attempted to gain comfort and place head to pillow, when in a blink of an eye, his goose-feathered fortress was demolished as you turned over. Swinging your arm and leg, you rolled over in your sleep as you limbs held onto him. “What the—“

He flings your limbs away and sits upright. His full size bed was simply not large enough for you both, so he was left with only one other option. 

“Move over.” 

Bouldering you to the edge, he rolls you right onto the couch beside the bed and watches as you land against the stuff cushion. “So happy…” you mumbled out. 

“Shut up.” Fluffing his pillows, he lays back down and finally, at precisely 3 am, he was able to get some sleep. 

“….Mmm…so happy...”

“Girl, I swear to God…”

………………………..

“General, we’ve searched the entire premises. There is no sight of Princess y/n.”

“Keep each detachment commander on standby, we must handle this with the utmost discretion. Understand? The Princess is the direct heir to the throne, we must avoid any stir with the press.”

The guard snaps a salute before pivoting and taking his leave. The royal staff all sit around in complete disarray. “We will issue a public statement that the Princess is ill, that will excuse and cancel out the list of events we have coordinated.” 

The general strokes his chin as he listens to the Marquis. “Well…all that’s left is to notify their majesties…”

The royal staff all stood, eyes widening as they prepare to take in whatever was coming. Your father, the King, was known to be a fair and benevolent man, but overly harsh and stern when it came to grave mistakes—in this case, losing his only child.

……………

Ethan fluttered his eyes open, harshly greeted by the sun peering through the window. What time was it? Time…the time! 

Jolting up, he snags his watch from the bedside table. “Shit…the press conference with the Princess…Fuck!” 

Jumping out of bed, he quickly got dressed, not at all paying attention to the abandoned ‘drunk’ he had watched over from last night. You remained heavily asleep on his couch, which was all dandy with him. He didn’t have time to arrange for your departure; right now, his job was at stake. “Fuck fuck fuck!” 

Running out, he catches a cab ride and proceeds to the office, unaware that various media outlets had published countless articles of your ‘illness’ and the cancellation of the arranged conference. 

“Ethan! Mr. Park has been looking for you.” 

“Yeah…got it.” 

Taking in a breath, Ethan walks in to greet his boss. “Hey.” 

“Where have you been?” 

“You want the truth or a harmless lie?” 

“Don’t even bother Ethan.” Jay, a longtime friend and employer of Ethan and Jake, eaves his hand as he dismisses his friends lack of responsibility. “I stopped giving a shit a long time ago. If I continued to stress over you, you would have been fired a hundred times by now.”

Ethan smirked as he issued a slight nod. “Sorry, I overslept. I had a…rather rough night.” 

“What? Did boys night end so badly that it kept you from sleeping?” 

“I wish.” Ethan sighed as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “Anyhow, I know I’m late but I’ll head over to the press conference and see if I can catch the end of it.” 

Jay perks up a brow. “The press conference?”

“Yes sir.”

Jay scoffs as he rubs his forehead. “It’s rather ironic that you were for a media outlet but you can’t keep up with current events.” 

“What do you mean?” Taking a sip, Ethan stares at Jay wide eyed, completely unaware of what his friend was referring to. Tossing a bundle up newspaper article towards him. Jay snaps his fingers as he gazes at a mischievous expression. “Read it. Princess is out sick, the press conference was canceled, dummy.”

Ethan’s brows furrowed together as he unraveled the paper and proceeded to read the headline, when the image header nearly caused his heart to skip a beat. 

“It’s postponed until further notice, so saddle up because I have a feeling that once she’s in the clear to make public appearances, there’s going to be a riot of journalists trying to get their greedy questions answered.”

Ethan didn’t hear a single word, instead, he stared into the portrait styled photograph that graced every front page in the country. 

“J-Jay…”

“What?”

“Is…this the princess?”

Jay shifts his elbow on the desk, leaning cheek to palm as he breathed out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, smart one. THAT, is the princess, y/n.”

Ethan crinkles the paper, internally giggling as he grabbed on to the fortuitous opportunity. “If I got an exclusive interview…what would that get me?” 

Raising his brows, Jay slowly raises his head, his interest peaked at Ethan’s words. 

“Yeah, that’s right you heard me. EXCLUSIVE…”

……………………

Building up beads of sweat, Ethan hurried back to his apartment. He couldn’t relish the details to Jay, but he only hinted enough to shake on a granted promotion and independence, should he gain an one of a kind interview with you, Princess Y/N. 

He bursts through the door, and to his everlasting joy, you were still asleep. He quickly shuts the door and maneuvers the furniture in his flat, and tidies up the bed stand. Looking overhead, he made a sudden realization as it dawned on him that you were on the couch. He made you, the Princess, sleep on a couch. 

“Let’s fix that real quick.” 

Huffing under his breath, he lifts you up and over, placing you back on the mattress as he fixes the pillows and bed spread. 

The sirens of local national security could be heard roaming the streets, he already knew the meaning behind it. Taking a final glance at the paper, he compares your face to the image. “It really is her…” 

Clearing his throat, he shoved the paper behind his headboard before gently waking you. “Um…your highness?”

“Mmmm….”

Not exactly the response he was looking for. Trying once more, he issues a more authoritative tone as he lightly taps your leg. “Your royal highness…are you awake?”

“Yes, what is it?” You rolled over, refusing to open your eyes or get out of bed. You felt so exhausted. “Please close the curtains, the sun is too bright, doctor.” You softly commanded as you nuzzled your nose against the pillow.

“Ah…sure.” Ethan was ecstatic, this could practically be a route for him to take on early retirement. 

“Your highness, can you sit up for a moment?” 

“Mmm….doctor….I had the strangest dream.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me about it.”

Your eyes remained shut as you recounted whatever details you could vaguely recall from last nights ‘dream’. “I dreamt that I was away…and I met a man.”

“Oh?” Developing a mischievous grin, Ethan probes. “What did he look like?”

“Mmm…tall…he was so tall.” 

“Yeah?”

“Tall….handsome….and he was so mean to me.” You frowned at the bitter end of your sentence, which had Ethan’s grin quickly transitioning to a somewhat guilty look. 

“Is that so?….Sorry to hear that.” 

You flung your arm over your eyes as you bashfully grinned out. “It was wonderful…”

Ethan’s grin reappears. “Glad to hear it.” 

Basking in the warmth of the sun's rays, you slowly opened your eyes to spot the blurred silhouette of the man before you. It must be a side effect of the medication. Blinking, you cleared your vision as you re-opened your eyes one more, only to find that the clarity of your sight displayed the truth of your detailed account. 

‘What…..who….where am I?’ 

You stared endlessly as the voice in your head questions the current nature of the setting, when Ethan’s voice shocks you. “Good morning….” 

His face…this man is…

Part two coming soon…

Authors note: I promise “Devil Wears Prada” is in the works. That one has a more elaborate storyline.

Perm Taglist:

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[blackswaneuroparedux]

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La véritable mission du violon est d'imiter les accents de la voix humaine, une noble mission qui a valu au violon la gloire d'être appelé le roi des instruments.

- Charles-Auguste de Beriot

Maria Dueñas, the greatest of the newest generation of Spnaish musicians, plays from Zigeunerweisen, Op. 20, a musical composition for violin and orchestra written in 1878 by the Spanish composer Pablo de Sarasate.

[city-of-ladies]

A pioneering female composer, Barbara Strozzi (1619-1677) defied the norms of her time. Unlike many women of her era, she was not a wife, a nun, or a courtesan; but an independent woman devoted to her music.

The heiress of the Muses

Barbara was immersed in music from an early age. Her father, Giulio Strozzi, an illegitimate member of the noble Strozzi family, played a significant role in Venetian musical life, writing librettos for major composers and poetry. Her mother, Isabella Garzoni, was Giulio’s longtime servant, possibly of Greek origin, as she was known as “La Griega” or “La Greghetta” (“The Little Greek”).

Unlike Nannerl Mozart, Barbara benefited from a supportive environment. Her father acknowledged her and provided her with a comprehensive education, allowing her to develop her talents from a young age. She trained with opera composer Francesco Cavalli, and by the age of 15, Barbara was already performing at gatherings in the Strozzi home. She possessed an impressive and flexible soprano voice, capable of singing complex compositions.

Her talent was widely recognized. In 1635 and 1636, composer Nicolò Fontei dedicated two volumes of solo songs to her. She also performed at meetings of her father’s intellectual circle, the Accademia degli Unisoni (“Academy of the Like-Minded”). Among the attendees was Giovanni Francesco Loredan, a supporter of feminist writer and nun Arcangela Tarabotti, who remarked that “had she been born in another era, surely she would have usurped or expanded the place of the muses.”

An extraordinary career

Barbara went on to publish her own compositions. In 1644, she released Il primo libro de madrigali (First Book of Madrigals, Opus 1), dedicated to Vittoria della Rovere, Grand Duchess of Tuscany, known for her patronage of female convents and musicians—a strategic choice on Barbara’s part.

Despite the dominance of opera, Barbara achieved recognition as a composer of chamber music. Her compositions showcased her vocal talent, though she sometimes wrote with other female voices in mind. Her songs explored themes of love, jealousy, joy, despair and sensuality. Most of her work was secular, but she also composed religious pieces in Latin—a unique accomplishment for a Catholic laywoman in early modern Europe.

Barbara’s work was more than just a portrayal of women as sensual temptresses; she also demonstrated a powerful and dramatic voice. An example of this is “Lagrime mie” (“My Tears”) from 1657, a poignant expression of a lover’s despair that fully utilized her vocal abilities.

Over her lifetime, Barbara published around 125 compositions across eight volumes, making her more prolific than any other female composer of her era. By 1656, her works were included alongside those of male composers in printed collections. While she did not perform publicly, her music has been preserved.

A troubled personal life

Barbara never married but had four children, at least three of whom were fathered by Giovanni Paolo Vidman, a friend of her father. Long-term concubinage relationships like theirs were not uncommon at the time.

The nature of their relationship remains unclear. An anonymous commentator wrote in 1677 that Giovanni Paolo had raped Barbara. This might seem contradictory given the length of their relationship, but societal norms of the time regarding female virginity sometimes forced women to remain with their aggressors to protect their reputations.

Through her work, Barbara was able to provide for her children. Giovanni Paolo died in 1648, leaving provisions for her and their children. Both of Barbara’s daughters entered convents, with the entrance fees paid by Giovanni Paolo’s wife, Camilla. Barbara rented a house from Giovanni Paolo’s brother until 1677 when she traveled to Padua, where she died of illness.

My Ko-Fi

Further reading

Kendrick Robert L., “Intent and textuality in Barbara Strozzi’s sacred music”

Magner Candace, “Barbara Strozzi, a brief history”

Ray Meredith K., Twenty-five women who shaped the Italian Renaissance 

[merlot-and-chardonnay]

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 20

Chapter 19

"Jaskier!" you exclaim, tears in your eyes as you rush to embrace the man, everyone else looking upon the two of you stunned.

"Little sister," Jaskier exclaims in laughter, "it has been so long. Way too long." "I thought I'd never see you again," you say, trying to keep from crying.

The last time you saw your brother had been under less then ideal circumstances. You left with the hopes that he and the witchers would be spared the wrath of dragon fire.

The king and his family were still stunned by this reunion, but Otto stepped in to interrupt this moment, "Forgive this intrusion, but just who are you exactly?" "Well, I thought I was quite clear on who I was," Jaskier sasses, "I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount-" "Yes, you made that clear," Otto rudely cuts in, "it does not answer my question."

"Ah yes," Jaskier nods, "Well then, my lord, you are a lord correct? I'm only assuming by your stuffy demeanor, allow me to elucidate," Otto gave Jaskier the biggest glare from that remark. Daemon made a small smirk at that comment (reluctant as he may be) as Jaskier continued, "As I was saying before being of so rudely interrupted, I am the Viscount de Lettenhove, but for the sake of simplicity I go by my stage name Jaskier. Bard extraordinaire, well renown throughout the Continent, known for many a ballad, and for many a broken heart. And of course brother to this sweet, caring woman right here. Will those credentials be more than enough to suffice my lord?"      

"You're Lady (y/n)'s brother?" Rhaenyra speaks up, approaching, "I don't quite see the resemblance." "He's my half-brother, princess," you explain, "after his mother passed, our father married my mother sometime after." "Ah, so this is the princess," Jaskier says, "the Realm's Delight I am told. Truly a beauty unlike no other I have seen so far in this realm."

Rhaenyra smiled, "You flatter me. It seems to run in the family. That lute of yours looks quite sophisticately crafted." "Ah, do you like it?" Jaskier taps on his instrument, "this was handmade by the elves. It was a gift by their king actually. I've composed many a ballad on this instrument. Would you like to hear one?"

"That will have to wait another time," Viserys steps in, "that is until you answer the question as to why you are here in the first place."

"Ah yes," Jaskier says, tone turning more stern, which took Viserys by surprise, "I have a bone to pick with you. It wasn't enough to knock up my sister you had to steal her away from her family as well?"

Viserys only gave Jaskier a confused look, surprised this man had the audacity to address a king of all people in such a manner.

You roll your eyes a bit before whispering to Jaskier, "wrong royal, big brother," you nod towards Daemon, "that's the man who's bone you have to pick."

Jaskier turned his gaze to the prince, "oh I see, yeah, that makes more sense. In that case, my apologies your Grace," he makes a slight bow to Viserys and then turned to Daemon to confront the man.

"You. It wasn't enough to impregnate my sister with that little dragon of yours, you had to go and steal her and my niece and future heir from their family as well."

Daemon gave Jaskier a threatening look, "you are awfully bold to speak to me in such a way. Either that, or you have some kind of death wish."

"Oh yeah sure, go on, try and intimidate me with that menacing stare of yours, prince," Jaskier challenges, "you're not the first royal/noble to threaten me for things I may, or may not have done to their wives, sisters, and occasionally their mothers...and you're certainly not going to be the last. But I will not back down until I have what I came here for. I did not sit on some rickety ship and nearly get my head lopped off by Skellige pirates in a raid during a storm just to be cowarded into submission by some pretty boy with a pet dragon."

"Then what are you here for, Viscount?" Viserys asks. "Well, not that you may know, your Grace," Jaskier says, "but as it just so happens, my niece, my sister's daughter is third in line to my inheritance, seeing as I have no heirs of my own, not any legitimate ones at least," you smack your forehead at that statement, "my sister is next in line and by extension her daughter, and without them, I have no one else to pass my lands and titles to. By taking them away, you have deprived me of my future and my legacy. And I demand recompense for such grievances."

There was some awkward silence for a brief moment before Viserys speaks, "Well I am sorry for your loss, Viscount, truly. But I had nothing to do with this. I was informed that your sister was abducted against her will. Brought back to the Continent by a horde of mutant sell swords. Were you not aware of this?"

"Mutant sell swords?" Jaskier scoffs, "and vary odd way to describe-" you nudge your brother in the ribs before he could continue, "ow!" he protests.

"My brother was not made aware of this, your Grace," you say, giving Jaskier a certain look with hopes he'll keep his mouth shut for the time being, "and he was also not aware that Aemma was declared true born and is now addressed as Princess."

"Nor is he aware that my daughter is to wed the Prince Aegon when they both come of age," Daemon speaks up.

"...well then," Jaskier says with a calm tone, "We appear to be at an impasse. Tell me, your Grace, how do you plan to resolve this predicament I was placed in thanks to the father of my niece?"

"I hardly see a reason why this needs to be resolved," Otto retorts, "on what grounds should this burden fall on his Grace?"

"Alright then," Jaskier shrugs before stating his case, "if Lady (y/n) was indeed abducted by 'mutant' sell swords, she and her then illegitimate daughter should've been brought back to her family, being me. As Viscount with no heirs of my own, my sister holds the title Heir Apparent for my title, and Princess Aemma next in line. You know, now that I think about it, the real abduction of my sister and her daughter had actually occurred when THIS rogue," he points at Daemon, "swooped in on his giant lizard with wings and brought them here instead of the Pankratz estate where they truly belong."

Daemon gave Jaskier a very dangerous look, like he was already plotting the man's murder just for insulting his dragon. He probably would've if Alicent didn't pick this time to respond, "if this claim is indeed true, it may appear that this man has indeed been robbed of his legacy," she turns to Viserys, "surely a compromise can't be reached, provided time is given to negotiate."

Viserys thinks on it addressing Jaskier, "I suppose we could negotiate for such a compromise. As odd as you may be, you did come all this way in determination to see your sister again, which suggests a strong resolve. Very well, Jaskier is it? You'll be welcomed here as a guest. Accommodations will be provided as befitting your station."

"You truly honor me, your Grace," Jaskier nods, making a light bow, "now would you honor me further and allow me to see my niece, the princess?"

Right on cue, Aemma started walking on her tiny legs from the nurses and towards her mother. You go to pick her up and give her a kiss on the cheek, "Look Aemma," you say to her, "it's Uncle Jaskier, remember him?"

"Oh my goodness," Jaskier sports a wide grin on his face, "how have you grown, girl. You look so much like your mother, minus the hair and eyes that is."

Aemma gave Jaskier a rather confused look and hid her face into your neck. Daemon had a small smirk on his from the interaction, pleased that Aemma wasn't as willing to meet this man like she was with him.

"Aemma, it's alright," you whisper to her, "take a good look, maybe you might recognize him."

The young girl eventually looked up to her uncle again, who gave her another wide grin. She reached out for him. Jaskier took Aemma into his arms.

The other watched the interaction in fascination, except for Daemon, who at this point was coming with several different plots to get rid of the Bard. How said plots would be carried out would not make a difference, as long as they resulted in Jaskier's remains being fed to Caraxes.

You walk over to Viserys and address him, "if it is all the same to you, your Grace, I wish to take a walk with my brother and talk to him as I have not seen him for quite some time."

"...of course, Lady Lark," Viserys nods in understanding. The king then summoned one of the nursemaids to take Aemma back to play with Aegon.

--------------------------------

"It is so good to see you again, Julian," you say once you and Jaskier were out in the gardens and further away from the prying eyes of the nobles staying in the Red Keep, and pulling him into a crushing hug, finally letting the tears slip forth, "you have no idea how much I've missed you and....him."

"Well I should hope so, given how you left of so suddenly," Jaskier says with slight sarcasm, "granted it was against your will, but still."

You laugh a little, sniffling some as well, "I've missed your sense of humor too." "And I've missed you as well, little sister," Jaskier nods, now struggling to breathe, "but maybe I'll miss you some more if you stop crushing me with your arms." 

"Sorry," you say stepping back to wipe your tears away, "it's just...you have no idea what I've gone through since I've been brought back to Westeros." "I can only imagine," Jaskier nods, "I don't imagine you've been allowed to even leave this place much if only to have that scoundrel rogue of prince watching your every move like a hawk."

"Well he just came back from fighting in the Stepstones so he hasn't had much time to watch me," you admit, "but that doesn't mean he didn't have soldiers or servants to do that for him. I did try to escape, Jaskier, once or twice, but both times the plans were thwarted. At least Ciri managed to make it out okay."

"Ciri escaped?" Jaskier's eyes widen, "so...she's not here...with you?" "She didn't go back to Ger- to our friend?" your eyes widen back just as shocked.

"No," Jaskier shakes his head, "neither of us have seen Ciri in years, we thought she was with you this whole time."

"I need to know what's been happening on the Continent," you tell him after taking a breather from the information you had received, "what happened to Ger...to him." "Why won't you say Geral-"

You place a hand on Jaskier's mouth before he could finish his question, "because Daemon has forbidden his name to ever be uttered within these walls," you mutter, "and even walls have ears."

When you took your hand away, Jaskier looked up, down, and every other direction. No one was in sight, but the Bard was smart enough to know that spies could be possibly be hiding anywhere in sight, "I see your point," he tells you, "well then, how to do go about this?" "You've been brushing up on your elven?" you ask. "Not as much?" he admits.

"What about your Toussaintian?" you suggest.

"You tell me, Mademoiselle," Jaskier says in said language.

"Excellent," you say back in the same language, briefly looking back and forth before you continue, "a special source came up to me some time yesterday when I was in the godswood. He said a white wolf was spotted in the North, wounded and making his way towards King's Landing. I think it might be the man we're both acquainted with."

"And how do you know this?" Jaskier raises an eyebrow, "who is this source?"

"He said the wolf had gold eyes and sported a silver medallion around his neck," you answer, "and...he sang the song I wrote for the wolf all those years ago? I've never sung it to anyone here before, yet he know the lyrics."

Jaskier seemed shocked, but nodded, "I was hoping the White Wolf would've gotten here before I had," he admits, "looks like he managed to reach Westeros, but in the wrong place."

"What happened Jaskier?" you ask in the Common Tongue before switching back to Toussaintian, "Why...why did it take so long? Why would the White Wolf be gravely injured in the state he is in?"

"It's a long story," Jaskier answers in Common Tongue, "A lot has happened since last you and Aemma were there. There...there was a meeting on Thanedd, you know that place right?" you nod before he continues, "Ger....uh, the Wolf was there and...it went so horribly wrong. He got hurt badly and Yennefer-" "Yennefer?" your eyes widen, "Yennefer was there?" She's alive?!" "Shockingly yes," Jaskier nods, "and apparently she knew where Ciri was seen last." "I thought you assumed Ciri was back here," you point out. "Yes well...you know I don't trust Yennefer all that well," Jaskier points back, "for all I knew she could've been lying."

You shake your head a bit; Jaskier may not care for Yennefer much, which was somewhat understandable given that debacle with the Djinn, but you and her had actually gotten along the few times you've seen her. Sure it did bother you at first that her destiny was tied to Geralt's due to that damned last wish, but you've never held it against her, and that was before you and Geralt had even coupled the first time.

You were actually sadden when you heard the news she had perished at the battle of Sodden. It was a relief now that she had actually survived.

"So what did Yennefer do?" you ask.

"Well," Jaskier begins, "after what happened in Thanedd, after our friend was hurt and recovered somewhat thanks to some Dryads, the sorceress in question had created a portal to take him here. Looks like it didn't quite get him to the exact spot he was hoping. Yennefer did mention that could happen. Magic seems to work differently in this part of the world."

"So he is in the North," you realize, "and he's trying to reach this place. But if his wounds have not recovered...."

You were now beginning to wonder what kind of injuries Geralt could have received on Thanedd that he still had not recovered from them completely; witchers were known to recover from injuries faster then the average human being, and could survive wounds that most would've perished from easily.

If the man you loved really was gravely injured and not recovered, who's to say he would even survive the long trek he would have to make from the North to King's Landing.

You were now fearing for Geralt's life, and you were starting to contemplate the offer Larys Strong had given you the other day.

"You have that look on your face," Jaskier interrupts your thoughts. "What look?" "That, I think I might have an idea, but it might come back to bit us in the arse look," the Bard elaborates. "Wouldn't that imply I have ideas like that all the time?" you huff. "No of course not," Jaskier assures, but the look on his face said otherwise, "but I assume you do have such an idea now."

"...okay fine maybe I do," you relent,  discretely looking over Jaskier's shoulder to spot your idea in question.

You talk in Toussaintian, "a man with a cane and club foot is sitting on the bench in the distance behind you."

Jaskier turned to see, "hey be discrete!" you scold.

"Okay, I got a good peak," he says, "what about him?"

"His name is Larys Strong," you whisper, "the youngest son of Lord Lyonel Strong, who holds a seat on the small council. Larys is the one who told me about our Wolf friend."

Jaskier's eyes widen and he goes to look again, "Hey!" you scold again, "remember what mother said about staring." "She was your mother, not mine," Jaskier scoffs. "The rules still apply."

"Do you think this Lord Strong can help us with our friend's predicament?" Jaskier whispers his question.

"Maybe," you say, "he did offer to help me escape once but...I'm not entirely sure he can be trusted. He's...well I'm not entirely sure how to describe him, but apparently he's good at reading people. If what you've said about our friend is true, we may not have much of a choice."

"Well, maybe I can try talking to him," Jaskier suggests. "No," you shake your head, "you should let me." "(y/n)-" "You don't know these people like I do, Julian," you point out, "I know you're no stranger to scheming nobles yourself, but...these Westorosi lords are a different breed altogether, especially the Hand of the king."

"Yeah, he really didn't seem to like me all that much," Jaskier nods. "Not as much as Daemon dislikes you," you say, "if you didn't notice already he had been trying to burn holes into your head like he was an actual dragon."

Jaskier notice your facial expression was little more somber at the mention of the prince's name. He places a hand on your shoulder, "(y/n), can you be honest with me?" he asks, "Has...has he been hurting you? In any way? Will you please tell me?"

You look Jaskier in the eye, "he...he's kind to Aemma. He hasn't laid a finger on her. He even gifted her with a dragon's egg upon our arrival." "But he has touched you," Jaskier states.

You don't say anything for fear that someone might still be overhearing. Jaskier takes your silence and the look of fear on your face as an answer, "I'll make him pay for what he has done to you," he says with anger in his tone, "even if it costs me my own life, I'll take my lute and whack him upside the head if only to cause a good deal of damage against him."

"Good luck with that," you sarcastically scoff, "I'm sure he's plotting your own death even as we speak."

"Well then," Jaskier states, "he's going to have to try really hard at that. Lesser men have tried and failed rather spectacularly. Worry not for me, dear sister, for there are three things in this life I am good at. My songs, my ability to evade death, and most important, how to get enough people to like me that any plots to do away with me become nigh impossible."

You snort at that last one, "you and your dumb luck, brother."

After talking some more on trivial things, you and Jaskier return to the inside of the keep, where you brother could mingle with enough lords and ladies that they would grow fond of him and wonder where he would go to should he mysteriously disappear.

Chapter 20.5

Masterlist

[jamtlandsarkiv]

Recently, I saw this poll.

I refuse to believe that there are 91 Swedes in the Hetalia fandom on Tumblr who happened to see this poll, of which 70 voted for Berwald. The voter turnout on the big Hetalia fandom polls is between 1000 and 1500, there's no way nearly 10% of this fandom is Swedish.

But it also reminded me of one of my greatest pet peeves about the Hetalia canon.

I HATE THE NAME "BERWALD OXENSTIERNA" FOR SWEDEN!!!!

Disclaimer: The name "Berwald Oxenstierna" is not offensive. People who choose to use that name are not doing anything wrong beyond annoying me (and anyone else who cares about giving Sweden a name that reflects average Swedes).

Let's take a look at each part of this name. "Berwald" is not a Swedish name. It's not even a first name. This is a last name of German origin. Himaruya probably derived it from the Swedish-German composer Franz Berwald. Nobody in Sweden today has "Berwald" as a first name.

"Oxenstierna", on the other hand, is a Swedish name that has been documented since the 13th century. It's one of the oldest Swedish noble families that still has descendants carrying the name today. Swedes will immediately recognize this name from Axel Oxenstierna, who was the Lord High Chancellor of Sweden from 1612-1654, de facto ruler of Sweden while Queen Christina was a minor, and credited with establishing the foundation of the modern Swedish state.

In Sweden, German last names have a posh reputation, because German immigrants to Sweden were often businessmen and much wealthier than the locals. If you were to use "Berwald Oxenstierna" as a double last name (and I suppose "Carl Oscar Wilhelm 'Nobbe'" as his first names), it would sound like a parody of someone with noble heritage and a posh upbringing.

Even if you don't use "Berwald", using the name "Oxenstierna" for Sweden directly implies that he has noble heritage. Modern Swedish society doesn't have the strict class divisions of the past, but it's still easy to tell if a name is noble or a commoner name. Noble names with living descendants are protected and people can't adopt them without a family connection to the name.

In summary: Unless your Sweden is supposed to come off as a comically pompous aristocrat (or a wannabe) who gets to pick whatever name he wants, don't use "Berwald Oxenstierna". Most non-Swedes can't even spell it anyway.

[aeide-thea]

beautiful & also terrible to have the sort of brain where you find yrself at 4:30 AM looking up intersections between jewishness & arthuriana. like. fucking amazing rabbit hole but. why am i not asleep. my head hurts and my eyes are sandy.

however. some cool things (that probably some of you knew abt already, but i did not!):

King Artus – "a 'Hebrew Arthurian Romance of 1279… Judaized and transformed.' […] Although the story in 'King Artus' is fairly straightforwardly Arthur’s as we know it today, there are little touches that tie it to Jewish literature. When, for example, Arthur’s mother, the Duchess, learns that her husband is dead and she has been deceived by the shape-shifting Uther Pendragon, she tries to figure out how that could be possible. 'No sooner had he gone more than a bow-shot’s distance away from the castle than the messenger came straight to my chamber.' That bow-shot’s distance comes not from Arthurian legend but from the story of Hagar, who sits a bow-shot’s distance away from her son Ishmael when Abraham casts them out and she does not want to see her son die."

Bovo-Bukh – "a chivalric romance adapted in 1507 by Elye Bokher (Elijah Baḥur *Levita) into 650 ottava rima stanzas in Yiddish from a Tuscan version (Buovo d'Antona) of the early 14th-century Anglo-Norman original, Boeuve de Haumton. This tale of the heroic adventures of the noble Bovo, exiled from his homeland by the machinations of his murderous mother, his wanderings through the world (as far as Babylon), and the love story of Bovo and Druzyana, their separation, his triumphant return home, and the final reunion with Druzyana and their two sons, proved to be one of the most beloved tales in the Yiddish literary tradition over the course of more than two centuries."

Vidvilt – "anonymous 15th–16th-century Yiddish epic. This Arthurian romance of the chivalric adventures of Sir Vidvilt (and his father Gawain), based on Wirnt von Gravenberg's 13th-century Middle High German Wigalois, proved to be one of the most enduringly popular secular narratives in Yiddish literary history, with numerous manuscript recensions, printings (the first in an extensively expanded version by Joseph b. Alexander Witzenhausen, Amsterdam 1671), and reprintings, in rhymed couplets, ottava rima (Prague 1671–79), and prose, over the course of three and a half centuries. The anonymous poet of the earliest Yiddish version composed more than 2,100 rhymed couplets (probably in northern Italy), following Wirnt's plot rather closely through the first three-quarters of the narrative (abbreviating much and generally eliminating specific Christian reference), before offering quite a different conclusion."

Sir Gabein – "from 1788-89, a tale in which the Arthurian knight Gabein does not return to Camelot but – via Russia and Sardinia – reaches China and ultimately ascends to the Chinese imperial throne as the new emperor." slow blink.

also this is getting beyond arthuriana into just epic poetry generally but. literally all of this sounds fascinating.

anyway. literary scholar manqué.e hrs as always here at k dot tumblr dot edu obviously! however. my ear is open like a greedy shark, &c.

[nomadomar]

Arabization: The Lost Stories of Transformation

Chapter 2: The Moorish Guardian

The clash of steel echoed across the battlefield, mingling with the cries of the wounded and the shouts of commanders as the Reconquista raged fiercely in 15th-century Spain. The Christian forces, determined to reclaim the Iberian Peninsula, fought with fervor against the Moors, who defended their lands with equal zeal. Amid the chaos, Sir Guillaume de Montfort, a knight of French origin, swung his sword with all the strength he could muster. His armor was battered, his muscles strained with exhaustion, but his resolve remained unbroken.

Guillaume had been raised in the chivalric traditions of France, his sense of honor intertwined with his identity as a Christian knight. He viewed the Moors as infidels, enemies of Christendom, and had come to Spain to prove his valor in the service of God. But on this day, the sheer force of the Moorish cavalry overwhelmed him. Surrounded and outnumbered, Guillaume fought valiantly until his sword was knocked from his hand, and he was pulled from his horse, bound, and taken prisoner.

Dragged through the streets of Granada, Guillaume’s pride was as battered as his armor. His heart burned with humiliation, but as he was led into the heart of the Alhambra, his surroundings began to intrude upon his thoughts. The palace was a marvel of architecture, its walls adorned with intricate carvings, its gardens lush and fragrant with the scent of jasmine. Despite himself, Guillaume could not help but feel a grudging respect for the beauty of the place.

He was brought before a distinguished Moorish nobleman, Emir Yusuf ibn Mansur. The Emir stood tall, his bearing noble, his demeanor calm and composed. Guillaume, kneeling in chains, expected to be met with disdain, perhaps even scorn. But as he looked up into the Emir’s eyes, he saw something different—a mix of curiosity and, surprisingly, pity.

"Sir Guillaume de Montfort," the Emir began, his voice resonating with authority. "You fought bravely, but this war is not just about swords and blood. It is about the souls of men, and the legacy they leave behind."

Guillaume said nothing, his pride preventing him from responding. But the words lingered in his mind, echoing with a weight he could not ignore.

Over the days and weeks that followed, Guillaume remained a prisoner in the Alhambra, but his confinement was not harsh. Emir Yusuf treated him with a respect that confused the knight, and he was given quarters within the palace, where he could rest and reflect. At first, Guillaume resisted any attempts to engage with the Moors, clinging to his beliefs and prejudices. But as time passed, his resolve began to wane.

The more he observed the Moorish way of life, the more he found himself drawn to it. Their poetry was rich with emotion, their science brimming with knowledge, and their faith, though foreign to him, was practiced with a sincerity that made him question his own. Emir Yusuf, sensing Guillaume’s inner turmoil, often spoke with him, sharing the wisdom of his people and the history of their land.

"You see us as enemies," Yusuf said one evening, as they walked through the palace gardens. "But we are more alike than you think. We all seek the truth, in our own ways. The truth of who we are, and the legacy we wish to leave behind."

Guillaume listened, but his heart was conflicted. How could he, a Christian knight, find common ground with those he had been taught to hate? And yet, he could not deny the growing respect he felt for the Emir and his people. It was this respect that slowly began to erode the rigid walls of his identity.

One day, Yusuf invited Guillaume to explore the hidden corners of the Alhambra. The knight, intrigued by the offer, agreed. They descended deep into the palace, through corridors that seemed to stretch into the very heart of the earth. Finally, they reached a door, ancient and heavy, which Yusuf opened with a key that had been passed down through generations.

Inside was a chamber unlike any Guillaume had ever seen. The walls were lined with relics—artifacts of immense historical and spiritual significance. At the center of the room, resting on a pedestal, was a sword. Its blade was etched with symbols, and its hilt gleamed with gold and jewels. Yusuf approached the sword with reverence.

"This sword," Yusuf explained, "is said to have been blessed by the Prophet Muhammad himself. It was wielded by a great warrior who sought to unite the tribes of Arabia under one banner. His spirit, they say, still resides within it, waiting for one worthy to continue his mission."

Guillaume felt a strange compulsion to touch the sword. He hesitated, but something deep within him urged him forward. As his hand closed around the hilt, a surge of energy coursed through his body, as if the sword were alive, as if it recognized him. In that moment, Guillaume felt a connection to the sword, to the warrior who had wielded it, and to the land that had given birth to such a legacy.

From that day on, Guillaume began to change. His dreams were filled with visions of desert sands, of caravanserais where travelers rested and traded tales, of battles fought under the crescent moon. He saw himself not as a knight in shining armor, but as a warrior draped in flowing robes, leading men across the vast expanse of the desert.

His features, too, began to shift. His once pale skin darkened under the Andalusian sun, his blue eyes took on a more olive hue, and his body, once encased in the heavy armor of a knight, grew accustomed to the light, flowing garments of the Moors. Even his thoughts, once centered on Christian dogma, began to align with the teachings of the Quran.

Guillaume found himself adopting the manners and customs of the Moors. He began to pray with them, to study their texts, and to see the world through their eyes. The sword, which he kept close at all times, seemed to guide him, its presence a constant reminder of the path he was on.

The transformation was not without conflict. Guillaume struggled with the idea that he was betraying his past, his family, and the faith that had shaped him. But the more he embraced his new identity, the more he realized that this was not a betrayal, but a fulfillment of something deeper, something that had always been a part of him, waiting to be awakened.

As the Reconquista neared its climax, Guillaume knew that the time had come to make a choice. He could return to his Christian roots, to the life of a knight, or he could fully embrace the identity that had been forming within him—the identity of an Arab warrior.

When the final battle for Granada began, Guillaume, now known as Ghazi al-Mansur, took up arms. He wielded the sword blessed by the Prophet with a skill and ferocity that astounded both his Moorish allies and his former Christian comrades. In the heat of battle, Ghazi led a charge that turned the tide, defending the last bastion of Moorish rule with the prowess of a seasoned warrior.

As the dust settled and the smoke cleared, Ghazi stood victorious. The city of Granada, the last stronghold of the Moors, remained in their hands, at least for a little longer. Ghazi looked out over the city he now called home, knowing that he had fulfilled the prophecy hidden in the chamber.

The battle won, Ghazi returned to the Alhambra, where he knelt before Emir Yusuf, not as a prisoner, but as a brother-in-arms. The chains that had once bound him were gone, replaced by the bonds of loyalty and shared purpose.

"Your journey is complete," Yusuf said, placing a hand on Ghazi’s shoulder. "You have found your true self, not in the past you left behind, but in the future you have chosen to embrace."

Ghazi nodded, understanding now that his transformation had been more than just a change of clothes, or a shift in beliefs. It had been a journey of the soul, a realization that identity is not just a matter of birth, but of choice and experience.

His past life as Guillaume de Montfort was forever left behind, a distant memory that no longer held sway over him. He was now Ghazi al-Mansur, a warrior of the Moorish legacy, a man who had chosen to forge a new path, a new destiny.

As he stood in the heart of the Alhambra, surrounded by the beauty and history of the palace, Ghazi felt a deep sense of peace. His transformation was complete, his purpose clear. He would continue to defend the land he had come to love, to honor the legacy of the Moors, and to live by the principles that had guided his transformation.

The story of Sir Guillaume de Montfort had ended on the battlefield, but the story of Ghazi al-Mansur was just beginning.

Arabization: The Lost Stories of Transformation Chapter 1: The Scribe's Awakening Chapter 2: The Moorish Guardian Chapter 3: The Scholar's Dilemma

[bri-the-nautilus]

Elphael: What's In a Name?

Earlier today, my esteemed comrade @the-unkindled-queen made a post wondering about the etymology of Elphael, Brace of the Haligtree. My initial digging turned up a few Reddit comments where the general consensus was that Elphael has its roots (ha) in Hebrew linguistics, with one interpretation being "Family of God" and another being "Work of God":

Now as a linguist and Bible scholar, I think these are awesome. I love seeing all the languages and cultures that these games draw inspiration from, and the Hebrew connection is a neat contrast with the Haligtree itself, which is linguistically Welsh. Additionally, the connection to Abrahamic faith and Hebrew words for people and acts of God is a nice throughline for the way the game portrays Miquella and St Trina as Messianic protectors of the sick and poor. Add in the spiritual atmosphere of Elphael and the Haligtree (prayer rooms, mausoleums, and altar-like statues of Miquella and Malenia abound), and it's a very pleasing little theory.

Soulsborne and especially Elden Ring borrow heavily from Welsh for names and whatnot (like the aforementioned Haligtree), and out of idle curiosity I began to wonder if there was any basis whatsoever for an alternative theory linking Elphael's name to Welsh. My only reasons for going down this path were the vaguely Celtic sound of the name and the fact that the Haligtree proper has a Welsh name. I didn't find anything like this during the search that led me to the Hebrew theories, and plugging various fragmentations of "Elphael" into a Welsh->English translator didn't spit out anything of value. I was about to throw in the towel when I did what I probably should have done before faffing about with the translator and just searched "Elphael Welsh."

And oh golly do we have ourselves an Elphael. Or an Elfael.

Welcome to the infinitely confusing world of medieval Welsh history.

Medieval Wales was divided into several regions, called cantrefi. Each cantref was further divided into several territories called commotes. The cantrefi are pictured below. We're mostly concerned with the central yellow one, Rhwng Gwy a Hafren, but also remember Gwynedd. It's in orange up top.

But that's for later. What we care about right now is the cantref of Rhwng Gwy a Hafren, which lies between the rivers Wye and Severn. This cantref is shown in detail below and is home to the commote of Elfael, shown in green. Also take note of Maelienydd and Buellt. They're light blue and yellow respectively, and we're going to need them later.

The history of Elfael is short and confusing, as one can expect from a fiefdom straddling the English-Welsh border during the post-Roman and post-Norman Conquest years. It didn't exist as a political entity for very long (it was only independent from 1155ish to about 1215 before dissolving completely in 1309), and changed hands often during its lifetime.

Our story begins with a man named Elystan Glodrydd, Prince of Buellt. He lived from 950 to 1010 CE, and at some point during his later life he conquered a territory called Ferlix, which was composed of Elfael and Maelienydd. When Elystan died, rulership of Buellt (Ferlix included) passed to his son Cadwgan, and then to Cadwgan's son Idnerth when he died.

Idnerth's reign is remarkable because he's the guy who lost Buellt. An Anglo-Norman noble, Philip De Braose, had conquered basically all the land between the Wye and Severn, which of course included Buellt. For some reason, at the conclusion of his conquest De Braose gave Ferlix back to Idnerth, but kept Buellt for himself. The end result being that Idnerth had gotten kicked out of his grandpa's commote and into what had originally been a conquered vassal territory. Once Idnerth died (presumably in shame), Ferlix went to his son, a man with the astoundingly awesome name of Madog. During this time, the Anarchy was starting.

The Anarchy was a civil war in Britain from 1138 to 1153. King Henry I died in 1135, and his heiress, the Empress Matilda, had many enemies who didn't want her to take the throne. In 1130, a castle had been built in southern Ferlix by one of these enemies, an Anglo-Norman named Pain FitzJohn, Sheriff of Hereford. This is the actual best name in this story. Pain FitzJohn is a fucking badass name. This castle, which was of course called Pain's Castle, was acquired by Madog in 1135 under foggy pretenses. It's likely that Pain wanted Madog's protection from Matilda, but we're not sure.

Old Madog knew that getting a castle called Pain's Castle was an achievement that couldn't be topped, and proceeded to die at age 65 in 1140, secure in the knowledge that he was better than Idnerth. He left five sons, who bucked the trend of going to war for their dead dad's land by dividing Ferlix amongst themselves. Unfortunately for them, this is when the Anarchy caught up with them. Another Norman lord, Hugh De Mortimer, invaded Ferlix in 1142. Two of Madog's sons (Hywel and another Cadwgan) were killed, and in 1146 De Mortimer killed a third son, Maredudd, in the process of capturing Pain's Castle. In 1155, Matilda's son Henry II took the throne of England, and when Hugh De Mortimer protested, Henry kicked him out of Ferlix. This left Madog's two surviving sons, Einion Clud and Cadwallon, to pick up the pieces. These guys hated each other, and neither brother could stomach ruling in consort with the other. But for some reason, they didn't kill each other, instead dividing Ferlix again in two. Cadwallon got the northern part, which came to be called Maelienydd, and Einion Clud got the southern part, which was called Elfael.

Einion Clud and Cadwallon still hated each other, and their realms were openly hostile, each brother still believing he was entitled to sole rule of all that had once been Ferlix. (Again, why didn't they just fight to the death like every other medieval family?) Things came to a head in 1160, when Cadwallon kidnapped Einion Clud and sent him in chains to Owain Gwynedd, the aptly-named King of Gwynedd, who in turn pawned him off on King Henry II. Eventually, Einion Clud either escaped or was released. It's not certain which of these occurred, but what is certain is that by 1165, Einion Clud was once again ruling Elfael, and at the Battle of Corwen the two brothers fought together against King Henry under the leadership of Owain Gwynedd. Politics are fucking weird.

There would be no happy ending, however. Hugh De Mortimer's son Roger was swearing revenge on his father's enemies. You might take this to mean King Henry, who kicked Hugh De Mortimer out of Ferlix in 1155, but no, Roger was actually a big fan of Henry II and had fought for the King during the Revolt of 1173. No, Roger wanted revenge on the guys who ruled Ferlix after his dad got yanked. The timeline here is a bit weird, but what's certain is that Roger De Mortimer killed Cadwallon in 1179. He also killed Einion Clud, but I wasn't able to find out when. I found a source saying that Roger killed Einion Clud after his father died, but Hugh De Mortimer died in 1181 and my reading on Cadwallon says that he was the prince of both Maelienydd and Elfael at the time of his death, which would only be possible if Einion Clud died before 1179. In fact, Cadwallon is said to have been ambushed by Roger's men in Elfael.

Anyway, that's all the history we care about for our purposes. Maybe I'm reading too much into things, but the fact that medieval Wales has the Lord of Elfael getting kidnapped by his brother seems a bit on the nose.

In Welsh history, the Anarchy leaves three of Madog's sons dead and the survivors are on opposing feudal factions. The Lord of Elfael is kidnapped by his brother.

In Elden Ring, the death of Marika's son sparks the Shattering, turning every remaining demigod against each other. The Lord of Elphael is kidnapped by his brother.

Either Miyazaki and Germ are fucking Super Saiyan level Welsh history scholars, or this is just an absurd coincidence. Either way, it's cool.

(tiny sidenote: this part is DEFINITELY conspiracy, but isn't it funny that our kidnapped lord has a sibling who rules Maelienydd??? Doesn't that sound a bit like... Malenia??? Obviously Malenia doesn't do the kidnapping in ER, but the names line up a bit too well...)

Sorry Niko, this is way more than you bargained for.

[haljathefangirlcat]

In the academic articles you've read, have you found anything that talks about how the Nibelungs are associated with eagle imagery? Kriemhild/Gudrun's dream has them represented by eagles, and in the Lay of Atli, it says many times the Nibelung brothers wear "eagle-gripped helmets". Is it just because the eagle is a noble animal? Or is there some sort of historical significance where the Nibelung Dynasty of the Kingdom of the Burgundians was associated with eagles?

Hey! Sorry it took me a while to answer this! Real life... *eyeroll*

I've searched a bit through my files and my bookmarks, but unfortunately, I couldn't find anything on eagles in the Nibelung/Volsung Cycle or on any specific associations between them and the Burgundians. As it is, I get the impression (even if, obviously, I might be missing something, especially if either of those topics has been covered in German...) that it simply goes back to the representation of birds of prey in Medieval literature.

To start with, eagles are about as likely to be fed or slake their thirst on battlefields as ravens and hawks in Norse poetry, so that's already an association between them and war/warriors/brave men with a chance to meet a gorey end. And if we look at the Eddas, Suttung and Odin both take the shape of eagles in the story of the creation and theft(s) of the Mead of Poetry, Thjazi does the same when bothering Odin, Loki, and Hoenir and then again when kidnapping Idun, and there's also the eagle sitting on Yggdrasil having beef with Nidhogg as well as Hraesvelg, the giant eagle or jotun-in-eagle-form that creates the winds by flapping its winds... all images that don't exactly paint a unified picture (then again, when do we ever get anything like that in Norse mythology? lol) but imo still add up to a general idea of "eagles are important/strong/majestic when you're on their good side and menacing when you aren't/just kind of badass."

However, in the case of the Nibelungenlied and specifically of Kriemhild's dream... now, please take this with a grain, or rather a bucket, of salt, because it's just my idea and it's not backed up by any kind of academic research. But I do feel that there the eagles might function as a stark, purposeful contrast with the falcon representing Siegfried, and not just in a "I'm gonna go out a limb and say domesticating eagles is probably harder/more time-consuming and expensive than falcons or the trained eagles of Mongolia's hunters probably wouldn't sound so special and exotic to us" way.

See, the eagle and the falcon/hawk are both associated with war and warriors, as I was saying above. They both appear in mythological and legendary contexts, too. But falcons/hawks also seems have a bit of a different symbolic value. In the Volsunga Saga, Sigurd has his second meeting with Brynhild, the more "courtly romance" one, while out hunting with his hawk, and, many years and misfortunes later, Randver, the son of Jormunrek who is executed for hooking up with Svanhild despite her being his dad's new bride, sends Jormunrek his own hawk, with its feathers plucked and unable to fly, to point out to him that all he's really doing is depriving their kingdom of a young, brave heir. Back to Middle High German literature, then, you have the Falkenlied, a poem where love and passion are represented by the flight of a falcon the poet has tamed and cared for himself. And if we move just a bit farther away geographically, yet stay roughly in the same time period as the Falkenlied, you also have Marie de France composing Yonec, a lai where an unhappy noblewoman gets entangled in a tragic romance with a falcon who turns out to be actually a handsome knight, and loses him before his time because of a jealous, tyrannical husband...

Ofc, my "theory," if you can even call it that, about hawks/falcons being strapping young lads with a penchant for passionate romances and a tendency to die bloody deaths before their time, as well as eagles being more martial, morally amiguous, and less "romantic hero" types, only applies to the later sources of the Sigurd/Siegfried tale. Atlakvida might actually date all the way back to the early 9th century, so that's obviously not included into these musings. My stance on that one's still "eagle badass," essentially.

[namesforwriters]

Music Inspired Names (masc)

Adagio ~ Italian, meaning "slowly."

Derived from the musical term "adagio" indicating the tempo, or speed, at which a piece should be played. Adagio indicates the tempo should be slow and with great expression. pronunciation: ah-dah-jee-oh

Allegro ~ Italian, meaning "cheerful," "lively," "playful."

Derived from the musical term "allegro" indicating the tempo, or speed, at which a piece should be played. Allegro usually indicates a lively and fast tempo. pronunciation: ah-leg-grah

Alto ~ Italian, meaning "high."

Alto is a term used to describe a pitch range in music. "Alto" is usually the lowest range of a female vocal range, and second-highest in general, but some instruments are tuned in the alto range as well, including the viola and alto trombone. pronunciation: ahl-toe, al-toe

Amadeus ~ Latin, "loved by God," "love of God."

The most recognizable person with this name is the famous composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, a musical genius and prolific composer in his life time. Born in Salzburg, Mozart is considered one of the greatest composers in Western classical music. pronunciation: ah-mah-day-oos

Antonio ~ Italian, meaning "flower," "priceless."

Antonio was the given name of famous Italian composer Antonio Vivaldi. Vivaldi's most famous composition is titled "The Four Seasons," a series of violin concertos inspired by the seasons of the year. pronunciation: an-toh-nee-oh

Apollo ~ Greek, meaning "to destroy," "redemption."

Apollo is a major deity in Greek and Roman mythology. On top of being the god of light, prophecy, and archery, he is also the god of music and the leader of the nine Muses. pronunciation: ah-pahl-low

Bardo ~ Irish, meaning "minstrel," "singer-poet."

Related to the term "bard," this is a very musical name. Bards and minstrels were musically talented storytellers and poets in medieval Gaelic and British culture. Shakespeare is known as "The Bard of Avon." pronunciation: bar-doe

Bragi ~ Norse, meaning "poem," "melody," "wise."

In Norse mythology, Bragi is the god of poetry renowned for his wisdom and fluency of speech. Bragi is especially associated with skaldic poetry, which often honored kings, and was more stylistically ornate than Eddic poetry. pronunciation: brah-gee

Brio ~ Italian, meaning "vivacious."

Brio is a term usually shortened from "con brio," which is a musical direction term. It indicates that something should be played with vigor, with spirit, with vivaciousness. pronunciation: bree-oh

Canto ~ Latin, Italian, meaning "song," "singing."

Derived from both the Latin and Italian words for songs and singing, canto was a form of medieval and modern long poetry. The canto form usually meant the poetry was meant to be sung by a minstrel to accompaniment rather than dictated. pronunciation: cahn-toe

Carmine ~ Latin, meaning "song."

Originally a Latin name related to the word for "song," Carmine is also the name of a famous contemporary film composer, Carmine Coppola, who composed the score for the Godfather films. pronunciation: car-mine

Chevalier ~ French, meaning "horseman," "rider."

A title of French noble distinction, Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges was the first composer of African heritage to achieve acclaim and fame in Western classical music. He was also an accomplished dancer and fencer. pronunciation: sheh-val-ee-ay, sheh-val-ee-er

Claude ~ French, meaning "enclosure."

Claude is the given name of the famous composer Claude Debussy. Despite his modest background, Debussy was admitted to the Conservatoire de Paris. He pushed the boundaries of classical music at the time, and his most famous composition is the piano piece "Clair du Lune." pronunciation: claw-d

Dorian ~ Greek, meaning "gift," "of Doris."

Dorian is a term a few things in the world of music. Usually, "dorian" is a term used to describe a type of scale (a series of eight octave notes played one by one in a minor chord) pronunciation: door-ee-en

Herod ~ Greek, meaning "song of the hero."

This name originates from Ancient Greece and literally means "song of the hero." For that reason, it makes "Herod" a very musical name indeed. pronunciation: hair-odd

Linus ~ Greek, meaning "flax," "flax-colored."

In Greek mythology, Linus is the son of Apollo and the first leader of lyric song. In some myths, his musical talent rivaled that of his father, so Apollo killed him. In others, Linus is the music teacher of both Orpheus and Heracles. pronunciation: lie-nus

Locrian ~ Greek, meaning "of Locris."

Locrian, like "dorian," is a term used in music theory for a type of musical scale (a series of eight notes played in an octave one by one. A locrian scale is more complicated than a dorian scale. pronunciation: low-cree-en

Maestro ~ Italian, meaning "master," "teacher."

Similar to the musical direction term "maestroso" meaning to play a piece with majesty, "Maestro" is also an honorific given to a conductor or director. pronunciation: mai-stroh

Mesto ~ Italian, meaning "sad," "pensive."

A music direction term, seeing the term "mesto" indicates that the piece should be played with a sad, mournful quality or tone. pronunciation: mess-toe

Octavian ~ Latin, meaning "the eighth."

Octavia is a name taken from the Latin octave, meaning "eight." In music, an octave is a range of typically eight notes. The first and eighth note are always the same, with one higher than the other in pitch. pronunciation: oct-ehve

Opus ~ Latin, meaning "work," "work of art."

In Western classical music, composers would often number their compositions and works. For example, the first movement of Beethoven's 5th Symphony is titled "Symphony No. 5 In C Minor, Op. 67 "Fate." This means this is Beethoven's 67th composition. pronunciation: oh-pus

Orpheus ~ Greek, meaning "orphan," "best voice."

Orpheus was a Greek hero who helped Jason on his quest for the Golden Fleece. Following the quest, Orpheus journeyed to the Underworld to recover his love wife, Eurydice. Orpheus was an amazing musician. pronunciation: or-phee-us

Reed ~ Old English, meaning "red."

In music, a reed is a mouthpiece with which certain instruments are played, including clarinets, oboes, bassoons, and saxophones. Reeds are usually made of grass cane or wood and come in different strengths. pronunciation: reed

Vesper ~ Latin, meaning "evening."

In Western classical music, a "vesper" or "vespers" is an evening song or composition. A vesper is traditionally an evening prayer. The most famous "vespers" composition is "All-Night Vigil," a choral work by Sergei Rachmaninoff. pronunciation: ves-per

Vox ~ Latin, meaning "voice."

Coming from the Latin word for "voice," this is very much a musical name, one for singers and orators in particular. pronunciation: vox

These name lists are intended to help writers and artists. There is no expectation of credit, and these lists aren't meant to be the end-all be-all lists of possible names. There are millions out there, and this is just for fun!

If you have a suggestion for a name list, or want to see something specific, feel free to submit a request!

And if you see something that is wrong (a pronunciation, a meaning, an origin), again, feel free to let me know!

[supergenial]

(translation+lyrics) 月影の魔女サフィラ by Ariabl'eyeS

Well it's time to go over this 2024 Ariabl'eyeS album, Moonlight Witch Safira. Once again we have the now standard lineup of Luna, Ruru and Risa Yuzuki, with Suzuha Yumi doing background choruses.

Pretty cool album. The dual vocal song nageki no l'adieu is pretty great but surprisingly not my favorite this time around, instead it's both of Luna's solo songs, particularly kibou he youranka. The speed-change halfway into it surprised me the first time and still hypes me up every time I hear it. You can bet I go all out when this plays on my car. As for the story, well it's hard to tell where it's going at the moment. So far it's giving Vampire Bride vibes, what with two besties(🗿) being separated due to their inhumanity, but who knows how it will play out. I think there's still a lot of info missing.

Anyway, lyrics down below the cut, see you all next time!

-----------------------------------

Composer for all tracks: リゼ

The forest trembles, as bloody footsteps go through it with a white breath that pierces the darkness. A pitiful and absurd breed of man and wolf that by no means should exist. A beast resembling a human, can only be referred to as a monster. An ambush with a weapon. Fleeing from the fires, there’s no hope for survival if it’s caught.

The forest trembles Bringing forth the witch

月影の魔女 (Tsukikage no majo, Moonlight Witch) Vocals: Ruru

Yamiyo wo surinukeru shikkoku no kage wo nabikase Senketsu no ashioto mori no oku fukaku hibiku

Pitch black shadows graze the darkness of the night Bloody footsteps echo through the depths of the forest

Kanshisha wa tsuranari shinnyuusha ni me wo hikarase Itetsuku kaze wa mata oikaesu you ni fubuku

The guards are caught up by the light reflected on the intruder’s eyes As the freezing wind blows like a blizzard

Mori ga sawameku Majo ni tsutae yo ima sugu ni

The forest trembles Bringing forth the witch

Kakenuketa hoshizora wo tadori gunjou wo shiro ni somete Egaku iro wa hakanaki negai hitosuji no hikari he Hikitsuru ashi ni izanawarete kurayami samayou Semete hitoyo wo to taorekonde kuchibiru kamishimete chikatta

Led by the starlit sky as the blue is dyed in white The colors drawn plead towards a sliver of light Dragging it’s feet wandering through the darkness Collapsing and swearing as it bites its lips

Mori ga sawameku Majo ni tsutae yo ima sugu ni

The forest trembles Bringing forth the witch

Tsutsumareta shizukesa no naka de kikoeru dareka no kotoba Kaze wa yande sasayaku mune wa naze ga atatakakute Kakenuketa hoshizora wo meguri watashi wa tayutau Tojikaketa me ni utsurishi kage wa tsuki no you ni kagayaku hitomi de

Enveloped by silence yet someone’s words can be heard A whisper that stops the wind and somehow feels warm I waver as the starry sky revolves above me Beyond shut eyelids, her eyes shine as the moon does

希望へ揺盤歌 (Kibou he no Youranka, Lullaby to Hope) Vocals: Luna

Saa nemure koyoi dake wa Kedakaki chi wo hiku yuusha no ko Sono kizu wa iyashite agemashou Saa kaketeyuke

Now let’s have you rest just for this night Child of the hero who drew the noble blood I’ll heal your wounds And now let’s set forth

Akumu wo minai yoru wa koremade ichido mo nakatta no ni Kanjirareru sono nukumori no naka tsutsumikomareru no Kasuka na utagoe wa naze ka sabishisou ni hibiita Kakemeguru chikara yadosu hikari tenohira de tsunagaru

I've yet to have a single night without nightmares But I can feel the warmth of an embrace That resounding voice sings with such sadness So powerful and all encompassing, and holding my hand

Mezameru to tsuki no you na hitomi no kanojo 「koko wa mamorareta mori no oku mou otte wa kurenaiwa」 Naze sore wo?

Upon awakening, the girl with eyes resembling the moon said “Within the forest’s protection, no one will chase after you” And why is that?

Kako wa fuhen no mono dakara miru koto ga dekiru no Anata ga umare ikita sono akashi wo tenohira ni utsushite Mada te ni nokoru nukumori wa anata no akashi Kono mahou ni michibikarete zutto kurushimazu ni ikite yukeru no?

As the past is unchangeable, I can observe it I can see it through the scars you’ve endured since your birth Yet what warmth remains in your hands is the proof you’ve endured it Perhaps with this magic you’ll be able to live without suffering?

Itoshiki anata ni kibou to natsukete Mou kurushimanai kara Futari nara

With much love I’ll name you after hope (Speranza) Hoping you won’t suffer any more Together the two of us

Kako wa fuhen no mono dakara miru koto ga dekiru no Anata ga umare ikita sono akashi wo tenohira ni utsushite Shitataru namida koraete yasashisa ni furete Itami sae wasurete shimau hodo no atataka na yoru wa sugite

As the past is unchangeable, I can observe it I can see it through the scars you’ve endured since your birth Holding back tears as you finally feel kindness With enough warmth to even forget the pain and make it through the night

硝子の瞳 (Garasu no hitomi, Glass Pupils) Vocals: Risa Yuzuki

Hi no ataranai shikkoku no mori ni Aojiroku ukabu usuakari Utsushidasareru ugokanu tokei Toki wa yami wo samayotte

A pitch black forest, unreachable by sunlight Only a faint pale light can be seen Lighting up an unmoving clock As time itself wanders through the darkness

Majo wa negau Kono sekai ni zetsubousenu you ni

The witch prays For a world that won’t fall to despair

Superantsa wa itsushika hito to nari Mahou no oshie wo majo ni kouta Korekara saki towa ni futari Yorisoi ikiteyuku no sono tame no sube wo

Speranza eventually grew And asked to learn magic from the witch The two shall live together from now on And those skills would bring them closer

Hi no ataranai shikkoku no mori ni Aojiroku ukabu usuakari Utsushi dasareru matataku hoshi wa Kirameku garasu saiku no you de

A pitch black forest, unreachable by sunlight Only a faint pale light can be seen Reflected upon those twinkling eyes As shiny as glassworks

Majo wa negau Itsuka dareka wo aiseru you ni

The witch prays To one day love someone

Superantsa anata ni wa mada nemuru Anata dake no chikara ga aru no yo Sore wa toki ni uragiru kara Hitsuyou na toki ni hitsuyou na dake

Speranza, slumbering within you There’s a power that’s only yours So that it doesn’t betray you Use it only when necessary

Mune no uchi ni himete oitene Zutto futari dake no yakusoku dakara

So keep it hidden close to your heart That is a promise between us two

嘆きのラデュー (Nageki no L'Adieu, Sorrowful Farewell) Vocals: Ruru, Luna

Yodonda yami wo nukereba yasashii hizashi ga furisosogu Kousakushiteku kanjou takanaru omoi kakaeta mama

Gentle sunlight pours through the stale darkness Emotions intertwine, carrying upbeat thoughts

Surechigau hitonami ni waraumono wa mou inai Hayaru kimochi osaerezu ni kakeru tsutaetakute

Yet in the passing crowd there are no laughing faces And my restless thoughts drive me to run back to you

Mitashita wain kakaete hikari afureru machi nukereba Yami ni idakareta mori hayaku anata ni todoketakute

I go through the bright town carrying wine I want to bring it to you in the forest as soon as possible

Tsunagu himitsu no doa koko ni aru hazu nano ni Kieteiru to kitsuku anata no kaori ga

I’m certain the hidden door was around here Yet it is now gone, as is your scent

Hashitte mo hashitte mo tadoritsukenai shirube ni Ugomeku shousou anata wa mienakute Afuredasu namida sae iroaseteyuku hodo ni Aa Subete wo nomikomu sarigiwa no kotoba wo kurikaeshite

I run and run unable to reach the symbol Impatience tortures me as I’m unable to see you My overflowing tears fade all color away I try to process it all remembering your words

Fui ni ochita tegami wa wakare no kotoba Ikiba no nai omoi osaerezu ni atemonaku kakenuketa

And suddenly a letter tells me your parting words So I run aimlessly unable to control myself

Togabito wa yami no naka nigerarenu sadame na no yo Anata wa hi abite hito to shite ikiru no yo Aishite aisarete shiawase wo tsukamu no yo Anata to watashi no towa no yakusoku ne sayounara

A sinner in the darkness running away from fate You must bask in sunlight and live as a human To love and be loved, that’s how you must grasp happiness Let that be our promise for eternity. Farewell.

終わりなき悪夢 (Owarinaki Akumu, Never Ending Nightmare) Vocals: Luna

Mou dare no koto mo kizutsukenai Hikari tozasareta yami ni chikatta Me wo tojireba mata kikoeru koe ni Obieru hitobito no me tsukisasaru

I won’t hurt anyone anymore I swore within the darkness away from light But if I close my eyes I can still hear them The frightened people with their piercing gaze

Yogoto miru owarinaki yume Ano hi ni mita akumu dake

Every night I see it, that never ending dream All I ever see since that day is a nightmare

Dokomade kita darou mayoikonda mori no oku Me ni yakitsuku hi ni juujika wa ukabu

Everywhere I go, I’m still lost in those woods A cross rises up among the flames in my eyes

Mou nidoto ayamachi wa okasanu you ni tobira shime Fukai yami no soko shizuka ni kagi kaketa

I’ve shut that door, I’ll never sin again Locking away the depths of the profound darkness

-------------------

Also someone did an updated tiermaker! Now I don't have to look up the old one lmao

[mishimamiravenecia]

El legendario Hotel Danieli ofrece vistas a la laguna de Venecia y se encuentra a 200 metros de la plaza de San Marco

(Español / English)

El Hotel Danieli, situado en Venecia, es un lugar cargado de historia y lujo. Su origen se remonta al siglo XIV, cuando fue construido por la noble familia Dandolo. Este emblemático hotel se compone de tres palacios interconectados, cada uno con su propia historia:

Palacio Danieli Excelsior: Data del siglo XX.

Palacio Casa Nuova: Construido en el siglo XIX, fue inicialmente la sede del tesoro.

Palazzo Dandolo: Este edificio de estilo gótico veneciano, que data de finales del siglo XIV, es el corazón del Hotel Danieli. Fue mandado construir por el dux Andrea Dandolo y domina la Riva degli Schiavoni.

El palacio Dandolo, decorado con oro, marfiles y objetos bizantinos, fue considerado "el más noble de la Serenissima" por su arquitectura gótica y su posición privilegiada en la laguna. A lo largo de los siglos, el hotel ha alojado a reyes, príncipes, cardenales, embajadores y personajes famosos. Entre ellos, Charles Dickens, Wagner, Balzac, Proust y Chaplin.

Sin embargo, algunas de las historias más intrigantes están relacionadas con las pasiones amorosas que tuvieron lugar entre sus muros. Por ejemplo, la larga historia de amor entre la famosa actriz Eleonora Duse y el poeta Gabriele d'Annunzio comenzó en el Hotel Danieli en 1895. En 1933, la habitación número 10 fue escenario de un apasionado y escandaloso romance entre George Sand (seudónimo de Amandine-Lucie-Aurore Dupin) y Alfred de Musset.

Además, el hotel fue testigo del encuentro entre Aristóteles Onassis y la famosa soprano Maria Callas en 1957. Su historia de amor, que duró diez años, comenzó aquí mismo, durante un baile organizado por Wally Toscanini.

El Hotel Danieli sigue encantando a los visitantes con su fachada rosa, sus torreones blancos y sus balcones abovedados, símbolos de la riqueza cultural veneciana. Un lugar cargado de historia, lujo y romanticismo en el corazón de Venecia .

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Overlooking the Venice Lagoon, the legendary Hotel Danieli is 200 metres from St Mark’s Square

The Hotel Danieli, located in Venice, is a place steeped in history and luxury. Its origin dates back to the XIV century, when it was built by the noble Dandolo family. This iconic hotel is composed of three interconnected palaces, each with its own unique history:

Danieli Excelsior Palace: Dating back to the XX century.

Palazzo Casa Nuova: Built in the XIXth century, it was initially the seat of the treasury.

Palazzo Dandolo: This Venetian Gothic-style building, dating back to the late 14th century, is the heart of the Hotel Danieli. It was commissioned by Doge Andrea Dandolo and overlooks the Riva degli Schiavoni.

Palazzo Dandolo, decorated with gold, marmi and Byzantine artefacts, was considered "the noblest of the Serenissima" for its Gothic architecture and privileged position on the lagoon. Over the centuries, the hotel has hosted kings, princes, cardinals, ambassadors and famous people. Famous guests include Charles Dickens, Wagner, Balzac, Proust and Chaplin.

However, some of the most intriguing stories are related to the amorous passions that took place within its walls. For instance, the long love affair between the famous actress Eleonora Duse and the poet Gabriele d'Annunzio began at the Hotel Danieli in 1895. In 1933, room number 10 was the scene of a passionate and scandalous affair between George Sand (pseudonym of Amandine-Lucie-Aurore Dupin) and Alfred de Musset.

Furthermore, the hotel witnessed the meeting between Aristotle Onassis and the famous soprano Maria Callas in 1957. Their love affair, which lasted a full ten years, began right here, during a ball organised by Wally Toscanini.

The Hotel Danieli continues to enchant visitors with its pink façade, white turrets and arched balconies, symbols of Venetian cultural richness. A place steeped in history, luxury and romance in the heart of Venice .

[scotianostra]

John Barbour, the early Scottish poet, died on March 13th 1395.

Barbour was born, perhaps in Aberdeenshire, early in the 14th century, approximately 1316. In a letter of safe-conduct dated 1357, allowing him to go to Oxford for study, he is described as archdeacon of Aberdeen. He is named in a similar letter in 1364 and in another in 1368 granting him permission to pass to France, probably for further study, at the university of Paris.

In 1372 he was one of the auditors of exchequer, and in 1373 a clerk of audit in the king's household. In 1375 (he gives the date, and his age as 60) he composed his best known poem The Brus, for which he received, in 1377, the payment of ten pounds, and, in 1378, a life-pension of twenty shillings.

The only biographical evidence of his closing years is his signature as a witness to sundry deeds in the "Register of Aberdeen" as late as 1392. According to the obit-book of the cathedral of Aberdeen, he died on the 13th of March 1395. The state records show that his life-pension was not paid after that date.

Because much of his other work has been lost there is considerable controversy has arisen regarding Barbour's literary work. If he be the author of the five or six long poems which have been ascribed to him by different writers, he adds to his importance as the father of Scots poetry the reputation of being one of the most voluminous writers in Middle English, certainly the most voluminous of all Scots poets.

The Brus, in twenty books, and running to over 13,500 four-accent lines, in couplets, is a narrative poem with a purpose partly historical, partly patriotic. It opens with a description of the state of Scotland at the death of Alexander III, and concludes with the death of Douglas and the burial of the Bruce's heart, a period from the years 1286, unit 1332.

While the poem covers many thing, as in any good story there is a main topic, of course in The Brus it is The Battle of Bannockburn, and as you would expect, the King is the hero of the chivalric type common in contemporary romance., in this case fighting for the freedom of his country. While very few of us have read the poem, I guarantee that the majority can quote at least one line from it “ fredome is a noble thing “ or to quote this section of the verse;

A! fredome is a noble thing!

Fredome mayss man to haiff liking;

Fredome all solace to man giffis:

He lyves at ess that frele lyvs!

Translating to;

Ah, freedeom is a noble thing!

Freedom makes man to have liking!

Freedom all solace to man gives:

He lives at ease that freely lives!

As I said earlier, much of Barbour's other work is lost, one such piece is Stewartis Oryginale, a history of the lineage of the Stewarts. The Stewart name replaced that of Bruce in the Scottish royal line when Robert II acceded to the throne after the death of David II, his uncle. Robert II was Barbour’s royal patron. It is not known how the work came to be lost.

Much of the history of Robert the Bruce is taken from the poem The Brus, I do think a lot of it was exaggerated and written to please Robert II, who must have been proud to bare his Grandfather’s name, Barbour would have written the poem to please the King.

One of the most dramatic and lines in the poem refer to the first day of The Battle of Bannockburn when the young English Knight Henry de Bohun sees The Bruce and makes a foolish, but brave attempt to kill our Scottish hero.

The hevy dusche that he him gave

That ner the heid till the harnys clave.

The hand-ax schaft fruschit in twa,

And he doune to the erd gan ga

All flatlynys for him faillyt mycht.

That wes perfornyst douchtely,

Translated roughly to;

The heavy clout he gave

So he cleaved the head to the brains

The hand-axe shaft broke in two

And he ell to the ground

Dead and devoid of all strength now

This was the first blow of the battle.

No edition of the poem written in Barbour’s own hand survives, but two early versions, transcribed in the 15th century, still exist. These are kept at the Library of St John’s College, in Cambridge, and at the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh.

Pics are a Memorial to John Barbour, St Machar's Cathedral, one of the 15th century translations, an 18th century translation at The National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh, and the sentiment underlying the poem, which many of you may have seen sitting at the top of the Mound, as you take the steps up to Makar’s Court.

For a translation of the greater part of The Brus check the link here https://archive.org/.../bruceofbannockbu.../page/36/mode/2up

If you’re just after snippets, like I provide, the Scots Language Centre does a grand job.

[christian-dubuis-santini]

C'est ainsi que je me suis retrouvé parmi les rapetisseurs de monde, les postmodernes, les transhumanistes, les mondialistes, les globalistes, les journalistes, les technologistes, les algorithmés du bulbe, les scientistes, les socialistes, les progressistes, les transexualistes, les climatistes, les covidiotistes, les antiracistes, les antifascistes, les attestationistes, les confinistes, les vaccinistes, les enfermistes, les cul-erre-codistes, les maquinnesaitistes, les phoquechèqueuristes… je n'exigeais pas grand-chose et j'étais prêt à en trouver encore moins. Des barbares depuis des temps immémoriaux sont devenus encore plus barbares par la diligence, la science et même la religion, profondément inaccessibles à toute transcendance, abîmés jusqu'à la moelle à tous les degrés de l'exagération et de l'insuffisance, ternes et inharmonieux, je ne connais pas de peuple plus divisé en lui-même que les occidentés, vous y voyez des ingénieurs, des avocats, des artisans, des chefs d’entreprise, des financiers, des docteurs, des influenceurs, des journalistes, des écrivains, des maîtres et des esclaves, des jeunes et des anciens, mais pas d'hommes - n'est-ce pas comme un champ de bataille où les mains et les bras et tous les autres membres sont démembrés en tas, tandis que le sang de la vie s'écoule dans le sable ?

Chacun a droit à son écran, direz-vous, et je le dis aussi. Seulement, chacun doit être ce qu'il est, avec de l'amour, il doit être ce qu'il est, car c'est ainsi qu'un esprit vit dans ses actes, et s'il est poussé dans une profession où l'esprit ne peut vivre, qu'il la repousse avec mépris et qu'il apprenne à lire, à écrire, à dessiner, à composer, à labourer la terre, à pêcher, à chasser, à se battre ! Mais les occidentés se contentent du néant de la vie, et c'est pour cela qu'il y a tant de travail bâclé chez eux et si peu d'activités libres et agréables. Pourtant, cela pourrait être le travail de l'homme, s'il n'était pas si dépourvu de sentiment pour toute la beauté de la vie, si seulement la malédiction de la pseudo-culture ne pesait pas partout sur ce peuple éclaté.

Les vertus des anciens ne sont que des vices éclatants, comme l'a dit une mauvaise langue, je ne sais plus laquelle, et pourtant leurs vices eux-mêmes sont des vertus, car ils ne sont pas des vices ; un reste de l'esprit d'enfance et de beauté vivait encore parmi eux, et de tout ce qu'ils faisaient, rien n'était fait sans âme. Mais les vertus des occidentés sont un mal éclatant, rien de plus que la peur de l'homme, de la femme, de l’enfant, des efforts serviles arrachés au cœur stérile, et qui laissent sans esprit l'homme qui, gâté par la sainte harmonie des natures plus nobles, ne peut supporter les sursauts de la discorde qui crie dans tout l'ordre mort de ces hommes.

Je vous le dis: il n'y a rien de saint qui ne soit profané, qui ne soit dégradé dans ce peuple qui a perdu le rapport à son origine, même les sauvages, ces barbares calculateurs les poursuivent comme on applique un calcul, et il ne peut en être autrement, car là où un vice de l'homme s’est une fois formé, là il sert son but, là il cherche son profit, il est jaloux de ses profits, il n'est plus emporté par l'enthousiasme, à Dieu ne plaise ! et quand il fête, quand il aime, quand il prie, et même quand arrive la belle fête du printemps, quand le temps de la réconciliation du monde dissout toutes les inquiétudes et fait naître l'innocence dans un cœur coupable, lorsque, enivré par les chauds rayons du soleil, l'esclave oublie joyeusement ses chaînes et, apaisé par l'air divinement vivifié, les ennemis de l'homme sont aussi paisibles que les hommes, paisibles comme des enfants - quand même les chenilles poussent des ailes et les abeilles pullulent, l’occidenté,

l’occidenté, lui, reste confiné à sa profession, à son divertissement. Il ne se préoccupe guère du temps qu'il fait !

Mais c'est toi qui jugeras, sainte nature ! Car s'ils étaient humbles, ces hommes, s’ils ne se faisaient pas la loi pour le pire d'entre eux !

s'ils ne dénigraient pas ce qu'ils ne sont pas, et pourtant qu'ils dénigrent, s'ils ne se moquaient pas de Dieu, des dieux anciens!

Ou bien n'est-ce pas le divin que vous, occidentés, raillez et appelez sans âme ? L'air que vous buvez n'est-il pas l'air que vous buvez ? ne vaut-il pas mieux que vos bavardages ? que vous tous nourrissez, hommes astucieux ? Les sources de la terre et la rosée du matin rafraîchissent votre bosquet ; pourriez-vous faire cela ? Vous pouvez tuer, mais vous ne pouvez pas donner la vie, non pas sans l'amour, qui ne vient pas de toi, que tu n'as pas inventé. Tu t'inquiètes, tu fais des projets pour échapper au destin, et tu ne comprends pas que ton enfantine technique n'est d'aucun secours ; pendant ce temps, les étoiles se meuvent inoffensives au-dessus de toi.

Vous dégradez, vous détruisez la nature patiente là où elle vous tolère, et pourtant elle vit dans une jeunesse infinie, et tu ne peux pas bannir son automne et son printemps, vous ne gâtez pas son éther.

Ô elle doit être divine, car tu peux détruire et pourtant elle ne vieillit pas, elle ne vieillit pas, et malgré toi le beau reste beau.

C'est aussi un déchirement quand on voit vos artistes, et tous ceux qui respectent encore le génie, qui aiment le beau et le cultivent. Les bonnes âmes ! Elles vivent dans le monde comme des étrangers dans leur propre maison, elles sont comme le patient et souffrant Ulysse lorsqu'il s'asseyait à sa porte déguisé en mendiant, tandis que les prétendants éhontés clamaient dans la salle et demandaient : Qui nous a apporté le vagabond ?

Pleines d'amour, d'esprit et d'espoir, ses jeunes Muses grandissent pour le peuple disparate des occidentés ; on les revoit sept ans plus tard et ils errent comme des ombres, silencieux et froids. Ils sont comme la terre que l'ennemi sème avec du sel pour qu'il ne pousse jamais un brin d'herbe ; et quand ils parlent, malheur à celui qui les comprend !

Qui ne voit, dans leur titanesque projet comme dans leurs technologies protéiformes, la bataille, le combat désespéré que leur esprit troublé livre aux barbares contre les barbares auxquels il a affaire.

Tout ce qui existe sur terre est imparfait - c'est la vieille chanson des occidentés. Si quelqu'un pouvait dire une fois à ces âmes perdues que tout n'est si imparfait chez eux parce qu'ils ne laissent rien de pur sans être corrompu, rien de saint n'est épargné par leurs mains grossières et leur esprit grossier, que rien ne prospère parmi eux parce qu'ils ne respectent pas la racine, le germe de l'épanouissement, l’origine divine, que la vie parmi eux est rassise, lourde de soucis et pleine de discordes froides et muettes, parce qu'ils méprisent le génie de l'homme qui apporte la force et la noblesse dans les actes humains, la sérénité dans la souffrance, l'amour et la fraternité dans les villes et les maisons..

C'est aussi pour cela qu'ils ont si peur de la mort et qu'ils subissent, au nom de leur vie en coquille, toutes les disgrâces, parce qu'ils ne connaissent rien de plus élevé que l'œuvre bâclée qu'ils se sont donnée.

Là où un peuple aime le beau, où il honore le génie de ses artistes, là où l'esprit commun flotte comme l'air de la vie, là l'esprit timide s'ouvre, la suffisance se dissout, et tous les cœurs sont pieux et grands, et l'enthousiasme donne naissance à des héros. La patrie de tous les hommes est dans la langue, et l'étranger lui-même peut s'y attarder avec plaisir. Mais là où la nature divine et ses artistes sont ainsi insultés, là le plus beau plaisir de la vie est écarté et toute autre étoile est meilleure que la terre. Là, les hommes deviennent de plus en plus stériles, de plus en plus désolés, de plus en plus dégénérés alors qu'ils sont tous nés beaux ; la servilité s'accroît, et avec elle l'impudence, l'ivresse s'accroît avec les soucis, et l'abondance, la faim et la crainte de la famine ; la bénédiction de chaque année devient une malédiction, et tous les dieux s'enfuient.

Et malheur à l'étranger qui erre par amour et arrive chez un tel peuple, et malheur trois fois à celui qui arrive chez un tel peuple comme je l'ai fait, poussé par une grande joie comme je l'ai fait, ou poussé par un grand chagrin, cela revient au même ! Assez ! tu me connais, lecteur, et tu le prendras bien, car j'ai parlé en ton nom.

Je parlais aussi pour tous ceux qui sont dans ce pays et qui souffrent comme j'ai souffert.

(Avec Hölderlin au XXIe siècle)