#roderic day

[marxistcomedy]

The term commodity fetishism objectively should bring to mind the way economic actors, both rich and poor, declare themselves powerless before the pressures exerted by the world of commodities (“I’m sorry I have to fire you, but the market told us your services aren’t needed”). It’s conceptually quite similar to Adam Smith’s much-celebrated liberal notion of “the invisible hand of the market,” but rather than benevolent and wise Marx invites us to see this system as a sinister cult. The term commodity fetishism was never meant to scold people for liking material things; it’s not meant to generate guilt after the realization that one craves certain consumer goods (“I’m so bad, but those new shoes sure look pretty”).

Commodity fetishism describes the objective fact that in capitalism we don’t generally relate to each other as humans asking each other to do things, but rather indirectly command each other through commodities. If I go to a restaurant, I don’t beg the cook to make me a meal and the waiter to deliver it, nor do I imperiously threaten them with violence, nor do I cajole them into it. I just buy the meal. The meal itself then appears to command them to move, like a little god! And I in turn must similarly follow the commands of commodities in order to acquire the money to purchase such meals. This is how the factory comes to want to be used, and how the tropical fruit comes to want to find its way to Stockholm. As Marx puts it:

“To [producers], their own social action takes the form of the action of objects, which rule the producers instead of being ruled by them.”

From this perspective, one of the central tasks of communists is to liberate workers not from work or desire itself, but from a generalized lack of decision-making agency in the face of crude economic fetishism. People should decide what people do, not commodities! Looking for alternatives to enslavement by commodities, some look back to feudal, religious, and romantic patriarchal forms of despotism, but socialists look ahead, towards socialism’s multidimensional interaction and negotiation, demotic and democratic.

[flesh-is-the-fever]

On "On the Jewish Question"

From this excellent essay by "self-important, racist buffoon" Roderic Day

[huariqueje]

Days in the Sun   -    Anke Roder , 2024

Dutch, b. 1964 -

Encaustic and oil on wood, 50 x 46,5 cm

[soley-solstice]

PERMANENT WELFARE EXCHANGE THROUGH ITEMS OBTAINED FROM LIMITED EVENTS????

[targentis]

irontom coming to florida is sooooo what the house remembers coded. too bad they're 1) touring with RHCP and 2) selling tickets for $140 minimum???????? girl who do you think you ARE

[nobrashfestivity]

Wilson Bentley, Dew on a Spiderweb, 1910

This was posted the other day by Anke Roder on instagram who is herself a really cool artist with a color focus.I know Bentley from the snowflake pictures but had not seen this.

[clavissionary-position]

(Translation) Gilbert's Beast Manual Case 3: The Correct Way to Love Gilbert

Part 3 of Gilbert's current party event, wherein Emma learns something new about Gilbert.

Spoilers. Yeah this one's just a straight-up translation. Also I read using a translator so expect le errors. Case 1 | Case 2 | His POV

Gilbert was a fiendishly jealous man—something both he and others attested to.

Not only the men I spoke to, but women and animals as well; they all become the target of his jealousy. The same jealousy across the board.

But lately that hasn't been all.

Gilbert: This tie keeping your hair up, it gets to be with you 24/7, doesn't it?

Gilbert: ...You're so mean for setting me aside. Actually, wouldn't it be better to just wear your hair down?

Gilbert: Your chair here, doesn't it basically get to feel your warmth the entire time you're on it?

Gilbert: I'm going to hold you on my lap because it's kind of pissing me off. Sharing your body heat with a chair is more than it deserves.

Gilbert: This hallway you tread on every day—

Emma: Okay, can you please not be jealous of the literal hallway!?

The more time we spent together, the more the potential targets for his jealousy went up.

I didn't get how he could be so jealous of every little thing.

Because even though I loved Gilbert, jealousy was something I didn't really feel much of.

(Oh...)

Gilbert: —I see. So they've already completed their draft. Excellent, excellent.

Roderic: It seems experiencing your wrath this morning made them respond accordingly.

(...Roderic's here)

Having just finished my bath, I quickly hid myself in the shadows.

If I stepped out in the open wearing only my bathrobe over the black negligee Gilbert had made for me, not only would Roderic's life be in danger but mine as well.

(Still... I've never really had a chance to see Gilbert when he speaks to Roderich when I'm not around)

(...I wonder what that vibe is like)

As my curiosity got the better of me and I covertly took a peek...

Gilbert: I'd like for them to submit the draft before it ever gets to that point next time.

Roderic: It's only because nobody can come up with out-of-the-box ideas like you.

Gilbert: They're all conclusions one can arrive at rationally. It's not like I'm making unreasonable demands of anyone.

Gilbert sat at his desk, a serious expression on his face as he moved his quill.

He definitely wasn't smiling like he usually did, but at the same time he didn't seem angry either.

It was an expression I didn't recognize.

Gilbert: ...Also, the draft was poorly-constructed. With this there's too gaps for us to drive that old man into a corner.

Roderic: Then I'll have it returned to you in such a way that we can.

Gilbert: I only appreciate haste. You help them too, Roderic. I'd like to have the contents finalized before our next regular meeting.

Gilbert: If we leave that old man unchecked, he may soon start a losing battle against neighboring countries.

Roderic: ...Understood, sir.

Gilbert: What's the next document?

Roderic: It's here, sir.

Gilbert: ...I know I keep asking, but is there more still?

Roderic: There's a mountain of things I'd like you to look over.

Gilbert: I thought I'd delegated my authority out.

Roderic: This just means that Obsidian needs you.

Gilbert: That's certainly a problem.

Roderic: No, sir, it's not.

Gilbert: ...*sigh* Unless we can get everyone past the idea that failure is some sort of capital crime, won't it be difficult for you and I to manage all this work on our own?

Gilbert: Seems like my presence is a hindrance after all.

Roderic: Please don't say that!

Gilbert: Fine, fine. If you don't like it, then go give out this PSA.

Gilbert: "As long as there's no fraud or corruption at work, I won't kill you over a simple failure. So please rely on your own judgement more."

Roderic: ...Very well, sir.

(So that's the kind of vibe Gilbert has doing official duties when I'm absent)

The atmosphere about him was so serious and earnest that it naturally made me want to stand at attention, and I found myself captivated.

(If he's not smiling, then maybe that's his real expression)

(Gilbert's known Roderic for a long time, so he's able to drop his guard around him)

(...Okay, what's this gloomy feeling I'm having...)

Roderic: ...Sir, let's deal with the rest of this tomorrow.

Gilbert: Hey. You definitely didn't see anything, right?

Roderic: I saw nothing and I noticed nothing.

Gilbert: Is that so? That's fine, then. Thank you for your hard work.

Roderic quickly gathered up his documents and took his leave.

An air of nervousness seemed to cling to him as he made a beeline for the exit, not once looking astray.

The door closed behind him and Gilbert stretched out his arms as if trying to relax.

Gilbert: Now, then, little rabbit.

Emma: ...So you'd noticed me after all.

Gilbert: Well that's a given.

(I'm sorry about the position I put you in, Roderic)

Once he'd beckoned me closer, he prompted me to climb onto his lap.

Emma: Pardon me.

Knowing that my only two choices were to either sit on his lap or be made to sit, I obediently sat down of my own accord.

And Gilbert wrapped his arms around my waist to support me.

Gilbert: You were throwing Roderic such a passionate look.

Emma: I was looking at you!?

Gilbert: He was positioned in the same line of sight.

Gilbert: As you know, you have a very troublesome man on your hands. So you're aware of what you should do at a time like this, right...?

Emma: ......

I placed my hands against Gilbert's cheeks and started kissing him.

I kissed him so much that I began to feel a faint warmth from his cold lips. But when I tried to pull away, Gilbert bit my lip, leaving behind a faint stinging.

(You're still jealous, aren't you?)

Emma: ...Did I interfere with your official duties?

Gilbert: *pouts* Roderic's the one who interfered. Showing up at this hour with documents for review.

Emma: That's probably because you were busy during the day.

Gilbert: *grins* Hehe... I showed you a lot of things I don't like about Obsidian today.

Emma: ...And I want to know about even more of them from now on.

Emma: Because I also want to be able to assist you.

Gilbert: Ahaha, that's reassuring.

(...There are still so many things I don't know about Gilbert and Obsidian...)

(I'm sure some of those things are intentionally being kept hidden from me)

(Things you can talk to Roderic about, but not to me...)

Once again I felt something in my heart falter.

But before I could convince myself that I was just imagining things, Gilbert's cold fingers caressed my cheek.

Gilbert: You're pulling such a long face even though your words are so reassuring,

Emma: ...I wasn't lying.

Gilbert: I know that. So what's eating at you?

(...What's eating at me?)

Emma: ...I can't really put it to words.

Emma: It's just... I'm envious of Roderic.

Emma: He's able to assist you more than me, and knows everything...

(......)

(Oh, this is...)

The moment I realized the true nature of my anxiety, Gilbert broke into a broad smile.

Gilbert: Wow... I'll have to give Roderic a bonus.

Emma: ...I see now. So this what you've been feeling all this time.

(Well no, compared to Gilbert, my 'jealousy' is to a much lesser degree...)

Emma: Hehe... What should I do? I'm really jealous here.

(We match now.)

I wrapped my arms around Gilbert's neck and brought our foreheads together.

Even though it should have been a negative feeling, I felt laughter build up inside me, perhaps because I was one step closer in understanding Gilbert.

Gilbert: Serious jealousy is nothing like that though, you know?

Emma: Are you saying there's more to come?

Gilbert: Yeah. Your jealousy's in the early chapters.

Gilbert: The more and more you come to love me, the less you'll be able to contain that kind of adorable jealousy.

Gilbert seemed truly pleased with my jealousy.

And it was precisely because I could sense that feeling that the anxiety in my heart turned into something endearing.

Emma: I'll work diligently then.

(Because I think being jealous is the most correct way to love Gilbert)

Gilbert: Hehe... I can't believe you've cheered up this much just from turning into a jealousy fiend.

Gilbert: Taming the conquering beast is difficult, isn't it? But it might be easy for you.

Gilbert: Because I'm so madly in love with you.

------ a/n: I'm sorry for any errors! I mostly just clean up whatever the online translators spit out. Sometimes I get really lazy. Also, I haven't really done a full translation post like this in a while, so I just wanted to mention that I took the formatting and translation style from @/hotaru987 sensei!

[scummy-writes]

coup d'œil

Rating: General

Pairing: Roderic/Gilbert

Words: 885

Tags: nightmares, death mention, SPOILERS, fluffed up Roderic's backstory because idk all his details, impromptu drabble, unrequited if you squint

This has Gilbert Route spoilers, and is also set back when Gilbert and Roderic are teenagers- not an exact age but not 18.

When Roderic first arrived, sharing a bed was not unusual between them. At first, Gilbert explained it away as Roderic being too scared to sleep alone in a castle stained with blood. And while he wasn't wrong, Roderic could tell there was more to it than that. However, he kept his mouth shut. Nodding along at Gilbert's request.

He sleeps light, just like Gilbert- an advantage at times, but a curse they both know well. And it’s there, on a stormy night, that Roderic stares up at the far ceiling. He can hear the rain pattering against the windows, a faint howl of wind. Briefly, he thinks of his time in the orphanage. How storms there would have the kids huddling together, the chill seeping in with the wind.

Here, the chill exists for different reasons. Due to the wide room they’re in, the natural chill of the castle… The body next to him, cold even beneath several layers of blankets.

Roderic scooches over bit by bit, until Gilbert stirs, his body seeking out Roderic’s warmth on his own accord. Cold hands reach for his arm, then across his chest, burrowing against his makeshift twin.

Then, he wakes.

It’s a startled gasp, strangled by a weak cry that Roderic has never heard before- and he jumps, scared that Gilbert’s pain has gotten worse, that he’s experiencing a new type of attack. He sits up, ready to go run for Walter- anyone, but he hears a whimpering of a name he knows all too well.

Albert.

With that uttered, Gilbert curls in on himself. Between sniffles, Roderic can hear quiet gaspings for air, whines that Gilbert tries to muffle as he hides his face. It’s the first time he’s ever seen him cry before. No matter how much his body tried to revolt against him, his eyes never watered- just a strained expression as he fought back on bad days.

He… Can’t stop staring. So far, Gilbert had been an unstoppable force, even when so young. Full of teases, threats, knowledge… well hidden kindness… But he’s never seen his body shaking from grief. It makes him realize just how small Gilbert seems.

There’s never been a situation like this between them. Despite his own past, Roderic was constantly thankful for Gilbert, for being rescued from that poor excuse of an orphanage. There were no tears spent on the memories, just odd nostalgia and focus on doing what he could for Gilbert. And for Gilbert, although he’s told Roderic of his original purpose for him - with smiles and far away glances - he’s never sought comfort.

So Roderic’s motions are stifled. Awkward and clumsy. He lays back down beside Gilbert’s shaking form, taking in a slow breath before reaching out towards him, grasping his shoulder. He’s too scared to speak - he knows that one wrong word could have Gilbert scorning him for days, so he carefully rubs at his shoulder and back, trying.

It’s enough that it causes Gilbert to hiccup back some of his heavy breaths, and the cries die down into an odd silence mixed with trying to steady his breathing. Slowly, Gilbert uncurls, refusing to show his face as his own hand clumsily reaches out.

But his grasp is harsh, nails digging into Roderic’s arm with a surprising strength. In that moment where Roderic grunts in pain, Gilbert moves fast, burying his teeth into Roderic’s shoulder.

“Guh-!”

It takes everything in him not to stumble over curses, wincing at how hard Gilbert’s teeth mark him. He knows if it weren’t for his nightclothes, blood would be prickle at his skin, just like the tears in his eyes.

His name is on Roderic’s lips, ready to try and apologize, however… Gilbert takes in another shuddering breath, a fresh wave of tears spilling forth despite the stubborn expression on his face. Gilbert once again hides his face, but this time against the crook of Roderic’s neck, his grip tight on his clothes.

All of the annoyance and guilt evaporates from Roderic, a slow sigh slipping out as he gingerly tries to rub Gilbert’s back again. This time, there isn’t fierce pushback, just a quiet sob muffled against his skin.

.

They won't talk about this in the morning. Gilbert would be his usual self, complaining about breakfast being bland again, how Roderic hogged space on the bed, or some other tease he makes up in his head.

Meanwhile, Roderic would notice that Gilbert begins to stay up later than him. That soon, Gilbert starts wanting to sleep in separate spaces. The warmth he sought from Roderic is replaced by thicker blankets and extra pillows, and the time that they shared a bed slowly starts to fade away.

In order to be more like him, Roderic was taught to keep eye on what would usually go unnoticed by others. Unfortunately, this means Roderic subconsciously uses this with everyone - including Gilbert. He notes how Gilbert begins to wear his eyepatch everywhere, except for cleaning. That the first few nights they stayed apart, Gilbert's exhaustion was apparent, until he slowly began getting accustomed to a lack of rest.

It solidifies a simple fact: there is a wall between them that can never be breached.

And Roderic has to be alright with that. For who is he to argue against his savior?

Steeples my hands.

RJThirtsy on Ao3 wrote two fanfics, one called To Protect My Love and another called Is This Love? The first one dealt with Gilbert having (oc) and Roderic get closer, to successfully keep up appearances, with an idea about Gilbert escalating it. I talked about how I believed Roderic loves Gilbert, because imo he either loves him or loves him in a very pedestal-ey way in order to be willing to be his body double. We ended up talking about how this could work.

So, in response, RJ wrote Is This Love? and explored Roderic and Gilbert being each other's first kiss. And I went insane and wrote this out in response.

Hilariously... I accidentally made this very akin to The Beast's Torment, my fanfic where Gilbert also wakes up from a nightmare with the reader/mc, and he runs off at first... but with them, he relents. He comes back and lets them see him at his worse. Meanwhile, Roderic never gets that closure. Hahaha another layer of pain I didn't consider until Mimi asked about it.... pain.

Anyway, RJThirsty on ao3. Please look at their fanfics. They also write smut as well, and I like how they write Gilbert a ton. Thank u, Love Suicide, for giving me the brainworms for this. Also the title. Very last minute. Very bs. Don't look at me.

Ikepri Masterlist | Ikevamp Masterlist | Ikevamp/Ikepri Discord

Taglist (Sign-up form here!): @namine-somebodies-nobody @ridiculouslly-ridiculous @xbalayage @bubblexly @queengiuliettafirstlady @keithsandwich @nightghoul381 @skoetiepoetie @katriniac @redsky-morning (wahh it won't let me tag you!)

[artmialma]

Jim Fitzpatrick (Brn 1944) Irish

Sinéad O'Connor-" Strange Days" 2003

This portrait of singer-songwriter Sinéad O’Connor was originally commissioned for a Dublin nightclub, Lillie’s Bordello but was ultimately purchased by the sitter.

Compositionally it references Roderic O’Conor’s Reclining Nude (NGI) – in turn a tribute to Velázquez’ Rokeby Venus.

The view through the window shows the Pigeon House area of Dublin, an area of particular significance for O’Connor, and was included at her request. 

[judesmoonbeauty]

Chevalier Michel - Sequel Chapter 3 Summary

Fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors. This is a SUMMARY of each chapter. However, some scenes may be translated within a summary if time permits. Cybird owns everything. Feel free to re-blog, but please do NOT post my translations elsewhere. Also, feel free to ignore my random commentary.

Translation notes are marked with *** Alternate translation is marked with///

The day after the heavy welcoming party that felt like a psychological battle, the Rhodolite delegation was informed by Roderic that the alliance talks can not begin because Gilbert has gone missing. 

Yves rolls his eyes, Leon is upset and Chevalier never breaks his normal face. Chevalier asks Roderic if they can move up the inspection since Gilbert is missing, and Roderic says they can tour the city as it has no restricted areas as the castle does. (Remember, they can only tour those areas once the alliance is signed). Now they are stuck in Obsidian until the search parties find Gilbert. However, when Leon asks what Chevalier thinks of this situation, Chevalier says it’s all within his purview. Clearly, it's a trap.

Chevalier tells “Black and Show-off” to checkout the industrial sector, while he and Emma check out the commercial district. The guys are bummed out, so Chevalier asks if they have a problem with his instructions. They tell him it’s disappointing that Emma is called by her name, but they are still called weird nicknames. Yves wants to at least be called his name while in another country. Chevalier says if they offer him equal value that Emma holds to him then he’ll consider it. They both reply: "Impossible". (LOL.)

Chevalier asks Roderic who’s standing behind him and he introduces Walter, who remains silent and stern looking, but offers a simple bow. Roderic says that as they both remain at Gilbert’s side, so they can ask them for anything if need be. Chevalier’s icy blue eyes probe Walter. (He has caught on.)

Chevalier changes into everyday clothes and takes Emma to town, who is excited, but due to the crowded and bustling market is easily bumped by many people. Chevalier leads her into an alleyway and as she says sorry for making trouble for Chevalier, he drops a kiss on her lips calling her a simpleton. As they watch the people pass in the alleyway Chevalier mentions that their population is easily 100 times more than the main town of Rhodolite. Emma notices that everyone is thriving despite rumors of war, heavy taxes and food shortages. Chevalier notes that the sanitation and security is up to par as well, though the outskirt towns are less so, the centralized areas are better off. 

As they discuss who is responsible for the positive changes in Obsidian it’s obviously Gilbert, since the Emperor has no care for such things other than war. The way Chevalier speaks about Gilbert causes Emma to hesitantly ask if Chevalier knew him before? Chevalier admits that it was  long time ago, but now they are enemies, and despite the alliance, he is a threat to Rhodolite. So, they can never be how they were before 🥺 Since they are a country that invades other they must stay on their guard. 

Emma mentions that these people are just like the ones in Rhodolite and she doesn’t want something like an invasion happening again. Chevalier clumsily strokes her head and tells her that’s why he’s there in Obsidian. Emma says she’ll do whatever it takes to support him, and he tells her that first she needs to learn how to walk through the crowd. He grabs her hand to walk with her even though they are on an official tour.

At first Emma wonders if it’s okay to do this, and she THANKS HIM, at which point, Chevalier kisses her again. She’s shocked since she didn’t say sorry this time, (he’ll kiss her each time she apologizes), and he said this time it was because of the stupid look on her face. He tells her what to look for when they inspect the shops and other businesses for the inspection. He also tells her to let him know what catches her eyes personally, so he can be sure to introduce those things into Rhodolite.

Emma asks Chevalier to let her know if there is anything he sees that interests him, but he tells her there wouldn’t be anything because he’s only interested in her. That evening at the castle, Gilbert’s “trap” takes shape when he still hasn’t reappeared. Apparently, this is different from one of his “normal” disappearances. Roderic and several soldiers appear at Chevalier’s room with the decision from a council that had been held. It was concluded that foul play may be at hand and the delegation is asked that they each remain in their own rooms until they are interrogated. Soldiers begin to surround Emma, but Chevalier quickly wraps his hand around her waist and asks, “Why must I be separated from my fiancée?” 

Intimacy check: Chevalier’s Sequel Gold Eyes.

[Next] [Previous] [Master List]

[its-julia-in-outer-space]

Our Love Eternal - Part 1

Prompt: Harry is a Viking, and invades Y/N's land.

The Demon was taller than Y/N had expected him to be. Dressed in fighting leathers and a heavy fur coat, he stood alone before her father’s throne with both hands on the pommel of his greatsword. He had no beard, no visible ink staining his fair skin and his thick dark curls were free from any braid or decorative bead.

Had she not known any better, Y/N might have thought him an English mercenary, come to offer his services to the kingdom. But she did know better. The stories of the northern invaders had reached her ears long before they came knocking on Castle Branagh’s doors. 

A furious storm was raging that night, said the stories, when three ships emerged from the mist. Twenty men on each ship, rowing to the shore to the relentless sound of drums. One man did not row, people said. He stood still as stone, at the bow of the foremost ship, staring ahead. Jarl Harald, his countrymen were said to call him. Demon, did the people of Lothian.

The invaders did not know hunger, thirst or weariness. They marched on, day and night, taking all the riches and valuables they could get their hands on. An unstoppable wave, heading straight for the castle, the heart of the kingdom.

Neighbouring lands had faced the northern invaders before, and fallen before them. But this group seemed different. They took no lives, so long as people did not resist. Women were left unabused, homes unburnt. From the monasteries, they seized the gold, but left the monks alone. From the fields, they took what food they needed, and cared not to ruin the rest.

Men had been sent to stop them, of course. The strongest warriors in Lothian had been torn from their homes, lifted onto brave steeds and sent off to lay down their lives for the kingdom. And lay down their lives, they had, cut down like children by the northern beasts.

Y/N had seen them appear over the horizon one morning, a shifting mass darkening the path to Castle Branagh. Standing on the battlements, she had watched them approach as the castle erupted in pointless chaos. There was, after all, nowhere to run.

Nowhere to run, she thought again as she stood behind her father’s throne, the Demon before them.

“Ask him what he wants,” said the king to the translator. Her father wore his best finery, the Antler Crown placed proudly on his balding head. Slightly crooked, as always. Y/N could see beads of sweat running down his neck, and hoped that the invaders could not. For dignity’s sake.

The translator, a short and plump spice merchant who had apparently done frequent business in the invaders’ northern lands, spoke then in a strange, rhythmic, melodic prose. The Demon tilted his head to the side, bright green eyes on the Antler Crown, as he replied in that same strange language.

“He asks if you are the one called the Stag King,” the translator said.

“I am King Roderic of Lothian. Like my father before me, and his father before him, I am called the Stag King by the people of my lands.”

An old title, its meaning forgotten. Undeserved.

The translator translated. The Demon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze leaving the crown to travel the crowd of stoic soldiers and cowering nobles. He spoke then, his tone sharper.

“He asks if you have a child,” the merchant said. “No - a daughter.”

Y/N froze as, one by one, each member of the royal court looked at her. Following along, the Demon’s green eyes settled on her figure. She was covered from head to toe, gloves on her hands, cloak around her body, veil over her face. Yet she felt naked as he watched her, watched every tremor, every shiver that racked her.

The Demon spoke again, his chapped lips curving into a predatory smile. Spoke to her.

“He says hello,” the translator said. “He says not to be scared.”

“Scared!” her father scoffed. “The nerve! Has he come to mock us? Is this why he asked for an audience? To make fools out of this court before they slaughter us? We know his men stand ready! We know who waits in the darkness!”

The Demon’s eyes went cold, flickering to her father as he bit out two short sentences.

The translator hesitated. “He says - he says he was not speaking to you, Your Highness. He was speaking to Lady Y/N.”

Her father opened his mouth, fury reddening his skin. Before he could speak and possibly damn them all, Y/N took a step forward.

“Why?” she asked. She sounded frightened, and cursed her lack of control. It was impossible to ignore the smile that blossomed on the Demon’s face. “What does he want with me?”

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she listened to the translator’s wheezy voice, and the Demon’s deep one in return. Air turned scarce as she watched the merchant’s eyes widen, his shoulders tense as he turned to her.

“He’s offering a deal, my Lady. He says he and his men will depart Lothian at once, and not harm a single soul. He swears not to return in ill spirit, lest the deal is broken. He says he is ready to make a solemn oath to you, and to the gods of his faith.”

“What- what does he want in return?” Y/N asked.

Time seemed to stop, seconds stretching into centuries as she waited with bated breaths for the translator to speak. The Demon stood still, his green gaze boring into hers through her veil.

“He wants the Stag’s Daughter to come with him back to his land. To Kaldagr. My Lady, he wants you.”

-----

The northerners’ longships were called drakkars, Y/N learned.  Their word for sword was sverð, the one for shield, skjold. Come was koma, and skynda was hurry. To her, they said nei most often. She needed no translation for that one.

She was told the crossing would be dangerous. Depending on the winds, it would take them three to six days to reach their homeland. Three to six days of cold winds, harsh waves and unpredictable weather. 

They asked her if she could swim, and laughed when she said no. They opened her sole bag of belongings and threw away all three of her dresses, and ordered her maid to pack men’s pants instead. They never left her alone. Never.

As if she could have run from them. As if she wanted to. 

The Demon’s audience with the Stag King had ended ten days prior, with the signing of a treaty between the kingdom of Lothian and Kaldagr. The treaty was simple: there would be peace and friendship between both lands, so long as the Princess of Lothian remained in the great city of Kaldagr. It was not stated what she was expected to do, once in the north, and she did not dare to think about it for too long.

In the end, what did it matter? If it saved her people, she would endure.

“My Lady, you must drink.”

Robben, the merchant turned translator, was handing her his waterskin. They were sat pressed together from hip to shoulder, at the back of the longship. They had departed from the Lothian shores almost four days ago, and the open sea surrounded them on all horizons.

There had been rain, there had been wind, and waves so tall they seemed like mountains. Every now and then, weather permitting, the northerners would pack the oars and let down the sails. 

“Thank you,” Y/N said as she took the waterskin from Robben. She lifted the bottom of her veil and drank a few mouthfuls.

As ordered, she had put on men’s clothing, the pants an unfamiliar feeling on her legs. She had too large hunting boots on her feet, kept in place by leather laces around her calves, thick socks underneath. Two cloaks had been placed around her shoulders, and still the cold wind passed through.

If the courtiers of Castle Branagh saw her, they surely wouldn’t recognize their princess. She looked like a vagrant, and smelled like one too after days at sea.

But still, she kept her veil over her hair and face. Not out of modesty, or out of respect for her father’s orders. She’d never cared much about those, even if she’d obeyed them for her entire life. But keeping her features hidden felt safer, the veil almost a shield against the northerners’ eyes. It was the last thing she owned, the last thing that was truly hers. She already dreaded the time when she would have to remove it.

She was still surprised she hadn’t been asked to take it off yet. Thought she would have to, that day on the beach.

On the morning of their departure, her father’s men accompanied her to the shore where the drakkars waited, already prepped for the journey home. A single row boat waited on the sand, two men sat inside with oars ready.

The Demon stood before it, his boots lapped by the waves, the rising sun over his left shoulder. The soldiers who brought her to him stayed back at the end of the dirt road, standing in a line as she walked alone towards the monster who now owned her.

As she approached, she noticed first that his arms were bare. Dark ink covered his fair skin, swirls and strange symbols running from his shoulders to his wrists. His dark curls were braided back, silver beads holding the ends together. The greatsword he’d carried at the audience was now accompanied with twin axes at his hips, a dagger at his belt and a bow across his back.

Now, he truly looked like a demon. Y/N’s heart faltered, an age-old instinct to run rising in her bones. She was smart enough to recognize that if he was the predator, she was the prey.

But she was the Princess of Lothian. She may have been going to her death, but she would go with pride and dignity. So she kept walking, stopping three steps before him. Even though he could not see her eyes, hidden behind the veil, she refused to look down.

A small, secretive smile on his lips, he bowed his head in a show of respect that made her want to spit in his face.

“Y/N,” he said. Her name did not sound the same coming from his mouth, his accent distorting every syllable. Then, he gestured at his own chest and said in broken, exaggerated English, “I am Harald. Harry.”

“You know my language?” she asked. He frowned, confusion in his eyes, and she took it as a no.

He spoke then rapidly in his own dialect, his hand pointing to the longship behind, then to her. He repeated the same words a second time, while she looked at him blankly.

“Kaldr,” he said. “Cold.”

Y/N looked down at herself, and the coat that had been given to her. It must have belonged to a hunter, stained with old blood and dirt, but she had no clothes of her own for extreme temperatures.

“This is all I have,” she told the Demon - Harry.

He clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath. Then, to her horror, he pushed back his cloak. Truthfully, calling it a cloak was doing it a disservice. Made of white, immaculate fur, it must have belonged to a wolf, but one larger than Y/N thought existed. It looked wonderfully warm and soft.

“No,” she protested as he took a step closer to her, the cloak in his hands. “I don’t want it.”

“Cold,” he said again. “Death.”

“I’ll be fine!”

He snarled, teeth bared at her. Such an animalistic behaviour, a savage show of dominance. But her protests died in her throat, her muscles locking up in fright.

His gaze turned softer at her reaction, and he looked almost regretful. But he said nothing, and stepped into her space. As he draped the heavy garment around her shoulders, his arms on both sides of her head, she kept her gaze on his chest.

“No cold,” he said, stepping back. “Varmr.”

“Warm,” she guessed. “I suppose I’m no good to you if I die from the cold before we even get there.”

“Warm,” he repeated, struggling on the w. “Já.”

Then, his hand lifted towards her face. As the tip of his fingers brushed her veil, Y/N startled backwards.

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Nei.”

He inclined his head in surrender, and sighed.  Then, without stepping closer, he gestured towards the row boat. 

For a moment, Y/N debated staying put. Digging her feet in the sand, the soil of her homeland. Would Lothian hold her, she wondered? Would her kingdom grip her ankles, her thighs, her waist, keep her with it no matter how hard the northerners pulled at her?

She entertained the fantasy for a few seconds. Breathed in. And walked to the row boat.

“We will reach Kaldagr before nightfall, I believe,” said Robben, his wheezy voice startling Y/N out of her memories. “Only a few more hours to go.”

“And then what? Will I be locked up? Beaten and raped? Made a slave to my enemies?”

Robben sighed.

“I don’t know what will happen to you, my Lady. But I do not believe you will be harmed.”

“Why not? Isn’t that the Viking way?”

“If they wanted to hurt you, they would have done so in Lothian.”

Y/N scoffed.

“That’s assuming there’s any kind of logic to their actions. Do you know them so well, sir, that you can assure me of my safety?”

To his credit, Robben seemed to take no offence to her sharp tone and biting words.

“I am not so arrogant. But I have spent time with the northerners, and with Jarl Harald himself.”

“Harald,” she repeated. “Or Harry?”

“Harry is a nickname of sorts, one he uses with foreigners. Perhaps because it is more familiar to them, less…”

“Northern?”

“Less threatening. Many in the world believe the Vikings to be savages, conquerors, people with little thought who steal, and rape, and kill. We imagine they live depraved lives, uneducated and beastly.”

“Do they not? They certainly behave like animals.”

“No. They are warriors, certainly. But you will see in Kaldagr that there is tradition, art, laws, commerce, and all the same complexities that you have in Lothian. The culture is different, yes. Very much so. But I would say the same of Francia, of the Byzantine Empire or Flanders.”

“You are a well-travelled man.”

Robben nodded, looking at the horizon with a distant smile on his face.

“I thank you, my Lady, for what I believe is a compliment. But do not mistake me for a learned man. I am no wiser than a child.”

“Do you truly not know, then?” Y/N asked, fear slipping into her tone. “What he wants with me?”

“The Jarl? No. But he is a private man. I do not believe even those closest to him know why he took you from Lothian.”

“Well,” Y/N said, hugging the white fur coat closer to her body. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

-----

As Robben had said, land appeared on the horizon hours later. Cliffs that seemed to reach the clouds rose before Y/N’s eyes, grey rocks topped by emerald green grass. Forests of spruce stretched on and on, dark and imposing.

The longships sailed to a narrow opening in the cliffs, which Robben said was called a fjord. They followed the river for some time. The further they travelled, the more the northerners smiled. The men had been quiet, focused and sullen during the crossing, but now, they laughed and joked, sang songs. Ale was distributed, caskets passed from one ship to another.

Even Harry, who had not said a single word the entire journey, now sang with his men from his place at the bow of the ship. He looked younger somehow, his green eyes lit up with barely restrained glee. Happy to be home, Y/N supposed, while she felt she was getting closer to her grave with each passing minute.

As dark as her mood was, she could not hold back her gasp when Kaldagr came to view at last.

It was the largest city she had ever seen. It stretched from the end of the fjord to the top of the hills beyond, an army of timber houses with thatched roofs pressed close together. No walls surrounded the city, but the forest around was so dense that Y/N realised they did not need one.

All of the homesteads were low to the ground, made of one story. They looked barely discernible from one another, an extra window here, slightly wider walls there.

There was one building, however, that contrasted with the rest. It was built from the same timber and thatch, but its length and width far surpassed that of any other building. It was also much higher, towering above the city.

“That’s the longhouse,” said Robben. “It’s where the Jarl lives, and where the northerners hold their meetings and gatherings.”

“Like a castle?”

“Not exactly. Castles, like the one you grew up in, are meant for the nobility. Longhouses welcome everyone.”

“Are there no upper classes here?”

“No, there are. But the gentry is not so separated from the rest of the people, like you might see in Lothian.”

“How strange,” Y/N said, looking at the longhouse. Her father would have never allowed the lower class to step foot in Castle Branagh. When he spoke of the common people, it was always with disdain and mockery. As if the very bread he ate hadn’t been made from their hands.

But then, her father had always been a selfish, greedy man. The veil Y/N had borne her entire life was yet another example: how much he’d loved that only he knew what she looked like, how he’d basked in the curiosity of the other nobles, of the neighbouring royalty. She’d been yet another jewel in his coffers, to be kept hidden, under lock and key.

“Ah,” said Robben. “The welcoming party has arrived.”

Y/N looked to the docks. A crowd had gathered, men and women of all ages cheering and waving at the approaching ships. At the end of the longest dock, three women stood.

Two of them had dark hair, and wore long, thick dresses of the same burgundy colour. Golden jewellery adorned their necks and wrists, their hair pinned up. They could have been twins, had one not been considerably older than the other.

“The Jarl’s mother and sister,” Robben explained. “Hedda and Astrid.”

The resemblance to Harry was more evident the closer they got, from the shape of the mouth to the colour of the hair. But Y/N’s eyes were drawn to the woman in between them. She was as tall as a man, her figure toned. Blonde hair fell from her scalp in wild curls, the wind blowing them in front of her icy blue eyes. Freckles decorated her skin, like stars in the night sky.

She was not wearing a dress, but fighting leathers. A large axe hung from her waist, the woman’s hand resting on the handle as if she might draw it at any moment.

She was beautiful, stunning even, in the way that a snake is before it strikes.

“What about her?” Y/N asked.

“Ah,” answered Robben. “That would be the Lady Saga. Eldest daughter of Jarl Thorvald of Skolstrond, to the north of here.”

“The Lady Saga has quite the weapon.”

“Yes, she does, and she knows how to use it. Does that surprise you? A woman fighting?”

“No,” she said, and shrugged at Robben’s doubting look. “Why would a woman be incapable of fighting? We have arms, don’t we?”

“Do you not believe females are weaker?” asked Robben, throwing up his hands with a smile at the sudden tension in her body. “For the sake of argument only, my Lady.”

“No,” she replied. “Not when I look at the Lady Saga.”

At last, the longships reached the docks. Ropes were thrown to secure them and a human chain was formed to unload the many bags and crates, filled with the northerner’s plunder.

Y/N’s name was called, and she looked up to see Harry before her, his hand stretched out. There was a wild smile on his face, victorious. A man who’d gotten what he wanted, although she still wasn’t sure what exactly that was.

She looked at his outstretched hand, those long, calloused fingers. The hand of the enemy. The joy in Harry’s eyes faded, replaced by apprehension. He spoke softly.

“He says not to worry,” said Robben. “He only means to help you off the ship.”

Y/N took a shallow breath in and placed her hand in Harry’s. He gently closed it around hers, pulling her up to her feet and guiding her to the edge of the longship. Stepping off first, he grasped her elbow and supported her as she stepped onto the dock.

“Thank you,” she said, her words barely audible.

“Þökk,” Harry smiled. A translation, offered like a gift.

He did not let go of her hand as he accompanied her down the dock, as if she was an honoured guest and not a prisoner of war. As they reached the trio of women, his mother and sister kissed his cheeks and forehead, tears pearling at the corner of their eyes.

The sister, Astrid, couldn’t have been older than fifteen. She was bouncing on the heel of her feet, wide brown eyes flitting between Harry and Y/N. The mother, Hedda, had a bit more composure and only snuck glances here and there.

“Saga,” said Harry, drawing Y/N’s attention. The warrior had approached, bowing her head respectfully. Harry clasped her forearm, as one would a fellow warrior.

They exchanged a few words, before Saga’s cold blue eyes settled on Y/N.

“Y/N,” she said. “Welcome to Kaldagr.”

Her voice was melodic, surprisingly high. Most surprisingly was how seamless her English was, her accent nearly indiscernible. 

“Thank you,” Y/N said tentatively. Robben hadn’t said who Saga was to the northerners, and she was unsure of the level of deference that was expected. “I didn’t think many would know my language.”

“Most do not,” the warrior replied. “But I had a good teacher.”

Saga said nothing more, and Harry took this opportunity to softly pull at Y/N’s hand. He led her down the docks to the city itself, his mother and sister falling in step behind them. Robben had joined them, and as Harry gestured at some buildings here and there, he translated.

They passed the armoury, the butcher’s shop, the sick house, the forge. There was a school, training grounds and a tailor. They walked through two different markets, both overwhelming from sights, scents and sounds. 

Men and women hurried down the busy, narrow streets, many clasping Harry’s free hand with sincere joy in their eyes. He knew most of their names, and always introduced them to Y/N, though she understood very little of what was said.

At last, they reached the longhouse. While not as tall as the smallest tower of Castle Branagh, the longhouse was daunting in its sheer length and width. The large doors were thrown open, and through them, Y/N could see a large room filled with tables and benches. At the centre was a firepit, and against the room’s back wall were two thrones perched on a dais. The floor was covered with thick furs and carpets, the walls decorated with tapestries.

Harry walked straight through, pulling Y/N along. They passed the tables, the firepit, the dais, and walked through an opening to the side. She saw the kitchen to her right, many closed doors to the left. At last, they reached another door, more ornate than the rest. Harry opened it and guided Y/N through.

At once, she saw the bed. She whirled around as the door closed behind her, realising with dread that she was alone with Harry. His mother and sister, the Lady Saga, Robben, were all gone.

Instinct took over. Harry blocked the path to the door, so she bolted to the other side of the room. Her eyes passed quickly over the desk, the chests and wardrobes, the bed, and widened as she saw the weapon rack. She grabbed the handle of a sword and pulled. But she hadn’t realised how heavy it was, and her grip loosened as the sword fell with a great clatter to the floor.

She cursed under her breath, and strained, lifting the sword off the wooden planks. Her arms ached, muscles screaming in pain.

“Stay back!” she ordered, air coming out of her lungs in panicked wheezes.

Harry hadn’t moved from the door. He stared at her, eyebrows raised high, his mouth slightly open. 

“I will kill you if you touch me,” Y/N hissed. “I will cut your head off, I’ll split you open, I will - I will rip out your lungs!”

Gone were her promises to her people, the treaty, her father’s orders. If this demon put a hand on her, she would bite it off. Or, at the very least, she would try.

Harry laughed.

“What?” she asked, baring her teeth. “I will!”

With an amused smile, he shook his head. He spoke, but she understood none of the words he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she said, her tone rising. 

His brows furrowed in concentration.

“No hurt,” he said. He was looking at his hands, like a boy trying to remember his lessons. She realised then that this was exactly what was happening, as he continued in English. “You - are safe. No danger.”

“But - why,” she stammered. “Why did you bring me here?”

She gestured to the bed, and his eyes widened.

“Nei!” he said. He spoke in his language, and his face twisted in frustration as he struggled to find words. He pointed at her, twice, then at the floor.

“Are you…,” she began, looking around the room. “Are you saying this is my room? Just mine?”

He nodded, pointed to the closed door and the hallway beyond. “Mine,” he repeated.

His, over there. Hers, here. Separate bedrooms, because he was not going to touch her. Y/N deflated, the sword sliding a second time from her grip and falling to the floor. She ignored the wince on Harry’s face and leaned against the wall, her legs shaking.

“Safe,” he said again. “Safe.”

There was honesty in his eyes, his features devoid of any sign that he might be lying, trying to trick her. How stupid could she be, to want to trust him? He had taken her from her land, her people, her family. He had forcefully brought her to this city full of strangers, to his home, and she was supposed to believe he meant her no harm? What else could he want?

But there was something, in the bottomless green of his eyes. In the tilt of his full lips, in the shyness in his gestures.

“Okay,” she said. “Safe.”

With shaking limbs, she lifted her hands towards her veil. Part of her was screaming not to do this, not to let go of her last defence. But it felt like a show of trust, a step in his direction. She would see what he’d do with it.

She pulled at the clasp that held the veil in place, and felt it fall from her hair and face with a whisper. It pooled at her feet, the heavy lace stained from the days of travel.

Harry did not blink. His eyes pored over her face, the shape of her jaw, the tilt of her eyes, the colour of her hair. It seemed as if he looked at her for centuries. She dared not move, dared not breathe. She was afraid, but did not know of what. His judgement? 

“Þökk,” he said, his words soft as a morning breeze. Thank you.

Then, he bowed his head and stepped back to the door, leaving the room. As soon as the door was closed, Y/N’s legs faltered and she slid down the wall until she was sat on the floor, the fallen sword next to her feet.

She looked at the room properly, at the rich furniture, the open wardrobe in which many dresses were hung, the finely woven tapestries and the bed fit for an empress. She may have been a prisoner, but it seemed she would be a comfortable one. The luxuries she’d been awarded at Castle Branagh paled in comparison.

So many questions filled her head. But the fatigue of the past days caught up to her at last and she dragged herself to the bed, falling down on the furs without bothering to undress herself. 

The moment her head hit the feather pillow, the world turned dark.

-----

Thanks for reading the first part, let me know what you think!

Masterlist

[marxistcomedy]

Anyone working in counter-propaganda can testify to a curious experience: we’ll put in hours of careful research collecting an impeccable set of resources that undermines some warmongering narrative, and we’ll eagerly share it with someone who claims to despise racism in all its forms — say, an outspoken opponent of the West’s so-called “War on Terror.” Unexpectedly, we are met with a response that is somewhere between chilly reticence and downright hostility. What’s going on?

From our perspective, we’re offering water to a person who’s self-identified as thirsty, and yet they react as if we were trying to poison them! They turn on a dime to defend the same institutions whose lies they were denouncing just moments before. At this point the sense of pride and accomplishment that comes from seeing through propaganda and putting puzzle pieces together into a satisfying historical account gets brutally transformed into its exact opposite: a sense of crushing defeat. In response to this bitter experience, many researchers — serious people, with plenty of experience reading and writing, and sometimes even of being published! — lash out. They decide that people have been “brainwashed” beyond the point where they can be reached by words or rational appeal. They “realize” that the masters of propaganda have been far more successful than we first imagined: it turns out we’re not David fighting Goliath, we’re more like an ant facing an asteroid.

The same inquisitive nature that first led them to unravel war propaganda narratives begins to feed an even larger psycho-historical narrative, and nihilism takes hold. The tragic cycle begins to appear eternal: innocent, well-meaning, hard-working folks are, time and again, viciously tricked by the scapegoating of a new rogue in the gallery — Indigenous, Black, Spanish, Jewish, Soviet, Vietnamese, Cuban, Serbian, Muslim, Libyan, Syrian, Korean, Venezuelan, Russian, Chinese. Due to the sheer power of propaganda and mass-media, the masses helplessly fall for hatred and volunteer for war, even though it comes at a very high cost to ourselves, our loved ones, and our ideals (religion, environmentalism, etc.). Sadly, the innate human propensity to “hate the Other” seals our fate as a society… or something along those lines.

I am going to argue that this narrative is nonsense. It tries to pass off as universal and eternal something that in reality is particular and ephemeral. In short: Westerners aren’t helpless innocents whose minds are injected with atrocity propaganda, science fiction-style; they’re generally smug bourgeois proletarians who intelligently seek out as much racist propaganda as they can get their hands on. This is because it fundamentally makes them feel better about who they are and how they live. The psychic and material costs are rationally worth the benefits. As for those anti-imperialists who don’t participate in this festival of xenophobia — and here I include myself — we have our own elitist consolation: we accept the tragedy of masses of gullible sheeple falling for cunning propaganda because having overcome it flatters our own intelligence. The more we condemn society’s stupidity, the smarter we feel in comparison.

But am I not just worsening the problem, aggravating our hopelessness, by criticizing the critics in a way that suggests that no one escapes ideological self-flattery? I don’t think so. Paradoxically, it brings us all back to a more even and possibility-rich playing field.

The prevailing populist narrative grants the People (of the West) moral innocence by attributing to them utter stupidity and naivety; I invert the equation and demand a Marxist narrative instead: Westerners are willingly complicit in crimes because they instinctively and correctly understand that they benefit as a class (as a global bourgeois proletariat) from the exploitation enabled by their military and their propaganda (in Gramscian: organs of coercion and consent). We’re not as stupid as we’re made out to be. This means that we can be reasoned with, that there is a way out.

[emphasis mine]

[irelandseyeonmythology]

I have been trying to find an answer online but I can't quite find what I'm looking for, if you don't mind can you help provide some insight?

Basically my question is did the medival people of Ireland honest to god believe in pseudo historical texts like the Book of invasions and related traditions. Like they believed in 6 waves of people coming to ireland under Christian cosmology.

Or was this more of a literary tradition for generally understood to be fictional or not quite accurate stories?

So it's been. Months. But if it's any consolation, this DID thoroughly haunt me!

I also cleared it with a colleague of mine who does work on like. Medieval Irish conceptions of history, so it's been vetted by Someone Who Is Not Me, at least the rough outline (I am NOT showing them my Tumblr, god forbid.)

And...for the most part? Yeah. They did. They sometimes argued FIERCELY over little details, like the Tuatha Dé coming in a cloud of mist or whether or not they burned their ships, or whether they were doing it to get away from Lugh. They cited texts that they thought were particularly authoritative, like the Holiest of the Holies, the now-lost Cín Domma Snechtai, they refuted other scribe's suggestions, sometimes very aggressively. I mean, you have scholars into the 20th century believing in this, at least to some extent or another, like Eoin MacNeill in his Phases of Irish History (1919) or T.F. O'Rahilly in his Early Irish History and Mythology (1946). Obviously not in terms of like. The Tuatha Dé as a supernatural race of people, but in the sense of what might best be described as extreme euhemerization, using these medieval texts as a way of trying to unveil a lost Irish pre-history. (It goes without saying this is NOT my approach and not how most of us approach the field, but it was quite common decades ago.)

Geoffrey Keating, in the 17th century, would write his History of Ireland, which used LGE as one of its key pieces of evidence in his attempt to hit back against less than savory accounts by anglophone scholars, of Irish history. "LOOK at our history, LOOK at our glorious past, LOOK at what we can do." It's imminently sympathetic, honestly. (Though Geoffrey shouldn't be taken to be credulous -- he explicitly says that Cath Fínntragha, for example, was not to be taken as a true historical account.) There's a bit, perhaps slightly amusing by modern standards, in his prologue where he says, "Cambrensis [Gerald of Wales], who undertook to give a correct account of everything, appears to have received a medley of fables from some dunce or blind man, for he has said nothing of the conquest of the Tuatha-De-Dananns, who possessed Ireland one hundred and ninety-seven years, during which time nine kings of their nation rules the island."

This is a man who does, firmly, believe in what he's saying and in the veracity of the sources that he has. We also see LGE and the pseudohistorical scheme in general being adopted by Keating's contemporaries, such as Dubhaltach mac Fhirbhisigh (Leabhar na nGenealach) and Roderic O'Flaherty (Ogygia), some of the best scholars of their day and men who...this is my bias speaking, but I trust them. Especially Dubhaltach. I don't have my copy to hand, but the way he speaks about his sources, the way that he's willing to argue with them even as he includes them in his work...I believe him. Or. Let me rephrase that. I believe that HE believed in what he was saying, and I believe in his integrity as a scholar. They're men who absolutely have an angle! But they're men who are using the sources that they have to defend their country from some truly awful slander using the best materials they have at the time, as methodically as possible.

Charles O'Conor, one of the, in my opinion, crucially overlooked scholars of the 18th century, a man who the field owes a massive debt to for his activism and his large collection of manuscripts (some of which, through a story I'll tell sometime if anyone's interested, become the Stowe Collection), was skeptical, saying that Keating's work, "Is a most injudicious Collection; the historical part is degraded by the fabulous, with which it abounds. Keating was one of those laborious Readers, who, in making Extracts, do it without Selection or Discernment; and suchWorks (as the judicious Mac-Firbis observes -- ought never to be published." Personally, while I appreciate boosting Dubhaltach and his work, I think he's too harsh on Keating. It's very easy to judge someone's scholarship when you're living a century ahead of them. He is much more skeptical than Keating, trying to compare native sources up against other contemporary histories of Europe, but he DOES still use LGE as a vital source -- he doesn't discount it or its invasion scheme entirely. He is still very much treating it as a historical document, albeit one that he doesn't fully believe in. (Especially since he's kind of fighting with James MacPherson, of Ossian fame. Because apparently getting into massive public debates with people whose work is enjoying a lot of popularity and that we think involves shoddy research is a time honored tradition in the field.)

But there is a reason why it gets picked up, even into the 20th century, because when you've had your history continually belittled and marginalized, when your language has been driven to the point of near extinction, when you are constantly told that you don't HAVE anything worth being proud of, not compared to the Grand History of England or the classical tradition, that you're a nation of barbarians and beggars...of course you want to believe in it. Of course you want to believe that you can salvage SOMETHING. Especially since these are your ancestors saying it. Your ancestors, reaching across this seemingly insurmountable chasm of time, telling you "look, this is your history." Do I think everyone in medieval Ireland agreed with it? Probably not. There was probably at least one person who was like "well...do we KNOW, though?" In the same way as there were very likely people who thought "King Arthur...did he exist?" Or those oddballs in the modern day who claim the Roman Empire didn't exist. There are always going to be people who are a little skeptical, even of what are the generally accepted truths of a certain time period, but I would say that in general? The trend we see is broad belief, because this is the best historical source that people had for centuries -- they had no reason to strongly doubt it, even if they argued over the details.

[floydsteeth]

GILBERTS ROMANTIC ROUTE IS MAKING ME SO EMOTIONAL AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH RODERIC I LOVE YOU BUT PLEASE NEVER DAY THAT AGAIN AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH

[bookfirstlinetourney]

Round 1

The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it, no paper notices on downtown posts and billboards, no mentions or advertisements in local newspapers. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.

-The Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern

It is said - and it is true - that just before we are born, a cavern angel holds his finger to our mouths and whispers, "Hush! Don't tell what you know." That is why we have a cleft on our upper lips and remember nothing of where we came from.

-Prince Ombra, Roderic MacLeish

This story ends in blood. Every story begins in blood: a squalling baby yanked from the womb, bathed in mucus and half a quart of their mother's blood. But not many stories end in blood these days.

-The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires, Grady Hendrix

[amory444]

Random ass pruaus headcanons cause I'm ungrounded in two days, except their super long for no reason

Roderich and Gilbert go to the mall to simply look at stuff but never buy them. If Gilbert wants to buy something he'll have to either have to convince Roderich to buy it for him or steal it, this is all because Gilbert bought something they didn't need once when they were out and now is not allowed to bring his wallet anywhere without intense supervision from Roderich.

Every Halloween they will dress up as fictional couples, be it gay or straight they don't care, Sometimes they even let others decide. It's become a yearly tradition for them, and every year they somehow get weirder than the last. The first year they did this they went out as starfire and Robin and now they're outrageous enough to go as miss piggy and kermit.

Only Roderich knows how to flirt, Gilbert cannot flirt to save his life, Roderich will tease him about it and Gilbert always says he's too good for flirting.

They both avoid the beach at ALL COSTS. Roderich has a crippling fear of the sea and marine animals and Gilbert is just albino. If they want to go swimming it's either a pool or their bathtub, it's unfortunately always the bathtub cause Gilbert turns into a hotdog if he stays for over 3 minutes in the sun and is appalled by the fact that some people bring food and piss in public pools. Roderich is just a hermit who doesn't like being around people, especially when he's half naked.

They both are insecure and will often have cuddling sessions where they just talk about the others features. Roderic lets Gilbert melt into his chest whilst he whispers random compliments, Gilbert goes for a more physical approach but it's still appreciated by Roderich none the less.

Roderich bakes and Gilbert cleans. Whenever Roderich is baking Gilbert prepares himself mentally for the mess he'll have to clean up afterwards. It's worth it though, he only eats Roderich's baking cause it reminds him of home. Roderich also cooks but it doesn't leave too much of a mess since his meals are usually small and simple.

Despite his wallet getting taken away, Gilbert still commissions artists online to draw him and Roderich. Roderich deeply despises this since he thinks it's useless, but he still enjoys the art. Sometimes they get baroque like art that they can spend hours looking at and observing.

They both watch Eurovision together and laugh at the performances, They mostly do it for entertainment but it can also bring them to heated arguments over the result.

Roderich wakes up randomly at night to either smoke or eat and sometimes even both. He'll crawl out of their shared bed and go downstairs to get some food or smoke, Gilbert is a heavy sleeper so he doesn't often wake up when this happens. Gilbert knows about this though but only worries and confronts him about it when he thinks Roderich has been smoking too much. Roderich is trying to stop, but his nickname "the ashtray of Europe" unfortunately still stays with him even though he tries.

They both can waltz and are great at it. They play waltz music in the background while they're relaxing on the patio Incase they wanna suddenly dance, most of the time it's Gilbert who initiates it but Roderich is the one who will convince him to continue. They enjoy how close and intimate they feel and how soothing and relaxing it can even be sometimes, though they also take it too seriously and end up accidentally breaking something.

(that's all unfortunately, my hands hurt and I think my mom knows I took my phone even though I'm not supposed to have it rn)