#Which is now the Welsh Guards

[rooster-does-art]

In honor of the coronation the new King, I made this quick little piece. Iron Hoof as a Grenadier Guard!

#Iron Hood #Art #Random Art #MLP #My Little Pony #Earth Pony #Grenadier Guard #Now that I think of it I should have made him as a Welsh Guard #Since his 24th Solar Regiment of Hoof was based on the British Army's 24th Regiment of Hoof #Which is now the Welsh Guards #Oh well XD

[slavicdelight]

HIRAETH

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targ! Royce! f! reader

Summary: Hiraeth - A Welsh word meaning a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return; a home which maybe never was. Nostalgia, yearning, and grief, for the lost places of your past or a sense of home.

Warnings: blood, murder, violence, angst, canon divergence

A/N: This is part 2 of EPHEMERAL

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You awoke to the sound of crashing outside your chambers. Looking at the other side of the bed, you noticed that Aemond wasn’t there and the spot he occupied is cold, which means he has been gone for a while now. You stretched your arms and decided to get up to check the sound, only to find out that the doors were closed and you couldn’t get out. With a scowl, you tried to pry the entrance open, and when that didn’t work you banged on the wood and called out for help. The loud noise woke your daughter up as she started crying for attention, and you decided to stop your efforts and comfort her. “Good morning my dear girl.” you greeted Alysanne while picking her up from the cradle. “Oh, I’m sorry to have woken you little dragon. Did you sleep fine?” you asked and rocked her back and forth to calm her. When she opened her violet eyes to look at you, the love overcame you even stronger, she was your miracle, you didn’t know earlier that you could love someone as much as you did her. Nothing is equal to a mother’s love. You were so mesmerized by her, that you weren’t aware of the door opening and your husband walking in. Aemond stood in the doorway looking at you both, his heart warming up at the picture in front of his eye. You, his beloved wife, looked ethereal as always. The rays of sunshine, that burst through the window made the skin on your face glowing, and your attire added to the notion of thinking you an angel. Seeing you holding Alysanne, the epitome of the love you both share, made the sight even more beautiful. He slowly walked closer and placed his hands around your waist, making you jump a little.

“Aemond! You have frightened me!” you scolded him, turning to stand with him face to face. “I am extremely sorry, my love. It was not my intention.” he apologised with a faint smile, but the tone of his voice made you worried. There was something tense in it, and you wondered if it had anything to do with you being held in the room. “What’s wrong?” you asked him, making him sigh. He took the little girl from your arms, placing her back in the cradle, much to her protests, and led you to sit on the bed. You complied and waited eagerly for his answer, which he provided in an uneasy voice. “King Viserys is dead.” you sucked in your breath. The news wasn’t exactly unpredictable, but it still caught you off guard. While the king didn’t pay you much attention growing up, he was still your uncle, your blood, and that made you somewhat sad. “Oh.” was the only thing that left your mouth, as you were processing what you just learned, but your husband wasn’t done yet. “Apparently, he wished for Aegon to succeed him.” and with that your head whipped around to look at him so fast, that one could thing you broke the neck. This was new, as for years Viserys did nothing, but defend Rhaenyras claim to the throne and her position as heir, neglecting his other children in turn. Aegon as king was a bizarre thought. You also saw the distaste in Aemond’s features once he shared the news, everyone at court knew he detested his brother for everything he put him through as a child, and for being a useless waste of space. “I’m so sorry Aemond.” you told him, grabbing one of his hands to squeeze in a comforting manner. “For what? We all knew it would happen sooner or later.” you got up to stand before him and looking straight into his eyes you said “Yes, but he was still your father. You’re allowed to mourn for him” he stood up angrily and turned away to look into the burning flames in the fireplace

“He never noticed me. He never noticed any of us. It was always Rhaenyra for him. It was af if we were not his children, more like distant relatives he only had to see once in a while. He was no father to me. Criston Cole was more of a father than he was.” you walked to him and hugged his back, placing you chin on his shoulder. “What’s done is done. We need to get ready for our duties and coronation of a new king.” he said turning to you and kissing you on your forhead. In that moment a servant appeared and told your husband that his grandsire wished to see him. That left you alone in the chamber and you decided to call the maids to dress you and Alysanne for the day, as you were planning to check on Helaena and see how she was holding up. You chose one of your many beautiful sapphire gowns with long sleeves and dragons embroidered on the skirt, it was a gift from Aemond. The color resembles the eye he hides under the eyepatch. You also own a big collection of sapphire jewellery, the common folk taken to calling you and your husband the Sapphire Prince and Princess.

You sat with Heleana as the children played together with the maids watching over them. “How are you feeling, Hel? With the pressure of being crowned queen soon enough.” you asked your friend. “There is a beast beneath the boards.” she muttered, but quickly recvered to ansewr your question. “To speak truthfully, I don’t know. I never wanted the crown, all I wish for is spending time with my children, away from all these schemes and politics.” she said in a sad voice. You reached over to take her hand, which she accepted. It was known that Helaena did not like touching, but you were her sister, her dearest friend, and for that reason you were the exception. “I’m sorry about all of this. It shouldn’t have been your burden to carry.” it was a pity that she was married to Aegon, he didn’t deserve her. Soon Queen Alicent came to join you for tea and the three of you tried to forget about what was to come, if only for a little while.

time skip

It was time to crown the new king. You, Aemond, and Helaena stood in the Dragon Pit, watching people flooding in. Otto proposed to hold the ceremony before the eyes of common folk, so that they would recognize Aegon as the rightful king. It was a smart move, you have to admit that, but you knew that it would not stop Daemon and Rhaenyra from trying to take the throne back. In truth you didn’t care who sat the throne, all you wanted was to fly back to Runestone with your husband and daughter and live your life peacefully there. You begged Alicent to let you leave, that you wanted nothing to do with their schemes, but it all fell of deaf ears. She only told you that it was Aemonds duty to stand by his brother’s side, and as his wife, you should support him. Aemond noticed you anxiously playing with the ring on your finger and placed a hand on your back to help you ease up a bit. In that moment you saw Alicent arrive at the scene, which means Aegon is outside and the coronation is going to start. “People of King’s Landing. It is the saddest of days. King Viserys the Peaceful passed away.” started Otto Hightower and you heard the murmuring all around the pit. “It is also a joyous day, as he left us with his final wish for his son Aegon to succeed him.” The soldiers marched into the room creating a path for the late king’s eldest son to walk towards the stand. Once Ser Criston Cole placed the Conqueror’s crown atop his head, he stood up and looked at every member of his family for approval. When his eyes landed on you, you gave him a quick courtesy with a clenched jaw. He then turned to the crowd and lifted the sword, Blackfyre, and you could’ve swear that in that moment, he started to like his new position and power.

A few seconds later the happy shouts became screams of terror, as the ground began to fall and from below emerged a red dragon. It was Meleys with Princess Rhaenys at her back. The Red Queen came closer to where you all stood. Aemond quickly put you and Helaena behind himself for protection, and you noticed Alicent doing the same with Aegon in the corner of your eye. You thought to yourself that that was it, you would all die in the flames, but the dragon only roaerd in your faces and Rhaenys escaped, no doubt to Dragonstone to inform Rhaenyra and your father of what transpired. The image of Daemon made you shiver, now you were sure that he will be out for your blood.

Once in the safety of the castle, you hastily made way to the nursery to be with your daughter. You found her in the arms of one of the maids. You put her on the rug and started playing with her. About half an hour later Aemond came into the room. “They’re sending me to Storm’s End as an envoy. I’m to bind Lord Borros’ loyalty to our cause.” you frowned and tried to talk him out of it. “No. Have them send someone else and let us go back to the Vale.” you saw him lower his gaze and try to stop you, but you didn’t let him. “You know that Daemon won’t let this slide, he will be out for revenge against his wife! I don’t want us to be caught in the crossfire!”. “Aegon’s my brother. I have to do this, as it is my duty. I will go and offer the Baratheon fool Daeron’s hand in marriage to his daughter. I will be back before you know it.”. You didn’t like it and had a bad feeling, but you knew how stubborn your husband is and there will be no talking him out of it. You let him go, and for the next couple of days, you stayed close with Helaena and Alysanne. Finally, when you heard the unmistaken sound of Vhagar, you were elated, as it meant your dearest husband was back. Without a thought, you sprinted towards the council chamber where you knew he would head first. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what you heard next. Aemond Targaryen committed the greatest sin known to men - kinslaying. He murdered his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon in the skies, while chasing him on his war dragon. “You have lost only one eye, how could you be so blind?!” chastised him Otto Hightower, while the new king sat and laughed in delight. “You have doomed us all!” screamed Alicent and you were just horrified. You knew they would retaliate, ater all, your husband killed Rhaenyra’s favourite child. Your head kept spinning as images of could they do now invaded your mind. “The bastard is dead. Others would be soon too. It seems to me that we ought to have a feast in my beloved brother’s honour.” said Aegon and made no room to argue, while you just got up and ran back to your chambers.

When you entered your rooms, the tears spilled. You cried for the boy, for your husband and for yourself, but most importantly, you cried for your daughter. Now there was no way for you all to return to normal life, not when your husband began the war, that will certainly become marred with even more bloodshed soon enough. Aemond walked into the room not much later, and flinched when he heard your desperate cries. When he tried to touch you, you just backed into the corner. “Do not touch me!” you screamed, trying to compose yourself. “How could you?! Do you have any idea what you have done?!” you continued yelling. It was a good thing Alysanne was left under the care of Helaena and wasn’t there to witness the fight of her parents. “My love…” he started but you cut him off. “No! Don’t you dare! You put all of us in grave danger! They will want blood for this! My father won’t stop until he avenges Luke! Blood will flow this castle! There would be no peace for us! No mercy!” you started hyperventilating, you were having a panic attack. “Darling please, listen to me. I didn’t mean for it to happen. Vhagar didn’t listen to my commands. She devoured him on her own accord.” you just looked at him, your gaze full of hurt and fear, it broke his heart seeing you like this. “Your mother is right. You have doomed us all! You shouldn’t chase him in the first place, what did you expect to happen!?”. He noticed you shaking and took you into his arms as you tried to break free. After a minute of struggle, your energy drained out and you just accepted the hug, just laying in his embrace motionless. As much as you hated him for what he’s done, you loved him way to much to be angry for long. Now you needed to focus on protecting your family, no matter the cost, as you knew that the payment will come sooner or later.

It wasn’t until one night, when your husband was away gathering support for Team Green, that the retaliation for Lucerys came. You and Helaena were on your way to Queen Dowager’s chambers with your children, as it was a routine lately, to spend some time before heading to bed. Once you entered the chambers, you saw Alicent Hightower gagged and bound, as well as two unfamiliar men standing inside the room. Both quickly overpowered you and the princess and barred the door. “Tis’ nothing personal. A debt to be paid. Nothin’ more” said one while they both took the children captive. “The False Queen needs to choose, which son has to die. Fast before we make the choice ourselves.” said the other assailant. “Please! They’re innocent, spare them.” you tried pleading with them as Helaena offered hersef in the children’s place. “A queen is not a son.” said one man and ushered her to make a choice. You tried to get to the children but there was no way for you to do so, without harming the children in the process. “Maelor.” Helaena whispered. The younger son was still at the age where he didn’t understand what was happening around him, same as your daughter. “You heard that boy? Your mommy doesn’t love you” as while saying that, the man cut off the head of Jeahaerys, the oldest son of Aegon and Helaena, and the other one repeatedly stabbed little Alysanne in her cheast and belly. “NO!” you screamed as you saw the man throwing your daughter’s lifeless body, as if it was a useless rag. You and Helaena quickly made way to you fallen children weeping so horribly, that the whole castle heard it. The sound of grieving mothers tore through the walls, making anyone who heard it flinch. “No, no, no, no..”you muttered holding your daughter. “My light, please, open your eyes. Please.” you wailed as you rocked her in your arms, pleading to the Gods for it to be an awful nightmare. It was not an awful nightmare, but rather dreadful reality. The only thing you heard except for yours, Helaena and Alicent’s crying was the escape of the murderers and words “Black Queen sends her regards”.

While you were being attacked, your husband returned to the keep and immediately went to find you. Once in the castle, he heard the screams leading to his mother’s apartments and he hastily made way there, along with Aegon and Ser Criston Cole. They found the door barricaded and called for more guards to help remove the obstacle, and when it was done, they saw the most horrifying scene. Dead bodies of their children, weeping wives and their mother tired up and gagged. When Queen Dowager explained them what took place, they went inot the state of madness, Aegon started yelling how could the guards let it happen, that he wanted the men found and brought to him, he was inconsolable. Aemond on the other hand stood frozen, he knew it happened because of him,. His nephew and his daughter, his beloved Alysanne, were ripped away from this world because of his own stupidity. He caused that and he couldn’t even look into your eyes, nor Helaena’s. He was overcome with grief and loathing for his actions, but he knew he had to be strong for you, even though he wanted to break down into tears himself. “My love…” he tried to get your attention, but you were focused on your daughter’s face. You dress soaked in her blood, as you stroked her hair singing her favourite lullaby. There was no way for you to let go of her, your state was truly horrible. After sitting there for hours, Silent Sisters came to collect the body, but you didn’t want to part with her, with your sweet Alysanne. Aemond came up to you. “Darling…she’s gone. You have to give her to them. They need to prepare her for the funeral.” you were reluctant, but Aemond finally managed to convince you to let go of her body.

For weeks after that you were closed off, not going out of your chambers, dismissing everything that happened around you. You couldn’t bear the grief and the emptiness this brought you. Even at the funeral you blocked it all out, when the children’s bodies were shown to the people of King’s Landing declaring it to be work of “Rhaenyra the Cruel”. All you wanted was your daughter, but you couldn’t have her, as she was so cruelly taken from you. At the battle at Rook’s Rest Aegon got badly injured, it was a miracle he even pulled through, and your husband was crowned Prince Regent to rule in his stead untill the king recovers. He gathered the army and with the new Hand of the King, Ser Criston, he marched on Harrenhall. Aemond feared leaving you alone and decided it would be best to bring you along. During your stay there, your husband ordered the extermination of house Strong. No one was spared, but a witch named Alys Rivers, who Aemond taksed with your recovery. You and the bastard woman became fastly friends, and she helped you find the courage to join your husband on the battlefield. You wanted revenge and you were out for blood. Soon enough along with Aemond you were terrorizing the Riverlands and became a symbol of death, as you burned every keep, and every lord known to be loyal to the blacks. Vhagar and Canniball were a formidable duo that spread fear all around the realm.

Eventually, when you were away from Harrenhall, your husband received a letter from your father Daemon, that he’s waiting for him and wishes to battle. Without telling you, he made way towards the God’s Eye and without fear fought against your father. After you found the letter, you jumped atop the Canniball and flew towards the battlefield, only to arrive to late, as you witnessed Daemon jumping off Caraxes’ back and plunging Dark Sister into your Aemond’s good eye. You screamed seeing this and urged your dragon to fly faster. Aemond and Vhagar fell into the waters and sank into the lake, as you took on Daemon and Caraxes to avenge your family. The battle was tough, but you emerged victorious, thanks to stabbing your father straight through his neck. As you landed on the shore, you weeped. For your daughter, your husband, your mother who were all killed by Daemon Targaryen, as well as Helaena who committed suicide by throwing herself from the tower, landing on spikes. You were alone, you lost everything. You and Alys went into hiding, up until hearing the news of the death of Rhaenyra. Aegon fed her to his dragon Sunfyre, while her young son watched. Soon enough the king was poisoned by his own men, Alicent was confined to her chambers and was said to go insane. It was too much for you. All you wanted was to be back with your family, that’s why one day, when Alys wasn’t there, you decided to drink poison. Just before going to bed, you took a sip, and faded away into dreamland, where you saw your husband and your daughter eagerly waiting for you. You knew that you could spend eternity together.

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A/N: Alright guys. The second part is here. Thank you for all the support you shown me on my first post. Soon I'll be posting more stuff on this page so stay tuned ♡.

@heavenly1927 @marihoneywk @nyenye

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader angst #aemond targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd season 2 #fic rec #prince aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #daemon x rhaenyra #alicent hightower #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond hotd #viserys targaryen #prince aemond targaryen #fire and blood #targaryen family #dance of the dragons #alys rivers #lucerys velaryon #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #jacerys velaryon

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Doctor Who, but Chronologically 26

It's 1913 and fuck me but this episode fucks like a rabid rhino as it's time for Human Nature.

Holy.

Shit.

And it kind of makes sense! Remember when the Tennant Doctor talked to Jackson Lake? And told him about how Time Lords sometimes store memories in fob watches? And then remember how Tecteun and the Ood had a fob watch they used to be a dick to the Whittaker Doctor? And she was maybe going to open it? Fob watch! We know all about these!!!

So, we start with Tennant and Martha, sprinting into the TARDIS to escape "The Family". These, it transpires, are aliens made of lurid green gas who can possess people, so we're off to a simply fantastic start right there in terms of saving the budget. To escape them the Doctor turns himself human, and gets Martha to basically guard him in The Past because as a human he remembers nothing, which

A) means we are treated to David Tennant's acting changing to being Subtly Wrong, right down to the way he smiles, which is unsettling as fuck; and

B) fucking sucks ASS for Martha because she's now a black maid in a posh white English boarding school and this episode is not interested in portraying posh white English boarding schoolers in 1913 as anything other than raging cock-heads who make you glad there's a world war around the corner to wipe two thirds of them out.

Although I say English. That's St Ffagans, that is. With some exteriors up by Llangors. I know my Welsh historical sites.

Anyway, Martha yeets herself bodily up the rankings with this one. She's capable, and clever, and marooned in a fucking awful time as a bodyguard for a man who doesn't remember her and treats her like shit, and she is so achingly alone. She's stored the TARDIS in a shed, and she goes to it for some normalcy, and to dream of going home. She's made friends with Jenny, another maid, and their friendship is sweet and wholesome, the only bright spot left, and the whole thing would make you weep if only, um, Freema's acting was good.

(I'm sorry I adore her but she is just... very hammy)

So it's very depressing when Jenny becomes an alien host.

BUT it's also an AMAZING SCENE, because Martha has managed to source some afternoon tea for them to share, and Jenny comes in and is Weird, and Martha doesn't just notice - in a move that had me going "Well THIS scene was written by a Welshman," she looks Jenny in the eye and says "Okay, shall I put some gravy in the teapot? We could have jam and herring." And Jenny falls for it just as a changeling would, and Martha gets the fuck out. Incredible. Martha for the win. Everyone should know their changeling lore. Martha clearly does. Good girl.

Although shout out to the Family actually; the Daughter is a little girl with a red balloon and the same nursery rhyme backing track as the sinister little girl with the red balloon in Remembrance of the Daleks who turned out to be possessed by a Dalek or some shit, which is very cool, although these little girls with red balloons and sinister nursery rhyme backing tracks are about as good at acting as each other, which is to say, not really. BUT the Son is played by what's his tits off of Game of Thrones, you know the one? Played the little blond inbred lad who loved dragons. He's fantastic in this! Plays it with just the right amount of menace and charm, it's great. It could easily have become hammy and undermined it, but it's just great. Who knew you could sniff in a frightening manner and make your eyes glow with the Power of Acting alone?

Um, what else, what else... oh yeah, the Doctor as a human is a trembling virgin who gets a girlfriend played by Jessica Hynes. He falls down some stairs because he's so flustered about asking her to a dance. He literally starts saying "Um, I've never..." before kissing her, as though that's at all news to anyone watching.

Anyway, plot-wise, the Doctor dreams of his real life and has written it all down in a dream journal, which he insists on explaining to every woman who looks his way with the tediousness of people who keep dream journals everywhere. He keeps the fob watch on the mantlepiece. He has left a list of instructions for Martha, of which number 23 is to open the watch as a last resort.

But, one of the students in the boarding school is that kid from Love, Actually who later was an American chess player in the Queen's Gambit (side note, I swear like half the cast in the Queen's Gambit was British and putting on lacklustre American accents). Turns out this kid is Mildly Psychic in the way that people often are in RTD's era because why the fuck not, and so he has, in fact, stolen the fob watch because it spoke to him. Occasionally he opens it and learns about Time Lords, but that means the Family can smell the Doctor. This means Martha tries to open the watch, only to find it missing.

So they all go to the dance, which is in the old Oakdale Working Men's Club, and my dad used to go drinking there. It's in St Ffagans now. They're moving the Vulcan there just next door which is fun, because I used to go drinking in the Vulcan, so it'll be two generations of us moved to a museum. I've forgotten what I was talking about.

So they all go to the dance. Unfortunately, this includes the Family, who are armed with a heady mix of alien guns and extraneous scarecrows. In a cliffhanger that lets down the rest of the episode, they grab Martha and Jessica Hynes, and tell a very confused Doctor that he has to change back from human or pick which of these women to kill. It feels a bit needlessly stapled on, tbh. But it's nice to see Oakdale Workies again.

Anyway I think no new questions? Other than "How will they get out of this?" but the second half is next even on this batshit watch order, so we can ignore that one. That's fun. However we do still have a fob watch hanging plot thread for Whitaker, so there's that.

The list!

“She” (an unknown person) is returning (perhaps River returned as Missy. Maybe Me? Maybe Clara???!)

There is something on Donna’s back

An entire planet, Pyrovilia, just… disappeared, somehow. (Maybe because the TARDIS is exploding??? Saturnine was also lost, and that WAS because of the TARDIS exploding. The lion man’s planet was also lost but he was a bit of a knob about it if I’m honest.)

Amy is maybe dead (she’s not)

The Doctor has been cubed (he’s out, but how?)

River is possibly blown up  (unless she’s Missy)

The TARDIS has blown up  (It’s fine now. Except it’s sort of melting now because it’s corrupted, but it’s fine again)

The universe appears to have ended  (the universe is back again)

The Doctor has employed(?) Nardole (And Nardole was “reassembled???”)

There’s a vault in the TARDIS and it contains Missy but we don’t know why (sometimes she knocks for the bants)

What has happened to all these companions and where are the new ones coming from?

There’s an immortal Viking girl now. Her name is Me and she’s now looking after the people the Doctor abandons

What’s With The Silence?

Why was Rory entirely unconcerned by the entire world suddenly going silent when that is Not Normal and should have been, at the very least, extremely disconcerting?

What did the Doctor do to Queen Lizzie One?

Who is Captain Jack Harkness? (Is he the one who gave the companions a warning about the lone cyberman?)

Why is Amy seeing a one-eyed woman in a vanishing window?

What’s with the Doctor’s future involving getting shot by an astronaut?

Is Amy pregnant and why is it inconclusive?

Who is Sarah-Jane Smith?

How is the Doctor Bill’s teacher and why/where does he have an office?

What is going on with the Cyber War and the Cyberium???

Who did the Doctor lose to Cyber Conversion?

What happened with the Other Cyber War?

What happened with the Third War that deleted the void?

Why does Rose seem particularly important?

What’s with the Weeping Angel statues, and why can’t you blink at them?

What order do these Doctors go in? (Eccleston, Tennant, uncertain, Smith, Capaldi.)

Which companion just… forgot the Doctor, and how?

Yaz and Vinder are about to die as Mori/Mwri/Muuri

There is a Lupari shield around Earth.

What’s a Time War?

What’s the Rift?

What’s Bad Wolf?

What happened with Amy’s pregnancy?

In which war did the Doctor become a war criminal, and how?

Who is the Master?

Why has Amy forgotten Rory?

Is Rory plastic or not?

Why is the Doctor sulking on a cloud?

How exactly does the Doctor have a cloud?

What exactly happened with Strax to, uh, tame him?

Which friend killed Strax?

Which friend brought Strax back?

Where did this lesbian lizard and human couple come from?

What happened with Clara as Souffle Girl and the Daleks?

How does Clara actually join?

Why so many Claras?

Why is Missy apparently in robo-heaven?

Why is probably!Missy pushing Clara and the Doctor together?

What is Trensilor and what happened there?

Who is Handles?

The Doctor is about to be dissolved by a beautiful geode man

The universe is being crushed by the Flux

Will the Doctor open the fob watch? (NEW INFO: he also needs to open a fob watch as Tennant, but this presumably won't count.)

Sontarans are invading Earth again

Who is Kate?

Who is Osgood? Another name of Clara’s again?

The fuck is the deal with the Grand Serpent

#doctor whom #and yet we are continuing

[george-the-good]

George VI has always loomed large in his mind. There are now only two people alive who were in Sandringham House on the night the King died in his bed there in February 1952. Prince Charles, aged three, and Princess Anne, aged one, were staying with their grand-parents while Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh were in Africa, at the start of their round-the-world Commonwealth tour. [...] More than half a century later, the historian Kenneth Rose was introduced to the Prince of Wales at a Welsh Guards event on what happened to be the Prince’s birthday. ‘I offered him my congratulations as you would,’ Rose later told me, ‘and he said the most extraordinary thing. He replied: “I am today of the same age that my grandfather was when he died.” Which indeed he was but it was sort of chilling really.’

- ROBERT HARDMAN // Charles III: New King. New Court. The Inside Story (2024)

#King George VI #King Charles III #British Royal Family

[psi-scribe]

Ok so after talking with the breeder about some scheduling, I’ve decided to go out there and see the kennel myself and introduce myself to Percival then before taking him home. Right now the breeder is away at a Ravenwing sporting event which is why it’s taking a while to bring the Scout home, which is no problem! I’m looking forward to seeing the kennel and this should help the little guy feel more at ease about his adoption and feel safer on the drive back, which was something I was worrying about, so this really does work out better. So while I sit around waiting, I figured I’d share some information about the Dark Angel breed! They are so interesting and diverse, comes with being such an old breed.

So let’s start with the Legion Breed! The original “Dark Angel” breed is one with a long history, founded by one “Lion El’Jonson” a Welsh gentleman, and he is Welsh, a lot of sources say he’s British, but this is incorrect, he was just educated in England and lived there for a long time but that’s a different topic. He bred the Dark Angels to be hardy, highly intelligent and cover several different kinds of roles. The original breed, which is still around to this day due to diligent and careful breeding, is known for their gleaming black coats in contrast to the “Caliban Green” that the modern Chapter Breed sports (Caliban being chosen in honor of the El’Jonson old castle). Though patterns like “checkerboard” are acceptable according to the pedigree guidelines for both.

Now I mentioned that the breed served in several different ways, and this was managed by organizing the breed into six “wings”, which are classified now as “variations”, or sub-breeds. This is something that was carried on with the Chapter/Successor breeds. This is partly to reflect the original Legion Breed and partly because Dark Angels genetically are so diverse and that effects their behavior, thus requiring different training. You can breed two Ravenwings together but not all the marinelings will turn out to be ravenwings. This genetic diversity has helped to keep the breed so strong for so long.

So, let’s talk about those “Wings”!

Most people who have poked around Dark Angel breed information sites, forums and such are likely familiar with two of them: The Deathwing and Ravenwing. Both are stunning in their own ways, fully grown Deathwing have pale coats dubbed “bone” and grow to be much taller than others of their breeds and variations. These bois were originally used for herding/guarding, especially during wartimes where they excelled (there’s actually a sad story related to that but maybe I’ll share that later). Chapter and Successor breed Ravenwing sometimes get confused for the old Legion Breed because of their black coats. The immediate difference is that ravenwing (regardless of breed) are always leaner and way more active, this is so not a variation for those living in cities, seriously.

There are or were 4 other wings belonging to the old Legion Breed but for various reasons, none of them are still around in great number. These are the: Firewing, Stormwing, Ironwing and Dreadwing.

Firewing were used back when the Legion Breed was really active in early wars, think when knights in armor and horseback were used. The best way to describe the accounts of their behavior is to imagine a highly disciplined Night Lord or Ravenguard but they were also dangerous because they could snap at any moment without warning (unless you’re familiar with the variation). But that’s what they were bred for, assassinations and such. From what pictures I’ve seen around and written descriptions, they commonly had red markings but there’s not much more beyond that.

Stormwing is more frustrating because I have not been able to find good pictures of the variation? No descriptions about what they commonly looked like or what they were bred for either. What I was able to find was that there were never a lot of them in the first place, something about the training and traits needed to be classified as one. The variation was bred for something specific during the “knightly” period but after castle sieges stopped really being a big part of battles, I guess there was no reason to keep the variation going sadly.

Ironwing! These are the heaviest and biggest of the variations, Legion Dark Angel Dreadnoughts were all classified as Ironwings when they were around in mass. You know how big dogs have deep barks? It’s the same with these guys, all their vocalizations are all deep and you feel it in your bones apparently. These guys often wore addition armor as well.

And then finally, there’s the Dreadwing. The first of the variations to be banned and breeding straight up forbidden. They were incredibly dangerous and not many people met the strict minimum required to even apprentice to handle them?? Lion El’Jonson was not messing around when he set up the guidelines for these ones. A lot of the records I managed to find (and read for that matter, old English is hard to read) were uh…gruesome. War-time variations sadly all have that in common.

Though on another interesting note! While the Legion Breed is still around and closely monitored for good breeding, there appears to be records of several “Fallen” Dark Angels around. Fallen is the term for the Legion Dark Angels that choose to abandon their owners for one reason or another/are abandoned and end up going feral. Sometimes they join up in squads but never more than that. A lot of veterans in the Dark Angel husbandry field have tried to trap and rehabilitate these Fallen, sometimes they’re successful too. Those Fallen are then dubbed “Risen” to mark that they were formerly feral and that means their requirements and needs are different. The kennel club I mentioned in another post has set up a program to help with finding and helping any Fallen they get calls about. They’re not all bad marines, they just need a second chance.

So, yeah, that my very rambling history(?) post about the Dark Angel breed!

#scribe's scribbles #space marine husbandry #This is a blast to write and also so messy #The Welsh bit is a reference to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table in case anyone is wondering

[blazescompendium]

Blaze's Compendium entry #1: Dormarth- The Celtic hound

In most of sources, Dormarth is described as some kind of ''Cerberus'' of Celtic Folklore, being described as a guard dog of the gates of underworld on those cultures. And also in most sources, Dormarth's name is referred as meaning ''Death's Door''. This was also replicated in her Shin Megami Tensei appearance.

However, a superficial research into this creature always reveals that it is also called by another names such as ''Dormach'' and ''Dormarch'', and it's more often than not, treated as a hunting dog of sorts.

Speaking into the context of Welsh mythology and folk tales, it's said that the underworld has a king, called Gwynn Ap Nudd. He supposed owns a beast called Dormarch/Dormarth, that follows him during hunts. Specifically, his hunts for lost souls. (See Below the connection to the concept of Wild Hunt).

Gwynn is a very important figure when talking about Dormarth, since this mythical being is closely associated with the later. The so called ''King of Underworld'' is also associated to the concept of Wild Hunt, which is a common sight in European cultures. Famous examples include the Nordic Wild Hunt, with Odin presiding over it. In most of the depictions of the phenomena, hunting dogs are with it. Gwynn's Wild Hunt was no exception.

*It's also worthy to note that, i have focused my efforts on researching Dormarth, and have not gone deep into Gwynn's lore. I will probably do it later as another entry in my compendium series.

It's said in the Black Book of Camarthen, that Gwynn obtained Dormarth from the legendary King Maelgwn Gwynedd. The later really existed, but gained a mythic status in Celtic history. The figure lies buried in Puffin Island, UK.

The Black Book of Camarthen describes Dormarth as a beast with two front legs, only one head, and a tail that has 3 ends. There's no mention of lower legs, or other heads like a Cerberus would have.

To better understand Dormarth's discription and meaning, we have to go back to the first apparition of this creature, in the said Book of Camarthen. It's a 13th century Welsh book, that details poems, legends and folk tales from Wales. It was re released in 1906, and the original was scanned in 2002 and archived online for public view.

Read online

To my knowledge, that's Dormarth oldest written account. The book by itself contains a lot of contents from the time, and i was very interested to keep going with it, but for the topic at hand its already a very satisfactory base. In case you are curious, the 1906 version from J. Evans is available to buy and read online as well!

With the 1906 version as a base, Dormarth the modern author inserts some of his interpretations, and describes Dormarth less as a dog, and more as a sea creature, like a whale. Some authors associate that to the Christianity becoming more and more popular in the region at the time. Although, i could not find any credible sources or reasons to link the facts. Some say that Dormarth was associated to the biblical tale of Jonah and the Whale, which... I don´t really know why. The biggest theory is because, in this newer version, Dormarth is drawn like a whale of sorts (?). That would, in theory, suggest the old 13th century tale was being now interpreted by 20th century Christians. Evans was a christian by a matter of fact, so i can see why this theory exists, but for me its a kinda of stretch. Probably has more to do with his own interpretation of the creature. (Even thought Dormarth is clearly a dog...)

But what about our Fantastical Hound? What does the old texts says about it?

Surprisingly... Not much!

According to the Black Book of Camarthen, Dormarth supposedly inhabits the ''Ar Wybir'' which literally means ''mounting in the clouds.'' -Specifically the ones surrounding mountains. We can presume that's their ''natural habitat''. This also could mean Dormarth manipulates winds, and can fly.

In the book, Gwynn meets the king Gwyddno from Cantre'r Gwaelod (which, by the way has a really interesting tale) an old mythical land that supposedly sank in the ocean just like Atlantis.

At this meeting, there's a dialogue where Gwynn presents his hound, Dormarth. The owner of such creature praises its features, and talks about its role in the Wild Hunt. At the later, Gwynn collected the soul of his fallen soldiers with the help of his hunting dogs, such as Dormarth, which he praised as his best dog. (Good boy, or girl!)

Here's a small part of that poem:

"Handsome my dog, and round bodied, And truly the best of dogs; Dormath was he, which belonged to Maelgwyn. Dormath with the ruddy nose! what a gazer Thou art upon me because I notice Thy wanderings on Gwibir Vynyd."

-Black Book of Camarthen, 13th century

To better understand this fantastical Welsh creatures, we need to be presented to the concept of the Cwn Annwn, this translates itself to simply ''Hounds of Annwn. This said Annwn is another type of netherworld, another dimension, or plane. It's been seen in other traditional Welsh works, such as Maginobion which is a collection of folk tales and texts. This plane is also associated strongly with Gwynn Ap Nudd, since he is the king of the netherworld, mytical beings, fantastical creatures and this kind of stuff.

I need to bring the Cwn Annwn to the topic, because they were strongly associated with the Hild Hunt themselve, being the literal dogs that hunt down souls at this phenomena. We can thereby, conclude that Dormarth is indeed one of the Cwn Annwn, but a notorious one.

The Cwn Annwn also had other duties, such as carry the souls of the dead on their journeys to the after life. (Its often interesting to me how many cultures regards dogs as companions to lost souls, trying to reach heaven, or just guarding heaven. I can think about the Aztec dog of Xolotl, Cerberus, and many other instances.) At the Wild Hunt, they also had the duty to pursue criminals, until they could not run anymore. This is the modern depiction of the Wild Hunt hunting criminals, where before the Christians came, they would hunt anyone! The Christians probably were not satisfied by the idea of the righteous average christian running the risk of being hunt down by a demonic dog, so they nerfed it.

The author John Rhys comments also on the idea that Christianity changed the way Gwyn's Wild Hunt worked, where before Gwynn would hunt any dead soul, now the Wild Hunt was believed to hunt only criminals.

''What Gwynn hunts, is the soul of the dead. But Christianity has narrowed his field a lot, now he only hunts criminals.''

-Rhys on the Christian influency on this old Celtic myth, around page 156 of Studies in Arthurian Legends, 1891.

Note: The British Islands had a lot of Wild Hunt folklore. Actually, Europe had it in general, it was a trope. And hounds were also a common theme. There's cases you can read about from the entirety of the continent, and maybe one day i can bring the Wild Hunt to our compendium, there's a lot of material!

Coming back to Dormarth, since she's not going anywhere here. She's described specifically as a hunter dog helping Gwynn, in what one can only suppose it's the Wild Hunt. Still, at the 1906 version of the Black Book of Camarthen, page 97, there's a drawing of Dormarth. The creature is present in the pages 13 and 14 of the original manuscript, which can also be read online.

That's... Nothing like what Kaneko drew...

The interesting part about Dormarth it's not their features, nor their powers, as with some mythical creatures, but the etymology of its name...

You see, the real origins and meanings of the name Dormarth are uncertain. If you research by your own, you see some people call it Dormarth, while others call it Dormarch, as said earlier. This is because the original work had a bit of paint in the last letters, or it just eroded with time. If you read it as Dormarth, it means something like ''Death's door''. However there's evidence the name was actually written as Dormarch.

I will talk more about the creature's name in a bit. You just need to know now, that over the internet, books, and many sources, usually this being is named either Dormarch or Dormarth. For the scholars of the Breton language, you can notice that Dor= Door, and March = ...horse. Yeah, i will address that eventually, keep reading.

Evidently, if you look deep down into books and overall sources, there's no legend of Dormarth as a guard dog. It's never told for us that Dormarth is one, but still many modern media portray Dormarth as such. Even at her mentions in the Shin Megami Tensei franchise, most of its compendium entries describes her like that.

There's also a lot of online articles connecting Dormarth to the Irish Goddess Callieach. Where most of the times being also depicted as a guard dog, but being side by side with said goddess. This also has no backing from anywhere, there's no citation -as far as i know and had researched- that put those two together.

Talking about it's academics sources, Dormarth is only born and mostly portrayed in Welsh mythology and folkloric literature. But Callieach as mentioned it's an Irish goddess (Albeit sometimes appearing in Welsh and Manx mythology as well) ,and was never present in the works where Dormarth was. Again, as far as my research has gone.

Callieach is a goddess of the winter, also associated with landscape and nature. There's few and almost no room to put a Guard dog of the underworld near her, but i don't eliminate the idea of word of mouth doing this, and being less recorded. Just a theory of mine thought, because i could not find any sources on where this association with this goddess has begun for Dormarth.

It's widely known that Celtic mythology spreads itself by all the Britanic islands, and their ages vary a lot. I could locate Callieach being recorded mentioned at a 8th century poem, but as far as i researched there was again, no mention of Dormarth. It's clear now, that this association has no backing, and it's mostly a misinterpretation of Celtic culture.

*I got curious on where Atlus and most of modern depictions of Dormarth took this idea of it being sided with Callieach, and after an extensive search, i found a 2004 post at Deviantart that make this exact association, and it was the oldest i could get. Since Dormarth first appearance at SMT was from the Raidou novel, in 2007-8, maybe Kaneko got his idea from here? I dont know...

In the book ''Celtic Folklore, Welsh, and Manx'' by Jhon Rhys written in 1901, at page 216 Dormarth is cited by the author, who is pondering if the creature is indeed a Cwn Annwn. Rhys was a very interesting author, because he actually went to research personally, and collected local testimonies and tales from ordinary people. Here it's no diferent, and he tells about a local tale of a business man, that had the unlucky fate of being a town attacked by the so called Cwn Annwn. In this report, Dormarth is not cited directly, but the creature itself is at the glossary in the last pages of the book as well.

At this point deep in the study of this creature, i was a bit walking around in circles, because everything went to dead ends, and my lack of knowledge in Celtic languages certainly did not help me. I've found that some people online really theorized that the interpretation of Welsh myths could really trip over to Ireland, for example and be slightly different, and not very well recorded. This could in theory explain the discrepancies in the descriptions of the creature.

Dormarth is also present in the 1905 book: ''Celtic Myth and Legend'' by Charles Squire. Squire is a very known author from the 20th century, and wrote this very huge and detailed collection of Celtic Mythology. Some things in the book did not aged well, but in the most part is a very usefull book.

Squire cites the poem from the Black Book of Camarthen, which i exhaustively read and talked about here. But, in the bibliography section of the book, you can see where Squire found Dormarth in the first place. It was in a book called ''Studies in Arthurian Legends'', Written in 1891 by John Rhys (You again!).

Time to raise an eyebrow and ask yourself what in the world is Dormarth doing in an academic study of the King Arthur legends? Well, around the page 150ish, Rhys is lecturing us about a poem about Lancelott and Elayne. (The book its available online in its entirety, go check it out if you want to.) In this poem, we are told about the time Lancelott goes to a tournament with the other knights of the Round Table, where a young woman falls in love with him, only to be rejected and later committing suicide. The tale by itself it's interesting, but there's the part that really interests our text, that is the woman's mysterious father.

Rhys explains that her father was a weird man, that was always by a well, described himself as ''King of the Islands'', and devoted himself so much to this title, that according to Rhys reflection, he could not save his own daughter from suicide.

However, what concerns us the most here is that the man was described being always accompanied by some ''beast''. The man stated that this beast belonged to him, and only him and his descendants. The creature was only described this way, as a ''beast''. And supposedly had a powerful roar.

The poem in question was written by Thomas Malory (1405-1475). Malory is important for this research, because of many things, but specifically because of its place on time and space.

He was an English romanticist, living during the 15th century and wrote mainly about King Arthur. His works were based on Gaulish books from the 13th century. He knew much about the folklore and myths of that age.

Back to the poem of Lancelott, the father of the young woman had his own history with King Arthur. The man was keen on fighting Arthur, and had the habit to take away the horses of the knights he defeated. He waited Arthur at his well, with his beast, in hopes to duel with him.

Here, Rhys does his connection with Dormarth:

Malory tells that the beast roared with the strength of 30 hounds. Rhys reflects that maybe Malory was referencing some kind of guard dog with 3 heads, just like Cerberus. It's also cited during this reflection, other mythical dogs from around Europe -page 156-, but ultimately he traces a parallel with the nearest culture, the Welsh.

Rhys interpreted that the figure being the father of Ellayne, is actually a Breton version of Gwyn App Nudd (!!!)

As said before, in his other book from 1901, Rhys tells us more about this modern depiction of Gwynn's Wild Hunt. He even writes about hearing it personally from townsfolk in Cardiganshare.

Gwynn then take us back to the 13th century Black Book of Camarthen. (Notice that Malory was notorious for consuming 13th century works!) Here, back to the original welsh depiction of Dormarth, Rhys explains the problem with the name Dormarth. There's something erased from it in the original book, where it's written Dormach, instead.

Rhys theory on why Dormarth is written with march, and also erased, it's because the original scribe must have been instructed to write it as Dormarth, but ended up writing it as Dormarch. As said before, Dor= door, but March means horse. This probably confused anyone in charge of finishing the book, which made the decision to erase the ''R''. This creates a name with no meaning, thus solving the typo. Still, Rhys assure us it must have been instructed to write it as Dormarth. And he is probably the first author that does that.

But again, if you know the Breton language, you know that ''marth'' is not death. It instead is ''marv''. But Rhys explains that as well: In the also from the 13th century ''Book of Taliessin'' (not to confuse with the Deep Purple album), there's a poem about death, where it's mentioned as ''Marth'', not marv. The academics of the time deduced that Marth is death personified, a way to name Death itself. Rhys supports this idea by the etymology of the word, for example, starting from Latin:

-Mors > mortis > morte>marv>marth

By this idea, Dormarth is had as the personified death at the door of Annwn. To support even more this claim, Rhys describes old sayings from south Cardiganshare, where death was often described as a dog's mouth.

Going even further, Rhys proposes that maybe even English modern expressions like ''in the maws of death''. Or the german expression ''Rachen des Toden'' originated from here.

Rhys concludes:

''Its by this way, that one seeks to understand and the meaning of Dormarth.''

Here is where Dormarth as a guard dog originated. But as a guard dog of Gwynn App Nudd and his domain, not Callieach. At the same book from John Rhys, he also tells us that the Welsh believe that Gynn's hounds are led by a way bigger and fearsome one.

''He's bigger, louder, hunts at night, floating sometimes silently, sometimes devouring a victim that screams.''- Page 158.

So... Let's finish with Dormarth's resume:

Dormarth is one of the hounds of Anwnn, and Gwynn App Nudd in Welsh mythology. Due a gramatical error, its true name its hard to decipher, but it's clearly depicted as the hound that leads Gwynn's wild hunt and probably guards the gates of Annwn. It is the death at Annwn's door for anyone who shall approach.

Sources:

-Black Book of Camarthen (reprint and 13th century version)

-Celtic Folklore, Welsh and Manx - John Rhys

-Celtic Myth and Legend - Squire, Studies in Arthurian Legends - John Rhys.

#celtic mythology #welsh mythology #shin megami tensei #devil summoner #kazuma kaneko #Dormarth #Demons #Mythology #mythology and folklore #atlus games #blazescompendiumentry

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter 20: Standing Fast

Summary: If she really thinks about it, it’s kind of like D-Day – just not in any of the ways that count. A/N: When I said that the last chapter felt like the beginning of an intermission, I did not intend to disappear for a week - my bad! But now I'm back from a (much needed) vacation, and I'm excited to work on this fic for the rest of the summer :) Warnings: mentions of war, mentions of alcohol, improper binding Taglist: @liebgotts-lovergirl @lady-cheeky @latibvles @lieutenant-speirs @mrs-murder-daddy @ithinkabouttzu

France, 1944

A few nights later, a bunch of sergeants get drunk during a poker game and wreck the barracks. Bunks are torn piece from piece. From what she hears of it later, fists and sharp words both fly as they take out their tension on each other. Based on the damage Bill and Shifty (one of Easy Company’s newly appointed sergeants) describe to her later, it’s a night they’ll pay for dearly.

Except there’s no time for that.

The order reaches them first thing the next morning. “After breakfast, stand fast.”

“What’dya reckon they mean by that?” Popeye asks as they make their way from the barracks.

“Nothing good,” McClung sighs.

Zenie is just sitting down with her food at breakfast when a hand on her shoulder practically drags her off the bench. Eugene’s brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a severe line. For once, his attitude is as dark as his hair – something Zenie never would have thought possible, even after what she’s overheard about his response to Winters and Welsh when they didn’t know how to help Captain Heyliger after he was shot.

“How many bandages you got?” He asks in a low voice when they’ve stepped out of everyone’s earshot.

Zenie blinks, trying to comprehend the suddenness of his question. “Huh?”

“Bandages. How many you got? And health sponges, too. You been usin’ ‘em?”

“I haven’t needed any in a while. And I think I have one role left. Why?”

“Here, take these.” Angling himself so that no one can see the transaction, he presses a role of bandages into Zenie’s hand. She quickly shoves them into her jacket. As soon as it’s over, Eugene is firing more questions at her. “You gone to the bathroom this mornin’?”

Doc Roe might know quite a bit about Zenie and her situation, but getting so many rapid-fire personal questions at such an early hour still takes her aback. When she doesn’t answer, he repeats the question with more pressure.

“You better go now,” he warns. “While no one’s around.”

“But my breakfast – “

“I’ll guard it for you. Hurry. You ain’t got much time, and you won’t be able to be alone for a while.”

“Why? Gene, what’s going on?”

There’s limited time and Eugene has told her as much. Still, he lets out a short sigh through his nose and leans in further, just in case.

“Don’t tell anyone, comprenez vous?” She doesn’t speak French, but she gets the gist. “They just told the medics that we’re movin’ out after breakfast. Lots of travelin’ ahead.”

“To where?”

Gene’s eyes dance around the room as he replies, “I dunno yet. But they’re talkin’ like it’s pretty far.”

Not willing to waste any more time, Zenie rushes to the latrine and back, ignoring the wondering looks her friends give her when she returns and takes her seat, which Roe has been occupying, as promised, hunched over her plate. Babe frowns as Gene vacates her seat and heads off again, on the move. She brushes off their questions and bolts her breakfast, leaving her coffee untouched and not even daring to think about water as a just in case.  

They all finish their meal. Nothing happens. Stand fast. Nothing new. Hurry up and wait.

With nowhere to go, they clean the barracks. Zenie can feel someone’s eyes on her the entire time. Babe throws her a strange look every now and then, his brow furrowed and his expression thoughtful as they waste time. Under her friend’s watchful gaze, she has to be extra careful as she stashes her new roll of bandages in her belongings.

Something pokes her finger as she shoves the roll into the bottom of her bag. Careful to keep the bandages covered, she grabs the sharp edge and tugs it out; her postcard from the Eiffel Tower. She smiles at the memories, smiles at the thought of beating Marilyn to the landmark.

Unless, she realizes, her sister has beat her there. Travelling with the Red Cross, there’s no telling where Marilyn has been. And it’s not like Zenie would know.

It’s a bad idea, she knows as she takes a pen from her bag and scrawls on the card. She shouldn’t do it because it’s risky, she tells herself as she slaps on a stamp. But, she reasons, if she sends the card home, her mother will get it and know that she’s okay – and then her small brag will reach her sister.

When no one is looking, Zenie slips the postcard into a bag of mail that’s due to go out soon. Hopefully no one will read too much into “Dear Marilyn, Think I beat you here. – Z.”

There’s a movie playing. Zenie’s seen it before. She takes a seat toward the back of the room and smiles when Shifty seats himself in the chair beside her. When the lights go down, he moves his hand so that it rests on his leg between their chairs. Zenie does the same and smiles into the darkness when he curls his pinky finger around hers.

This is more than pressing their knees together in foxholes. This is better.

“What do you think is going on?” she whispers as the movie’s score soars over the opening credits.

From the corner of her eye, she can see him bite his bottom lip as he considers the possibilities.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “But interruptin’ R and R like this?” He shakes his head. “I doubt it’s good.”

“They can’t send us back. We have no gear. What do they want us to do?”

There’s a commotion from the front of the room.

“Shut up!” Joe insists, turning around to face Luz. “I’m trying to watch!”

Other men shush them. Zenie waits for the noise to die down before she whispers again.

“At least we got to go to Paris first. No more wondering and avoiding.”

Shifty tightens his finger around hers. “No more,” he agrees.

“I love this part!” Luz exclaims from the front of the room. Even with his back to her, Zenie can picture the expression he uses for this particular impression – one that he’s very proud of. In a low, sultry voice he begins asking, enunciating a different word every time, “Got a penny? Got a penny? Got a penny?!”

“Got a penny?” The movie asks, making George erupt into laughter. He’s so loud that she thinks Joe might spin around and knock his lights out.

Whatever he’s planning, he doesn’t get the chance. With no warning, the doors at the back of the room fly open. Zenie and Shifty jump apart as if electrocuted while footsteps, hard and fast, march past them and to the front of the room. “Quiet!” A voice booms before anyone has the chance to properly protest.

The lights come up and the movie sputters to a stop. Now the men begin to protest. Booing and cries of “Awe, come on!” join the cacophony of Zenie’s pounding heart. Surely no one saw them, even though they were taken by surprise. She can only hope.

“I said quiet!” The order is repeated. This time, the crowd falls silent. Just in time to hear the announcement of, “Elements of the 1st and the 6th SS Panzer Divisions have broken through in the Ardennes Forest.”

Through the crowd, Zenie can see Luz throw his head back – a telltale sign that he’s giving a dramatic eye roll. Though other men are hanging their heads in disappointment, George’s reaction is what they all surely feel as the realizations set in: no more passes to Paris; no more movies; no more Rest and Relaxation. It’s back to the line for Easy Company.

Mutters break out before the announcement is properly finished as people start speculating about what it all means, how it will all play out. After all, there’s nothing for them to fight with, they’re keen to remind each other. Although the people sending them off should know that.

They file out of the theater, lips pressed into thin lines that are more severe than when the order of the day was simply “stand fast.”

“Favorite movie and I didn’t even get to finish it,” Luz complains.

Joe sighs. “Luz, you weren’t even watching the damn thing.”

“No but I was enjoying it, and that’s what matters.”

“Probably won’t be enjoyin’ anything for a while now,” Popeye muses.

“Yeah,” Zenie agrees. “Not if it’s like Holland – just sitting around in foxholes and waiting.”

Amongst the choir of muttered protests from the clumps of soldiers, one question rings out loud and clear: where the hell is Bastogne?

If she really thinks about it, it’s kind of like D-Day – just not in any of the ways that count.

Like that night in June, they pat their friends on the back and wish each other well. Except this time there’s no ice cream, no specific knowledge of where they’re going, no plan for when they get there. More importantly, they have precious little equipment. And hardly a chance to say goodbye.

Zenie’s fingers tingle with the memory of Shifty quickly intertwining their fingers together before boarding the planes. There’s no chance for anything like that now, with everyone rushing around, trying to figure out what’s going on. Instead, she has to settle for flashing him a smile while Popeye offers her a smack on the shoulder when they go their separate ways.

The effort that it took to help load their fellow soldiers into the C-47s is missing as well. Rumbling engines tear through the velvety black night, the truck’s floors shaking as they jump into the backs with what little gear they have. The planes had been solemn and filled with excitement and prayers. These trucks are packed full of people who huddle for warmth, and air gauzy with cigarette smoke in their pitiful attempts to warm themselves up and pass the time.

For the hundredth time in this war, Zenie thanks God for Gene. If he hadn’t warned her, she would have been crammed into the back of this truck with no warning. And as they rumble along in their endless journey, he begins to feel more and more like some sort of guardian angel.

“I just wanna know where they’re sendin’ us,” Babe says as they bounce along. “What the hell are we gonna do with no ammo?”

Over all the noise, from where she sits, Zenie can hear the drivers of their truck pause their conversation when they hear Babe’s question. Their part of the Red Ball Express. She remembers seeing articles in the papers about them after the jump back in June. If anyone knows anything about where they’re going, surely it will be them. She shifts towards them.

“Have y’all been to where we’re going?” Her question startles them.

The driver and the man in the passenger seat share a weary look. Not a good sign.

“Yes,” the driver finally answers.

“That bad, huh?”

“Oh yeah, you could say that,” the man in the passenger seat agrees. “That’s why you guys have to walk the last leg of the journey.”

“Why?” The words have no sooner left her mouth when the truck shakes, followed by a loud, booming sound that reminds her of summer thunderstorms shaking the house at night.

“That’s why,” the driver says. “Besides, we have more men to move.”

These drivers have a job to do, same as the paratroopers. War is a machine, and every outfit is a small piece that operates in it. That much has become obvious after successful operations, like Overlord, and not so successful ones, like Market Garden.

“You need four pairs of socks, minimum!” Skip Muck calls over the sounds of the truck. He’s lounging on the floor of the truck bed, which is the only place where there was space left for him. In his cramped position, he frees one of his hands to count on his fingers as he lectures one of the replacements traveling with them. “Feet, hands, neck, balls.”

“Extra socks warms ‘em all,” the rest of the men finish in unison.

“Yay, we all remember that one!” Muck exclaims. “But no one remembered the socks.”

The trucks begin growling to a stop as the booming of explosions and the cracking of gunfire draw closer. Men attempt to stand as tail gates are lowered, and then they’re hopping to the ground on numb legs – a jump from nowhere near as spectacular heights as on D-Day. Someone makes a joke about a tailgate jump.

“Thanks, y’all.” Zenie taps the edge of her helmet and nods to her drivers as she moves to leave the truck.

“You’re southern, too,” her driver notes. “Where from?”

Too, he had said. It’s been so rare to find men who aren’t taken aback by y’all.

“North Carolina. The mountains. What about you?”

The driver grins. “North Carolina – the piedmont!” They laugh over their shared geography.

“Seems like everyone else is from Pennsylvania.”

The man in the passenger seat waves. “That would be me.”

It’s Zenie’s turn now to exit the truck. Before she does, she flashes them both a smile. “Well, I’ll see y’all back at home.” She leaves the truck feeling a little better than when she climbed into it.

The biting cold threatens to dispel any warmth that has entered into her heart, though. Around her, men all step around some parked trucks to relieve themselves after the long ride. Others bustle through the crowd with gasoline containers which they dump into pits in the ground. Tall flames blaze to life when a book of matches is tossed onto them, and men eagerly gather around them for warmth, drawn in like moths to a flame.

Footsteps approach. More men coming to get warm –

“Christ,” Babe mutters around his cigarette.

Columns of men appear, but they aren’t heading for the fires. Darkness cannot hide the grim and fearful expressions that haunt their features as they trudge past. Zenie and Babe gawk at them. The passing men won’t meet their eyes.

“Bill! Bill, Joe, look at this!” Babe exclaims.

Their friends appear beside them, adding to the onlookers.

Bill has never looked more confused in his life. “Hey, you’re goin’ the wrong way!”

From the corner of her eye, Zenie catches a flash of familiar movement; McClung and Popeye passing by. She steps away and follows them to one of the fires. Falling into place beside Earl, she stretches her hands towards the open flames, trying to catch the warmth while she can.

“What’s that all about?” Earl asks, nodding towards the lines of men leaving the very place that Easy Company has just been ordered into. No one asks the real question: what they hell are they sending us into now?

They don’t have to wonder for long. The men leaving Bastogne begin handing over any spare gear and ammo that they can. Easy Company men load themselves down until their hands are full, and then try to find someone else to hand off extra supplies to. Zenie finds herself weighed down with three bandoliers and a knife. She hands off some grenades to Joe and pockets half a pack of cigarettes that one retreating man presses into her hands.

The parade has hardly ended when Easy Company receives the word to keep moving. With whatever borrowed weapons and ammunition that they can carry, they start off in the opposite direction of the retreating soldiers. The world shakes with gunfire as they push through the darkness, following the road.

“Huh, would you look at that.” Bill nods up at a sign that stands on the road. It’s got arrows pointing every which way, giving every sprawling road before them a name. “It really is a crossroads.”

Without looking back, they gather their courage and follow the arrow pointing towards a place labeled Bastogne.    

#was going through something and felt unable to write anything good because of all the negativity it gave me #my bad though I did not intend to dip like that #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers x ofc #band of brothers x oc #shifty powers x original female character #shifty powers x ofc #shifty powers #my writing #oc zenie mcglamery #like a girl (like a man)

[intheshadowofwar]

21 June 2023

You’re In The Army Now

London 21 June 2023

It was an early start today - I was out the door just after 7.30, catching the Victoria Line to Oxford Circus and the Bakerloo to Paddington. It was already very busy, but there was a laurel at the end of my journey to make braving rush hour a little bearable. It look me a little questioning of staff before I knew whether or not my journey was in vain - it wasn’t - and then I proceeded to sit on Platform One for an hour because I’d massively overestimated how early the train would enter the station. And what locomotive, pray tell, would I go to all this trouble for?

If you know your trains, you could probably make an educated guess.

Built a century ago this year, No. 4472 - ahem, 60103 Flying Scotsman needs absolutely no introduction. Today she is the Kardashian of locomotives - she is famous for being famous. Unlike the Kardashians, that fame is well earned - namesake of the famed Flying Scotsman express, first non-stop run from London to Edinburgh in 1928, first (sort of) authenticated 100mph by a steam locomotive in 1934, one of the first privately preserved steam locomotives. She toured the United States (even though we don’t like to talk about how that one nearly ended) and Australia, making the longest non-stop run by a steam locomotive ever between Parkes and Broken Hill. To her detractors, she’s the ‘flying moneypit,’ bankrupting every owner since 1963. To her fans, she’s the most famous steam locomotive in the world, Sir Nigel Gresley’s masterpiece. And at long, long last, I have seen her in steam.

Basically, do you know how monarchists get really excited about seeing the King? This is my version of that.

After her departure at 9.40, I headed on the Circle Line to Sloane Square, walking through Chelsea and past the famed hospital there to the National Army Museum. The NAM is basically the cooler, hipper IWM, in my opinion. It perhaps benefits from a narrow subject matter; specifically Britain, and specifically the British Army. Without becoming too complicated, it does a much better job at contextualising its exhibits than the IWM, without shying away from the controversies and horrors of war. Do you think, for example, that the Australian War Memorial would stock a book about the massacre of Surafend, in the way the NAM stocks one on the British organised mass slaughter of Amritsar?

When I talk about museums, as you probably know by now, I like to mention an exhibit that struck me, and the exhibit in question at the NAM was more recent than you might expect. While I could discuss the saw that amputated the Earl of Uxbridge’s leg again - the fact that it still exists makes me very happy - I’ll instead mention a ruined L85 rifle from the Middle East, which was recovered from a vehicle destroyed by an IED - none of the passengers survived. Jay Winter has said that if one shows a weapon in a museum, they ought to show what it does. Here, in this ruined weapon, we see both at once. We don’t need to see the blood and bones of the soldiers; from this broken rifle, we can fill in the gaps as to the horrific power of explosives ourselves.

Also, the NAM cafe does a mean scrambled eggs.

After the Army Museum, I headed back to the tube and caught the Circle Line again to St. James’ Park, where I walked to the Guards Museum. This is a small museum that people don’t really know about, and that surprises me as it’s literally right across the road from Buckingham Palace - it’s in Wellington Barracks, where the guards march from during the Changing of the Guard.

The Guards Museum is a very old-school and classic museum; a British Army regimental museum in the same old style that I love so very, very much. The museum is both wide in scope and intimate in subject matter - this isn’t the story of the army or the wars it fought, but the part played by the five regiments of the Foot Guards - the Grenadiers, the Coldstream, the Scots Guard, the Irish Guard and the Welsh Guard. For the majority of the British Army’s history, there were only the first three - oddly, the ‘1st’ (Grenadier) Foot Guards are actually the youngest, but as they were Charles II’s personal guard, they got to be senior after the Restoration in 1660.

There were a lot of very interesting things in this museum, but I’m going to highlight something very boring instead. There’s a shako worn by a soldier of the Coldstream Guards in the late 1820s - it’s called a bell-top shako. Guards shakos from this period are very rare, because they were introduced in 1829 and dropped in 1831, when all of the Guards regiments adopted the bearskin cap of the Grenadiers. In fact, this shako was so rare that I didn’t actually know it existed - I’d assumed that the bearskins were adopted soon after Waterloo, but it seems the Coldstream and Scots Guards kept the shakoes of the regular infantry for just a little bit longer. This is a completely, utterly useless factoid, but I find it absolutely fascinating.

Across from the Guards Museum is the Guards Chapel, and to the uninitiated it looks strangely modern. Surely regiments as old as the Guards ought to have a similarly old chapel, right? Well, they did - until the morning of 18th June 1944, when it suffered a direct hit from a German V-1 flying bomb in the middle of a morning service. 121 were killed, and over 140 injured. The new chapel is not only a memorial to the men of the Household Division (the Foot Guards and the Household Cavalry), but to those killed in the bombing. I was initially the only visitor, and by the time I left only a small group of Americans - who I will say were very respectful - had joined me there. Dozens of regimental colours from throughout the Guards histories hang from the walls. I almost felt like an intruder in another family’s mausoleum.

I’m not religious, but for some reason I was moved to light a candle.

I walked from there, back past Buckingham Palace and down Lower Grovesnor Place, to a small memorial on the side of an intersection near Victoria. This is a curious little monument - it’s explicitly a memorial to the Great War, yet the Tommy on top is joined by a pair of riflemen from the Napoleonic and Crimean Wars respectively. This is the memorial to the Rifle Brigade, the progeny of the famed 95th Rifles of Wellington’s time (although a number of Rifle Brigade battalions could trace their heritage to the 60th Rifles as well.) After the Second World War, it was adapted to commemorate the riflemen lost in that conflict.

I visit a lot of memorials because I think they are interesting, or because I simply find them in the wild. I hunted down this one because it was important to me personally. This isn’t because I think the 95th were cool or because I watch a lot of Sharpe, or because green is my favourite colour and riflemen wore green uniforms. My nan had two uncles, one who fought in the First World War and one who fought in the Second. Both were riflemen - the first of the ‘Hackney Rifles’ and the second of the 7th Rifle Brigade. The first was wounded at Third Ypres, although I’m not certain how severely. The second still lies to this day in Florence, lost in the attacks on the Gothic Line in September 1944. It’s silly, and probably vulgar, but I’ve always seen the Rifle Brigade as ‘ours.’ I probably confused a lot of London commuters by pointing at a random monument in the middle of the city, repeating over again - ‘that’s us. That’s us.’

Yet it is us. The memory agents, the people who lived through the First World War, are all dead. The people who lived through the Second will still follow. It is now up to us to interpret their memory, their experiences, their histories and their stories. We have a responsibility to them.

Like it or not, this is us.

I then wrecked this profound emotional moment by having a big fanboy moment over a Routemaster bus, and then I walked back to the hotel. After a brief rest, I reunited with my mum and stepdad, who had been very kindly invited by my professor to join the group at the garden party of the Britain-Australia Society at the Royal Over-Seas League’s London HQ. It was all very sophisticated, with a lot of the great and good - and Joe Hockey - present, but I think it just didn’t quite gel with me. We stayed for a socially acceptable amount of time, then went back to Victoria Station and grabbed some McDonalds before parting.

We will reunite in Paris, but there’s a long road ahead to get there…

#flying scotsman #national army museum #guards museum #rifle brigade #first world war #second world war #napoleonic wars #crimean war

[infernal-lightning]

➺ closed starter for @condemnedsouls [ V Ø Ӿ ]

This last Exorcism had cut things close. Way too bloody close. It had caught her off guard; somehow having lost track of the days - she'd been buried in either work or in someone's bed all month.

But it had meant she was too relaxed on a stroll to the bar, too unaware - until the angels had descended, and she'd had mere moments to make a decision: fight, or flee.

Ilaera detested herself for choosing the latter.

The feline sinner had holed up in some rundown warehouse that she'd passed not a block before, hiding like some fearful child. In truth, she had been fearful - living through the bombings of England in World War 2 would do that. 12 years since she had died, and she could still recall that childhood experience with perfect clarity. It wasn't even the exorcists that made her fearful... just the enclosed space, so much like the bomb shelter from her childhood.

It was there that she'd decided she needed more power. More protection. And she knew just who to go to to get it.

VoxTek™ had been in her peripheral for a few years now - Ilaera had never needed the extra work, but had kept it in the back of her mind just in case. And the up and coming overlord who ran the company, Vox, was intriguing. Utilizing visual mediums as she did, cameras were at the centre of both of their crafts. Had she ever wanted to rise higher than her current station, perhaps she would have sought out a partnership with him. As it was, she preferred solo work - striking deals and owning souls meant working with more sinners than she had the patience to deal with.

But now...

Now she was coming to him for a deal of her own. Ilaera entered VoxTek with the casual confidence she always exuded, teal gaze sweeping the lobby. A receptionist quickly directed her to his office, which she breezed into with a half smile, quietly thanking the sinner as they shut the door.

"Thank you ever so much for agreeing to see me, Mr. Vox. I know you have quite the growing schedule these days!"

Not awaiting an answer, she slips into the spare chair, placing her portfolio delicately on the desk between them.

"Before we get into everything, I suppose I should probably introduce myself. Ilaera Llewellyn, renouned Welsh photographer - though I suppose, not down here! But I have tried to make a bit of a name for myself, these past twelve years."

Her gaze sweeps up and down the Overlord, her small smile persisting. "And I know a bit about you, of course. An impressive feat, building all this up from nothing."

#┊ ┊ ┊ ˚✧ hellish photographer #condemnedsouls #┈ ⋞ all mirroring gone from the world : ic ⋟ ┈ #[ hiya!! sorry this got so long lol ] #[ hopefully this works! let me know if i should change/add anything!]

[rebelsandtherest]

Hiraeth

Hiraeth: Noun (Welsh). Untranslatable to English. A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and longing. A pull on the heart that conveys a distinct feeling of missing something irretrievably lost.

The year is 1543 and the Laws in Wales Acts have just brought Wales entirely into the Kingdom of England, granting the subjugated Welsh people the same status, rights, and protections as other English subjects; but not without cost. Rhys travels to London to reluctantly commemorate the Royal Assent, and wrestles with divided feelings when he sees his baby brother for the first time in many decades.

Words: 2,856

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, language, mild discussion of war, plague, etc. All the good medieval stuff.

Notes: The meeting of English and Welsh nobles here is not only entirely fictional but also quite farfetched. But this is fanfiction. Don’t think about it too hard.

Also, Welsh friends and Welsh historians, please don't come for me, I'm not here to spark discourse about the longterm effects of the Acts, there's plenty of time for that later in history. But in the 16th century, the Acts were quite popular in Wales—obviously not entirely popular, but popular enough given their alternatives—at the time they were passed.

Historical notes at the end.

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

London, England

Anno Domini 1543

It wasn’t a mistake that Rhys hadn’t been to London for a long time. He’d spent plenty of time in England out of practical necessity, but he was far more content to stay in the hewitts and llyns of his quiet corner of the world. Most of the time, it was more comfortable for him to believe nothing east of the Marches had evolved since that Norman demon had crossed the channel.

Truth be told, he hadn’t paid much attention to England’s capital for some centuries now, unless their Parliament decided to start talking about Cymru behind his back, in which case his ears would itch until the inevitable missive appeared at his door. Replete with wax seals, fancy penmanship, and made of expensive paper, they’d always been immensely satisfying to tear up and throw into the fire. His ears hadn’t been itching at all that month, so when he’d received the invitation, he’d been too gobsmacked to do anything besides fall into a chair and stare dumbly at a signature he’d not seen in years.

“Londinium,” he tested the long-outdated name in a whisper, searching either bank of the Thames for structures he recognized. The wind was gentle that day, so their riverboat moved at a leisurely pace downriver, and gave him time to stare. There were hints of Rome still visible—if in nothing else, in the roads themselves, which fell mostly into the patterns Rhys remembered. There were hints also of the London he’d seen when they’d last dragged him here in 1283 expressly to humiliate him, still bloodied and bruised, but much of the city felt brand new. It stank to the heavens and the gulls and river traffic echoed loud across the water, but Rhys couldn’t help it when his jaw began to grow slack over how much had changed.

Last time, he’d been traveling under English guard. Today, he traveled freely with his own noblemen. He didn’t always get along with the argumentative group, which by dint of history contained an annoying number of Englishmen. Regardless, Rhys was shocked by how calm he felt this time around, sailing right into the heart of his enemy—family? After all these years.

Their destination was beyond the city centre, so they gawked and gossiped and exchanged quiet grumbles in their own language about the smell, the heat of the sun, and of England itself. Rhys himself did his best to not say much at all. Crossing through the drawbridge was an ordeal in and of itself, as recent rainfall and the bridge’s sheer mass had turned it into a dam, quickening the current under them. When the boat’s English captain had told them to hold on tight while he prepared to “shoot the bridge”, the assembled nobles had exchanged hesitant glances, shuffling to the rails or one of the small masts to find purchase.

Rhys had been at the bow, too occupied with the effort of figuring out how so many buildings and people had stuffed themselves into—and over— the confines of one bridge. When they lurched down through the raised drawbridge, Rhys did not fall, but his head whipped back around to look, wishing they’d not been moving so fast so he could gawk some more.

Comfortable in castles, the Welshman felt exposed when they at last alighted in Greenwich. The shiny new palace the late English King had rebuilt there was close to the river and not at all fortified, which made Rhys’ heart burn with envy. Oh, to spend his coffers in safety, to enjoy wide muntin windows and elaborate gates in place of arrow loops set into stone walls.

Was that what he might have, someday?

There were, of course, plenty of formalities upon their reception at the palace, and Rhys was able to go through the expected motions without really thinking, mind absorbed by the palace’s opulence, resentment growing slowly in his belly. At length, however, their hosts arrived. The King was not present on account of his poor health, but his new wife—his sixth, the poor thing—was there with various other ministers that Rhys had read about and cursed in their appropriate turns.

He tried to focus on what they were saying, in case he was addressed, but instead his heart raced as he scanned the assembled English crowd, royals and nobles and ministers and staff. He assumed the size of the crowd was meant to be intimidating, but it only provided him with a human underbrush to hunt through to find the face he was looking for, the one he knew would be there, because his letter had said so.

Even knowing exactly what he was looking for, Rhys still did a double take when he finally spotted Arthur, who was already looking directly at him with those shrewd, grass-green eyes. He was taller than last Rhys had seen him, and looked utterly different with combed hair and rich fabrics in place of battle filth and chainmail. He should have been unrecognizable, but in an ambush of emotion, Rhys saw Arthur not as he’d recently known him, but a taller, sterner vision of the fae-kissed baby brother he’d lost eons ago.

“—inally meet you in person, Sir Bowen,” someone was saying, and it wasn’t until Arthur flicked his eyes away that Rhys realized they’d been speaking to him. He disliked his Anglicized surname and hadn’t recognized it.

“Yes, your majesty,” he fixed his gaze and inclined his head to the queen. He was glad he was speaking to her and not her husband, for if it had been Henry he didn’t think he'd be able to finish his expected line: “The honor is entirely mine.”

The formal welcome was soon done, and once the queen was escorted away, the crowd dispersed. Only a few nobles lingered while the higher-ranking staff came forward to show their guests to their rooms. Rhys looked immediately for Arthur, but only caught a glimpse of the blond’s retreating form as he slipped around a corner. Rhys began to pursue, but was stopped by a well-dressed servant before he could stray too far.

“I can show you to your rooms, sir,” said the young boy, clearly desperate to do his job well. Rhys looked up at the empty doorway and then back to the boy.

“Yes, thank you,” he said distractedly. His accent was audible even to his own ear after listening to all the English chatter. “Lead the way.” Rhys followed the servant, tossing looks back over his shoulder as he was led farther into the Palace, in the opposite direction of his estranged brother.

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

Whoever had arranged the seating for the welcome feast had either never dealt with Nations in their life, or had worked with them so often that they knew exactly what they were doing, for Arthur looked just as shocked as Rhys when he realized they would be sat next to each other. Though the English and Welsh entourages were seated mostly separate from each other, Rhys and Arthurs’ places at the table were, apparently, symbolic of the Acts that had brought Rhys down the Thames in the first place.

It was an uncomfortable start to the evening, for sure. Rhys tried not to feel too offended when Arthur downed his first glass of wine in three large gulps, for he would’ve done the exact same if he weren’t expected to put on a show of being docile .

“Arthur,” he said eventually, and his brother actually flinched. “It’s…” he struggled with what to say. There were a million curses and demands that burned the back of his throat, but his tongue felt less Wales and more Rhys now that he was close enough to see the last bits of baby fat clinging to Arthur’s angling jaw. “It’s good to see you without a sword in your hand.”

Arthur looked quietly surprised at the earnest tone, and his expressive eyebrows twitched in confusion, eyeing Rhys as if waiting for him to finish with an insult. When he did not, he looked awkwardly back at his plate, taking another drink of wine—a sip this time instead of a gulp.

“Yes, well,” the Englishman said, and Rhys was amused to realize he wasn’t the only one sporting an accent. He’d noticed some odd happenings in the English language in recent decades, but Arthur’s pronunciations were even more distinct than those of his countrymen. “I’m glad I don’t have to swing a sword at you, anymore.”

Rhys wouldn’t lie, that bruised his pride. Traveling all the way to London to celebrate his complete assimilation into Arthur’s Kingdom was hardly something he relished. But it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had a few grim centuries to see it coming. Above the ocean of resentment, anger, desperation, and grief that would, perhaps, never drain from his heart, the topcurrent of the day was one of relief. He’d killed and been killed in too many rebellions, too many uprisings, suffered under too many Marcher lords with no peace and no voice to speak up for himself or his people. This, at least, would give him that.

“And I’m glad I won’t have anymore fucking Marcher despots to swing a sword at,” he retorted, and to his surprise, Arthur choked on his drink. After recovering, Arthur looked over at his brother with an unexpected measure of camaraderie.

“You know,” he said in a low voice, and it was the first time in half a century Rhys had seen Arthur smile, even if it was just a tiny thing. “I never liked them, either. They’ve all been pricks, the lot of them.” That made Rhys snort out a laugh, which he quickly muffled—the humans weren’t yet drunk enough to stop them spying on their immortal companions.

“Not enough to stop dear old William,” Rhys countered. Arthur looked acutely offended.

“You think I got along with that man?” Rhys snorted into his wine, because he knew Arthur had not.

“I have to assume he made the decision before you even halfway knew how to speak French—or he English,” Rhys teased. He was surprised when Arthur blushed and had no response. Rhys set down his wine glass with a clunk. “God’s bones, Arthur, he did?”

“I told you I didn’t like him,” Arthur grumbled, scowling to hide his embarrassment.

“Well I knew that, but…” He felt an insult on his tongue and Arthur was glaring at him, but looking at face of the boy—no, grown man—sat next to him, Rhys suddenly remembered his fragile position here. “Well anyway,” He demurred, turning back to his meal. “I’m glad they’ll be no more. I imagine your King can breathe easier now,” Rhys finished. Arthur looked over at him, eyes studying him carefully.

“ Our King,” he corrected.

Rhys’ sip of wine turned bitter in his mouth. He held it on his tongue anyway, for when he swallowed, he would have to speak, and did not trust himself. At length, he drank it down, tongue burning.

“Yes,” he had to agree, because it was true, and had been for centuries now, even though he’d only recently agreed to accept it. Arthur seemed pleased with himself as he took a bite of roast boar, and Rhys busied himself with tasting the bread and looking about the room so he wouldn’t have to look at his brother’s dumb, smug face.

“Well,” Arthur said eventually, drawing Rhys’ attention back to his dining companion, “He is one of yours, you know.” Rhys was surprised by such an olive branch, but was also not willing to be placated just yet.

“His ancestors were mine,” it was Rhys turn to correct his brother, “This fellow is well and truly yours.”

“Well, yes, but—” Arthur seemed to flounder, uncharacteristic of him in recent centuries. “After Bosworth, I thought—I was hopeful that maybe…” Arthur looked up at him, and Rhys could not help the anger that lived in his eyes, but when Arthur saw it, the blond wilted slightly, and rather than glare back he looked away. “I don’t want to fight with you, Rhys,” he admitted.

It was the first time Arthur had called him by his name in a long time, and Rhys’s heart seized. It was a rich sentiment indeed coming from England himself, but God damn him to hell without hope for purgatory, Rhys felt guilty.

Arthur was the sort of person who would fight anyone, he had been since birth. He’d fought with his mother, his brothers, his entire extended family, he’d once bitten a finger off of Rome. Rhys was fairly sure Arthur would fight God himself if he ever had the nerve to come back down to Earth. Even now, Arthur was fighting with Alisdair and Francis and Brighid and the Pope and anyone else who might’ve looked at him wrong, and Rhys had never felt bad for hating him for it. But, seeing him here and now, facing newfound adulthood won through nonstop war, Arthur looked immensely lonely.

It had just been the two of them, back before Rome. Rhys had held Arthur as a baby when their mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—care for either of them. He’d bounced him on his knee and held his hands while he learned to walk, telling him stories that wove myth and history together in indelible knots. Rhys had been idealistically determined to be a better brother than their older siblings, who seemed to enjoy killing each other for sport. He taught Arthur how to speak with the fae, where to find dragons and sprites in the woods. He’d even taught Arthur some of the magic he knew, back when Arthur was still willing to listen.

Then Rome had come to hunt them both. He’d found Rhys first, and his armies were too large for Rhys to repel with his magic. Rhys had told Arthur to run, and they didn’t see each other for a long time, until they dragged Arthur kicking and screaming to Londinium. He’d often cried into Rhys’ shirt in those days, when he was locked away, confined to his rooms or deprived of dinner, often after he’d taken a beating. Rome had always punished Arthur with more cruelty than he had Rhys; Romulus had always known Arthur was the greater threat. Everyone had. Their mother had seen it, Rome had seen it. Even Alisdair had seen it, warning Rhys in a rare moment of brotherly care after Ælfred had pushed the Danes away. Rhys had been young and lonely himself in those centuries, clinging on to the coddled, pleasant version of Arthur that lived in his memory even as the Saxons pressed him west past their island’s spine. Rhys had been as desperate as any of them, longing to have a companion against the dark. It had been foolish of him, and he would always regret his own naivety.

Still, even after Arthur demanded his submission at the tip of a sword, it had been them two, together. Arthur’s kings trampled Rhys into the mud and immediately after drafted him into a century of war. But it had been Rhys’ own suggestion that he teach Arthur to hold a yew bow. He taught him to shoot as well as the Welshmen his armies had subjugated, and still remembers Arthur’s boyish enthusiasm for archery with a smile. Through plague, through war, through infighting and mad kings and more death than either of them had ever expected to see packed into so few centuries, they’d been stuck in it together. Rhys certainly hadn’t asked to be there at his brothers’ side, and had many, many times attempted to leave, but he had been there, in the end. Arthur had taken much from him, and was sure to demand immeasurably more in years to come.

And yet.

Looking at Arthur’s confused, frustrated, lonely expression, Rhys felt older than he was, and sadder for Arthur’s sake than he knew he had any obligation to be.

“I don’t want to fight either,” he said, though part of him always would. He stared down at his dinner, whole body aching with a profound longing, a heartbreaking, bone-deep kind of homesickness he could not describe because the home had never truly existed. He longed for a time when they were both young, when their shared island was just magic and forests and stars that they could share. He couldn’t remember if that world had ever existed, but he knew it never would again.

Beside him, Arthur raised his glass towards Rhys.

“To one kingdom,” Arthur said, and he probably thought it a generous concession to say kingdom rather than England. Rhys studied his brother’s face, so incredibly young but grown into the man who Rome had foreseen and feared. Rhys mourned the brother he’d never had, but hoped, in some indomitable foolishness, to find whatever peace he could with the brother he did.

“To you and I,” he toasted instead. Arthur’s expression twitched, but in the end, his eyes softened slightly and he tapped his glass against his brother’s.

“To you and I.”

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

Historical notes:

1. ‘Hewitt’ is the welsh term for what is called a mountain in England, that is, a hill above 2,000 feet high (~600m) with a prominence of at least 98 feet (30m). ‘Llyn’ is the Welsh word for loch.

2. The Marches were a series of fairly volatile territories between England and Wales. Appointed by the King of England, the lords of these lands were not legally territories of the Crown, and operated on their own laws, almost entirely independent of the English crown. Almost. It’s complicated, but just know these hosted many bloody conflicts between England and Wales, and have, I believe, the highest concentration of castles in all of Europe due to this wartorn history.

3. 1283 was the close of the Edwardian Conquest of Wales, the point at which Wales came well and truly under English control. In accordance with the stubborn and fiery Welsh spirit, plenty of uprisings would occur after this date, but to no avail.

4. It’s true! The first stone iteration of London Bridge (multiple timber iterations of the same had fallen with disastrous results in times past) was built with very narrow arches and broad feet, so water draining from upriver would get caught up at the bridge much like a dam. The river west of the bridge could be several feet higher than that on the other side, and sailing through the drawbridge at such a time was fairly dangerous. However, this act of “Shooting the bridge” was a necessary skill for navigating London’s waterways.

5.I’ve here named Wales as Rhys ab Owain. Ab Owain (lit. son of Owain). The English version of Owain is Owen, and the Welsh prefix “ab” smushed together with “Owen” becomes “Bowen”.

6. The aforementioned Marcher lords were appointed by William the Conqueror, a Norman (French) duke who rather famously invaded in 1066 and took over England, and spoke absolutely zero English when he ascended the throne. So you can understand Arthur’s distaste.

7. The Tudors (including the present king Henry VIII) were indeed descended of Welsh nobility, namely the Tudors of Penmynydd. The Tudors managed to find themselves kings of England after the male bloodlines of both the Lancasters and Yorks were ended in the Wars of the Roses, in which the Tudors fought on the side of the Lancasters.

8. The Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485 was the last major battle of the Wars of the Roses, where the victorious Lancastarian forces were led by Henry Tudor, later crowned Henry VII.

#hetalia #historical hetalia #hws wales #hws england #aph wales #aph england #rhys ab owain #arthur kirkland #rhys #arthur #my fic #my writing #brotherly... love? #bonding? #whatever the hell this is #local welshman victimized by his baby brother but....... it's his baby bro guys #local englishman is a bastard #but a lonely bastard

[milkweedman]

I have finally finished moving my books over ! And i ended up with an extra shelf that i can put prepped fiber on. Right now its batts, hand combed top, and some roving braids, altho all the roving can be better stored in my dresser to make room for things that rly cant be squished, but i currently have the loom parts blocking me from opening the dresser, so.

Also, because i kept forgetting:

I spun up this batt into a very small skein (almost all of the wool it was made of was these long pink locks that i combed, but they were so fluffy that barely anything actually fit on the board) that im quite happy with.

And i also spun up some black welsh mountain for use with the skein on the right. It does look completely black, i just had to lighten the photo so that it didnt look like a skein shaped void on camera. My cats stripes are usually way darker as well xD

also--i have never understood people saying some wool HURTS to have on their skin until now. That BWM has a lot of guard hairs, which i didnt bother removing since its for a bag, and also is extremely harsh and dry feeling (as the seller scoured it within an inch of its life). I had it laying on my arm for a minute and it felt so wiry and prickly that after a few seconds it felt like there were fire ants all over that section of skin. Yeesh. Very glad i have no clothing plans for that bit of fleece.

#not that you should squish roving either #but like. its very rare that i spin braids of roving as just. braids of roving #i usually mix them into batts to use in unrelated projects #or else blend them with something to a big project #spinning #handspun yarn #wool batt #cats #anyway the point being reprocessing roving unsquishes it

[grandmaster-anne]

Princess Anne

Horse & Hound | Published 13 August 2020

“IT was a fairy story ending,” read the 1971 Horse & Hound report of the Princess Royal’s victory at the European Championships at Burghley. “Of course, everyone knows now that Princess Anne won the individual championship, but only those who were there can appreciate the extent of the popularity of her victory, or the tension that gripped the thronged arena during her jumping round on Sunday.”

The reporter WW Thomson’s gushing account of the 21-year-old’s performance aboard Doublet perhaps reflected a nation gripped by this sporting tale; a rapid rise to the top, a home-bred destined to be a polo pony and a mother who happened to be The Queen.

“This really was a fabulous event. The Queen and Prince Philip were there, the weather was right, the winners were right, and Princess Anne not only beat the best in Europe, but trounced them,” it read.

In the following decade, the Princess was on the podium at another European Championships with a different horse, at an Olympic Games and in the top 10 of the world’s biggest four-stars, silencing any sceptics who’d wondered if Burghley had been a chance feat.

“It was very new really, having a woman royal doing such a tough sport,” reflects her fellow competitor and former team-mate Lucinda Green. “Not long before, eventing was considered a man’s sport. She was more than up to the task of eventing, but she just had to deal with the press, which is never easy. In retrospect she did our sport a huge service.”

FOR someone barely out of teenage-hood when she reached the sport’s highest echelons, the Princess’ start in the saddle was refreshingly low-key, with ponies turned out rugless and ridden straight from muddy fields.

The setting was, of course, grander than most – Windsor, Sandringham and Balmoral served as sprawling riding schools, and early equestrian thrills came from riding in her grandmother’s carriage to watch Trooping the Colour on Horse Guards Parade. But there was also an unremarkable Shetland (Fum), a hefty Welsh pony who stood on her toe (Kirby Cane Greensleeves) and humiliating bending races on the 13.2hh Bandit.

By the time she was riding the 14.2hh Watersmeet High Jinks, who was stabled at the Moat House riding school in Kent during her last year of boarding school, there was no escaping her gilded status.

On one occasion, workmen spotted the Princess’s policeman leaning against the end of the school, before calling out “‘Oi! You!... Are you royalty or something? Why’s that man watching you?” she recalls in her 1991 autobiography Riding Through My Life.

“At the age of 16 or 17 you’re not terribly ready with an instant repartee to queries like that, so I replied, ‘Well, yes, I am.’”

Competition discipline and manners were instilled by the riding school’s owner Cherry Hatton-Hall, one of many who helped shape the Princess’s eventual prowess. Before the Princess and her older brother were competent enough to ride with The Queen, Her Majesty would impart knowledge from her bicycle as she rode alongside them. And then there was the groom Frank Hatcher at Windsor, who was a stickler for ensuring feet were picked out and tack was on correctly.

But it was perhaps Alison Oliver (see box, above) who was the vital piece in the puzzle that enabled Princess Anne to transition from a horse-mad schoolgirl to a sportswoman riding for Britain in just three years.

“I was very fortunate to be in the right place at the right time,” says Alison about her royal student. “We just clicked.”

WHEN the Princess realised that a conventional career didn’t seem viable on leaving school, she was determined to channel her energy into doing something well – and the answer was equestrian sport.

As Mary Gordon-Watson, who was part of the British team at the 1971 Europeans, says: “She was obviously very determined and hard-working, like she is in everything that she does. She wanted to succeed, and she did, at the highest level.”

At first, the Princess was lured by the prospect of polo; riding her father’s ponies had given her a taste of the competitive spirit of horses. But it was the combination of being lent the crown equerry Lt Col Sir John Miller’s horse Purple Star, who sparked her interest in horse trials, and being sent to Alison Oliver’s stables at Warfield in Berkshire, that meant that an eventing career was set.

By the time she won gold at Burghley in 1971, she’d ridden at just two other-three-day events, but it was soon obvious that this was no flash in the pan.

“You couldn’t fail to be impressed when she achieved success all over again [at subsequent championships] with Goodwill, who was a totally different type of horse,” adds Mary.

“From Doublet, Princess Anne went to a veritable hurricane in Goodwill,” says Lucinda about the difference in the Princess’ two championship rides; the first who was bred as a polo pony was polite and willing, and the latter was a famously strong former showjumper.

“If Doublet had turned up later in my career, we would all have looked at him and said: ‘What’s that?’,” the Princess told Eventing magazine about the gelding who The Queen had bred out of an Argentine mare and on whom Prince Philip had played polo.

“It was only because he came along at such an early stage in my life and because he was home-bred that he got his chance to be an eventer at all.”

In contrast, she remembers Goodwill as “nearly everybody’s idea of the ideal type of event horse… with excellent conformation, strong, active paces and well-developed jumping muscles”.

The pay-off for this raw talent, however, was having to learn to adapt to the gelding’s strength.

“Dressage was largely a case of containment,” she admitted.

AT the 1973 Europeans in Kiev, the Princess’ and Goodwill’s appearance came to an abrupt end when she fell at the second fence.

But out of the saddle there was also her own high profile to contend with; a bugging device was found in her hotel room telephone, and on one occasion she was accosted with outstretched arms by an over-friendly hotel maid.

“She might have mistaken me for somebody else, somebody more famous like Lucinda Prior-Palmer for instance, but then we shall never know,” quipped the princess.

At the Europeans in Luhmühlen two years later, she was subjected to press speculation that Goodwill’s good dressage score was the result of doping, when what they had in fact seen was Capt Mark Phillips giving the horse a sugar lump before the test.

This angst – combined with waking up on cross-country morning with a cold – didn’t detract from her performance. She clinched the individual and team silver medals, a triumph she looks back on with greater satisfaction than her gold four years earlier.

“By that stage, everything that could have gone wrong had done, and I’d started again,” she told Horse & Hound.

However, it was at the Montreal Olympics the following year that the Princess was given a stark reminder of the levelling nature of the sport.

With her parents and three brothers watching on, concussion after a fall on cross-country day meant that she was even stripped of the satisfaction of remembering finishing the course. But her upbringing had armed her with an enviable sense of perspective and the luxury of being able to see her sport as a hobby.

“I had other things to do that would not be affected by my performance, good or bad,” she reminisced in her autobiography.

The following year, her son Peter was born, and although she went on to finish sixth at Badminton in 1979, no more championships beckoned. For over a decade, however, whether photographed with a medal around her neck, or dusting herself off after hitting the turf, the media – and public – were captivated. Eventing had been dealt an ace card.

Pictures by Keystone Press/Alamy, Leslie Lane, Alec Russell, Press Association, PA Archive/PA Images and Central Press Photos

#princess anne #princess royal #queen elizabeth ii #prince philip #duke of edinburgh #equestrianne #article #h&h

[scotianostra]

Sharing Birthday drinks with the legend that is Gary Mccormack who is 62 today and looking great!

Gary was a member of the Edinburgh punk band Exploited for a time before taking to acting and sharing the big screen with the likes of Leonardo Dicaprio, Daniel Day Lewis and a host of stars in Gangs of New York, Irvine Welsh's Acid House with Michelle Gomez and Sweet 16, which launched Martin Compstons career, as well as a regular in River City, Gary also had a small part in Outlaw King. That's Gary between Dicaprio and Day- Lewis. He has left the acting business and is now a security guard on night shift at Edinburgh Zoo, which he says is a brilliant job.

[some-sort-of-siren]

Tagged by: @invaders-forever

Last song: Monet by alligatoah and sido

Currently watching: tbh I don’t watch tv shows hardly ever but I’m reading Odysseus in America

3 ships: bedivere and Kay because I’m me, Penelope and Odysseus because they are homoousious, Gawain and ragnelle because we love it when a woman tops. Anyway these are very straight and it’s bc it’s hard to find two women to ship in medieval lit so I have to settle for one

Favorite color: dark green

Currently consuming: there’s some cold hibiscus tea on my desk ig

First ship: probably hamlet and horatio. I knew there was something fruity going on there from the time I was 9

Relationship status: single but I am always down for hookups

Last movie: sword in the stone for my women in Arthurian lit class. I had to Google if women appeared halfway through the movie cause I hadn’t seen one yet.

Currently working on: oh gosh. Uh. I’m memorizing preiddeu annwfn in welsh and English. I’m writing death is something you return to which is fun. I recently became buddies with the Middle English teacher and now I’m formally learning that. Genuinely I have no free time so my current hobby is like. Memorizing the names of every security guard in the library and taking showers. I’m a very interesting person.

Tagging: ohhhhh gosh let’s see who’s usernames i can remember @bidoofenergy @sanddef @totallyawesome123 @moirailsupport @eeveelove04 @barely-contained-panic @sharpilu @eyelessfog @canvas-the-florist

[hypaalicious]

Okay so cwn annwn are Celtic hell hounds that span over Ireland, Wales and Scotland, they belong to Arawn, he is the Celtic god of the dead and underworld they guard the gates annwn the Celtic heaven realm basically. Eternal spring and summer, you get to party with some fae as well. Cwn annwn howl to unchristaned souls to let them know they will die soon and be taken to annwn. When a cwn annwn betrays it's kind it becomes a bastard dog/hound of destiny (gwyllgi), telling all souls that they will lose what they love closet to them, could be death could be a falling out, buy they go from a massive wolf to welsh mastiff (massive beast thst sadly no longer exist). Cwn annwn go on a yearly hunt at the start of fall with Arawn to collect lost souls and to check on the gwyllgi to see if their still breathing cause even though they rejected or betrayed their king arawn he still loves each one of them. Funnily enough both are messagers of the gods to help mortals they choose. ~ local pocket dragon swears that hell get more use, I mean he's my dnd boi.

Okay, this makes sense that it’s Celtic cause I was like “man I have no idea even how to pronounce this”

And I still don’t, mind you, but I have a better grasp on it now LMAO

That’s really cool tho! It’s interesting to hear how involved ppl’s dnd characters are. Which is kinda ironic for me because urrbody who truly knows me knows that usually I don’t really care about OCs, LOL! But with something like dnd where OCs are the whole point to the game, I actually get more involved in those backstories than the actual game itself.

Which is something I need to work on 😩 It’s still rather difficult for me to be enamored by dnd despite having a great time with my current group because I haven’t really found my niche in the universe in general to really immerse me the way I want.

#thanks for your patience as I get back into the groove #and thanks again for explaining your beloved character to me! 🥹 #not so Anon ask

[stainedglasstruth]

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @closingwaters & @stainedglasstruth SUMMARY: Teagan and Arden go on a coffee date. There are more emotions than expected. CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of parental and sibling death

A coffee date. It was as simple as that, for the time being. Having to be so new to town, there was a certain type of anxiety that crawled its way up the fae’s spine. Teagan was used to starting over, used to being alone and navigating through a town, but this was different. She had planted roots that time around. Did the work to find the proper soil and toss the seeds to pave way to a new life. Her new life. What did that entail anyway? She wasn’t sure. 

The last time Teagan had stayed anywhere for more than a few months was back at the Aos Sí in Michigan, and that was long behind her. A lost, teenage version of herself that was desperate to make things right. In a place like Wicked’s Rest, she felt she could finally do that. Even the playing field and ensure the town’s supernaturals could have a chance with the use of her claws and blade.

For now though, she had a date. Arden was cute, seemed much too sweet for a hookup, but Teagan knew better than to judge a book by its cover. She’d been surprised many a time. She hoped she would be that time around too. “How’s your cup treatin’ ya, lass?” While Teagan hadn’t been in Wales in quite some time, there was still a subtle lilt to her voice, and she never could let go of the Welsh speak. “My latte is simply bangin’.”

If she were being totally honest, Arden had been on edge leading up to the coffee date. If you asked her, when a person very stupidly said the words ‘thank you’ and got a bit of a strange response in return in a town with a secret population of supernatural beings, it was rational to feel a bit panicked. There wasn’t much that could be done after the fact, though, and her dive into the Scribes archives had reminded her that promises, while difficult to break, could potentially be broken, which was a nice reassurance.

She had told herself it was fine, she was fine, everything was fine, and she was not a dog sitting at a table in a burning building. If Teagan was a fae, which she didn’t know for certain, that didn’t necessarily mean she had any malicious intent. From what she’d seen, the woman had been nothing but nice– if a bit flirty– not just to her, but to others online. So, there she was, at her favorite café, sitting across from this gorgeous woman who had, so far, continued to be lovely. She had her guard up, but she was giving Teagan the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t her fault that Arden was an idiot.

At her question, she gave the woman a smile. “It’s great, as always.” She was almost positive the lavender in the macchiato was doing nothing for her nerves, but the drink was good, and it reminded her of Wynne. “And, I’m glad to hear it,” she grinned. Simply bangin’, that was cute. 

…she was gay, sue her.

“I’m curious to learn more about you. What do you do? What drew you to Wicked’s Rest in particular?”

Arden was adorable. For someone who took flirting well online, she had a nervous energy to her. Or maybe it was the caffeine? Plenty of people consumed coffee despite the effect it had on them, and Teagan wondered if Arden was one of them. She shook her head mentally, sipping her latte as if it could wash away her curiosity. It couldn’t be helped, not really. 

The nix had been alone for so long, depriving herself of connection in hopes of protecting others from her. Old habits died hard, and despite telling herself she’d have a change in pace with her move, her pain was one box she couldn’t lift or unpack. Maybe it was better to leave her old ways on their course. They hadn’t steered Teagan wrong. That’s was she tried to tell her self. 

“Currently unemployed. Got one of them…erm…what are they called…?” She muttered to herself, tapping her index finger to her chin as she pursed her lips in thought. “Sugar father!” Teagan snapped her fingers once she retrieved the answer, happy to remember and not seeing any issue with her income. “As for the town, it looked lush and like I could have a ling di long everyday. The weather is just so refreshing and the land is so green.” She continued with a click of her tongue. “Not to mention the crazy rumors on the creepy crawlies. It just sounded like home. Haven’t had one of those in a while.”

Arden let out a surprised bark of laughter, glad she hadn’t been drinking anything at that moment. “You have a sugar daddy?” She certainly hadn’t been expecting that response, and the very genuine and delighted way Teagan had said sugar father had been perfect. 

“Sorry, you just caught me off guard there,” she explained, not wanting to offend the other. While she loved her job, she would enjoy it even more if she didn’t need to worry about earning enough money to live. If Teagan had someone who was willing and able to support her, she certainly wasn’t judging. “It’s a nice arrangement if you can find one.”

“A ling di long?” Arden raised a brow. “Can’t say I’m familiar with that particular turn of phrase.” Taking a sip of her coffee, she watched as the other continued to speak. She let out a hum at Teagan’s words. Haven’t had one of those in a while. 

It filled her with a sense of sadness, hearing those words. Boston, as much as she enjoyed it, had not felt like home, neither had Biddeford. The truth was, as mixed as her emotions were on the town, Wicked’s Rest had been her home, and, despite everything going on, these past few months at the paper, the past several weeks with the Wormmates, this was as close to a home as she’d had in years. And, wasn’t that a little pathetic?

“I can understand the feeling,” she said simply. “By creepy crawlies, I assume you mean cryptids and the like? Where are you from?”

Teagan scrunched her nose playfully, laughing along. “He promised to give me whatever I wanted. I just made sure he kept to his word.” She continued to smile, letting her gaze wander. Arden had a cute laugh, drawing the nix’s eyes to her mouth. Beautiful smile, too. A catch, if she could ever believe a person could be. Love, Teagan had learned, came at too large a cost. 

She wasn’t willing to let her heart extend from her, able to walk around the earth as it pleased. It was why it was so easy to leave the Aos Sí. Teagan had already lost most of her heart, and that was more pain than she ever wanted to experience. Besides, who would want a worn and battered heart anyway?

“A ling di long is a welsh phrase…erm, a walk. A stroll. Is why you never heard it. And well…” Teagan took another sip of her latte, her head dancing side to side just before she completed her thought. “Is also why I’ve got a bit of an accent. Subtle and quiet, but still there.” Absentmindedly, she fiddled with her mother’s old ring on her finger, something she always did when she could feel her chest tense with sorrow. Teagan missed Wales, missed everything that was there, but that wasn’t her home anymore. It died along with most of her family. 

“But yes,” The fae nodded, “The cryptids, and, um, the like.” Her thoughts were getting the better of her, brows furrowing with the effort she exerted to push them away. A few blinks and a deep breath, and Teagan was fine. A smile painted back onto her face. Though, her stomach twisted with nausea anyway. “And you, lass? Where are ya from?”

Okay, so Arden was currently on a date? with a fae. That was more than a bit nerve racking, even if the fae in question did seem nice. Should she mention it? Probably not, right? It was fine. Everything was fine. She was friends with a balam, she could go on a date? with a fae. Nevermind the fact that she was also friends? maybe? with a hunter. Man, her life was way less fucking insane in Boston.

Teagan was quite an animated individual. It was charming, as was the slight accent that was apparently Welsh. “Oh, I did notice, but I wouldn’t have guessed Welsh.” As a stupid American, she couldn’t claim to know much about Wales, but now she was curious to learn more about Welsh cryptids. The topic of Wales did seem to bring the other down a bit, though, so she could drop it. For now. 

Arden offered her what she hoped was a comforting smile. “I’m from here, actually. Born and raised in Wicked’s Rest.” Not nearly as exciting as Wales, though she supposed this town was a lot more exciting than some others. “I left for a few years after college, but I moved back a couple of months ago.”

The conversation was quickly picking up in pace, both parties leaned in to listen. It was a good sign. People tended to lean toward what intrigued them, and though Teagan was the sort to avoid anything that went past the first date or the bedroom, she had to admit, Arden drew her attention. For a human, she was charming and had a certain air about her. As if she knew more than she led on. 

“Oh, most people don’t. Guess Scottish or worse, English!” She playfully gagged, “The worst.” A part of Teagan hoped it was all a ruse, that Arden was hiding a more supernatural nature, but the nix knew better than to risk revealing anything herself. If the woman in front of her was anything but human, she would take the same caution. Mask herself behind the idea that cryptids were nothing but rumors and that Wicked’s Rest was filled with unwarranted conspiracies. 

“Uni? Oh, so I’ve got myself a lady of education?” A chuckle escaped Teagan, her hand nonchalantly reaching to lay above Arden’s. It was a way to hit two birds all at once. A little flirting with a side of confirmation. One that didn’t narrow the list down by much, but she at least got one answer. Arden was warm. So, that took undead off the list.

“What did you study? Why come back now?”

Arden was having fun, despite the thrum of anxious energy in her stomach that wouldn’t quite dissipate. She chuckled at the dig at the English. While she probably wouldn’t have guessed her accent was English, she really couldn’t say much, the clueless American she was. 

At the age of twenty-eight– nearly twenty-nine–  it wasn’t often she felt young per se, but she did feel somewhat inexperienced at that moment. She had barely travelled outside of the northeastern United States, much less other countries, and for whatever fucking reason she couldn’t stay away from Wicked’s Rest. She could’ve gone anywhere after Boston, but no.

It also didn’t help, knowing that Teagan wasn’t human, was potentially much older than her despite her looks. Arden certainly didn’t feel like much of a lady of education, just small and ignorant and human. She grinned at the phrase, though, “I guess you could say that.” 

Surprise ran through her when Teagan casually placed a hand over her own, making the anxious mess in her stomach even worse, though she tried not to show it. “I got my bachelor’s degree in journalism, I actually work at the paper in town.” …that was probably not something the fae would love to hear, come to think of it. The image of her old apartment flashed through her mind and she longed for it, even if it hadn’t been much of a home for her. It was quiet, simple, hers. And Hobbes’ too, of course. She longed to collapse onto the bed. 

Arden shrugged. “I suppose I just got a bit homesick.”

A tinge of sorrow furrowed Teagan’s brows, the knowing making her stomach ache like she was experiencing heartache all over again. She knew what homesick was. The place that molded your heart and defined who you would eventually become. Teagan knew this in a number of ways. Ironically, she had to lose her home so that it could pave the way to who she was then. Someone who she could hardly stand to look at in the mirror, and had an even worse time being alone with. 

It was why Teagan enjoyed company, as temporary as they were. It was a small getaway, a little reprieve. “Sorry.” With a sigh, she picked off invisible lint from her sweater and shook her leg anxiously as Arden finished speaking. 

“I…I get it. Erm—being homesick.” She nodded quietly, finishing off her latte. It took all she could not to grumble at the loss of her mediating task. 

Then she looked at her other hand, which was still laying atop Arden’s. Her thumb brushed over the back of it absentmindedly. Teagan winced and slowly pulled away, doing her best to refocus and go back in the conversation. Journalism. Right. That could change the subject. Had to. It was Arden’s career. “Do you like what you do? Journalism?” A tear dropped before she knew it, and she wiped it away as fast as she could. “Any good stories?”

Shit. 

As soon as she saw Teagan’s face drop, Arden knew it was the wrong thing to say. Wales appeared to be a downer of a subject because of homesickness, then. 

Watching the way the woman began to fidget, it made her sad. It felt familiar, the way Teagan was reacting to what was obviously a difficult topic. Her own anxiety was even worse now, though it reached an apex, panic racing through her, as she noticed the tear. Oh, fuck, I made her cry.

Arden tentatively reached for her hand, wanting to comfort her, but allowing her the opportunity to pull away again if she wanted. “Oh, no, hey, I’m sorry,” she murmured, heart hurting for the other. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject. Do you– Do you want to talk about it? Or–” Fuck, she didn’t know what to do. “Can I do anything?”

No, she did not want to talk about it. The awful tragedy that made her…she didn’t want to say it, let alone think it. Of any of the pain. So…why in Fate’s name did Teagan say it so plainly? As if she’d known Arden long enough to allow for such intimacy? “Family was slaughtered in Wales. Home is gone. That’s all I will say.” 

She left no room for questions, for any lingering thoughts to find their way to Arden’s tongue. That was the last thing Teagan wanted. She knew her date meant well, though. “But hey,” She patted Arden’s hand, rejecting the offer kindly. Pity and comfort led to too much, but she didn’t want the woman to feel bad for doing what her heart told her to. It was an endearing trait to be able to listen to it. “It’s sweet of you to offer to listen. Just not something I talk about.”

Teagan shifted in her seat and adjusted her sweater, returning to a happier expression. It felt like a lie again, her stomach rolling uncomfortably. “Care to move to a happier subject?” She smiled wanly, if not a little hopeful. “Or we can move this fun somewhere else?” Her eyebrow bounce and smile were meant to say a little more, but Teagan knew it might get lost in translation. 

Oh.

She didn’t know how to react to that one. She was, of course, horrified, but just… “Fuck. Teagan, I am so sorry.” 

Arden wasn’t close with her family, it was just her and her parents. Her father had been the one she had gotten along with, and she had entirely fallen apart after his death. While she had many issues with her mother, she had still been there to raise her, to support her. Maybe not emotionally, but still. She’d had Jo, too, until they disappeared, and that had fucking broken her. 

Just losing two people had affected her so much; her whole family slaughtered, she couldn’t even imagine. “Yeah, no, I- I understand.” And she did. Arden was quite familiar with avoiding talking about personal and traumatic events in her life. If she could just stop saying the exact wrong things, that would be fucking great.

“Yeah, sorry.” She scrambled to think of a different line of conversation that wasn’t dead family or hometowns or supernatural secrets, though her brain entirely halted when Teagan spoke again. Was she… Did she just jump from dead family to hook up? 

Arden could understand where the other was coming from, but she was having a bit of whiplash. She wasn’t necessarily opposed, but she was just… Her brain and body were struggling to keep up. “I’m definitely not saying no, but maybe we can keep chatting for a bit? I could give you a little tour if you’d like?”

“No, lass. You don’t gotta apologize. Not like you’re the enemy. Not a fan of pity either.” The nix tried to shrug it all off, it looking more like she had weights pinned to her. At least Arden was accepting what she knew would make everything else go away. If only for a night. But of course, as with most things, there was a stipulation.

It was fair, if Teagan were being honest with herself. And at that rate, she really needed to be. Her stomach ached too much as is and she needed some kind of relief. Maybe a buffer between then and getting to a bed was necessary. Getting to know the town could be in her favor anyway. Arden wasn’t so bad either. Charming in a way that was all her own, with a beaming smile that Teagan found hard to turn away from. Maybe it was the wonder behind what a kiss would be like, but despite how much she ran away, even she knew she was slowing her pace. 

“Aye. Chat and a ling di long. I’d like that.” 

She should just drop it, but… “It’s not pity,” well maybe a little, but- “I just- I can empathize, I guess. Not to compare situations at all, I just… I know what it’s like to lose people that you love, is all.” Arden hated feeling pitied; she didn’t want Teagan to think that was where she was coming from. 

“But, yeah, sorry. Don’t mean to prolong an unpleasant topic.” She drained the last of her coffee before standing and offering Teagan a hand. “A chat and a ling di long it is, then. Have you seen the art walk yet? There might be some crabs around, but it’s always a crowd pleaser.”

#parental death tw #sibling death tw #closingwaters #wr teagan #wickedswriting #writing #collab