#would the invasion into Scotland still have happened even?

[snowneedsanap]

at the top of the rock

inspired by The King by The Amazing Devil

includes: Arranged marriage, war, invasion, flirting, father and daughter dynamics, Scottish dialect, pregnancy(much later on), Scotland highland games, courting, intimacy, Scottish royalty, conflict, arguments, princess!reader, eventual smut, family with Johnny MacTavish, i will add more as i remember what i wrote.

No use of Y/N, only addressed by ‘You’.

A/N: hi!!!!!! :> this is my first story ever written and publishing, so please please give constructive criticism and no nasty stuff :p (please). I would like to know if you all want to see future chapters or any questions/asks. I am still trying to do my research on Scottish traditions and how they live, so things are subject to change as I learn. Thank you for the support! Enjoy :3

w/c: 2.6K

Synopsis: Your kingdom was at war with Scotland, or more the clans that raided your lands. As a peace treaty, your father offers you to the leader of those barbaric Scottish-men. Now being sent to the foreign lands, you're met with the happy-go-lucky man barbarian leader, Johnny MacTavish.

(Not proofread.)

Chapter 1.

Barbaric Husband.

The brewing of the battles raged outside. The constant bicker in the halls and rumors hung on the walls like paintings, it was incessant. The plains were now battlefields; all the grass was torn up and left was topsoil wet with blood. Fires flickered outside of your room, from the posts that stand on the crumbling walls. It was frightening, nonetheless.

Shouts of anguish come from outside of your door, which only makes you flinch and not respond to the knocking. "Dear! Open up!" A booming voice you unfortunately have come accustomed to from the past 13 months. You sigh with a heavy sway of your dress, picking it up to go answer the door. "Yes?" answering you father begrudgingly.

"Come with me, you are needed in the throne room, immediately," He leaves without another word and with a sway of his cape.

With a groan, you follow. Maybe it's another trade offer that he needs help with, or maybe taxes he needs to be filed. Whatever it is, it's taking your time out of your day. Not like you have much to do anyway…

You follow your father and his wall of guards, into the throne room. There holds many familiar nobles inside, along with your servants. Strange, you thought. This only happened when your sister was sent away to be married…wait a minute.

"Father, you wish to send me away during war? Do you not understand how valuable I am to you?" Your sass was known to tick your father off, and this time was not an exception.

"Daughter…" he came close to your face and cupped it, just as he did whenever you would cry about the monsters in your cabinet. "My sweet bird. You know that I love you so dearly, but this will end the war and end the deaths of our people. You have to understand…" He whispers to soothe. But none of that was soothing. It was so hard to hear his thoughts, but you were almost expecting them. Being the youngest daughter and the youngest child, the King had grown close to his child after the mother of children passed away. Everything had been downhill since that winter.

"Father. Yes, I understand. But you send me away, who will you have? This house is empty, who will you have once I am gone?" He smiles at that.

"You will see me even after you are gone. I promise to visit," With that the strong wall of being the princess broke, tears begun to fall. Your father wipe those tears away, saddened by his daughter's sorrow.

"Please. Do not cry. We will talk after this," You turn your head to the crowd, seeing that familiar skirt from the battlefields with intricate patterns and colors. *Barbarians. *You scowl and thought it was to yourself, but your father turned your head again, "Daughter. These people offer peace. You will save them. You will go down in history as the princess that ended the war," He wipes another tear.

Anger fills your lungs, "So you marry me off to a barbarian?!"

"Keep your voice down!" He hides my reaction from the guests. "they are not barbarians…we are just at war with them…" he mumbles to you and pats your shoulder.

"I need you to keep your head high and to use all of the lessons you learned about being a princess," he whispers to you as he guides you further into the throne room.

You spot the barbarian farther up in the group, with two sides of his head shaved but a long line of hair running down his scalp. He has his arms crossed in front, and with a puckering smile. His eyes are of sea glass that glistens… oh what are you saying? He is an invader! He's probably come to make you his wife and bare his stupid Scottish children--

"Daughter! Take a seat, don't stare," your father ushers you to your own seat on his left. You slowly make your way to your own throne and blush to yourself, making a fool with the guest.

You sit on the cold throne, wanting to jump up from the surprise.

Your father speaks first, "Welcome, my guests. The man who is marrying my daughter, please step forward," the King gestured to the stairs right near him. That man with those ocean blue eyes stepped forward, and you shuddered. He smiles as his skirt sways and he steps forward, one knee higher on a step.

"State your name, Scottish man." The King lowers his voice.

"Johnny MacTavish, at ch'our service…" He bows almost mockingly. He then raises himself up and eyes me, with a seductiveness that was almost childish. He's an odd man. He's a barbarian after all…

"Daughter, introduce yourself," that snaps you out of your stare. You raise yourself, the fabric of your dress falls. You introduced yourself, with a polite smile trying not to grimace.

"Lovely lass.." you heard the man mutter. He raises a hand to yours, wanting you to take it. You look at your father for reassurance. The King lifts a finger so you go to this strange man. You hesitantly take his hand in yours, and he lifts it to his lips and kisses the back of your hand.

You want to gag. He smells of piss and musk, it's awful. He wants to be so nice to his new wife, but he just has that masculinity to him that turns you off. But then again, those eyes were captivating your heart, and that smile with the scar on his chin pulled you in closer to him.

“M’lady…” he mutters to you, which unfortunately makes heat rise in your cheeks and stomach.

“Hm,” you resentfully reply back. He takes that as a notion to lower your hand. He turns to your father, “I am pleased with your daughter.”

You scowl at his words, how dare he treat you like a prize. But that was what you were.

“Splendid. Then the marriage and ceremony may commence. Johnny MacTavish, you have welcomed my daughter into your home, and I give you my blessing,” you father smiles. To which you reply with a grumble.

“Daughter, let your servants take you to get ready for the banquet tonight. Tomorrow will be the wedding, so I expect you to be prim and proper.”

“Yes, father,” And with sass, you leave down the steps. MacTavish’s friends or people of his clan start wooing as you walk by, clicking their tongues to try and get your attention. Your first hand maid Linda takes you by the arm, “Let’s go lovie, I am so sorry,” she mumbles in that motherly tone you were so familiar with.

“So you knew about this?” You hiss back.

“No-no ma’am. Until today, yes. I… I had no control nor said,” she frowns with her eyes. You sigh, looking down to the cobblestone floors.

“We’ll take good care of you miss, just like we did,” Linda gives a hopeful smile. Again, you sigh with your eyes barely acknowledging her words.

She brings you into the bath house, a small but cozy place. Linda helps you strip and then get into the warm bath, gently scrubbing away at your skin.

Everything was sinking in. The fact that you wouldn’t be here much longer, nor be able to see Linda anymore. She was always like a second mother to you, especially after your mother’s passing. This comfort would no longer be possible, and you would be left by yourself for your dying days.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe it would actually be prosperous and glorious. In your dreams. That stupid MacTavish taking you away as a prize, only so your families would stop fighting. Why the hell were they fighting in the first place? You weren’t allowed into politics because of your gender, and that was a whole other headache. But all you heard from your father was money issues, which seems plausible but not the full answer. You stared at the steam rising as Linda rubbed in lavender and magnolia oils.

This was all one big headache, and you didn’t want it to go on any longer. It’s not like you can just leave, but maybe you could…

“Princess, come on, let’s get you dried off,” you really needed to start paying attention to the things around you.

You step out as Linda wraps you with cloth and then ushers you to the bedroom. Your stylist shows you a couple of dresses out of your wardrobe, one with green and gold trimmings and accents, another that was red with a wine colored sheer collar and sleeves, and a plain blue dress. You choose your favorite and the maids help you get dressed.

You feel odd standing while they help your corset. The last time you were dressed up like this was your mother’s funeral, and that was something you did not want to think about right now. Pearls were adorned on your chest and ears, and you were pulled like a stubborn mule to the mess hall.

It was already loud enough. Once you entered it roared with whoops and hollers of excitement, as a butler brought you to your seat on the right of your father’s head seat.

“You look beautiful my little bird,” you frown a little at your father’s compliment, and he frowns back. “Please, raise your chin. Your husband has even offered to protect our lands,” The words of your husband made you recoil. But you kept a straight face and sighed at the whole ordeal.

“These Scots all seem so lively, it’s good to have a change of mood,” the King sparks a positive light, and you use your selective hearing.

“Hm,” you barely muttered, but it wasn’t heard over the ruckus.

“Birdie, please smile,” your father pleads.

“I will be happy, I haven’t been this happy since your mother–”

“Do. not. Mention her.” you sputter.

He sighs. “My apologies, but it’s true. Ever since losing my dear friends to the war, I haven’t smiled truly.”

“So you let the people who killed your friends into our home?” You fuss and glare at him.

“Well….” Your father pauses.

“What?” You stare at his hand raised gesture to try and make himself justified.

“They have been nice and pleasant,” You almost deadpan at that. You gesture to the barbarians eating and drinking your food with nostrils flared like dragons and noises made by pigs.

“You call this nice and pleasant?!”

“Well….” You stop his words with a finger and a look of disappointment.

“No. You’re already selling me off to some nasty ass man, so I don’t want to hear your pleas,” Your father glares at you now. “Your words, young lady.”

“Your words! Old man!” His nostrils flare like the barbarians.

“Enough, daughter. You do not talk to me that way around guests,” he gives a warning tone. His voice was cool now so as to not draw any more attention.

You stay silent and keep your hands in your lap. That Scots man comes back and sits across from you.

“Sorry, hev’ ‘ta quiet eh chums,” He makes eye contact with you, “Ah, pretty lass, goo’da see ‘ye,” Johnny takes your hand again and kisses it. You could tell his lips were wet, probably from the cherry red wine. His accent is thick and laced with teh alco

You nod with a small smile, trying to please your father.

“So, dear daughter,” Your father speaks up, pressing a hand on yours. He smiles constantly, glad that you have considered behaving in front of your barbaric husband. You look at your father’s crow feet and wonder why he seemed so urgent.

“Your…husband has agreed to use our carriage for your journey to their lands. As well, they are letting you bring Diana with you,” the mention of your midnight black Friesian horse made you somewhat smile, but still a little grim that you had to leave. You will always hold a small grudge that your father is selling you off like a slave. Cruel.

You want to tune out all of the commotion and ruckus, and just to magically float out of here without another word. You turn your head away from your father to simply ignore him, and your “husband” too.

Bored out of your mind, you place your hands on your lap. Brutish beasts of men tear up turkey legs and pork stomachs. You want to wretch just to piss them off. You felt a brush of your hand and you jumped, and you flashed your head to see your primitive husband who gave you a small smile.

“Sorry lassie, didnae mean tae scare ya,” his murmur of his accent made your stomach do flips, but you pushed that feeling aside. You sighed at him, knowing you eventually had to deal with him.

“Ye’r pretty,” he smiles and caresses your head. You wanted to melt into those gruff hands with dirty grim under the nails. Why was he so charming? Why was he trying to court you? He was only to be your husband, not a lover. That was all you were taught. Though you dreamed of the opposite. You read romances of princes who would pick princesses off their pretty little feet and away from the duties of a royal court.

A dream that you didn’t believe in as you got older, simply because it didn’t seem real anymore. Now with these aliens invading your lands and setting fire to your villages, how could you possibly fall in love with the man who led these acts of violence?

He seemed so sweet though. His eyes were of the sea glass you would pick up on the shores, luring you in to discover what treasures the ocean holds.

Johnny grabs a hold of your right hand and kisses it like he did in the throne room. You hum at this action, seeming unamused to make him leave. You turn your head to your guests, but he pulls your chin towards him.

“Yer father calls ye birdie?” He grins with a chuckle. You nodded, allured by his charm.

“Hm, pretty birdie…” he brings you closer to his face, index still under your chin. Your face flares at his charisma, something you can’t help with the unfamiliar warmth below your stomach and between your legs. “Can ye chirp for me?”

With that, you’re pulled away suddenly by your arm by your maid, tugging you out of the dining hall and into the empty hallway. You couldn’t help but smile at his childish antics, hoping he would do that again but also not.

“Lady… I swear he will bed you and have you fruitful before you make it to Scotland,” Linda grumbles as she tugs on your arms and into your bedroom. “You need to rest m’lady, you have a big day tomorrow…” She sets you in the bed and leaves without another sound.

You smile at Johnny’s words, that heat you felt from earlier rising again between your legs. You feel so giddy like you did when you read those romantic books so long ago. You had a feeling deep inside that he would be a good husband.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Did their mother leave Rhys the sword specifically? Or How did he get it?

This is based on the very vague idea that religion and displacement killed Britannia, and this is probably the second wave of Anglo-Saxon invasions, so I refer to the Jutes to try and be specific but eh???? This takes place as the Germanic invaders come to close around the family hillfort, I fucken guess. Idk, There was one Celtic British tribe called the Brigantes in Ireland, Scotland and England and maaaaaybe in Wales. It's a fucken reach, but I'm basically writing fantasy at this point anyway. But anyway, as the Romans pulled out in the 5th century, that transformed into the Kingdom of Rheged in what is now Northern England and Southern Scotland. Arthur is about ten, Rhys is probably sixteen, Alasdair and Brighid about 18. Alasdair has been stabbed, and Brighid was sent away to her her own territories. None of this makes fuck all historical or chronological sense ngl but this scene gripped me by the neck and wouldn't let go until it was on paper. TW for offscreen violence and... consensual implied???? murder.

The Jutes breached the steep sides of the earthworks on the seventh day. The carnyx made their harrowing cries, and Rhys shoved a Jute down and pried his sword from the man's neck, whipping around as the carnyx blew two short notes and a longer third, the signal to summon him to mother. Arthur was on the inner walls with the other archers. Rhys saw his youngest brother flick blood from his fingers as he nocked another arrow and slipped between the maze of stone battlements as fast as his legs would allow him. Arthur glanced down, a frown on his face as his arrow flew, and then he was off the gallery, hanging from the beam and running next to Rhys for home.

"Go back," Rhys said. "Go back, I'll come for you after."

"Mother summoned you," Arthur said, keeping pace. His tunic was wearing thin at the elbows, all the wear of firing, and Rhys ached. He would have to find his baby brother a new one soon and find his cloak before winter closed in.

"Yes," Rhys said.

"I'm coming."

Rhys slowed, stopped for only a moment, his momentum nearly tipping Arthur over as Rhys gripped his arm.

"They breached the walls." He said and Arthur nodded, his too-large eyes watering.

"I know."

"Do you understand what comes next?"

"I... I want to say goodbye. Please. I'll go if you say, but I need to say goodbye."

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, taking a breath, pain he had ever scarcely imagined twisting in his body. "When I say go, you go."

Another nod, more tears. Rhys held his brother's trembling hand. He was still so young, sandy hair still fine. He kissed his brother's forehead.

"I won't let anything happen to you today." Rhys said fiercely. "But you have to go when I say."

They moved again. In the stone hall, they found mother on the yew throne before the altar where she had once been worshipped.

"Mother!" Arthur leapt into her lap, crying freely now. Her hair was loose, streaming over her shoulders in firey spirals, so like Brighid's. He sobbed into her arms, and Rhys could barely keep his grip on his sword. Not even his own, Alasdair's old one. He'd lost his brother in the fray and Alasdair had not responded to the call. His mother cradled her youngest son and stared at Rhys, searching his face.

He nodded, and his understanding of his duty seemed to give her more strength than she'd had in decades. She gripped Arthur tighter.

"Don't go! Don't leave." Arthur cried and then in a much smaller voice. "Don't leave because of me."

Mother cradled his face, her war torc glinting. "It is not your fault. This is not your fault, sweet boy. All things must journey beyond the sunset. It is only my turn now."

"Where?" Arthur trembled. "Where will you go?"

Rhys had to close his eyes. The world had changed so much, Arthur could not immediately recall where they went in the end.

"West, my love. Beyond the sea and the sunset. With all those gone and all those yet to be. West."

Arthur clutched her tunic in his small, trembling hands, but his small mouth set in a line.

"Someday," She said and kissed him. "In some form. You will find me again, my love. My sweet boy. I love you. I love you so much. Find your cloak, find your bow and live, my sweet boy. Stay alive." She set him on his feet again.

"No," Arthur shook his head and his control broke complete, sobbing. "Mother no, please don't make me go."

"You must," She touched his cheek. "You must find your siblings and you must go. I will see you again."

"Wait for us, Mama." He cried. "Don't go too far west, please. Please."

"I will see you again." She said firmly, and her tears broke over her cheeks. "Go, my boy. Go now."

He wouldn't. He screamed and kicked. Rhys had to lift Arthur as he beat on his back and tossed him from the hall, slamming the doors behind him as he howled. His mother was in tears, beautiful and trembling. The great golden war torc around her neck glinted.

"I am sorry," She said and she gripped his hands. "I am so sorry I have to ask this of you."

"I know." He whispered.

"I won't die under the hooves of the Germans," She said, fiercely, her nails puncturing his palms. "I will die as I lived."

"I know," He said again, unsure how he had managed to keep his sobs boiling in his belly and not rising to spill out.

"You have to keep the peace, my love." She said. "You have to keep the peace between all of you."

"I will." He said and that was what broke the sob open. He dropped Alasdair's old sword. "Don't hate me when I fail. Please. I'll try but I---"

"Never." His mother flung him on her and held him like he was newly weaned and tiny again, clinging to her as all light and life and warmth in the world. "I will never hate you. I will love you and your siblings still when the fire in the sky goes out, Rhys."

The cacophony had grown louder, shouts and screams and clanging metal. She gripped him.

"My torc goes to your sister. What's left of the gold you can divide amongst yourselves." She lifted her hands from him and he went cold without them. She reached behind her seat and lifted her sword. "And this, this will have to be yours."

"Is this..." He stared at the leaf-bladed sword he had watched her wield all his life.

"Yes." She said and pressed it into his hands. "Through my heart, my love. The blood will soak the soil, but my cloak can cover the wound. Wait for your sister to bury me in the barrow. It's cold enough. You know where."

Rhys sobbed. They poured out of him in the rush of the great rivers. One, two, three great gulping sobs, and then he shook his head, rubbed his eyes and looked at her, breathing hard.

"It is time. Remember what I told you." Her dreams of her youngest son, her wisdom for Rhys, her love for all of them.

"Keep the peace. Arthur will one day build impossible iron ships. You love us."

"More than anything, I love you." She said, and he knelt before her on her throne. Her hands were white. She opened her cloak to reveal her tunic, and he lifted the sword.

[darael]

Hello, Tumblr. It's November now, and Armistice Day (also called Remembrance Day) is coming up. And that means the Poppy Appeal will be happening.

Now, the red poppies were originally a fine thing. They used to be made by otherwise-unemployed disabled veterans, as a means both of physical therapy and of providing an income to people who would otherwise not have them. They represented remembrance of the horrors of first one, then two World Wars, and the commitment to that never happening again.

Notice how all of that is in the past tense. In England, Wales and Northern Ireland, the poppies haven't provided employment to disadvantaged people for years (though in Scotland, they're still handmade by disabled veterans). Much is made of the original Poppy Factory still existing, which it does, but there they make wreaths; the individual poppies are not veteran-made. The Royal British Legion, which sells them, says they express "support the Armed Services Community past and present" (emphasis mine). They do, to their limited credit, explicitly claim it's not about glorifying militarism, but their consistent support of all things military-industrial-complex puts the lie to this. The memorial services they sponsor are full of pomp and circumstance and jingoism, and the fact that the Legion also sells "bling poppies", with crystals and such embellishments, is pretty indicative to me that the neither solemn remembrance nor the "never again " sentiment is the purpose any longer, but rather crass commercialism in service of the military. Even former military personnel occasionally speak out about the way the Legion uses its platform to marshall support for British military "interventions" overseas.

But there is an alternative.

The Peace Pledge Union, an organisation actually devoted to the ideal of an end to all wars, makes white poppies. These are explicitly about remembering not just "the armed services community", but all those who've died in war. With an ongoing attempt at genocide in Palestine (and, though numerically far less impactful, responses thereto also targeting civilians in Israel) — not to mention the continuing invasion of Ukraine by Russia or the situations in Azerbaijan, or between Ethiopia and Egypt, or more others than I can name — work towards peace and explicit acknowledgement of the civilian costs of war are as vital as ever.

So please: if you were going to buy a red poppy, or if you weren't but can afford it, consider donating to the PPU. They also have a list of places you can get a white poppy, if you don't want to order them directly.

Never Again means Now, and it means Us, and it means Not In Our Name.

[fumblingmusings]

ooooh hope you dont mind me jumping in here but its so fun to see how having a madeline or caroline in place of matthew and alfred would change things. i think madeleine might get treated more gently by arthur but i wonder if evelyn would worry about her 'inheriting' her lethargy. caroline like alfred would likely outshadow her sister with her loud bubbly personality and pure strength and health. Madelline tho is still the line of defence for arthur or evelyn so thats fun to explore.

Jump on jump on I like it when people jump on nothing like shouting into the void and hearing echo drift back like wohoo

Imma go completely off topic for 1,000 words, but your words triggered this so... please refer to blog title for what this blog's consistency is like. Have some headcanons for baby Arthur (and fem!England too) for how that would shape their own approaches to parenthood!

I like the idea of parenting (in fiction!!!) being someone either A) Making the exact same mistakes their own parent made and passing on generational trauma to their offspring or B) Trying so hard to avoid repeating mistakes that you end up creating a whole new host of issues to pass down. Male England - Arthur - is the former, Female England - Evelyn - is the latter.

When it comes to when England popped out of the ground like a spring daisy, there are many valid ideas. I like all of them depending on my mood. For maximum angst, I like England being born for the Roman Invasion, and with that comes every piece of horror that the Romans had to offer. Plus the plumbing the hot baths the toilets etc etc. But never mind that. Arthur is different to his brothers, and maybe it's not clear at first why. Wales is born at the same(ish) time, and yet they aren't Roman Britain, their mum is still merrily chugging along at this point with Ireland Scotland (and the Isle of Man if anyone remembers...). But Wales is so clearly his mother's son, and grows at a nice steady pace, even if the relations to Ireland and Scotland are not too obvious.

But Arthur... Oh dear. He's small for a very long time. But then he truly is that little (fat) cuckoo bird in the nest starving the other children and slowly killing the parents and he doesn't even understand how... until Rome leaves and those blasted Germans rock up. Invited or otherwise. And suddenly Arthur has that late childhood growth spurt and his mother grows weaker. Maybe she was always incredibly wary by him, maybe the fact that for as long as she was strong he was small, and when she was weaker he began to grow was incredibly off putting. It's hard to love something which is your own mortality staring you in the face. It's a thing with monarchs even. A king can never truly love the heir because they are a living reminder that you will die and there is someone ready to take your place.

Arthur's childhood was lonely, we know this. His brother's chased him away with rocks and arrows and he found solace with his folklore. Kid's never had unconditional affection in his life, is what I mean. His neighbour is France. Disaster. Same for female England. So... how they internalise that? Are they self aware enough to say 'What happened to me was wrong, was not my fault, so here's how I will take steps to avoid similar situations arising in the future?' or will they go 'I clearly was a weak little bug of a child, no kid of mine will be the same, I will love them, but by God they have to hit certain standards, the same standards I was held to, because I failed because I was weak and they will not, because no child of mine will be weak, and even if they don't, I turned out fine, so they will be fine.'

Or does it depend on the kid? Eldest child maybe does get the unconditional affection, because this time there is no ticking time bomb for the elder nations death, England is 2000+ miles away from America. England and America will continue quite merrily even if the other falls. Alfred is not Arthur's end. Opposite really. Saviour, at points. The same way I write Matthew as Evelyn's (sort of) favourite baby because of the ways she sees all those parts of herself in Matthew that she thinks could have been fixed if someone had just snuggled and cuddled with her more (it would not) and using him as a literal therapy child, Arthur and Alfred it's more like all the things Arthur saw in himself as thriving despite how he was brought up is in Alfred... because of Arthur. Does that make sense?

Or maybe it's the opposite? Like there's this great scene in The Borgias towards the end of the series where The Pope finally admits why he is so creeped out by his eldest son by saying He is me. All the fire the fury, the drive, the pitiless ambition... I look into his eyes I see myself. Do you expect me to love that? Maybe Arthur loves Alfred but is also intensely put off by him, in the exact same way Britannia was with baby England, but Arthur tries very hard not to pull away like his mother did, but it ends up becoming a self fulfilling prophecy where Alfred wants to leave anyway what was the fucking point and how that utterly fucks up subsequent relations with the future kids.

Female England, at least in my eyes, throws herself so hard into being a mother, partially to prove that she was better than her own mum, that she deserved better, that she is genuinely superior. And she ends up with the opposite problem where it's less the mother being distant and more the kids very naturally grow up and want to leave and she goes no no no I am better I was better why would anyone leave. Again, it's the growing up without unconditional affection which utterly distorts what a genuinely healthy parental child relationship looks like.

...I haven't even touched female America and Canada. :| Honestly there's so many combos. Arthur Alfred Matthew, Arthur Caroline Matthew, Arthur Alfred Madeleine. Evelyn Alfred Matthew, Evelyn Caroline Matthew, Evelyn Alfred Madeleine, Evelyn Caroline Madeleine. All different varieties of yikes.

[introverted-ghost]

Hello, hyd? :)) (tw for long ask below. Feel free to ignore)

Could you help me w something, pretty please?

I need to do an informative speech for college about an "interesting" topic. So I made a list of topics and now am asking my friends what topic/s they like the most/think are the most interesting. I was hoping you could take a look and give me your opinion (no pressure tho, if you don't wanna/are bussy, whatever, it's totally okay.) Here's my list:

1. Agnes Sorel. She was King Charles VII of France mistress in the XV century. She saved France's economy and prevent a British invasion all by herself. She was so cool some painters from the time used to portray her as Virgin Mary.

2. Dance plagues.

3. Gorbals' vampire hunt. In 1954 all the children from a town in Scotland were so convinced there was a vampire killing people, that at night hundreds of them went out with axes and knives looking for the monster.

4. What would happened if the sun disappeared/what would happened if the moon disappeared.

5. Why do people like to be scared (horror movies, ghost stories, roller-coasters, extreme sports...) (like. the scientific reason.)

6. The case of a woman who went to the hospital because she had "lost her body." She could see, and feel, and move her whole body, but she felt like the left side of her body wasn't hers, as if there was a void in there. This happened after she had a brain surgery to remove a tumor.

7. Missing 411 phenomenon. I really don't know if it is like a well-known topic in North America. Here in the south almost nobody knows about it, so I think it would be cool to explain how weird all these missing cases are and how non of them has ever been solved.

In case you actually read all this, thank you v much :) have an amazing day.

(I heard about all these stories a long time ago, I could be giving some incorrect information lmao.)

FUCK MY CULMINATING IM GONNA GIVE MY INPUT

1. Wow she does sound really cool. From the information provided and what I remember from 5th grade French history agnès sorel would be pretty cool to write about

2. This is the one I know the most about out of those you’ve listed. The dancing plagues were so weird and I think it would be really interesting to write about

3. After brief research this also sounds super cool. Especially since it happened so recently and it would be so interesting to research further

4. I don’t know about this one since it’s pretty obvious what would happen. Like since we’ve seen the outcome of what happens when sun-like stars have died before. Don’t get me wrong it’s super cool I just don’t know if people would want to continue paying attention to it as much if they already knew what would happen (same with moon scenario) but they’re still really cool and interesting which is what you’re looking for

5. Once again this one is just kinda obvious as an answer. Like it triggers the brain to release dopamine and Idrk how you could expand on that. Though if you could it’d be interesting

6. I have literally never heard of this before. All the other ones I knew a bit about but I’ve never heard this before and it sounds pretty cool

7. Yeah we don’t hear much about this in Canada since it was a us thing. But I do think it’s kinda cool since they all went missing in parks right? And like their cases didn’t get solved etc. pretty neat if you ask me

This probably wasnt the answer you were looking for and I also answered this like 2hours post sending so sorry for that. And you’re never bothering me dw man I’d love to see the speech you come up with. Anyways now I’m gonna work on my stuff and listen to some guy on youtube talk about journey to the west

I hope you have a wonderful evening and best wishes to you for your speech

[reasonablysurmised]

Amazon, machine translation scams, and outrage

This is going to be SUCH a "Middle-class woman with too much time on her hands gets huffy and writes a letter to the editor" post, but here we go (aside: I am only 1.5 of these things and I DEFINITELY don't have too much time on my hands but I do have the weekend and literature/translation-related indignation to fuel me).

So, be me, learning about badass turn-of-the-twentieth-century feminist and anti-tsarist Ukrainian poet, playwright, and all-around literature icon Lesya Ukrainka. Try to find any kind of anthology of her many works, and click over to Amazon because, well, you have to start somewhere. Find, to your dawning horror, the following as the first eight search results:

Know instantly that there is a 0% chance that any one of these was translated by a human actually qualified to translate these poems, even if you decide to give a generous view of the Amazon self-publishing industry. Attempt to rein in your outrage at this assault on translation decency (to say nothing of "Robert Bruce, King of Scotland," a poem about Scottish anti-colonialist struggles against England, being represented by a polo-wearing pensioner talking on his cell phone after a round of golf).

Investigate further.

Try to ignore the steam-whistle ears resulting from the UTTER FUCKING EFFRONTERY of TWENTY-SEVEN UNITED STATES DOLLARS for SEVENTEEN PAGES of almost-certainly garbage machine translation. Remain calm, sort of, and note the clear lack of an attributed translator (or publisher).

Grab hold of the rope of spite and let it pull you into the abyss, embrace the drive to find out if you're Right, download the Kindle app, download the free sample pages of Mermaid, the "romantic and lyrical poem...about a girl's love for her beloved Cossack."

(Thanks, this is really setting the 1885 Slavic village life mood for me.)

(Technically, TECHNICALLY, it could be worse. Like it's riddled with pronoun and tense inconsistencies and subject-verb agreement is a little lacking in places, but I could, if I wanted, convince myself that a person who makes a few idiosyncratic mistakes in Ukrainian-to-English translation worked on this, self-published using garish but free stock photos for the cover, and just got really fucking bold with their pricing.)

(This seems like underneath it all is a nice poem! However, nameless translator, I must comment that "the gray-haired guy got into his boat" is taking me out of the pastoral everyday tragedy of young lovers who don't keep their promises!)

Finish the free sample, despair at the death of literature and the seemingly unstoppable tide of the current cryptocapitalist hellscape. Writhe in bitterness, not unlike the young girl who got jilted by the grey-haired guy in the boat, and make a Tumblr post to cope.

Listen. Listen, okay. I can't PROVE that someone decided to use machine translation to make a quick buck off of an upswing in well-intentioned interest in Ukraine following a horrific invasion, while a bloated and uncaring corporate entity looked on with indifference. And I concede that this type of scam is so obvious that it would be shocking if such a person made more than like, three sales, so it's not exactly the crime of the century even if that's what happened.

But I still fucking HATE that this is where we're at. I am NOT going quietly into the brave new world of factory-production art that belittles every single person involved.

I discovered Lesya Ukrainka like...three hours ago so I'm not trying to speak out of turn on this but...people like her, who try to use writing to push the world forward, to capture the truth of what it's like to be alive in a particular place and time, whose works can CONNECT people from vastly different places across vastly different times--they matter! So this, this crass cash grab, it matters too.

We can absolutely get into the class complexity of who gets to have their words written down, who gets to have the leisure or financial support to translate those words or pick through them to form metanarratives a century later, who gets to be involved in publishing, and who gets to make a living off of any of these things--that's a separate post for another time. But the intersection of capitalism and instantaneous digital automation of language and image-based art/"art" is, I genuinely believe, a sea-change that is bigger than those fights, and bad news for almost everyone except the vanishingly tiny proportion of people who own the tech driving this (I would even argue that what could happen to human art as a result would be bad for THEM).

This is not the people who have been kept out of the publishing world "seizing the means of production" (why, WHY do you think they're handing the "means" to you for free?). This is the social devaluation of a source of psychological sustenance, at BEST to contribute to someone's material sustenance in the short term, that will lead to its MATERIAL devaluation in the long run so that neither human nor machine-made art will be reliable for material sustenance anyway.

SO. God (theism neutral) bless the writers and actors striking, god bless the authors suing, and may we find ways to build the barricades against "AI" overreach, especially in art (including translation), in the name of savings and profit.

(Also check out Lesya Ukrainka; she's pretty cool.)

[scotianostra]

23rd August 1305 saw the trial and execution in London of Sir William Wallace, one time Guardian of Scotland.

I posted yesterday stating the trial happened then, it came u in a source I was reading about Wallace, sometimes the historians can get it wrong, but the post yesterday served as more of prelude and a taster of todays more detailed one. Wallace is said to have accepted his execution without resistance and a brave heart. He even made a final confession to a priest and read from the book of Psalms before his punishment.

Types of execution at The Elms ranged from burning at the stake (for heretics) to the tried and tested hanged-drawn-and-quartered method for those convicted of high treason. For those unfamiliar with this method, it involves being dragged by a horse to the place of execution, hanged  until almost dead, then disembowelled whilst still conscious, beheaded, and finally being chopped into four pieces (i.e. ‘quartered) and subsequently having these pieces put on display across the city, or in Sir William Wallace’s case, the country.

I think it only right to give a background post about Sir William Wallace so hang on to your hats, there’ll be no mention of French Princess’s, Blue painted Australians or the like. 

Much of what we know about Wallace comes from  Blind Harry, also known as Harry, Hary or Henry the Minstrel, is renowned as the author of The Actes and Deidis of the Illustre and Vallyeant Campioun Schir William Wallace, more commonly known as The Wallace. The trouble is how reliable can Blind Harry’s account be, it was written over 150 years after Wallace's grisly demise, the stories about oor erstwhile hero would have been handed down through  word of mouth, possibly even in song. 

Harty claims that Wallace's father was named Malcolm, and on this basis Wallace has traditionally been identified as Sir Malcolm Wallace, a minor landowner from Renfrewshire. Sir Malcolm was a descendant of Richard Wallace, a native of the lordship of Oswestry on the Welsh border, (Wallace itself meaning Welshman),  who first came to Scotland in the twelfth-century in the service of Walter Fitz Alan, first High Steward of Scotland. This Stewart connection has also been used by historians to explain Wallace's place in the 'patriotic' struggle of the 1290s.

But  Harry’s story has some flaws, now I’m not decrying the story, just some details like his age.

No reliable evidence exists to gives us an estimate of his age. Harry claims that Wallace was 'forty and five [years] of age' when he was executed,  but also states that he was 'bot eighteen yer auld' shortly before the Battle of Stirling Bridge, which would place the year of his birth around 1278/9.

It shows how difficult it is to build a picture of Sir William.

The contemporary English chronicler William Rishanger implies that Wallace was a young man when he emerged as the leader of armed resistance to the English in southern Scotland in 1297, but this does little to narrow things down. According to Hary, Wallace was raised by his two uncles - both clerics - who saw to his education after his father was killed by an English knight named Fenwick

 One of his uncles was from Dunipace, a wee town not far from my home in Falkirk, it is through this uncle we get an oft quoted phrase  “This is the truth I tell you: of all things freedom’s most fine. Never submit to live, my son, in the bonds of slavery entwined.” The second pic shows part of the quote, it is on a paving stone on Falkirk High Street  that I often walk past.

He does seem to have had two brothers, Malcolm - who would provide Wallace with much-needed support in the later part of his career - and John - who would later be executed for supporting Robert Bruce after 1306. His activities before 1297 are also uncertain, but they may have been less than wholesome. Contemporary English accounts describe him as a 'brigand' and a 'thief', suggesting he may have lived outside the law even before the English invaded. Of course, these may simply be attempts by hostile writers to blacken his reputation. However, a legal document of August 1296 mentions 'a thief, one William le Waleys' as an accomplice of a cleric named Matthew of York who had in June of that year been convicted of robbery at Perth. This could well be our William.

Again I am not trying to blacken his character, I am merely pointing out the difficult job that historians have when piecing together his life. 

Whatever the details of his early life, following the English invasion of 1296 that Wallace first emerged into the mainstream of Scottish affairs in a big way. The death of King Alexander III in 1286, followed by the death of his granddaughter Margaret of Norway in 1290, had provoked a major succession crisis in Scotland. Efforts to settle the ongoing dispute between the competing Balliol and Bruce factions had led to increasing English interference in the governance of Scotland, culminating in a full-scale invasion of the kingdom in 1296. I’ve covered all this in posts regarding King John Balliol, the sacking of Berwick and  the first Battle of Dunbar all in 1296.

One of Wallace’s first encounters with the English is told in typically dramatic form by Blind Harry, the story goes that William was fishing  when he is accosted by five soldiers in the service of 'lorde Persye'  Henry Percy, 1st Baron Percy who was the warden of Galloway and Ayrshire .  The honest, unsuspecting Wallace offers them some of his fish so long as they leave the rest for his uncle - 'ane agyt knycht' - Wallace hopes to feed, but the soldiers demand all of his fish and attack him when he refuses them. Remarkably, Wallace disarms the first attacker using only a 'poutstaff' ('fishing pole'), seizes the discarded sword, kills two of the soldiers, severs the hand of another, and chases the survivors off! 

The earliest confirmed encounter between Wallace and the English administration occurred in May 1297, when Wallace and a small band of supporters killed William Heselrig, the English sheriff of Lanark, shortly before an assize was due to be held in the town. According to the indictment against him in 1305, Wallace and his men also dismembered Helelrig's corpse. Famously, Hary claims that Wallace's attack on Heselrig was in retribution for the killing of Wallace's wife - Marion Braidfute, as Harry identifies her. 

It is apparent from contemporary English accounts of the incident at Lanark that it proved to be a powerful recruiting tool for Wallace's rebellion. As Walter Guisborough put it, 'the common folk of the land followed him as their leader and ruler; the retainers of the great lords adhered to him; and even though the lords themselves were present with the English king in body, at heart they were on the opposite side'.

What I find remarkable is that the killing of the soldiers and then Heselrig kickstarted, the uprising against Edwards army and around 4 months Wallace and Andrew de Moray had assembled a combined army of over 6 thousand troops that ambushed the English as they crossed the Forth at Stirling.

Before Stirling we also had the capitulation of the Nobility at Irvine, I have also covered this in a previous post.

In the wake of the Scottish victory at Stirling Bridge, the English administration in Scotland all but collapsed. The Scots were once again able to form a government of their own, and at its head - now as Guardians of Scotland - were Wallace and Murray, although Murray's tenure was cut short when he died - probably of wounds sustained at Stirling Bridge - in November.

This was the zenith of Wallace's career. He had emerged from obscurity to the very summit of Scottish society, all in the space of a year. It also meant he had a price on his head and was the most wanted man in Scotland.

Edward I returned from the Continent in March 1298 and set his sights on Scotland, he marched with an army North in late June and quickly discovered that Wallace's response to the threat had been to devastate southern Scotland and withdraw with his army out of reach of the English. A bitter and frustrating campaign followed, with Edward almost abandoning the chase altogether. However, in late July Edward got wind that the Scots had been sighted near Falkirk, and hurriedly moved his army to meet them. 

Precisely why the confrontation at Falkirk happened is, as with so much of Wallace's career, uncertain. Until this point in the campaign Wallace had carefully avoided the English army, a prudent strategy that would later pay off for the Scots under Bruce. Guisborough claims that Wallace had learned that Edward planned to withdraw and hoped to attack the English in the rear. This would at least explain why Wallace so suddenly abandoned his previously cautious strategy. However, given the potential challenges he was facing from the nobility of Scotland it may equally have been the case that Wallace felt compelled to face the English in open battle sooner or later and prove that his success at Stirling Bridge - which was after all arguably at least as much Murray's as it was Wallace's - was not just a lucky accident. 

Whatever the case, the battle that followed was an utter catastrophe for the guardian. Abandoned by the cavalry, who may have lost their nerve as they had at Irvine or - as claimed by subsequent Scottish chroniclers - betrayed Wallace, Wallace's schiltrons - tightly-packed bodies of infantry armed with long spearmen - repelled the English cavalry but fell prey to English archery, which broke up their formations and left them vulnerable to a renewed assault by the cavalry. Wallace escaped the battle with his life, but his position as guardian had been irrevocably damaged. It is not entirely clear precisely when or where he resigned the guardianship, but by the end of 1298 Robert Bruce, earl of Carrick (the future king), and John Comyn, lord of Badenoch, were jointly exercising the office of guardian.

Wallace's time as guardian may have been decisively ended, but he remained an active opponent of the English in Scotland. The resistance he offered to the English in this period was not always in keeping with the wishes of the guardians. For instance, in August 1299 an altercation took place at a council at Peebles at which Wallace's plan to travel to France was condemned by Sir David Graham as being 'without the leave or approval of the Guardians'. Wallace's plans were defended by his brother Malcolm, who argued that they were at least 'for the good of the kingdom'

Wallace did indeed leave for France in 1299, apparently on a diplomatic mission to seek the support of King Philip IV against Edward I. Wallace's reception in France was initially hostile, since at the time Philip was himself seeking peaceful relations with Edward I, and Wallace was briefly incarcerated by the French king. However, in November 1300 Philip was writing to his envoys to the pope asking them to promote Wallace's case at the papal court. It is possible that Wallace himself visited to Rome assist in making the Scottish case to the pope in person, and the fact that when he was eventually he reportedly had on his person a safe-conduct from King Hakon V of Norway may suggest he also travelled to Norway on diplomatic business (although he may simply have planned to do so at some point). By 1303 - possibly earlier - he was back in Scotland and again involved in armed resistance to the English

By this point the tide in the war was slowly turning against the Scots. The French were once again pursuing a peaceful policy towards the English following their own military reversal at Courtrai in 1302. Scottish nobles were gradually making their peace with the English, and the surrender of Stirling Castle marked the effective end to organised Scottish resistance on a large scale. In light of his increasing success, Edward I was generally willing to be fairly accommodating towards those Scots who were willing to submit to him, but this was not so with Wallace. Indeed, in the general amnesty offered to the Scots by the English, Wallace might at best 'render himself up to the will and mercy of our sovereign lord the king, if it shall seem good to him' - hardly an encouraging prospect. When Wallace's long-standing cohort Simon Fraser submitted to Edward in July 1304, he was welcomed into the king's peace only on the understanding that he would assist in the ever-intensifying hunt for the fugitive Wallace. Nevertheless, Wallace remained at large until 3rd August 1305, when he was seized near Glasgow by men in the service of Sir John Menteith, keeper of Dumbarton Castle on behalf of King Edward. Menteith - identified as Wallace's 'gossop' ('godfather') by Harry.

Having finally captured Wallace, Edward I refused even to see him. Instead, Wallace was taken to London for what for want of a better word might be called a trial.

Sir Peter Malory, one of the king's justices, presided over the proceedings, which were little more than a formality. The charges were considerable. Wallace had, according his accusers, been a traitor to King Edward, perpetrated armed resistance against him and slain the king's officers (William Heselrig was mentioned by name), assumed the authority of 'a superior' of Scotland, submitted 'to the fealty and lordship of the lord king of France and [gave] him help to the destruction of the kingdom of England', made war on the northern counties of England, 'feloniously and seditiously assaulted, burned and devastated religious men and nuns...[and] inflicted [upon] all, old and young, wives and widows, children and babes the worst death which he could devise', and 'harmoniously and eagerly...refused to submit himself to the lord king's peace' even after being defeated at Falkirk. According to the Annals of London, he 'answered that he had never been a traitor to the king of England, but granted the other crimes charged against him'.

In the eyes of the English as an outlaw, Wallace had no recourse to a defence. Instead, he was summarily sentenced to be executed in the manner reserved for traitors. Wallace was thus 'dispolyeid of his weid' as Hary puts it and dragged naked on a hurdle through the streets of London. At Smithfield he was hanged by the neck 'for the robberies, homicides and felonies which he carried out in the kingdom of England and the land of Scotland'

Before he could suffocate he was taken down and emasculated and disembowelled 'for the dreadful wickedness which he did to the church'. His 'heart, liver and lungs and all the bowels...from which such perverse thoughts proceeded' were then burned. Presumably now dead, Wallace was beheaded - the punishment for outlawry - and his body was divided into four parts. His head was to be displayed on London Bridge (where it remained until at least September the following year, when it was joined by that of his former comrade Simon Fraser). The remaining quarters were to be displayed on gibbets at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Berwick-upon-Tweed, Stirling and Perth, 'to put dread in and to warn all by-passers and observers'.

The savagery with which Wallace was dispatched contrasts sharply with Edward I's attitude toward the Scots in general, but let’s not forget it was the usual punishment for any person deemed to be a traitor.

However it appeared that Longshanks earlier experiences with the Scots had convinced the ageing English king that a more conciliatory approach to establishing a lasting English administration in the kingdom. Edward's new plan for the settlement of Scotland envisaged a ruling council composed primarily of Scots - including the likes of Bruce and Comyn - which would advise an English lieutenant who would retain overall authority. Scots law and custom was to be respected, at least in the short term, and it may have seemed to many at the time that the objections that had fuelled Wallace's original rebellion in 1297 had been addressed. 

As we know, the matter would be rendered moot less than six months after Wallace's death when Robert Bruce killed Comyn, forcing him to make public his ambition to become King of Scots. In many senses Bruce's struggle was quite unlike Wallace's, being primarily motivated by his own ambitions and perception of his rights. That being said, if Wallace had not maintained the momentum behind Scottish resistance to the English, particularly in the crucial year of 1297, then Bruce may never have had his opportunity to make his successful bid for power.

Pics are statues of Sir William Wallace around Scotland in order, Bemersyde near Dryburgh, Aberdeen, opposite His Majesty's Theatre,  Edinburgh Castle, Newmarket Street Ayr, St Nicholas Church, Lanark, Stirling Town Centre, The National Wallace Monument Abbey Craig, Stirling, showing it before and after it’s recent restoration,  Scottish National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh and his memorial at Smithfield, London. There are others around the world that remember the Scots Patriot who so bravely stood up to fight for his country.

[sixth-light]

The Crusades: A Fandom Primer

Like many of you, I am very excited to see a whole lot of fic about everybody’s favourite new Crusades-era Muslim/Christian immortal warrior husbands! However, a preliminary reading indicates that fandom is a bit hazy on what actually happened during the Crusades. Or where. Or why. They’re a much-mythologised piece of history so this isn’t surprising, but at popular request – ok like five people that counts – I’m here with a fandom-oriented Crusades primer.

Please bear in mind that I’m not a historian and this primer is largely based on my notes and recollections from several undergraduate history courses I took in the mid ‘00s. I expect the field has moved on somewhat, and I welcome corrections from people with more up-to-date knowledge! There’s also this very good post by someone who is a lot less lazy about links than I am.

Where did they take place?

The Crusades, broadly, describe a series of invasions of the Eastern Mediterranean (modern Israel, Syria, Lebanon, Beirut, Jordan, Cyprus, and parts of Turkey and Greece) by (mostly) Western European armies, religiously justified by their belief that the city of Jerusalem should be part of ‘Christendom’, i.e. ruled by a Christian monarch. In the first expression of European settler colonialism, nobles from the area of modern France and Germany founded four Crusader Kingdoms (aka ‘Outremer’, ‘overseas’) – the County of Edessa, the Principality of Antioch, the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and County of Tripoli.

  After a first unexpected wave of success in the First Crusade (1096-1099), which surprised everybody including the participants by conquering Jerusalem, the Crusaders were gradually driven and the last part of Outremer was lost to European control with the fall of the city of Acre in 1291. Crusades after that still nominally aimed to take Jerusalem but rarely got very far, with the Fourth Crusade famously sacking the city of Byzantium, their nominal Christian allies, in 1204. During this whole period activity that can be considered part of the ‘Crusades’ took place around the Eastern Mediterranean.

The most important thing to remember is that modern national boundaries didn’t exist in the same way; Italy, Germany, France, Spain, and the UK were not unified nations. Most of the southern Iberian peninsula (modern Spain) was ‘al-Andalus’, Muslim kingdoms ruled by nobility originally from North Africa. Sicily had been an Emirate up until very recently, when it had been conquered by Normans (Vikings with a one-century stopover in France). Italy and Germany in particular were a series of city-states and small duchies; Genoa, if you’re curious about it for some reason, ;), was a maritime power with more or less a distinct language, Genoese Ligurian (their dialect had enough of a navy to qualify). England had recently become part of the Anglo-Norman Empire, which ruled most of England (but not Wales or Scotland) and also large parts of modern France, particularly Normandy.

The Muslim world was similarly fragmented in ways that don’t correspond to modern national boundaries - there were multiple taifa states in Iberia, the Almoravid Caliphate in Morocco, the Fatimid Caliphate in Egypt, and (nominally) the Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad, one of the great cities of the era, although the Seljuq Turks were the major power in Anatolia (modern Turkey) and what we describe as the ‘Middle East’. 

The largest Christian unified power in the wider European/Mediterranean region was the Byzantine Empire, centered on the city of Constantinople (modern Istanbul), which quite fairly considered itself the direct continuation of the Roman Empire, the capital having been moved there by the Emperor Constantine in 323. In fact, the really big political and religious question of the time for Christians was who got to be considered the centre of Christendom (there was no real concept of ‘Europe’ at this point) – the Orthodox Church, the Byzantine Emperor, and the Patriarch of Constantinople in Constantinople, or the Holy Roman Emperor (er…dude in nominal charge of a lot of German and Italian principalities) and the Roman Catholic Church led by the Pope in Rome. The Orthodox Church in Constantinople and the Roman Catholic Church had agreed to disagree in 1054 in the Great Schism, so in 1096 this issue was still what you’d call fresh.

Onto this stage of East-West disagreement and the heritage of Rome crashed the Seljuq Turks, a Muslim group from Central Asia who swept through Anatolia (modern Turkey), Byzantium’s richest province, culminating in the Battle of Manzikert in 1071 which wiped out Byzantium as an independent military force. The southern provinces had fallen under Muslim rule long ago, during the era of the first Umayyad Caliphate – including Jerusalem, famous as the birthplace of Christianity and a holy site for Judaism and Islam as well, but also a fairly uninteresting provincial town. Until...

Until…what?

Here’s why all the geography matters: It is generally accepted that the First Crusade kicked off largely because Alexios I Comnenus, the then-current Byzantine Emperor, requested aid from Western Europe against the Muslim Seljuq Turks. Byzantium often recruited mercenaries from Western Europe; the Normans (aka the Vikings), who had settled Normandy and southern Italy in the past century were frequent hires. Hence those runes in the Hagia Sophia.

Meanwhile in Western Europe, the Pope – Urban II – was having difficulty with the current Emperor, and was eager to heal the Schism and establish the primacy of the Roman church. He declared that an expedition to aid the Byzantines would have the blessing of the church, and that a new kind of pilgrimage – an armed pilgrimage – was religiously acceptable, if aimed against the enemies of Christendom.

Pilgrimages (travelling to holy sites, such as churches that held saints’ relics) were a major part of European Christianity at the time and many people went on pilgrimage in their lives, so this was a familiar concept. Western Europe was also somewhat overpopulated with knights – don’t think plate armour, this is 1096, think very murderous rich men with good swords – who could always use forgiveness, on account of all the murder. The Roman Catholic church, unlike the Eastern Orthodox church, also subscribed to the concept of ‘just war’, that war could be acceptable for the right reasons. And so a whole lot of nobles from the area of modern France, Belgium, England, Germany, and Italy decided that this new Crusade thing was something they wanted in on – and they took several armies with them.

I’m going to skip over a bunch of stuff involving the People’s Crusade (a popular movement of poorer people, got literally slaughtered in Anatolia), the massacres of Jews in Eastern Europe, and a lot of battles, but the takeaway is this: Alexios probably thought he was getting mercenaries. He got a popular religious movement that, somewhat unfortunately, actually achieved its goal (Jerusalem), did next to nothing to solve his Anatolia problem, and gave a succession of Popes a convenient outlet for errant knights, nobles, and rulers: going on Crusade.  

How many were there?

Official Crusades that anybody cares about: Nine, technically. Crusade-like military events that immortal soldiers might have got involved with, plus local stoushes in Outremer: way more. WAY more.

The First Crusade (1096-1099): First and original, set a frankly (heh) terrible precedent, founded the Crusader States and captured Jerusalem. Only regarded as a clash of civilisations by the Western Christians involved. For the local Muslims it was just another day at the ‘Byzantium hires Frankish mercenaries to make our lives difficult’ office.

The Crusade of 1101: Everybody who peaced out on the First Crusade hurried to prove they were actually up for it, once the remaining First Crusaders took Jerusalem. Didn’t do much.

The Second Crusade (1147-1150): The County of Edessa falls, Eleanor of Aquitaine happens (my fave), the only winners are the people who semi-accidentally conquer Lisbon (in Portugal) (but from Muslim rulers so that…counts?).

The Third Crusade (1189-1192): You all know this one because it has RICHARD THE LIONHEART and SALADIN. Much Clash of Civilisations, very Noble, did enough to keep the remaining Crusader kingdoms going but access to Jerusalem for Christian pilgrims was obtained by treaty, not conquest. Indirectly responsible for the Robin Hood mythos when Richard gets banged up in prison on the way home and is away from England for ages.

The Fourth Crusade (1202-1204): Aims for Jerusalem, ends up sacking the Eastern Orthodox city of Constantinople, just not a great time for anybody, more or less the eventual cause of the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453.  

The Fifth Crusade (1217-1221): Still going for Jerusalem, starts with Cairo instead, does not get anywhere it wants to even after allying with the Anatolian Sultanate of Rum, making the whole ‘Christians vs Muslims’ thing even murkier than it already was post the Fourth Crusade.

The Sixth Crusade (1228-1229): Somehow these things are still going. Nobody even does very much fighting. Access to Jerusalem is negotiated by treaty, yet again.

The Seventh, Eight, and Ninth Crusades: Seriously nobody cares anymore and also nobody is trying very hard. Kings have better things to do, mostly. People end up in Egypt a lot. We covered these in one lecture and I have forgotten all of it.

The Albigensian Crusade (1209-1229): Why take a three-year trip to the Holy Land to fight pagans when you can fight the ones in your own backyard (southern France), AND take their stuff? Famously the source of the probably apocryphal ‘Kill them all, God will know His own’ quote, regarding the massacre of most of a city harbouring Cathars (a Christian sect deemed heretical).

Can we circle back to that ‘massacres of Jews’ bit? WTF?

Crusades, historically, were Not A Good Time for Jewish communities in Europe; when Christians were riled up to go and Fight The Infidel, it was a lot quicker to massacre local Jews than travel to the Holy Land. Also, then you could take their stuff. I will note here that it is VERY TACKY to use historical pogroms as backdrops for your non-Jewish main characters so keep this in mind but, like, use with extreme caution in fanfic, okay? Generally life was a lot easier for Jewish communities in Muslim-ruled states in this period, which is why so many Hispanic Jews ended up in Turkey after they were expelled from Spain. 

What were they really about, then?

Historians still Have Opinions about this. Genuine religious fervour was absolutely a key motivator, especially of the First Crusade. The ability to wage war sanctioned by the Church, or to redeem your local sins by going and fighting against the pagans, was part of that, too. Control of key trade routes to the East was probably not not a part of it. The Crusader States were definitely Baby’s First Experiment With Settler Colonialism, and paved the theological and rhetorical ground for the colonisation of the Americas. But many individuals on the Christian side would absolutely have believed they were doing God’s work. The various Muslim rulers and certainly the local Christian, Jewish, and Muslim inhabitants of the Holy Land itself were mostly just getting invaded by Franks. As time wound on the Crusades became more and more political (frequently featuring intra-religious violence and inter-religious alliances) and less and less about their forever nominal goal, control of Jerusalem.

How’s Wikipedia on this?

Basically not too bad but I’m not totally confident on some of the bits about motivation (see: white supremacists love this period, ugh.)

Why did they stop?

The prospect of re-taking Jerusalem vanished entirely as the Ottoman Empire centralised and took a firm hold over most of the Levant (and made inroads into Europe, as far as Austria, taking Constantinople in 1453 and finally ending the continuous Roman Empire), the Spanish Reconquista and various intra-European conflicts (the Hundred Years’ War, for example) absorbed military attention, and then the Reformation happened and half of Europe stopped listening to the Pope and started stabbing each other over who was the right kind of Christian. But the concept lingered; white supremacists love the Crusades. Which is why it is a very good idea to be sparing with Crusader imagery around Niccolò in fanfic set in the modern era, and please for fuck’s sake stop with the ‘crugayders’ tag, Yusuf wasn’t a Crusader.  

What other fun facts should I keep in mind re: Nicky | Nicolò and Joe | Yusuf?

·        Genoa is not the same as Italy; Nicolò is Nicolò di Genova and would have spoken Genoese (Ligurian) and considered himself to be Genoese. Italian as a language didn’t really exist yet. The language he and Yusuf would most likely have had in common was the ‘lingua franca’ (Frankish language, literally) of the Mediterranean trading region, a pidgin based heavily on maritime Italian languages. Yusuf 300% would have thought of him as a ‘Frank’ (the generic term for Western Christians) and probably annoyed him by calling him that until at least 1200 or so.

·        Yusuf is apparently from ‘Maghrib’, which I assume means al-Maghrib/the Maghreb (as his actor is IIRC of Tunisian descent), i.e. North Africa. He could have had relatives in al-Andalus (southern modern Spain), he may have spoken languages other than Arabic natively (Mozarabic or Berber), his native area had universities before Europe did. Basically: this is as useful as saying he’s ‘from Europe’, do better backstory writers.

·        Taking the whole ‘Nicky used to be a priest’ backstory at face value: being a priest in 1096 looked pretty different to how it did even 200 years later. They were still working on the celibacy thing. The famous monastic orders were still forming. Some priests could and did hold lands and go to war (this wasn’t common but it happened, especially if they were nobles by birth). Nicolò di Genova would not necessarily have seen a conflict between going on Crusade and being a priest, is what I’m getting at. If he was ALSO trained as a knight, he was from a wealthy family; it took the equivalent several villages to support a knight.

·        ‘Period-typical homophobia’ is going to look very different for this period. They are NOT getting beaten up for holding hands. Or sharing a bed! Or even kissing, depending on the circumstances! I am not an expert on Islamic sexual mores of the era but Christian ones were heavily on the side of ‘unsanctioned sex is bad, sanctioned (marital) sex is slightly less bad’, and there was no concept of ‘being gay’. An interfaith relationship would be in some ways more of a problem for them than the same-sex one (and in some ways less difficult to navigate than a heterosexual interfaith relationship.) The past is another country.

·        Look just no more fanfics where Yusuf is trying to learn ‘Italian’ in the early twelfth century I am BEGGING you all

[modern-vellichor]

Could i please request a buckyxf!reader oneshot that is set after endgame (twatws time maybe?) and the reader is a powerful avenger. Bucky and reader are friends and are very close (but make it mutual pinning and (not actually) unrequited love). Eventually, Bucky confesses his feelings but the reader thinks that they can’t be together because she knows that Bucky wants peace, but there’s no peace in her life. She is a fighter, always has been and always will be, and she loves it. She loves Bucky and wants him to be happy, even if it’s without her. You can ending either sad or happy, for your liking :)

Anyway, thank you💕

angsty ending. I'm sorry :(

Warnings: blood, injury, angst, explicit language, alcohol consumption.

"I'm glad you're talking to him again, Buck. He missed you, he really did," you hummed softly. "I missed you, too."

You pulled your old friend in for a hug. He hugged you back and you sighed happily.

You had missed him, terribly. You were usually very close, he was one of the only people he kept in touch with. Steve was dead, him and Sam were on the rocks, and it's not like he's going to reach out to Tony or Bruce for evening drinks. And then one evening you received a text.

'Reached out to Sam. Gone on mission. Will be back soon.'

And those three short sentences sent you reeling. You spiraled into a whirlpool of worry and grief. You texted and called Bucky, but it was to no avail. And so you tried Sam, he didn't answer either. You were on the verge of reaching out to Sam's work friends when you got a call.

"Hey."

"Bucky? Oh, my God! Bucky where are you?"

"Uhm, Madripoor. Sam and I need help."

"I'm gonna kill you, Barnes. Had me worried half to death."

"See you soon, doll."

"Yeah, whatever."

And so you went to Madripoor to rescue his ass. And then spent the plane ride home ranting his ear off about how stupid an idea it was.

It was because you loved him. You had loved him since you rescued him from the clutches of HYDRA. You had loved him through thick and thin, through alien invasions and titan fights. But you would never tell him. You were a powerful avenger, and dating a superhero was the last thing Bucky needed.

Bucky wished he could have you. Sometimes it seemed as if you were the only thing keeping him sane. He liked to bury his face in the crook of your neck and breathe you in until the world faded into the background. You kept him grounded. He just wanted to keep you safe. He wanted to have you on his arm at all hours of the day.

You hauled yourself out of your seat, slapping Bucky over the head as you made to the galley. Intent on making yourself some coffee, you were still on New York time and you weren't about to mess it up. Bucky stormed after you.

He crammed into the galley behind you. You ignored him.

"Can't ignore me forever, doll."

"I'm pissed at you, Barnes," he put his hands on your waist. "Hands off before I break your wrists."

"I only have one breakable wrist."

"Would you like to test that theory?"

Your voice was so cold and sinister that his hands immediately retracted. You cooed mockingly at him.

"What you did was stupid," you chastised. "Breaking Zemo out of prison? Idiot move. If Sam and I have to go on the run again, I'll kill you. And that's both a threat and a promise."

"I'm sorry."

"Do you know how scared I was? You could have texted or called or sent a fucking pigeon or something!"

That was the end of the conversation. You took your mug and pushed past him to sit next to Sam. It wasn't until you landed that you spoke to Bucky. And that was just to say that you'd be over next week.

Bucky had set up dinner for the evening you were due to visit. HE had gotten roses and lit candles, an apology. But you never showed. So he turned on the news. You had fled to Honduras to for a mission. The next week you were in Syria, and the next in Scotland. It was Bucky's turn to be worried.

You knocked on his front door twice. He rushed to let you in. You pushed past Bucky, blood leaked from your bruised temple. Your nose was crooked and bloody and mangled. Your teeth were a disgusting orange as your lips bled. You spat into Bucky's sink and grabbed a beer from his fridge.

"What happened to you?" He asked sternly.

"Work."

"Sit down," he commanded. "Where have you been? You keep promising to visit and then bailing."

"Work."

He huffed and cleaned your wounds.

"I worry about you," Bucky confessed.

His brow was furrowed. The sincerity in his voice was new. You took a swig of your beer and said nothing. Bucky sighed. He leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.

"I love you."

You pushed him away from you. You made for the door but Bucky blocked your path.

"Out of my way, Barnes."

"No."

"You don't love me, move."

"I do."

"Then fucking stop!" You pushed him away from you. "I'm not good for you. Look how well you're doing. All the work you've done to get better will go down the drain if I'm coming home bloody and bruised every other evening."

Bucky said nothing. Tears welled in your eyes and you blinked them away. You made for the door and slammed the door behind you. Bucky called and texted. Every once in a while he would get an 'I'm fine' text. You never came over, you never called.

Bucky saw you on the news sometimes. He laughed when you met John Walker and nearly broke his wrist when he tried to hug you for a photo. Sam said that you were just trying to keep Bucky safe. But Bucky missed you, and so he pushed all his feelings down again. He never spoke of you, he never uttered your name. And it all seemed fine.

There was still a bloodstain on his kitchen floor from when you were her last. Sometimes he looked at it and sobbed. Sometimes he broke a plate, but he never, ever reached out. Because apparently, you didn't miss him either.

@lizzarooni

[sylvermidnight]

An in depth look at HWS New Zealand

Name: Mikaere (Meaning godlike or one who is like god)

English Given Name: Howard (Howie) Kirkland

Human Age: 18

National Age: 180+

Gender: Non-binary (He/They)

Sexuality: Bisexual

General Appearance: Howie is around 5′5, they’re slight in stature but they can be big in presence. He is Māori, so his skin is a more warm brown than most of his “siblings” He somehow managed to inherit Arthur’s green eyes, something he regrets more than anything about his appearance. His hair falls in thick soft curls around his face, normally tucked back behind his ears. His face and body are splattered with freckles that get just a little bit more prominent when he’s been out in the sun for long periods of time. He has a large tattoo on his back, taking up most of it, and even dipping out across his hips and waist. The second tattoo is a band around his left arm. He also has a large scar running the length of his torso, and a smaller one cutting under his right rib. Aside from those he has many tiny ones across his hands and legs that heal up quickly from stupid stunts. He has a tongue piercing but he doesn’t always leave it in. He tends to fidget with it when he does. 

As for clothes he can be found on one of two extremes. Cottagecore or punk. He is fond of his soft sweaters and work boots. But he also can be seen sporting leather jackets and spikes. It all depends on the mood of the day. But he does typically give off an approachable vibe either way.

General Personality: They’re not exactly a quiet type for sure. They’re outspoken about their needs, wants, and opinions. He’s both a lover and a fighter. Taking care of his siblings when he can, but not hesitating to go to bat for them in a fight. Howie loves children and is always willing to babysit if another nation needs it. He’s a goofball at times, and pulls stupid stunts that can land him hurt or in trouble. He’s one of a few of the anglosphere children to yell in Arthur’s face, in some ways taking after Alfred.

Considered Family List:

Arthur Kirkland (England)

Jett Kirkland (Australia)

Alfred Jones (America)

Matthew Williams (Canada)

Jia Long (Hong Kong)

Ireland

Scotland

Tā moko:

The Manaia rests in the center of his back, surrounded by intricate patterns that somewhat tell his life story.

The Manaia represents the connection to the spirit world and the mortal, and is said to ward off evil. Howie got it right before leaving to fight in WW1 thinking it would protect him, and wanting to bring pride to his culture and home.

On his upper left arm rests the Pakati pattern in a thick band.

This marks them as a warrior and he got it before leaving for WW2. Older now, and independent he believed it was time to take that title as he had been involved with many conflicts leading up to this.

History and timeline:

The New Zealand Wars

Mikaere was born sometime before the coming conflict. Whom he was raised by up until that point is unknown. They do not remember them, and Arthur never met them. When Te riri Pākehā (Another name for the conflict) began Mikaere was still a small child. They don’t remember it all too vividly but they still resent it as it was the beginning of English control and the destruction of their native culture. It was during this time Mikaere was found by Arthur and for lack of a better term, adopted. He was renamed Howard, and took on the last name Kirkland. It was also then that he was moved off the island to best avoid the fighting and when he met his brothers. He bonded well with both Jett and Jia Long (Then anglicized Leon). But there is still a lingering resentment to this day for the happenings of this time period.

Early Childhood:

Howie was raised in the same house as his two closest brothers, and that created a strong between the three of them. Arthur was not the most attentive parent in the world and that lead to many issues growing up. They weren’t unhappy or lonely but they were often homesick and confused. When Howie was around eight or nine he met Alfred for the first time and it is still something they are confused about. Their older brother was much preferable to Matthew or even their father. But it still felt strange. Alfred often came bearing gifts and large boats and many loud and unpleasant people. And at dinner there would always be some sort of argument. He was too young at the time to understand that Arthur was still at odds with his eldest. Other notable events are; the continuation of Māori resistance, a visit from Germany, a visit from Japan, a surprise visit from Russia, and the first New Zealand built locomotive.

Gaining dominion status and the Great War:

After gaining dominion status in 1907 Howie was faced with a choice. They could either move out of Arthur’s home and return home permanently, or they could stay. Jett had gained independence in 1901, six years earlier, and he was home less and less. Out of guilt however Howie decides to stay and look after Jia Long, and at times, Arthur. He worried his father may not be able to handle losing another child. As WW1 crept closer on the horizon Howie prepared to go to war by receiving his first tattoo, the Manaia across his back. The disaster of Gallipoli left him scared as almost three thousand of his men died, he still holds resentment against Arthur for that, and slowly over time it festers. He goes on to fight, transferring to the western front and participating in the Battle of Passchendaele where 3,700 of his soldiers fell. This only added to the length of the painful and deep scar cutting across his heart and torso. Finally the war comes to an end, however when they return home new truths come to light. Arthur confesses to the details behind his name change and how he came to be in his care. This paired with the folly of Gallipoli was enough to make him break ties with his father figure and finally strike out on his own.

WW2:

Howie enters WW2 at Arthur’s behest and participates in joint operations with him for a time. They get their second tattoo, denoting them as a warrior. After the attack on pearl harbor war is also declared on Japan and Howie worries after his older brother significantly. As threats of a Japanese invasion rise Howie finds themselves at home more and more, taking on the role of medic for the first time and finding they rather prefer the position. In June of 1942 Alfred arrives and the two spend a lot of time together before his departure. He participates in the invasion of Italy not as a soldier but as a medic, having decided that is the role he prefers to play. Before the war ends he gains another scar, under his right rib. This represents the battle of Monte Cassino.

Then to present:

After that Howie attempted to avoid conflict. They’d rather not follow in their father or older brother’s footsteps. Though he continues to care for his family, as well as seek Alfred’s approval, he’s more set to look inward. For now he’s moved on to better days, finding a solid relationship with Yong-Soo, and applying for medical school which would be the first time he attended college.

Brief relationship bios:

Arthur:

The relationship is a parental one. Though not exactly solid. Howie loves him terribly but they often find themselves at odds with him. They blame him for a lot of his troubles and rightly so. Their childhood was not pleasant. But for all of the pain they still check up on him regularly. Making sure he knows he’s somewhat appreciated and not forgotten. They do their best to explain how they’ve been hurt and why things can’t be the way they were but it’s difficult.

See following fic for more elaboration:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30438327

Jett:

Jett is Howie’s closest companion and has been throughout their life. Despite being the younger sibling they take a defensive role over him and will fuck up anyone who tries to start shit. They were brought closer via abandonment but they made the best out of it. They’re too halves of the same idiot. Often Howie will get into trouble and Jett will take the blame for them, allowing Howie to keep up his innocent façade.

Alfred and Matthew:

Alfred is somewhat protective over them, while Matthew could not care less. Howie’s relationship with Alfred while distant, is solid.

Jia Long:

Jia Long is the third in Jett and Howie’s group of terror. While not as often involved he never passes up an opportunity to get into trouble with them and Howie often employs him on pranks targeted against Yao and Arthur. They sort of understand where the other is coming from. Not completely, but some of the experiences are the same, causing them to bond. Once again Howie is highly protective over him and will go to fists.

Ireland and Scotland:

I don’t have solid characters for either nation but I do know historically speaking they would have good relationships with Howie. Historically New Zealand has stood behind both of them when it comes to conflict with Britain and the immigration rate back and forth between both countries is very high.

That’s it for now but I constantly have brainrot about this kid so probably more at a later date.

[tpwkxxangel]

Side A: Track 1

//this is a continuation of a fanfiction that i am writing. if you haven’t read the prologue before this, please check it out or else this might not make sense. if you have any comments, let me know! here is the masterlist //

**************

June 2018

"Thank you Dallas!" Harry calls to the stadium full of fans. The cheers are loud and fill Harry's heart with love. It always amazes him how people sing his lyrics back to him. If someone told him 10 years ago that he would be playing a sold out arena, by himself, while touring his first debut album, he would think they were insane.

Every night, it takes a toll on him though. The energy in every venue and the laughs shared between him and his audience is so difficult to end. The endings are the worst part aren't they? This one is bittersweet.

Harry gives one last wave of his hand before walking off backstage. His breathing is a little labored due to him giving 110%.

"Another great show, Hersh! We should do something to celebrate!" his manager, Jeff, pats his back while handing him a towel. Harry gives a small appreciative smile before wiping off the sweat from his face. Jeff sighs knowing that this night won't be any different than the last month and a half. "Can you at least go out for one drink? You haven't been out in so long. We all miss you..."

Heartbreak can change you, and that's exactly what it did for Harry. He met Camille when he was in One Direction. She's a few years older than him, but no one could resist the Styles charm. After a few conversations at parties they both found themselves at, they started dating. Nothing was public of course, but the relationship was real none the less. Over the eight month relationship, Harry feel in love with the model. Towards the end, they both got really busy and couldn't devote as much time to the relationship as needed. There were other factors that made things difficult, so they decided to brake things off. Harry has never felt a pain like that in his life.

So he shut down.

He has always had big emotions that invade all of his senses, so when his love was taken away from him, he couldn't stand the brokenness he felt. He began to numb his pain with various methods, but nothing worked. He still feels all the pain he felt when he watched her drive away from his flat in London.

"I don't know man...I'm not feeling--"

"Up to it. Yeah, I know, but H. You are bottling up all of these feelings and that isn't healthy. I think a night out will be good for you. Have you called your therapist lately?"

His therapist lives in London, so when he is traveling, he usually calls in. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Think of it like paying for someone to spill your emotions to and they can't say anything about it.

Maybe Jeff is on to something. This bottling things up is tiring, so a night out may be fun.

"Fine. I'll go out as long as I'm back by two. We have to be on the road at nine and I'd like to get some rest before we leave."

"Deal!"

~~~

The air was stuffy in the heated club. They were all in the VIP booth on the second level of one of the hottest clubs in Dallas. Harry was sipping on his drink trying to pass the time. Only 3 hours before he can leave. God, did he want to leave. The concert was tiring and the never ending heartache was causing his head and heart to throb.

He was about to excuse himself to go find the restroom when a golden dress caught his eye. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes again only to spot the girl again. She looked different than the last time he saw her. Her skin was tanner than before, sunkissed just right. Her blonde hair is curled to perfection and lips still red, but she now looks old enough to be in a club like this. Her green eyes are bright with laughter at one of the other girls she is with.

Why is she here? How is she here?

He first saw her in New York. Was she just visiting there? All the memories flood back to him, taking him back to the time where everything was more simple, a lighter time. The way her voice sent a shiver down his spine, the eye contact she made while dancing, the way she touched herself, luring him in. The mere thought of her still drives him crazy.

"Excuse me guys," he turns to his bandmates and manager, "I'm going to find the loo."

Harry makes his way over to the bar where he sees his mystery girl. He flags down the bartender and tells him to give her the order she got two years prior.

He should probably feel embarrassed that he remembers everything about that night regarding the mystery girl, but for the first time in a while, he feels like this is exactly where he is meant to be.

When she received the drink, her brows draw together in confusion before looking to where Harry was sitting. The smirk that made him curious all those years ago made an appearance on her red stained lips. She says something to her friends before downing the drink and making her way over to the brit.

He admired the way her hips moved as she walked. The dress she was wearing complimented her is so many ways. She wasn't a model, but she sure could be.

"Well if it isn't Harry. Long time no see," her voice coming out just as velvety and sweet as before. He's absolutely ecstatic that she remembers his name. That means she thought of him after their encounter like he did.

"Hello, love. Nice to see you again," he smirks back. This is the first time since his break up that he sort of feels like himself.

"You cut your hair," she says while reaching for his drink. Instead of throwing this one back, she just takes a sip, leaving a perfect lip print on the glass.

He nods in a daze, watching the way her tongue darts out, running across her bottom lip. "I was in a movie. Needed it cut," he swallows dryly.

Her eyebrow rose slightly but wasn't surprised. He gave off superstar energy. "Would I have seen it?"

"Depends," he takes his drink back, trying to recover from the dirty thoughts running through his mind, "Do you watch war movies?"

"I've seen a few," she giggles softly, not being able to picture the Brit as a fighter.

"I was in Dunkirk," Harry shrugs.

"I'll have to give it a watch," Harry nods slightly taking a sip of his drink, "especially if the cast is as handsome as you."

Harry chocks slightly not expecting her to be so forward. He chuckles nervously. "Well, I don't want to be the only reason you watch the movie. I'm only a small part of it."

She cocks her eye brow slightly at his tone. Is he being shy? That's different than last time.

Her smirk quickly turns into a more genuine smile as her hand makes it's way on his shoulder. "I actually enjoy action movies, so I have a feeling you being in it would just be a perk."

Harry feels his cheeks flood with color. He distracts himself from the beautiful girl that's starting to make him nervous by sipping his drink again. How was he so confident the last time he saw her? Probably because his heart wasn't broken and there was more alcohol in his system.

He might not be able to fix the first one, but he can fix the second one. He gets the bartenders attention before turning back to his company.

"So, what brings you to the city? The last time I saw you, you were in New York," he asks, not trying to sound invasive, but the question has been brewing in his mind since he saw her.

Her smile dropped slightly before recovering quickly. "I actually grew up here. I'm...visiting some family while I'm in town," she shrugs.

"Do you live in New York now?"

"Part time. I'm a graduate student at Columbia," she says the words as if they aren't impressive.

Harry's mouth falls open slightly. Her prick of a boyfriend was right. She is very smart. Speaking of him...

"What happened to your boyfriend?" he finds himself asking before he can stop himself. Thankfully, the bartender sets another drink next to his empty glass so Harry could hide the blush on his face. This isn't going as well as he wanted it to.

"Who?" her brows furrow in confusion before they smooth out in realization, "I don't even remember his name. You could say that I was just helping him out with an...issue he was having."

"That's very mysterious..." he trails off, remembering he still doesn't know her name.

She laughs at him. She wasn't telling him her name on purpose. One thing that anyone knows about her is that she LOVES games. They make life so much more fun, but for some reason she wanted to hear Harry say her name over and over again in his cute accent. Maybe she'll tell him by the end of the night.

"You can call me J. Everyone does."

He looks at her, and really observes her features. The way her strong cheekbones and jaw are a stark contrast to the softness of her eyes and plush lips. She is truly a beautiful creature, so he finds himself standing up from his stool by the bar and holding out a hand to her to ask something he should have two years ago.

"Would you like to dance with me, J?" he asks.

J smiles brightly in return and Harry's knees go weak. They make their way out to the dance floor as a rock song wraps up. As luck would have it, a very familiar song plays next. The irony was not lost on Harry. That fact that he wrote this song about the girl that is currently swaying her mesmerizing hips against his is so funny that he almost laughs. He gets too distracted by her subtle touches to notice the eyes on him.

From across the bar, Jeff watches his friend loosen up for the first time in two months and feels a pressure release off his chest. He was worried about Harry when him and Camille split. He knows how sensitive his friend can be. Harry leads with his emotions and goes all in. When everything went down, Jeff was the first one Harry called. His broken voice shattered Jeff's heart. It sucked since they were in the middle of the tour and Harry had little to no break in between. Harry is tough, but even his fans noticed him crying during one of his performances in Scotland.

Jeff looks back at the couple on the dance floor to find them laughing. This is a good thing. He will have one night with this girl, and then go back to touring.

Little did Jeff know, Harry wasn't planning to let this girl walk out of his life again. It had to be a sight. He was miserable and had no hope when she randomly showed up in his life again. There are such things a coincidences, but this felt like more than that.

Harry's hands find their way to the girls waist. She looks ups through her lashes at him. "You know, this is my song." He's starting to feel the alcohol in his system, so his words are slightly slurred.

Her laugh makes it's way to his ears and sends a goose bumps all over his body. "No, shit. Really?"

Harry just nods before taking a deep breath and belting out the lyrics. "She goes home to a cactus, in a black dress, she's such an actress, she's driving me crazy!" He's met with her beautiful laugh again. Maybe one day he'll have the courage to tell her who the song is about. They continue to dance for a few more songs before both of them need another drink.

"So, you are not only an actor, but a musician as well?" she hums into her whiskey.

Harry gets nervous again. "I wouldn't say an actor. It's just that one movie."

"One more than me," she giggles. Her lightly glossed over eyes let Harry know the alcohol is taking effect.

As he opens his mouth to speak again, one of J's friends from before comes up to her. She turns her head to hear what her friend says but never takes her eyes off Harry. With one nod of her head, her friend leaves.

"Do you need to leave?" Harry asks. He doesn't want her to leave again. He finally can breathe after two months of suffocating. He's finally out of his head. Maybe it's time to open himself up to new things and not be afraid of hearts getting broken. Camille moved on, so why can't he?

She shakes her head and he lets out a sigh of relief. "I'd rather stay here and talk to you. But they are leaving."

"I'll be sure to get you home," he smiles softly at her. There's the familiar flutter in his heart. It's crazy, honestly. He met this girl once two years ago, yet he is so infatuated with her. She makes his broken heart feel less lonely. He checks the watch on his wrist for the time. It's getting close to two in the morning. He wants to get out of here, but not be done with the night. He doesn't want to go back to his hotel and be lonely. He won't admit that to her though. "Would you like to get out of here?"

His eyes widen at what that sounds like. It's not like he doesn't want to be with her in that way. He was going to take her home two years ago. But, he's different than he was then. He just wants to talk to her in a place that doesn't drown out her gorgeous voice. He starts to correct himself, but she just laughs at him.

"I know what you meant, Harry. I actually have a car waiting for me outside. I know a place we can go if you'd like to come with me."

He nods quickly. "I just have to tell my friends. I'll be right back."

"I'll wait outside. Don't take too long," she smirks before kissing his cheek. She left a bit of lipstick, so she wipes it off before turning around towards the door.

Harry makes his way back to the VIP section with the biggest grin only to see Jeff quickly duck down. He was spying on him, but harry can't even find it in himself to care. He felt like he was floating in the sky towards this sunshine he so desperately needed. When he gets to the spot everyone is sitting at, all the conversations go quiet.

"I'm leaving. I know I have to be back at the hotel at nine to go to Houston. I have my phone on me. Please don't need me until then." Before he can turn around and follow his golden girl, Jeff speaks up.

"Are you sure about this Hersh?"

Harry smiles softly at his concern. "She's an old friend. I finally feel like I can breathe," he whispers the last part as everyone goes back to their conversations.

This is such a relief to his manager. Originally, he just wanted Harry to loosen up and have some fun again. He wasn't going to let him leave with anyone. That's not how you get over a relationship. For some odd reason, this girl seemed to help him more than any of his other friends have in two months.

"Okay. Be safe and text me if you need anything."

Harry nods and heads towards the door. When he walks out, he sees J leaning on a sleek black car talking to an older guy. When she sees him, her eyes light up. She seems so bright compared to how he has been feeling the past few weeks. It's a breath of fresh air, and he couldn't be more relieved to finally take a breath in.

J touches the mans arm before he walks to the drivers side and gets in. "I thought you might have changed your mind?"

"On you? Never," he chuckles while opening the door for her. They both get into the car and Harry starts to wonder why she has a driver? It didn't register in his mind until now. Before he has time to ask, she speaks.

"Stanley, to my hideout please," she speaks softly to the man. There is genuine affection in her voice and Harry can already tell this man is not just a driver to her. He nods and pulls out onto the streets. There are cars on the road, but not as many as a bigger city like New York.

"So, where are you taking me?" Harry breaks the comfortable silence of the car.

"It's a place I like to go when I'm in town," she answers honestly. She's not used to opening up to people, but with Harry it seems almost natural for her. "I travel a lot. When I come back home, things can get a bit crazy for me. I come from a family that expect a lot out of me, so it's nice to have a place to get away from everything."

"I understand the feeling of wanting to get away. In my line of work, there is a lot of pressure to act or be a certain way," he thinks back to his time in One Direction. He never wanted to be the cause of the band breaking up so he held himself to higher standards than the others. It wasn't all bad, but it hurt when his name was thrown around in the press.

"That's right. You're a Popstar," she giggles.

"Rockstar more like," he playfully scoffs.

She rolls her eyes at him with a smile adorning her cherry red lips. "I'll be the judge of that mister."

"Would you like to come to one of my concerts to see for yourself?" he asks partially joking.

She looks at him with her eyebrow raised. "Would you like me to come to one of your concerts?" In all honesty, she wasn't expecting to see him after tonight. Her life can be hectic so her friends are very limited. Harry seems like a nice guy that she wouldn't mind in her life for longer than tonight.

"Yes," he replies with no hesitation. Now that he thinks about it, he wants to see her in the audience singing along to his songs.

She smiles at him and he's back in her trance. She grabs his hand and gives it a squeeze before letting go. "Then I would love to see you perform. When were you thinking?"

"I'm on tour right now, so name a city," he says, "I have the Houston show in two days and then I head to Florida. After that, I believe I'll be in Georgia, Tennessee, and Pennsylvania."

"Wow, that's a lot of shows. I feel like I should have known you would be successful," she laughs, "I'm actually busy for the next week, and after that I'll be flying back to New York."

Harry thinks over his schedule. "Are you free on the 21st?"

She thinks for a moment. "Yes. I don't believe I have anything planned until the end of June."

"I have a show in New York that day if you'd like to come. I believe I'll be there the following day if that works better?."

"That sounds perfect!" she exclaims.

"Ma'am," Stanley interupts politely. "We are here."

"Thank you, Stanley." She turns to Harry with an intoxicating smile. "Let's go!"

J gets out quickly and makes her way to the back of the car. She pulls two blankets out of the trunk and a small bag. Harry gets out and looks around. They are at a small park. This isn't exactly where he thought she would 'hideout' when things got tough.

"A park?" he asks. He's not complaining. He'd could be at a landfill and be happy as long as he's with her.

"It's just a stop on the way. We have to do the rest by foot." He looks into her beautiful green eyes. That familiar warmth is spreading through him. He's scared of becoming more attached to this girl he barely knows, but where's the fun in being cautious?

"Lead the way, love," he gestures forward as she blushes at the pet name.

They both move to the trail that is lit up by lamps. There's a peaceful silence that falls on them. The sounds of crickets and the wind blowing is a stark difference between the roaring stadium a few hours ago. It's nice to feel this silence with her. He feels a hand slip into his. He looks down at their hands connected in shock. He doesn't know how he feels about it at first, but as her hand holds onto his, he loves this feeling. It's insane and strange but he's said it before, she drives him crazy. So, maybe him letting her take control is what is meant to happen. Loving her may be his antidote...

But, that's for another time.

She clears her throat, breaking him out of his thought. "So, where are you from?"

"I'm from a small town in England called Cheshire," he replies.

"Like the cat?" she asks curiously.

He booms out a laugh. "Yes, like the cat."

"What's it like there?" she asks. There's something in her tone that he can't quite decipher.

"It's very beautiful. I love England. Have you ever been?" he asks.

"Yes. I traveled with my parents when I was little. I haven't been in a while though. After I graduate, I plan on seeing more of the world," she says thinking of all the places she wished her parents took her to see. "What's the coolest place you've been to?"

"I love Brazil. It's lovely there. When I played in Rio, my band and I went sightseeing." he says. As a musician, you might get to travel the world, but you have a hard time actually seeing the cities you are in. When Harry was with One Direction, they would have to organize their sightseeing weeks in advance to prepare for the potential mobs.

"That sounds amazing!" she says. "Rio is on my bucket list." Before he can reply, she looks at the path and pulls on his hand to stop him. "We have to go off path from here."

He laughs nervously. "Are you taking me out into the woods at night to kill me?" Even though it's night time here, there are lamp post that light up the way.

"How did you know?" she replies seriously. He gulps before she bursts into laughter. "No, there is a place about 10 yards from here where I like to watch the sunrise. If you feel uncomfortable, we can just head back. I won't be offended." she says honestly.

He thinks about going back, but oddly enough, in the trees with her, he feels completely comfortable. He shakes his head. She smiles that sunshine smile before she leads him into the trees.

The wind starts to whistle, gliding through the trees in the night air.

"What is that?" Harry asks when her starts to see the trees clear.

"That's where I'm taking you," she smiles. They walk through the small gap in the cluster of bushes. Once they get through, she stops them both.

"This is..." Harry seems to be at a loss of words. They stand in silence for what feels like ten minutes. The clearing that they are in is relatively small. No bigger than a baseball diamond, but it is full of flowers. There are solar lanterns on the surrounding trees to light up the beautiful scenery. The reason they stand quietly is because that's the only way to hear the music in the wind. The trees surrounding the clearing are close together causing the wind to pick up speed and whistle a beautiful melody.

J slowly walks towards the middle of the field and lays the blanket she was holding down in an open spot of flowers. She pulls out two wine glasses and a book from the bag on her shoulder before sitting down. She looks at the Brit that hasn't moved since getting into the clearing.

Harry stands smiling down at his mystery girl without saying a word.

"What do you think?" she asks softly, not wanting to interrupt the breeze.

He slowly walks over to her and sits down. "I love it," he simply states.

A strand of hair falls in front of his eyes and before he can move it away himself, J's warm hand tucks it back in place. Her palm rests on his cheek and he leans into it. He feels so comfortable as her thumb caresses his cheek. He feels that familiar heat as her thumb travels down to his lips. A small gasp leaves him as her fingertips rub against his bottom lip.

She leans forward slightly, searching his gaze for any hesitation. He can't move. He closes his eyes, breathing in and breathing out. When he opens his eyes she is the only thing he can see.

When their lips touch, it's even better than he thought it would be. The world around him disappeared. The floating feeling is back. It's like she's waiting for him in the sky, pulling him towards her warmth. He parts his lips slightly and she leans against him more. She matches his feverish movements by moving her hand to his chest. He has no doubt that she can feel how fast his heart is beating. His hands move to her hips, pulling her on top of him slightly. He is still conscientious to the fact that she is still in her dress. He pulls the bottom of it down, to make sure everything is covered.

Always the gentleman.

They stay like that for a while before pulling back. Opening the wine, and diving into conversation. She pulls out a disposable camera while he's telling the story about the time he met his good friend when they punched Harry in the face instead of the person who deserved it. As he laughs, she takes the picture. The stars shine on his face and the lanterns light up his features. When he hears the click, he looks over at her curiously.

"Um," she looks down blushing, "I love taking pictures with disposable cameras. My life can be a little crazy, so taking one shot pictures helps me remember all the important things. I don't want to forget this night."

His heart stutters and picks up double time. "You are such an amazing person. I don't want to forget this night either." He pulls out his phone and tells her to smile. She grins so brightly that he officially doesn't believe she is real. She's an angel on this Earth.

They talk for hours before she reads him the book she brought while he lays back enjoying to musical wind and her voice. When she stops suddenly, he opens his eyes.

"The sun is coming up," she smiles at him. He looks at his watch again and realizes it's five-thirty in the morning. The time has flown by. As the sun starts to rise, she finally tells him her name.

"Janis Rogers," she whispers, "My name is Janis Rogers."

He looks over at her and smiles while he stretches out his hand, "Harry Styles." She matches his smile before taking his hand. He takes this opportunity to pull her onto his lap.

She giggles, but leans back into him. He feels her sigh into him. He puts his arms around her and feels a warmth fill his chest. He could get used to this feeling.

They sit and watch the sunrise above the trees, but he can't take his eyes off her. He takes this time to reflect on the last eight hours he has spent with the girl he thought he'd never see again. The sunlight hits her face and she closes her eyes. There's only one thing running through his mind...

She's so golden.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

How aware do you think the kids are of their father, uncles and aunt’s childhood? I can see both it being an unspoken thing, but then a drunk Rhys or Arthur occasionally letting something slip. And would they ever talk about their mother?

I think stories from what Arthur considers his halycon childhood between the 1st and 4th century C.E have slipped through. Even with the Roman invasion and the displacements it caused and Boudicca's revolt that literally scorched themselves into a layer of ash still visible today in English archaeology, he remembers being relatively protected and high status both in the Roman world and in the British. Britain under the Roman empire wasn't the most important place in the empire but there were a lot of natural resources the British exploited, and conflict along the borders of northern England and southern Scotland made and unmade several emperors, with at least one being crowned in England iirc. Eirian was forced to negotiate with Lucius (a tentative name for Rome) about Rhys and Arthur but she did keep all four of them close. So Arthur remembers her and references her most when doing human activities done even in a modified sense, since the dawn of time. Things like spinning weaving and ship building he learned at her hand even if his memories of that are kind of bundled into Brighid too. The first apple crop after the Romans introduced them to England, the emptying of the beehives for winter storage, being taught to draw his bow against his cheek and shoot straight. Being scolded for running off without his cloak because he was a high energy ambitious little shit who never thought things through. Those things and the mentions or her make it into his children's lives.

They're less aware of who Eirian was as a person because Arthur especially looks at his earliest years under her guiding hand with rose coloured glasses so thick he's looking at anything pre 500s like this. But they are aware of her existence.

He leaves out the headhunting or maybe not really human sacrifice (the mine level amount of salt I have with the popular interpretation of Lindow man is kind of insane.) He leaves out executions and exile, torture and terror. Eirian loved her children in the way Boudicca did. The kind of love that leaves scorch marks in the earth for millennia. Her death was 1000 years before any of Alfred's generation came into being but considering that craters leave marks millions of years later, she's a presence.

It is a lot of So much of what we consider "Celtic" today is a result of the Celtic revival of the 19th century. Most profoundly in Ireland, but also to a fairly wide extent in Scotland, Wales and surprisingly for me who studied the lionization of the Anglo-Saxons by the British empire, England as well. So Eirian was a shadowy but present figure. The diaspora in the U.S. Canada, Australia and NZ often being referred too as Anglo-celtic gives me brain rot. This perception of her as viewed by children, particularly Arthur, something still concrete and visible. A lot of who Eirian was surrounded this lot as they're growing up. Just in Arthur's Manor house I think there are post holes from roundhouses, reused Romano-British masonry in the first floor, Viking age bodies in the back garden. At least one statue of her that either survived when the anglos saxons reused old Roman and British villas or that was uncovered in church foundations or even an actual pig sty (this actually happens) is around the house.

Also... There's one headcanon I've had for a very long time where he always waits for them to wake up and start breathing again if it happens around him. Sitting vigil through a long night, turning the other way when Matt outright leaves to go check on Alfred and watching him carefully for answers when he returns. He searched Matt's face for what news, what despair, what relief marked his expression when he returned from tugging Alfred's corpse from the piles of dead at Antietam. And that, I think, stems from Brittania's death. When the sun went dark in the sky and pestilence followed hot on the heels of famine and their mother did not wake. Not that last time however it happened. And that may be burned into their perception of their own deaths.

Tldr: God I'm never going to recover from the brain rot that one asinine piece of dialogue from the dub gave me.

Matt: "My Grandma taught me the true power of the maple leaf!"

Alfred: "Your Grandma sounds hot!"

[demivampirew]

I would give up everything for you.

A Charles Brandon x Mary Tudor (written as reader) (Henry’s sister) one shot

You can find more of my writings in the Masterlist

Warnings: Death, heartbreak, crying, unwanted arranged marriage (and talking about being consummated).

Summary: Shortly after becoming a widow, Henry summons you back to England for he has arranged a new marriage for you.

A/N (Important to understand the story): For those who don’t know, in the show they’d merged both Henry’s sisters into one: Margaret. In reality, he had two sisters, the one mentioned who ended up marrying the King of Scotland, James IV, becoming the Queen consort of said country (and after the death of her husband, Queen regent in name of her son for two years). Mary, the other sister, was married to the King of France, Louis XII for a few months, until his death and soon he was succeeded by his son-in-law Francis I -the King of France from the show, and his daughter Claude as Queen Consort- she couldn’t reign for the law forbid a woman to rule the country back at that time. Shortly after the death of the King, Charles was in charge of bringing Mary safe back to England, but in reality that was a secret plan for them to marry in secret in France, as Mary confessed to King Francis. It isn’t known when and how exactly they fell in love but it surely was before her marriage to the late King of France. They married in secret but then they had a public wedding because they suspected Mary to be pregnant and they wanted their kid to be legitimate.

For my story, I mixed a bit of the show’s plot with actual events. The main characters are the same from the show, except from Mary, written from a perspective of reader, who wasn’t on the show (Margaret’s story in this one-shot is the same from history and not the one from the series). I used the arranged marriage with the King of Portugal’s plot from drama purposes (this never happened in reality, because like I’ve said, Mary married Charles before going back to London, and she had married the King of France with the promise that she would marry who she wanted after that or she would become a nun - which Henry did not want because he would lose the Dowager’s money if she did that. -although in this story she doesn’t threaten him with becoming a nun.)

Disclaimer: English isn’t my first language and write in another period of time can be a bit difficult. I tried my best, so I apologize if I made mistakes.

Tag list: @lunedelorient @henrythickcavill @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @mary-ann84 @desperate-and-broken @peakygroupie @summersong69 @ivvitm1109 @madbaddic7ed @iloveyouyen @the-soot-sprite @hell1129-blog @whyyoudothistomecavill @thetaoofzoe @thereisa8ella​

"The Queen of France, Your Majesty" announced one of the guards as you enter the room. Henry was sitting on the throne. There were a few guards there as well as Charles and William Compton, who were standing next to the door. - Dear sister! - your brother exclaimed as he stood up and approached you, grabbing your arms and placing a kiss on your cheek. - My poor sister, I'm terribly sorry for the lost of your dear husband.- "dear husband"? It felt as if he was mocking you, after all the only reason you married the late King of France, Louis XII was because he forced you to for that marriage forced an alliance between the two countries.

Being married to an old man was not a pretty thing. Being forced to consummate that marriage and with a crowd of people to witness it. Luckily, it didn't last for long because not long after your coronation as the new Queen, on Christmas' eve your husband died for an illness. After his death, his son-in-law, Francis I, inherit the throne with his daughter, Claude as Queen Consort. Even though your marriage was short, you were a loved Queen and you could have stayed in France if you desire it, but your brother had other plans for you. For you to agree to marry the late French King, he promised you that you were going to be able to marry whom you choose after his death, but sadly for you, he had no plans to keep his word. He ordered the Duke of Suffolk to escort you safely back to England. Charles was a loyal friend to Henry, but you succeeded to confess your brother's intentions for your return to England - you knew that if he wanted you back so quickly was not because he missed his beloved sister, but because there was something he needed from you. "He wants you to marry the King of Portugal" he confessed finally succumbing to pressure. After finding out that your worse nightmare was a reality, you ordered everyone on the ship to leave you alone and you cried on the way back.

- As sorry as I am for your loss, I must admit sister that I would need you to put aside your grief and take the King of Portugal as your new husband. With the rise of power of the Holy Roman Emperor, we need new alliances and he is more than pleased to become out ally if you marry him. He's seen your portrait and is enchanted by your beauty.- he informed you with a smirk. You remained silent and made no gestures. - So, my dear sister, would you consent to marry the King? - My consent is not needed, Your Majesty, for the King always does what he wants.- you finally said, your voice emotionless. There he was, your older brother. He could be charming for a moment and a second later be the devil himself if you crossed him. He didn't like when anyone defied him, especially women. His face showed no signs of rejoicing anymore, just contained anger. - We are at war, my dear sister.- he explained angrily. - We could face an invasion from Spain and if that would happen, we will need soldiers and money and he could provide that to us. - You are at war, brother. This is all because of you. If the Holy Roman Emperor is planning to attack England, it is because you broke your promise, like you always do, and set aside his aunt, humiliating her all. And that's because you had fallen in love with another woman. In your eyes, dear brother, you are the only one allowed to marry for love and you do not care who has to pay for your desires.- you replied bitterly. -If you want me to marry that old man, breaking the promise you once made me, at least you could have avoided me the displeasure of seeing your face and should have asked the Duke of Suffolk to escort me directly to Portugal since you know that no matter what are my choices, at the end I must be a loyal subject and obey you or I'll suffer the traitor's faith.

His hands were closed forming fists; he was containing his rage. If there was something Henry hated more than anything else was being defied. If it was not for the fact that he needed your Queen Dowager's money and the perks that your new marriage would bring to him, he would have you banned from court.

- Charles, take her to her chambers immediately.- he ordered and walked away, returning to his throne.

You bowed to him and allowed Charles to escort you back to your bedchambers. Once in the room, he closed the door to be sure no one would hear you speak.

- The Queen would be wise not to cross her brother.- he advised you. He spoke softly, surely it was because he did not want to be heard, but there was another thing in his voice: worry. - Why not?- you asked; it was a sarcastic question, you knew exactly why you should no speak to Henry that way for he was a King before your blood. - He could vanish you from court or worse.- he explained. - Great! I would rather be banned from court or dying to have to marry another old King.- you admitted, sighing bitterly. - You should not say that Your Majesty.- he pleaded. - Charles, would you stop calling me Your Majesty? I have known you my entire life. I'm still the same Mary I have always been, just less trusting and much more unhappy.- you confessed. - But now you are the King of France, Your Majesty. I should treat you with nothing but the proper respect. - I am Queen Dowager, I don't have the same importance that an actual queen has. - You are soon to be Queen again.- he reminded you and a tear fell from your eye; you wiped it away quickly. He stared at you with sadness on his eyes. He was probably hurt that you had to go through that again. - I rather die.- you repeated and look to the floor -You are lucky Charles, you could marry whom you choose.- you sighed. - I cannot.- he said with sadness. - Who is that you want and can't have, Charles? -you asked sarcastically.

The Duke of Suffolk looked you directly into your eyes, giving you the answer to your question without even saying a word.

Before leaving England, the two of you were close. He was this ladies' man and you were the King's little sister, but you started to see him differently in the year previous to your marriage. He was sweet, funny and protective. It was clear that you were not a just his friend's sister anymore, but a smart, funny and delightful woman. You had long talks while you played with carts and spent a lot of time together before your departure.

Charles excused himself and was about to leave. You called his name and when he turned to face you, you ran into his arms and kissed him. He pulled you closer to him as he stopped fighting his conscience. He probably felt that it was wrong, but he couldn't keep denying his feelings. After the long and awaited kiss, he pressed his forehead against yours and sighed.

- Escape with me.- you pleaded. - What? -he asked confused. - We could go to France. Francis is not a fan of my brother and he had nothing but sweet thoughts about me. He will be delighted to have me back there and surely he will support us and protect us if Henry decides to seek vengeance. - you assured him.- Please, Charles. - I... I cannot do that, I am sorry.- he said avoiding to look at you. - I will not betray my King. - Is it because he is your childhood friend or because you do not want to lose your lands and titles, Duke of Suffolk? - you questioned bitterly. He did not say a word, but it was not necessary; his shameful look said it all. Your poor heart broke into a million pieces. Not only you would have to marry an old man once more, but the man you loved preferred his nobility and money over you and your happiness. No matter what the future had set for you, it surely would not be a happy one.

A month passed before you were set to leave for Portugal. As you demanded, Charles stood away from you. The days passed and all you could do was crying about your cruel destiny. If at least you could have the luck that your sister Margaret had of marrying a young King whom she fell in love with, but no, that was not your fate. You were meant to be unhappy for the rest of your days.

Charles' eyes met yours. You could feel his pain but you could not be sorry for him, after all, he could have had you if he would have been brave enough to fight for you and, surely soon he would forget all about you and find solace in another woman's arms while you had to be with a man much older than you whom you didn't know. You quickly look to other side making sure he noticed that you were ignoring him and stood there, waiting in the room full of people for your brother to show up to say goodbye.

Henry appeared shortly with Cardinal Wolsey by his side. He approached you a kissed you " My dear sister. Fare you well on your journey. Remember the King of Portugal, your future husband, loves you and respects you. You must love him in return." - he said faking affection when in reality it was a command and a warning. He looked into your shiny, watery eyes but that didn't seem to have any effects on him. After crossing him the day of your return to England, he must be more than happy to see you gone.

The King was about to leave the place when the Duke of Suffolk called his attention.

- Your Majesty, I would like to have a word" - Charles pleaded. Henry looked at him with confusion but gestured him to speak. He walked a few steps forward and got on his knee in front of his best friend. - My heart forces me to beg you to save your sister from this marriage for that would make her unhappy.- he said firmly. There were gasps among the people present. You were breathless and your heart was beating an at exhilarating speed. Henry stared at him, his eyes showed both shock and anger. - As a sign of gratitude for your kindness towards the Queen of France, I will resign to my title, renounced to my lands and accept to be banned from court and any other punishment Your Grace sees suitable for my outrageous request.

For the first time since your mother's death, you saw tears fell from your brother's eyes. It didn't come as such as a surprise to you, you might be his sister by blood, but Charles was his brother by choice; they grew up together and he was his most faithful companion and now he put him in a position Henry must have surely hated. If he agreed to let you escape from this marriage, he would have to punish Charles from defying him in front of people from court. If he rejected his plead, people would know that he forced you into a marriage you didn't want to and he would further loss the affection of his subjects, who were already unhappy about his decision of leaving the beloved Queen Catherine for Anne Boleyn. Whatever decision Harry took, surely it would not have a happy ending for Charles. You knew you were right at the moment your brother stormed out of the room without saying a word.

Anthony Knivert, one of your brother's closest friends, walked you back to your chambers after Cardinal Wolsey ordered him to do so. The trip to Portugal has been postponed until after the King came with a resolution about the matter. As impossible as it seemed, you were even more heartbroken than before. There was no way Charles could cross your brother like that and no get punished and all because of your fault. If you just accepted your destiny quietly and had not made him feel guilty for choosing lands and his noble title over you, this would not have happened. Now, because of your stubbornness, he could face death.

It was around midnight when you heard someone knocking at your door. After permitting to enter your bedchambers, Charles walked in. You got up quickly from your bed and ran into him. He hugged you tightly for a moment and then softly pressed his head against yours. You could feel his warm breath. His hands grabbing your face provoked you chills. - Charles, you should not have done that.- you regretted. - I should have done it before, but it is ok. I would do it again if necessary.- he assured you and tears rolled down your cheeks. His thumbs clean the tears and then he kissed you. - You are not only the Queen Dowager of France but also the Queen of my heart, Mary.- he confessed. You smiled at him and your lips met his again.

After a knock, the door opened and Will Compton warned Charles to hurry for someone was coming. He kissed you once more and disappeared.

The King summoned you a few days after. There were some noble people present, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk among others. Charles was already there waiting. About half an hour later Henry appeared with Wolsey and sat on the throne. He remained silent for a moment, as he inspected you. He knew; he knew his friend loved you and his love was reciprocated.

- Dear sister, I would like to apologize to you, for I did not know you were unhappy with the marriage proposal.- he said with conviction as if that would make it true- I desire nothing more than happiness for you, my beloved Mary. So I have decided that it should be you the one to decide who your future husband will be. You have my word and my blessing. Of course, he would make it seem as if you pact before marrying King Louis XII was his idea, but you did not care, as long as he granted you that you were not mad about him credit it to himself. - As for Your Grace.- he said looking at Charles- Your title and lands were given to you as a reward for bravely fighting by my side to defend your country and should remain at your disposal. Furthermore, as a sign of gratitude for enlightened me about my sister's displeasure for her now announced marriage, I would like to grant you my blessing to marry her, if that is her heart's desire and I hope you live the happy quiet life you desire away from court.

There it was, your punishment was being banned from court, but it was a slight price to pay for all the great things you had achieved. You were now allowed to marry Charles and live happily with him.

Maybe it was the fear that Henry would change his mind that made you marry that same day. In a private ceremony, with a few maids and his friends Will and Anthony to witness it, you promised to love each other forever.

You had the opportunity to have another wedding since you have not bled and you were sure with child, you had a public wedding to show the legitimacy of your future child. This time, you had it at court. Henry was a proud man, but even if Charles did what no other man would have dared unless they wanted to lose their heads, your brother loved him too much and trust no other like he trusted your husband.

Henry Brandon. That's the name Charles choose for your newborn. He was the living image of his father.

Not everything in your remaining life was happiness. Even though you had been blessed with another two children, Frances and Eleanor, by God's will your little Henry died when he was six years old. A year after that, another baby joined your family, honouring his late brother by carrying his name.

Charles was nothing but a loving husband to you. He stood by your side when tragedy hit your family and later when you got ill. You survived the sweating sickness but never fully recovered from it, and five years later you meet again with your loving son. It must have hurt your love, who never left your side until your heart stopped beating. He loved you much and would be sad for losing you, but you were glad he had your loving daughters and son to keep him company and help him move on.

[xxpinkgalaxykidxx]

why merlin is really sad if you have a basic understanding of history

Please excuse any errors, I wrote this at 5am and did not proof read.

As I was lying in bed this morning, thinking about BBC Merlin, I came to a depressing conclusion. Merlin post series would go through ALOT of shit before we see him at the very end with the truck. (Keep in mind this is from an American; any british/welsh person should feel free to correct me)

First, let’s establish when the events of Merlin took place. If we go off of the dates of the legend of Arthur/when we know the Anglo Saxons started invading, it puts us between the years 491-539 CE. The show takes place over about 7-9 years, so lets put it at the very end of this time line because 1, the quasi-historical records but Arthur and Mordred’s death between 537-539, and we can imagine that Uther and Arthur’s grandfather dealt with the earlier Anglo Saxon invasions/peaceful immigration.

We also know that Avalon is based on a location in Somerset, England. For the location of the Battle of Camlann, the original legend has it either close to/or on Snowdon Mountain in Wales. This might put Camelot in Eastern Wales/Shropshire, (which was once part of Wales,) or Herefordshire. This makes sense because the original tales of Arthur are of Welsh origin and Merlin speaks an older form of Welsh when casting spells. Camelot could also be at Warwickshire castle, where the show was filmed. (It’s also the county where Shakespeare was born!) Either way, it doesn’t really matter, this part is more for fun. What you really should keep in mind is that the whole Camelot gang would have been indigenous Britons, a people we don’t know much about. The Pendragon family likely had Roman ancestors. I’m not sure what language they would have spoke, but my guesses or either Welsh or Common Brittonic. The pendragons religion is a little up in the air since both Christianity and Paganism were both accepted at this time, but given possible roman ancestors and Uther’s hate of magic, I’m gonna say Christian.

So now we have a time and 3 major locations set, let’s look at what would happen post series. Arthur is dead and in the Lake, so let’s assume Merlin spends his time going back and forth between Somerset and Wales/Shropshire/Herefordshire/Warwickshire. After Arthur’s death, the Saxons keep on coming in overwhelming waves until 560, they were finally the dominant group. They would outnumber the Britons about 4 to 1. It’s still debated what exactly happened to the Britons, but we know that some moved to Britainy in France, but most were assumed into the new Anglo Saxon culture. Merlin and Gwen would be in their early 50s, the knights a bit older, and Gaius would probably not be alive. From the records of this time imply, The Anglo Saxons did still allow Briton rulers to rule if they were subject to the Anglo Saxon’s rules, customs and language. Gwen might have even been forced into marrying an Anglo Saxon guy. Eventually as these Briton rulers died off, and eventually all of England became ruled by Germanic kings.

But Merlin would still be alive throughout all of this, wondering how this takeover was not Albion’s greatest time of need. He would have to see all his remaining friends die of war with the Anglo-Saxons or old age. He would lose his Briton-Romanic roots and have to accept the new Germanic culture. He would eventually learn to speak Old English and see the growth of Christianity in England. A lot of stuff would happen but I kind of don’t care for about 500 years. All you need to know is two things: Camelot would basically become a county with little power and be subject to the Houses of Wessex, Denmark, Wessex again, Denmark again, Wessex again, then a random guy named Harold shows up. Merlin would see all this and be like “hey I know who would be a good king right about now but hes lowkey dead so,”

So Merlin would live in Anglo Saxon england for 500 years until William the Conqueror shows up in 1066 and takes over England, and now England is ruled basically from France. Merlin would be like what the fuck Albion is being ruled by some rando, where’s Arthur this is a time of need. No Arthur. Some more bullshit happens after William’s son Henry I dies, (he named his daughter heir and all the men were like “wOmEn CaNt RuLe!!!”) After that, nothing that would pertain to Merlin till 1157. It’s possible Merlin could think Richard I was a reincarnation of Arthur or something like that, but Richard was highkey an idiot and didn’t do anything important besides let his brother John be in charge and John sucked so Merlin would realize Richard does not equal Arthur.

In 1274, Edward Longshanks was king and I don’t think Merlin would like him very much. He colonized Wales and famously was a jerk to Scotland. He idolized Arthur and the knights, which would probably piss off Merlin even further. He would wonder if this was Albion’s greatest hour of need and if Arthur would come. No Arthur.

1337, the Hundred Year’s War Starts. It goes well for England at first and Merlin would think, oh it's just another war. Nope. It goes on in bursts for 116 years, and with the intervention of Joan of Arc, the French win. Merlin would think, “Arthur this might be a good time to come back when we are losing a huge war!” But no Arthur. (I do think Merlin would be sympathetic to Joan of Arc though.)

1455 to 1487 is the War of the Roses. Merlin would have to watch England tear itself apart over the crown and would think, “This is gotta be it. Arthur is gonna be the one to come out of this and fix the country and bring back Camelot.” But he wouldn’t come. It’s possible he could think that Henry VII was a reincarnation of Arthur and would meet him, but it wouldn’t be him.

1553. Mary I becomes Queen of England and kills a lot of people, including Lady Jane Grey. She tries bringing back a religion that was just not working for a lot of people. Merlin would see this and think, “Arthur come back with your tolerance and fix this.” But no Arthur.

1649. The English Civil War Happens. They cut off Charles I’s head and Oliver Cromwell is instated as Lord Protector. Puritanism is the new religion. For Merlin this would be really not great for him. Magic would be even more hunted then before. He would definitely think this is it. Albion’s greatest hour of need! But Charles II becomes king, not Arthur. And Charles II would not be a reincarnation of Arthur, nor would William and Mary later.

Skip ahead to Napoleon’s conquest of Europe in the Early Nineteenth century. I’m not quite sure what Merlin would make of Napoleon, but he’d see the situation as a good time for Arthur to come back. But no Arthur.

Then both World Wars! England was in a lot of trouble both times and it would probably be the time that it would make most sense for Arthur to come back. But he doesn’t. And honestly that makes no fucking sense to me. Wouldn’t it be a great sequel to the show if Arthur came back in 1918, to pick up the mess of the first World War and help fight the second? Am I going crazy? Most likely yes.

Well, this has gone on wayyyy to long so I will end this analysis here. I know I left out alot, but I tried to cover the important stuff. The main takeaway is that Merlin would go through a WHOLE lot. He would change languages at least twice, watch everyone die, and magic wain in use from repeated witch hunts.

[inky-duchess]

Court Archetypes: The Pretender

There are always those who want the throne. They carve it, they need the power it gives... or else somebody behind them wants them to do it. Pretenders add a threat to any throne as well as interesting subplots for your WIP.

The Successful

These were all pretenders in their times but they won their throne and kept it for a number of years.

Stephen I of England: Henry I had one son and a daughter. His son died in a shipwreck, leaving his daughter, Matilda or Maud to take the throne on his death. During this period, England's empire straddled the Channel. Matilda was in France when her father died and pregnant as well. In her absence, her cousin Stephen seized the throne. So ensued a bloody war for the throne which Matilda was winning at one point, entering her coronation but was chased away by Londoners. Matilda gave up the war on the terms that her son Henry would become King when Stephen died, which he did.

Richard III: I like Richard. He suffered from scoliosis, remained loyal to his brother and had a fairytale-like elopement with his wife. In 1483, Richard's brother died leaving a twelve year old heir. Richard had agreed to act as Regent but after putting off the prince's coronation for months, arresting the boys maternal uncle and half brother, executing his dead brother's best friend and imprisoning his brother in the tower with him, Richard seized the throne. There is murkiness about whether Richard had the boys killed. The boys did vanish but whether it was Richard or another power, we can never know for certain. Personally, I think Richard was acting in protection for the realm which would have been endanger from civil unrest, the commons resented the Queen's family and there were other pretenders. Richard was a tested battle commander and the strongest hope to keep the country stable. I think he had good intentions if he went the wrong way about it.

Edward IV: Edward was the son of another pretender, Richard of York. When Richard of York died at the hands of Margaret of Anjou along with his young son Edmund, Edward took up the mantle of kingship and ousted the House of Lancaster from the throne, installing the House of York.

The Exiles

Some royals were thrown out of their homeland by either a coup or another pretender. Sometimes they're the hero, other times they are not.

Charles Edward Stuart ("Bonnie Prince Charlie): I have mixed feelings about this man. He doesn't deserve the grand legend attached to him nor the kindness history gilds him with. He was a drunken fool who led thousands to their death like his shithead father. But his claim is just. The only reason barring him from his throne is his religion. His story should have been a fairytale, the prince riding to reclaim his family throne. But he died a poor beggar, drinking and lamenting past glories.

Charles II: Charles II was exiled from England along with his mother and younger siblings after the monarchy was overthrown. Charles was technically a pretender while Oliver "Dickbreath" Cromwell ruled England. He shot his shot when Cromwell died and restored the monarchy.

Henry VII: Henry had no chance at throne. Born of a legitimized bastard line and a Welsh line, Henry was not the first person people thought of when considering heirs to the throne. During the mess of the Wars of the Roses, he got closer and closer to the throne which meant he was a threat to the Yorkist line. He escaped to Brittany and then to France, where he waited for his chance. His mother helped orchestrate his two invasions of England, his second being successful at Bosworth Field.

The False

Some Pretenders are not pretenders at all. Some Pretenders are charlatans or mad men or perhaps greedy fools. Some are even almost successful

Perkin Warbeck (Richard Plantagenet/ Richard IV?): Perkin Warbeck, the son of a Tournai boatman, invaded England in 1495 under the guise of Prince Richard Plantagenet, Prince no. 2 in the Tower. He went to Scotland to garner support, winning a wife from the Scottish King. He rode south toward London, the country divided in opinion over his legitimacy. Was he the lost Prince of York? Real or not, Warbeck was defeated. Henry VII chose to be merciful offering Warbeck a place a court which he accepted. But the plots kept swirling about the mysterious pretender. In order to secure an alliance with Spain, Henry was finally forced to kill the pretender. Was he really Prince Richard? Some historians say no, some say yes. As for me, I am open to the theory that he is but I rather liked to think that if Prince Richard did survive the Tower, that he found safety somewhere far away and forgot all about crowns and thrones. Of course, that's just wishful thinking....

Anna Andersen (Anastasia Romanov): In 1918, the Russian Tsar, Tsarina, Tsarevitch and four Grand Duchesses were executed by rebels. Once that terrible murder happened, rumours began to spread that one daughter had escaped when they were burying the bodies, helped away by a young scared soldier. The rumours allowed pretenders to come forward pretending to be the youngest daughter, Anastasia. The remaining Russian royals met with several promising ones but they all cons. In Germany in the 1920s, a young woman began claiming to be the Grand Duchess. A few members of the royal family met her and believed her along with her childhood friend, Gleb Botkin. There was some evidence, her signature was the same, she knew somethings about the Grand Duchess's childhood and had similar birth marks. By the time DNA testing came about, Anderson was dead. They tested her remains and it was clear that she was a pretender. I don't like Andersen but I think that she did believe in the lie, she was emotionally disturbed person with a history of mental illness.

Yemelyan Pugachev (Peter III of Russia): Pugachev was a Cossack who led a rebellion against Catherine the Great. He convinced a great number of Russian serfs that he was the dickweed Peter III, who had died months after his wife Catherine kicked him off the throne. She may or may not have known about the assassination plot against his life. Catherine's armies obliterated the rebellion and Pugachev was beheaded, drawn and quartered.

The Puppet

Some Pretenders are just innocents who troublemakers gather about in order to gain power. The puppet pretender is always a sympathetic figure in literature.

Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick: Edward was a simple-minded child whose great misfortune it was to be born into the House of York. The son of the Duke of Clarence, the brother to two of England's kings, he was named heir to the throne by his uncle Richard III when his own son died. Edward was imprisoned in the Tower when Henry VII came to power. But though Edward was likely incapable of ruling, Yorkist rebels kept rebelling in his name. In 1499, he was executed at the behest of the Anglo-Spanish treaty. He was a harmless man killed for a throne he likely didn't even realise was his by right. It is probably the one of the only events of history that I hate.

Lambert Simnel: Lambert Simnel was a pretender to the throne during the reign of Henry VII. He was a schoolboy who was placed at the head of a Yorkist rebellion for the resemblance between he and the Princes in the Tower. He was put forward as the Earl of Warwick, who people believed had escaped the Tower. When the rebellion was quashed, Henry VII was merciful and had the boy placed in the kitchens as a spit boy. Years later, he went on to become a royal falconer. Nothing else is known about his life.

Lady Jane Grey, Queen of England: Jane Grey was named Queen by her predecessor and cousin Edward VI. This was mainly due to her being Protestant as Edward VI was a Reformer. Jane had not wanted to be Queen, claiming that it was her Catholic cousin's throne not hers. In the name of faith, she was pressed to proclaim herself queen, in which the heralds had to explain who she was and how she could be queen. People had trouble with the claim for a few reasons: the succession had never included her only the king's two sisters, her mother who she drew her claim through was still alive meaning her mother was ahead of her by rights and nobody knew who she was. Jane's ascension had been a grand plot hatched by the Dukes of Suffolk and Northumberland. Northumberland wed Jane to his own son only months before. But Jane was no shrinking violet. In her nine days, she told her husband that he would never be king only a duke, she wrote her declarations signing herself as queen and ordered Northumberland to head her armies in place of her father. When Mary I ousted her from the throne, Jane was glad to give up the throne but not her Protestant faith. After failed rebellions to put Jane back in power, Mary I had no choice but to have her executed.

[haberdashing]

Biting Your Own Neck (7/?)

Mid-season 2, Jon’s life is abruptly upended by the intrusion of two unexpected and eerily familiar visitors.

on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7

Jon assumed it was either Tim or Martin sighing, though the sigh stopped before he could redirect his gaze to either of them to be certain; either way, though it appeared directed against Jon’s own words more than anything else, Jon couldn’t say he entirely disagreed with the sentiment. It had been a long day already, and it was still only the middle of the afternoon, with plenty of time for more surprises to lurk just around the corner.

“There’s got to be something that’ll prove what they’re saying is true.” Martin eventually said. “At least hypothetically, or else you’re just being paranoid for no reason.”

“Not like that’d be anything new.” Tim muttered under his breath.

Jon thought for a moment. Now that Martin mentioned it, he didn’t have any concrete ideas for how Jonny and Kay could prove that they really were versions of Jon and Martin rather than shapeshifters out to steal their identity or some such, but Jon could see the merit in Martin’s argument just the same. But if it was more evidence he needed...

“They left their bags with us. We could look at what’s in there, see if the contents make their true identity any clearer.”

Jon had expected Martin to jump at the idea, but instead he looked as uncomfortable as ever. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Didn’t they say not to do that?”

“They didn’t, actually. All they said was that they thought their bags would be safe here.”

“While talking about us like we weren’t even here,” Tim added, “Which was really rather rude of them.”

Martin visibly deflated as he let out a long breath that fell just short of a proper sigh. “It’s still an invasion of privacy.”

“Can’t be as bad as stalking someone’s flat.” Tim said with a meaningful look at Jon; Jon, for his part, tried and failed to convince himself that Tim was referring to what Martin had been doing when he’d first encountered Jane Prentiss.

“And if it helps settle any suspicions, it’ll be well worth it.” Jon cleared his throat as he stood up and took a few steps towards the bags in question. “They probably won’t even know it happened so long as we’re careful about it.”

Martin still looked unconvinced, eyes wide and face pale, but after a moment of hesitation, he nodded. “Alright then. So long as you’re sure.”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far, but I’m willing to take the blame if if comes to that.”

“The least you could do.” Tim said in a voice low enough that Jon wasn’t actually sure he was meant to hear it.

Tim and Jon stood up almost in unison, with Martin only a step or two behind as the three of them approached Jonny and Kay’s bags, two stuffed and grimy-looking backpacks that both looked entirely unfamiliar to Jon. (If they really were from the future, well, Jon must not have bought that particular backpack yet.)

“Should we pick one to go through first? Either of you have a preference?”

Jon and Martin looked at one another for a moment before shaking their heads.

“I don’t recognize them, so I wouldn’t know which one was ‘mine’ to begin with.” Jon said.

“...yeah, same here. Guess we can just pick one at random.”

A moment of indecision, and then Tim grabbed the closer of the two, a backpack which looked to be a musty green underneath all of its grime. Just unzipping the thing was enough to send a bit of unpleasant-looking dust out into the rest of the Archives, and Jon had to stifle a cough.

“Oh, this has to be Jon’s- well, future Jon’s, anyway.”

“Jonny’s.” Jon corrected before shaking his head a bit as the words sank in. “What makes you say that?”

Tim shoved the backpack Jon’s way. “Just take a look.”

Jon did so, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little as the reason behind Tim’s certainty about the backpack’s ownership became clear. A tape recorder was sitting near the top, and about a dozen cassette tapes were crammed into the backpack, threatening to spill out if it were unzipped any further.

“You know, I still don’t exactly like tape recorders.”

“Doesn’t stop you from using them, though.”

Jon made a noncommittal grunt in response as he looked through the other contents of Jonny’s backpack. There were a handful of loose pieces of papers seemingly thrown in there at random; at a glance, Jon didn’t know what they were or what their purpose might be, but they might be worth a closer look later. The backpack also contained, among other things, a small torch, a roll of duct tape, matches, a whistle, and several safety pins scattered across the bottom.

“On to Mart- er, Kay’s now?”

A few nods of agreement, and they moved on.

Some of the contents of Kay’s backpack weren’t terribly surprising: a thin blanket, a handful of teabags, another whistle and torch. Some weren’t outrageous, but made Jonny wonder what spurred on their inclusion: a long thread of rope, a crowbar, several maps of what looked to be the entirety of Great Britain with an X in northern Scotland and London circled.

(There was one notebook that Martin grabbed immediately and refused to let the other two look at, even after Jon confessed that he’d read Martin’s poetry before, that it couldn’t have gotten much worse in the future.)

And then...

“Martin, why the hell do you have so many knives?”

“What?” Martin inched closer as Tim brought the offending knives out of Kay’s backpack. “Oh, that’s- the way you said that, I thought it’d be more than that.”

“What d’you mean? That’s a lot of knives for someone to carry around!”

“Three knives isn’t that many, really! And the one’s a Swiss army knife, a, a multitool, that barely even counts as a knife-”

Tim held up the knife in question, extending its blade, which was admittedly fairly small. “But it is still a knife, you know, legally speaking-”

“I didn’t think we were speaking legally, just look how thick that handle is, there’s got to be loads of other tools in there-”

Jon cleared his throat, mostly in order to get Tim and Martin’s attention and stop their argument in the making. “What do the other two knives look like, then?”

“Well, this one’s a bit bigger, and it’s clearly not a multitool-”

“...I think I recognize that one, actually. From when I carried around a knife for a bit. Looks like the same knife.”

Tim squinted at Martin. “Since when did you carry around a knife?”

“Since Prentiss attacked me! Thought it’d be good to get worms out, at least until I came up with the corkscrew idea. Never had to use it, thankfully, but...”

Tim let out an exaggerated shudder. “Lovely.”

“And I thought the corkscrew was bad...” It was only too easy for Jon to picture that knife being thrust into his skin, being stabbed to remove the worms burrowing their way inside of him, his flesh being cut up like a piece of meat... no, all things considered, the corkscrew was the lesser evil there.

“Don’t suppose you recognize the other one, then?”

This knife was big, even by non-portable knife standards, Jon was pretty sure. A butcher’s knife, perhaps? One that was big and sharp and didn’t lend itself as easily to uses beyond simple violence, cutting up meat dead or alive.

“I mean, I think it’s the one he- Kay was gonna use on that Not-Sasha thing, but other than that? No idea.”

“Why would Kay even need to carry around a knife like that?” Jon took a closer look at the knife, tried to determine whether the dirt on it was simply dust and debris from being carried around or something more sinister, but to no avail. “Did he... did he use it on someone?”

“He didn’t, no.”

Jon gulped as he heard his own voice calling out, fast footsteps approaching--how much had Jonny and Kay heard?

“Martin hasn’t had to hurt anyone with that knife. He’s certainly not a murderer. Unlike yours truly, that is.”

Kay protested with a quick “Jon!”, but it wasn’t enough to avert Jon’s attention from the implications of what Jonny had just admitted to. Jon’s throat suddenly felt like sandpaper.

“...are you going to kill us too, then?” Tim didn’t sound terribly afraid of the prospect--angry, perhaps, but not afraid--and his fingers wrapped themselves around the handle of Kay’s biggest knife as he looked up at the duo.

“Jon, you’re scaring them.”

“I have no intention of killing you, no. But since you went digging through our stuff, and probably found some confusing things in there...”

Jon’ stomach sank.

“...perhaps it’s time the two of us give the rest of you a proper explanation.”