#nobility holding a statue of athena

[artschoolglasses]

Nobility Holding a Statue of Athena, Giovanni Antonio Pellegrini

[faithandarisadventures]

Nobility Holding a Statue of Athena by Giovanni Antonio Pellegrini March 10, 2024 Museum of Fine Arts Boston, Massachusetts

[quo-usque-tandem]

Nobility Holding a Statue of Athena by Giovanni Antonio Pellegrini

[bakubaewritings]

God of War

Bakugo x reader

Your up-brining was much unlike others born into nobility, you were taught to read and write along with various battle strategies. Being born into one of the country's most powerful kingdoms, what had begun as a small group of nomadic warriors, became the build of one of the most powerful nations in the country.

Your father had seen many wars in his day, conquer all, defend everything.

Every village, every kingdom worshipped the gods, but every village had its own select God. Ares, the God of war, or as your village knew him, Bakugo. He was a violent and destructive god with an explosive temper.

He was the God of your people, he gave them the strength to defeat any battle. Ares' presence was felt in all the temples made in dedication, his face plastered on murals and statues.

You never understand why such the appeal, the forced ideals of superior of man, and the bloodshed of war never seemed right in your mind. If the choice was, you'd chose to lay your hands into Artemis or Athena.

However, after so many possible suitors came from all over in an attempt to win your heart, all failed. Your father became worried. It seemed after so many failures, no man wanted to wed you.

You had no problem with that, for you couldn't be satisfied with these pigs.

The men looked at you as a prize to be won, not a person to be loved and cherished. They were all power-hungry, bloodthirsty pigs with no respect for women of any, you wanted no part what so ever.

Little did you know someone was watching you. Lusting over you. A being of immense power who became intoxicated by you. But this was no mere mortal, this was the God himself.

After months and months, your father found himself in your village's biggest temple for the hotheaded God himself. It was a gorgeous temple by the base of the river. Massive stone columns framed the circular temple, vines of black flowers grew up from the banks of the river and up the sides of the coulombs.

Every night on his knees, praying that the God of war would finally let you meet a man that could have your hand in marriage. He pleaded that the gods smiled down upon and grant you a husband.

"Please, my God, bless my daughter with the greatest man. I beg you, one that can tame her wild spirit, a strong warrior, someone worthy of her." He pleaded

He prayed the fates would hear his plea.

However, the fates seemed to be against your entire city as a call for help filled the air that night. Your village was being attacked by barbarians from the south. Their numbers in the thousands.

"We are under attack!" The screams filled the air, the sound of men woman and children crying and screaming.

It awoke you form your slumber with a startle, screaming and crying, you were pulled out of bed. Thrown over a firm and robust shoulder, you cried out in confusion.

"My princess, we have to get out. We are under attack."

Your father's face contoured in terror as he witnessed a fire grow, he shouted in anger. Calling for men to prepare for battle against the army of trespassers. That was when ha heavy black smoke pooled around his feet, covering the floor of the temple. A deep chuckle shook the walls.

Turning around slowly, wide fear-filled eyes, he watched the statue of the war god, once cold stone filled with the warmth of life. The gray color became one of a creamy porcelain tone.

"You," his voice was rough and loud, it echoed through the temple.

"My god." Came a shriek of fear. He couldn't bring himself to look upon God's ruby red eyes. His stare was cold.

"Well, are you going to look at me, mortal."

Reluctantly your father lifted his head to look upon God.

"My god, to what I owe the honor." His words were shakey.

"listen to you puny mortal, I will defeat the invaders for you."

"Oh, thank you, my god-" Your father began bowing up and down sprawled upon the marble floors, his eyes clouded with tears of thankfulness.

"For a price." Interrupted the porcelain-skinned God.

"My God, what can I offer you? Anything you wish in my power, I will give you to save the lives of my people."

The gods' lips curled into a devouring smirk, "your daughter."

"Hurry, we must exit the city," the guard carried you in his arm tightly, your arms gripped to his cloak. Following behind, many were of the servants and others that lived in the castle.

"Wait please, where is my father?" You cried, pounding on the back of the guard.

"By the riverbank, my princess, we must evacuate the civilians and escape on the ships while the warriors go to fight back the intruders.."

"My, my daughter?"

"Did I stutter? Look around you mortal, your people are dropping like flies." The God's voice boomed inside the temple, the roar of his voice, causing the ground to shake. "Your daughter hand for your people, one life, for the lives of your whole village."

Your father gulped, he had already lost your mother he was not ready to lose his daughter, "Will no harm come to her?" He asked

With a wide smirk, the God's vermillion eyes shined a magnificent ruby color illuminating the dark temple. "You're in such a position to make demands to a god. But yes. Now, do we have a deal?"

With a heavy heart, your father nodded. If it hadn't been Ares' own temple, anyone would have believed they were speaking to hades. The way Ares carried himself, a bloodthirsty barbarian eager to bring down his enemies.

The God rose from the stone throne, his skin began to glow a dark armor covered by his skin, as black as the night sky. With a heavy swing of his brilliant silver word, he flew into battle. Slaying all the barbarians in his way. They fell to his feet as their blood stained the grounds of the village. One by one, they fell, and their numbers dwindled, no army was a match for the God of war.

"Father!" You ran into the arms of the man who had raised you for your whole life. He kneeled in the broken temple; the ground was cracked and uneven. His skin white as a ghost, "You're alright." The moment you were in his arms, he wrapped around your shoulders tightly, pulling you closer to him. Tears began to fall upon you as your silk gown.

"Father? What's the matter?" You cupped his head gently

"Your majesty, we must evacuate, the ships are filled with civilians." The guard informed your father.

"That won't be needed. We are going to be safe." His voice came out shaky, a painful crooked smile painted his face as his eyes continued to spill tears.

"Father, what is happening?" You questioned, fear beginning to take over.

"I am so sorry, my child." You ripped away from his hold

"Father, what did you do?"

Your head turned slowly to face the unfolding scene. Your eyes widened in complete fear. Behind you, the city was in disarray; civilians poured out from the gates as they ran away from the massacre behind them.

Lighting and thunder pounded into the ground from the heavens as they surrounded him, the armor covered God. His silver sword stained with blood, and the grin on his face. It sent a shivering fear down to your core. Every kill was another climax of pleasure; in battle, he was in his element.

With one last strike, the last few fell to the ground. Finally, the invaders were dead.

Ares' head fell back with a victorious smile covering his face as he completed his mission. But now he'd only claim his promised prize.

His sharp eyes fell upon you. It took in every inch of your figure. Surely, you were no mere mortal, you couldn't be. Aphrodite herself couldn't complete with your beauty. You were perfect, and now you were his. His to claim. He sauntered towards you, his eyes never once left your body. Licking his lips as hi eyes traveled to your frame.

Lewd thoughts filled his head every second. How could a mortal be so extremely arousing?

He stood in front of you, towering over your frame, yes he was a god, and they were much taller than mortals, but he was like a giant, at almost twice your height.

"You'll be coming with me, princess." The terror that took hold of you as those words fell from his lips. His large arm wrapped around your waist tightly, pulling you towards him. You squirmed in his grasp, clawing in an attempt to release from his grip. His blood stains armor painted your colorless gown.

"let me go, let me go." You demanded, your eyes darted to meet your fathers pleading him to please help you.

But he did nothing, instead just watched as a rough, calloused hand cupped your chin.

You came face to face with him, face to face with the God of war himself. Blood-splattered his all over his face, did not hide his rugged good looks. He was an incredibly handsome man, his spiky ash-blonde locks that hung over his eyebrows. His skin was pale, although the moonlight seemed to emulate a glow.

"Let go of me this instant!" You screamed pushing away from, you didn't care one bit that he was a god. He had slaughtered thousands and just expected you to fall into his arms.

"I will do what I wish you are mine." You felt the rumble in his chest as he spoke, "you're father agreed to it himself." The gods' lips curled up into a wide villainous smirk.

"my, my father?" Your stuttered words made him let out a low chuckle. From so long he had watched you from afar, he quite expected some defiance from you. Unlike another woman that would throw themselves at a chance to be claimed by a god, you held your own. Yes, you were afraid, but you still were strong enough to defy him.

Apologies rained from your father's lips, as he attempted to explain. But even in his head, he couldn't figure out how to make sense of what he had done. Given his daughter's life away. However, you understood. Your father had done what any king would have, he sacrificed all he had for the good of his people. You could never be angry at him for that. With a sorrow-filled goodbye, you hugged your father unknowingly when you would see him again.

"You're new home awaits my princess." The God growled in your ear lowly as he ripped you from your father's grasp. "No, please, I want to stay with my father with my people." You cried in his tight grip, clawing in an attempt to get away, but it was no use, and within seconds your father and your people faded from your sights.

Ares knew you couldn't be taken you Olympus. You were mortal after all, so the next best thing was a temple in the mountains near the eastern sea. It had been abandoned for ages, the villagers that had once lived there long passed. However, it was still beautifully maintained. Many nymphs made their homes by the temple.

It was like a dream, flowers of every color decorated the temple, and the sun shined bright over the land. The ocean from below crashed onto the hot sand with a melodic chant. It was beautiful and serene.

The atmosphere much different than how you grew up. You wished you could have shown your father how beautiful it all was. Your chest was still tight at the fact you'd most likely never see him again. However, if it was your father's will that you went with the Gods' to ensure the safety of your people, you wouldn't disobey.

But in brute honesty, the God of war was the last person you'd ever want to share your life with. Everything he stood for, bloodshed and war, you disagreed with. Not to mentions the stories of the gods' affairs with the goddess Aphrodite and many others. Surely you weren't the first mortal he had taken.

Your guard was kept up; if anything, you would die fighting.

"Y/n." Your name sounded so foreign as it left his tongue, it caused a shiver to slithered down your spine. His smell was intoxicating as you felt his sharp jaw come to rest on your shoulder. With a sharp inhale, you tensed up.

The young God kissed his teeth, "I won't hurt you. I wasn't planning on it in the first place, but If it makes you feel better, I promised your father no harm would come to you, and I never break a promise. You don't have to be afraid."

You let out a scoff, "well, I'm sorry I am not like other women who would throw themselves at the chance to fuck Ares. I will not be treated as property or just some a piece of meat." He laughed, "I've watched you for much time, you're not like any other mortal. Nor are you like any other goddess. You are special. You, Y/n, are the only one worthy of being my wife." He nipped playfully at your ear

"Ares.." You whimpered softly.

"Katsuki Bakugo will do just fine."

"Bakugo, Katsuki." The way his name fell from your lips drew the young God into madness. Infatuation filled him, curiosity to get to know you, closer to you. For so long, he had watched you pined for you.

You, a mortal, had made a god fall in love with you. Not just any God.

The God Of War.

[bazzybelle]

COC 2019 Masterlist

I’ve seen a few of these going around and I figure I should add mine as well. I didn’t manage to complete all the prompts, but 13/30 isn’t terrible, considering everything. 

Day 1: Sun/ Moon

Title: Midnight Sun

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: A year after the events of Wayward Son, Simon and Baz take a small trip to Dover and spend the night taking a romantic stroll through the Kent Downs. While staring at the sky, Simon gets a wicked idea in his head, to taste a little more freedom and share it with Baz.

Day 2: Role Reversal

Title: Hush, Love

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: During a very difficult night, Simon finds a way to comfort Baz, using a tried and true method.

Day 3: Magical Creatures

Title: Keep Calm and Save a Unicorn

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: Agatha Wellbelove finds purpose and meaning to her life as she cares for and protects vulnerable members of the magical community.

Day 4: Dreams

Title: Have You any Dreams You’d Like to Sell?

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: Penelope processes her relationship with Micah on the plane ride home from America, while listening to "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac.

Day 5: Carry On Prequel

Title: A Million Dreams

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: Positive.  

Those two little blue lines, so simple, so plain. Yet they hold such a profound weight that I feel the need to take a moment to collect my thoughts. It does not do well for Natasha Pitch to come undone on account of two little blue lines. Still, I find myself sitting at my desk in my grand Watford Headmistress’ office, in absolute disbelief as I hold onto the pregnancy test in my hands.

Day 6: Vine/Meme Reference

Title: Everything’s Better With a Little Bit of HOLO!

Find it: Tumblr // AO3 

Summary: I steal the bottle from Simon’s grasp and give it a look. I inspect it closely, turning it around in my fingers. It does not look like anything particularly spectacular. It looks like a typical silvery nail polish. I am pretty sure Mordelia has a similar one. The polish’s brand name is somewhat more reflective, and I do think the slight rainbows coming off it are pretty. I do not understand the name, however. 

“What on Earth is a Holo Taco? Aren’t tacos supposed to be food? What do they have to do with nail polish?”

Day 7: WLW

Title: I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: “People like me are meant to be alone.” I try to make my voice sound icy and intimidating. But, Merlin help me, it sounds breathless, like I’m choking it out. I take a sharp inhale of breath through my nose. Shan, the fool that she is, reaches over and grabs my other hand, she gently turns my body towards her and leans a little closer to me. She speaks in a soft and calm voice. I almost miss what she says because of the music in the background.

“You don’t have to be alone.”

Day 11: Angst Day

Title: Let It Be

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: It’s better if I lay here on the sofa.

That way, I can’t muck up anything more than what I’ve already mucked up.

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa.

That way, I don’t have to see the looks of pity and sadness on Baz’s and Penny’s faces. That way, Baz won’t have to look at me and realize that I’m not worth his time. I’m not worth anyone’s time.

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa.

That way, the constant light and hum of the television can help numb me of whatever I’m feeling inside.

Useless, wasted, worthless…

A fraud, a phony, a fake.

Day 12: Music/Song-Inspired

Title: You Get My Love

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: Now, we’re in bed, but not talking. It’s what we do… We don’t talk. We don’t know how to talk to each other. I don’t know how to talk to Baz. I wish I knew what to say to him. I wish I could find the words to tell him how I feel inside. But it’s so hard. It’s so hard to look at him and tell him how I feel.

I look at him now, face turned away from me, his hair fanned out behind him. I reach out and lightly touch it. I know it won’t wake him. Baz isn’t a heavy sleeper, but it’ll take more than a touch of his hair to wake him. I settle into the sheets and play with a silken strand, twisting it in my fingers.

“I’m such an idiot.” I say it so quietly, though I know he can’t hear me. Maybe this is how I find the words to say to him. I continue to run my fingers through his hair and watch him breathing. I love him so much. Maybe eventually, I’ll be able to tell him this when he’s awake.

Day 13: Parental Figures

Title: You’re F***in’ Perfect to Me

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: When Malcolm showed up on my doorstep, a year after losing the love of his life, and asked that I become his second wife, well my parents all but jumped at the opportunity to marry their daughter to a Grimm.

I refused. I wanted nothing to do with Malcolm Grimm and with being the replacement to the great Natasha Pitch.

Then I met Basilton.

There was something about the sad, lonely little boy that broke the walls I had put up around my heart. I would never replace his mother, I knew that. But this child needed someone to give him comfort, a sense of stability. This child needed a motherly presence. So I accepted and I married Malcolm.

Day 18: CRACK!

Title: Love is Blind (As A Bat)

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: The bat dives straight towards me as I keep whipping the towel to deter it. I stumble into the kitchen and pull out a spatula. It isn’t ideal, but I don’t want to hurt the thing, just get it out of my flat. The bat keeps trying to reach me, but I’m waving the spatula at it. I’m hoping to move towards the window again and push it outside, when Penny shouts.

“Simon! It’s got something in its claws!”

As if on cue, the bat drops the item it’s been holding the whole time. I pick up the item and inspect it; An ivory wand with a leather grip. Baz’s wand.The little bat lands on the bookshelf and perches upside down. Penny sees the wand and looks to the bat. She figures it out before I do and begins to laugh.

Day 20: Fairytale/Myth Retelling

Title: Den Eho Matia Gi’Allo - I Have Eyes for No Other Boy

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: I know something terrible has happened as I arrive at the Temple’s entrance. The lanterns are shattered on the ground, the offerings to Athena are strewn all over the floor. Mud has been thrown upon her sacred altar. Worse of all, the sacred statue of Athena is completely desecrated.

Day 27: Time Travel

Title: Love is a Dream of Beauty

Find it: Tumblr // AO3

Summary: I am known by many names in this court. Signore Pitch is one, but I find that to be dreadfully formal. I am not a master, nor am I nobility (well… not anymore). Amongst my peers and the scholars at the Academy, as well as the members of Lorenzo’s court, I am referred to as Tyrannus (which is probably worse than Signore Pitch, but these Florentines do love their classical history). My closest friends (of which I can count on one hand) refer to me as Basil or Baz, which is frankly what I prefer. It was what my mother and father called me before they died.

There is also what enemies of the Medici like to refer to me as: The Displaced Prince. I would find it rather insulting, if I wasn’t so amused by it.

***

That’s all... I hope you’re all enjoying your holidays, and time off. 

Sappy message... Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who liked, reblogged, and gave me encouragement. I know I’m still a newbie to this fandom, and I don’t deserve the love I’ve gotten. With that being said, the kind words I’ve received have kept me going, even on days where I wanted to give up and close my account. 

Thank you to the amazing friends I’ve made here so far ( @fight-surrender , @carryonsimoncarryonbaz , @giishu , and @f-ing-ruthless-baz ) who’ve listened to me crying and stressing out, who’ve reached out during my spirals, and who keep encouraging me to come out of my shell. If I ever had the guts to talk/leave comments, to share, or to join things, it’s because of these lovely people. I’m still working at coming out of my shell, but I encourage people to come talk to me, I’m rather nice (at least, my friends think I am). 

I’ve got so many fics to catch up on / comment on, as well as working on my WIPs. That’s my next goal... To read the many many fics/authors that I’ve seen during this countdown and to comment as much as I can. :) 

[rosheendubh]

This stream of consciousness inspired by HistoriaBrittanorum’s Battle 8, the Battle of Caer Guinnion/the White Fortress. It could be the Fort of the Legions as well, but York’s Latin-Brythonic Name of Eboracum, actually shares a root with the Latin of Ivory (eburone,or something??...Ivory has a sense of Whitish—maybe York’s Walls, repaired by Constantine, appeared white when viewed from a distance??), along with other speculations of meaning (its British/Welsh form of Efrauc mimics the AngloSaxon ‘Eofor’ which means Boar...not related, I don’t think, unless the Boar was the standard of the VI Legion Victorius, stationed in York, but that might have been a bull actually??).  The boar belonged to one of Britannia’s other legions, I think. Anyway, Nennius writes that it was this Battle in which Arthur bore the Image of the Virgin on his shield/suspended across his shoulder...like a shield. In Welsh ballad tradition, Arthur’s shield is translated as ‘The Face of the Evening’. This was a common epithet given to the Virgin Mary, But was actually a phrase directly acquired from Venus-Aphrodite, as the planet Venus appearing with the Sun and Moon as the Morning Star and Evening Star. Venus, of course, was the Babylonian-Sumerian Ishtar/Inanna. The Queen of Heaven, literally, and...another epithet of the Virgin Mary.  Celestial Brigantia was another appelative for the same goddess, as understood by the Romano-British. A tutelary goddess of what had been the most influential tribe of northern Britain, even after Roman occupation, through the 3rd c AD at least. And dedications to ‘The Virgin’, meaning ‘Virgo/the Constellation’, alluded to her archaic Sumerian origins as the great Creatrix of Life/Death/Learning/Science/Poetry/Music/Agriculture/Law/Civilzation/War/Medicine/Justice/etc...all the aspects embodied historically by Inanna, the Face of the Evening, who becomes Freya-Frigg-Skathi-Nanna-Hella in the Nordic pantheon. Anyway, Arthur, Uthyr in my take, when it’s mentioned by Nennius he bears the Face of the Virgin into battle, ACTUALLY harkens to a pre-Christian concept, molded to Christian tastes, of the Archaic Virgin. IDK if that was Nennius’s intent, or if Geoffrey of Monmouth understood that context when he compiled his epic 300 years later.  Maybe he did. After all, it’s Geoffrey who conceived of Morgan le Fey/of the Faery, as the most learned in medicine, math, and astronomy, of her 9 Muse-like Sisters, who resurrect not just the Muses, but 9 Gallic priestesses who resided upon Sena, off the coast of Brittany, known as the Gallicenae. And, Geoffrey liked his Queens. He had no problem writing powerful women into his epic. After all, it’s from Geoffrey Shakespeare drew his inspiration for Cymbeline and King Lear/Cordelia. Anyway, the motifs of the Arthurian codex, resound from (my own speculation) a much earlier, borrowed concept lying somewhere between Inanna, and Athena’s aegis of the Gorgon (Medusa, being an aspect of Athena actually, and Andromeda as well. The name alone of Andromeda, means, in simplistic breakdown, ‘Ruler of Men’. And the symbolism when she’s chained to the rocks before the Sea-monster, Cetus, mirrors Inanna in the Underworld, having passed the 7 Gates of Hell, stripped of her Status, judged and condemned by her Sister, Ereshkigal, to be hung by chains, and tortured into death for her arrogance in daring to conquer the Land of the Dead). I love how unsentimental these first Sumerian myths were before they became softened by later Greek and Roman classical writers. What Anglo-Norman Medieval authors borrowed in the term Virgin, has nothing to do with purity, or a woman with an intact hymen. Virgins slept with men, or women whenever they wanted. The even had children, with or without a male progenitor. The oldest sense of the word ‘Virgin’ was an heroic woman. A woman complete into herself, who took on the traditional tasks of men, and women, w/o the assistance of a man. Or, like a Shield Maid, ALONGSIDE AND EQUAL with a man. Risking death, torture, rape, loss, or whatever else stood in her way (think Lagertha of Vikings), to triumph in the exact same conditions as their male counterparts. Sometimes with more ruthlessness, or more compassion, but human all the same, and judged by her actions before her gender/sex put a label on those actions.  A Virgin has no bond with a husband, to whom she was subservient. That’s all the word meant. Thus, Guinevere—The Face of the Evening, the Raven Queen, Ruler of Valentia Beyond the Walls, uniting the Picts and the Northern British houses under the Banner of Old Brigantia, to the aide of a southern prince, a son of Tyrants. Uthyr, bastard son of Vortigern, begotten in an act of humiliation upon Ygerna, the wife of Vortimer, Vortigern’s eldest son, dishonoring Vortimer for his rebellion against his father.  In Uther’s veins runs the blood of Irish nobility (Ygerna comes from the tale of Ingren, the daughter of the Leinster King, Crimthann mac Ennais—here, as in Welsh geneolgies—Ingren/Ygerna is the daughter of Amlothi/Hamlet actually, a Danish Sea Raider who sleeps with one of 3 wives of Crimthann— and joins the Irish dynasties of the Deisi and the DalRiada to the British/Picti/Germanic families inhabiting the lands United from the Atlantic to the Irish Sea and North Sea and the Black Sea rim), Roman magistrates, and Waelsung heritage (Sigfrid, Sigmund, and Sinfjatli of Niebelung fame) that have shaped Uthyr as a son of Vortigern, rebelling against his father, and allied with Danish/Swedish/Geatish houses of Northmen, who have their own rivalries against fellow Danes/Swedes/Jutes/Saxons. Geoffrey’s Yder/Idris/Hidernus/Edern/Eurderyn—Eutharios/Eutigern—of the Black Danes, becomes my Uther, allied with Hrothgar/Swerta, an exiled Dane living amongst the Angles of NE Britain (This is based off Hrolf Kraki Saga. The Danish king of Beowulf, Hrothgar/Hroar...Rodger in English , who’s forever a battle-brother of Uther, in later decades. It was said Hrothgar converted to Christianity, and ruled his hall of Heort/sp?? as a Christian King). Uthyr, a quasi-outlaw, exiled bastard residing between Gaul, Scandinavia, and Byzantium in his youth, a mercenary andca Sea Wolf/Sea-Raider finally reuniting with his older brother, the renowned Vortimer/Riothamus/Embreis Wledig, to wrest back their authority to rule from their father, and the Jutish/Saxon houses opposed to the Danes/Geat/Angles. Arthur comes later, as Guinever’s son, either—and both—by Uther and Theoderic the Great. Dynastic imperatives here span the transformation of Western and Northern Europe from Scandinavia to Ostrogothic Italy, and in-between. Guinevere, Uther, and Theoderic, encompass a strategy of this New World of civilizing Romanized Barabarians, amalgamations of Tribal cultures reviving old Roman precepts of rule and law, between Britannia on the Western end of Old Empire, to Ostrogothic Italy, that Theoderic seeks to establish as independent from Constantinople. Lying in their midst, a lion at the heart of Gallia, are the Franks, with Clovis clawing the Merovingian hold to sever Britannia, and Visigothic Spain, from Italy. Willing to ally with Byzantium to do so, in order to distract Theoderic into defending his eastern territories of the Adriatic, Clovis succeeds in driving the last of his Visigoth brethren out of Gaul, and the inception of the Kingdom of the Franks arrives like a tempest. And finds Uther slain with his long-time war-band on the fields of Poitier, in 507, and Arthagenes (a version of a title of Hercules/the Hindu-Hellenic-Persian Verethragna. The name resembles variations of Artogenes/Bear Kin or Bear Prince/Artius/Arthan/and Artogneu...from that hideous inscription, but in my mind, while not ‘King Arthur’, lends enough similarity to said names, I’m comfortable basing his persona, ultimately, off the mythic concept of Arkas/Arcas, the Bear Prince, who circles Polaris, son of the Bear Goddess/Artio-Artemis-Callisto, and the War-Lord/and the Guardian of the stars, Bootes and Draco), his son, or Throderic’s, serving in Theoderic’s forces, in the counter-campaign to win back southern Gaul from Clovis. Incidentally, one of Theoderic’s generals bears the name Ebba, or at times conflated as Eobba (like the Bernician king of the Anglo-Saxon king lists), as well as Ida—the first king of Anglians who defeats ‘Outigern’ (in my take, the son of Arthagenes, by a northern princess, Vivian/Nuvien—Nimue-which is Gaelicized as Bebhionn, and feeds into the renaming of Din Guardi as Bebenburg, after Ida marries the British princess, Beara, according to certain chroniclers of later era. Beara is my Nuvien, a British saint actually, and the name from which Vivian and Nimue derive, and Dutigern, her son, a form of Outecorigas, recorded on Celtic inscription from Dyfed, I think, as a Protector of the Region.) Where Ida accepts Outigern as a son, And so, at Din Guardi/Bamburgh in 547AD, Ida establishes the kingdom of Bernicia. That will, by his grandon’s time, unite under Aella of the Deirans, forming Northumbria. The Star of the North, and its emerging repository of Anglo-Celtic-Roman culture by 600-800AD. This segment involves my revision of Theoderic’s daughter, Amalsuentha (a version of Melisande), actually being rescued from her assassination (she was strangled in a bath, around 534, by her cousin who coveted the throne of the Ostrogoths, which opened up Justinian’s excuse to invade Italy), as more of an comedic abduction by Offa/Yffi of the Deira/East Angles, Ida, and Cethegus, whose my version of the warrior-saint, Cathog/Cathomalos. She becomes my version of Marcia—founder of Mercian law, as Geoffrey attributes Alfred the Great’s codex of law and rule procedure to a Marcia, a great queen of wisdom and courage, who...probably didn’t exist. Anyway, I’ve now expounded to the point of random outline, and the tale which falls between my 2nd Century Artorius Castus Tale (that might go back to 1st Century Cartimandua, Agricola, and Arviragus/Genvissa, as mentioned by Geoffrey), and PreRev Paris with Jefferson and his Scottish lady physician. As an underscore to the Uther/Guinevere tract of Gwen as Queen, and Defender of the North, later Uther’s Wife, and Theoderic’s lover, there’s this scene that comes from the Welsh Mabiniogion, of Culhwch and Olwen. The tale is basically a Welsh version of the Norse myth of Svipdag-Odr, and Menglod. Svips is cursed by his step-mother to only fall in love with a particular woman, who happens to be the daughter of a fearsome giant, and impossible to win. Unless the hero undergoes a series of impossible feats which he overcomes, of course, to finally win his bride, and kill her monster-father. Anyway, there’s this passage Arthur speaks when his cousin, Culhwch arrives at Arthur’s hall, seeking some Band of Bros to help in his quest of Lady Love. Basically, I’m a kow-tow to those ‘rules of hospitality’ we like to romanticize were inherent to tribal societies of Germanic and Teutonic origin, Arthur welcomes his cousin with every promise to provide him with anything he needs on his quest, except [paraphrased from rusty neurons]: “...my sword, my spear, my dagger, my ship, my shield, and...my Wife, Gwenhwyfar.” Every time I come across this line, I think that’s either the coarsest of insults to his wife, and his queen, listed in an intinerary of his weapons. Or, it’s the most oblique of compliments to his wife. As Guinevere is his greatest weapon, even over his other enchanted implements, and won’t be utilized to any other man’s cause than his own. I’d like to add, that would be at her discretion of course. Anyway, it’s this exchange I use between Uther and Theoderic the first time they meet on the eve of Badon 2.0, after Gwen has escaped Frankish forces. And masterminded winning a bunch of heavy cavalry to her cause/Uther’s cause in the civil wars erupting across their island in the late 480s-491/493AD. This coincides with Clovis’s campaign against Soisson and the last Roman count, Syragius’s kingdom, falling to Frankish hands. Somewhere in there, I fanciful-ize Theoderic has come to Northern Gaul in the years of his own campaign to win Italy against Adavacrius (my Erp/Hyrp/Tge AngloSaxon Eadawacer—the son of Gudrun of the Nibelungs-Burgundians, and the widow of Sigfrid of the Walsungs. He’s Odovacer, the Heruli chieftain who deposed the last Roman Emperor, in 476), seeking an alliance with Clovis, a most brilliant and Mschiavellian ruler of Merovingian bent, asking for Clovis’s sister, Audafleda, as his bride (she does eventually marry him—the mother of Amalsuintha). Somewhere in there, we have Gwen being betrayed by her own sister, Cywyllog, whose married to Medrod, Uther’s nephew/cousin, and Gwen trying to reach Uther in Brittany/Aremorica, as he’s fighting for/or against Clovis, depending on when Clovis attempts invading north of Orlean, into the lands of Alani tribesmen, and the British colonizers of Brittany. In an attempt to set the truth before Uther that there’s been a conspiracy weaving lies that she’s tried seducing/promising their lands to Cerdic of the Gewisse/Wessex and his son Cynric, when it’s actually their daughter Gwenog, she’s promised to Cerdic’s son when they’ve come of age, attempting to win an alliance against Medrod/Cywyllog, Medrod’s messengers reach Uther first, and Clovis’s troops intercept Gwen’s small landing party, killing her own guard, and capturing her. Brought before, he disavows her, and rips off her neck-ring, that bore the symbol of Brigantia, and the right of her rule of the North. That Uther truly has no authority to deny her. His action breaks the alliance of Alba from Britannia, and only lends further fuel to Medrod’s attempt at usurpation in Britain. The fracturing of allegiances proves beneficial to Clovis, while he entertains Theoderic’s proposal. Uther, casting off his wife as a traitor, readies to return to Britain, facing the the forces of Medrod, his and allies of varying Irish/Northern British/Teutonic mix (where we see Onale/Aella Bretwalda, and his sons, Cymen-Cissa and Wlencing, arrive enforce, a Nordic king establishing a foothold in Sussex—the tale involving the clash of Swedish-Geatish-Norwegian-Danish-Anglian houses, from the tale of Ohtere and Onela, and the sons of Ohtere, Eanmund and Athislus/Aedgils). Gwen’s leftvin the custody of the Franks, to be disposed of or dealt with after the coming wars. It’s here Theoderic crosses paths with Gwen, his first love from decades before, when they been teens/young adults coming of age in Rome, in the last years leading up to Odovacer’s victory. And Theoderic, never trusting Clovis, devises an entirely different plan than what he’d first come north for, his own war stalled at the Walls of Ravenna, and needing a naval fleet to blockade the harbor that keeps Odovacer afloat, and fending off the final victory of the Ostrogoths. In a borrowing of the legend of St Genevieve of Paris, Clovis sends Gwen on a time wasting errand to Tours, where she’s meant to secure a bread supply fending off famine in Paris, whilst she, of her own design, crosses paths with Clothilde, and arranges a marriage between Christian Frankish princess and the heathen Merovingian conqueror. Theoderic’s 1000 Strong Sarmatian Cavalry who have served him as indentured warriors since his defeat of their city, Singidunum, in 474AD, sweeps in as the entourage returns from Tours to Paris, Theoderic intent on rescuing Gwen back to Itsly, or using her as hostage-ransom to win Uthyr’s naval force of Black Danes. Backstory here is, Gwen and Theo didn’t part well in Rome all those years ago, when he only knew her as some British orphan, and later discovered her heritage as a princess of northern Pictish/Roman British nobility, made an offer of marriage to her at that time just after his father had passed away, leaving Theoderic the heir of the Wandering Kingdom of Ostrogoth Amalungs. He rejection out of loyalty to her father and her people offended him, thinking she spurned him out of pride, thinking herself superior to his barbarian heritage, however Romanized, educated in the court’s of Constantinople. And once more, it’s Gwen who rejects his proposal, but w/o allies in the wilds of Northern Gaul/Frisia, where Theoderic’s forces are camped, she learns of his Cavalry, their decent from the other 2500 Horselords who had been sent into exile by Marcus Aurelius centuries ago. And it’s Gwen, a descendent of those same Sarmatians, the other 5500 Iazyges, sent to Britain by Marcus Aurelius centuries back, on the side of her Pictish mother, whose blood ran back to the Horse Goddess of the Sarmatians when she and her warrior-priestessss first arrived in Britain (see the intriguing grave finds of 2 women buried with weapons and Cavalry armor from Brougham found in 2004–thought to be of Hungarian origin, and dared to mid 3rd c AD), following their men to exile. And it’s Gwen who speaks the old tongue of Saranyu, mounted on a stallion, galloping amongst 1000 Catarphactii, with their Standard aloft in her hand, moving between their ranks, and rallying them in the language of the Iazyges, turning Theoderic’s offer for refuge in exchange for becoming his queen or mistress, and instead, compelling 1000 HorseLords to her cause, tge cause of Britannia, by weight of her lineage, and the promise to no longer “be considered slaves, but citizens” with lands of their own upon British shores if they were, to once more, fight on the Isle of Mists, for her king, and her land (mmm, I always loved that scene of Daenerys suddenly winning the Slave Army of Unsullied...this is my tribute of the Raven Queen to the Dragon Queen. Cliche is as cliche does...but, I’m hoping my version contains some originality). And Theoderic, thinking himself the savior, suddenly becomes the usurped, as his own officers, Vidia, Hjalmar, drawn from the sagas of Thiodrrek, always loyal to him, follow her command to apprehend and restrain him, till she can figure out what to with him.   Which, in her Gwen way, involves an intimate scene, and Theideric’s Promise to fightvat her side, in support of Uther. Which is where we arrive with Theoderic and Uther meeting. A very stoic and grieving Uther, whose son, Llacheu, had been slain, the son of his youth, fathered  years before with the matron/abbess of the monestary-college where he’d been educated outside of Avillion/Gaul. And who’d sought service in Uther’s court when he’d come to adulthood. Uther, who’d taken his dead son to The isle of St Michael’s Mount, in a confrontation with Medrod’s greater numbers, in a battle he’d thought lost initially, until the 11th Hour arrival of his wife, who he’d cast off in a rage of jealousy and intriguing falsehoods. And by the gods’ justice, he’d been punished by the loss of his closest brothers, Cei amongst them, and Medrod, who he’d always loved, turned against them. Gwen, once the enemy was in retreat, beaten once, but hardly defeated, who searched for her husband in a panicked dread, not finding him amongst the fallen, but following the trail of bodies strewn in his wake all the way to the tidal Chanel looking out to St Michels. And the beacon, the pyre burning there, where dead Llacheu lay, with his father mourning him, who wished to die himself. Haunted by the the ghost of his dreams, his wife and Queen, the mother of his son and daughter, guardian of his vision, takes shape out the shadows of a ruined villa’s garden—where flames dance in the night as Llacheu’s body turns to ash and smoke, and the stars witness with icy diamond beauty, the tragedy of men inviting war and sorrow. She wakes in his arms with the dawn, and he knows this was dream. He sees the neckring in place of the one he’d torn from her throat, bearing the insignia of the Wulkknot, 3 interlaced triangles, just above her collarbone, and Uther knows this as the Sign of Wotan. And the Symbol of the Ostrogoth Amalungs. Her lips are soft upon his, her gray eyes, clear as the sun shimmering across the steel waters with the dawn, entreat him. “You’ve lost a son, but where a brother has fallen, and one turned traitor, you may have gained another. Meet him, Eurdeyrn. And you might find a kindred soul there.” Which finds him striding through their camp, arrayed to allow for a makeshift infirmary, where Gwen will serve later, and the commander’s quarters marked by the standards and banners of the companies of his army. The cheers and relief resounding through the throngs as his officers welcome him in a rush of greetings, condolences, assurances of faith, and endurance, these men who’ve bled and wept with him, to victory and loss. And more, the furious cheer that rises through the assembly grounds, at sight of his Queen at his side. North and South, Alba and Britannia United once more. He pauses. The guards align, stepping aside to allow for Uther to face this Ostrogoth lord, followed by his own comitatus/elite officers—some them who’d committed sedition only 3 days ago, at the pledge of this Queen they all believe a goddess in human form, rather Horse Queen reborn. Gwen has never hestitated to take advantage of old symbolisms, equine goddesses or Ravens some of the most powerful divinties many of these nomads or barbarian tribes, recognize, only a generation or two as converts to Christ, separating them from their pagan forefathers. He’s well-formed, this Maering, a Chieftain who styles himself an enlightened philosopher king. Eyes like marine seas meet Uther’s amber gaze, guarded. Aquiline features of boldness and depth define the high brow, the angular cheeks, fine nose nose, and strong jaw. An assembly not unlike Uther’s own, Theoderic’s grandeur smacks of brilliance, and sun, a lion in his prime, his red-gold hair plaited, the fine stubble of his beard, flecked with gray. Theyre of an age, and similar physique, each just on the other side of four decades, Uther’s image, more somber, the Winter King indeed, tresses of oak brown frosted with white, drawn back, long at his neck, his posture straight, muscled body riddled with scars of old wounds, his joints feeling the damp and cold more so than in younger days.  The hard lines of cheek and chin might have been sculpted from harshness through the years, but the lucidity of eyes that carry the cast of autumn leaves struck of rain and setting sun, soul-searching, and somber, so it’s said Uther reads the hearts of men the way migrating birds read the change of season.  And he sees Gwen was right. This man has born the burden of his people for over a decade, aimless, as mercenaries. A client-King to Constantinople, consul, and conqueror, fighting other men’s battles so his nation might survive for another season. Guests at the mercy of ally and enemy, subsisting on fortune’s vagaries. Uther knew that life. And he hears that understanding in Theoderic’s tone, words of greeting, without supplication. Uther responds with the same reserve, the words a ritual of recitation. A host welcoming. A guest received. Men will recount later, over beakers of ale, in a commons awash in song, and roasting meat, lit by torches, and hearth fires blazing near the sorted benches, how they met, the Stag and the Stallion, the Lion of the Amalungs and the Wolf of the Waelsungs. Then, Theoderic nearly shatters his composure. “You lost a son here. I too, have lost a brother.  These battles we fight to carve some kind of future demand sacrifices we could never have foreseen. But in the struggle, we may find blessings of unknown delight as well.” Theoderic’s attention shifts to Gwen. There’s no coveting or lust, as he might have supposed from a lesser man. Yearning shines from the depths of his heart. And worship. Untarnished and without shame. In the presence of her husband, who’d cast her off in a fit of wrath and grieving doubt. Gwen’s silence, her wary glance that moves between the two men, the tension tightening her mouth, belies her anxiety.  She has a tendency to brusqueness when she’s uncomfortable, and clear she’s far from easy with this encounter. She gathers herself, some internal motive rising that bades her salute each man, a crisp nod between them, as she extricates herself from the awkward company. “Medrod’s forces regroup in the North. We have much to do if we’re to drive this momentum to victory. And I have much to catch up on, before we march.” Uther, then Theoderic, neither raise objection, a small bow, an *as your leave*, as they watch her amble off toward the one place which has always been her retreat. Medicine, and the surgery-taking rounds of the wounded before she’ll take on a shift.  Determining clearance for the coming transport, and those who’ll be left at the encampment to recover or die. Their respective guards maintain a distance meant to preserve confidences without seeming to neglect their commanders. A strange quiet flows between them. A calm Uther finds an effective tool. Men are apt to let tongues loosen in silence, to cover their nerves, and spill Revelations they otherwise wouldn’t. Theoderic doesn’t appear unsettled/discomfitted. Shrugging easily, and motioning with a look toward the commanders tent, he’s almost conversational. “I imagine you’d welcome a bath, and a meal first, before we get to the grit of how we proceed from here.” How naturally men seem to look to him, seeking direction or simply a pleasantry. That irks Uther, noting as well it’s his own tent toward which they’re headed. “I saw the pendant at her throat, Amalung.” Theoderic slows, hearing the stiff words, halting with Uthyr, to face him once more.  Curiosity rather than caution shining in his eyes. “Whatever courtesy of treaty you seek in exchange for your service, I will do all in my power to honor. But this will not include the right of my spear, my sword, my dagger, my flagship, my shield, and most of all my wife. You’ll not have my wife hereafter. These sacred insignias conveying kingship, right to rule. Most of all, his wife. A moment only, of consternation, flickers across Theoderic’s features, calm, seeming to weigh responses. Until he breaks into a chuckle, and a commiserating glimmer directed at Uthyr. “Only it was your wife who had me, rather. Not the other way around. — Shout out to G’Schola’, and his Tower Down the Tracks, at these turnings of the year... And to my concept of Guinevere. It’s hard for me not to see her as something of a queen, and warrior. And of Scottish origin. Like Robert Graves (who took a much more arcane synthesis of Welsh bardic poetry), one of my favorite poems is the Battle of the Trees/CathGoddeu... The part where Gwydion, son of the goddess Don(a), raises the trees and flowers, earth, roots, vines, etc to aid in the kingdom of Gywnedd’s battle against the southern Welsh kingdom of Dyfed, I’m convinced, inspired the Battle of the Ents in LotRs (Graves and Tolkien shared a personal and professional relationship of scholar and ‘belles-lettres’... Ents, and the Welsh poem, both harken back to Irish myth, and the 2nd Battle of MaghTuredh. Where Lugh summons his goddess/sisters-sorceresses, to aid the Danaans against the Fomori, and asks what weapons they’ll bring to their fight. And the sisters reply: "And ye, O Be-cuile and O Dianann," said Lugh to his two witches," what power can ye wield in the battle?" "Not hard to tell," said they. "We will enchant the trees and the stones and the sods of the earth, so that they shall become a host under arms against them, and shall rout them in flight with horror and trembling." That, in tandem with the more ancient Babylonian tale of Ishtar’s Descent to the Underworld, carries such resounding power in the primordial concept of goddess and queen, where Ishtar stands before the Gates of Hell, her sister’s domain, and demands entry to pass. “If you do not open the gate for me to come in, I shall smash the door and shatter the bolt, I shall smash the doorpost and overturn the doors, I shall raise up the dead and they shall eat the living: And the dead shall outnumber the living!” Can you see where GrrMartin drew his inspiration for Daenerys, in the 2nd Season, where she promises destruction of her enemies, and those who’ve harmed her friends (“...I’ll lay waste to enemies, and burn cities to the ground!”). Basically, she’s Inanna/Ishtar at the Gates of the Hell. That’s (part) of my concept of Guinevere—the queen who summons the Houses of the North, and unites them under an old Battle Standard of Brigantia (which is the Cross of St Bridgid...that mimics a tetraskele), marching them south to the aid of Uther outside of the Walls of York. And in the Cavalry charge of the northern host, amid a rising thunder/snow storm (I place this battle circa Nov/December...not usual for campaigns, but that’s part of the desperation here...in post-Roman Britain), where men who are frost-bitten, exhausted, famished, at the edge of defeat on both sides—Jute and British—blood-blurred vision, obscured even more by slashing winds and sleet and mud (hopefully the horses don’t spin out), it’s Uther, or Uther’s more literary-inclined brother/cousin Brochmal (my version of Bedivere/Bedwyr) who quotes the old Irish tale, as Gwen’s forces align on a distant bluff across the Vale, and she raises the Sword of Ares (yep, she’s also the one who pulls ‘the Sword from the Stone’...based on her mother having sacrificed herself years before, drawing the sword of the Sarmatians that attracted a lightening strike at the same moment she plunged the blade into an oak, and promptly induced one of those conductive lightening strike scenarios that passes through a bunch of people and explodes the tree/ground/and people around them...thanks Wilderness Medicine workshop!) as the rallying point of the charge. With Gwen’s trio of Ravens circling about her (they are cool birds—they can live like 25-50 years, are as intelligent and social as dogs/horses/mammals/other smart birds...and there’s a rare white raven variant that occurs), symbols of her ambivalent relationship to Wotan and Christ, as well as being classically educated, and thus, agnostic ultimately, to Gwen, her Ravens have always reminiscent of the Morrigan—the triple goddess of Death, Battle Frenzy, and well...sex/life-rebirth. Amid the building of horse, down into the Vales of York, men’s senses to confused by the icy winds and rain, not always sure if they’re even striking at friend or foe anymore, the Horns blasting different signals sounding like Heimdallr’s Gjallhorn of Ragnarok, imagination, and delusion, or delirium form shapes in men’s minds, out of storm cloud, sleet/hale/, and bloodied earth, mucked by entrails, corpses, and excrement of human and beast. British ally, or British foe, clashing spear and sword with shields, they all swear in the charge of the North, do the phantoms manifest, shadows of past legionaries, and Roman auxiliaries, the ghosts of the first Sarmatian horselords, taking shape from earth and most, fleshless memories of gore, long-dead and fallen, whose blood quenched the thirst earth in defense of the Hallowed Isle, summoned once more, unknowingly, by the vision of mere mortals whose vision of a new Britannia rises from the past, and stretched into a tenous future told in tale of the Stars... Okay, Bunnygrrl obscura done for today...