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fatehbaz · 1 year

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In one of the oldest poems in English literature, [...] The Seafarer not only provides us with one of our first ornithological references in the English language, but also [...] written description of birds evoking place, being associated with a distinct landscape. This poem is not alone, however, in suggesting to us how birds could inspire a feeling for place more than 1,000 years ago. [...] Hidden in the names of towns and villages are the ghostly traces of birds conjuring powerful identities for people in the landscapes and settlements of early medieval England. [...]

Among this rich repository of names [in Britain], birds rank in their many hundreds as vitalising elements and markers of medieval places – more than any other class of wild animal [...]. Among the cranes and crows, eagles and pigeons and geese (to mention some of the more commonly named birds), there are also less expected species. Who would imagine the mulch-and-mud snipe secretly probing the worm house as place markers in Snitterfield (Warwickshire), or fairy-flitting titmice roving through trees as the spirits of Masongill (Yorkshire), or yellowhammers like fireside embers in the winter hedgerows in Amberley (Sussex)? [...] What was it about birds that so caught people’s place-imaginations?

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One avian order that demonstrates birds’ place-shaping potential especially well is the owls. [...] [T]he tiny village of Ulcombe [is] nestled in a gentle fold of the North Downs. Its name is listed in the Domesday Book (1086 CE), and it means ‘the owl’s valley’. [...] [O]ur word for this order of birds descends from one of just two Old English words for all owls: ule, pronounced ‘oooo-l’ (the other is uf, of which there are very few records.) Ule is a very ancient [...] utterance. [...] The onomatopoeic potency of ule implies not only how owls themselves materialised and existed as sound [...], but that this also affected how people experienced the places in which they heard these sounds. On some level, those places named after owls (Ulgham, Outchester, Oldberrow, Ullenhall, Ullenwood) were identified as soundscapes as much as landscapes [...].

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Other ‘sound birds’ appearing in place names besides owls, however, suggest [...] bioacoustics as [...] distinguishing properties of a place’s atmosphere. Take bitterns, for instance, those specialists of reed-bed living, who have perfected invisibility [...]. We know bitterns best by the eerie, sonorous booming of male bitterns that ‘bombleth in the myre’, as Geoffrey Chaucer describes it in ‘The Wife of Bath’s Tale’. In names like Purleigh (pūr + lēah = ‘bittern clearing’), then, we are confronted again by places defined according to a particular, evocative sound. Even in the 18th century, when the draining of much of the old Fens surrounding the Ouse Washes was already well underway, Daniel Defoe is drawn to ‘the uncouth Music of the Bittern … so loud that it is heard two or three Miles Distance’ [...].

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Like the tawny owl, of course, [the cuckoo] has a very distinctive song. Its famous call (immortalised in the medieval song ‘Sumer Is Icumen In’) is equally matched by the bird’s reputation as a herald of summer. Species such as cuckoos and swallows are only present for part of the year in Britain, meaning they were mostly absent from those places that came to bear their names. How was it, then, that they still came to imbue locations such as Swallowcliffe or Yaxley (the Old English for cuckoo is geac, pronounced ‘yay-ack’) with such defining and enduring resonance? These summer birds bring a place to life, as it were. [...] Cuckoos, like so many British birds that are threatened or extinct, would have been much more abundant in the Middle Ages. Yaxley, on the edge of surviving cuckoo strongholds in the former Fens, would have thronged to their calls. Now these places, and many like them where the birds of their names are absent, are solemnly displaced, the names creaking in the wind like dilapidated pub signs [...]. We can sense that displacement in the sprawl of modern suburban environments too, which [...] assign bird nomenclatures to roads and residential spaces (Sandpiper Drive, Nightingale Way, Lark Rise, Goldcrest Mews…) where the species named are nowhere to be seen [...].

[B]ird place names [...] alert us [...] [to] the rich forms and possibilities of ecological dwelling, which shaped how people perceived and responded to the local worlds around them. [...] We need these spirits of place.

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All text above by: Michael J. Warren. “Home and the birdsong.” Aeon. 12 December 2022. Essay edited by Sam Haselby. [In this post, bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.] Essay published by Aeon at: [aeon.co/essays/british-place-names-resonate-with-the-song-of-missing-birds]

#ecology #abolition #imperial #interspecies

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jiubilant · 1 month

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what do you think little aduri’s first impression of avrusa and sinderion was…

"And this," says Sinderion, leaning with a grin across the shoulder-carriage bench, "is Asplenium regelliam."

The toddler on Avrusa's copious lap stares, cross-eyed and scholarly, at the sprig of green tickling her nose. Then she squishes her face with a thoughtful gurgle.

"Yes, indeed," says Sinderion with utmost solemnity, "it's named for the estimable Chivius Regelliam, whose work has proven invaluable to we who crawl through hedgerows in his wake. Very good."

"Don't listen to him, sprout," says Avrusa, raising her eyebrows. "Never crawled through a hedgerow in his life. I did all the field work." She bounces her new charge, winning a giggle, then peers with mock severity into her face. "What's A. regelliam in the vernacular?"

Little Aduri gives her a rapt look. Then she reaches up to pull Avrusa's lip.

"Ouch," says Avrusa, amused. "Nirnroot, that's right—ouch."

The shoulder-carriage jostles through the City of Gems on bright and crowded streets, bobbing around foot-traffic like a boat. It has windows. Avrusa tries not to look at them. Outside, the city brims with light and noise: the rattle of pushcarts, the sizzle of frying scrib, the shouts of the chairmen bearing them from her father's squalid palace to the rooms they've rented over the market-square. Not cheap. Nor is the chairmen's fee—but the child can't walk, Avrusa reasons, and Sinderion will be two hundred and ninety next week.

And her father, she thinks, bitter as wormwood, has willed the sprout some pocket-change.

Sinderion, replacing the nirnroot in his bottomless bag, looks sidelong at her. Then—with that awkward, punctilious insight of his—he takes her hand.

"I'm all right," Avrusa rasps, then clears her throat. "Will be." She shakes her head, struck with amazed grief—how suddenly it comes and goes, like the gusts of ash that had once rolled through Ald'ruhn. "He used to keep such a clean house. More than clean."

Her mentor's hands had been lively, once: scribbling notes, sketching lectures in the air, flicking her fingers when she held a pestle wrong. Now they tremble with the simple strain of squeezing her hand. "Orderly?"

"Yes." She looks with bewilderment at the toddler—her half-sister, for gods' sake, two hundred years younger than herself. "And he—n'chow, Sinderion, he was older than you. I just don't understand—"

The shoulder-carriage bucks. Avrusa finds herself doing several things at once: clutching the toddler to her chest, cursing, kicking out a leg to keep Sinderion's bag from flying into him. It crunches. The ungrateful old twig cries out and swats her knee. "You harridan, my retort!"

"Bother your retort—"

"My flasks!"

"Were you planning to brew elixirs," demands Avrusa, righting herself, "here in the sedan—"

Aduri giggles again. Sinderion's grin reappears, as it always does, like an ancient light sputtering on. "Funny, are we?"

Avrusa sets the squirming toddler on her knee. The sprout is scrawny, she thinks with a frown. She smells sour, milky; she'd screamed and kicked the maid who, an hour or so ago, had shoved her at Avrusa with a desperate smile. Avrusa had understood them both. Part of her, she thinks, had wanted to kick something, too—had wanted it ever since she set out, across countless leagues and second-guesses, to fetch home a child she hadn't known existed—

The toddler puts her hand in her mouth. "Bah."

"That's right," says Sinderion, the old cellar-dweller. "Species Plantarum is our art's most inviolable text."

Their new pupil takes her hand from her mouth, studies it academically, then puts it back. Something in Avrusa's chest moves.

"Excelsior," she says gruffly, and tickles her sister's skinny ribs. "I'll read you some."

Aduri laughs. The sound is bright and sweet as a nirnroot's chime.

#she was so little <3 #skyrim #microfic #avrusa sarethi #aduri sarethi #sinderion

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monstersandmaw · 6 months

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Monsters & Maw Patreon returns 21st October, with a Dullahan story in time for Halloween!

Extract:

A mist on Samhain night coiled its curious fingers through the hawthorn hedgerows and carded the bone-pale grasses along the verge with gentle, sighing caresses. At the fulcrum of the year, when the last warmth of summer had truly faded, and the biting maw of winter had yet to show its teeth, you came truly alive for a precious few weeks.

You sighed around a smile, softly sweeping the birch bristles of the broom back and forth across the flagstone that marked the entrance to your cottage, and hoped to sweep away the bad luck that seemed to have gathered like choking dust in all the corners of your life that year. You were ready for the restorative stillness that winter would bring, but you weren’t quite ready to let go of the bounty of a rich autumn either.

That afternoon, you’d set your carved Jack o’ Lantern grinning on the step, and you’d given your private remembrances to the recently departed. You’d walked sunwise round your house with a bough of smouldering fir to cleanse the space with smoke, and you’d offered firewood from your stores to the village boys who’d trekked all the way out to your lonely cottage to make sure that your hearth was included in the communal bonfire. In the morning, you would go down to the smouldering embers on the village green and light your own torch to bind your hearth to the rest of the community, but for the moment, you were alone on the edge of things.

Now, as the tiny crescent of moon sailed out from behind the bare, silhouetted branches of the old copse of ash and oak behind the drystone wall, you leaned a moment on the wooden gate at the end of the garden path, and tilted your face to its frail, faltering light.

Your breath made ghosts dance in the air, and as you rested there and smelled the last of the mint in the garden beside you, the sound of hoofbeats on the road disturbed the dark and the quiet of the night.

It was far too late for any of the villagers to be venturing up the road now. Travellers were rare on Samhain night, and yet a horse was approaching at a steady, measured walk, and eventually, the hazy outline of a rider on a huge, ragged mount melted from the mist.

Your heart leapt to your throat and you stepped back, trying not to trip or stumble or bolt to your house for fear of insulting the rider. This was no human being sitting astride that monstrous horse with its rolling red eyes.

For one, the rider had no head.

“Dullahan,” you breathed before you could stop yourself, and you felt their attention sharpen onto you. You bit back a hissing curse at your stupidity just in time and stood your ground. There was an iron horseshoe above your door, and you wondered if that would be enough to protect you from this Unseelie Fae.

The horse’s hooves slowed and it tossed its head, snorting and blowing steam in the cold night, and the rider turned to regard you with a head that wasn’t there.

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You will be able to read the whole story on the 'Little Ghosties' tier of Patreon from 21st October 2023!

I hope to see you there for more like this, and if you want to know a little more about it, here's the post I made to let folks know about my Patreon coming back!

#dullahan #dullahan x reader #dullahan romance #fae romance #fae #patreon #ghosti's patreon

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cuubism · 3 months

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From one horse girl to another, I NEED to know what "Good horses" is about! <3

Good Horses is the name of the "sheltered rich kid dream/feral child hob" fic i've posted a snippet or two of here and there. it's a human-ish AU. coming-of-age, young love, the wilderness, folklore, and escape.

title comes from Reverence by Sarah Manguso:

A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip. But we are not good horses.

As it turned out, it was just a walking path through the fields, past occasional small copses of trees, not secretly a road into Faerie or whatever Dream’s paranoid and fantastical mind might have conjured. It wasn’t even completely wilderness—they passed farms and houses, cows and horses in paddocks, wandered alongside trimmed hedgerows and through well-oiled gates. But it was strange to be out in the fields, especially at night. The moon shone high above through the clouds, casting an eerie silver light over the grasses and trees. In the middle distance Dream could see the lights of nearby houses, but beyond that was darkness. It was strange, but also freeing. Nobody was out here, not at this hour. Just him and Hob and the night insects, the livestock grazing in their pastures, and the wild nocturnal animals that presumably prowled in the nearby forest, foxes and the like. Dream almost hoped to see one. “I like how quiet it is out here at night,” Hob said, walking slow with his hands in his pockets. “Me, too,” said Dream, though it was a new love for him, just kindled in this darkness. Hob cast him a smile. They passed another field of grazing horses, the farmhouse visible on the far side of the fencing. The horses looked up as they passed, eyes glowing silver in the moonlight. One that was near the fence stretched its head over to them, huffing. Dream knew horses, had taken riding lessons once upon a time—one of the few activities pushed by his parents that he had actually enjoyed—and stroked his palm down the horse’s long nose as they passed. It lipped at him, looking for treats. “Do you like horses?” Hob asked, stopping beside him. “Yes,” said Dream. There were few animals he would say he didn’t like, though he had little opportunity to interact with most. But he did like horses, their silly antics, their quiet pride. “Me too,” said Hob. The horse turned to look at him, ears pricked at attention. It didn’t poke out its nose at him, but it stayed focused on him, blowing out a hard breath. Hob gave it a little wave, and then gestured Dream on.

#horses and folklore... and mystery...#sheltered rich kid dream and feral child hob #ask #anonymous #my writing #thank you!!

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luanneclatterbuck · 8 months

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When I bought my house a few years ago, it had been empty for a couple years, and before that neglected and improperly cared for, and was all starting to show it, including the “landscaping.” There was a row of evergreen bushes along the front porch, and it was my mission to get them back into shape, and that shape was going to be a nice, long, even bank of flat bushes. Flat on top, flat along the front with nice crisp 90 degree corners.

The condition when I bought it:

I knew it was going to take some years because you just can’t go carving into plants like that without damaging them.

So I took my time. Year after year I’d trim some here, shape some there, let that part fill in…

And I was getting there. They were filling in. They were easier to shape.

And then the guys who re-screened my porch last summer broke a branch on the one closest to my front steps. I tied it up and supported it with twine, hoping I could salvage it. It looked like it worked until about a month ago when it started turning brown. THEN I noticed it was covered (and when I say covered, I mean just dripping with) bag worm sacks.

So they have to come out. I took the end one out on Monday and it looks terrible. So another fall project is to rip them all out and kill the stumps.

Goddamn it. But… in the spring I will plant something new. Maybe boxwoods so I can get that crisp hedgerow I’ve wanted. Or lilacs or hydrangeas because pretty flowers are my favorite.

But damn it. I tried my best to save that whole thing. All for nuthin.

#trying to be positive #I’ll make it better than before #but we were almost there #continuing cute-ification of my house #always a work in progress #just old house stuff

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the-hedgerow-house · 2 months

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Copy of a news clipping found in library archive taken by a grad student c. 2003

#gore #here there be monsters #horror comedy #the hedgerow house #fakenews #the paper isn't real #chill

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mylordshesacactus · 10 months

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I got to do some like, legit atmospheric horror work a month or so back.

The party, after ditching the giant dragon turtle, was making their way through the forest in search of a small village they’d seen from its back--the only sign of civilization. Their unicorn friend Albion had dropped them in a region of the faewild he said contained a trusted ally--but no one had come to find them, and they need to get moving, so the village is as good a place to start as any.

Along the way they ran into a pair of charming rabbitfolk brothers named Brush and Briar, struggling on the side of the road to right a partially-smashed cart. After cautious, exact-words exchanges in which Max the bard did some serious work to make the party appear nonthreatening and avoid accidentally imposing a debt, the brothers explained that they were from the nearby village of Little Ivywood, and they’d been attacked by bandits on the road and nearly lost all their worldly possessions because the bandits accused them of “betraying their queen”. They explain that Little Ivywood surely has some pro-mortal sentiments, but that certainly neither of them have betrayed any queens!

The party, who were headed that way anyway, of course take the brothers under their wing and help them get their cart back to the village. Along the way they chat about the faewild, about the bandit problem (bandits are described as “bestial” and there are claw marks on the cart), about how about 20% of their carrots “bite back” and it’s very offputting, dontchaknow, but such eternal suffering does seem to be somethin’ of our people’s lot in life.

So they pass several pleasant hours before coming up on the village of Little Ivywood.

The............very....very. Quiet. Village of Little Ivywood.

Max and Andromeda are the first to see the bodies in the fields.

The party puts Brush and Briar behind them and--in a moment that made me the DM ache over how recently they were a ragtag bunch of misfits half of whom had never taken a life before--do a VERY professional check-and-clear sweep of the village. It’s...bad. If there are survivors, they’re nowhere near.

The wounds are grisly, and the attack was...thorough. Nimbus the ranger finds the marks of boots and cloven hooves in the dirt, but is having trouble checking trailsign--he grew up in a village just like this. While checking houses, Audie the wizard finds a cellar door thrown open with the bloody body of one rabbit dead on the floor outside it, and a rug thrown aside under the trapdoor--someone who gave his life to hide his family, only to have them die anyway.

Andromeda, the aarakocra paladin, stays in the air on overwatch. While checking the perimeter, she sees a glimmer in the treeline and drops down to check--expecting to find enemy scouts coming back for stragglers, or perhaps an injured survivor taking shelter in the hedgerow, and finds--

Snares.

Iron running snares, set in between rows of crops, paths in the hedgerows, along gaps in the underbrush. A cruel, condescending kind of joke--the kind of perimeter you set up when you intend for no one, not a single living rabbitfolk, to escape the slaughter.

With no small amount of guilt, the party takes what they can from the homes--they haven’t been looted, this wasn’t a bandit raid. And then--something moves.

The trio of liondrakes emerges all spite and fury; held at bay by the heavily-armed party but hissing insults, calling Brush and Briar traitors, demanding to know why the party would defend them, swearing to kill them all in the name of their queen or die trying. And something--doesn’t add up. The liondrakes scoff at the idea of serving the Courts--it was the Summer Court, they say, who killed these people, and their own queen, the Queen of the Wilds, who tried to save them. They say, again, that the party is harboring traitors, and...

and it’s Nim who makes the 20+ insight check.

Brush and Briar lived in Little Ivywood. They were farmers, not merchants. So, on the night their families and neighbors were slaughtered by the Summer Court...

What were they doing in the middle of the woods with all of their worldly possessions?

#d&d #suncrest #the reference name for this session in the campaign notes doc #is 'Warren Of The Shining Wires'#because I am always and forever myself #i've NEVER gotten to do the 'adorable friendly NPC you can't help but love is actually fucking evil' thing before #it was so much fun #my players were horrified

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zellink · 7 months

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to caress a thunderstorm

a post-botw zelink fic. [ one-shot // 13k words // E-rated for sexual content ]

>> Read on AO3

Summary: Zelda realizes that it doesn’t matter if they’re underneath the roof of the house, at a clothing boutique, in the secluded Sheikah village, or by the bay. It is the air that he carries around him that is warm and electric, emanating from the skin that wraps around his life force, his soul. So long as she stays by his side, it will always be that way. Two weeks before their journey to see the kingdom, a thunderstorm brews in their home.

Notes: I've been working on this for three weeks now and I'm so glad it's finally finished! Special thanks to @aquaticpal for beta'ing and helping me bring this piece to fruition. <3

to caress a thunderstorm

“Could you pass me the shears?”

They are kneeling in the dirt, by the bushes in front of the house that they now try to manicure into a neat hedgerow. Zelda’s hands are dirtied from planting seedlings of hydrangeas earlier, but it’s nothing compared to the soil that covers Link’s fingers, finding its way into the crevices underneath his nails.

She grabs the tool that lies not too far from her, and hands it to him. He grips it by the handles, mutters a thank you, and begins to trim off the leaves at the top.

“I never knew so much goes into shearing the perfect hedge,” Zelda says. She thinks of the hedges that once decorated the sprawling gardens of her now-destroyed castle. There was that one metal bench that she loved so well, cocooned in a hedgerow that formed a square, each shrub shaped like a cone and as tall as herself. She used to read a lot there, usually to avoid the man that she now shares a house with. She really took things for granted, back then. She took him for granted, too.

“Honestly, I didn’t know either. I usually just let them overgrow.” She watches the muscles in his arm flexing, the veins underneath his skin shifting as he cuts and cuts. “But I think it’s pretty straightforward. It’s just tedious.”

“Oh, well.” She purses her lips. “If you like it overgrown then we can leave it be. It’s your house, after all.”

Zelda has said this a few times before. The first one was born of a real worry that she was imposing on him. He was quick to assure her that she was not. The second and third and the next ones—well. They were still coming from a place in her mind that wouldn't stop whispering all sorts of doubt, but she also just wanted to hear him say it again, that’s all.

“It’s your house, too,” Link corrects her. His eyes do not leave the greenery in front of him, but there’s a slight smile on his lips. “And no, I don’t mind. Trimmed or not—either way looks good, I think.”

“Maybe we can let them grow out after this and see if that would look better?” she asks.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

The shears are making their way to the end of the row, now—and she notices his brows furrowing in concentration as he attempts to shear a corner into a more rounded shape.

Three weeks ago, the sky turned crimson red for the last time before it made way for light and endless blue. Three weeks ago, she dropped to her knees, century-old exhaustion finally catching up to her. Three weeks ago, he caught her before she fully fell to the ground and cradled her in his arms—her tears absorbed by his blood-stained tunic.

Three weeks ago, she finally heard his voice after a hundred years of being robbed of hearing it, saying I may not remember enough, but I’m here, Zelda, I’m here.

Today, they are kneeling in the dirt, tending to their garden, the early autumn sun beating down their backs.

The breeze feels cool against her cheeks, where tears start to roll down. ********

In the evening, they cook prime meat roulade with pesto. She has always insisted on learning new recipes, eager to remedy her lack of cooking skills, so Link assigns her the task of crushing Hyrule herbs, chickaloo tree nuts, garlic, and salt in a mortar with a pestle. He prepares the meat with practiced ease—carefully slicing it into a long thin slab with a kitchen knife.

Zelda, meanwhile, is less graceful in the kitchen; she has to lean her entire body weight onto the pestle as she grinds the ingredients into a near-fine paste. It takes a bit of time to do so, and in her periphery she sees him finish slicing the meat, so she picks up the pace and grinds and grinds, feeling the muscles in her arm burn.

Link laughs—a beautiful sound, albeit still a little foreign to her. “Take your time. This meat isn’t going anywhere.”

She'll have to get used to that, Link laughing freely. Just like she'll have to get used to watching the swell and fall of his chest underneath his tunic.

Once she’s done, she slides the mortar to him, and he begins to spread the green paste onto the meat.

It’s strange, she thinks, as she watches him meticulously slather the sauce onto the surface, careful not to miss a spot. Those hands, those fingers. Calloused and crisscrossed with scars. Capable of cooking the best dishes she’s ever tasted. Capable of pulling the holiest sword known to man out of its pedestal.

Capable of divine wrath.

“After you’ve spread the paste evenly, you can start laying down the bacon like so,” he says, taking a strip and laying it down, one by one. Once finished, he takes the bottom corners of the sliced meat and begins rolling. “You want to roll it tightly like you would a carpet.”

“But will it not unfurl when we roast it in the cookpot?” she asks.

“That’s where the string I got from Uma earlier today comes in handy,” he says, eyeing a small spool of cotton string on the other end of the counter. Zelda retrieves it and places it next to the cutting board. “You can cut the string into roughly six-inch bits. Use my hunting knife.” He nods at the leather sheath attached to his belt. She reaches for it, pulls the knife from its holder, and when her fingers barely brush the fabric of his pants, for the thousandth time since she moved into his house, she swears she could feel a jolt of electricity.

Her breath becomes ragged all of a sudden. She ignores it, chalks it off to the humid room.

Once the strings are cut, equal in length, Link begins to tie the string around the roulade, tying the ends off at the top, each tied string about an inch apart, keeping the meat from unfurling. Zelda gazes at his fingers as he knots the last string, lost in the simplicity of his movements, the way the metacarpals shift underneath the scarred skin of his hand. They’re dirty again, she’s noticed—this time with herb paste and grease, and in her mind she sees blood instead. Cupping her cheeks, wiping her tears away. Gentle despite his undeniable strength. Zelda, we have to get moving. Please. Please—

It’s his voice that catapults her back to the present.

“All right. Now it’s time to fry it.”

They bring the cutting board and a pair of tongs outside to the cookpot. Link hands the board to her so he can start the fire. Flint against steel beside dry grass atop a bundle of wood. Then, a spark, caught by tinder, which he blows a lungful at until the little specks of orange grow into flames. Firelight licks his features, his golden hair, turning him into a sculpture akin to those that used to reside in the gallery at the castle. There’s a hint of a satisfied smile on his lips.

It has only been twenty-two days since they reunited, but in moments like this, she couldn’t help but notice the faint contrast between the Link from a hundred years ago and the Link now—in the way he cooks, the way he builds a fire, the way he shears a hedge, the way he talks. Something much, much wilder resides within him, now. Or perhaps, it had always been there, but was tamped down by years of masterful stoicism born out of a need to avoid watchful eyes and whispering mouths. But after his long slumber, it bleeds through the cracks and makes itself known.

He grabs the roulade from the board and lays it gently in the pot, unflinching even as burning flecks of oil start to fly. He presses the roulade down with his bare fingers, getting a good sear across the surface. Any other person would recoil from the heat, afraid of the burn, but Link—

Well, Link is no other person.

Eventually, he retrieves the tongs from her side and tosses the roulade around with them, making sure it cooks through evenly. Once done, they bring the food and cooking tools back inside, and she prepares the dining table while he serves the roulade with mashed potatoes that they made earlier on.

They eat in comfortable silence, and without the sounds of the outdoors to fill her mind, Zelda studies his hands again—a fork in his left, a knife in his right, slicing and slicing and spearing before bringing the piece of food into his mouth.

Two thoughts bloom unbidden in her mind, though she knows they have lurked beneath the surface of her consciousness since long ago—since before she had painfully achieved her godhood, before she had even pulled her head out of the sand and realized just how wrong she was about him.

Two thoughts.

First, everything he does is wildly beautiful.

And second—

Her soul loves his soul. ********

Zelda slips into her only nightgown and crawls underneath the blanket draped on Link’s bed. For the past three weeks, she has lied in it alone while he sleeps on the makeshift pallet downstairs. ’I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor,’ he said, voice soft yet stern, during their first night together in Hateno. She wondered then, and she wonders now, how long he’ll sleep on that pallet before they finally throw caution to the wind.

There was that late night in Kakariko, following the final battle in the fields. Still in her dirty prayer dress after her long and tearful conversation with Impa. Link, patiently waiting for her behind the Chief’s house, by the waterfall. Dread settling in her throat.

They talked and talked. Feeling the mist from the waterfall on her face, her hair. Pondering aloud about the future. Swallowing that dread and trying with all her might to keep her voice steady even as her insides were unraveling.

’Your work is done, Link. I can’t ask you to do more. Nobody can.’ Tears in her eyes. Keeping them at bay. ’So I understand if you would just rather leave and live your life. Goddess knows you have earned it.’

Link shaking his head. ‘But I wish to stay. By your side. If you’ll let me.’

The dam breaking inside her.

’I want that,’ she whispered brokenly into the crook of his shoulder. ’That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

A kiss on his neck before she pulled away. A thunderclap of a noise, his small gasp. She didn’t mean to do it, but there was a phantom magnet in her lips and underneath his skin. Simply hard to resist.

In return, a kiss on her temple.

“Zelda?”

Link is standing at the foot of the bed, a questioning look in his gaze. She pinches the bridge of her nose, clears the thoughts away.

“Sorry—what did you say?”

“We should go to Ventest tomorrow, get you fitted for some winter clothes.” He says. He’s wearing his sleep clothes, now—shaggy blonde locks all loose on his shoulders. “Rito Village can be unbearably cold even in the autumn.”

Rito Village, Zelda thinks wistfully. So much for stretching out this private bliss. In the end, duty calls her; reminds her of who she truly is.

When they left Kakariko, Impa quickly sent letters to the various chiefs spread throughout the kingdom, officially announcing the long-awaited victory over the Calamity, and the Princess’ wish to meet the people who had helped the Hero throughout his journey. The Rito was the first among the four races to respond; expressing that they would be more than happy to welcome Zelda and Link two weeks after the fall equinox. After that, they must journey to Lanayru to Zora’s Domain, then Goron City, and lastly, Gerudo Town.

“Right.” She frowns a little—the reality of having to leave this sanctuary of a house starting to settle in. “Can’t ever escape the royal in me, huh?”

Link takes a few steps to stand by her bedside.

“You know you can always say no, right?” His eyes are steely, and the earnestness she sees in them sends gooseflesh down her neck. “You’ve earned the right to do whatever you want now.”

“I know. But I want to do this. Visit each of the races. See the kingdom with my own two eyes. I just…” she sighs, shoulders slumping. “I just wish we had more time.”

Link’s voice turns unbearably soft. “More time for what?”

Heat rises in her cheeks. Oh, I don’t know.

Perhaps more time for her to gather her courage—while they tend to their front yard, while they pick berries in the forest behind the house, while she learns more recipes from him. To take those battle-worn hands in hers and pull him into her space, pull him into her. To tell him that terribly simple truth; that she loves him and wants nothing more but to have him completely, selfishly.

Zelda calculates each of these answers in her mind. All of them seem too dangerous to even be pondered upon, let alone uttered aloud to him, so she decides to say none of these. She opts for something safer.

“To do nothing. With you.”

She finally looks up to meet his eyes, and oh she’s stupid for thinking that it’s safer.

Because there it is again—the jolt of electricity, the air turning warm and heavy. It’s not unlike the air that they shared when they first embraced each other behind Impa’s house. Not unlike the spark against her fingertips as she retrieved the knife from his belt. Not unlike the million other times when they touched, whether it be intentionally or by accident, in this new century or the previous one—when the charge of two energies becomes too strong.

She sees it in his eyes, too; a wolf in its perch in the thick snow, staying still as it awaits its prey’s next move.

“Well,” Link starts as she watches his throat bob, “we still have two weeks.” A tongue wets his lower lip. “To do nothing.”

“Two weeks,” she echoes him. The air continues to turn warmer—lightning on its way to form. She tries to mull it over in the span of a millisecond. Release it or let it dissipate? “Though I guess I wouldn’t call our artful hedge maintenance ‘doing nothing’.” She grins.

Let it dissipate, it is.

Link lets out a soft laugh. Dimples on his cheeks—he’s smiling. Zelda hates him for it. Hates those lips, pink like spun sugar—for how they make her heart somersault.

He turns to the nightstand next to the bed and extinguishes the fire in the oil lantern. The loft turns darker, but his eyes stay impossibly blue even without ample lighting.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take the bed?” She asks. Or perhaps join me?

He shakes his head, something fond about his expression.

“Good night, Zelda.”

Beneath a sheet of blanket, her fingers curl and uncurl.

“Good night, Link.”

>> Continue reading on AO3

#i never know how to tag fics but uh I'll try #fanfic #zelink #botw zelink #zelink fic #zelink fanfiction #ao3 #my fic #botw fic

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sangyaoweek · 3 days

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💚💛The people have spoken!💛💚

With a whopping 65.5% of the votes, the sangyao nation of tumblr has crowned as their Unofficial Sangyao Theme Song….

💛💚Shrike by Hozier!💚💛

Link and lyrics below so you can all bask in its amazingness:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DOBHyBPPSow

youtube

Lyrics:

I couldn't utter my love when it counted

Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now

I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted

Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now

The words hung above

But never would form

Like a cry at the final

Breath that is drawn

Remember me, love

When I'm reborn

As the shrike to your sharp

And glorious thorn

And I'd no idea on what ground I was founded

All of that goodness is goin' with you now

Then when I met you, my virtues uncounted

All of my goodness is goin' with you now

Dragging along

Following your form

Hung like the pelt

Of some prey you had worn

Remember me, love

When I'm reborn

As a shrike to your sharp

And glorious thorn

I fled to the city with so much discounted

Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now

Back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted

Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now

I was housed by your warmth

Thus transformed

By your grounded and giving

And darkening scorn

Remember me, love

When I'm reborn

As a shrike to your sharp

And glorious thorn

Not going to lie, I (mod Bish) had nominated this song myself before Round 1. To me, this is one of the classic sangyao tunes, and an absolute banger of a song on its own merit. I’m delighted that this one won on Tumblr!

Interestingly, it didn’t get past Round 1 on Twitter, which surprised me a lot! That means that we’re definitely going to have a different winner over on the Twitter version of this mini-tourney (voting still ongoing as of posting this!).

I’ve been thinking about whether we should narrow it down to one winner across both platforms, but that involves maths I don’t know how best to do. If we hold it on both platforms again, it still wouldn’t help! Instead, mod Lux and I are probably going to do an informal poll over on the sangyao discord server to battle it out.

If you’re not already in the sangyao discord, hop on over and introduce yourself! We’d always love to have more people!

Though our mini-tourney’s ended, there’s still more sangyao to look forward to with Sangyao Week coming up. We hope you’re as excited as we are!

#mdzs #sangyao #sangyaoweek2024 #the untamed #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #Youtube

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hannahssimblr · 1 month

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Epilogue

It’s due to snow. My God, I think, does it have to be today? Can’t it at least hold off for twelve hours? The weather app predicts ten solid days of it. Snow, sleet, ice, snow, snow snow. Since when does it ever snow so much in December?

“Have you seen my black heels?” I ask my flatmate as I rummage through the ungodly pile of clothing at the bottom of my wardrobe.

Molly leans against the doorframe, “Yeah, you gave me a loan of them a few weeks ago. They’re here.”

“Oh thank God,” I snatch them out of her hand and wedge them into my already overpacked suitcase and then sit on it to try and force it shut.

She hovers on the threshold, “and those are the shoes you’re going to wear?” She says after some hesitation, “black sandals?”

“Yeah.”

“In the snow. In Ireland?”

I sigh, “Yes, Molls, I have no other choice, really. I need to look in some way elegant and put together, I can’t exactly show up to a wedding in my wellies, can I?”

She peers out the window above my bed at dark clouds that roll in front the west. We both know that as soon as they break, the snow will fall, and as soon as the snow falls everything will slowly shut down. The roads, the trains, the planes. “Right. Flying from Luton again?”

“Heathrow.”

“Oh, convenient.”

“I’m still cutting it fine,” I glance at my phone and feel a jolt of panic, “in fact I have to go right this very second.” I heave my suitcase up onto its wheels and volley it out into the little hallway. Molly backs out of the way as I follow, “have fun,” She says, and I wrestle with the chain on the door. It always bloody sticks at the worst moments. I let out a sigh of relief as I release it.

“Yeah, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

I haul my bags down two flights of narrow carpeted stairs and dodge the tangle of bicycles by the front door, then I’m out onto the streets practically sprinting with my bag while daggers of freezing air hit my face. It’s usually five minutes to Finsbury Park station but I make it in three, panting and wheezing as the tube squeals to a halt in front of me.

It’s busy, just like always in the early evening, but especially in these weeks leading up to Christmas. It seems like the whole borough of Islington is trying to pile onto this train as one great heaving mass of winter jackets and shoulder bags. I wedge myself and my suitcase in a little gap among them, flushed with the sudden heat of all of the bodies, clutch to a pole and turn my body away from them all so that I can stare blankly at the tile wall through the foggy glass as we pull away from the platform.

There’s already a thin layer of snow on the ground when we land in Dublin. I gaze out the window of the plane as it trundles to a halt at the snowflakes lit up, confetti under the floodlights of terminal one, and by the time I’ve bundled myself into my hired car it’s heavier. During the hour it takes me to reach my destination I fret more and more as drifts of snow slowly build along the edges of the motorway, and when those edges turn to hedgerows of the the narrow winding country the drifts get bigger, and cushions of perfect white perch upon the dense tangle of twigs and branches of the bushes, the last of the autumn leaves still clinging forlornly to them the same way they do to the trees overhead.

It is a manor house at the end of a long, wooded lane in that part of Wicklow that is posh enough that you’d feel the need to explain the reason for your presence in it to somebody, and the house itself is like something from a film. Christmas trees glitter by the front door and warm light from the sash windows spills out onto a white carpet of snow. It’s late now, I’d be surprised if anyone was still up, but as I shoulder my way through to the lobby I’m greeted by the sounds of tickling piano keys, so I suppose at least somebody is still awake.

I leave my bags by the stairs and go through a large set of wooden doors into the dining room where a shadowed figure is fussing over the tablecloths and the placement of the candles. She turns around, startled as the door swings shut behind me.

“Oh! Evie, you’ve arrived!”

“Yes,” I say, and Caroline Healy drops what she’s doing and crosses the room to hug me, “C’mere to me,” she says, and kisses my cheek, “You look beautiful,”

“Thank you,” After five hours of travelling I really don’t feel it. I glance around the room in the dim light, and each table is immaculately dressed with white cloth, ribbons, pillar candles and bouquets of winter blooms. “Have you done all this?”

“Just the flowers,” she says, “It’s some job getting it all together you know.”

“Well it looks amazing, I’m just surprised to see you up so late.”

She waves her hand, “I won’t sleep with the nerves, you know me, “ and I laugh, because she’s not really the one that should be nervous.

“Is anybody else up and about?” I ask.

“My two were running around there a while ago trying to wrangle the little one into bed,” She throws her eyes skyward, “God help us, I love my granddaughter but she’s as spoiled as anything, no bedtime routine whatsoever. I’d say if you go out into the lounge you might see them, or maybe one of the other young people is out there still, I don’t know. The musicians were tinkering away there the last I was about.”

Anxiety blooms in my stomach at the thought of who I might find hanging out in the lounge. “By any chance are the Turners here?”

Caroline is back to the tablecloths, “Yep, arrived earlier this evening, they might be in with Shane and Kelly if you pop in, just across the hall there, sure go and say hello.”

“Right, okay.” I go back into the lobby feeling oddly like a teenager again as I hover around the lounge door afraid. Afraid to go and see people I used to know as though I should even still care, as though any of us should still care about the happenings of our late teens and early twenties. I swallow my apprehension, wipe my sweaty hands on my skirt and push through the door.

To my relief I find Shane alone. He gets up from the sofa as he sees me.

“God, Evie, you’ve arrived,” He gives me a grin that splits across his entire face. It’s so quiet here with just the sounds of the crackling fire, while outside through gaps in the velvet curtains the snow has picked up and builds to piles on the sills.

“I’m so late in, I really didn’t think it was going to take so long but you know, with the weather and everything…”

“Yeah you’ve to be careful on those roads, they’re pure lethal. Come sit down.”

I do, right across from him and notice that he’s fiddling with his watch, unclasping it and clasping it again in a rhythmic motion. I bet that he was doing exactly that before I came in.

“How are you feeling?”

He laughs, “Nervous, so nervous. Actually a bit sick, you know? That kind of nervous, and I don’t know why, it’s not like I think she won’t show up, it’s just like – I suppose it’s knowing that it’s finally the big day and everyone will be looking on and all that…”

I get it, because even though Shane is used to attention by now, having spent six years in the spotlight, in newspapers, magazines, on radio, TV and in stadiums in front of thousands, he still hates to be perceived. Even at his own wedding he can’t stand the idea.

“Well are you planning on staying down here all night or do you have some idea that you might go to bed?”

His leg is jittering too, “I dunno, I was hoping that maybe at some point I might start to feel tired enough to go up and fall asleep.”

“You’re the same as your mother.”

“Don’t I know it. C’mere,” he leans forward, “How are you doing? What’s new?”

I’ve only started to tell him when the lounge door opens and a tall blonde woman comes inside, “Sorry to interrupt you,” She says, “We’ve just set the mics and piano up and all, but we thought we’d run the order of things by you one more time before tomorrow just to be extra sure. I hope it’s not a bother or anything but we just thought since you’re up…”

“Oh yeah, I’ll be out now in a minute,”

And then I’m looking at the woman as she’s looking back at me. Does she remember me? It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen each other and even then I don’t know-

“Evie, you know Ivy, right?”

I nod, “Yeah of course! Though it’s been years and years now. I remember you, but you were only thirteen, it’s alright if you don’t-”

“No, I remember you,” She says, and as she smiles one side of her mouth lifts a little higher than the other, making her seem cheeky, brazen, even. It’s a trademark Turner smile that I know far too well, and it makes my stomach flip.

“Is your brother around?”

“He went to bed a few hours ago. Jet lag.”

“I suppose I’ll say hi to him tomorrow.”

“Suppose you will.” She calls out, already disappeared around the doorframe.

I get the keys to my room from the desk and get ready for bed. This is an old house full of old noises. The radiators tick and the walls and the ceilings creak and I wonder if what I’m hearing is the sounds of other people awake and walking around or the roof settling under the weight of the snow. The furnishings are soft and old, worn and nostalgic like things from other decades tend to be, and the bed is so comfortable beneath me when I sit on it to take my shoes off that I want to topple over sideways and sleep right then and there. But I can’t. I have airports and planes and the Piccadilly line tube to wash off my skin. When I go into the bathroom to take a shower I’m surprised to find the absence of one, and only a clawfoot bath in its place, but that’s okay, I think, as long as I don’t let myself fall asleep in it.

I sit in it for a long time, until the water loses its heat and I lose all sense of the hour, but I don’t feel like moving. This must be the first time in months that I’ve sat in the quiet and done nothing, and I’m surprised by the stillness of the countryside. Outside the window the sky glows blue with the reflection of the white landscape, and there is not a sound for miles. No voices, traffic, dogs barking, city sounds, just the still, dark night. I imagine that perhaps I’m like the furniture in this hotel room, a woman from a different time.

I’ve left my bathrobe heating on the radiator so that I can wrap myself up and hold my body heat until I can nestle under the covers. It’s one of my favourite tricks from years of living in badly insulated, freezing cold London flats. From Peckham to Hackney to Dalston, they’ve all been the same. I’ve spent almost a decade of winters taping up the gaps in the windows, doubling duvets and wearing two pairs of socks to bed to ward off the assailing cold, but this room is warm enough to go without these things. I bask in the luxury of it, even in its faded beauty, the joy of slipping under the thick cotton sheets in just my silk pyjamas. I am so tired. I’m tired all the time and yet somehow I’ve never been quite this tired. I shut my eyes and listen to the faint tapping of snowfall on the glass.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky girl part 3 #the epilogue!#finally here

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catt-nuevenor · 1 year

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Modern Setting - Peyton & Peidyn

We leave the house a little after midday, the pair of us climbing into the cosy warmth of Peyton/Peidyn's car. The hamper is snugly secured on the back seat behind me, while extra blankets to guard against the cold and neatly bundled on the one behind Peyton/Peidyn.

"You'll make sure everyone behaves themselves, won't you?"

My little one nods eagerly from the front step, Ana/Abe beside them as they listen attentively to Peyton/Peidyn's playful instruction.

"Lars and Louis/Leila's bedtimes aren't that far after yours, so if they're getting rowdy when Ana/Abe reads you your story, you remind them that there are always extra chores to go around."

I chuckle softly to myself from the passenger seat, hiding my smile behind the map I've been tasked with reading, when I feel Peyton/Peidyn turn around.

My attempt fails miserably, and a dangerous glint sparkles in the corner of my companion's eye.

"Be good for Ana/Abe," I call out to my little one, who waves and promises that they will.

Peyton/Peidyn turns the key, and the car rattles into life. Soon the house is disappearing into the distance, and ahead of us lies a slow meandering countryside as the town gives way to golden fields and open sky.

"How much do you want to bet Lars and Louis/Leila are already bickering?"

I look up from the map and ponder. "Depends on what you're going to put up against my wager. I think they'll get along until dinner, then they'll argue about that."

Peyton/Peidyn hums thoughtfully. "Fair, but I think it'll be sooner than that. There's a whole afternoon to fill, after all. Boredom will be the biggest catalyst, I think."

I reach over and pat Peyton/Peidyn's knee. "It'll be fine. We've left them both in good hands."

"Remind me to buy Ana/Abe a nice bottle of wine on our way back?"

"Will do."

We roll the windows down and let the air wash away the worries of home. The drive isn't that long, only an hour or so if we took the main road, but we're in no rush. Mile after mile and we barely see a soul beside the birds in the hedgerows.

I was only told where we're going this morning at breakfast, and though I now have a name, and a spot upon a map, I'm still mostly in the dark. It's a special place, somewhere Peyton/Peidyn's parents took them when they were small. The original plan had been to pile everyone into the car and go earlier in the year, but summer was suffocatingly hot this year, and the sheer number of tourists about had put the idea firmly to bed.

We have the radio on for a while, crooning tunes of the local station's 'jazz hour' filling the car with a haze of saxophone and rolling chords. I come to rest my hand upon Peyton/Peidyn's thigh at some point, though I don't remember when. The effort to move outweighs my will, so there my hand stays. Peyton/Peidyn doesn't seem to mind.

After an hour and a half on winding roads, we pull into a small car park. It's little more than a patch of dusty dirty and sand in reality, but Peyton/Peidyn assures me it's secure as it needs to be to leave the car in, and we clamber out.

The scent of salt and pine swirl about on an inconsistent breeze, and I take a moment to study my surroundings.

We're close to the sea, the map told me that much, even if I couldn't smell it now. The pine comes from a high bank on my side of the car, its slopes thick with trees, the shadows beneath the branches deep.

"Can you get the other side of the hamper?" Peyton/Peidyn asks, half-inside the rear of the car, the blankets already strapped onto their back.

A narrow trail begins in the far corner of the car park, and leads us into the depths of the sloping forest. The hamper is far heavier than I thought it would be, but shared between the two of us it's manageable. Peyton/Peidyn barred me from the kitchen most of the morning while they were preparing its contents, delicious scents enticing me all the while to steal a peek inside.

At the crest of the bank, I get my first glimpse of our destination.

Below, beyond the treeline, stretches a vast plain of sand, the sea a distant froth of white on the horizon.

"What do you think?" Peyton/Peidyn asks as we begin our descent. "Worth the trip?"

"Definitely. Worth leaving the house in the siblings' hands?"

"With you here too? I think I can balance the books well enough."

We find a sheltered spot atop a grass strewn dune, and begin to make ourselves comfortable. Peyton/Peidyn tells me that they've already checked the tide and the weather for the evening. We'll be able to stay on the dune to watch the sunset, and make it back to the car long before the sea turns back towards the beach.

"After that?" I ask, settling myself on a corner of the main blanket.

Peyton/Peidyn looks over their shoulder and sends me a wink. "Never you mind, it's all sorted out."

"So long as you're not planning for us to rough it out in the car for the night."

They chuckle. "Would that be so bad? We put the seats down in the back, spread out all the blankets?" Peyton/Peidyn's smirk is deadly. "I think we could make ourselves quite comfortable."

"Behave! You're just trying to fluster me."

"Is it working?"

I don't trust myself to answer that coherently, so I distract myself with the contents of the hamper. Everything Peyton/Peidyn has packed within is, of course, delicious. I tell them so, and it works to distract them from their teasing, much to my heart's relief.

The afternoon slips into evening, and evening to sunset.

A tussock of grass makes a fine backrest for us, and we sit side by side as the blue sky above begins to burn into streaks of peach, gold, and amber.

"Happy?" Peyton/Peidyn asks, their arms wrapped around me, just as mine are wrapped around them.

I give a sleepy but contented nod. "You?"

Their answer comes with a kiss that brings the fire down from the sky.

"I'll take that as a yes," I rasp, before I return the gesture.

"I don't know if you should. Perhaps it would be better if you asked me again?"

---

Image courtesy of Frank Mckenna on Unsplash

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