#the squires tale had a terrible ending

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Not to write meta about my ocs instead of writing the story itself, but I have been dwelling a lot on Percival's relationship with Avensley Hall.

Avensley Hall is a lot like Hamley Hall from Wives and Daughters, 100+ years and two world wars later. Ancestral home of small land owners, time, and lack of resources for maintenance have left it in very poor condition.

A very young Percival, in his high moments of triumph, dreamed of becoming a very famous -and rich- architect, who could, in time, bring his family home to its former beauty and splendor, and so bring more comfort and joy to his parents' old age. The war, his time on the desert campaign and later on in Italy, the death of his parents and subsequent suicidal disregard for his own life ending in the operation that disabled him physically and mentally, would have been the perfect set up for a rousing tale of strength, self reliance and determination to go from rock bottom straight to the top... had Percival been the choleric, proud, driven type. But Percival was not that man. He had, however, many other virtues: he was patient, methodical, generous, dutiful, principled.

And so he went home, after demobilization, a broken old man to a broken old home, and it was very easy for him to fall into this melancholy mood of sympathetic decay with the house itself. He was now, like it or not, "The Squire", no longer "young Percival" but Mr. Avensley; he wrapped himself in his father's clothes -as much an act of sentimentality as a product of war rationing- and set out to fill his role as best he could, without guidance or experience. Life now, he thought then, was for him a mausoleum where he was both corpse and sexton, and so he decided he would be there keeping the rotting place until he was done rotting himself. After all, how was he, tied down as he was by family duty and the mobility complications brought by the loss of his leg, to ever develop professionally? And how would he dare think of marrying, of dragging a poor woman down into his pit, where every night was a Russian roulette of insomnia and vivid nightmares?

He would have noticed the touch of silliness in this way of going about if it wasn't that he was really ill in his mind, and very isolated, as his sister had married a diplomat and gone abroad, and dear old Mrs. Andrews was a terribly serious and reserved woman, little inclined to humor or displays of affection. People in the town pitied him, and he did not like pity that wasn't his own, so he withdrew as much as he could, which only had the effect of intensifying the general pity towards him. The old ladies of Avensley, who had known him since he was a baby, were not above romanticizing him as a sort of lonely prince in a tower, and often wishing between themselves that a sweet girl bride -which they meant in the Victorian sense of young, innocent and beautiful- could be found to cure all his ills and cheer him up. How much Percival understood of this wish -which was mercifully never verbalized in his presence-, and how much it influenced his decision to further isolate, I rather not clarify.

So it is interesting when Nadine goes to live at Avensley, that she does not notice or think at first of what Percival considered a heavy-handed sympathetic metaphor of ruin in the narrative of his life. Perhaps it was because proud young men putting on brave faces was not a novelty to Nadine the way an old country house that has seen better days was, or a little wounded vanity at his apparent complete indifference towards her, or that nothing seemed to be the matter with him other than he was perhaps a bit too thin and a tad too impregnable, but she was clearly more attracted by the house at first than his owner. But then Nadine was a determined woman and she would befriend the man, and once friendship was established she started to see the likeness, but in a very different way. Percival, obsessed with light and air (we must forgive him, he is an architect after all) can only see the limitations, the constriction, the annoyances of stone and mortar and earth; Nadine, as she lets her old romanticism unsour her restless energy, sees strength, safety and warmth that has suffered the storms and survived, not unscathed, but all the same survived them.

Ultimately it is this contrast of perspective on who Percival is and who he can be that is at the crux of his part in the main conflict of the story, and an understanding that his circumstances are as much an opportunity as they are a limitation to flourishing so essential to its resolution. Just because a set of circumstances contrary to what his aspirations and plans once were is more or less forced upon him, it doesn't mean that there is nothing he can do, that all hope is lost.

The first Avensley of Avensley Hall was unwittingly wise when, in trying to draw from the Gospel maxim, wrote the Avensley family motto to be ex vetera nova, from the old, the new.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Treat Your S(h)elf: Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield (1998)

At Thermopylae, a rocky mountain pass in northern Greece, the feared and admired Spartan soldiers stood three hundred strong. Theirs was a suicide mission, to hold the pass against the invading millions of the mighty Persian army.

Day after bloody day they withstood the terrible onslaught, buying time for the Greeks to rally their forces. Born into a cult of spiritual courage, physical endurance, and unmatched battle skill, the Spartans would be remembered for the greatest military stand in history–one that would not end until the rocks were awash with blood, leaving only one gravely injured Spartan squire to tell the tale….

- Steven Pressfield, Gates of Fire (1998)

This is one of my favourite books on war I’ve ever read. I took my dog-eared copy with me last year when I went with ex-military veterans friends to climb Olympus and hike around Greece. One of the places we stopped was Thermopylae - where you can still bathe in the hot springs as the ancient Spartans and Athenians did before their monumental battle with the Persians. The very recent death of the last king of Greece, King Constantine II of the Hellenes, made me think of my trip to Greece last year and of one of the books I read on that trip. I thought I might share some of my rambling thoughts I had written down at the time, and also since then, about the retelling of one historical turning point in our western civilisation that has now entered into myth.

In 1998 was the year Frank Miller’s iconic comic graphic novel 300 about the the Battle of Thermopylae – where a tiny Greek force led by 300 Spartans held out for three days against an immense Persian invasion in 480BC - was published to great critical acclaim. Zack Snyder highly stylised slick film version of Miller’s 300 defied audience and studio expectations when it stormed the box office with Spartan-like ferocity back in 2007. Its mix of ancient history, comic-book iconography and sound-bite dialogue immediately found its way into the verbal and visual lexicon of contemporary pop culture; but things could have been very different. In 1998 Miller’s publication overshadowed the publication of Steven Pressfield’s more conventional historical novel, Gates of Fire, took its name from the eponymous battlefield, Thermopylae (referred to in 300 as ‘the hot gates’).

Pressfield, an ex-Marine soldier, had worked as a screenwriter creating disposable action-movie scripts for the likes of Steven Seagal and Dolph Lundgren in the late 1980s and early 1990s before writing his first novel, The Legend of Bagger Vance, which was adapted into the Will Smith film of the same name. It too won critical acclaim and was a huge best seller. George Clooney’s film production company bought the rights and David Self (screenwriter of 13 Days and Road to Perdition) was brought in to adapt it. Bruce Willis was dying to be in it and iconic director Michael Mann signed on the direct it. Instead the film went into development hell before Snyder’s film stole a march on Mann’s version to come out first in 2007.

As a Classicist and ex-veteran I found Both Miller’s comic graphic novel and Snyder’s film a severe guilty pleasure. But I have to say I found reading Steven Pressfield’s brilliant novel deeply satisfying on many more levels.

The book I remember well as an American special forces chap I knew out in Afghanistan gave it to me to read because I was complaining I was fast running out of things to read between missions. I loved it.

Like a good officer I passed the book along to others in my corps - rank and file - and within a month or two it had been passed around a fair bit. It led to endless arguments about the Greeks and the Western way of war in and out of the cockpit with my brother/sister aviators and crew as well other officers and the men.

For the soldiers on the ground the book felt more visceral. As a fellow brother British infantry officer said the depictions of phalanx warfare raised his blood pressure at how well he and his men could relate. I never felt more Spartan than I did I sitting on my arse baking in the sun of Afghan red dust mornings. We all related to this story one way or another - the sand, sweat, blood, feelings of combat, and thoughts of mortality.

Most book reviewers loved the book. “Does for (Thermopylae) what Charles Frazier did for the Civil War in Cold Mountain’, enthused author Pat Conroy. The New York Times praised the book’s ‘feel of authenticity from beginning to end.’ Author Nelson DeMille  admired the ‘mastery, authority and psychological insight.’ Sarah Broadhurst, in The Bookseller, particularly wanted to recommend the book to women: “ Although it has a male feel to it, it will appeal to both sexes, as my two readers and I can testify. In fact, it is a great example of the rebirth of the historical novel, which I am sure is on its way.” Where people quibbled, it was usually about the violence of some of the descriptions, or on small errors of fact. The Times called it ‘a story of blood, biffing and bonking, thigh deep in blood, terror-piss and entrails’ but acknowledged that ‘their heroism still makes the hairs at the back of the neck bristle’. The Times Literary Supplement sniped at Pressfield for confusing two different Greek cities called Argos, and for what it called ‘phallocentric discourse’, but also called the book ‘a monument to the important twentieth-century art of pace.’

The novel stands out in the way it makes everything come alive from the soldiers' training, the scenes of actual battle, and most particularly the scenes after or between battles. The discussions of fear, and of how officers and soldiers should behave are particularly poignant and also felt very real to those of us who have experienced war first hand. What I found pleasantly surprising was how well written it was with its very strong portrayals of women as secondary characters. With nearly all military books women are often relegated to the background but here I found some of the strongest depictions of women in this genre. The women don't fight in the battles, yet are courageous and compassionate, intelligent and influential.

Many readers will be familiar with the broad strokes of the story of the battle. But it’s worth recapping here for those that don’t. In 480 BC, King Xerxes lead a Persian army of between one and two million into Greece. The Spartan King Leonidas lead 300 Knights and some 700 Thespaian allies to the narrow pass at Thermopylae, in order to hold the Persians back as long as possible. They proceeded to hold the pass for 7 days. These 300 Spartans died to a man defending the pass against a force of over a million and the epitaph provided to them by the poet Simonides, "Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here obedient to their laws we lie", is perhaps the most famous in history. Their example rallied and inspired all of Greece and eventually the Persians were defeated in the naval battle at Salamis and on land at Plataea.

The story is told from the point of view of its narrator Xeones of Astakos, a helot, a slave of the Spartans, and has his own conflicted feelings about Spartan society. He is taken, wounded, before Xerxes, and asked to explain “who were these foemen, who had taken with them to the house of the dead ten or, as some reports said, as many as twenty for every one of their own fallen?” In Xeones’ own words, therefore, we get the story of his life; from when his own city is destroyed, to when he comes to Sparta as a slave, to the time when he finally comes to stand beside the Spartiate in the fateful battle. As the sole survivor among the Spartans, Xerxes wishes Xeones to tell his story to the Persian court historian Gobartes. Xeones starts with the tale of how he came to Sparta. As a youth, his village of Astakos is destroyed and his family slaughtered, but he and the cousin he loves, Diomache, escape. As they wander the countryside, Diomache is raped by soldiers and Xeones is crucified after stealing a chicken, although Diomache saves him from death. Thrown into despair, because his hands are so damaged that he can never wield a sword, Xeones heads off by himself to die. But he experiences a visitation from the Archer god Apollo Far Striker and realizes he can still wield a bow. When Diomache, who is also distraught after being violated by the soldiers, takes off, Xeones heads to Sparta where he hopes to join the army.

The middle section of the book, which is at a much slower pace, deals with his life in Sparta and the training techniques used by the Spartans to create what was one of the most formidable fighting forces the world has ever seen. Eventually he becomes the squire of one of the 300 knights who are chosen for Thermopylae.

The final section, on the battle itself, depicts wholesale slaughter accompanied by acts of ineffable courage. It also relates two of the great lines of all time. When Xerxes offers to spare the Spartans lives if they will surrender their arms, Leonidas is reputed to have snarled, "come and get them." And upon being told that the Persians have so many bowmen that the cloud of arrows would blot out the sun, one of the Spartans says, "good, then we'll have our battle in the shade."

Pressfield being an ex-Marine grunt himself gives a very convincing grunt’s-eye-view of the battle and of Spartan society to create a fantastically blood pumping engaging tale. Pressfield sets himself the task of explaining Spartan culture to us in all its glory, humour, brutality and philosophy. To do so, he draws on his personal experience as a US infantryman, as well being strongly versed in Classics. The result is a fascinating tale, on one level a war story written with great pace and excitement, on another a ruminative tale of man’s capacity for honour, heroism, and self-sacrifice.

As a Classicist (since confirmed by Pressfield in many interviews) he makes excellent use of the ancient historical sources (such as they are). The most useful sources seem to be Herodotus first, his pages about the battle.  Plutarch’s Lives of various Spartans — Lycurgus, Agesilaus, Lysander, etc - can be discerned strongly as the section of his Moralia called Sayings of the Spartans and Sayings of the Spartan Women.  Xenophon of course was the best contemporaneous eyewitness to real Spartan society. Constitution of the Lacedaemonians, the Cyropaedia and even the Anabasis greatly help Pressfield pepper history with authentic detail.  Diodorus’ version of the battle added the thought of the night raid (which The 300 Spartans also had) and Pressfield takes that from him.  Pressfield has said that he didn’t consult recent archaeology, other than going to Sparta myself and checking out the ruins of Artemis, Orthia and so forth.

But still huge gaps remained. This is where Pressfield the ex-Marine and the well educated novelist come together. There was much detail that he needed to consciously to make up and make it sound plausible and even true. For instance, the concept of phobologia, the Science of Fear. That’s completely invented, yet Pressfield, as a Marine veteran, absolutely felt certain the Spartans, like every other warrior race, must have had something like that, a religious-philosophical doctrine of warfare understanding the principles of their culture, probably a sort of cult-like initiatory situation.  

Pressfield in one interview admitted that the speech that Alexandros recites holding his shield —  “This is my shield, I bear it before me into battle, etc.” — was a fictional invention based upon his own experience in the US Marine Corps, where Marines recite, “This is my rifle. There are many other like it, but this one is mine, etc.” Another huge fictional detail that he made central to the story was the prominence of the squire in hoplite battle.  Again he based this on pure instinct and common sense.  He thought the relationship must be much like that of a professional golfer to his caddie.  Pressfield firms believes that the bonds formed between man and batman in the course of bloody warfare must have been intimate on a level second only to husband and wife, and maybe more intimate.  The ancient sources make nothing of this, because they just passed it over as obvious, but I fully agree with Pressman. It’s an inspired insight. The fact that squires and armour bearers voluntarily stayed to die at Thermopylae says volumes.  (Also a squire was the perfect fly-on-the-wall narrator, like Midshipman Byam in Mutiny on the Bounty.)  Further I could not imagine that squires would stand idly by, watching their men fight.  They must have served as auxiliaries, not only dashing in and out of the field evacuating the wounded, but getting in their blows as light infantrymen whenever they could.  I suspect that, as prominent as Pressfield made their roles in Gates, if we could beam ourselves back and witness actual ancient battle, the part of the squire/auxiliary was even bigger than one might imagine.

The book then is not merely about the immortal stand at Thermopylae but delves into the Spartan lifestyle, how they achieved such military cohesion, how they viewed themselves and the world, what made them willing to march off to a suicide mission — it’s one thing to find oneself in such a situation, it’s quite another to jockey to be chosen for it, to know days ahead of time that this is it, you’re heading to your death and to do it unflinchingly. It’s about what binds men together in a group — what makes them willing to die for others. I think Dienekes’ thoughtful analysis of fear and how the opposite of fear isn’t bravery but love, tells it all. Love of a messmate, a family, a city.

Indeed as Pressfield shows the spartans would carry their shields on the left side of their body which allowed them to cover the blind spot of the warrior fighting next to them. Commanders would arrange it so that family members and friends were placed next to each other within the formation. The belief was that warriors would be less likely to abandon their comrades if they were fighting next to someone they deeply cared about. Love conquers fear.

Now the story isn’t perfect, there are some pacing issues when the plot seems to go extra slow, and there are time jumps that can feel a bit awkward. Some periods of our main protagonist’s life, that would be interesting, are just skipped.

In my opinion, the book balances fiction and facts quite nicely, not making the Spartans some over the top super heroes, like the movie “300” did.

The thing that I liked the most is the whole theme of the book: honour, the duty to your city and people, and the strength of the mind. The Spartans didn’t see war as a fun way of killing people, it was an inevitable fact of life. They didn’t kill fear, they learned to embrace it, keep it locked until the very last moment.

Now it’s a bit harder to judge characters in a book like this because some of them are based on real people and some of them are fictional. But what I will say is that these people feel real, grounded to the situation they are in.

I was very taken by the portrayal of Leonidas, the Spartan king who commanded at Thermopylae. One of the most stirring speeches in the book is addressed to Xerxes, the King of Persia, and contrasts Xerxes with Leonidas: "I will tell His Majesty what a king is. A king does not abide within his tent while his men bleed and die upon the field. A king does not dine while his men go hungry, nor sleep when they stand at watch upon the wall. A king does not command his men's loyalty through fear nor purchase it with gold; he earns their love by the sweat of his back and the pains he endures for their sake….”

I also appreciated the inclusion of the women of Sparta — no shirkers themselves. They would be the first ones out shaming the men into doing their duty for their city (and that’s what it was all about for these people — the survival of the city first) if that was what was needed. I have to say I shed a tear when Leonidas confessed his criteria for selection of the 300. So much is said about Spartan men but the women kicked ass in a time and place where women were almost never seen and certainly never heard from. The first female Olympic champion was a Spartan princess called Kynisca, in 392 BC. She was also the first woman to become a champion horse trainer when her horses and chariot competed and won in the Ancient Olympic Games. Twice.

Arete is in some ways the most powerful character in the book. She is very well written.  She just popped forth, full-grown from the brow of Zeus.  I liked her a lot.  Whether or not Sparta was a “good” place for women I can’t say.  Certainly it would be fascinating as hell to beam back there and see, for real, how they lived and what they were like.  It seems likely Pressfield drew inspiration of Arete from Plutarch’s Sayings of the Spartan Women. These, if you’ve ever read them, are unbelievably hard-core.  For example, here’s one: A messenger returns from a battle to inform a Spartan mother (Plutarch gives her name but I’ve forgotten it) that all five of her sons have just perished honourably fighting the enemy.  She asks this only: “Were we victorious?” The courier replies yes.  “Then I am happy,” says the mother and turns for home. Here’s another: A messenger returns from another battle to tell another mother that one of her sons has been killed, facing the enemy.  “He is my son,” she says.  Her other son, the messenger continues, is still alive but ran from the enemy. “He is not my son,” she replies. Pressfield doesn’t see Arete quite that hard-core but certainly someone tough as nails who imbibed the Spartan mythos even more than the men and lived it.  Pressfield admits in one of his interviews that this was all instinct, he could be wrong, but itt just was what felt right to him.

Before I had gone through Sandhurst after university I didn’t really condone crude language or lewd humour but it’s one of the ways that my stint in the army and especially out on a battlefield deployment changed me a little. I confess that I loved the sometimes crude humour - they’re soldiers in a time of war and you do or say whatever will get you through. Battle (especially foxhole) humour has a dark gallows feel and it’s entirely acceptable and authentic - just ask any veteran of any war. The battle descriptions are graphic - very graphic but not much worse than what’s in the Iliad. And we are talking about a battle in which thousands died by sword, spear, arrow and other various messy methods.

I also enjoyed how the book has a pleasing prose aesthetic that imitates the style of Homer. For the non-Classicist it may take a little bit of getting used to and slow down their reading but it sounds melodious to the ear.

Overall Pressman gives us a pulsating story in which the characters are not either super evil villains that cartoonishly want to “take over the world” or superheroes that can’t make mistakes. The author doesn’t take a side in this story, war is war, and people are people. They make mistakes, get angry or jealous, they do bad things in the name of good and vice versa. The book is not about good and evil, it’s about how different people and cultures understand the order, stability, good and even our minds and dreams. The enemies here aren’t some sort of Oriental magic freaks from far away lands, they are just men made in flesh and blood. Sure wanting to control more land or have more people serving them, but that’s everyone I know in the history of rise and fall of civilisations.

Was the Spartan defence of the Hot Gates worth it?  

Clearly, yes. Cultures, if not civilisations, are nearly always rubbing up against each other and even clashing where they can’t bridge differences. I think Pressfield has it right when he said, “What the defence meant to me was this: its significance was metaphorical rather than literal.  We are all in a battle that will end with our deaths and, like the Spartans at Thermopylae, we know it.  The question is how do we deal with it.  They answered by being true to their calling, to their brothers and sisters, and to their ideals.  Early in the book there’s a passage where the Persian historian is narrating; he’s speaking of King Xerxes and his interest in the fallen Spartans.  Xerxes says of them: “He knew they feared death, as all men.  By what philosophy did their minds embrace it?”

In two of my favourite passages, Pressfield has his protagonist explain why sacrifice is so beautiful to the Greeks (or to anyone who has honour), "In one way only have the gods permitted mortals to surpass them. Man may give that which the gods cannot, all he possesses, his life”. This is a very profoundly moving insight.

Pressfield goes further and tries to answer a much deeper question as to why men fight and perhaps this is where it’s the ex-Marine and not the novelist in Pressfield who is talking, "Forget country. Forget king. Forget wife and children and freedom. Forget every concept, however noble, that you imagine you fight for here today. Act for this alone: for the man who stands at your shoulder."

Amen to that.

At the end of the book, I would have probably stranded there fighting side by side with them against the Persians. Because at that point, they were my friends, comrades, and heroes. It was when I put the book down that I realised that I already had the humble privilege of serving with my fellow brother and sister officers and soldiers of whom all were comrades, many were friends, and a few were unspoken heroes.

Does the battle of Thermopylae provide any lessons to us?

That is harder to discern because it depends on what values we already hold dear. Sparta was a small, compact, basically tribal society where every citizen (forgetting about the helots for the time being) was vitally needed and where warfare was hand-to-hand and absolutely communal, with your own brothers, uncles, father and friends fighting beside you, so if you acted the coward, there was no hiding it.  The modern world of anonymity, mass culture, commercialism, shamelessness, indulgence of sensual desires, worship of money couldn’t be farther.  The Spartan society is like a culture from the moon.

On an individual and interior basis, I think, can we take lessons that might help us.  Self-discipline, loyalty, grit, hard work, perseverance, honour, humility, respect, and compassion.  

On a societal level Spartans were not selfish and didn’t worship the cult of individualism as we do today. It was all about the group. In our age when civil strife, economic hardship, and effects of a unrelenting pandemic erode our trust in our political and civil institutions and set neighbour against neighbour because of the political or religious beliefs they might hold, the only thing we have left to fall back on is just our individual selves. It’s every man for himself. The Spartans would balk at such selfish individualism. The strength (and ultimately the effectiveness) of the Spartan phalanx was encapsulated in the “next man up” approach. If a warrior was injured or killed on the outer edge of the formation, the next man behind them would step up and take their place. The integrity of the group’s formation was protected at all costs, because without the strength of the phalanx to protect them, each man on had little chance of surviving the battle on his own. In a real sense, they had each other’s backs. They had the cohesion of a collective spirit. They were in it for each other together.

It’s not a bad thing in this day and age to be a little bit “spartan,” don’t you think?

[wodania]

i loved your dany and egg art and I was wondering where you got the idea to draw them identical?

This is long but I adore both of these characters so who can blame me 😭

I think I just loved the idea of these two being visually similar because of how similar their characters are personality and story wise. Dany and Egg are both rather untraditional leaders in that they value the opinion of the weak and impoverished over the strong and wealthy. Egg made many enemies in Westeros and was considered tyrannical by some because of his efforts to redistribute wealth towards the small folk who were dropping dead in the streets from disease and starvation, rather than the nobles who would only sit on that money and brag about how much they have. Egg was beloved by the small folk because he had their best interests in mind. Throughout Dunk and Egg, we see him learning more and more about how abusive the system of wealth and nobility is towards those at the bottom of Westeros’ social pyramid. Hell, even the nobles were wary of him after he retired from squiring because they considered him to be too much of a peasant to rule, likely afraid that having a man who’s lived a peasant life sitting on the Iron Throne would be the end of their negligent spending habits. Through his reign, we see these lessons shine through as he takes noble money and puts it towards what it should be going towards: relief efforts and care for the small folk, not parties and lavish clothing and simple bragging material.

In a similar scenario, Dany isn’t afraid to challenge the slavers and rich men in Essos when they are using their power to abuse those lower. She values slaves and impoverished lives over the lives of wealthy slavers, she’s considered tyrannical by that class of people because she’s willing to act against them and support those who are victimized by them. She’s willing to call them out on their bullshit and punish their behaviour when no one else did, whether it be from fear, lack of strength, or simply an acceptance of the slavers presence. Dany accepts those at the bottom of Essos’ social pyramid into her following with open arms, she considers them her children and she loves them. Slaves, impoverished people, disabled and sickly. Those are who Dany supports. Even when people around her tell her that she’s simply taking on dead weight that will only weigh her down, she doesn’t back down. That mindset was what put the small folk of Westeros and Essos in such a terrible position, the idea that it was only nobles and rich men who deserved to be part of a movement or support system. It’s a never ending cycle that Dany wants to finally be done with.

You also get a lot of narrative overlap between the two characters dragon wise. Egg was Dany’s great-grandfather. He hosted Summerhall for Rhaegar’s birth. He wished to hatch dragons for the celebration of the birth of Aerys and Rhaella’s son. His goal was to use dragons to further his pro-small folk laws, to use them as a tool to help the weak and protect them from the strong. Dany uses her dragons in the way Egg wished he could’ve used his; she uses her three dragons as tools to help save those who would not have had the opportunity to rebel against the abusive government they lived under. They are a symbol of freedom, of revolution against abuse. Dany, with her dragons, is living the life Egg could only dream of. She is who Egg wanted to be, she’s fulfilling her great-grandfather’s wishes whether she’s aware of it or not.

Their characters also fascinate me due to how the small folk are depicted. In many tales of nobles and kings in asoiaf, the small folk are hurdles to get around. They are depicted in a bad light, bigoted and misunderstanding of the depth of the noble class. But when Dany and Egg step down from the pedestal most of the other nobles wished to stay on, you get a much different view of them. Of course they are hateful of nobility and monarchy, what good has it ever done them? Of course they latch onto leaders who support them financially even if that leader treats other nobles poorly. Asoiaf is very noble oriented, and to see small folk as people is extremely important. The class divide makes small folk seem like a foreign nation of people, when they are supposed to be the ones the people in charge are protecting.

Plus, we also have similar themes of rebirth with the introduction and depiction of these characters. When Dunk first meets Egg, Egg is bald and naked at the inn. When Dany births dragons, she’s bald and naked. It’s the start of new lives and new opportunities. Egg sheds his Valyrian hair and noble attire and encounters Dunk, who ends up being a defining part of his later ruling as king. Dany’s hair and clothing are burnt to ashes and she births dragons, setting her on her path to become Queen Daenerys, the Mother of Dragons. I’m not even going to go into the fact that Egg’s life ended trying to birth dragons in fire, and Dany’s life began by birthing dragons in fire. But that’s there too. It’s almost like Egg’s story was put on pause for a few generations, and then came back again with Dany.

I’m skipping a lot of other stuff bc this is so long aldjskdj. I think it’s super sweet I think these characters are super neat I love them both so so much. My favourite dragon people ever.

[xyronian]

Hero and the Something Character Descriptions

Hero and the Something is my latest OMORI brainrot project. It's a retelling of the classic Beauty and the Beast fairy tale through OMORI characters. I tried to keep the characters as close to their canon personalities as possible, while still fitting the basic story structure. Without further ado, here's the cast:

Hero

Hero is one of the two leads of the story, a young peasant living in a small village near Pyrefly Forest. Forced to support his family after his parents' death, Hero works himself to the bone under Jawsum to provide for his siblings Kel and Sally, all while avoiding the advances of Sweetheart. When Kel was captured by a mysterious monster, Hero exchanged himself for his brother.

Mari

The second lead character. Mari is the eldest child of the Suzuki dynasty and the heir to the Kingdom of Faraway... or at least she was before her perfectionism and temper got herself and her castle cursed. For the past four years, the princess has been stuck in the monstrous form of Something. Only true love can break the curse, but will she be able to find it before the last petal falls from her enchanted rose?

Sunny

The prince of Faraway, and Mari's beloved younger brother. He broke his violin, an important royal heirloom, the day before he and Mari were set to perform for their parents. Shortly after breaking the violin, the curse fell upon the castle. Because of this, Sunny blames himself for the curse, and hasn't let his room for four years. The curse turned him into a violin.

Aubrey

A young runaway turned squire, Aubrey views Mari as the older sister/mother figure she never really had. She is fiercely devoted to the royal siblings. She and Sunny remain oblivious to each other's obvious mutual crushing. The curse turned her into a plush rabbit.

Basil

Sunny's best friend and the castle gardener. Basil is the most optimistic of the main friend group, and still believes that the curse can be broken after four years. Since he wasn't traumatized in this AU, he's the most divergent from his canon personality. The curse turned him into a camera with tripod legs.

Kel

Hero's adventurous younger brother. He tries to always be optimistic and push Hero to live for himself as well as his family, since Kel ultimately just wants to see his brother happy. Like Hero, Kel would do anything for his siblings - even venture into creepy castles in the middle of the forest.

And now the minor characters:

Molly, Marina and Medusa

The Slime Sisters - fierce and twisted sea witches. When Mari refused to shelter them during a storm, they placed a terrible curse on the princess, her castle and all who lived there.

Sally

Hero and Kel's baby sister. The two brothers would do anything for her.

Sweetheart

The self-proclaimed 'greatest beauty in the kingdom' and head of a confectionary empire, Sweetheart has one goal: to find the perfet spouse. To this end, she has set her sights on Hero, and will stop at nothing to get what she believes is her happy ending.

Angel and Mikhail (The Maverick)

Sweetheart's goons. If they're not at their mistress' side, they're probably tormenting people on her orders - usually Hero and Kel.

Rococo and Mincy

The castle artist and his apprentice. They hitch a ride out of the castle with Kel, yearning for a new life after four years under the curse. They were turned into a paintbrush and a fountain pen respectively. They've been living with Kel since leaving the castle, and Mincy has found herself strangely drawn to the young man.

Polly

The castle apothecary and Basil's guardian. She blames herself for being unable to find a cure to the curse. Acts as a surrogate mother for Basil and Aubrey, and has to step in when the teasing from one gets on the nerves of the other. She was turned into a garden hose.

Mr Jawsum

Hero's employer. He holds the young man in perpetual debt. Is an actual anthropomorphic shark for reasons unknown.

Kim and Vance

Squires who live in Pyrefly castle. Thanks to the curse, Vance is a serving trolley and Kim is a grabby dinosaur toy.

Daphne and Bowen

The head chefs of the castle, now a rolling pin and an oven respectively.

Sean and Karen

Maitre d' and maid, now salt and pepper shakers.

Brandi and Bebe

Mari's lady-in-waiting and her younger sister. The curse turned them into a brandy decanter and a shot glass.

Cris

The castle aquaculturalist, responsible for keeping the ponds clean and stocked. Now a blahaj.

Mewo

Mari and Sunny's beloved royal pet kitten. The curse turned Mewo into a roomba.

Hector

Hero and Kel's dog. Certified good boy.

Rai

The castle bard, now a jukebox.

Klaus and Del

OCs borrowed from StarkCanvas. The captain of the guard and the majordomo of the castle. The curse turned them into a sword and a phone (a Delphone!).

[talesofmariene]

The Tale of the Wyvern, the first book of Spring

Chapter 1, Tegan of Mardgarde

The cool crunch of snow, the final remnants of the previous winter clinging to the edges of the new year, sent a ripple across the forest. Mice and other small creatures took shelter in the roots and dirt, squirrels scampered up the conifers, and birds took flight looking for a new, quieter perch. Tegan’s horse snorted, her breath still barely visible in the cool, still air. Tegan ruffled her mane, gave her a gentle pat, and whispered in her ear that everything would be okay. The long journey was making the untested steed nervous, as it was the untested knight astride.

“The horses are growing tired, ma’am,” the young squire, Ennad, gently broke the silence that had hung above the pair for several hours. “To be truthful, as am I. The sun is very low in the sky, should we not make camp soon?” 

Tegan stopped her horse and motioned for Ennad to do the same. “Tell me,” she said without turning to face her squire, “what do you smell?” 

Ennad scoffed and sniffed with a bemused, exaggerated expression. “I smell tree sap and horse shit, the same things I’ve been smelling for weeks. What is the point of this?” 

“The point is that you’re not paying attention. We travel south, towards the Warlord’s March,” she pointed at the tips of the mountains, visible even through the thick canopy. “We are moving against the wind, which travels north, and so brings with it the scent of everything in our path. I smell three things I haven’t smelled since we left Castle Madgarde; smoke, livestock, and roasting meat. Before the sun sets we will be in a village, and they will have food, fresh water, and a place for us to rest before we carry on.” Tegan gently pulled the reins of her horse, clicking her heels into its haunches, and carried forward with a quiet determination. 

"Right, well, regular humans don't have the heightened senses of a knight like you, my lady," Ennad gently suggested their pony to follow and blindly looked around for anything to pay attention to besides the path ahead.

Tegan didn't answer, and allowed silence to drape over them once more. She couldn't deny Ennad's point, when she was knighted her senses were affected and greatly exaggerated. Without effort she could see further than the squire, hear more distant or fainter sounds, and distinguish smells more acutely. She knew, for instance, that about a half mile east of them, a fox had caught his, no, her dinner for the night,  a rabbit that had been just a little too slow getting to its burrow. She felt a growling in her stomach and thought of the rabbit she had caught two nights ago, the one Ennad roasted with fresh herbs they'd found growing in the woods. She kicked her heels into the horse's haunches a little harder, and hoped the villagers would be friendly enough to share some of their food. 

The path grew darker as the last light of day began to fade. A gentle breeze caused the tree branches to sway, and the pine needles rustled as if with purposeful intent. With her heightened senses Tegan could make out the path ahead of them, but even to her eyes the surrounding forest was becoming imperceptible. The sun had not set entirely, but the sky above the pair was awash with the burnt orange rays which indicated the near end to almost all natural light. If it were not for the promise of the nearby village, the knight and her squire would have had their camp prepared hours ago, but Tegan pressed on. 

Ennad yawned, stretching their arms out wide and cracking their back, which had grown stiff from the hours of riding without break. The squire sighed, and Tegan knew they were about to protest their continued riding, but before they could speak they were interrupted by a terrible sound. It was distant, very distant, but even someone without a knight’s senses could hear it clearly. The sound they heard was the roar of a great beast, but not one that Tegan recognized. It was at once a deep booming, like the firing of a cannon, that shook the forest floor and lingered in the chest, and also a shrill cry that pierced the ear like a knife caught to the ribs by surprise. Tegan likened it almost to the call of a bird of prey, although it was certainly not avian. 

The pair said nothing, only sharing a glance when the final echoes died. The horses had reared and whined, and now that it was over they dug their hooves into the ground nervously and blew air through those noses which turned to plumes of steam in the cool early spring air. Tegan attempted to calm her horse, and once the animal was able to move again she kept her face turned forward, not looking back. She didn’t want her squire to see the look on her face, to know that the knight they’d pledged to serve and learn from was absolutely petrified of whatever was out there. 

Just before the sun fell below the western horizon, and the New Moon which signified the beginning of Spring still hung low in the sky, the trees broke into a large clearing. The stone face of the mountain was visible, and a magnificent waterfall fed into a small lake, upon the banks of which was the dull orange candle-glow of the village Tegan had sniffed out several hours prior. She looked back at her squire with a sly grin, and gestured towards the nearly faded sun. “You see?” she said behind a gentle laugh, “I told you we would reach the village before the sun set.” 

The knight and her squire rode towards the town stables, a small structure very similar to all the others, with wooden walls and a thatched, straw lined roof. A dim, flickering glow from within indicated that the stable master was still at work, and his pudgy mustachioed face emerged from an open window when Tegan called for him. The man was red-cheeked, with small button eyes and a bulbous pockmarked nose. He wiped his hands on his leather apron as he looked at the tattered armour of the petty knight in wide-eyed bewilderment. Stuttering, as if he was speaking with the monarch themself, the stable master spoke to the knight. “I-I, I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no place here for your horses to rest, the stable’s full up.”

“It’s ma’am,” Tegan corrected him, as she’d become accustomed to, “and can you not free two spaces for the horses of a knight and her squire?” 

“Apologies, ma’am, but we don’t get many visitors here in Dale, and so we don’t really leave room for travelers, even for a knight of your standing.” The stable master looked around frantically, not wanting to turn a knight away completely. “I could empty out the firewood shed and you could tie your horses up in there, so at least their heads won’t get wet if it rains.” 

“That will have to suffice,” Tegan exchanged a look with her squire, who shrugged their shoulders and tilted their head. By right a serf or vassal is required to service a knight of the realm to the best of their abilities, within reason of course, in exchange for the protection offered by the knight and the lord they serve. Of course, in a small mountain village such as this, isolated as it is from the rest of the realm by the mountain range, a traveling knight might need to settle for lesser accommodations than they might be used to. Still, even if the pair was made to sleep in a barn next to the village livestock, it would be a better sleep than the many restless nights they’d had in the woods between here and Castle Madgarde. 

Tegan and Ennad helped the stable master move the firewood into the stables, aid which he insisted was unnecessary, but the pair had been riding all day and were eager to get some rest themselves. When the task was done they tied their horses inside, and as the stable master suggested, only the heads of the horses were protected from the elements. “Now, where might my squire and I find sleeping accommodations for ourselves? It has been many weeks of travel since we’ve had a bed to sleep upon and a roof over our heads.” 

The stable master opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a call from a figure who was rapidly growing less distant. The older woman, grey of hair and dressed in a hemp dress dyed with blues and greens, waved her arms as she all but ran towards the stables. Tegan noted the dress hung oddly off her body, and she wore cloth slippers one might wear indoors, as opposed to leather shoes which would be more appropriate for the muddy roads she stomped through. Clearly, she thought, this woman had dressed herself in a hurry, with little consideration for her appearance or the utility of her attire. 

"I'm so sorry, madam knight," she said with a curtsy towards Tegan, "I came as soon as the stable hand told me of your arrival. I am Ada, the alderwoman here in Dale." She glanced at the firewood shed where the knight's horse had been tied up and shook her head, avoiding eye contact with Tegan or her squire. "I apologize for the cold greeting you and your companion have been met with, if there had been forewarning of your travel through these parts I assure you we would have made better preparations." 

“It’s quite alright, miss alderwoman,” Tegan said with a courtly grace she had not been given the chance to affect for some time. “We won’t be in your village for very long, perhaps just for the night. From here we journey west, following the March until we reach the Temple of Sunlight.” 

“West?” Ada said, a false smile and widened eyes betraying a fear she hid for the sake of politeness. “Into the forest?” 

“We’ve been traveling south through this same forest for several weeks now. Sticking close to the mountains we should be able to find the temple in little time, no more than three days if our directions are correct,” Tegan looked around at the small village she found herself in. With no adequate shelter for their horses, the knight doubted there would be anywhere comfortable for her or her squire to rest. There was no inn or tavern in sight, nowhere for travelers to rest. In all likelihood the alderwoman would be required by courtly graciousness to give up her own bed to the knight. The squire would have to rely on the kindness of another villager, or else sleep in the stables with the livestock. Despite the natural beauty of the surroundings, the village of Dale was not a place Tegan wanted to stay in for very long. 

“The forest is not safe, lady knight,” Ada protested, poorly disguising her panicked fear for polite concern. “Strange noises are heard at all times of the day and night, and, well,” the alderwoman’s voice trailed off as she decided whether or not it was worth continuing her line of thought. She decided against it, adding, “Anyway, perhaps you and your companion should stay with us for the time being, until the danger has passed? We are hosting the Feast of Stars tomorrow night, you should at least stay for that.” 

“We heard the noise you’re referring to on our way into the village, do you know what it was?” Tegan had little hope this woman could give her much insight, but even a local legend or misinterpretation could provide her with something worthwhile. 

“Some foul creature to be sure, ma’am, a spirit of the forest or the mountain who wants vengeance upon us, on account of our good harvest last year.” The alderwoman seemed embarrassed by the look she received from Tegan after what she had said. “Either way, it’s not safe. My husband, Hamlin, wandered into the forest some days ago, he’s not well you see, and he has yet to return.” 

“Do you know which direction he went?” Tegan stood a little straighter and rested her hand on the hilt of her dull sword. Her affectation changed from a lady of the court of Madgarde to the knight of Mariene she hoped to become. 

“Yes, but-” 

“My squire and I will set out at first light and find your husband,” for the first time since this conversation began, Ennad’s glance turned from the alderwoman to the knight. Tegan did not return the look, although if she had she would have seen the furrowed brow and crooked frown of someone both confused and upset. “Show us to our beds for the night, and in the morning show us the direction Hamlin left in.”

[ladydragonkiller]

Ah yes, I’ve seen quite a few posts about The Stormlight Archives on my dashboard! Though admittedly, most with very little context. Is it a tragedy?

I also intend to read Pride and Predjudice at some point! As well as other Jane Austen novels. I’ve listened to podcasts and analyses of them, but never actually read one as of yet. Perhaps this summer.

As for what I’ve read — Dracula is probably apparent, huh? I am fond of that as well as Carmilla and Frankenstein. I tend to like Arthurian novels too. Of those I think my favorite is The Forgotten Sister, though I also liked the humorous but sincere writing of the Squire’s Tale series.

Hm, a question. Do you like snow or rain better?

Also, heads-up, asks may be sporadic with me. Also-also, hello to the Cowboy (and Knight as well)!

- Mysterious Vampire

It's. . .very long, mostly, so there's a bit of everything in there. Epic fantasy series about such things as: what happens when war is the basis of a country's culture, healing and redeeming after terrible things happen, glowy magic powers, and lots of crabs. The shortest book in the series is 383,389 words, and there's ten books planned (with four out), so it was a fantastic thing for me and my sister to discover back when we nipped through a book or two a day.

They're good! especially if you imagine yourself as an old fashioned romantic hero languishing in a window seat. idk, it always helps me indulge in the older style of prose rather than be tired from it.

I've read dracula and frankenstein (and enjoyed both), but I haven't yet had the time to make my way through Carmilla yet. I checked it out from the library earlier this year, but got swamped by school and work before i got further than the first two chapters or so.

I haven't read any of the arthurian novels - maybe i'll make a note of those for once my semester has ended! (two weeks to go baybee)

I love the aesthetics of snow, but since my siblings aren't often interested in playing outside/going sledding, and i usually have to take lead on the shoveling efforts, it's usually a net negative experience. Rain is fun to see and listen to, especially the big dramatic storms with thunder and lightning. My response to events such as the power going out is to start actively enjoying things, as that's a lot more fun than being cold (or hot) and miserable. There's a lot of fun to be found in a power outage if you're looking in the right places (and have a flashlight)!

What's your favorite type of weather?

and no worries for inconsistent asks! I count myself lucky to have such communicative admirers at all

[abluescarfonwaston]

The wolves all go out of there way to bring home a few books every winter. Just whatever they can find and fit in their bags. They won't ever be able to replace the library they lost during the sacking but the slowly growing collection does give then something else to do during the long winter nights.

It also becomes a bit of a competition- as it always does between them - to bring the best book, the book with the most interesting story of how they acquired it, and the most Valuable book (the definition of which changes every year).

Lambert makes it his goal every year to bring the most indecent romance novels he can. I'm talking novels labeled Erotic. I'm talking Porn with just enough plot to get published. Sometimes the others will try to one up him by bringing something even steamier. No one has ever beaten Lambert though.

Much to Vesemir horror the new library is a majority erotic novels (which they do try to hide from Ciri when she arrives).

One year Lambert brings home a story about a wandering knight and his faithful squire. He likes to read excepts to the wolves to get back at them for insulting his cooking, ripping the fancy blanket he won last year, beating him at qwent. Any opportunity really.

And the first few chapters are them going to brothels and wooing ladies. the standard stuff.

But then. Then they start sharing beds and brothels and the other partners just. fall away and they're Only with each other.

Lambert LOVES reading this to Geralt especially cause it can Actually make Geralt blush and run from the room. He's NEVER managed that with Geralt. Fuck YEAH.

And Geralts Dying. Because he recognized the prose during the First Chapter. and the pen name the writer used.

Dandelion.

Jaskier had written a gay romance novel about the two of them. Chocked full of the squires effusive praise for the ‘knight’.

And then one day Lambert stops reading it. Seems even shorter than normal with everyone.

"Lambert you wanna stop being a prick and read your dumb gay romance novel to us? Promise to only throw food at you this time." Eskel said.

"No. that was a shitty Fucking book and I hate it."

"Oh did the gays die again? Lambert you know they won't get published if they have a happy ending. Just rip the last pages out like always."

"No! The knight went and rode off into he Fucking sunset with that damn princess! Left the squire behind without a Fucking word!!!! I hate that Fucking knight and wanna rip his Fucking dick off!"

"Oh. Huh. Well they didn't die for once. happy ending."

"It's not a happy ending Eskel how -

"The knight and the princess were Fated to be together Lambert! all the foreshadowing was there!"

"The princess treated him like a moron! The squire Actually knew him and cared about him!"

"The squire caused him nothing but problems Lambert! Of Course he went with the princess who loved him and could give him the peaceful life he craved! Not every damn bi man has to end up with the guy Lambert!"

Eskel and Lambert continued their Screaming match. Vesemir appear to be regretting his every life decision. Ciri popped in the earplugs and continued reading her book. Geralt stared into his ale, frozen.

"What happens to the squire Lambert?" Geralt asked his drink quietly.

"THATS THE WORST PART. HE SMILES AND SENDS THEM OFF. LIKE HE ALWAYS KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN AND WAS HAPPY FOR THEM. AND YOU CAN JUST TELL HOW HEARTBROKEN THE MOTHERFUCKER IS AND WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPY WITH THAT."

"This is why we told you not to bring gay novels Lambert. You always get upset with how they end."

"It's not Fucking fair."

Geralt’s chair screeches against the stone as he stands up - an oddity since they all Hate that noise and actively avoid making it.

"Where are you going?" Eskel questioned as he stroad to the door.

"I need to talk to Jaskier."   

"And how do you intend to do that? Gonna ride down the mountain in a Fucking blizzard Geralt?"

"I." The door slammed closed behind him.

"Should." Ciri started. "One of us check on him?"

"No." They all said in unison.

(They did all at some point check on him)

Ciri was first. with a timid and then assertive knock on his door before she entered. Crawling into his arms and burrowing into his chest.

"We can go find him as soon as the snow melts. Okay?"

"I don't think he'd be very excited to see me." He mourned tucking her closer and burying his nose in her hair.

"It's Jaskier." She said simply about a man she only knew from their stories. "He's always excited to see you."

"You going to Brood all winter or do you actually want to figure out how to apologize wolf?" Eskel asked dragging him to the courtyard for a spar.

"There's nothing I can do. He'll never forgive me."

"Oh like he'd Never forgive you for the Djinn? Or for ripping his favorite doublet? Or telling him his singing sucked?" Eskel landed a hard jab. "And what happened every one of those times he'd Never forgive you?"

"That's different." He said returning the blow.

"Uh huh. Guess we'd better make sure you've got a damn good apology ready then?" Eskel smiled easily like he knew the punchline to a very funny joke. "Tell me what happened."

So he did.

Vesemir eased into the spring water across from him with a groan. He wondered how long he had before Vesemir started making fun of how long he spent in the bath again. Longer than if it was Eskel or Lambert at least.

They sat there and a question curdled in his belly until it forced its way out.

"How are we supposed to not get attached?"

"I think we're well past that point lad."

"But How? I can't. All these years and I still can't." He buried his head in his hands so he couldn't see how he'd failed Vesemir yet again.

"If I knew I'd tell you Geralt." Vesemir said, exhausted.

He glanced up and was Viscerally reminded how much Vesemir had lost over the long centuries of his life.

How he'd seen the school founded and fall. How he'd known every child who'd walked these halls and died in them.

How he knew exactly how many had died in the raid.

He remembered how Vesemir had fallen to pieces when the last Witcher he'd ever teach, Leo, had died.

And he remembered how Vesemir put himself back together for them.

"I can't. I can't Vesemir." If Ciri or Eksel or Lambert or Vesemir or Jaskier died. "I'm not as strong as you. I Can't."

"You will. You are." Vesemir squeezed his shoulder as he stood. "Make it worth the loss Geralt."

He sunk into the hot water and wondered how it could be.

He was half asleep when the door Slammed open and only had half a second before Lambert was cannon-balling into his chest.

"FIXED IT!"

He breathed through the pain. "Fix my ribs ass."

"You're fine whiny old man." Lambert shoved a book under his nose. the scent of barely dried ink filling his nostrils. "Read it!"

"Just tell me what happened. I'm not reading your handwriting in the dark." He said shoving it back.

"It's better than yours!" It wasn't. "The knight gets his head out of his ass and tells the squire he loves him and they go on countless more adventures." he puffed up proudly.

"And the princess? what happens to her?"

Lambert scowled at him. "Who gives a fuck about the princess?"

‘I do.’ He thought. "The knight does." He said.

"Ugh. uh. she meets another princess and they go ride off into there own sunset. okay? Happy you ungrateful prick?"

He smiled in a way that made Lambert gag. "I think that's a much better ending Lambert."

"Of course it is!" He preened from atop Geralt. Toes digging into his abdomen painfully.

"Now get out of my room or I'll throw you into the snow bank Lambert."

Lambert tried to call him on the threat so he made to make good on it. Lambert dashed from the room with a crass gesture.

That did sound like a better ending. He gripped his medallion and hoped that in the spring they'd get that ending.

An ending that lead into a very very happy beginning of something new.

[recurring-polynya]

I love your RenRuki Knight x Princess artworks so much, and I literally can’t stop thinking about them! I gotta know, do you have any headcanons about the Medieval RenRuki AU? Some ideas as to how their relationship develops in that AU? 👀

Aw, thank you! 😘 

So, to tell you the truth, the reason I drew it in the first time is because I didn’t have any ideas for a narrative 😂 but I will try to put together what vague thoughts I have. Forgive me if this is a little freewheeling.

Renji’s armor obviously takes some notes from his So-oh Zabimaru form, but it’s also Heath Ledger’s armor in A Knight’s Tale, which is one of Mr. P’s all-time favorite films, and I feel like this AU has the same general vibes (namely that it is about a bunch of dirtbags pretending to be fancy and also there is a lot of jousting + electric guitar action)

The political structure is kind of like in Chronicles of Prydain, where there are a number of kingdoms of varying sizes ruled over by one High King. Byakuya rules over one of the larger and more powerful kingdoms, but back when he was still the Heir, he was one of the Hottest Shit Jousters in the realm. People were literally throwing themselves on the ground and weeping in the streets when he fell in love with and married some cute peasant girl and adopted her kid sister. (Is Hisana alive in this AU? Reader’s choice)

Byakuya had a terrible reputation for going through squires like corn chips.

Local Village Boy Renji, heartbroken over the loss of his best friend, pours himself into the noble goal of Becoming The Greatest Squire Ever. He takes every odd job he can get from the blacksmith and the stables. He does push-ups. He hangs out at the tavern where the lower ranking knights hang out and Gets Tips. 

I cannot emphasize enough that at this point, no one wants to work for Byakuya. There is a tournament coming up and he’s getting really worried that he’s going to have to carry his own stuff when this beefy peasant shows up and shouts “PLEASE I WANT TO BE YOUR SQUIRE” and Byakuya is like “Can you lift things?” and Renji is like “I WILL BENCH PRESS YOU RIGHT NOW” and Byakuya is like “please don’t, you’re hired.”

So, what’s Rukia been doing this whole time? Well, boring princess stuff, mostly, but the one highlight of her life is that Rukia loves tournaments. She knows all the knights and their stats and has a lot of Ideas and Opinions. She is constantly five seconds away from disguising herself and signing up for tournament, but she’s 4′9″ people would figure it out.

Anyway, when Renji shows up, obviously she’s happy to see him because he’s her old friend and she’s been really lonely, but also she now she gets to live vicariously through him. Having achieved his first goal, Renji reveals that his secret, next goal is to study Byakuya’s every move and become a knight himself. Rukia is down with this, mostly because he teaches her everything that Byakuya teaches him, so they can practice together. In return, Rukia teaches him stuff about manners and politics, which ends up being a lot more useful than it sounds. Obviously, there are some misunderstandings, in the sense that Renji thinks the only reason Rukia hangs out with him is because she’s a tournament superfan, and Rukia thinks he primarily puts up with her because she’s helping him achieve his goal (completely failing to realize that there is a third, even secret-er goal). Even in an AU, they are morons.

Anyway, the art all takes place the first year after Byakuya has taken the throne and feels it is no longer appropriate to personally compete in tournaments, and lets Renji compete under his house banners. (Obviously, his cousins are distressed, but that’s what they get for being bad squires)

Renji is very competent, but he’s under a lot of pressure to prove himself an adequate successor to Byakuya, who again, is regarded as the GOAT.

Oh, did I mention that some orange-haired kid shows up on the circuit this season out of absolutely nowhere and is kicking everyone’s asses? Yeah, all of this is most likely taking place as the B-roll to some Ichihime Princess-Knight AU.

In the end, the true valor is the friends we made along the way or some crap and Ichigo gets his kingdom reinstated (or whatever the hell he was doing here, this is out of my scope of work), Rukia and Renji admit their feelings and at some point Byakuya gives Renji an exceedingly mealymouthed bit of praise. Roll AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long.

More trivia: the pose in this one was inspired by this scene from Romeo + Juliet, a film that is burned extremely deeply into my psyche. I would have liked to try doing the lighting, but it looked too hard and I didn’t have the emotional capacity for it at the time. 

Oh! I almost forgot? You wanna see the alternative version of the sketch where Rukia is doing excited hands?  Here’s the alternative version of the sketch where Rukia is doing excited hands. Can you believe I drew extra hands that I didn’t even use for this?

[tornrose24]

So we already got a little taste of the village au’s version of the children’s book. Can we get the full story version + ending?

Also, I like to image just like Re8, the story is how the game begins. Maybe while Peter and his friends are driving to their vacation spot, one of them reads the book.

Well I've been wanting to do this for awhile, so wish granted. And also you are right about them reading the story. (There may be one moment or two of violence... but hey you can't have an old school fairy tale without it) Enjoy.....

........

Long ago there lived a young boy who aspired to be like the many heroes who lived within the lands. Though he was already a squire to one of the most famous of knights, the boy sought to prove himself ready for greater battles.

It was rumored amongst the youth that many a hero found their calling within the dark woods on the outskirts of the village. The reckless boy thought he would be no different and, despite the pleas of his friends, the boy raced into the woods and vanished amongst the trees.

At first the boy ran ahead with little trouble as the many trees passed by him. His mind was both filled with glory and tales of the creatures that lived in the woods. 

To the boy’s dismay, the farther he went into the woods, the darker it became until he couldn’t see past his own nose. The frightened boy tried to turn back, but the ever-ending blackness made it impossible to re-trace his steps.

A sudden flash of light nearly blinded the boy and when it faded he found himself face to face with the Thunder Spirit–a being made entirely of lightning and who would often race across the skies to create storms over the woods. Amused at the boy’s fear and naivety, the spirit offered his aid.

“Here child,” said the Thunder Spirit to the boy. “Take some of my lightning in this bottle to guide your way through the darkness.”

The Thunder Spirit sent a spark of lightning into a crystal glass bottle. True to his word, the bottle of lightning illuminated the boy’s surroundings when he parted ways with the spirit. But he was so entirely lost and had no idea how to get back home if he could not recognize the way home.

The boy continued on until the sky became visible once more. Yet he came upon a vast clearing of land dotted with ferocious monsters who would be much eager to devour the boy whole.

The ground trembled under the boy’s feet and he turned around to gaze up at a mighty Earth Giant. The being made of rock and earth was far more sympathetic then the boy’s previous benefactor and he lowered his hand down towards the boy. He opened his hand to reveal a sword made of diamond that appeared sharp to the touch.

“Here is a sword made from polished stone to protect yourself,” The Earth Giant offered to the boy. “Use it wisely, boy.”

The boy thanked the Earth Giant and continued onward. Every monster that lunged after the child was met with a swift cut from the diamond sword and the boy grew a little braver and far more daring.

Yet the boy did not cross unharmed, for some creatures managed to scratch his arms and legs until they bled. The boy raced towards the other end of the clearing and saw a distant cave hidden in the woods. He entered the cave and tried climbing up the stony wall away from the fangs and claws of his tormentors. Try as he might, the boy’s tiny arms could not reach the highest ledges and rocks.

As it turned out, the cave belonged to the Great Dragon who awoke and raised his scaled head to observe the boy’s terrible situation. He chuckled at the boy’s struggles before he plucked a large scale from his body.

“Have this scale and use it to shield yourself from any who try to harm you,” The Great Dragon told the boy.

The boy took the scale and climbed back down. This time the monsters’ fangs and claws shattered upon the scale-shield when they tried to attack him. Relieved at his luck, the boy continued deeper into the woods.

The boy soon came upon a vast river. Beyond the river and over the treetops he could see the familiar mountains that surrounded his village. On the boy’s side of the river was an enormous octopus made entirely of metal and who resided in a nearby grotto. When the boy approached the Metal Octopus’ grotto in hopes of finding a boat to cross the river, the creature made no attempt to attack him. Yet instead of a boat, the boy came upon an assortment of trinkets.

The boy saw a nearby shell with a golden pearl as bright and warm as the sun itself. The Metal Octopus said nothing, so the boy took the pearl and assumed it to be another gift. A chain formed out of the pearl and wrapped itself around the boy’s neck, like a pendant.

The boy assumed that the four gifts would be proof enough of his bravery and determination. Yet the boy assumed wrong, for the Octopus grew angry at the boy’s theft and let out a terrible roar.

To the boy’s horror, the creatures that once aided him were charging towards him. They too were not pleased at the boy’s transgression. The boy could do nothing but run farther into the woods, but not even the thick trees could stop the creatures’ rampage.

The boy tried to run as fast as he could from the creatures until he heard an awful crackle of laughter. The boy looked up to see the fabled Goblin King looming over him and his eyes were like two golden flames glaring maliciously down at him. Despite his regal appearance–from his robes to his shining crown–he crouched to the boy’s level like a predatory animal and barred his sharp teeth. Of all the creatures the children had been told to avoid, the Goblin King was always the one most spoken of for a good reason.

“Greedy, arrogant child,” he hissed. “Gifts we give, but more you took. So more in turn is due.”

The Goblin King began to chant out a spell and the boy found himself unable to move. To the boy’s horror, his body began to turn a sickly green and his features slowly twisted to become similar to that of the Goblin King’s.

“And as is my right, I shall take another ill behaved child to be another member for my court for my kingdom below the earth.”

The boy was terrified at the fate that was to befall him and he cursed his misfortune and foolishness. If only he hadn’t tried to go off into the woods on his own. Now he would never see his family or his friends again. If only he could see them one last time.

Thoughts of those he left behind then gave the boy true determination. With true determination came the power to overcome the spell.

To the Goblin King’s shock, the boy was able to break free from the spell and he ran once more. The weight of the gifts both given and ill gained fell to the ground and the boy gradually regained his human appearance with each step.

The Goblin King ferociously screamed and began to chase after the boy, but eventually the trees themselves began to reach out and grab at the creature. Their branches tore at both his clothes and flesh, and his screams of anger turned to screams of agony.

The boy finally broke out of the woods. The village sorcerer had charmed the trees into stopping the long feared Goblin King for good and when the boy safely ran past the man, he then sent out a wave of fire upon the woods.

The boy happily ran back into the loving arms of his family and friends. Yet he had learned his lesson to never seek out what he couldn’t face without wisdom or responsibility.

The dark woods burned throughout the entire night until the rains came down and the next day there was nothing left but a charred wasteland. 

Even now children are advised never to enter that place of madness, for they may not be as fortunate as escaping the monsters as the young boy once had been. 

[forthegothicheroine]

Help, which Arthurian tellings have Lancelot present but either no affair or Gwen gives it up and chooses Arthur? I remember you talking about one in particular but I can't remember the name for the life of me.

The one closest to being canon is a medieval German work called Diu Krone, which is largely about Gawain achieving the Grail, but also has a plot where a knight claims to be Guinevere's lover. She denies this. Arthur offers to let her choose between them and leave if she wants, and she chooses Arthur. My heart went aflutter upon reading that, you can be sure!

The musical Artus-Excalibur (known as X-Calibur in South Korea) has Lancelot die at the end, tell Arthur that he was always the one Guinevere truly loved, and they get back together. I liked it, though I could only watch bootlegs with no subtitles.

The romance novel Lancelot by Gwen Rowley (between Lancelot and Elaine) has a surprise twist where he hasn't been having an affair with Guinevere but has been covering up a big secret for her, and as a result they're sort of emotionally codependent and everyone assumes they're lovers. It comes out in a verbal fight with Arthur, and by the end he and his wife are working on being more honest and trusting with each other.

The Winter Prince has Arthur and Guinevere as happily married with children; Medraut describes her as not beautiful but intelligent and comforting to be around. Lots of less savory stuff happens between other characters, though.

The Squires Tales series has Guinevere and Lancelot having an affair in the second book which breaks off at the end. In later books they mature much more, and anything between them has been long over by the time they are actually accused of adultery.

The Warlord Chronicles, which a lot of people like but I do not, has them having an affair in the second book which is over by the third, when everyone has turned on each other. Guinevere then gets the best character development in the series and is back with Arthur at the end.

The 1950s tv show The Adventures of Sir Lancelot, presumably due to censorship, have him be her champion but not her lover. It's a fun show, in the vein of Disney's Zorro, and I think the non-romantic champion thing works.

In the cartoon Prince Valiant there's no indication of an affair (was Lancelot even on that show? He must have been, but I don't remember him at all.) Interestingly, censorship on both shows seems to have decreed that there be no magic, and both got around it by having Merlin be a Da Vinci figure with endless traps and inventions.

The Kingmaking, the first book in the Pendragon Banner cycle, is basically an Arthurian bodice ripper, and Guinevere is a feisty heroine who fully loves her man. I think he does have mistresses in the later books, but I didn't read those.

Royal Enchantment is a romance novel where she never had an affair but distrust drove them apart, which sounded like a great premise for rekindling their love but the book was pretty meh.

Merlin: The Return is a notoriously terrible movie which I've seen with Rifftrax, but at least Guinevere goes back to Arthur and he forgives her. I mostly remember it because Merlin has very intense hair, and also Gawain gets inexplicably creepy towards a villainess at the end, to which she thankfully responds by only looking mildly annoyed.

[kyloren]

i was never really into the jonsa ship, but that post of yours has got me really interested... do you have any fave fics of them??

welp, we’re going old-school, lads. prepare for some of my favourite fandom throwbacks well, I failed at that, I put some of the newer things on the list, too

CANON-VERSE:

Now You See Me: Kissed by fire, Ygritte thought to herself, just like me. 

Goodbye Means Going Away (And Going Away Means Forgetting): Memory is unreliable. No one understands this better than Rickon Stark.

Take My Crown Away (Don’t Smile So Sweetly, My Love): A world where everything is easier. Except for those who love, and love too much.

Build a Ladder to the Stars: Jon abandons the Night’s Watch to join Robb’s cause. After rescuing Sansa from King’s Landing, he and Sansa find themselves in a relationship they never saw coming.

A Winter’s Tale: The War of Three Dragons comes to the Vale, bringing Jon Snow and Sansa Stark together once more.

The Winter of Our Discontent: In the end it is Jon and his men of the Night’s Watch who come to take her back to Winterfell.

tell me true (who are you): Ned Stark brought a dark-haired, grey-eyed bastard babe home and called him son. Years later, Jon Targaryen does the same.

Lift Me Like an Olive Branch and Be My Homeward Dove: She never dreams of Jon Snow but in the end he is the one that comes for her under a Targaryen banner, the might of Winterfell and the North behind him with their father’s sword on his back.

The Whispering Ghosts (Left You Out In The Cold): Winter came and brought Jon home. [this is the first Jonsa fic I ever read, boy, did it fuck me up]

A Bronze Crown: In the end there are no knights. In the end Sansa must rescue herself. Based on the prompt: he doesn’t ride to her rescue; she comes north with her granduncle and the armies of the Vale to wage war on the Boltons, save his life and teach his assassins and the Boltons a sharp lesson.

how ruthless are the gentle*: “Yes, I do.” The easiest lie he’s ever told, by far. It came so naturally, he hardly thought of it as false. “She’s easy to love.”

Tell the Ones That Need to Know (We Are Headed North)*: After years of confinement in the Red Keep with Ned prisoner in the black cells, the Dragon Queen comes. With the knowledge that Jon Snow is actually a Targaryen, she agrees to let the Starks return to Winterfell only if Jon marries one of the Stark daughters. Sansa volunteers so they can all go home. Soon she figures out being married to Jon isn’t bad, but it is complicated.

Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things*: We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. 

Dragons of Red, Dragons of White*: An AU where the Battle of the Trident took place, but just between Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. Their duel and its outcome have ramifications that none could foresee. In the world built afterwards, dragons once again rule and roam Westeros, among them the son of a northern beauty and the king. Prince Jon and his kin, Stark and Targaryen alike, face new challenges from both without and within. Whatever the future holds, the Seven Kingdoms will learn that, whether in a coat of red or a coat of white, a dragon still has claws.

A Knight’s Watch: Jon Snow is forbidden to take the black by his father. Instead he sent to squire for a famous knight, beginning a long arduous journey that causes him to cross paths with characters he never would have. Along the way he learns truths long hidden and discovers love in the most unlikely of places.

The Conquest*: Three hundred years after Aegon the Conqueror built a new empire on the ashes of the Valyrian Freehold the known world is a place of war. The Targaryen Empire is pressed by enemies, the Seven Kingdoms war amongst themselves and forces contrive to pull them all apart.

Live Without Shame: When Catelyn’s treatment of Winterfell’s Bastard unexpectedly softens, Sansa reconsiders her relationship with Jon. But despite the revelations that ensue, Jon must and will always remain Winterfell’s Bastard and suffer its consequences.

The Tempered Kingdoms*:  After years of wars, death, destruction, politics, and White Walkers, a tentative calm has returned to Westeros partially due to the rulership of King Jon and Queen Daenerys. But politics rues its head again as Stannis Baratheon demands his right to rule, while the former Queen Cersei languishes in a cell, plotting her revenge against all who live above her. Sansa Stark is forced to return to King’s Landing after being found by the rumored lovers Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth.

winterbloom: “You’ve traveled a long way for a rumor.” Sansa lives at the Wall under the protection of her brother Jon Snow, but when Sandor Clegane comes looking for her, she and Jon begin to realize that she is not as safe as they once hoped.

As History Changes: Jon agrees to accompany Stannis south to the Vale and he meets a person he did not expect to meet.

hold onto your heart (you’ll keep it safe): When Sansa turns eleven her wrist burns. She excitedly unwraps the cloth guarding her skin, waiting eagerly for the name to finish forming. The dark letters stop after only three and when Sansa leans in closer she realises that she knows that name and she knows that handwriting already.

carve your heart into mine: Sansa spent many evenings sewing her wedding dress by the fire, dreaming of her husband. The gown spilled out of her hands like a silver river, burning brighter from the light of the flames. She had embroidered it with a noble husband in mind, but she wed her lowborn love in the godswood, with snowflakes falling on her veil. 

ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE:

Into the Darkness of the Grave: The tragic death of Eddard Stark’s cousin Lyanna brings her estranged son back to Winterfell House, the family’s old plantation home, for her funeral.

The Other Shoe: If anyone had told Sansa Stark that she would be married to Jon Snow, expecting a child with him at the age of nineteen she would have laughed at them. Not because Jon was a bad person, for he had slowly come out of his shell in the past seven years; not because she was young, her parents were married right out of Hogwarts; simply because Sansa Stark seemed to be the anthesis of a happy ending.

several sunlit days: Everyone knows you don’t date Robb Stark’s sisters unless you want to spend your days avoiding hexes and angry bludgers shot at your head. Too bad Jon’s traitorous feelings could care less.

the unexpected champion: Jon must swim to The Black Lake and retrieve something *cough* Sansa *cough* stolen from him. This task makes him realize who he should invite to the Yule Ball.

Where Did You Sleep Last Night: Sansa needs a new guitarist, Jon needs a new band, and the two of them definitely don’t need each other.

and labor till the work is done: Stark Industries is a family legacy she was hoping to avoid: Robb is a project manager, grooming to eventually be a partner, Arya is a summer intern with Bran sure to follow next year and Rickon in another three, and even Jon Snow, who is technically not family but who has been around for as long as Sansa can remember, works as an estimator. But Sansa is not who she was at sixteen or eighteen or even twenty and she’s still in the process of learning what’s truly important, like who she is, who she wants to be, and what kind of people she wants in her life.

One Of The Few Things: Jaime and Sansa spend a lot of time pining over Brienne and Jon together. Sometimes, they actually even do their jobs.

flower shaped heart*: Alayne Stone has lived her whole life in her hidden tower, forbidden by Mother to leave. But she yearns for an adventure like the ones in the songs, so when a man named Jon Snow crashes into her tower and into her life, she seizes the chance. They travel to King’s Landing where the floating lanterns shine each year on her nameday. The new world is exciting and frightening, but Jon Snow is there to guide her every step. He is not nearly as terrible as Mother said men are, though the rest of the world might be. Danger, betrayals, and lies form the steps of their journey as Alayne uncovers terrible secrets.

Crawl up to my Room: Jon left her side after a few moments of silence and she watched him leave with a quiet thought playing in her mind. He was her stepbrother for only a few hours, and she already found herself utterly fascinated and irritated with Jon Stark. 

in the summer, as the lilacs bloom: “You did tech in high school,” Sansa points out. (Yeah, I did tech because you were playing the lead and I was in love with you.) Jon doesn’t tell her that, though. Of course not. Instead he agrees to spend his summer stage managing this passion project of hers, and some trace of his seventeen-year-old self has dried out his throat at the thought of three months’ constant contact with Sansa.

Down from the Mountain: Sansa flies home from college after her older brother Robb, one of the country’s hottest young pitchers, is hurt in a car accident. Robb’s best friend Jon is there to help the Stark family in any way he can.

Little Bed in the Big Woods: “I stared at him for a solid five minutes because he looked like what I imagine god would look like if god was a lumberjack.”

A Game of Stars*: When the Mad Emperor hears that the Starks are Force-sensitive, he discovers the hidden rebel base on Hoth. He sends Jon there with one order: Burn them all. But bring the Stark children to Coruscant. It’s time for the two most powerful Force bloodlines in the galaxy to merge.

I’ll Pack My Goods for the Arkansas Woods*: When Sansa’s brother goes missing, it falls to her to defend the house and the woods against the greed of the Boltons and Freys. All of this would be much easier if she could fight fire with fire, and there’s a saying in the valley: that all the Starks are a little wild, and all the Targaryens are a little mad. Her cousin Jon just happens to be both.

In the Face of Death: On a long list of things Jon never expected, Sansa came top.

United States of Irreversible Oblivion: With the government losing its fight at the northern border, Sansa’s only hope is that one of its soldiers, Office Jon Snow, will return for her and save her from the horrors of a collapsing society.

remember me love when i’m reborn: ‘Longest Night’ has biggest night in hollywood history. “Joffrey wanted someone to make him famous, and as soon as Sansa wrote a movie for him that did just that, he left her in the dirt.”

Hear the Wolf*: The Starks are in Hogwarts. Sansa has to learn to stand up to her ex-boyfriend and Jon has to learn to face his past. They’re determined to do it alone. Will they ever admit they’re stronger together?

Somewhere in the Winter Woods*: Lost on her way to her grandmother’s cabin in the winter woods after running away from home, beautiful young Sansa thinks she’s run into trouble when she crosses a white wolf in the forest. Instead of harming her, the animal guides her to his master, a handsome warrior named Jon who lives in solitude and clothes himself in black.

* marks the ongoing stories. 

[sweetsmellosuccess]

Sundance 2021: Day 1 & 2

Films: 5

Best Film of the Day(s): Summer of Soul

Coda: It is mostly a truism that the festival tends to start things off on Thursday night with a genial offering, to whet the appetite, as it were, for the vastly more far-reaching, and oft-madcap rest of the program. Sian Heder’s sweetly realized light drama, about Ruby (Emilia Jones), a high school senior in Gloucester, MA, who works in the early morning non-school hours on her father’s fishing boat, and full-time as the only member of her family, including mom (Marlee Matlin), father (Troy Katsur), and brother (Daniel Durant) who isn’t deaf. Balancing out her workload, she joins the choir, in order to be able to spend time with her crush, Miles (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo), and turns out to have significant enough talent that her flinty music teacher (Eugenio Derbez), encourages her to apply to the prestigious music college in Boston of which he is an alum. Formulaic, to be certain, but moving nonetheless, with fine performances from the family  —  in keeping with the film’s own set-up, all but Jones actually deaf  —  and a strong sense of their relationships, especially between Ruby and her father. Heder’s screenplay also plays out the difficult dynamic between Ruby, and the rest of the hearing world, as the lone interpreter and defender of her family. As she puts it, they can’t hear themselves being laughed at, but she has no choice. It’s certainly glossy, but it’s also heartfelt, as in one pivotal scene, as Ruby performs a moving duet with Miles for the choir’s big show, Heder unexpectedly douses the sound for a few long moments, giving us a moving sense of what her parents get to experience during their daughter’s moment of artistic triumph.

Censor: As the title suggests, Prano Bailey-Bond’s discreet horror flick is about the idea of repression  —  what we want to cut away from the ugliness of the human experience. Set during the Thatcherite ‘80s, during an era where “video nasties” had become the topic du jour of cultural critics and political wankers, suggesting the sudden proliferation of demented, ultra-violent straight-to-video releases in the UK was somehow leading the country into sadistic nihilism, as opposed to their representing the result of Thatcher’s choking brand of right-wing oppression. Enid (Niamh Algar), a censor working for the government to render such films as Asunder, and Violent Coda properly palatable to the squirming masses, by excising excessive eye-gougings, brutal rapes, and disembowelments just enough to pass the board. She’s already living with her own past demons, a younger sister who disappeared in the woods under her watch years before, leaving her family shattered. Bailey-Bond shoots the film until the very end, as if underground, even while literally outside. Enid makes her way through the tube stations, and pedestrian tunnels, to her windowless office, and back again, with overhanging branches, overpasses, and canopies keeping her away from contact with the outside world. Creepy  —  but notably restrained in its own depictions of violence, save for the grainy, 4:3 imagery Enid has to make her way through at her job  —  Bailey-Bond’s film works well as a half-remembered bad dream from a similar tableau as Peter Strickland, but doesn’t quite have to chops, visually or in its surreal storytelling, to push it past those boundaries. It’s gripping enough, but doesn’t stick with you terribly long.

Summer of Soul (...Or When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised): In 1969, during the Summer of Love, when white hippies and counter-culturalists were grooving to Woodstock, and NASA had successfully landed whitey on the moon, an entirely different sort of cultural fusion was taking place in Mt. Morris Park in Harlem. A performer and concert promoter named Tony Lawerence conceived of the event, a big outdoor stage where for six consecutive weekends, people could flock to the free shows that featured Jazz, Afro-beat, blues, R ‘n B, gospel, Motown, and funk. More than 300,000 attended the concerts in total to watch legendary performers including B.B. King, Mahalia Jackson, Max Roach, Mavis Staples, Gladys Knight, Hugh Masekela, a 19-year-old Stevie Wonder, Sly and the Family Stone, and, in the sort of fierce performance that defined her live presence, Nina Simone, but even though the shows were meticulously filmed, the footage had never found an outlet, until now. Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson’s directorial debut doesn’t just present the artists’ performances (though it certainly could have), but adds insight from some of the surviving artists, and some of those in the crowd who witnessed them. He also works to put the shows into the cultural context of the time, when a rare mixture of political outrage, multicultural strength, and a dawning of the Black Pride movement created a fulcrum for Harlem, and Black people all over the world. Hippies got the press, and much of the mainstream media coverage, but Thompson makes a strong case as to how the same repressive forces that lead to the explosion of the counterculture movement amongst white college students and young people, also affected the rise of rebellion and tide-shifting in communities of color. Watching Jackson and Staples perform a riveting version of MLK’s favorite gospel song, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” in the wake of the black leader’s assassination, or Simone rip into “Backlash Blues” is to witness the shift of cultural winds, as they whipped across a steamy, jam-packed park in Upper Manhattan.

John and the Hole: The title is, on first blush, terrible, but as with several things in this confidently enigmatic coming-of-a-kind-of-age tale from Pascual Sisto, there’s more to it than that. What initially sounds dumpy becomes somewhat cannily constructed: It’s meant to evoke a kind of modern myth vibe, along the lines of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” As it turns out, the film’s refusal to explain itself becomes a significant strength. John (Charlie Shotwell), is a 13-year-old kid from a wealthy family outside of Boston. Skinny and stammering, he’s also difficult to read, either by his parents (Jennifer Ehle and Michael C. Hall), or his older sister (Taissa Farmiga). Which is why, when John’s family wake up one morning at the bottom of a deep, cement shaft  —  part of a bunker built in the woods near their house  —  after having been drugged, and dragged there by John, their reactions run from mildly surprised to mildly upset. John leaves them down there, occasionally stopping by the edge to drop down food, water, and jackets, while he lives on at the main house, zipping around town in the family’s Volvo SUV, and taking out cash when needed from his dad’s ATM card. At first, he finds it liberating  —  eating a mound of chicken nuggets, endless pizzas, and leaving the mess littered around the house, as he attempts to stave off suspicions  —  but, eventually, he gets lonely, and realizes he prefers their company to being on his own. There’s maliciousness implied in his actions  —  a frequent shot looking up at John from inside the pit keeps re-establishing the peculiar power dynamic in the family  —  but nothing happens, it appears, that can’t be taken back. Sisto shoots the film sumptuously, drawing out the beauty of their immaculate house in contrast to the mess it slowly becomes under John’s ambivalence (an idea neatly echoed with the rest of the family down in the bunker, who quickly become filthier and filthier until the mud and grime seems etched into their pores). What conclusions it may draw are difficult to ascertain, in keeping with the nature of the project, but there is the definite sense that the nuclear family, as rigid as the formation may seem, remains a useful tool for healthy emotional growth after all.

In the Earth: Shot in the summer of 2020, in response to the pandemic (director Ben Wheatley explained pre-screening that he wanted a film that “reflected the politics of the times”), the film is loaded with imagery of madness and obsession. Or, you know, what happens to the human mind when it’s forced to stay in place for months at a go. Set in the near future, when a different and even more deadly virus has devastated the planet, the story concerns a scientist named Martin (Joel Fry), who needs to head deep into a boreal forest to find a research lab headed by a former flame (Hayley Squires). He is aided by a guide, a forest ranger named Alma (Ellora Torchia), who takes him on the supposed two-day trek. En route, however, they run into trouble in the form of Zach (Reece Shearsmith), a crazy devotee of the forest gods, and what he believes are their ritualistic demands. Breaking free from him, they arrive at the research lab, only to find similar insanity. Wheatley’s film feels rushed in places, and is violently incoherent in others, but its sense of immediacy is acute. With its characters having plunged into bizarre cryptic conspiracy theories, having plunged deep into the Boreal heart of darkness, and the sense that reality has been splintered, it ends up being a pretty fair summation of current life and times. It might not hold up under much scrutiny years from now, but it could hardly be more of the moment in the meantime.

Sundance goes mostly virtual for this year’s edition, sparing filmgoers the altitude, long waits, standing lines, and panicked eating binges  —  but also, these things and more that make the festival so damn endearing. In any event, Sundance via living room is still a hell of a lot better than no Sundance. A daily report.

[jurakan]

What adaptations of King Arthur legends would you recommend?

Uh... okay. Coolcoolcool. I can totes answer this.

I’m including stories/books that are Arthurian retellings, rather than books that are good and contain elements of Arthuriana but aren’t really retellings of the stories (so The Dark is Rising, The Lost Years of Merlin and The Fionavar Tapestry, while good, won’t make this cut).

1. The Arthur Trilogy by Kevin Crossley-Holland

Okay this is a bit of a weird one because it’s sort of King Arthur and sort of not. The story is that Arthur is the son of a knight living on the Middle March, the border between England and Wales, during the 12th century. He’s given a Seeing Stone by the family’s old friend Merlin, and in it he sees the whole life story of Arthur. And as Arthur’s life goes on, he sees parallels to his own life and it helps him understand growing up, especially as he becomes a squire, learns more about his heritage, and eventually rides off to Crusade. Through his Seeing Stone, you see basically all the big name Arthurian stories, and a few that aren’t as common or popular.

I have some issues with Crossley-Holland’s depiction of medieval Christianity--he does, after all, have a cardinal declare that women are all evil, and he takes the shooing women out of the Crusaders’ camp as proof of this--never mind that all these women are the mistresses of the Crusaders, so, uh, yeah. And continuity between books is a little fuzzy; the second and third books have some gaps between them that made me scratch my head. But other than that? Crossley-Holland knows his shiz, man. There are so many random details about medieval life that made it into these books it’s astonishing.

It also has the benefit of being told through a filter. We’re seeing King Arthur’s story as something that already happened, as being watched by our protagonist. He’s sympathetic to a lot of these characters, but he does sort of judge them. Heck, the way Crossley-Holland tells it, it’s pretty judgmental of Lancelot in general, as a man who has deluded himself into thinking he’s done nothing wrong, even if he has the best of intentions. And this series, while it gets grim, does end on a somewhat happier note than a lot of Arthurian literature.

2. The Warlord Chronicles by Bernard Cornwell

Cornwell attempted to write a “realistic” take on King Arthur and came up with this grim story set in post-Roman Britain. If I had problems with Crossley-Holland’s take on Christianity, I have loads with Cornwell’s. He does not like religion. Like, any religion. It gets to the point of having a scene where Merlin declares that all of Christianity is just a rehash of Mithraic cults, which is a common myth but definitively false if you’ve even dipped your toe into the subject. And there’s a lot of violence and sex and I wasn’t really into that. About a third of the way into the first book I almost gave up on it.

“This trilogy sounds terrible Jurakan, why is on this list?”

And then Lancelot is introduced.

If Cornwell hates religion, he seems to hate Lancelot just as much, if not more. And this is when the story become AMAZING because Cornwell’s Lancelot is THE biggest douchebag of all time, but he’s got a great PR crew (made up of poets and bards from his father’s kingdom) selling him as the greatest thing since Roman roads. And the protagonist, Derfel haaaaaaaaaaates him. Everyone does. Even Galahad (who in Cornwell’s telling is Lancelot’s brother rather than his son) hates him. And his affair with Guinevere is treated as just one more thing in a long line of betrayals that he plays off as him being the Good Guy.

Ultimately, Guinevere is played… well not necessarily sympathetically, but as a complex and interesting character who regrets her actions and tries to make up for them. But Lancelot? THE WORST. And once he and Galahad enter the story, is when it gets good, deconstructing that whole thing and it’s wonderful.

Maybe it won’t work for everyone, but I really hate that love triangle. So it worked for me. I also like that Cornwell uses a lot of lesser-known Arthurian characters? The main character is Saint Derfel, and Arthur’s retinue consists of his cousin Culhoch, Lanval, and Sagrimore.

3. The Pendragon Cycle by Stephen Lawhead

What if we tie a bunch of Atlantis stuff to a King Arthur story, use all the old Welsh names, and make it an explicitly Christian story? That’s Lawhead’s schtick. The love triangle is removed entirely; Lancelot only maybe had an analogue in the old Celtic stories anyway, and here he’s made Guinevere’s bodyguard and never a love interest. 

These books aren’t slow, precisely, but if you read the synopses you might get that impression because it takes a while to get to the parts mentioned there. And to be clear, Arthur himself doesn’t appear until the third book (which was the final book, but then Lawhead wrote two in-between-quels about Arthur’s adventures as king). This isn’t Lawhead at his best (that’s King Raven, which is his take on Robin Hood), but it’s pretty darn good, making the epic tale of Arthur even more epic as a battle for the soul of Britain.

Just be ready for hard to spell/pronounce Welsh names. 

4. The Squire’s Tales by Gerald Morris

I just started this series, and though it’s aimed at children and young adults, Morris goes hard into the details of little-known Arthurian stories and masterfully retells them. They’re sort of satire--they mercilessly mock a lot of the courtly love tropes that appear in the Arthurian stories. Tristan is, for instance, a completely unsympathetic moron and a bit of a meathead, who cannot understand why his love affair with Igraine won’t work (or how a vow of silence works).

Morris knows that Lancelot wasn’t always the Greatest of Knights, that Gawain was once The Man, and that any jackhole who tells you the Deepest Love is with another man’s wife is full of it. Lancelot and Guinevere are portrayed as shallow and silly when they start their affair, but when the affair ends they get a whole of character development that makes them much better and interesting characters.

Also these books are very funny. Gawain, for instance, is utterly baffled every time a knight makes him joust to just go down a road. “What are you guarding this creek from? Someone spitting in it?”

5. Sword of the Rightful King by Jane Yolen

Alright I haven’t read this one in ages but I remember it being good? It’s a cool little story about the beginning of Arthur’s reign, and how since people are questioning his reign, he asks Merlin to come up with a plan to legitimize everything. The result is… the Sword in the Stone. It’s a bit of a con, but if it works, it works, right?

Of course, not everything goes according to plan, and Morgan le Fay is planning something. Just what that something is, isn’t clear. And the new kid at court is a lot cleverer than he’s letting on.

It’s a fun little YA book. Like I said, it’s been forever since I read it, so I don’t know for sure how well it still stacks up, but I remember liking it.

Thanks for asking, friendo!

[consultingsister-aa]

THE HOLMES FAMILY HISTORY + CURSE 

The history of the Holmes family and the Holmes Estate in Sussex is a long, varied and gruesome affair. From some time in the 12th century, blood lust and ill mental health had plagued the family. This is likely from a spate of inbreeding between cousins but rumours abound as to the beginnings of the Holmes family’s brilliant wealth and power. It is said by some in the village the Holmes family are descended from the devil himself, although some are more kindly, and say the Holmes’ are simply born without souls, having pre-sold them to Satan in return for great beauty, wealth, power and that famous Holmes intellect. 

The Holmes family curse is at least based on facts. It is understood that the line began with an illegitimate but much-loved son of a King, who was granted lands and titles by his younger but legitimate half-brother. It was from that point on that the Holmes’ were revered as the best minds in England and always played the part of special advisor to the Kings. It was even said by some that the Holmes’ ruled the land through their puppet royal. The family were described as being unnaturally clever and beautiful and something of Gods among their lesser men. Through every coo and misfortune faced by the crown and country, the Holmes family seemed to come out on top; always being on the right side of the fight. When exactly the Holmes family luck became the Holmes family curse, it is unknown, but the story of how the original Evangeline Holmes, the daughter of a squire, sold her soul to the devil is now well known in Midhurst, West Sussex. In return for her soul, she asked for the power to beguile the King and, with him, produce a line of beautiful and supremely clever offspring. Admittedly, the family portrait gallery is blessed with sharp cheekbones straight noses and no one in the family could ever be accused of being less than a bonafide genius. 

Historic accounts of Holmes ancestors hunting serfs and peasants through the woods are well documented; Cecelia’s six times great grandmother was accused of murdering all of her daughters so they didn’t outshine her. There was an uncle who married six times after the first five wives disappeared mysteriously; around the time the cellar was bricked up. There was even rumour of devil-worshipping, ritualistic slaughter and cannibalism. All in all, not exactly a history to be proud of. Madness is in the blood, so they say, and passed down from generation to generation like the gene for green eyes and the family silver. 

Stories of the supernatural have only been exasperated with tales of the family house itself. Cowdray House’s plans have been long since lost and the fact that there are windows on the outside with no matching rooms on the inside, as well as basement areas bricked up for no good reason have gone unexplained for centuries. Gardeners report seeing ghostly apparitions at windows when they know the house to be empty. A governess of Cecelia’s once ran from the house screaming in the middle of the night and refused to return. Celia herself remembers talking with great aunts and uncles long since dead during her childhood. Even the ever sensible and stoic Morland Holmes has more than once felt a presence behind him while on his way to bed. Even the woods belonging to the house have a strange effect on walkers. Paths were ill mapped and changed from day-to-day. If you walked around the wood it was no larger than a small-holding; if you walked through the woods it seemed the breadth of a kingdom. Cecelia found her way easily, as did most Holmes decedents. Visitors seem to have more trouble as if they lack that quality which allowed them safe passage. Celia’s mother, Violet, who felt she was more sensitive to that sort of thing, told her husband on multiple occasions that she felt the house worked against her in some way, accepting and protecting only those who were Holmes by blood. She would get lost on the way back from the bathroom at night as if the corridors moved, and things would frequently go missing from tabletops. Morland always put it down to her declining health and naughty children. What he never admitted to his wife was that his mother had had similar complaints, although his own father had chalked this up to Enid Holmes’ mental state and eventual decline into paranoid schizophrenia. Morland has since wondered, what came first? The house or her madness? 

To many, this is considered solid evidence for the curse. For all their clever, beautiful and powerful ancestors, the family cannot boast so many who were uncommonly kind or gentle. In fact, they have a nasty habit of quickly dying off or going insane. In Morland’s own lifetime, his sweet little sister was born delicate and didn’t survive past her tenth birthday. His gentle younger brother who suffered from manic depression and addiction threw himself in front of a train on his twenty-fourth birthday. His mother ended up in an asylum after multiple attempts to kill herself, her husband and her only remaining son, Morland. She often screamed that the devil was in their blood and it was this that had killed her two children. Mycroft’s wife ended up in twenty-four-hour care because of her own delusions, and Cee’s own track record of nice boys turning vicious and her own daughter’s tragic death seems to point towards what no one in the blood family ever has wanted to admit to; they’re cursed. 

The family motto, originally in Latin, goes like this; “the black tree is strong, but the flowers won’t grow” although is often quoted simply as “the tree is strong”. The family don’t like to admit that whenever anyone halfway decent shows up, something terrible happens to them.  For years Celia has chosen to ignore the stories and rumours but has more recently come to believe that the Holmes family is poison; everything they touch seemed to turn to gold, while every person they love withers. The best thing they could do for the world is to die out. 

[dove-actually]

Sir Rajel’s thin lips pursed in an expression of disgust I hadn’t seen since my own training days. Whoever came next on his roster sat poorly in his esteemed regards.

“Tristan Everard,” he droned nastily, and the hook-nosed boy with pokey shoulders stepped forward. “Hailing from Estel province.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course Rajel would pick him to persecute. A weedy little runt, and having his birth province called instead of his family home marked him as common folk, countryside gentry at best. No name to protect him.

Rajel began to list his trial marks. “Strength and endurance score: average. Field skills: average. Ranged weapons: average. Horsemanship: below average. Melee weapons: abysmal.” 

I growled under my breath; I’d heard of training masters sabotaging hopefuls this way, calling out their worst scores first to dissuade sponsors. Bulbous roach. Why put Rajel in charge of training? A nastier man had never made knight.

Then, of course, the answer came to me: he was training master because of me. The disgrace he’d suffered at my hands had likely put an end to his ambitions of leadership, and I couldn’t imagine the King trusting any valuable commission to a knight so humiliated by a mere trainee. So Rajel had taken the only honorable option left: the training grounds.

I indulged a pang of regret for the knight-hopefuls stuck with him because of me. He wouldn’t dare persecute the nobles, but this scrawny peasant boy would suffer more than his due.

OC INTRO: meet Tristan, The Honorable Duckling

(rest of the excerpt + details under the cut)

I gave the boy another once-over. He wasn’t much to look at; but if his name had been called, it meant he’d ranked in the top two thirds for initial trials. He had some skill, much as Rajel tried to mask that.

“Agility...top tier.” Rajel choked on the words, and I grinned. Aha. “Learning and judgment: above average.”

So, the boy was quick and clever. Good for him. I’d known knights do well with less.

“It is my personal recommendation that this boy is unfit for further training,” Rajel added, and my flash of anger was followed by an equally swift epiphany.

Of course. This was why Sir Justus had lured me here.

A perfect trap. And I’d walked neatly into it, like an overconfident ferret thinking to raid the chicken coop.

“Would anyone like to sponsor him?” asked Sir Rajel, and I closed my eyes and prayed to the Twin Gods to please foil Sir Justus, just this once, so I could see him choke on his clever ploy.

Of course, the gods weren’t listening.

____________________

Tristan’s Backstory

The son of a provincial schoolteacher, Tristan grew up on his dad’s tales of famous knights and brave deeds, and decided early on that he’d join the ranks of those legendary gallant paragons. When his dad died in a winter flu, the local landlord provided a letter of recommendation to get Tristan accepted into training. Unfortunately, a jerk fellow knight-hopeful stole Tristan’s letter upon his arrival to the Citadel, leaving him in a precarious situation. Luckily, he had a run in with the royal spymaster, who liked his manners and honesty and helped him get into initial training...and promptly began to include Tristan in his scheming.

Thus Tristan ended up being Sarra’s squire.

Having grown up worshiping the knights, Tristan is mortified to squire to a knight errant (even though she’s supposedly getting back into the King’s graces by taking on his training), but at the same time he’s overwhelmingly grateful to Sarra for saving him from dismissal. So he tries and fails to hide his mortification and do everything she says, but often he just ends up in trouble for his efforts. Also, he has the poor habit of inadvertently lecturing Sarra on the Code of Chivalry he learned from a book about a hundred years outdated, which makes her groan and laugh in equal measure.

He’s just very EARNEST, okay? 

Oh yeah, and he has A Secret that he hasn’t told anyone because it would exclude him from training as a knight protector. Shhhh

Best qualities: giant heart, wants to help everyone, probably the kindest character in this book (tied with Ahni), clever and resourceful, insanely brave, loyal, generous

Worst qualities: fixated on his antiquated Code of Chivalry, awkward, impatient, and SO JUDGEY HE IS THE JUDGIEST :D and he thinks he’s subtle about it but nope

Biggest goal: finish knight training and become a knight protector, like he promised his dad. He’s just started, so his intermediary goal is ‘finish year one without getting dismissed’ 

Biggest obstacles to his goal: knight training pretty political so having no noble ties and being Sarra’s squire isn’t GREAT for him; also his common upbringing left him with various skill gaps which means he’s behind the others in things like sword-fighting and horsemanship. Also, his secret. Shhhhhh

Way to overcome those obstacles: learn what Sarra has to teach him, overcome his prejudice enough to actually apply her teachings even if they are TERRIBLE DISHONORABLE KNIGHT ERRANT TEACHINGS. poor Tristan he wants to please her so badly but he also disagrees with everything she says and does

Biggest fear: flunking out of training school, also bodies of water. yes he’s scared of swimming and Sarra is def going to get him over that real fast

Other Knight Errant Characters 

Knight Errant Master Post

[dellebecque]

Prompt #9: Burning a Hole in One’s Pocket

Who: WoL!Aden, Haurchefant Greystone When: Just after the Warrior of Light and company return from slaying Nidhogg How: T, some vague allusions to violence and sexuality if you squint just right, mostly wholesome What: That he hesitates so many times is unusual, but Aden couldn't possibly guess the reason . The first appearance of a certain important object in WoL!Aden’s story. Where: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487653/chapters/48876314

They met in the street amidst ringing steel and cries of battle, and Aden caught just a second of hesitation in Haurchefant’s warm greeting and stolen kiss. Aden didn’t have time to think about it, as his lover joined their group and continued through the streets shoulder to shoulder with him. Confident as he was in the abilities of his companions Aden was relieved to have Haurchefant at his side. Everything they needed to say to one another about a fight they communicated in a gesture or a glance--that they were doing their best to merely incapacitate went without saying. But there it was again, the next time they had a moment to speak and space to breathe.

“Something wrong?”

Haurchefant smiled, a soft, anxious little laugh escaping him. “No, my love, nothing is wrong. Quite the opposite.” Haurchefant wrapped an arm around him, drew him close and pressed a kiss to the base of one ear. “Aside from the obvious.”

Aden’s ears shifted curiously at that, tail twitching distractedly. Haurchefant let go--it’d only lasted a moment as they still had several blocks to cover--and Aden wondered. He wondered through Ysayle talking her people into laying down their arms, he wondered all the way back to Fortemps Manor, making a grimy, blood-spattered greeting to Edmont while they waited for Estinien to retrieve Aymeric so they could tell the whole tale.

“Come,” Haurchefant murmured to him, laying a hand on his forearm--forward, perhaps, but they were at home and everyone here knew, and if anyone judged ill that an elezen and a miqo’te found comfort in one another they dared not speak it for love of their family. He caught that hesitation again, though, took note of the way his lover’s blue eyes scanned the room as if considering something. “They may be a while yet in arriving. I’m sure you’re quite weary of that armor by now.”

Aden made no protests, let Haurchefant lead him up to the rooms they’d given Aden. He’d long ago gotten over the idea that this was in some way demeaning to Haurchefant, that helping Aden with his armor was something a squire should be doing. He could remove it by himself, but it was drachenmaille, and it took thrice as long to do a damned thing with. At times he found himself wishing something would happen to it, grateful as he was that a suit had been secured for him and modified to accommodate his anatomy, and perhaps he could badger them into using the forging process for something simpler . Heresy they’d say, surely, but he’d commit heresy a dozen times to be able to take his own damn armor off and not look like an upright porcupine.

Aden’s rooms sat on a corner of the manor, overlooking the city, not terribly large but comfortably appointed. Guest quarters, obviously, but he wasn’t exactly a guest any more. A fire burned in the hearth, probably started just before they’d entered the building knowing the staff’s efficiency. Haurchefant hesitated again just outside the door, the barest pause, then entered and stopped a few fulms inside the door, next to bench and a rack just for this purpose, where he began fussing with the catches on one of Aden’s gauntlets. They’d have less of an excuse for this if Aden got his wish about the armor, and while he disliked the idea that staff cleaned it here rather than doing it himself, this… this was different. Haurchefant always went about this task in an almost worshipful manner, and took obvious pleasure in it. Aden had thought at first perhaps it was something lewd he didn’t quite understand, but he’d since come to realize it was about sanctuary . It was a metaphor made manifest. Wherever this man was, the mighty Warrior of Light could shed his armor, and be cared for, and beloved for himself and not for his deeds.

Watching him go about his business brought a faint smile to Aden’s lips, thinking back on where they’d started. How long Haurchefant had been silently saying those things to him before he realized. And even though they both knew now what lay in the other’s heart, he didn’t stop saying it. But this time Haurchefant seemed to be fumbling with the straps and the catches and honestly, Aden could probably do this about as quickly himself, maybe faster with the extra set of hands to help brace. “Are you sure--”

“Oh, bugger all this, I cannot wait any longer.” He pulled off the first gauntlet and dropped it onto the bench. “I should have done this the instant you returned, but we were rather inconvenienced . With everything going on if I keep waiting for the right moment we’ll be old and on our deathbeds first.” Haurchefant fished for something tucked behind his sword belt and produced a small, simple box, which he opened and offered up as he went down on one knee. It didn’t process at first, what was going on, seemed it must be some sort of joke--

“Aden.” His attention snapped to Haurchefant’s face at that tone, serious, faintly trembling, husky with emotion. “I wish always to be the fire at the hearth to which you return.” The ring inside seemed small in Haurchefant’s hands, but of course it would. It was dark, the color of metal forged in the drachenmaille process, but it seemed unbelievable someone would do it for a ring . Firelight caught on fine engravings of twining branches ‘round the band, and nestled amongst carven leaves sat a diamond and sapphire side by side, small, delicately faceted, nearly flush with the band. “Would you do me this honor?”

For a moment Aden forgot how words worked, his heart in his throat. Could he--? As the Warrior of Light did he… belong to himself enough for this sort of thing? He looked from the ring to Haurchefant’s face, to those hopeful, uncertain blue eyes. Yes, he decided, yes fuck anyone and anything that might indicate he didn’t belong to himself enough. He tried to speak, but his throat was too tight, so Aden nodded dumbly.

Haurchefant slipped the ring on his finger and the box clattered to the floor as he rose and caught Aden in a kiss that seemed like it might never end.

Four days later the memory of that kiss burned hot on his lips, the ring cold and heavy beneath his glove as he growled at Aymeric, “I’ll have Ser Zephirin’s heart for what he’s done.”