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unclefungusthegoat · 11 months

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Part two of Illumine, my Chevalier and Liselotte fic is here!

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sick bed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

Part One: L'obscurité

Read on AO3

Part Two: Le Rêve

Read at the AO3 link, or below!

Tags: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Opium, Fever Dreams, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Vomiting, Graphic Descriptions of Corpses, Period-Typical Homophobia, Medical Procedures, Medical Inaccuracies, Historical Inaccuracy, Imprisonment, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Sexual Content, Near Death Experiences, Child Death, Animal Abuse, Restraints

Part Two: Le Rêve

A rap upon the door.

Cutting through the thin sheen of peace.

And the low, discrete murmur was unmistakable, even though the Chevalier’s ears were buried beneath the blankets. Drool wet the fabric beneath his cheek.

“I’m afraid the King insists, Your Highness-”

“Please, Bontemps, explain to His Majesty, I will not leave him.” Liselotte was clearly trying to keep her voice hushed, but it seemed Versailles was built to echo, “Monsieur Fortin says the Chevalier is at a precipitous moment in his recovery. If…” She swallowed, bracing herself, “... If the fever claims him, my husband would never forgive me if I wasn’t at his side.”

Bontemps’ weary disinterest was louder than any reply he could make.

“His Majesty understands your anxiety over this matter. Nevertheless-”

The words seemed to fade, replaced by the sound of the Chevalier’s heartbeat thudding in his head. It felt as if a troupe of horses had trampled his body, for every inch of him hurt, every limb felt useless and bruised. To turn on his side, or rearrange his nightshirt, was an ordeal akin to Sisyphus. And still, that dry mouth, longing for that taste. Still that need . That burning within.

What had she said?

"If the fever claims him."

I’m dying, he realised, as sleep claimed him once more.

I’m dying and I shall never see him again.

***

The smell of sickness bled through the stone. It was far from the first time typhoid fever had broken out within the Chateau d’If, where the men were crowded in thirty or forty to a room. Fresh inmates often brought pox and lurgy from the mainland, and there was not a soul about the rock who cared for their fate. One less Huguenot troublemaker or political upstart would not be missed.

But this fever had taken hold with the grasp of an ancient god upon the thunder. Now the dead lay face to face with the living, and the living prayed for death. The floors were fouled. The cells were stifling with decay. Death claimed every inch of the fortress, every minute of the day. So lost were the sorry bastards in the cells below, the priest couldn't read rites quickly enough, for as soon as one perished, another needed attending.

The Chevalier could hear the bodies being dragged out and thrown into the sea.

“Exile is as good as death.” He recalled Madeleine de Foix purring once, over the fate of some unfortunate social climber, “But the Chateau is surely worse. It does not do for a nobleman to be forgotten in such a place.’

Had he been forgotten?

It certainly felt so.

There had been no word sent from Versailles. No sign of release papers, or a royal pardon. He was not permitted to write or receive letters, nor to speak to the prisoners in the adjacent cells (though why he would ever want to eluded him. He was not that desperate for idle chit-chat). Payment enough had been made for a private cell, but not a penny more had been sent for further comfort, not even from his siblings, who amassed quite the fortune from their abbeys.

It seemed now though, four days into this latest bout of malady, even the guards had forsaken him, the rancid stench of an epidemic lingering in the fibres of their cloaks and tunics as they idled past on their patrols. The regular guard had not visited at all today. No meagre ration of soup had been delivered and the chamber pot remained soiled. He’d done his best with the fire, but the embers were fading fast, and he was too cold to try again.

February in Marseille might as well have been December in Siberia. There was no glass in the window to protect from the storm, and the wind bit at his cheeks and fingers. From his cell upon the top floor, he could see the Mediterranean sea lashing upon the rocks, and had there not been stone walls preventing him, the Chevalier was convinced he would have thrown himself in to be drowned.

Better that than spend one more moment pretending that he would ever go home.

He was not one to pray. His faith had faded early in his youth, and all but died when he realised that having a passion for one's own sex invariably left him damned. But now he knelt before the rotting straw mattress with the diligence of a monk, and begged for God… anyone … to heed him.

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae, Amen.”

He pressed his lips upon his clasped hands, tears spilling onto the white knuckles. The Latin was fumbled, forgetful, despite being endlessly repeated since he was a boy. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the cold floor beneath him was the marble chapel of Versailles. That the scrape of flesh against the floor was the shuffle of congregants to receive communion. That warm breath would tickle the back of his neck, as Philippe - darling Philippe - approached behind him to whisper something sinful.

Goddamn it, he’d even take Bossuet’s chastisements, if it meant he was home to hear them.

Another body cast in.

And another.

And another, and another, and another, and another…

***

Now he stood beneath the moon, knee deep in cold water. There was no salt in the air, or tide pulling him adrift. Instead, the water was still and shallow, soaking his breeches in a most rude and unbecoming fashion. He could not remember how he came to be there. It seemed perhaps he had been drunk or in the throes of a tantrum, as he so often was these days.

Still, the Palace was but a distant silhouette. The shape of it cast an impossibly long shadow across the water. and though there seemed to be golden light in every window, there was no one close enough to witness him in such a state.

Had he sleepwalked?

There was talk the King wandered in his sleep. Perhaps it was catching. As Louis’s palace polluted them all, so too did his afflictions.

And yes, the Chevalier hated the outdoors - mosquitos in the summer, every opportunity to catch your death in the winter. Mud and rain and birdshit on the marble steps. But the fresh air felt freeing tonight, away from the confines of the Palace, a gilded prison by any measure. Away from seeing how Philippe’s eyes wandered; to his wife, to the weasely little poet, and if they were not to be found there, they would be upon his armour, hungry for another war.

Had they fought again?

No.

Well, probably, but not this time.

No…

Had he not been…?

He could have sworn he’d been in Marseille but a moment ago.

A memory, Philippe, nothing more…

But maybe…?

…maybe…

… Why couldn’t he remember?

He reached for the phial tucked into his coat, and found, to his delight, a droplet of laudanum left lingering at the bottom. He leaned his head back to let it dribble into his throat, the morsel pulling away all worry and care of what his prince might be up to over there in the light. At least he still had one great love, one constant, which never failed to bring him ecstasy.

Something moved around his ankles.

He nearly lost his footing. The phial dropped with a quiet plop into the depths, never to be found again, for the water was black as a crow’s feather, and he could not see his own reflection, let alone the bottom of the fountain.

It moved again.

Whatever it was, it wasn't small. He couldn’t remember the King having fish brought in, though he wouldn't put it past the man to have had his gardeners go to the ends of the earth to collect a sea beast worthy of the corners of the map.

His eyes bulged. And summoning a faint wisp of courage from within, the Chevalier moved his hand to the surface. His fingers dipped beneath. Not quite enough to risk his whole hand should the creature have teeth, but certainly a ring or two if he were not fast enough. The water was heavy, like oil, slick and slippery. It smelt sweet, like violets - the same powdery scent that greeted him upon opening his snuff box.

But there was nothing below.

Nothing but his stockinged feet.

He hissed a laugh at his foolishness. It was surely time to return to the Palace, to slip into bed beside Philippe (if his bed was not already occupied ). To let his warmth lull him to sleep.

But first - the phial.

He reached down again to retrieve it, confidence rising as the shallows fell-

- and with a surge, the water slipped from the form that broke free from the depths.

A human form.

Shoulders and a head bearing pretty brown curls, lit by that oversized moon.

Crying out, he stumbled back, but her rotting hands caught the front of his coat. He could see the bone where they'd been eaten away by some ravenous creature. Could see moss threaded through her hair. She seemed so frail in nothing but her shift, and without the haze of opium, to look upon her innocent half-naked form felt lecherous. Dirty. Almost sacrilegious. To look upon her felt unholy in every way imaginable.

It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible…

But the drowned, bloated face of Isabelle, gaped and gasped for air.

Her wide eyes searched his face.

“Is this paradise, Monsieur?”

He choked on the stench of her, on the stale breath she had not been permitted to take, now released.

“Will you kiss me, Monsieur, as you did that night? I had never kissed a man before.”

“Leave me be!” He shrieked, pulling at her fingers to release him, but she held tight. Nausea churned within his stomach as he was forced to look upon her. At the water that dribbled from her lips, at the tinges of green beneath her once rosy skin… at the love bite on her neck. Once so young and full of hope and promise, had she not been the plaything of jealousy, and led into the embrace of iniquity and desire.

His embrace.

“Will you love me, Monsieur? Am I to be your wife, now you have touched me”?

“Let me go- please-” His voice died in his throat.

“No.”

And she leant in to whisper in his ear.

“So too will you drown.”

***

Who is screaming?

Surely a madman was loose about the palace, to make such a racket as that? Perhaps this stranger, clad in black, who insisted on assaulting him? The stranger seemed mad, with his wiry hair, and instruments eerily like Marchal’s. His eyes bulged. His words were garbled.

He is here to rob me , the Chevalier realised, for the stranger clung to his limbs with unsympathetic force, and showed no sign of relenting, no matter how vigorously he thrashed. Rob me, arrest me, send me away again, away to the King, to the gallows he promised me. I learned my lesson, did I not? I learned, as I promised I’d learn, but no, my stallion, you and I both know I never learn. And now this thief is here to kill me, to rob me, to empty my coat- this fine coat that you paid for, my darling! You see what he took, bastard that he is, he knows it’ll stop the pain, it’ll all go away and I will be your mignon again, your Philippe, as you remember me, before I was sent away! She said one drop to sleep, Philippe, just a drop, Philippe, just one, it can be our secret, darling, just a drop, my darling, can’t you see it hurts -

His legs were spasming, the muscles already taut and pained from disuse. Feet, scrabbling against his captor, ruching the sheets.

And still, the godforsaken screaming .

“You must hush, sir, or I’m afraid I shall be forced to tie you down.”

***

"... She wasn’t the first, was she?"

Mignonette's face was contorted with anguished fury. With loathing . But his voice still held that exquisite softness, that vulnerable, hushed quality that held more beauty than lark song to the Chevalier. And, oh how perfect he was in his powder and rouge, laced lovingly into his favourite corset, just as he had on the day they met. How fine he looked, with his cheeks flushed and his hair wild, even if it was in service of accusation.

Mignonette’s slight body was trembling in rage.

"Are you so set against my brother? Against me?"

The Chevalier couldn't recall what he'd done, but it broke his heart to see his love so tormented.

I am always with you, he wanted to proclaim. Did I not kill for you? Did I not think of you every day I languished in prison? Have I not held you in your darkest nights, and been your companion when all the world believes us wicked? Will I not follow you into the depths of damnation, all for want of your love?

"My darling, I have no idea what you mean, the very thought of hurting you is-"

"STOP IT. STOP SEDUCING ME WITH YOUR POISONOUS WORDS!" Marching across the chamber, Mignonette’s hands began to tear at his slate grey skirts, lacerating the fine silk. He cast it away, leaving it withered upon the floor, rubbed at his face with his palm, smearing the Chevalier’s handiwork into a pink watercolour rash. He ripped the jewels from his ears, letting the lobes weep in pain. “You’re a VIPER. A snake in the garden, set upon me by those who wished to keep me insignificant! My brother! My mother!”

“Your mother adored you!” The Chevalier dared to take a step forward, arms raised as if pacifying a defensive bull, “As do I! You are my very soul, Philippe, never mind the very soul of France! Please, if I have wounded you, if I have cut you to the quick, tell me! Tell me how I might be better! How I might return to your good graces, how I might heal your pain-!”

Such flattery did not assuage Mignonette’s wrath, for his fingers moved to the petticoats, the white silk. The sound of seams snapping was akin to broken bones.

“Philippe… Philippe, stop- you love that gown-!”

“I loved YOU.” He screamed, “And you repay my love by poisoning my WIFE.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Had he not been here before, heard this before?

“...That’s absurd.”

“You deny it?” Mignonette snarled, “You command me to deny my own eyes?” He flung out an arm, scratched in his haste to undress, towards the bed.

What?

And yet suddenly he saw her, strewn amongst the bloodsoaked sheets. Liselotte, arm impaled by a too-big lancet. A shrieking lamb was tied beside her, thrashing its head in fear as its blood nourished her lifeless veins. Her eyes saw no light, her mouth agape, dribbling bile and foam, her flesh so pale it could have challenged the mist and snow. Like Henriette, bloodied spittle stained her nightgown. Viscera vomited in agony. That boisterous spirit… gone.

Her babe withering within.

The Chevalier felt sick at the sight of it.

Surely, he hadn’t-?

Mignonette’s face was now so close to his. What remained of his gown hung loosely from him, skin like alabaster beaded with sweat. His lips, plump with desire, but worried to the point of splitting. A calm had come over him, his breath heavy in his bosom. His thumb moved across the Chevalier’s cheek.

“Do you see her, my dear Chevalier?”

He knew he’d see her in his dreams for all eternity.

“She wasn’t the first, was she?”

“... What?

"You poisoned her too, didn't you?"

Somehow the Chevalier already knew the answer.

Still he asked.

"Who?”

That gentle whisper, once saved for sweet nothings between the raptures of sex.

“Henriette.”

The prince’s eyes were stormy with grief. The Chevalier shook his head, almost imperceptible, but for the man who was his world. Yet to his world, he spoke his truth, and it was not the truth he had hoped they would bear witness to. It came with a smirk. That wit, that irreverence, so often his downfall.

“I would be lying, my love, if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Mignonette smiled.

That beautiful, sad smile.

That lonely, silver smile that so often was confined to the shadows.

“You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? To stay by my side.”

A nod.

“Anything.”

And Mignonette gave a soft sigh.

“My brother was right about you.”

The Chevalier decided there, in the embrace of his truest love, that surely this could be no dream.

For the dagger between his ribs, twisted at that precise angle as to sever the heart, felt more real than any kiss they’d ever shared.

***

The night came once more, and he lay curled upon the bed.

Someone had stripped him of his nightshirt now, in a desperate attempt to cool him down. And he lay naked as the day he was born, modesty preserved only by a thin sheet. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, with bruises upon his wrists and ankles. An aeon of nights with no respite from the pain, from that thirst, had left him collapsed upon her - his angel - unable to struggle, unable to die. His head, cradled in her lap. Her fingers stroked his hair, in lieu of a lullaby. Like a wounded baby deer, he whimpered, weak and shivering.

Through the open window, a harpsichord serenaded from a distant soiree.

“Where is Philippe?” He barely whispered.

He wasn’t sure if it was the first time he’d asked. Philippe’s banyan robe - one of beautiful ochre and grey silk - was somehow in his grasp, had been laid out, to be crushed in his grip as a child clings to a blanket. The lavender perfume of his lover so near confused him, for how could he be here and yet not be?

No one had ever cared but Philippe.

Philippe… and her .

“He promised,” Every word, every breath was fainter, “He promised he would love me again…”

Had he the strength to look up, he would have seen her grief upon her cheeks.

“He will.” Was all she could think to say in return, “He does.”

#Versailles #monchevy #chevalier de lorraine #liselotte #versailles fanfic #versailles series #evan williams #jessica clark #this one actually has several bonus characters too #please mind the tags!!!!

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titisorriso · 1 year

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Chapter 7/To Be A Hero (Wild Skies AU)

The wind howled once more over the edge of the mountain. Berk was not the biggest island in the arquipelago, but it sure had some tall rocks for its size. Astrid's hair was getting a bit longer than she normally would allow it to be, and it flowed towards the horizon as she attempted to clear her mind.

Three weeks ago, Hiccup kicked her and her friends onto an island that was within reach to the patrols of Berk. She was rescued, and for a long while, Ruffnut and Snotlout did not utter a word to her. Then one day, Stoick asked to see her privately, showing her both a letter proposing an alliance with the south and a report delivered by Snotlout implying that the warrior was betraying the Hooligans. Stoic gave her a choice, either deal with her treason and put her on trial or keep her as the commander responsible for ensuring a diplomatic encounter with the south; to make sure any rumors of betrayal were thrown away.

The choice was obvious. Her own friends believed her a liar, a traitor, they were hurt, and if a trial happened, she would end up exiled, or banished from the place she called home, and yet... As she read over the south's proposal for truce, there was the clause that would ensure no one thought that she was working with the dragon lover.

"The termination and imprisonment of the Night Fury and the rider known as Night Stutter."

She was short of breath, wanting to hurl her stomach out and feeling like a thousand tiny glass pieces were clattering and shattering in her mind. Stoick noticed the paralyzed woman, getting up and speaking with what almost felt like hatred, an air of disappointment, a look of disbelief.

"I don't know your relationship with that rider, but whatever it is, know that it will end once he is publicly executed."

He reached forward, putting a hand to her shoulder as he could no longer hold his affection back.

"Astrid... This village needs a leader, and you are all i have left. All we have left. We can't win a war with the south; they have weapons that we've never seen before... Exploding metal and inventions that we can't beat with arrows and axes."

He sat down on his council spot. Leaning back as he dismissed her. She clutched the letter, shoving it on her belt.

"... I won't fail."

"You better not."

The response was sent to the south, and today they would arrive. She took a deep breath in. All her issues seemed futile. Everything could be solved if she would just say it, the identity of the Night Stutter, the reason she was alive, the reason why she hadn't killed a dragon in weeks. Astrid still felt no sympathy towards the beasts, but killing them... She was scared that he would see. She could never tell when Hiccup was nearby, if he was still watching, if maybe he was waiting to come back, if she wouldn't have to do any of this, and out of the kindness of his heart, he would come out by himself.

- I'm pathetic.

She whispered to herself, laying down and staring at the sky. The clear morning almost felt like the gods taunting her, showing that the world went on even with her world crumbling. The things she felt, the things that she was terrified to name, they took up everything inside. Every corner and curve. What was it? She hated him, hated him to the point it hurt to do so, because it didn't feel right. It didn't feel right to hate him, to call him enemy, that shy stupid boy from when she was a child was now a wild man with the same naive intentions and worldview he always had. He wasn't perfect, but he didn't claim to be. He wasn't always right, but he was so willing to admit his wrongs. In the end, what really bothered Astrid was how, there was no way, in any version of their meeting that she created in her mind, that he was the bad guy. Hiccup was not the evildoer, the threat to Berk, the problem of the arquipelago. He helped people, he didn't kill anyone that didn't deserve it, and he preached peace.

Peace.

A viking speaking of peace and tranquility was a crazy thought, but Hiccup was never like the other vikings anyway.

No, what really made her curl up, cry, shake and feel wrathful was the simple question that came with all this wondering. If he was not the bad guy, and he is her enemy, then what is Astrid?

Days and nights she spent remembering all the gruesome things she had done, all the people she had lost, and no normal viking would see those as bad things, but she felt weirdly evil for doing them. She blamed Hiccup. Even before she knew he was alive, she blamed the boy that died speaking of doing things a different way. With each kill, each dragon felled, she would hear that voice, in the back of her neck, whispering in fear.

"Am i doing the right thing?"

She got up, breathing heavy, she couldn't afford doubt. She stared onto the horizon, remembering all of Hiccup's stories of different lands, different people, all these things she would never get to experience, all because of how rotten her heart was. At the end of the day, that's what it always came down to. A heart like hers couldn't be saved, and whatever would happen, there was no turning back. At least that's what she believed.

At noon, they arrived. Led by a man named Johann, the dragon hunters of the south arrived. Intricate weapons and chains, boats bigger than Astrid had ever seen, harpoons coated with some sort of green liquid and always pointed at the sky. The man was cunning, she immediately could tell his sweet words towards Stoick were always hiding wicked intentions. His men looked as mean as they come, no expression or emotion as they observed Berk as if it was nothing but a piece of land. Behind Astrid were her friends, with newfound confidence, happy they would work with the south instead of against them, but the valkyrie was having none of it.

- Ah! I assume this is your fearless commander! - He approached Astrid, extending a hand- I hear you have some exciting information about the Night Stutter.

Astrid stared at his palm, her characteristic frown deepening while she forced herself to shake his hand. Everything in the name of diplomacy.

- He's stronger than you think. Your weapons wouldn't even touch him.

He let go of her hand, staring at her with a weird glint in his eye:

- Ha! The way you say it, it almost sounds like a threat.

Stoick put an arm around his shoulders. Taking his attention:

- Come, Johann. I will show you around the island. Afterall, today is Astrid's ascension to the title of thane! She needs to prepare. Fishlegs, Tuffnut, with me.

The two went to give the man his tour. Fishlegs already spouting about the history and legacy of Berk while Tuffnut spoke about the festivities and ale. Ruffnut scattered to do something else, but Snotlout stayed behind.

- Hey, Astrid...

She turned to him, her frown softening.

- What? Do you need anything?

Snotlout started to rub the back of his neck, embarrassed, ashamed.

- I... We've been fighting together for years. You've saved my hide more times than i can count and... And i know that you don't like people going over your head.

- Speak, Snotlout.

She didn't have time for his self-pity. There was already too much on her plate, this man's feelings did not need to be added to her load.

- I'm just sorry, okay?! I'm sorry i doubted you, i'm sorry i thought you would ever betray Berk it's just...

He looked at her, waiting for her to interrupt him, but when she showed no signs that she would do so, he continued.

- I've been your friend for very long, and not once have i seen you... Look at someone. For a moment i thought you were incapable of affection!... And then there was the island and... Astrid, your eyes were... So bright.

She punched him, he fell back, yelling as he held his cheek:

- OUCH!! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!

He looked at her and froze. Her face was unsure, scared, a realization that she didn't want to have been just forced by Snotlout.

- Astrid?...

Tears started to fall from her eyes as she clutched her fists close to her chest. It had finally been too much.

Snotlout slowly approached her, his hands holding her shoulders as he kept a safe distance, mostly for his safety.

- Astrid, are you okay?... What's wrong?

Astrid didn't cry. At least not in front of anyone. Snotlout stared at her, not knowing what to do or say.

A vase shattering made them flinch, Astrid suddenly gaining her composure back, and wiping away her tears. She pushed Snotlout back.

- I'm fine.

He wanted to say something but knew that wasn't the best choice. Astrid started walking towards her cabin, but for a moment, she turned to Snotlout again.

- ...The thing about friendship, Snotlout, is that, sometimes, it requires us to break some rules. Clearly, that wasn't something you were willing to do.

Astrid stared at the water basin; her reflection scared her. The woman in the water looked soft, weak, needy. She couldn't afford that, not if she wanted Berk to thrive. She grabbed her knife, the sharp blade gleaming against the light. Sharp cuts through her hair, the length decreasing once more, dark coal was smeared under her eyes, other tints and paints doing the ritualistic marks necessary for the ascension. She stared at the basin once more. She hated that face, but at least this one she was used to, it felt right, familiar.

She held her knife as she left the cabin. The pyre, the rumbling of the drums, the chants and the smell of ale. It was suffocating, but it felt intoxicating at the same time. As if the entirety of the party was moving inside her. She closed her eyes, feeling it all muddle together. Stoick pulled her near the council, putting her in front, her dazed eyes focusing as she put on her façade. The chief's voice boomed over everyone, the silence falling on his people as they paid attention to each word uttered.

- When a warrior proves themselves, the gods show us that strength, wit and power come from the rage we allow ourselves to carry in the name of those lost. We put our lives in the battlefield, hoping that the axe that fell us will aid us into Valhalla. Today, we accept as thane our most prestigious fighter. Our valkyrie, who showed promise since the moment she was born. Swinging her axe around, showing her skills and mastery, she proved that the dragons are beasts with no heart, honor or mind. The Exterminator! The Savior of Berk! The Tamer of the Scorching Plague!

Her heart thumped inside her chest, straightening her back, she faked pride, her scowl growing as to intimidate anyone that would accuse her of anything other than happiness. She started counting the seconds, wondering how long she would have to stay here, looking at the faces of everyone she was lying to. Her people, her family, her clan. She closed her eyes, the noises growing louder. Stoick's voice broke through:

- And! To show us her prowess, as our ancestors have done before us, the thane will fall a beast in front of our eyes!

Her eyes shot open. This was a tradition, but one they haven't done in years, and not like this, not in the middle of everyone. Many thanes had come, but none were asked this unless the arena was available. She turned to Stoick, oblivious of her despair, he gave her a warm smile. She looked down, staring at the knife she clutched so tight. The blade was no longer shining, only reflecting the space. The heat of the pyre was becoming too much, her breath got caught in her throat, her eyes felt heavy, her face felt numb. Then, as if to wake her to the situation, a pained melody that was quickly silenced.

There was the Death Song.

Surrounded in chains, covered with pins and metal. It seemed younger than most Death Songs. Johann laughed delighted:

- Oh, it was such a privilege to have seen these beauties in their natural habitat. Did you know they encase their prey in amber?! Even eat other dragons the nasty things. This one is on me, by the way. To show our commitment to an alliance with the Hooligans! Go ahead, thane. Have at him!

Astrid shivered. Many of Johann's men held down the dragon, the beast trying desperately to flee. Desperate. She knew that feeling. Knew it a bit too well. A viking pushed her forward, she took it as a sign to start walking. Everyone yelled and cheered, begging for blood, for the death of this dragon. The warrior took careful steps forward, looking the creature dead in the eye. The dragon started looking back.

He stopped struggling.

The mounds of viking felt like walls of shadow, like a barrier stopping her from deviating from her fate. This fate.

She kneeled in front of the Death Song. The dragon's pupils grew, hope filling his face. His eyes then saw her still holding the knife, and suddenly, Astrid wondered if dragons would cry if they could. She looked around... and touched her forehead to the dragon's horn. People slowly stopped cheering. Stoic observed, with a certain annoyance and uncertainty. Doubt sprouted in his mind as he realized what was happening.

Slowly, the Death Song closed his eyes, accepting his fate. Astrid whispered rites, a prayer to help him reach Valhalla, the vikings were silently observing, their tone suddenly changing.

No longer was this the death of a beast, but the execution of a warrior.

- Let the warriors here, in the hall come forth, Thine and mine, for the need is mighty, If haply the queen from death they may hold, Till her fearful thoughts with time shall fade.

The sound of flesh being cut, the sound of liquid spilling onto the floor. The dragon had stopped moving. Astrid slowly rose, hands and blade stained. She slowly turned, her eyes finding Johann, and then seeing Stoick, his face said everything she needed to hear. His anger was no longer turned to her, as he realized what he was about to accept. The Valkyrie cleaned her blade against her big gloves, staring at Johann with a fire in her eyes.

- We are vikings. We are people of tradition and religion. We recognize the power and fight in our foes. We hunt these creatures, but they will always fight back, they will always give us battle and honor. What that man is proposing... It is not about our protection, it is not about our tradition, it is about money.

Johann looked around, noticing the sudden shift in emotion. He got up, slowly moving towards his group.

- I... I have no clue what you are talking about! If dragons die, won't it help you?! So, what if we get some natural resources from them on the meantime! These creatures have no soul, no essence to walk into Valhalla or whatever idiotic beliefs you have!

Stoic took a step forward, his frame being enough to get Johann to run behind his people.

- I was so blinded by the prospect of protection, of getting some sort of leverage over these creatures that i forgot who the dragon hunters were. Your efforts were what almost extinguished our sheep, what almost ruined all the forests and farming land throughout the arquipelago. We might be at war with these beasts, but every single Hooligan will die before denying them the right to fight. What happened here today did prove Astrid's capability of being Thane, it did show her how deserving she is of the title... And she proved so by showing me who you truly are.

Stoick stepped closer to him, two of his men tried to push the man back, only to get themselves throw out of the way without struggle. The chief looked down at an angry Johann:

- Leave, you rat. There will be no peace with the south. If you want our lands, you will have to take it from us.

Johann scowled; it reminded Astrid of when her mom told her stories of gremlins who would get upset when they failed their trickery. The man snapped his fingers, his people taking the Death Song's body away as he retreated to his ship. His last words reverberated in the Valkyrie's mind:

- We'll see where your alliance truly lies when your village burns, Thane.

Astrid put her hand on the tree, trying to find balance, puking from the nerves of everything that had happened. Her hands and clothes were still stained with blood. They invited her to stay, to enjoy the festivities, saying that it was her day, but all she could think about was the oncoming war. She walked to the forest, far from the music and drinks and people. She walked towards a small lake on this area, inside a crater. Climbing down, she stopped holding back the tears, taking off her gloves and her cotton shirt to wash, throwing the heavy armor to the side as the salty droplets fell down her cheeks.

- Shit... Shit...

The blood refused to wash off. She knew how to wash blood off, but her brain was so confused she wished the gods would give her a miracle and save her the trouble. The warrior wanted to erase this from her mind.

A sound of branches breaking made her hold still. With a slow motion, she put her shirt back on. Astrid already knew who it was. Her voice came out weaker than she wanted it to be. Scared. Scared of what he would think of her after that:

- ... How much did you see?

Quiet steps approached. She started wondering if it really was him, if it maybe was someone else, maybe one of Johann's men followed her, maybe it was Snotlout wanting to apologize once more.

Then his hand reached her shoulder. He kneeled behind her, his forehead resting against her neck. His voice was quiet and gentle.

- ... I'm sorry.

His arms wrapped around her waist, fully hugging her as she weakly heaved.

- You could have just come back... None of this would have happened if you came back...

- I know... I'm sorry... I'm sorry...

They stayed there, waiting, enjoying this rare moment of respite, where they allowed each other to cry. The two unbreakable and immovable forces letting themselves be soft for one another. They felt it again, as if they were trapped in time, as if the rest of the world had gone away for a single second, just so they could feel that peace, that comfort they had been craving for so long.

Astrid had finally stopped crying. Feeling slightly embarrassed by her position, she shook him off. He cleared his throat and sat looking at some other spot, body fully turned away from her. Astrid was the first to break the silence:

- We're at war with the south.

- Yeah... I'm pretty sure i told you to not do that.

She chuckled. Noticing her amusement, she quickly changed her expression again. They might be civil now, but they were still enemies. She wondered if anyone else in the world had to constantly remind themselves that.

- So, still not helping i assume?

Hiccup sighed, almost bored, as if the question was tedious.

- I have been helping, and i will continue to do so, but that's not really the question you're asking, i assume.

The Valkyrie clicked her tongue annoyed. He knew her too well, and it was infuriating. She started splashing the lake. Hiccup spoke with a smile:

- You know... This is the place where i tamed Toothless.

Astrid looked up, taking in the surroundings of her secret spot, but apparently not hers at all.

- ... You told me about it... I wonder if maybe i didn't feel that this was your spot.

- Feel? What do you mean?

She sighed, hugging her legs ashamed, but not feeling the urge to hide her feelings.

- When you... Disappeared. I felt myself going to places you liked. It was... Cathartic. Sometimes it felt like... Like you were still here.

Hiccup turned towards her, moving a bit closer.

- If it... makes you feel better... My heart always was. I-i mean, i know that won't change all the pain i caused you and... Everyone but... I never forgot you.

Astrid looked at him, a scoffing smile tugging at her lips:

- Hah! That almost sounded like courting, Night Stutter.

- I love you.

What? She laughed before processing the words. Turning away to throw some water at him, but he stayed unmoving. Serious. Her smile slowly disappeared. She started stuttering, as if her mind was no longer there. He repeated it:

- I love you, Astrid Hofferson. Always have.

She moved back instinctively. He stayed still, observing her reaction, trying to decipher her expression.

And then, she kicked him in the chest.

- OUCH!! That hurt!

She got up quickly, Toothless came from the darkness, rushing towards the rider to check on him and quickly realizing he was fine. Astrid screamed, frustrated:

- How-- How DARE YOU!!

- Wait, what?! What did i do wrong?!

Hiccup got up, catching his breath. Astrid started pacing:

- I-- YOU-- WE AREN'T--! I HATE you!

Hiccup laughed humorless, scratching his head:

- Well, that's a bit harsh.

- No, no, you don't understand! We're enemies!! You can't... I won't... SHUT UP, HICCUP!!

She started marching away, going back to the village, hiding her beet red face.

- Wait, Astrid! Just... Just wait a moment, did i do something wrong?! Why are you angry at me?!

She whipped to look at him, he stopped, noticing he fucked up.

- You help dragons. I kill dragons. You have no responsibilities. I have a whole VILLAGE to take care of! You can't love me. You can't love me while going against everything i am! Everything i believe!

He scoffed, a bit annoyed:

- Oh, really? Do dragon killers cry after murdering one of them? Do they second guess and give them their rites before sending them to Valhalla? I saw you waver, i saw you... I saw you talking to Snotlout about me. About the way you look at me; and although i don't appreciate him getting that close... He did help you realize what you feel about me.

Boiling anger. Astrid took a step closer, her whole demeanor shifting as Hiccup felt like he stepped on a trap. If there was one thing the woman didn't appreciate, was being stalked like deer.

- And what, pray tell, is it that i feel for you?

He gulped as Toothless whimpered and took a step back, predicting what Hiccup was going to say.

- Well, you... Love me too... Right?...

Astrid basically growled at Hiccup, turning back and walking with purpose towards the village. Hiccup sighed, shaking his head at his social interaction and looking at his buddy, who looked pained with cringe.

- Oh, shut up. At least i'm trying. Where's your love interest?

And he started following Astrid.

- Astrid, wait.

- Go away!

- I'm not going to follow you into the village. I'm not that stupid.

She stopped. Silence fell onto the forest. She felt herself shiver, wondering what she could do, what would it take to get him back, to get him to willingly show himself to everyone. His voice broke through:

- ... Why didn't you... Why didn't you just let him go?... You clearly didn't want him to die, you saw his eyes, you saw how afraid he was.

She felt their bubble bursting, reality seeping into their relationship. Whatever softness she felt before, now gone as she noticed how mournful he was about the dragon. Not about their bond, not about abandoning his family, but about the beast dying.

- Well, Hiccup...

Her words were lathered with venom, she both didn't want to say this and wanted to yell it out to everyone. She remembered every interaction they had, every moment of coziness, of insecurity, of embarrassment; she also remembered all the years she spent crying, looking for revenge, all the people she lost during Stoick's crusade against dragons. The Valkyrie turned around, her icy eyes piercing Hiccup's previous confidence, all his "sures" becoming "maybes" in seconds.

- Sometimes people must die so you can prove a point.

She didn't need to spell it out for him. He could interpret it just fine.

"It's all your fault."

She went back to the village, knowing now that she was a hero, any insecurities or doubts gone from her mind. She did what she should have done, what was right, and just like that, all the regret disappeared. She looked at her knife, a bit of blood still attached to it, but it shined more than ever before.

The second crack of hatred was carved into her heart.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Welp, i’ll be fully honest, i forgot i had this AU! College has been difficult and i ended up forgetting a lot of the stuff i posted on this tumblr, but i still have the drafts for this fic all ready, i just need to reread them and post them! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, there will definetely more coming soon. (As long as i don’t forget)

#wild skies au #wild!astrid #wild!hiccup #httyd #astrid httyd #hiccup httyd #Astrid Hofferson #Hiccup Haddock #how to train your dragon #alternate universe #fanart #fanfic #wild skies #toothless

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cyberbenb · 10 months

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Prominent Belarusian artist dies in prison 'under unclear circumstances'

The prominent Belarusian artist Ales Pushkin died in prison in Belarus “under unclear circumstances,” his wife Janina Demuch reported on July 11.

Pushkin was charged by Belarusian dictator Alexander Lukashenko’s regime in 2021 with “desecration of state symbols” and “incitement to hatred, according to human rights watchdog Viasna.

At the time, Belarusian prosecutors said that the reason behind this was his painting of Jaŭhien Žychar, a member of the Belarusian anti-Soviet resistance, shown at an exhibition in the city of Hrodna. Authorities claimed that the painting “rehabilitated and justified Nazism."

Pushkin was in Ukraine for another exhibition when he found out about the charges but did not cancel his return flight home. He was arrested the next day.

“I remember how terrified I was that night when he went on a flight from Kyiv to Minsk in March 2021,” the poet Julia Cimafiejeva wrote, calling his death “a great loss for Belarusian culture and art."

Pushkin’s trial began on March 10, 2022. The court found him “guilty” on March 30, 2022, and sentenced him to five years imprisonment in a penal colony.

While the verdict was being read, Pushkin loudly protested and undressed to reveal a self-inflicted wound on his stomach in the shape of a cross, according to Viasna.

Ales Pushkin took part in the mass protests of 2020-2021 that were spurred by Lukashenko fraudulently claiming victory in the presidential election. Authorities began jailing many of the protestors, while others fled into exile.

“Ales was an incredibly talented, provocative, and courageous artist – a good man. And it will stay that way for us. The rest doesn’t matter anymore. He will remain an artist and a person who was killed in prison, killed by this government. He was killed for language, talent, and bravery. For being a Belarusian,” the writer Alhierd Bacharevič said, adding that “this murder cannot be forgiven."

Viasna has established that there are 1,500 political prisoners in Belarus, but some human rights activists believe that the actual number is at least three times higher.

Belarus Weekly: Lukashenko tells Belarusians to ‘calm down’ as Wagner’s move still undecided

Belarusian dictator Alexander Lukashenko urges Belarusians to “calm down” after the presumed arrival of Wagner Group mercenaries following their day-long insurrection in Russia. Rumors continue circulating about whether camps to house Wagner troops are under construction. Lukashenko claims that th…

The Kyiv IndependentMaria Yeryoma

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margueritedanjou · 2 years

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“24 August 1482

From the fairytale turrets of Saumur Castle, atop which golden fleur-de-lys glistened in the summer light, to the bulbous towers of Angers, where the château loomed on a cliff edge above the River Loire, the funeral cortege of Margaret of Anjou carried the queen on her last journey.

For six years she had been exiled back to the lands in which she grew up, a half-welcome guest of her father and King Louis, with little more than hunting dogs, books and a casket of relics to remind her of past glories. She was going now to rejoin her ancestors. Her last request to King Louis was that he would allow her to be buried with her parents: in their sepulchre at Angers Cathedral.

Since her capture at Tewksbury in 1471 Margaret's life had become one of solitary retirement. She had not stayed long in the Tower of London, although she must have been there when Henry was killed.

For a time she was kept at Windsor Castle, and by January 1472 she had moved to Wallingford in Oxfordshire, where her keeper was her old friend, Alice Chaucer, dowager duchess of Suffolk.

The women had once been close, Alice perhaps even having something of a maternal place in Margaret's heart. Since Suffolk's murder their lives had taken very different courses, and their enforced time together during Margaret's imprisonment cannot have been entirely happy.

Where Margaret had resisted the Yorkist regime with all her strength, Alice had come to terms with it even before Henry VI was first deposed. In 1458 Alice had overseen the marriage of her only child, John, to York's daughter Elizabeth. At the time this must have seemed a dangerous move, but her gamble had paid off. Her son still lived, a prominent member of the court of King Edward IV, and a king's brother-in-law.

Margaret, by contrast, had lost her family to the wars. Under house arrest, she was reliant on Edward to provide her with enough money to cover the expenses of herself and her servants.

One of those servants was Lady Katherine Vaux. Katherine had lost her husband, Margaret's old servant Sir William, at Tewksbury and the pair were bound so tightly together, whether through shared grief or the loyalty of many years' service, that Katherine stayed with Margaret until the end.

The pair of them probably appear in an image in the Guild Book of the London Skinners' Fraternity in 1475. Margaret wears an ermine-lined dark gown, her head covered like a nun, kneeling forward to read a religious text from her prayer book while a discarded crown and sceptre lie beside her. Behind Margaret is a more fashionably dressed woman, evidently in attendance on the queen, with her prayer book in her hands, her eyes more on her mistress than her prayers.

Both Katherine and Margaret were members of this fraternity in honour of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary who Margaret, like Henry, always particularly revered. As this image in the Skinners' record suggests, Margaret's imprisonment under Edward IV was not especially stringent.

Other members of the Skinners' Guild Fraternity included Queen Elizabeth Woodville and her ladies, so the fraternity would not have risked their ire by welcoming Margaret without their consent.

Margaret was provided with clothing, mostly black, at royal expense and had enough freedom not only to join this guild but also to enjoy the services of the dean of Edward's chapel in 1474. Having moved from Wallingford to London for most of the intervening years, in 1475 an international treaty between Edward and Louis XI was finalized that ransomed Margaret to Louis for £50,000.

In return for being able to return to her father's territories with a small pension from Louis, Margaret was forced to renounce all of her claims not only in England but also in France. The woman who had clung so tenaciously to her family's right to the English crown was now willing to give up virtually everything she owned to go home. After all, there was no one to inherit her titles or lands after her death. Thus, in November 1475, she was transferred into the keeping of Sir Thomas Montgomery to be escorted to France.

For several years Margaret lived in her father's castle at Reculée, near Angers, but when René died in 1480 she had to rely on one of his servants to provide her literary interests. Some years earlier she had commissioned the Burgundian memoirist Georges Chastellain to write Le Temple de Bocace, a consolation piece dwelling on the changing fortunes of the world and the unjust criticism that had been levelled at her.

Presumably she also occasionally rode or hunted through the verdant rolling fields and woodland surrounding her, enjoying at least one pastime from her old life. Margaret may have ridden from her modest home at Dampierre to the more imposing Château Montsoreau on the banks of the River Loire, over time she developed enough of a relationship with he castle's owner, Madame de Montsoreau, to gift her all of her hunting dogs shortly before her death - a high-status offering for a lady who had perhaps been a friend in the queen's last years.

In the summer heat of 1482 Margaret fell ill and, with the faithful Katherine Vaux at her side, she made her last will and testament on 2 August. Louis XI, who had once mocked her proud writing style, would have found little to displease him in the humble petitions that filled this short document.

'Sound of mind, reason and thought, however weak and feeble of body', Margaret asked to be buried in the cathedral church of St Maurice in Angers beside her parents, 'in whatever manner it pleases the king to ordain, or in another place if he prefers'.

She wrote that she did not have enough money to cover the cost of the funeral and suggested that Louis sold her remaining possessions to pay for her burial - as indeed he did.

And perhaps thinking of Lady Katherine, she 'recommend(ed] very humbly and affectionately' her 'poor servants... to the good grace and charity of the said King'. She had evidently lived on the charity of others for some time, and implored Louis, as her sole heir, to cover any remaining debts she had incurred.

Louis did as Margaret asked and had her honourably buried with her parents, but he insisted on reclaiming the hunting dogs that she had gifted to Madame de Montsoreau. 'You know (Margaret] has made me her heir, the king reminded Montsoreau in a letter written days before the queen actually died, 'and that this is all I shall get; also it is what I love best. I pray you not to keep any back, [or] you would cause me a terribly great displeasure’.

Even in death, Henry and Margaret were the pawns of others.”

JOHNSON, Lauren. “Life and Death of Henry VI”.

Fan cast: Sophie Turner as young Marguerite and Lena Headey as Queen Marguerite.

#margaret of anjou #Marguerite d’Anjou #reine marguerite d'angleterre #queen Marguerite #queen margaret of Anjou #queen margaret #house of lancaster #Plantagenet dynasty #wars of the roses #cousin’s wars #Katherine vaux #Alice chaucer #Edward iv #Elizabeth of York #duchess of Suffolk #Henry VI #king Henry VI #Louis XI of France #Louis XI

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hyperfashionist · 8 months

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A Spoiltastic Journey

through the Entire Space: 1999 Canon

up to “Odysseus Wept”

Story 1: Eternity Unleashed

Return to Series Preface

Forth to Eternity Unleashed, Chapter 1

Skip to Story 2: The Touch of Venus

WHAT?

"Eternity Unleashed" is the first story in the Powysverse canon of Space: 1999, which unifies and continues the timeline of the 1970s TV series, novels, and novelizations.

It is the first part of William Latham's original novel, "Eternity Unbound". It is the backstory to the filmed episode "End of Eternity", which I won't link because I'm keeping call forwards to a minimum as I work through the storyline.

According to the author, it's "a brand new novella at the beginning that tells you all about Balor’s rise and fall on Progron".

"He saw a future without pain, without suffering, without end.

"He unlocked the mysteries of life and death, and united a world, launching a new age.

"Only to find that death was sacred. That life without death led to damnation.

"And salvation would be found in pain and suffering.

"From the depths of madness, he will change a world, forging a new path leading ultimately to exile in the far reaches of space.

"Where he will face eternity...alone."

All this is fully consistent with the cheerful tone of Space: 1999 Y1, so we're starting as we mean to go on.

WHEN?

Chronologically, "Eternity Unleashed" takes place "centuries before 'End of Eternity'."

Sequentially, "Eternity Unleashed" is the first story in the Powysverse and the backstory to "End of Eternity" 23 stories later.

"Eternity Unleashed" is the first part of the book "Eternity Unbound", published in February 2005, the joint-third Space: 1999 book published by Powys Media.

WHO?

The novel is written by William Latham.

Its central character is a guy by the name of Balor, who we'll meet in person when his episode comes up for discussion.

According to Powys: "ETERNITY UNLEASHED chronicles his ascent from outsider to honored scientist, from ruthless despot to imprisoned exile."

According to the author "There’s a little bit of Napoleon in Balor’s story, I suppose. A little bit of Hitler."

WHERE?

Balor hails from the planet Progron. Hi to all my Progron readers out there. Represent!

Powys Media are in the USA. I don't know if there are any copyright libraries in the USA that might have it. I searched the Library of Congress and didn't find it there.

As for public libraries, I swear I did a search that turned up one (1) copy in one library somewhere in Florida. However, I can't find it in my history. It's very unlikely that many public libraries will have copies. I assume it turned up in Florida because of proximity to the Space Coast.

The only way to buy the book is on the second-hand market because it is permanently out of print. It is extremely rare because Powys used a print-on-demand service and did not publish ebooks.

WHY?

According to the author: "He’s a fun character to play with, first of all. […] I convinced Mateo [Latosa, head of Powys Media] that it made sense to at least try looking into Balor’s past a little, and those flashbacks were just way more intense than I think we’d been expecting them to be. There was more of a story there than just the little glimpses we got in 'Resurrection'. Back-story, I mean."

Also according to the author: "[Mateo Latosa] was interested in seeing the novella from me because I’d never really written any science fiction about a whole new culture or anything like that, and he was curious to see what I might do with it."

And: "I think by the end of The Balor Saga, we’ll know why Balor acts the way he acts, or at least we’ll see the evolution of his particular brand of evil."

HOW?

The author says: "The first story has elements of 'Frankenstein' in it, I suppose, but not really as many as you’d think. There’s something of a love story in there, believe it or not."

About the process, the author says: "Stepping back, I had to take Balor in 'End of Eternity', subtract the influence of a thousand years of isolation from him, and then figure out who he was. So he needed flavors of who he is in the later stories, but he obviously couldn’t be the same guy. Then, I needed to map out a beginning, a middle, and an end for the novella, that basically shows Balor coming to power and then losing it so he can be exiled."

The Story So Far

"Eternity Unleashed", book section from original novel "Eternity Unbound", 2005 (Y1)

Spoiler-Filled Analysis

The Bad News

I haven't really got any spoilers, because I don't have the book UPDATE: I got it! Read the chapter-by-chapter commentary, starting here.

The only information I have about the book is what's on the open web. Most of the reviews I could find online give little or nothing away.

Amazon UK has no reviews, but I did find some in other countries, where it is rated 5 out of 5 stars and accompanied by three reviews that praise it highly.

According to this review: "First, a brand new account of Balor of how Balor became who he became - from his childhood on Progron, through adulthood and his progression into a psychopath. And all possibly sparked by being spurned in love…..!"

BUFFY: Every maladjust has a reason.

I generally assume that the Powys books are for an audience of existing Space: 1999 fans who are very familiar with the material. However, this review says "Eternity Unbound" is a standalone novel that can be enjoyed by anyone.

Up Next: The Touch of Venus (story of past events)

I hope to do one post a day, but that isn't always going to be possible.

Hopefully tomorrow, though, we'll move on to the next "story of past events", the portion (pp. 2-42) of John Kenneth Muir's original short story "The Touch of Venus" that takes place before Breakaway was even thought of.

UPDATE: or go to my commentary on Chapter 1 of Eternity Unleashed!

Return to Series Preface

Forth to Eternity Unleashed, Chapter 1

Skip to Story 2: The Touch of Venus

#Space: 1999 #william latham #Eternity Unleashed #Powys Media #Space: 1999 Y1 #meta #Space: 1999 meta #original novel

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whileiamdying · 1 year

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Iranian Protest Anthem That Led to Singer’s Arrest Wins a Grammy

First lady Jill Biden presented the inaugural Best Song For Social Change award

Teresa Nowakowski

Staff contributor February 7, 2023

First lady Jill Biden presenting the Best Song For Social Change award to singer Shervin Hajipour. Kevin Winter via Getty Images for the Recording Academy

Last fall, Iranian officials arrested singer-songwriter Shervin Hajipour. His song “Baraye,” posted on Instagram just days earlier, had become an anthem for the protests that were gaining momentum across the country.

After his arrest, the song vanished from his Instagram page—and sources close to him believe he was made to remove it, according to Rosie Swash of the Guardian. But “Baraye” was already spreading like wildfire, quickly racking up millions of views.

As its popularity grew, writes the Guardian, “Baraye” was “sung by schoolgirls in Iran, blared from car windows in Tehran and played at solidarity protests in Washington, Strasbourg and London.” It was even covered by Coldplay, who performed it alongside exiled Iranian actor Golshifteh Farahani at the band’s Buenos Aires concert in October.

This week, the lyrics to “Baraye” rang out over the crowd at the 65th annual Grammy Awards, where it was named the Best Song For Social Change. The Recording Academy added the award this year to recognize “songwriters creating message-driven music that responds to and addresses the social issues of our time head-on while inspiring positive global impact,” per the Grammys’ website.

Presenting the award, first lady Jill Biden called the song “a powerful and poetic call for freedom and women’s rights.”

“Shervin was arrested,” she added, “but this song continues to resonate around the world with its powerful theme: women, life, freedom.”

Hajipour was released on bail a few days after his arrest, but he is facing charges that could lead to years of jail time, reports Jon Gambrell of the Associated Press.

“Baraye,” a word meaning “for” or “because of” in Farsi, takes its lyrics from protesters’ social media posts, in which they write about their reasons for demonstrating with the hashtag #baraye. The song begins:

For dancing in the alleys For the fear when kissing For my sister, your sister, our sisters For changing rusted minds

to dance in the street برای توی کوچه رقصیدن To be afraid when kissing برای ترسیدن به وقت بوسیدن For my sister, your sister, our sisters برای خواهرم، خواهرت، خواهرامون To change the rotting brains برای تغییر مغزها که پوسیدن For shame, for lack of money برای شرمندگی، برای بی پولی To miss an ordinary life برای حسرت یک زندگی معمولی For the garbage child and his dreams برای کودک زباله گرد و آرزوهاش For this command economy برای این اقتصاد دستوری For this polluted air برای این هوای آلوده For Waliasr and worn trees برای ولیعصر و درختای فرسوده For victory and the possibility of its extinction برای پیروز و احتمال انقراضش Forbidden for innocent dogs برای سگ های بی گناه ممنوعه For non-stop crying برای گریه های بی وقفه For the image to repeat this moment برای تصویر تکرار این لحظه For a smiling face برای چهره ای که می خنده For students, for the future برای دانش آموزا، برای آینده For this mandatory paradise برای این بهشت اجباری For the imprisoned elites برای نخبه های زندانی For Afghan children برای کودکان افغانی For all this for non-repetitive برای این همه برای غیر تکراری For all these empty slogans برای این همه شعارهای توخالی For the rubble of the fake houses برای آوار خونه های پوشالی To feel relaxed برای احساس آرامش For the sun after a long night برای خورشید پس از شبای طولانی For nerves and insomnia pills برای قرص های اعصاب و بی خوابی For man, country, settlement برای مرد، میهن، آبادی For the girl who wished it was a boy برای دختری که آرزو داشت پسر بود For women, life, freedom برای زن، زندگی، آزادی for freedom برای آزادی for freedom برای آزادی for freedom برای آزادی

Source: Musixmatch Songwriters: Shervin Hajipour

“‘Baraye’ winning a Grammy sends the message to Iranians that the world has heard them and is acknowledging their freedom struggle,” Nahid Siamdoust, an expert on Middle Eastern studies at the University of Texas at Austin and author of Soundtrack of the Revolution: The Politics of Music in Iran, tells the New York Times’ Farnaz Fassihi. “It is awarding their protest anthem with the highest musical honor.”

Leading up to Sunday’s ceremony, the Recording Academy had solicited submissions from the public for the new award. According to the Times, of the 115,000 submissions received, more than 95,000 were for “Baraye.”

As the song’s popularity grows, it continues to resonate with audiences. “I’d never seen my 74-year-old mother cry like she did the day I played her ‘Baraye,’” writes Rebecca Morrison, whose family fled Iran in 1979, in Salon.

“So many of us have cried listening to it over and over,” BBC News’ Bahman Kalbasi wrote on Twitter in September. “The artist Shervin Hajipour has summed up the deep national sadness and pain Iranians have been feeling for decades, culminating in the tragedy of #MahsaAmini.”

Mahsa Amini, a 22-year-old Iranian woman, died in police custody in September—just days after Iran’s “morality police” detained her for wearing her hijab incorrectly. Her death sparked the protests that have been spreading ever since.

The new Grammy honor came after a year and a half of work. Singer-songwriter Maimouna Youssef, one of the artists behind the award, wanted to encourage young artists to make authentic, driven music—the kinds of songs that “bring about understanding where there was none,” she told NPR’s Leila Fadel in November.

“It is like a wildfire that you cannot stop,” she added. “You can arrest the writer, but you can't arrest the song. It's already out there. It's in the hearts of the people.”

— Teresa Nowakowski is an intern for Smithsonian magazine. | READ MORE

#Activism #Arts #Iran #Music #Protest Songs #Women's Rights #Smithsonian Magazine #Teresa Nowakowski #Shervin Hajipour #شروین حاجی‌ آقاپور

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sleepy-bunbun-ace · 1 year

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in the prsk white day universe x persona au, there are two main powerhouses in the region.

the kingdom of dahlia and the mages of freedom.

of course there are many other kingdoms, but the kingdom of dahlia is the largest and strongest of them all.

it's a large kingdom with twisting roads and tall buildings. not even those who've lived there their whole lives know their way around outside of the areas they grew up in.

it's a very traditional kingdom where tradition overrules all else. especially during holidays. if you are caught breaking the traditions, you will be arrested by the guards and serve up to two years in the dungeon.

music is especially precious in the kingdom. classical music reigns supreme and none of the nobles, especially king harumichi aoyagi, are merciful whenever they find someone who breaks the rules of music.

the lower-class live in fear of ever being found breaking the rules. families have been separated and broken for many years.

king harumichi rules with an iron fist and it seems his son, crown prince ayumu, will follow in his footsteps. prince fumihito leads the training of the new guards while also being the boss of the white knights. he's also in charge of finding the missing aoyagi prince, toya.

the two major noble families in this story are the otori family and the asahina family.

the otori family is the strongest after the royal family, mostly due to the oldest daughter being married to the crown prince. they are in charge of the entertainment in the kingdom and are usually gone for days, weeks, months at a time, leaving the youngest alone. it is said that she wears a mask for the nobles, doing what they want, yet sneaks out to be with the peasants and be her true self. otori emu with her false brown hair never confirms or deny the rumors

the asahina family are a moderately powerful noble family, but asahina chiyo wants more power. as the story progresses, she becomes closer to the royal family and soon she offers the hand of her young daughter to prince fumihito who agrees. she wants her family name to become the most powerful one in the kingdom. she's so obsessed with her goal that she doesn't notice the marionette she made of her daughter is taking control of her own strings.

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

the mages of freedom are quite mysterious. nobody knows who is a part of this large group that is against the kingdom.

it's made up of multiple people from a wide variety of backgrounds. from peasants, to merchants, to nobles, to even crown princes and princesses. they all make up the mages of freedom.

their main goal is to destroy the kingdom of dahlia, the center of corruption. many of those who joined the mages of freedom joined because the kingdom ruined their lives in one way or another.

the big five have the most will to enact their revenge no matter what.

kaito- his wife was executed for breaking the rules too many times. he became an assassin to get back at the crown prince who ordered the execution.

miku- her family was a powerful noble family who were imprisoned and exiled for treason, so they say. she was the only one spared. she joined kaito after escaping the kingdom.

kamishiro rui- an alchemist who was once a white knight himself. he's seen the horrors of prince fumihito's orders and what those in the white knights do to the innocent. he'll do anything to stop them.

nobody knows the reasons as to why saki and the dragon tamer joined but everyone knows it's personal.

while they preach for freedom, it does not mean they are free from corruption. far from it, in fact.

they have committed some terrible horrors as well. the slaughtering of villages who didn't (couldn't) break free from the kingdom, the near destruction of many kingdoms, even taking away children from their families.

they are just as bad as those who they hate.

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

it is a well hidden secret within the kingdom of dahlia. a revolution is imminent. your social links will all be found helping out with the cause. be careful, wildcard, for your

world hasn't even started yet

future you composed with regret

is about to begin.

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dariaslore · 3 years

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Birds

Set during the Coven's days. Griffin finds out about Valtor's demon form and things may be darker than they seem. Will she go away? Warnings: angst, dark stuff, some contents may be triggering.

She couldn't sleep.

He had told her he would be away all night, when dark magic was stronger and could be practiced at the highest levels. It was one of the many training sessions with his mothers, her presence wasn't allowed this time, the meeting was strictly reserved to the wizard and the three witches. At first they didn't take place frequently, but since a few months, now that the Company of Light was proving to be more of a threat, she had found herself spending more nights alone than usual, holed up in the mansion's library, waiting for his return. He came back extremely tired, without even the strenght to speak, his only desire was to lose himself in the night, hugging her like a safe port.

That night, too much time had gone by. It was three in the morning and he still wasn't by her side. Anxiety was devouring her, tossing and turning in bed, then she would get up and walk back and forth the room, trying to kill time. She would grab a book just to throw it away a minute later. Half a cigarette smoked, the rest was garbage, now she would light up a new one. She couldn't find peace, she knew the three witches and every scar on Valtor's body as well. They always wanted more and more and were never satisfied, he was up for anything just to gain a bit of their approval. And this was lethal.

She left the room they shared and, as her feet were pounding on the floor faster and faster, looked for the room where training usually took place. And there he was.

Gasping, hands shaking and her gaze caught by fear.

She opened the door. The pungent smell of iron flooded her nostrils. She decided to follow its scent. She felt her airway closing and blurring sight, icy needles paralyzed her heart. Her vocal cords refused to vibrate the unspeakable horror in front of her eyes. A connection had been cut off, her pulsating golden irises were screaming and the sound was dying inside of them.

She saw him tossed into the darkest corner of the room, like a used and forgotten toy.

Bowed head, his face hidden by his blond hair in an act of shameless shame. He was shaking, had goosebumps, and she could see his ribs move through the swollen white skin as he breathed. He had never looked so thin and frail, his figure so thin compared to the red scales that swallowed him bite after bite. They started sporadic from his chest and then slowly thicken on his arms and hands deformed into long claws. They painted the portrait of a beast and found maximum expression in the two huge red wings wrapped in a shield, protecting him from the cold of the outside world in an embrace. It looked like the monster was trying to save its own prey. It emphasized the misery, the greatness and strength of the red hunter and the labored breathing of its pale victim. Naked and with his back torn.

Blood overflowed copiously, snaked elegantly dragging its red vital flow downstream, it marked the grooves of his ribs and suddenly fell silent, insinuating itself between the inanimate tiles of the mosaic on the floor. His milky skin was imprisoned in a network of faults of flesh torn apart by the fiercest of beasts. It was scarred, its edges matched perfectly with the width of the claws of his hands, she could feel their power sink into his taut muscle fibers, stretch them to the ends like springs, and tear them away as waste material, a further obstacle to the main organ that he was burning to find. So he dug again, and again, in an unbridled greed for a proof of his humanity. The pain wasn't enough, he wouldn't stop until his claws gripped his beating heart. He had to tear the flesh, the dress of his existence that now felt too tight with the darkness that threatened to overflow and pick him up again in its coils.

"Go away..." he murmured.

Valtor had perceived her presence ever since she had stepped in, fear washing through her veins. She was the last person in the universe who could see him reduced to that. He trusted her, she had been the first person to dig under his surface of powerful narcissist wizard, making him discover a different person. Before her were all the things that weren't and would never be. He was never going to sleep with anyone, he did with her, he had never had a real friend, his mothers had taught him to calculate everything based on utility and how anyone was just a pawn on a chessboard. He had aquaintances, many flirts with countless women and men, and he was never the one in love. And neither were they. For each of his lovers he already knew, the moment when he left their bed, that all that would remain was one more meaningless hot night, an exercise of the word love. They all carried out in the same way, with an absence of words, and he was conscious of being but an object of lust due to his body and his power. And then, she came into his life, the only woman immune to his fiery charme and who even seemed to hate him. He had never spent an entire night on a sofa eating junk food and talking of the most diverse topics, he did with her. He had never received a hug, she hugged him, after a mission with a positive resolution. He never cared for the feelings of others, now he couldn't stand sadness to veil her eyes. She had occupied his heart and not only he loved her madly, she was also his best and only friend. He trusted her, but he didn't trust himself and the monstruosity living inside of him.

"Valtor..."

She couldn't believe it was him. She spelled his name with dragging slowness, almost reluctant to attribute the name of the man she loved to that foul creature. It was him, it had taken two words, a plead to walk out the door and go away.

"Griffin, please, go away, now."

"You're hurt" she said when the only thing her spinning mind could still focus on were his wounds.

"Go away!"

"I wanna help you."

A loud roar cut through the air, and she found herself on the ground, overcome by the power of his claws. It burned and shone bright red on her thigh between the silk of her nightgown, it wasn't too deep, a shallow cut. He had hurt her on purpose for the first time.

Another scream and another sob. Valtor was looking at his hands with wide eyes. He was forced to protect her in the only way his other self knew: violence.

"Are you happy now I've hurt you? Help me? Who do you want to help, a beast? I'm a freak. Look at me Griffin, look!" he cried amid sobs that threatened to suffocate him, too large and noisy that struck his lungs like prisoners in a desperate flight to freedom. A distorted chant broke his larynx, his swan song.

Lying on the floor with an itching cut and blurred thinking, she saw right through Valtor.

She had already heard of those feathered winged creatures earthlings believed in. She realized he was an angel. A fallen one.

He wasn't born for all of this. He was a creature of pure light bound to an eternal exile in darkness, and although the flame that burned within him tended to return to its original light source, it was held back by the iron fist of darkness. She was a creature of the dark too, a witch, but she had decided to be one, he was tainted and that made him the greatest shadow of all. The monster that enveloped him, moving the threads of his very existence, fed every day on the fiery light of his soul, now reduced to a mere flame. His monstrousness came from this destructive coexistence between light and dark, in which only one of the two would have definitively won. The flame burned, it couldn't keep silent and was responsible for his injured back. Darkness was close to him, so he had scratched it off, like a stain on a piece of precious silverware, he wanted to perform a desperate act of purification through his blood to finally wash himself away from the darkness and to get back to the pure light being he had always been meant to be. At least once.

It was written in his eyes which were shyly looking at her through his hair's wheat strands, although he tried to hide them under layers of ice and indifference. His pupils were imprisoned in a web of red capillaries, but they still managed to keep their last drop of pure humanity. It wasn't the same look he gave her every night as he adored her body, neither that of the sarcastic and ironic wizard, it was the one of every time his mothers would have criticized him, of when he tried in every way possibile to impress her, just to snatch her a compliment or a smile. In those moments he tore his heart out of his chest and fed it to his tormentor, craving for trivial affections.

She got up from the floor confident and proud, knowing what to do.

"Go away!" he yelled.

Griffin approached him ignoring all his moans and wrapped his face in her warm hands and traced every feature with her fingers. She felt the difference of texture between his skin and the red scales staining it. She stroked his nose, forehead and lips. She raised the corners of his lips, uncovering white fangs. She smiled and kissed him. Just a smack.

He was blown away, stuck in an idyll that tasted of her. Adrenaline was rushing, he had made it.

She grabbed his hand and looked him straight in the eye, the gold of her irises had never been so metallic. Maybe tired of lies, the purple-haired witch was so determined and a slave to curiosity that she delved into the darkest of truths, even one that would harm her. It wasn't over, she knew it. He was trying to play it cool, but with his eyes in a runaway dance and his smile crooked to the left, he had the classic facial expression of a child who had succeeded in getting away with something.

"Is that all? Is there anything else I should know?" she asked firmly.

That question was a cold shower. He shook his head. He was lying, there was so much more she should have known, the whole side of himself he never had control over. What she was seeing now was just a glimpse of the monster he saw every morning in the mirror, when all humanity crumbled to pieces and his eyes lost their pupils. But he still didn't want that kiss between them to be the last. She would have loved him until there was but a drop of man in him, but after that?

"You're lying Valtor. Show me, don't hold it back"

"Please, I can't!"

She would have run away. He was trying to become human again and she was asking him to show her the monster.

"Just do it!" she ordered, clenched fists and fixed pupils.

"Why are you doing this Griffin?"

She didn't answer him. She was emanating ice from all over her body, posture was stiff, back straight and lips tightened. She wouldn't give up until she got what she wanted.

He started changing, his body turning into the twisted fantasy of three long gone witches, and soon all human features were erased from his face. Stripped of his blond hair, abandoned to the ugliness of his inner skeleton. Now he was way bigger than her, the monster's palm almost the size of her entire face. All his senses were on the alert, looking for the easiest way to kill, the purpose for which it had been built. What she was in front of was a machine ready to kill, plus her neck was so thin.

She didn't even flinch. She did exactly what she had done beforehand. She watched the monster's facial expressions changing, how his blue stoney eyes were boring into her body, finding the most effective way to kill her. And then as if she had read his mind, placed that exact same palm she had held before around her fragile neck, playing the beast's game.

"It would be so easy, wouldn't it?

Damn, it would. The demon could feel her neck cracking under its strength and the air leaving her lungs in her last attempt to breathe.

"Squeeze, what are you waiting for?" she said giggling, but an invisible force was holding the creature back, incapable of applying any pressure. It screamed with rage, not realizing what was going on and why the smile on her face was getting progressively bigger and brighter. She enjoyed the fear flushing down her veins, it was too much to handle and that was making her steady. With her mind blank, she leaned over and with its hand still over her neck, kissed the creature on its mouth.

Leathery red scales began to retreat like clouds after a storm, finally letting his white skin breathe. The demon, his wings were gone.

Valtor broke down in her arms. He was too tired to express the growing happiness inside. He couldn't believe it, something like this had never happened before, getting rid of the other Valtor so quickly was an intangible dream. Everytime his mothers made him assume that form, he would spend hours of excruciating pain, waiting for the beast's claws to disappear. He holed up in the darkness, allowing himself to be consumed bite by bite, seeking in his mind an end to his labyrinth of torment. She had been the first one to get him out of there, a gleam of light at the end of the tunnel. He hoped it could've lasted forever.

He plunged into her eyes like a lost puppy, letting her capture his soul in her thick lashes.

"Don't I scare you? How can you kiss that beast? You must kill the monster Griffin, I'm begging you! Free me, save me, I can't bear it anymore! "

The more he tried to chase it away, the more he felt it crawl through his veins like a poisonous liquid. It was choking him from the inside, he could feel it making its way through his mind, it was making fun of his neurons in a black pool. He felt his head throbbing, unable to contain all that anger and hatred. He screamed in pain in a soundless space, one day he would tear his skull to pieces

"Where are you ?!" he said screaming at the top of his lungs. He couldn't see straight anymore, his whole body shaking with anxiety, blood rushing through his veins and his heart loudly pounding in his chest.

"Hush, I'm right here. I'm holding you, see?"

"D-don't leave ..." he begged her and rested his head on her chest.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm with you, look at me." She cupped his chin in her hand, so he could meet her gaze again.

"Come on, we must get to our room, your wounds are bleeding."

"Your thigh..." he glanced at her leg with his face twisted in horror. Guilt building up.

"It's just a scratch. A pinch of magic and it will go away. It doesn't even burn anymore!" Griffin tried to reassure him.

She concentrated and teleported them to their room in a quick snap of fingers.

"Can you stand up?" she asked him.

"I- I ..."

"Don't worry, I'll hold you. You can do it."

She put an arm around his shoulder and tried to hold him by the waist, taller and heavier than her, backing him was hard: she had to.

Valtor stood up. Pangs of pain. He was weak, his knees buckling, joints croaking, it was as if his bones were breaking from the inside out on by one. He groaned in protest.

"I know, hold on, it's just one more step."

He freed himself of her grip and met the soft mattress of the bed they shared.

Griffin helped him sit up, covered his lower body with blankets, then she placed her hands on his back, focused and chanted a spell. Wet: blood between her fingers. The magic tickled the torn cells giving them a smoother edge.

"I'll be right back." she said. Then she rushed to the bathroom and, in the wooden cabinet, she found a cotton cloth, some ointments, flasks and some bandages. His wounds were too extensive and deep, she had managed to stop the bleeding and somehow reduce their size, now she had to worry about disinfecting.

"This will hurt just a bit."

"Get your hands off of me, now!"

He spun around, his voice high and firm, swollen veins and a sunken neck. It was a defensive act, it seemed to her the desperate move of an hunted animal fleeing its tormentors, veins darting with fear and aggressive bearing, pretending to be the one who holds power. But she wasn't his mothers, she couldn't get upset, he wasn't lucid and this complete reversal of attitude was proof of that. He no longer held the reins of his thoughts, he was finally letting them gallop on their own, fragments of past and present intertwined together. He proceeded by associations of ideas in an increasingly blurred time boundary: the disinfectant burned like Tharma's lightnings on his legs.

"Calm down. I'm not here to hurt you." she said. She had all her senses alert, he approached her by burying his nose in the hollow of her neck, he smelled her skin, traces in the air, caught violet and amber.

"It's me. Look, it's just disinfectant." she reassured him by pointing to the bottle on the bedside table.

Valtor retrated, recognizing it was the woman he loved and not one of his mothers in front of him. His heartbeat became slow, shoulders down, now he almost seemed like a lifeless doll in front of her. He let her keep on her work without any complaints. She finished dressing, then she bandaged his wounds in deafening silence, she could only hear his breathing.

"Stay there." she whispered softly heading towards the little wooden cupboard in the room.

It had been her idea, she felt like a stranger in that house and the thought of going down four floors each time to get to the kitchen, risking meeting her witches, made her shiver. Of course, she was much freer than any member of the Coven, somehow the Ancestors respected her, listened to her plans and strategies carefully, never a word of mockery, all she had received in years of service was advice, few compliments and an expression she could not discern. They were alert, analyzing her, looking for flaws and weaknesses, Liliss stammered something out under her breath, the others two nodded. She felt watched, stalked, obsessed with the thought that sooner or later they would've chained her too in their perverse game. For this reason she avoided all actions, tried to keep relationships with the three as detached as possible, remaining a puzzle in front of the witch of illusions was her goal.

She opened the cupboard and placed the material on the table. She put some water in the electric kettle, opened the inlaid wooden casket and began to choose the most suitable herbs, lightly caressed each one, letting the fragrances dance in her lungs.

It reminded her of her dad, as she watched him as a child as he made her a cup of tea whenever she was down in the dumps. He caressed the herbs in his study with delicacy, immersing himself in the pungent smells, then he would call her beside him in that olfactory research, telling her the benefits of each plant and how to make the most of them, and it was the sharp rosemary for healing, mint for stress, balsamic anise. In that little corner of nature, with the well-known brilliant notes of the cedar peel and the skilled hands of her father who mashed the leaves, her mind relaxed.

She waited for the herbs to finish their brewing time, then she poured the tea into a white porcelain cup adding a teaspoon of honey.

"I made you some tea. It'll help you feel better. Open your mouth, please."

She softly blew on the cup, cooling it off just a bit, and brought it to his mouth. Valtor followed her command, the smell was heady, notes of lavender, hawthorn and red tea sang as the hot liquid ran down his throat.

When he had finished to drink, she put the empty cup away and wiped his lips with her thumb. She kissed him on the forehead and let him lay down, tucking the sheets.

"Griffin ..." Valtor suddenly mumbled.

"Tell me."

"I- I ..."

"It's okay, you can tell me whatever you want."

"Why are you not angry? I- I ... hid you a part of me."

She had no right to be angry. She couldn't be when those pure eyes were fixed on hers in search of certainties. He was looking for answers and confirmation in her words, when she at first still could not realize what she had just seen. Such nonsense could not be described and questioning was useless. What could be rational about the cuts he carried behind his back or the red scales that covered him? Nothing.

What was rational about the man usually full of himself who was now trembling with fear in front of her?

"Why should I-"

"You must be."

Rather, he wanted her to be. He wanted her to scream, spit every insult, every slimy truth, so that he could sink into the depths of his self-contempt. Yet, she was calm and taking care of him. He didn't deserve it and couldn't stand her stare full of love that should've been directed towards someone way better than him. He was a hero for trying to save her from the horror that bore his name and a coward for wanting her still by his side. She hadn't run away from fear and it pulled her even closer to his heart. It was killing him.

"I know, I should've told you." he continued. "My mothers created it, something I have no control over. They wanted to try a new spell today and things spiraled out of control and- "

"And you hurt your back." she said.

And it hadn't been even the first time.

He was 7 years old, missing incisors and messy blonde curls, when he used to curl up in a corner and gaze out at the sky and the garden below from the large living room windows. He envied the swallows, they were weak, tiny fragile bones destined for a meal to a larger predator, ephemeral existences with a noose around their necks given by the true and only mother nature, yet they sang, they whirled in the sky unaware of any danger in an eternal spring. It was the same with flowers, they would be waiting a whole year to show off their magnetic colors and then bound to perish in a sweet smell that penetrated his nostrils. They all died in a quick smile, almost a game of darts, they threw themselves at maximum power towards the target of no return, as if they didn't care about the ending, it was just a necessary condition for their fleeting beauty. They slowly went towards death not feeling its weight for their entire existence, nothing more than a momentum. Blink of an eye, his irises were now laying on the various paintings hanging around the room: Liliss had an obsession for art and each painting had to represent a specif mood of hers. There were battle scenes, clanging of swords, diaphanous women with bare breasts standing face to face with a young men gambling in the dim black of oil painting. Stormy seas, forests and then aimless flowers and seagulls. Why were they still? What had stolen their right to chase each other across the sky? Someone had decided to enchant them in a precise instant, in a fixed scene against their will, while their fellows whirled free. He felt sympathy for the water lilies forced not to close and for the always red apple stuck in the basket, perhaps because he himself was a still life, the flying, the wanting, the perishing were out of his will, the one of a lacquered image. It was crystal clear in the definition itself, still life, how could a being stained by nothing have vital momentum since its very conception wanted it still? He was still life. In a frame, sick with rot and alive in the stroke of the eternal puppet position imposed by his mothers. Rot bit into his bones, poisoned his nerves and threw them into a muddy puddle where the reflection did not match his will.

His child self decided he would free every little bird from the canvas and destroy all those paintings, he hated still lives, so he bit his lip as hard as he could until the taste of iron flooded his mouth. He moved on to something else, now the game was scratching his skin to color it pink, holding his breath with the utmost force. He learned to control his flames, wanted to test its power and chose his arms as a target. He was a teenager and as he shortened his hair with scissors, he thought what it must be like to stand in their place and be cut off. And he felt it on his skin. It wasn't like anyone would've noticed, the wounds merged with those inflicted by the Ancestors, leaving cords of raised skin. He was their toy, therefore he demanded to be broken and he would help them by making their job easier. Wasn't it what a good son must do?

"At least my blood is red, isn't it?" he said as he interrupted his flow of thoughts. Lips twisted into a sinister smile and wide eyes.

"Of course it is red, but what do you mean?" she replied bewildered.

"It's good news. I'm a beast, it could've been black or blue as well, but it is red just like yours."

His calm tone spelling poisonous words hit her like a shard leaving her heart shattered.

"You're no beast." she said.

"And what would I be if not a creature? These feelings, this warmth towards you, how do I know they're mine? How do I know they're not controlling me and you're just an illusion of Liliss? Are you real Griffin? Can you answer? "

His pupils dilated, he spoke to her in a swirling crescendo, his voice rose, it cracked, its rhythm accelerated hysterically, breathing short and broken, his fingertips digging deep into her arms' skin.

"You can't love me! You just saw it!" he spat out.

She stared in horror at the atrocity of those words. Reality was mangling her eardrums as a cat scratching on a chalkboard.

"Griffin, these eyes, this hair, are just a wrapper, a beautiful case for the most hideous of gifts. If I hadn't looked like this, would you have even looked at me? Would you have ever spoken to me or would you have run away?" he asked. He asked her what she would've done, when he was the one who wanted to escape the mirror every morning. He saw the monster chuckling there behind him, next to his immaculate reflection, laughing, enjoying the blond's stupidity for wanting to conceal his true essence, as if a line of defined eyeliner and eyebrows would've done the trick.

"You're still making questions." she whispered in wonder.

"I must know!" he screamed. "I need to know if you're willing to love a monster, because ... that's what I am."

Griffin cupped his cheeks, her hands so gentle and soothing, and she smiled, the most beautiful he had ever witnessed, a glimpse of light in the pit of darkness his life was.

"You're still questioning, Valtor. You're the answer. You want me to tell you that you are good, that you are a man, to confirm something that runs in your blood, and you still do not know what it is. The answer is your own self, in your doubts. You are worried, you are taking care of something and in this action there is humanity. I cannot give you the answers you are looking for, but I can say that I feel them here. "

She placed her hand on his heart.

"When the spark in you has gone out and your vocal cords no longer vibrate, with no doubt, you'll be a monster. Without even realizing it, you'll spread terror and death, emotions will be unknown to you. But you have those and they're beautiful. You're human, Valtor, this is why you hate the beast, hence you fight. But this back means giving up, these tears on your face, well, they're a victory. I hate the monster, as much as you do, but it's not the one with red scales and big wings. Your own monster is living inside your mind, it feeds off your insecurities and how I'd like to kill it off if I only could! Free you and look at the man, I can say it outloud I- I... L-lo-ve."

Her voice cracked, the word love hard as tears tried to find their way. She held them back and took his hand between hers, in what looked so much like a promise.

"Valtor, I'll never love the beast. I love you."

"What if I were to become one? Would you give up on me? Would you ever leave me in the dark, alone? You'll never leave, will you? Will you always be by my side? Don't lie, please."

The witch hugged him eagerly as her heart broke under the weight of the demons in his mind. The adult with the oversized ego had collapsed into a child to be protected.

She lay down beside him and slowly started stroking his hair, lulling him to sleep. Another sob.

"She left me Griffin, she left me alone in the darkness with that monster. I'm scared."

"Who left you?" she asked softly.

"Believe me, I was good, I had never done anything wrong. I was small, useless, and it was too strong, I couldn't beat it. I was afraid of the dark, and she wasn't there to protect me. So dark ..." he spoke feebly, he turned his head.

Eye frames the void, remembers a room with a forthcoming beast, roaring flames, pain. The vague phrasing, frightened of giving voice to his nightmares, chased his weaknesses with choked breath, tried to catch them one by one, but they were dripping off his lips.

"Who are you talking about?" Griffin asked shaking his hand, giving him all the courage to speak up his mothers never tried to give him.

"Mom." Valtor stammered, gasping. Without even the pronoun my, he was almost referring to entities out of time and space whose name trembled leaving his mouth. She knew he didn't have a mother, the blond man in her arms was a creation of the Ancestors, yet he was longing for a family, bonds made of genes and flesh.

"Mom left me and the darkness came for me. It was so cold, I couldn't move." Darts of frozen darkness, enveloped in himself like a shivering maggot. The creator speaks, the son obeys. The creator breaks his will, sets the rules, commands. Violence, punishment, obedience, blood and broken bones. The cold becomes stronger, snow cuts his face, the son gets tired, he begins to ask questions, he strives to know the purpose of everything. "Your purpose is us Valtor, without us you are nothing" Belladonna ruled.

No words, another cry that desperately asked to be given voice. He was hungry for love.

"I don't want to be a creation. I can't be their son, Griffin. I feel it, I sense it, even they are not that powerful to create life out of nothing. It's burning inside of me, I don't belong to this planet, Whisperia's not my home, but somehow I ended up here with them, the mighty son of the Three Witches. Maybe I wasn't a good child, was I? I wonder if she remembers me. I don't remember her, one moment she was there to hold me, the next she was gone. I can still imagine her touch and scent on my skin, I bet she smelled of roses, because I love roses, don't I? I ask myself where is she now, what is she doing and if she is proud me or if she ever loved me. But she's not here. Belladonna, Liliss, Tharma never left me, though. I know, they're definitely not the mothers of the year, but they never left me. I'm a weapon, I told you, the most powerful of them all, they can't lose me. They hate the man I am, but they appreciate the beast and therefore I'm sure they would never leave me.That's why deep down I think they may care about me, I got what they need. I love them."

He smiled as he tossed his head back among the silk cushions, knowing how much a fool he was making of himself. She was still there, strong and still as always.Trembling lips, every cell of her body was fibrillating, they wanted to detach from it and rush on him like thousands of shooting stars, build him a shelter, save him from his mothers and love him, giving him a bit of that care he had always been denied. She knew her love wasn't enough.

Meanwhile Valtor wondered how much easier it would've been to turn off the light and let himself be swallowed up in an endless dream. Darkness would become his new home, and without even the small glow of its flames, it wouldn't be dark anymore, just nothing. No sound, no fight. Maybe she could've been the one able of dragging him out the pit he had digged himself. He raised his head and tried to meet her gaze for the last time, his lids starting to feel heavy.

"Griffin I don't know how much longer I will be able to keep the monster away. That's why I need to know that no matter what you'll stay by my side. Will you? "

"I.."

Interrupted sentence.

He had already fallen asleep without even waiting for the answer to how much he wanted it to be positive. It was easier to unstich himself from reality and follow the threads towards the dreamlike enchantment, in which the canvas tapestry with their smiling faces imprinted would never unravel.

She sighed. It was her turn to cry now.

She didn't know. That was the answer that was so difficult for her and it was breaking her heart. All the words of courage and comfort that had come easily from her before were now dead in her throat, none of them were for her. She had seen his blood slipping right through her skin, she had touched what was the most intimate about him that somehow managed to appear so right as it sneaked into her bony hands. The red of his blood fingerprinted his pain, left her the keeper of what was dearest to him. As the sea after an undertow regurgitates its treasures on the beach, the darkness in him had left away the most precious of his secrets: she had felt his humanity, now it was up to her to decide whether to wash it away or dry it and no soap would have ever canceled it. She could not wash her hands, she looked at them in the twilight of the night, turned them again and again, searched for escape routes between the lines of her palms, but the more she squinted her eyes in search of a pattern, the further she was pushed away. He was now in her hands.

She threw herself into the silk of the bed and looked at him: eyes closed and his lashes tickled his cheeks slightly. How could a monster be so human? And she, how could she be so hypocritical, unable to give an answer and yet she was hugging him? And fuck, how much the cut on her leg hurt.

Perhaps their relationship was a ship on fire on the high seas. Water and fire, a beautiful tragedy to be consummated in sync until one annihilates the other. Water never dies, it changes shape. The heat of the fire would've forced it into crystalline darts that would hurt the sky like swallows at dawn.

She was a bird. A real one.

Birds fly away.

#winx #winx club #winx valtor #winx griffin #griffin × valtor #valtor #fanfiction

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tyrannuspitch · 8 months

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the thing about odin's "lesson" is that thor expects a challenge, and he gets a trick.

like, from the moment he lands on earth to the moment he fails to lift mjolnir, thor clearly expects there to be a way out. yes, he knows he's being PUNISHED - he's been shamed and stripped of status, he's in pain, he's vulnerable and far from home... but he does expect to go home.

i think he thinks that's how this normally works. odin can get violent and drastic when making a point, but if thor can just take it and then pick himself up off the floor, then they can usually move on.

part of it is also that thor's worth has so often been measured in competence. he has to be the strongest, he has to know how to win wars, he has to have the self-control to use storm magic, he has to have the courage and endurance to defend asgard from any threat, etc etc. humility is a long way down the list of qualities he's been drilled on in preparation to become king. and when the challenge seems physical (weakness, pain), why wouldn't the answer be?

but the problem is. it's a trap. most of the lesson is the denial. mjolnir would always have rejected thor the first time, no matter what he'd gone through to find it, because that's the scenario odin is placing thor into. not just being on earth.

from thor's perspective, if odin banishing thor is like pushing his son down the stairs... well. then thor is thinking: okay, this is bad, but i've been hurt by my father before. i know how this works. the worst of it's over. i just need to drag myself back up those stairs and then we can talk. but this time, he gets to the top of the stairs... and the door is locked.

and suddenly it shifts from: my dad has injured me, to: my dad is trying to kill me. and odin only opens the door when thor stops asking to be let in.

like - think about it. what actual character development is there in thor's self-sacrifice to loki/the destroyer?

sacrifice is an asgardian virtue - there's a whole plot point about sif idealising it! the mere fact of thor becoming a martyr doesn't contradict his supposed vanity or arrogance in the slightest. he would always have been willing to do that.

the difference is that this sacrifice is unglorious. the difference is that this is a fight that thor would NORMALLY be able to win with ease. this is not just martyrdom, it's a humiliating defeat.

and this defeat is entirely down to odin. loki wants to kill thor, but it's odin who makes thor weak and vulnerable enough to be killed; it's odin who ultimately causes thor's death.

this death is not noble or necessary. it's odin's whim. and thor accepting it is thor accepting that he can and should die at odin's whim. that if odin (and loki, and frigga, but that's less important to odin) have judged him Unworthy for reasons they haven't even told him and he doesn't even entirely understand, then of course he deserves any fate they condemn him to.

it reminds me of what odin says to loki in the dark world: "your birthright was to die". more precisely, of its implications: that your life belongs to your father and he can do what he wishes with it. that being alive at all is a privilege granted by your parents, and they have every right to take it away. and odin chooses to teach thor this "lesson" in the hardest and most literal way possible.

thor's acceptance of death is when odin decides to save him. odin comes within seconds of murdering his son just to show him that he can, and then he frames himself as a saviour.

it's cruel, it's unfair, and it's manipulative beyond belief. and i'm not sure thor ever manages to break through enough of the manipulation to see how awful it really is. :(

#space viking tag #abuse cw #to be clear: calling odin thor's murderer here is not meant to EXCUSE loki #it's just. very much a combined effort #god this post did not quite go where i expected it to but. whatever.#meta #s: t1 #ch: thor #ch: odin #r: odin + thor #th: manipulation + mind control #th: abuse + empire #th: suicide + sacrifice #th: saint thor #th: imprisonment + exile #highlights

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t4t4t · 2 years

Text

Feb 12, 22

In Defense Of Anarchist Memory: One-Hundred Years Since The Death Of Ricardo Flores Magón

Statement from anarchists in so-called Mexico calling for a year of activity to defend and continue the anarchist memory of Ricardo Flores Magón, one-hundred years since his death. La versión en español sigue a la versión en inglés.

Let every man and woman who loves freedom and the anarchist ideal, propagate it with determination, with tenacity, without concern for mockery, without measuring the danger, without regard to consequences; let’s get to work comrades, and the future will be our anarchist ideal

-Ricardo Flores Magón

On November 21, 1922, the anarchist Ricardo Flores Magón was assassinated in a prison cell in Leavenworth, Kansas, in the United States. One-hundred years since his assassination at the hands of henchmen of the United States government, official history has sought to sugarcoat the life and struggle of Flores Magón and the Mexican Liberal Party (PLM), presenting him as a “precursor” to the so-called “Mexican revolution,” and of the reformism of Francisco I. Madero. They have tried to portray Ricardo Flores Magón as a journalist and liberal writer who fought against the Porfirio Díaz dictatorship, seeking to erase his revolutionary and anarchist character, in order to recover his figure and use it for political capital.

Ricardo Flores Magón was against all caudillismo and cult of personality. He energetically rejected the nickname “Magonismo” to refer to the anarchists of the PLM affirming that this was a term used by the government to make people believe that it was just another movement like “Maderismo.” The term was not only rejected by Ricardo Flores Magón, but also by the men and women of the PLM, “As anarchists we do not have idols,” they said. Today, those in power seek to use the term “Magonismo” to confuse people and avoid calling the PLM and Flores Magón as they were: anarchists. Hiding, at the convenience of their interests, what these anarchists truly fought for and to what they offered their lives: the abolition of private property, church, and state.

Ricardo Flores Magón was a committed anarchist, combatting throughout his life what he called the dark trinity: authority, capital, and clergy. For that reason, he experienced persecution, exile, imprisonment. Yet, his unbreakable spirit felt a passion for freedom so immense, that none of the torture inflicted upon him succeeded in appeasing that flame which burned in his chest. Together with other men and women, he promoted social revolution from below. A revolution that didn’t seek to raise a new tyrant to power, but rather to destroy the very foundations of the capitalist system of domination and exploitation, so that the red flag of land and freedom could wave high and free like the wind, for everyone.

With the announcement of the so-called Fourth Transformation (4T) declaring 2022 as the year of Ricardo Flores Magón, as anarchist individuals and collectives, we declare that the memory of Magón and the PLM cannot be recuperated by the grotesque morning news conference spectacles of López Obrador. On the contrary, we reaffirm that the memory of the PLM forms part of the history of the struggles of the people for their emancipation and freedom. It is the history of Ricardo and Enrique Flores Magón, of Librado Rivera, Práxedis Guerrero, Anselmo Figueroa, of the Indigenous Mayo Fernando Palomares, of the Indigenous Yaqui Javier Huitimea, of Hilario Salas, of the mythical Santanón, of Cándido Donato Padua, Blas Lara, Emilio Guerrero, of the Indigenous Tarahumara Camilio Jiménez, of the tireless Nicolás T. Bernal, of Joe Hill, Jack Mosby, and the Wobblies, of the compañeras Margarita Ortega, Maria Talavera, Teresa Brousse, Concha Rivera, of Francisco Mendoza, of Jesús Rangel, of the newspaper Regenaración, of the brave PLM guerrilla fighters, of the strike at Río Blanco, at Cananea, of the insurrections of Acayucan, Las Vacas, or Palomas. It is the history of thousands of insurrectionary women and men who struggled in the ranks of the PLM for the freedom and regeneration of community.

It is the memory of rural and city workers who struggled to end economic exploitation. It is the memory of our fallen compañerxs like Tobi, Ruffo, Sacra, and so many others who gave their lives for a free world, of men and women who sought to do away with borders and flags, of those who dreamed to destroy prisons, police, and militaries. It is the memory of those of us who are enemies of all states, all authoritarianism, and all hierarchy.

For everything above, we invite anarchist collectives, organizations, and individuals to participate in the Activities in Defense of Anarchist Memory: 100 Years Since the Death of Ricardo Flores Magón, beginning on January 7, 2022, the 115th anniversary of the strike in Río Blanco, until December 30, 2022, 112th anniversary of the death of Práxedis G. Guerrero.

It is not our intention to add another date to the book of saints of the left. They already have too many martyrs and heroes. Our aspiration is to rescue anarchist memory, to know, remember, study, divulge, and propagate it, in order to continue writing the history of anarchist struggle through action. To this end, we invite all anarchists, those proud to be such, to organize forums, discussions, book presentations, study groups, art exhibitions, movie presentations, radio programs, rallies, meetings, concentrations, mobilizations, and anything that will help us turn memory, our memory, into an anarchist weapon against all tyrants and oppressors. The fight for our memory is another area of struggle against our oppressors and we are ready to give it.

Today just as yesterday, the exploiters are maintained by blood and fire. As all authority, the so-called Fourth Transformation (4T) utilizes violence and repression to impose its politics and megaprojects, and not at any moment has it hesitated to persecute, assassinate, and imprison anyone who defies it. This is the case of the seven compañeros of the community assembly of Eloxochitlán de Flores Magón, in the Sierra Mazateca of Oaxaca, birthplace of Ricardo, who have been in prison for over seven years for maintaining alive their community autonomy, resisting with tenacity and courage the continued attacks on part of the owners of money and power.

Thus, while paying homage to the legacy of Ricardo Flores Magón, the so-called Fourth Transformation (4T) continues to reinforce capitalist oppression. On one hand it manages it, with the implementation of assistance and palliative programs which do nothing to reverse the misery and suffering of the thousands of proletarian and Indigenous women and men who live in this region. On the other hand, it magnifies it, with an alarming expansion of militarization in our communities in order to impose megaprojects like the poorly named Mayan Train and the Interoceanic Corridor, deepening the dispossession of territory and the devastation of the earth, in benefit of the dominant class.

One hundred year since the death of Ricardo Flores Magón, as anarchists we will continue to wave the black flag of freedom. We continue opposing whatever government, no matter if they say they are of the left, because for us “changing the master is not a source of freedom nor well-being.”

Let’s continue the example of the anarchists of the Mexican Liberal party, fighting for life, holding up the flag of Regeneración, seeking land, bread, and freedom for everyone. With rebellion we shout, while we move like water.

Long Live Land and Freedom!

Long Live Anarchy!

Freedom for the Prisoners of Eloxochitlán de Flores Magón!

January 2022

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exquisitley-obsessed · 3 years

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Fiancés, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 6

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn’s attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain’s father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: None.

A/N: I’ve added a tag list for those who wish to stay updated with this story! Just message me if you wish to be added <3

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter Six: Moonlight Meetings

The contracts were beginning to make sense. Turns out, there weren’t nearly as many for Elain to sort through as she first expected. It seemed that the Band of Exiles had had a pretty stagnant first year whilst staying in the mortal lands, with their biggest success lying in the Declaration of Peace Between Fae and Mortal Realms achieved on the anniversary of the Hybern War.

Elain had gone through each contract and made a note of it in her own diary: the contract between the Spring Court and the human lands to organise trade routes in the future, the agreement of a ceasefire on trespassing fae in favour of imprisonment, etc. There had even been copies of contracts between other humans that had most likely occurred at these weekly meetings: such as the Nolan’s agreeing to 100 shipments of Ashwood Weaponry per month to the Darlingtons, and the reinforcement of internal borders.

Elain had sat with Nuala and a few pots of tea in the library, and by the time she stretched her legs to take a turn around the room, the sun was plummeting towards the horizon. She liked it. She liked the feeling of her hand aching from her meticulous note-taking, she liked that the pages of her new notebook (a gift from Rhysand) had slowly began to fill up, she liked that she now had detailed questions to ask Jurian, Vassa and maybe even Lucien.

If anything, she liked that tonight she would sleep, her eyes tired from reading by the candlelight and her brain fizzing with the numbers of stock, armies and debt.

The library was at the back of the house, with delicate yet large glass windows that looked out onto the Manor’s Garden. So far, Elain had avoided the grounds, mostly because one look of the greenery told her that there was nothing for her to do. Whoever tended to these gardens had a similar mind to hers, it was wild and restless. A garden belonging to a true cottage, her father would say.

“Lord Lucien is home,” Nuala’s velvet voice swam into the air as she spoke without looking up from her book. The shadow wraith’s always had been Elain’s closest friends, and she liked the side she got to see of them, the one she was sure no other had yet had the privilege.

“Oh…good,” Elain said non-committedly, forcing her eyes back to her notes which she’d already preened to perfection. Sighing, Elain looked over her and Nuala’s make-shift joint desk, and without thinking, she reached for a local map.

It was strange, to look over a map of lands which felt both so familiar and so foreign. With her finger, Elain could trace the path from her first childhood home, the Manor down by the lake, up and up to their runt of a cottage so close to the border, and then a little east to their other home. Elain’s hand recoiled from the paper. That home was cursed. That was the home from which she had been stolen from.

“Do you miss it, being human?” Nuala asked. Elain peered at her. She’d always found the term ‘lesser fae’ to be entirely unbefitting. Nuala was perhaps the most gorgeous person she’d ever seen; her skin was a deep grey and her hair a shifting black in which shadows seemed to fall in whisps as it moved. Her eyes were uncannily wide, and her irises were of purest black and filled her entire lids.

“I don’t think so,” Elain answered softly, her finger running back to that first home. The home in which her parents were alive and well. “But I avoided coming here for a long while because of that reason.”

“You wanted to go back?” Elain nodded, a small shift of her head.

“Becoming fae didn’t make sense to me for a long time. I didn’t understand how to be fae, despite the body. When I looked around all I could see were my sister’s, who fit in so well at the Night Court and I just…didn’t.” Elain looked at her friend. “I feel terrible about it. About how I tried to come back to Graysen. It was the first time in my life I’d made a stand and it was for something so, hollow.”

“You’re not a terrible person for feeling as though you don’t belong, and wishing that you did.” Nuala tilted her head, her pin straight hair falling with a trained precision across her bare shoulder.

“No, but I feel terrible because…I still feel that way, to some extent.” Elain sighed, tucking up her legs on the chair and leaning her head back.

“I got into a fight with Jurian today – I slapped him -” Elain peeked a look at Nuala and was pleased to see her mouth slightly ajar and her eyes bright with amusement. “I know. But what he said was true, and I can’t stop thinking about it. He saw me during the war and saw how I was so desperate to be human again, and he thinks I’m here for that reason-” Nuala opened her mouth to protest, “I know, it’s stupid, but…what if I am here for that reason, and I just don’t realise it yet? Because Nuala, if I am, I can’t – I can’t forgive myself for that, I can’t do that to-”

Elain cut herself off by biting her tongue. She’d only spent a day and a night in Lockhart Manor, but Elain was sure she could feel the bond. Often she didn’t, then every couple of months, something would happen, she would feel some emotion that wasn’t hers or have dreams of places she’d never been to, and she’d just know that it was him. But being here, actually being around him, she felt herself turning towards him the way flowers turn to the sun.

“I don’t think it’s strange, if you feel you do not belong in the Night Court, to want to belong somewhere else,” Nuala spoke carefully, slowly, as though every word carried weight, “But just because you feel you do not belong in the Night Court, does not mean your only other option is the human lands.”

“What? I might belong somewhere else in Prythian?” Nuala stretched and leaned back in her own chair.

“Prythian is a large place, and you have an eternity ahead of you. You do not need to rush in finding somewhere you can settle, travel around for a bit, see the world. There is not the same pressure for you to be a wife as you had when you were human, maybe you could try just being Elain for a while?” Nuala yawned after she spoke, a sign that she was well and truly relaxed. Elain just hummed, her mind whirring as she looked back at the map, her finger drifting back to that last home, the one she had been ripped from.

Just then Elain noticed how the sun and well and truly dipped behind the horizon, casting the world in shadow. The night sky looked unbearably dull compared to the thriving chaos of the Night Court’s evenings, but there was something familiar in the mundanity, something that allowed Elain to be the magical thing in the world, not the other way around.

“Vassa and Jurian are preparing to leave,” Nuala said without opening her eyes.

“Ugh, teach me your ways.” Elain joked, and a sly smile pulled at the shadow wraith’s lips.

“No, because then you won’t need me, and I won’t get to come with you to see the world.” Elain paused, and looked at her friend.

“You’d come with me?” It was now Nuala’s turn to peer at her.

“Of course, don’t tell the High Lord but, since being Under the Mountain, I’ve rather missed the world, and I’d very much like to see it.”

“I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like,” Elain shivered. She’d never bene able to truly comprehend what had occurred in those 50 years. The idea of her friend being subject to such atrocities for a time longer than she had been alive, it was unfathomable.

“I remember your mate being there,” Nuala said, tentatively. Every muscle in Elain’s body went rigid. She’d assumed, somewhere along the line, that Lucien must’ve been there with Tamlin when they’d been taken, but Feyre had never confirmed, she’d been surprisingly elusive of the specifics of what had occurred. She couldn’t think about it. Because the instant she considered the torture Lucien must’ve faced, she began to feel herself lose control.

“Speaking of your mate,” Nuala murmured, and Elain didn’t miss the slightly pleased look in her friend’s eye at having gotten a reaction out of her.

Just then a knock came from the door casing Elain to turn in her chair sharply, by the time she turned back, Nuala had already disappeared into the shadows.

“No, but thanks for the offer,” Lucien ground out through his teeth. Waiting on the cartographer had taken all day and it turns out the maps he wanted hadn’t even been done correctly. It had been so much of a waste, that some part of Lucien was grateful he’d managed to send Elain home, he didn’t want her thinking that the extent of his life consisted of pathetically waiting on map-makers who can’t even make the right, damned map.

“Oh come on Luci, it’ll be fun,” Vassa goaded, looking a bit more like herself than she’d been the past few days. Her hair was iridescent, and her gown was of deepest emerald, with golden gemstones that matched the simple, modest tiara upon her head. Lucien snorted.

“Oh yeah…fun. Well you can have fun for me, but I’m not going.”

“You might as well go for the free whiskey. That’s the only reason I’m interested.” Jurian grinned, throwing a far too casual arm over the queen’s shoulders, who huffed a laugh and shook him off.

“No touching Jurian. This dress is worth more than your head.”

“Ooh – not sure about that love.” Jurian grinned back, and Lucien observed the way the two mental mortals bounced off each other.

“Ugh, I don’t know who I feel worse for, you or the Nolan’s.”

“Oh it’s not just the Nolan’s going,” Jurian grinned, “I have it on good authority that Delilah will be there too.”

“Oh, Delilah,” Vassa hummed, twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes.

“Shut up the both of you,” Lucien rolled his eyes.

“Well if it doesn’t work out with the mate, just know you have a small army of humans who wouldn’t mind a piece of you,” Jurian chortled.

“Men and women,” Vassa smiled at Jurian, “I heard that Lord Smith wouldn’t mind warming himself by the fireling.”

“Yeah, yeah, I trust you got her home safe then,” Lucien pointed at Jurian, hoping his easy smile covered the anxiety that had been growing over the day as he became convinced that something terrible had happened to Elain now that she’d been removed from sight.

“Oh, the Archeron is home safe alright,” Jurian said in a tone Lucien couldn’t quite read.

“Good…well then, you two bests be off,” Lucien turned back to the house. “Don’t stay out too late kids.”

“Alright dad,” Vassa scoffed.

“Oh and Luci,” Jurian was halfway down the garden path, “Don’t make us regret leaving you home alone with your mate!” He winked at him that time and then he and Vassa were two colourful blurs in the summer evening, their laughter making music with the chirping of cicadas.

Something cold ran the length of Lucien’s spine. He would be home, alone, with Elain, for an entire night.

Fuck.

***

“Come in?”

Elain already knew it was Lucien before his head of fiery hair, now unbound, peered at her from around the door.

“Good evening, Lady, um…may I come in?”

Elain looked at him over the papers she’d randomly grabbed and was now pretending to read. Nuala certainly could have given her a little more warning.

Lucien looked so shy, half standing behind the door, and Elain found all her anger at him having sent her home evaporating. He was just as confused as she was about this whole bond thing, it was something they’d have to figure out together.

Elain gave a small nod and Lucien seemed to let loose a long breath before he walked into the room, turning around to shut the door and then turning to face her. Lucien glowed in daylight, out there in the woods it looked at though the sun were always reaching for him, as though it, like so many others, adored him. But there was something so alluring about Lucien by candlelight. The shadows and the orange light that moved over him, he seemed darker somehow, more dangerous. More intoxicating.

Lucien cleared his throat, standing with his hands held behind his back, and Elain adverted her eyes.

“I’ve come to apologise, Lady.”

“Apologise?” Elain repeated numbly. She hadn’t been expecting this, to her knowledge, men didn’t apologise.

“For how I spoke to you, earlier today…” Lucien seemed to shift slightly, “It was entirely unreasonably for me to send you home when you wished the know the way. I got spooked with the trap and, and-”

“It’s fine. Thank you,” Elain smiled at him, setting the papers down and leaning forward in her chair. Lucien looked bemused.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I, uh…it’s not your fault I got upset, not really. I’m just quite on edge recently,” Elain began to fiddle with the threads of her dress.

“Is something wrong?” Pure concern laced Lucien’s voice as he strode a little further into the room.

“No, just…I think it’s just being around you…” Elain trailed off and Lucien’s eyes widened. Never before had she brought up the mating bond. Not with him.

“Oh, yes, it’s...uh, quite annoying isn’t it.” He grinned easily, and Elain felt something inside her relax.

“Not annoying just…things get to me easier.”

“Yes,” Lucien nodded, “When we’re close to each other the mating bond will be more…demanding. You’ll probably be more aware of it, as I am.”

“You…you feel like this, all the time?” Elain blinked at him, and Lucien shifted awkwardly, he did not want her to pity him.

“You get used to it after a while,” He grinned at her again. Elain quickly became lost in thought and Lucien could practically see her mind working, her eyes becoming distant. He took this moment to look her over, just checking for injuries, of course.

She’d changed her dress; the other one no doubt having being stained with grass and mud. It was a pale yellow, one that he found suited her hair greatly. Layers of skirts and a corset bodice, and with her hair pinned up and away from her face she looked every bit of the goddess he thought her of being.

It was then that his eye caught on the dainty necklace around her throat, a single pearl hanging at its end and…

Mother, that was a low neckline.

A low neckline for Elain of course. But still. The dress allowed him to see the beginning curve of her breasts where that single pearl lay, nestled-

Lucien snapped his eyes away and dug his hands into his pockets, digging his nails into his thighs.

He was sure that by now, Elain could read scents, and he really, really, didn’t want to make this more awkward than it was. Mother, he’d just been talking about how he’d become accustomed to controlling himself. But perhaps the beast within hadn’t been tamed, maybe it was just resting.

As though they’d been called by his arousal, the base mate desires sang through his blood. Touch, smell, taste…The last one was strangely powerful today, but maybe it was because the more time he became familiar with her scent, the more he could imagine what she tasted of. Sweet but in the way fruits are sweet, like his own personal nectar-

“Are you alright?” Elain’s soft voice sung into the air and Lucien realised that he was digging so hard into his thigh that tears had sprung up into his eyes.

“Yes, sorry,” He sniffed before huffing a laugh, “I’m just tired is all.”

“Of…” Elain prompted softly, and for a moment their eyes met and something enigmatic passed between them. “I um,” Elain sprang from her chair and began to gesture, unable to meet his eye. “I was about to go to the kitchen and steal a pot of tea and sit if the garden if you wished to, if you wished to-”

“Yes,” Lucien blinked, and Elain nodded furiously before meeting his eye and giving him a shy smile.

“Lead the way,” Elain said softly, and Lucien felt his heart skip a beat, and from the way Elain’s smile grew, he knew she’d heard it too.

***

Since it was well into the night, Elain and Lucien had to make the tea themselves, Lucien trying not to puff his chest too much when Elain gasped at how he heated the kettle with his fingers.

“It’s about as useful as it gets I’m afraid,” he grinned at her as steam started to pour from the spout.

“Well, being a seer seems far more pointless.” God she looked good in the moonlight.

“I wouldn’t say that…” It seemed that that part of Lucien would always protest at Elain being insulted, even if it were her dishing out the affront. “You knew to find Vassa, your visions before the war were invaluable, we most likely would’ve lost without them.”

Elain poured the tea, her brows furrowed in thought. If they were truly mated, if the union had been accepted, Lucien realised that this was a moment where he’d be able to reach for that bond and feel what she was feeling. He could understand, in a millisecond, what was going on behind those honeyed eyes.

Elain moved to the kitchen’s backdoor, which looked out onto the path leading down to the road which led to town, arching through the gardens. To his surprise she settled in the doorway, tucking her skirts so that they spilled out onto the gravel path.

“What is it?” Lucien prodded, as he settled down next to her, making sure that he was leaning against the left doorframe and that no part of his body was touching hers.

“Compared to the likes of Feyre and Nesta,” Elain began in a dreamy voice, “My powers are pointless; you can’t deny it.”

Lucien didn’t know what to say to that. It was all kinds of wrong. As he thought about how to exactly tell Elain she was quite insane for thinking such a way, he looked out on the moonlit gardens. The sky here was duller than the Night Court, but there was something peaceful in these lands, something innocent. A warm breeze caressed his face, and just as he was about to speak, Elain beat him to it.

“I should’ve been there, tonight, Feyre and Nesta would’ve gone.” Lucien’s hand paused as it carried his tea to his lips. Fury jolted through him.

“I don’t know about that,” Lucien proceeded in sipping his tea, trying to cool the flames within.

“If Feyre could handle seeing Tamlin, then I could’ve handled tonight,” Elain said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Lucien considered what she had said, trying to slow his heartbeat as he thought, especially now that he knew she could hear it.

“Are you so desperate to be like your sisters?” Elain cocked her head at the garden.

“Of course…they’re brave and I…I don’t know, how could I not?” Elain appeared as genuinely confused, and something inside Lucien’s chest ached.

“No offence,” he flashed her an easy grin, one that seemed to tell her that everything was going to be okay, “But I don’t think the world would recover from having another Feyre…and especially not another Nesta.”

“You know what I mean…” Elain huffed, bumping into his shoulder slightly as she flashed him a shy smile, one that made him feel like glowing. “They would’ve gone tonight. They would’ve marched into that manor and sat down in the Nolan’s chair and if Gray so much as looked at them wrong they would’ve burned the house to ashes.”

Lucien ignored Elain’s nickname for her ex-fiancé, and took a moment to cool the raging part of him that sought to seek out the boy and erase him from history. Elain was poking fun at her ex-lover, she was wrinkling her nose and shaking her head, it was obvious she wanted nothing to do with him. And yet that nickname stood like an island in the stormy ocean, a reminder that at that moment, some unevolved, bastard, human fae-hunter had a firmer place in her heart than he.

“What the hell is the Nolan’s chair?” Lucien asked after a moment, batting the vitriol from his mind.

“Oh,” Elain’s eyes lit up, “It’s some stupid, big Ashwood throne which they have in this weird trophy room, apparently it’s been passed down through generations of fae-hunters. I couldn’t touch it of course because I hadn’t been initiated into the family and that would be sacrilegious or something.” Lucien tipped his head back and huffed a laugh, and Elain felt something inside her sing to answer. She’d noticed Lucien’s beauty more this past day, but that moment right there, had been the loveliest he’d ever been. His eyes shut, his grin wide. He seemed happy. It was beautiful.

“Oh Gods, let me guess, they have it behind some sort of curtain and they do a grand reveal whenever guests come for tea?” Elain blinked at him with those brown saucers.

“Have you visited?!” Both of them titled back and let out genuine laughs, no one to interrupt them but a warm breeze making the plants rustle.

“You know, it’s funny,” Elain sighed, curling her arms around her knees and looking out on the moon-lit shrubbery, “When you stop loving someone, it’s almost like you see them for the first time.” Lucien shifted awkwardly, trying to ease the itching across his skin. He’d never talked so much about the boy before, and it was making his powers sing.

“And what do you see now?”

“I…I can’t say a bad word against him. I don’t know why. I think even if he were standing in front of me right now I would just politely ask him to leave.”

“I think that says more about your character than his.” How could the Cauldron have thought him worthy of this female? In the face of her abuser, she chose pacifism.

“It’s strange because now I guess I see him how everyone else has always seen him. But when I was human…” Elain’s speech faltered and she flashed her eyes to him, “I’m sorry you probably don’t want to hear about this.” Lucien took a deep breath before setting his cup down.

“Elain I…I want to be your friend, and I want to know everything about you. If that includes your weasel of an ex, so be it.”

“Be nice,” Elain half-told him off with a laugh as she reached out and shoved his shoulder. Lucien saw stars.

“When you were human…” Lucien found his voice after a second, and prompted Elain along. She curled her arm back around her knees and her eyes drifted off to some far off place.

“I…I just wanted to be loved, so badly. I wanted a fairy-tale romance and, I don’t know, someone who would want me, you know that kind of romance you only read about in novels where the guy walks into a room and only sees her.” Elain huffed a laugh and Lucien bit his tongue. “I just assumed that it would never happen, not with us falling into poverty, but then, we weren’t in poverty anymore, and Nesta and I were back looking for husbands. Graysen isn’t…special…I know. But I never wanted special, and for a girl who had grown up believing she’d have nothing, what he gave me seemed like the whole world. Things like sneaking out to meet him without a chaperone, or, or, sneaking away from family dinner’s to hide in the gardens. It…it felt like falling in love…”

“When you having nothing,” Lucien began tentatively, “And someone shows you an inch of kindness…well, that becomes invaluable.” Elain hummed softly in agreement.

“I didn’t want much – I’ve never wanted much - but that’s because it always seemed greedy. I just wanted my own garden, and then Graysen promised me 12 acres of land, and he did seem to care for me. Well…at one point he seemed to care.” Elain shivered, and that age-old anger flashed in his eye. He didn’t know what Graysen had said to Elain when she’d come to the Noland Manor during the war, but by the way the entire Inner Circle seemed one bad day away from cleaving the boy’s balls from his body, he got the idea.

“Now that I can see him clearly, and I can see all the terrible things he did and said, to me and…and about me…” Elain turned to look at Lucien and found him already looking at her, his expression soft, but something made of steel in his eyes, “It’s easy to not love someone when you don’t like them, but I am afraid.”

“Of…” Lucien said gently, his voice as soft as the wind in the leaves.

“How can I…” she was looking at him directly now, “How can I do it again,” she whispered in a voice that reminded him of a petal. “I was so blinded by love; how can I trust myself? You know, sometimes it feels like I’ve felt enough heartbreak to fill several lifetimes.”

Lucien surprised himself by huffing a soft laugh.

“I know how you feel. But that’s the thing about being immortal. They say time heals all wounds, and it does. But most of us, and I suppose particularly humans, don’t get the chance to wait out our pain. But being fae, well, you’re convinced you’ll never get over it until one day you wake up and, you just are.”

Elain had never heard him speak for so long before, and she realised she could’ve sat here and listened to him talk all night. There was an aged wisdom behind his words, like a promise that everything was going to be alright. A small silence settled on the two as they both looked up at the moon, glowing like an eye of the Mother, winking with contentment.

“Graysen is a bastard isn’t he.” Lucien laughed, loud and brashly, and even though it was nearly midnight, Elain was sure he’d momentarily lit up the world.

“No comment,” Lucien held his palms up to face her to show his pacifism.

“Oh come on, you must not like him if you’re sitting here with me rather out there at the Nolan’s sipping, oh, coffee liquors.” Lucien wrinkled his nose.

“Gods, they sound awful.”

“Oh. They are,” Elain moaned with a smile. Then she peered at him again, “You’ve really never been.” Lucien shifted slightly, sitting a little straighter.

“Yes I, uh, I hope that wasn’t an intrusion or-”

“No, no!” Elain rushed, before sighing heavily as she bit her lip in thought. Lucien’s eyes, one metal one fae, roved over her. Oh how he wished to know her thoughts.

Then, Elain was reaching out for him, putting her small hand on his shoulder and looking up at him with those dark, sultry eyes.

“Thank you…for having my back,” she practically whispered. But Lucien wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her given that his entire focus had been zeroed onto that single palm pressed against his shoulder, how he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin linen of his shirt.

“I…no problem, Lady…It’s no problem at all.” Elain smiled at him softly, but her hand stayed where it was.

Lucien wondered if she felt it too. The electricity that was flowing through his blood. The bond that seemed to glow from between his ribs, buzzing with contentment at their contact. He wondered if she felt the squeeze in her chest – the possibility that this wasn’t just a bond at all.

Suddenly, voices from the hall erupted into life. Brash singing, and a cackling laugh that startled Elain enough for her hand to lift from his shoulder, before she slowly pulled it back in her lap. Lucien was dangerously close to running into the hall and carrying both his friends back out into the garden and dumping them in the flower beds.

He’d had two stolen moments with Elain today, and the secret seemed to lie in their solidarity from the rest of the world. Sighing Lucien leaned back on his hands.

“It seems that Jurian and Vassa have made it home.”

Tag List:

@ladyelain @chloepereyra @exiledelain @bow-dawn

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bigfan-fanfic · 3 years

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Kost Aban as a Companion

(Face Claim: Brant Daugherty) Kost Aban, Road Dad of the Inner Circle and Magesmith for the Inquisition. He’s charming and sweet, and he’ll handle requisitions so you never have to worry about that Requisition Officer ever again. Also he makes travel snacks as well as serves as a portable weapon and armor crafting station. Did I mention he’s romanceable?

Companion Name: Kost Aban (lit. “Peaceful Ocean” in Qunlat) Race, Class, and Specialization: Qunari Mage (Rift Mage) Varric’s Nickname for Him: Shiny (for his horn ornaments) Default Tarot Card: Page of Wands

How He Is Recruited: His adopted human son, Roland, a young man of about 22, will rush out into the plaza in Val Royeaux on the first visit and request the Inquisitor come meet his father. Kost will immediately offer his services as a magesmith to the Inquisition, as well as his son’s skills as an apprentice. If the Inquisitor is a Qunari, he will also mention that sometimes it helps to have a friendly face around that one doesn’t have to look down to see. Where He Is In Skyhold: With his son, Dagna (and conditionally) Harritt in the Undercroft. He can generally be found talking smithing techniques or occasionally insisting Roland and Dagna go get refreshments and sunlight because they’ve been working too long. If he is recruited, he will also set up a cozy-looking sitting area/lounge in the Undercroft. Things He Generally Approves of: Upgrading Skyhold, completing Dagna’s sidequests, not siding with the Qunari, showing mercy Things He Generally Disapproves of: Siding with the Qunari, executing prisoners, siding with the Templars Mages, Templars, Other? As a mage himself and a former Saarebas, Kost definitely approves of siding with the mages and giving them freedom.

Romanceable? Yes, by any gender or race. Friends in the Inquisition: Blackwall, Sera, and Cole. He befriends Sera through Dagna, Blackwall because of their shared enjoyment of crafting, and Cole because Kost can’t help but adopt the kid. He becomes friends with Iron Bull if the Chargers are saved. Small Side mission: Collect 10 dawnstone and 10 bloodstone. Kost will Greatly Approve and unlock schematics for Magewrought Weapons

Companion Quest: Kost is happy to have his son working with him but wonders whether Roland might prefer a different career or perhaps to attend the University of Orlais. He once caught Roland studying magic books and worries that he’s pressuring him into apprenticeship. He asks the Inquisitor to speak to Roland instead. When confronted, Roland admits that he’s been studying magic books so that he can tinker and improve his prosthetic arm, but he didn’t want to offend his dad, who spent years working on the magical formulae. He asks the Inquisitor not to tell.

Option 1: Tell Kost - This will net Great Approval from Kost and Cole, and Kost will talk to Roland and say that he couldn’t be offended that Roland is so interested and asks for them to proceed together with the tinkering. Father and son embrace and thank the Inquisitor

Option 2: Cover for Roland - The Inquisitor has the choice of telling Kost that Roland was merely curious about the process of magic or lie and say the magic books were hiding naughty material. Either way Kost will agree to let the matter drop.

Cole’s Reflection on His Thoughts: “The mask is gone and the bonds broken, burnt away and banished. My voice shall never more lie lost and leashed, locked away behind bars of word and deed.” Comments on Mages: “I know what it is like to be born different, and I once knew nothing more than imprisonment and shame for what I was. I have nothing but sadness to know that even here, others share my fate.” Comments on Templars: “If your protector is also your jailer, I think you have somewhat of a conflict of interest.” When looking for something: “Listen... there is something...” When finding a campsite: “Allow me to whip up a little something from these field rations.” When he is low on health: “I will not make my son an orphan again!” When he sees a dragon: “Not that I’m saying we should fight it, but... I could make some seriously good stuff out of dragon bone and hide.” Default saying: “Do you think Roland’s doing alright?”

Travel Banter:

Vivienne: So, Ser Aban. I have heard much of your magesmithing techniques. The Formari believe you are usurping their dominance over the market. Kost: I’m afraid, Madam, the Formari are mistaken. I happen to make useful items, not decoration. Vivienne (amused): Indeed? Then you must prize function over form in your pieces. Kost: Of course. I want to keep people alive, even at the cost of fashion. Vivienne: Some costs are worth dying for, darling.

Kost: I didn’t get the chance to thank you, Blackwall. Blackwall: What for? Kost: The extra firewood. My forge requires more than a normal smithy to stay working, and you provided. Blackwall: Wasn’t for you specially. I... I like chopping wood. Kost: And teaching my son how to swing an axe played no role? Blackwall: Oh. Kost: Too many people treat him as though he’s useless. I saw how happy he was with you. So as I said. Thank you... for the firewood. Blackwall: ...you’re welcome. Kost: There’s a magewrought sword with your name on it when we return to Skyhold.

(If Cole was made more human) Kost: You don’t have to handle everything, you know. You changed, right down to the core. Cole: I am fine. Kost: Sure, sure. Just as long as you know you don’t have to be. We’ve got you, Cole. Starting with rest. I got you a spare blanket - I’ve seen you shivering in your sleep. Cole: But I don’t- Kost: I’ve seen what you do for people. You’re not invisible anymore, you know. So it’s time you let someone else help you. Do you mind it if it’s me? Cole: I... th-thank you.

Iron Bull: You don’t like me much, do you? Kost (sarcastically): I didn’t know you were going for universal popularity. Iron Bull: Ha. You talk like one of these Orlesian bigwigs. Too important to waste time on mercs? (If the Inquisitor is a Qunari) And what about being “a friendly face,” huh? Kost: You won’t get a reaction out of me, Ben-Hassrath. Iron Bull: Even a lack of reaction is a reaction. Kost: Fuck you. How’s that for a reaction?

Friendship: “Ah! Come here for a shield or a cup of tea and some chat? Either way, I’m at your service.”

The Fade

How he reacts: “Oh, I’m not enjoying this at all.” Their Tombstone: Bereavement What the Fears look like: Himself in the mask and chains of a Saarebas What the Nightmare says: “The so-called peaceful ocean. I’ve been watching you for years now. The eyes of the Qun are everywhere and now, there’s nothing you can do to deflect their gaze.” Their reflection about the Fade: “Never again. Never.” Hawke or Warden: Depends on Hawke’s actions. If Hawke sided with the Chantry in DA2, Kost will suggest that they are responsible for the Qunari improving their foothold and force and believe they should atone in the Fade. If not, Kost suggests the Qun’s respect for Hawke is one of the only things keeping the Qunari from invading and believes they should escape the Fade.

The Wardens

Their feelings: Believes the Wardens make hard choices to save the world from the Blight. Exile or Allies?: Allies

The Ball

How they feel: “It isn’t my first ball, but I’m surprised at how many people I know, here. Babette de Launcet just tried to poach me from the Inquisition!” Where they linger: The garden balcony, near the bard singing in Orlesian Are they good at the Game?: He’s not great at being fake, but he is good at schmoozing, especially since his smithing skills are an avid topic of discussion. What people say about them: “Did you see the Magesmith walking by? So tall and dashing...””You do realize he is a Qunari, don’t you?” “My dear, that’s all part of the appeal. Imagine those burly muscles sweating at a forge...” Gaspard, Briala, or Celene?: Briala, or Celene with Briala - he fears Gaspard in power most of all, and he’d hate if war broke out between Orlais and Ferelden with the Qunari lurking at the borders.

Temple of Mythal

Rituals or Hole?: Rituals Agree with the Elves’ bargain?: Agree. Morrigan or Inquisitor for the Well?: The Inquisitor

Comments on Canon Romance

Cassandra: “The Seeker? A worthy choice. Though... I can’t help but wonder whether she’d choose love over duty should the time come.” Dorian: “Dorian? That must be fun - I hope he doesn’t criticize the patterns of your britches!” Sera: “Roland likes Sera - I think you two will get up to all sorts of mischief together.” Iron Bull: “Bull? Well... you do remember he was a Qunari spy, right? Never mind, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” Josephine: “Don’t you hurt her, Inquisitor. She’s a wonderful person and a light in this world.” Cullen: “You know, I can craft certain soft lamps for the night. I’ve seen the look of a man who doesn’t sleep much on his face. Perhaps it will help.” Blackwall: “Tell me, I’m curious. Is the beard scratchy?” Solas: “D’you know, he hates tea? Suspicious, if you ask me.”

Sexual/Racial preference: Any race or gender. Nickname for PC: Little One Romance only mission: (Can only be completed after Kost’s love confession) A cutscene featuring Kost and the Inquisitor in bed plays, involving a pillow talk discussion where Kost says “I love you.” The Inquisitor can choose to say it back or not, and ask about his past. The conversation finishes with Kost suggesting marriage would be more than acceptable to him, although he wouldn’t pressure the Inquisitor into it. The quest involves speaking to Kost’s son Roland to get his blessing to propose to Kost. The Inquisitor must perform a War Table mission to get Roland some parts to aid in the proposal, which will affect the next cutscene. If Cullen is chosen, Roland will be given some explosives and dyes and he will shoot fireworks during the proposal. If Leliana is selected, smoke pellets will be given and Roland will make a clockwork smoke machine to give a mystical air to the proposal. If Josephine is chosen, Roland will meet with some bards and make a music box to play while the Inquisitor proposes. The Inquisitor will then meet with Kost in the Skyhold garden at night and propose, choosing dialogue options that are sweet, nervous, or humorous, all resulting in Kost accepting the proposal and promising to marry the Inquisitor and love them forever - once Corypheus has been dealt with.

Dialog to being asked for a kiss: “Did you come down here just for this? How romantic... I must make it worth your while, little one.”

Halamshiral dialog: “Of all the magnificence in this palace... I can say without exaggeration that nothing compares to you.”

Being asked to dance during mission: “Josephine would kill me if I kept you from some diplomat or duke. But I shall gladly sacrifice myself once you have made your rounds.”

Asking to dance post-mission: “I- I warn you, little one, I’m not very good. But I’d do anything for you.”

What Cole says about companion to PC: “There was always darkness behind the mask, both of the masks he’s worn. But now it is safe and soft. Now there is you.”

Who is concerned about the relationship?: Vivienne. Josephine (for political reasons)

Who supports the relationship?: Blackwall, Dorian, Cullen

Who had a bet running on it?: Cassandra, Sera

Banter(between NPCs):

Vivienne: (after the romance only mission) I understand I am to offer you and the Inquisitor congratulations? Kost: We are engaged, yes. Vivienne: I do hope you understand what you are doing. Kost: I understand that I am in love. I understand that I am loved in return. And I understand that political considerations do not matter to me when I am with the Inquisitor. Does that satisfy you, Madam? Vivienne: Satisfy? No. Please me? Quite. I wish you every happiness.

Blackwall: You’ve... been around a while, haven’t you? Kost: Er... yeah? Blackwall: And the Inquisitor doesn’t mind? Not that it’s a problem, not that I think it’s a problem or anything, just- Kost: Ser Blackwall, do you have your eye on someone younger than you? Blackwall: What? I- where would you think tha- no. Kost (teasing): Fascinating. You blush right through your beard! Blackwall (groaning playfully): Oh, piss off!

Sera: You and the big man, eh? Hehe, because- Kost: Sera. You’re not subtle. Vivienne (if present): My dear, your lack of tact is simply appalling. Sera: Rolly likes you too, yeah? You better not hurt his dad or you know what? Kost: It’s arrows, isn’t it? Sera: Arrows!

Flirt options: Upon reaching Skyhold and unlocking the Undercroft, Kost will be ecstatic at the sight of the new smithing area and the Inquisitor can say he looks adorable when excited. This opens up a dialogue option later to begin romancing him.

If PC breaks it off: “Ah. I- uh. Of course. I hope I haven’t done anything to offend you. I shall continue to help the Inquisition as best I can.”

Love confession: Kost will ask to take a walk with the Inquisitor and they will end up on the battlements. Kost will talk about his life as a smith and as a father and say that he never seemed to end up with anyone to love and romance... until the Inquisitor. He says he hopes he didn’t read the situation wrong, but that he has fallen hopelessly for them.

Romanced tarot card: King of Pentacles

End game dialog: “Isn’t that something? No matter how hard I tried, I could never forge something as beautiful as a sunrise. I could never capture that kind of beauty. And yet... it is nothing compared to your face. The sun rises and sets each day without fail, but I promise to be even more constant for you - I am with you.”

#kost aban #inquisitor as a companion #dragon age #my ocs

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karismaadriatic · 3 years

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The secret history of Ulcinj

Ulcinj, one of the oldest settlements of the Adriatic, is a place of very rich and intriguing history. Truth or legend, some of the occurrences even today, after so many centuries, remain under a veil of mystery. Who was the famous slave of the Ulcinj pirates and thereafter the son-in-law of the city of Ulcinj? Is the grave of the famous Jewish ‘messiah’ really in Ulcinj? The official history still cannot answer but the stories, evidence and legends reveal many secrets of the Old Town.

Image: Ulcinj Old Town at dusk

This Story begins on the Slave Square…

Long time ago Ulcinj was a popular pirate destination and a famous market for slaves. During the Ottoman rule, which lasted longer than 200 years, there was a Slave Square in front of the church-mosque of the Old City.

Today that square is called The Cervantes Square.

It sounds incredible, but a small square of the small town in a small country of the Adriatic coast truly does bear the name of the famous Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes. And for a great reason!

Legends say that Cervantes in his youth was a slave of the Ulcinj pirates. Finding an important letter on him from the Spanish king during his capture, the pirates estimated that Cervantes was a valuable slave and that they could fetch a good amount of gold for him. More precisely they wanted 500 gold coins for him, which was quite a sum. As no one in Spain had or did not want to pay the huge sum, Cervantes spent 5 years in Ulcinj.

Image: Ulcinj Old Town Cervantes Square / Slave Market jail cell

The locals called him Servet, which was part of his name. At the time, a completely unknown Spaniard with his unusual behavior attracted much attention. He would sing during the day and stay up until late at night to write. The ladies liked to listen to him, one in particular. According to folklore, that Old Town lady stole Cervantes’ heart and a great love ensued.

Five years later, when his father arranged his release, Cervantes returned to Spain together with the beautiful Ulcinj lady. Upon his release, and return to Spain, Cervantes created one of the most famous novels in the world after the Bible, and the most translated peace of literature – Don Quixote.

Don Quixote and the story of Dulcinea del Toboso are closely linked by many researchers to Ulcinj. Primarly because the famous novel was written after Cervantes’ captivity in Ulcinj, but also because the name of the main heroine of the novel, Dulcinea actually means a girl from Ulcinj – the name stems from the word Dulcigno, which was the name of the city at the time.

Whether Servet was really Cervantes, and Servet’s writings were later published as Don Quixote has not yet been officially confirmed. However, it is known with certainty that Cervantes was a slave somewhere on the Mediterranean and for the people pf Ulcinj it was more than certain it was Ulcinj. This is why they proudly glorify their square and call it the Cervantes Square.

Image: Ulcinj Old Town aerial

The Secret History of Ulcinj continues....

Who carved the Star of David in the Balsic Tower?

In Ulcinj Old Town, right next to the mosque is the famous Balsic Tower. Its mystical interior and even more intriguing history indicates that this is where Djerdj Balsa died, the most famous Prince of Balsices, as did a very important figure of the Jewish history, Shabbetai Zevi, a false messiah and a reformer of the Talmud. His controversial life as a self-proclaimed messiah and his death in exile in Ulcinj are still the subject of scientific and historical controversy and research.

Who was Shabbetai Zevi (alternative spellings Sabbatai Zevi, Shabbetai Tzvi, Shabbeṯāy Ṣeḇī, Shabsai Tzvi, Shabbetai Zvi), and why are there still discussions about him and how did he end up in Ulcinj?

Zevi lived in the 17th Century, and was born in the city of Izmir, a very important city of the then Ottoman Empire, as a son of a rich Jewish family. Zevi himself was very educated, of above-average intelligence and destined for a leader. He was a great supporter of freedom and his fellow followers saw him as a savior, a man from the future who would return Jews to Israel and Palestine.

Encouraged by the conviction that he is a great prophet of divine powers who would change the world, in his 40th year he proclaims himself the messiah – one of the whole world and all nations. He gained a large number of supporters and followers far beyond the Ottoman Empire.

On the wings of the fame he gained, he even demanded from Sultan Mehmed IV to renounce the Koran and accept the Talmud. Events followed and Zevi is imprisoned, and it is believed that the sultan put Shabbetai to a test, saying he would accept him as a messiah if the arrows shot towards him came back – which of course was impossible. In the end, the sultan spared his life but demanded Zevi convert to Islam. Shabbetai Zevi became Aziz Mehmed Effendi and sent to the ends of the empire, Ulcinj, where is stayed in the Balsic Tower officially as Sultan’s keeper of the gates, but deep inside he still believed in his messianic mission.

Did Shabbetai Zevi really live and die in the Balsic Tower, where was he truly buried (as there are some indications that his remains are located on the private property of the Manic family in Ulcinj), was he only a rabbi or a great messiah, was he a Muslim or a Jew?... These are just some of the mysteries that intrigue and interest worldwide historians to this day.

Image: Balsic Tower In Ulcinj Old Town

In one of the most beautiful coastal cities, over two centuries, two great personalities lived, and as such immortalized the city at the same time – Miguel de Cervantes with his Dulcinea and Shabbetai Zevi with his Star of David on the Balsic Tower and his secret grave.

These two, among others, brought Ulcinj to a significant spot on the stage of the world history.

Author: Azul Beach Resort Montenegro by Karisma team

#Ulcinj #Ulqin #Dulcinea #BalsicTower #Ulqini #DonQuixote #miguel de cervantes #Cervantes Square #Dulcinea del Toboso #Ulcinium

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2nd January 1264: Marriage and Murder in Mediaeval Menteith

(Priory of Inchmahome, founded on one of the islands of Lake of Menteith in the thirteenth century)

On 2nd January 1264, Pope Urban IV despatched a letter to the bishops of St Andrews and Aberdeen, and the Abbot of Dunfermline, commanding them to enquire into a succession dispute in the earldom of Menteith. Situated in the heart of Scotland, this earldom stretched from the graceful mountains and glens of the Trossachs, to the boggy carseland west of Stirling and the low-lying Vale of Menteith between Callander and Dunblane. The earls and countesses of Menteith were members of the highest rank of the nobility, ruling the area from strongholds such as Doune Castle, Inch Talla, and Kilbryde. Perhaps the best-known relic of the mediaeval earldom is the beautiful, ruined Priory of Inchmahome, which was established on an island in Lake of Menteith by Earl Walter Comyn in 1238. Walter Comyn was a powerful, if controversial, figure during the reigns of Kings Alexander II and Alexander III. He controlled the earldom for several decades after his marriage to its Countess, Isabella of Menteith, but following Walter’s death in 1258 his widow was beset on all sides by powerful enemies. These enemies even went so far as to capture Isabella and accuse her of poisoning her husband. The story of this unfortunate countess offers a rare glimpse into the position of great heiresses in High Mediaeval Scotland, revealing the darker side of thirteenth century politics.

Alexander II and Alexander III are generally remembered as powerful monarchs who oversaw the expansion and consolidation of the Scottish realm. During their reigns, dynastic rivals like the MacWilliams were crushed, regions such as Galloway and the Western Isles formally acknowledged Scottish overlordship, and the Scottish Crown held its own in diplomacy and disputes with neighbouring rulers in Norway and England. Both kings furthered their aims by promoting powerful nobles in strategic areas, but it was also vital to harness the ambition and aggression of these men productively. In the absence of an adult monarch, unchecked magnate rivalry risked destabilising the realm, as in the years between 1249 and 1262, when Alexander III was underage.

(A fifteenth century depiction of the coronation of Alexander III. Source: Wikimedia Commons)

Walter Comyn offers a typical picture of the ambitious Scottish magnate. Ultimately loyal to the Crown, his family loyalties and personal aims nonetheless made him a divisive figure. A member of the powerful Comyn kindred, he had received the lordship of Badenoch in the Central Highlands by 1229, probably because of his family’s opposition to the MacWilliams. In early 1231, he was granted the hand of a rich heiress, Isabella of Menteith. In the end, there would be no Comyn dynasty in Menteith: Walter and Isabella had a son named Henry, mentioned in a charter c.1250, but he likely predeceased his father. Nevertheless, Walter Comyn carved out a career at the centre of Scottish politics and besides witnessing many royal charters, he acted as the king’s lieutenant in Galloway in 1235 and became embroiled in the scandalous Bisset affair of 1242.

When Alexander II died in 1249, Walter and the other Comyns sought power during the minority of the boy king Alexander III. They were opposed by the similarly ambitious Alan Durward and in time Henry III of England, the attentive father of Alexander III’s wife Margaret, was also dragged into the squabble as both sides solicited his support in order to undermine their opponents. Possession of the young king’s person offered a swift route to power, and, although nobody challenged Alexander III’s right to the throne, some took drastic measures to seize control of government. Walter Comyn and his allies managed this twice, the second time by kidnapping the young king at Kinross in 1257. They were later forced to make concessions to enemies like Durward but, with Henry III increasingly distracted by the deteriorating political situation in England, the Comyns held onto power for the rest of the minority. However Walter only enjoyed his victory for a short while: by the end of 1258, the Earl of Menteith was dead.

Walter Comyn had dominated Scottish politics for a decade, and even if, as Michael Brown suggests, his death gave the political community some breathing space, this also left Menteith without a lord. As a widow, Countess Isabella theoretically gained more personal freedom, but mediaeval realpolitik was not always consistent with legal ideals. In thirteenth century Scotland, the increased wealth of widows made them vulnerable in new ways (not least to abduction) and, although primogeniture and the indivisibility of earldoms were promoted, in reality these ideals were often subordinated to the Crown’s need to reward its supporters. Isabella of Menteith was soon to find that her position had become very precarious.

At first, things went well. Although one source claims that many noblemen sought her hand, Isabella made her own choice, marrying an English knight named John Russell. Sir John’s background is obscure but, despite assertions that he was low born, he had connections at the English court. Isabella and John obtained royal consent for their marriage c.1260, and the happy couple also took crusading vows soon afterwards.

But whatever his wife thought, in the eyes of the Scottish nobility John Russell cut a much less impressive figure than Walter Comyn. The couple had not been married long before a powerful coterie of nobles descended on Menteith like hoodie-crows. Pope Urban’s list of persecutors includes the earls of Buchan, Fife, Mar, and Strathearn, Alan Durward, Hugh of Abernethy, Reginald le Cheyne, Hugh de Berkeley, David de Graham, and many others. But the ringleader was John ‘the Red’ Comyn, the nephew of Isabella of Menteith’s deceased husband Walter, who had already succeeded to the lordship of Badenoch. Even though Menteith belonged to Isabella in her own right, Comyn coveted his late uncle’s title there. Supported by the other lords, he captured and imprisoned the countess and John Russell, and justified this bold assault by claiming that the newlyweds had conspired together to poison Earl Walter. It is unclear what proof, if any, John Comyn supplied to back up his claim, but the couple were unable to disprove it. They were forced to surrender all claims to Isabella’s dowry, as well as many of her own lands and rents. A surviving charter shows that Hugh de Abernethy was granted property around Aberfoyle about 1260, but it seems that the lion’s share of the spoils went to the Red Comyn, who secured for himself and his heirs the promise of the earldom of Menteith itself.

Isabella and her husband were only released when they promised to pass into exile until they could clear their names before seven peers of the realm. John Russell’s brother Robert was delivered to Comyn as security for their full resignation of the earldom. Having ‘incurred heavy losses and expenses’, which certainly stymied their crusading plans, they fled.

In a letter of 1264, Pope Urban IV described the couple as ‘undefended by the authority of the king, while as yet a minor’. However, though Alexander III was technically underage in 1260, he was now nineteen and could not be ignored entirely. Michael Brown suggests that Isabella and her husband may have been seized when the king was visiting England, and that John Comyn’s unsanctioned bid for the earldom of Menteith may explain why Alexander cut short his stay in November 1260 and hastily returned north, leaving his pregnant queen with her parents at Windsor. Certainly, Comyn was forced to relinquish the earldom before 17th April 1261. But instead of restoring Menteith to its exiled countess, Alexander settled the earldom on another rising star: Walter ‘Bailloch’ Stewart, whose wife Mary had a claim to Menteith.

Mary of Menteith is often described as Isabella’s younger sister, although contemporary sources never say so and some historians argue that they were cousins. Either way, Alexander’s decision to uphold her claim was probably as much influenced by her husband’s identity as her alleged birth right. Like Walter Comyn, Walter Bailloch (‘freckled’), belonged to an influential family as the brother of Alexander, Steward of Scotland. From their origins in the royal household, the Stewarts became major regional magnates, assisting royal expansion in the west. The promising son of a powerful family, Walter Bailloch was sheriff of Ayr by 1264 and likely fought in the Battle of Largs in 1263. In 1260 Alexander III had the opportunity to secure Walter’s loyalty as the royal minority drew to a close. Conversely John Comyn of Badenoch found himself out of favour and was removed as justiciar of Galloway following the Menteith incident. The king would not alienate the Comyns permanently, but for now, the stars of Walter Bailloch and Mary of Menteith were in the ascendant.

(Loch Lubnaig, in the Trossachs, another former possession of the earls of Menteith)

Isabella of Menteith and John Russell had not been idle in the meantime. Travelling to John’s home country of England, they probably appealed to Henry III. In September 1261, the English king inspected documents relating to a previous dispute over the earldom of Menteith. On that occasion, two brothers, both named Maurice, had their differences settled before the future Alexander II at Edinburgh in 1213. The elder Maurice, who held the title Earl of Menteith and was presumed illegitimate by later writers (though this is never stated), resigned the earldom, which was regranted to Maurice junior. In return the elder Maurice received some towns and lands to be held for his lifetime only, and the younger Maurice promised to provide for the marriage of his older brother’s daughters.

It is probable that Isabella was the daughter of the younger Maurice, and that she produced these charters as proof of her right to the earldom. Perhaps Mary was her younger sister, but it seems likelier that Isabella would have wanted to prove the younger Maurice’s right if Mary was a descendant of the elder brother, and therefore her cousin. However despite Henry III’s formal recognition of the settlement, he did not provide Isabella with any real assistance: for whatever reason, the English king was either unable or unwilling to press his son-in-law the King of Scots on this matter. Isabella then turned instead to the spiritual leader of western Europe- Pope Urban IV.

(A depiction of the coronation of Henry III of England, though in fact the English king was only a child when he was crowned. Source: Wikimedia Commons)

A long epistle which the pope sent to several Scottish prelates in January 1264 has survived, revealing much about the case. Thus we learn that Urban was initially moved by Isabella and her husband’s predicament, perhaps especially so since they had taken the cross. Accordingly, he had appointed his chaplain Pontius Nicholas to enquire further and discreetly arrange the couple’s restoration. Pontius was to journey to Menteith, ‘if he could safely do so, otherwise to pass personally to parts adjacent to the said kingdom, and to summon those who should be summoned’. But Pontius’ mission only hindered Isabella’s suit. According to Gesta Annalia I, the papal chaplain got no closer to Scotland than York. From there he summoned many Scottish churchmen and nobles to appear before him, and even the King of Scots himself. This merely antagonised Alexander III and his subjects. Although Alexander maintained good relations with England and the papacy throughout his reign, he had a strong sense of his own prerogative and did not appreciate being summoned to answer for his actions, especially not outwith his realm and least of all in York. Special daughter of the papacy or not, Scotland’s clergy and nobility supported their king and refused to compear. Faced with this intransigence, Pontius Nicholas placed the entire kingdom under interdict, at which point Alexander retaliated by writing directly to the chaplain’s boss, demanding Pontius’ dismissal from the case.

Urban IV swiftly backpedalled. In a conciliatory tone he claimed that Pontius was guilty of ‘exceeding the terms of our mandate’ and causing ‘grievous scandal’. To remedy the situation, and avoid endangering souls, the pope discharged his responsibility over the case to the bishops of St Andrews and Aberdeen, and the Abbot of Dunfermline. Thus the pope washed his hands of a troublesome case, the Scottish king’s nose could be put back in joint, and Isabella’s suit was transferred to men with great experience of Scottish affairs, who should have been capable of satisfactorily resolving the matter. However, there is no indication that Isabella was ever compensated for the loss of her inheritance, and when the dispute over Menteith was raised again ten years later, the countess was not even mentioned (probably she had since died). Possibly her suit was discreetly buried after it was transferred to the Scottish clerics, a solution which, however frustrating for the exiled countess, would have been convenient for the great men whose responsibility it was to ensure justice was done.

(Doune Castle- the earliest parts of this famous stronghold probably date to the days of the thirteenth century earls of Menteith, although much of the work visible today dates from the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries)

The Comyns could not be dismissed so easily. Never resigned to losing Menteith, John Comyn of Badenoch claimed the earldom again c.1273, on behalf of his son William Comyn of Kirkintilloch. William had since married Isabella Russell, daughter of Isabella of Menteith by her second husband.* The 1273 suit was unsuccessful but William Comyn and Isabella Russell did not lose hope, and in 1282, William asked Edward I of England to intercede for them with the king of Scots. In 1285, with William’s father John Comyn long dead, Alexander III finally offered a compromise. Walter Bailloch, whose wife Mary may have died, was to keep half the earldom and he and his heirs would bear the title earl of Menteith. William Comyn and Isabella Russell received the other half in free barony, and this eventually passed to the offspring of Isabella’s second marriage to Sir Edward Hastings. Perhaps this could be seen as a posthumous victory for Isabella Russell’s late parents, but their descendants would never regain the whole earldom (except, controversially, when the younger Isabella’s two sons were each granted half after Edward I forfeited the current earl for supporting Robert Bruce).

Conversely, Walter Bailloch’s descendants remained at the forefront of Scottish politics. He and his wife Mary accompanied Alexander III’s daughter to Norway in 1281, and Walter was later a signatory to both the Turnberry Band and the Maid of Norway’s marriage negotiations. He also acted as a commissioner for Robert Bruce (grandfather to the future king) during the Great Cause. He had at least three children by Mary of Menteith and their sons took the surname Menteith rather than Stewart. The descendants of the eldest son, Alexander, held the earldom of Menteith until at least 1425. The younger son, John, became infamous as the much-maligned ‘Fause Menteith’ who betrayed William Wallace, although he later rose high in the service of King Robert I. Walter Bailloch himself died c.1294-5, and was buried next to his wife at the Priory of Inchmahome on Lake of Menteith, which Walter Comyn had founded over fifty years previously. The effigies of Walter Bailloch and Mary of Menteith can still be seen in the chapter house of the ruined priory: the worn faces are turned towards each other and each figure stretches out an arm to embrace their spouse in a lasting symbol of marital affection.

(The effigies of Walter Bailloch and Mary of Menteith at Inchmahome Priory, which was founded by Walter Comyn in 1238 and was perhaps intended as a burial site for himself and his wife Isabella of Menteith. Source: Wikimedia Commons).

The dispute over Menteith saw a prominent noblewoman publicly accused of murder and exiled, and even sparked an international incident when Scotland was placed under interdict. For all this, neither Isabella of Menteith nor John Comyn of Badenoch triumphed in the long term. Even Walter Bailloch eventually had to accept the loss of half the earldom after holding it for over twenty years. In the end the only real winner seems to have been the king. Although at first sight the persecution of Isabella and her husband looks like a classic example of overmighty magnates taking advantage of a breakdown in law and order during a royal minority, Alexander III was not a child and his rebuke of John Comyn did not result in any backlash against the Crown. Most of the Scottish nobility fell back in line once the king came of age, but the king in turn had to ensure that he was able to reward key supporters if he wanted to expand the realm he had inherited. Although it was important to both Alexander III and his father that primogeniture and were accepted by their subjects as the norm, in practice both kings found that they had to bend their own rules to ensure that the system worked to their own advantage. The thirteenth century is often seen an age of legal development and state-building, but these things sometimes came into conflict with each other, and even the most successful kings had to work within a messy system and consider the competing loyalties and customs of their subjects.

Selected Bibliography:

- “Vetera Monumenta Hibernorum et Scotorum”, Augustinus Theiner (a printed version of Urban IV’s original Latin epistle may be found here)

- “John of Fordun’s Chronicle of the Scottish Nation”, vol. 2, ed. W.F. Skene (this is an English translation of the chronicle of John of Fordun, made when Gesta Annalia I was still believed to be his work. It provides an independent thirteenth or fourteenth century Scottish account of the Menteith case

- “The Red Book of Menteith”, volumes 1+2, ed. Sir William Fraser

- “Calendar of Documents Relating to Scotland, Preserved Among the Public Records of England”, volumes 1, 2, 3 & 5, ed. Joseph Bain

- “The Political Role of Walter Comyn, earl of Menteith, during the Minority of Alexander III of Scotland”, A. Young, in the Scottish Historical Review, vol.57 no.164 part 2 (1978).

- “Scotland, England and France After the Loss of Normandy, 1204-1296″, M.A. Pollock

- “The Wars of Scotland, 1214-1371″, Michael Brown

As ever if anyone has a question about a specific detail or source, please let me know! I have a lot of notes for this post, so hopefully I should be able to help!

#Scottish history #Scotland #British history #thirteenth century #women in history #Menteith #earldom of Menteith #Isabella Countess of Menteith #John Russell #John Comyn I of Badenoch #Alexander III #Henry III #Pope Urban IV #Walter Bailloch #the Stewarts #House of Dunkeld #House of Canmore #Mary of Menteith #inchmahome priory

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