#*points at arthur* “this ant. fuck this one ant in particular.”

[plan-3-tmars]

the king in yellow (a literal god) after struggling for 4 seasons to kill the little british man (a mere mortal) in order to get back a very stubborn part of his soul (which is still technically him)

[lovebitesimagines]

In France Again.

Prompt #3 with John and Esme.

Here is the requested prompt! I’ve written it from Johns’ POV, as I felt it fitted the request more. It’s such a sad little bit of writing, and I’m so sorry to put you guys through this heartbreak! Thank you to anon for requesting this!

Tag list: @biba3434 @onlythechicagoway

If you wanna be tagged in a particular series, or all of my writing, just lemme know! x

Prompt list.

Send me over requests!

Masterlist.

Warnings: Violence, death.

Pairing: John x Esme.

Word count: 1k.

I don’t understand what went wrong. We had it all planned out, my brothers and me. There was no way that Selbini’s men would have seen us coming, it was a perfectly planned ambush. We would have strolled right on into Eden Club as if we had every right to be there. We would take it for our own. But they knew. They were waiting for us. We never stood a chance against them. It was like sending lambs to the slaughter, our ten men against their twenty.

The bullets that whizzed past my ears, transported me back to the battlefield in France. I could have easily mistaken my feet sinking into the blood-soaked floorboards, as the muddy terrain. The groans of dying men are not new to me, I’ve heard this all before. I’m familiar to the blood like mist which blurs my vision, yet I still stumble as if I was a blind man.

The Eden Club is no longer the same, glamorous building it once was. Every table has been overturned, every bottle and glass laying in pieces upon the floor. Blood seems to leak through the crevices in the walls, staining the marble pillars that once stood proudly in the centre of the room. Shoes lay discarded around the room; their owners having left the vicinity in a hurry. Leather and laces mingle with corpses. I struggle to take it all in. My head feels as if it will explode at any moment, a grenade lodged inside my mind.

“Enough!” Tommy roared. He’s stood in the centre of the room, blood smeared across his face. I can’t tell if it belongs to him or not.

The room falls to a standstill at his words, everyone finally taking a deep breath in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush.

“There’s been enough fighting here tonight” Tommy argues, dropping his gun to the floor. “Let’s not let another life go to waste”.

Everybody’s eyes are upon him, their focus fixated upon my older brother. Yet he pays no attention to any of us, his attention firmly placed upon Selbini.

Darby Sabinis’ once freshly pressed grey suit, is now soaked through with fresh scarlet blood. His eyes are dark and maddening and send chills down my spine. I’m not frightened by many people, I usually find that they are frightened by me and my family. It is the opposite with Sabini. He’s ruthless and cold, and I can sense a plot hatching behind his cruel glare.

“My mother once told me, that there are a few people on this Earth, who will constantly try to undermine everything you do” Sabini stated, his accent thick. His voice was quieter than Tommy’, yet it seemed to hold far more power. “She told me, that when the time comes I’ll have to stamp out those people as if they were nothing but ants under my shoe. You Peaky Blinders, are ants”.

           The room shifts, tension beginning to gain new life at Selbinis words. The men around me shift un-easily. We are worn out from the previous conflict, yet adrenaline begins to resurface. Hands fall to grip the handles of guns, eyes firmly fixed upon the men in front of us. Selbinis’ quiet threat does not go unheard.

           “Enough killing has gone on here tonight” Tommy warned, slowly lifting his hands up in defeat. “Leave my men go”.

           “Shut your fucking dirty gypsy mouth!” Selbini yelled, anger continuing to glower behind his eyes. “I’m not going to kill you tonight Shelby. No, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to make those closest to you wish you were dead. One by one, each of them will begin to despise you just as much as I do”.

           Selbini snapped his fingers. His henchmen shifted, responding to his silent demand. I noticed how the colour seemed to drain from Tommys’ face, the only pigment left belonging to the blood that was smeared across his skin.

           Then I saw her.

           I saw her, and suddenly I was a scared young man, frozen on the French battlefield. Her arms were gripped by two thuggish men, their fingers digging into her pale skin, leaving red finger-shaped marks behind. Her clothes were carelessly torn and ripped, blood smeared over the exposed flesh. I could see the tear marks upon her cheeks, yet she still held her head up high, refusing to allow herself to appear broken.

           “Esme...” my voice broke as I called out her name, stepping forward. Arthur put out an arm to stop me, shaking his head slowly.

           “Ahh. I see I may have found a weakness for you Shelby. What better way to start this?” Selbini smirked, pulling the gun out from his jacket pocket.

           I couldn’t move.

           I was in France again.

           I watched as he pointed the gun at Esme’s’ chest.

           I watched as he pulled the trigger.

           I was in France again.

           I didn’t care for the commotion that broke loose in that moment. I didn’t care for the hands that tried and failed to hold me back. All I saw was her. My Esme.

           I ran over to her, tears unashamedly spilling from my eyes. Selbinis’ men had left, taking advantage of the upheaval, leaving a path of destruction in their wake. I knelt beside Esme, holding her in my arms.

           “My love, please stay with me” I whispered, words meant only for us. Her blood was already beginning to stain my palms, saturating her clothing.

           “It hurts” she sputtered, blood catching in her throat. My heart broke at the sight of her. I could feel her growing limper in my arms.

           “I know love, I know. Stay with me. Please stay with me” I begged, tears flowing freely down my face. She reached out to me, placing a palm upon my cheek as if to wipe away my tears. I leaned into her touch, my eyes never leaving hers.

           “I’ll always love you John. I’ll always be with you” she murmured, her skin growing pale. “You take care of the little ‘uns for me. Make sure you tuck them in each night”. I shook my head, refusing to acknowledge her words. This couldn’t be happening.

           “You’re not leaving me Esme. You’re not leaving me”.

           “I love you John”.

           I watched as her eyelids fluttered closed.

           I felt it as her body grew cold and stiff.

           I heard an unhuman scream sound out around the room, bouncing eerily off the walls.

           It was me.

           I was in France again.

[margridarnauds]

3, 4, 12, and 27 for any Celtic or Arthurian ship (go wild with 'em!)

It is a fact universally acknowledged that I am A Soft Bitch. Also it has been SO LONG since I’ve dipped my toes into Arthuriana.  

(Sorry it took me so long; I had a Fourth of July dinner to go to and then afterwards I was so exhausted by people asking me about the drinking opportunities available in Ireland because obviously that’s why I’ve spent five years of my life dedicated to the field, amiright? + getting stung by fire ants because fuck Florida that I had to take a long freaking nap.) 

3. Who is the most romantic?

Bres/Sreng

I think that they actually both are, it’s just...how they express it. 

Sreng tends to be slightly blunter as far as he feels, he tends to show his affection for Bres via being a rock for him when he needs it most. He helps Bres with the children, he distracts him when the pressures of being with the Fomorians and the diplomatic hot potato get to be too much for him, he’s the one who Bres vents to when his father is being difficult on something, he tries to find ways to visit Bres whenever he can. He was the one in the tent with Bres when the news about Ruadan’s death came, he was the one who held Bres throughout the night as he SOBBED into Sreng’s last good cloak. 

Bres on the other hand is slightly less big on ACTIONS; it would be really, really easy for an outside observer to think that he’s less invested in the relationship. The truth is that he’s just as invested as Sreng is, if not more. He just tends to show it via, for example, curling up with Sreng’s cloak when he’s not there or being the one to take his hand when they’re in bed together, running his fingers along Sreng’s knuckles. 

Bres’ private space is very important to him, it’s part of why the Tuatha dé and he never really CLICKED, because the king of the Tuatha dé needed to be...well...an extrovert, someone who can host lavish feasts, someone who can humor everyone in the hall while maintaining the social order, and the longer that Bres stood in the kingship, the more he grew to despise everyone there. But Sreng is allowed IN there, he can go to Bres’ quarters with no problem, he can dine with Bres privately and Bres is perfectly at ease with him, he can share Bres’ living space to the extent that Bres tends to use him as a pillow. Also: Bres totally dotes on him and occasionally slips him a new gold neck-ring when he’s not looking. Because Sreng would be too proud for it normally but Bres can’t stand to see his decline. Which is big for Bres, given how we KNOW how stingy he was with the Tuatha dé. 

You know that if he’d won he would have totally spoiled Sreng. If that Fir Bolg wanted ANYTHING, he would have had it. It’s hard to use the term “consort” because the Medieval Irish were so BIG on marriage = children as a concept, but...Sreng would have been Bres’ nearest, dearest companion that he lavished attention on. Which would have rubbed salt on the Tuatha dé’s wounds even more. 

Mordred/Galahad 

Galahad. He has VERY high ideals of love and how it should be expressed, and so he’s constantly trying to court Mordred in the most courtly way he possibly can. Which is massively confusing to Mordred because he has no idea what to DO but...well...it’s nice. At least, once he realizes that Galahad id 100% serious. At first, he laughs about it with his brothers, but then as time goes on, he realizes that he LIKES it. (Namely when Galahad’s away on a quest at one point and suddenly Mordred doesn’t have that attention anymore.) Mordred is more the “I happened to find this by the side of the road, but don’t think that I LIKE you” type. 

4. Who can’t keep their hands to themselves?

Bres/Sreng

...Bres. Bres is just...Bres. He can’t keep his hands to himself and he will make bad jokes the entire time in his attempt to be smooth. He deeply enjoys trying to find excuses to touch Sreng whenever they are at a feast together. This drives Sreng absolutely batty since there’s really nothing that he can do to reciprocate when they’re in front of some of THE MOST POWERFUL FOMORIAN NOBILITY TO EXIST and Bres is behaving very casually, making pleasant conversation and Oh, Queen Cethlenn, is that a new silk dress? I hadn’t noticed it before while he raises his goblet at Sreng. Sreng always takes his revenge in the end, waiting until they have at least a sliver of privacy before pinning Bres against the nearest hard surface and kissing him absolutely senseless. Which was totally Bres’s intended purpose.

Mordred/Galahad

In general, Mordred, despite often seeming aloof. Mordred is very, very handsy with his boyfriend because, even though he won’t ADMIT it, the boy’s touch starved, and Galahad is endlessly compassionate when it comes to that. Though Galahad DID get tipsy once and was, as it turns out, a very affectionate drunk, which gave Mordred fuel to tease him for WEEKS. (And the rest of Camelot tbh. Given that we know that they are not above roasting someone given Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.) Galahad can’t enter the Great Hall without blushing for ages. Mordred tells him that his father’s done far, far worse in his time. 

12. What first changes when it starts getting serious?

It’s odd with them because their bond’s been intense since the first time they met. They just had one of those instant connections, so in some ways them finally going from friends to lovers...wasn’t THAT big of a step, because they always were serious. Their meeting is actually really, really unusual in terms of how two champions from opposite sides GENERALLY interact in-text, given that they both are on such good terms with one another and they STAY on good terms with one another even after everything happens. No, this did not feature in my undergrad Capstone in any way, what would give you that idea? 

I think that Bres is really, really surprised that Sreng stays by his side after their reunion. He puts on this very confident front, but privately, he puts a lot of his self identity on his looks. And when they went with Cairpre’s satire, that was a HUGE blow mentally and physically, even before it touches how it affects his kingship. He knew on some level that Sreng was interested in him, but they’d left things at a confusing place. So, he didn’t think that Sreng would keep an interest in him when his looks were marred, Sreng didn’t think that he had ANY interest in him...it’s a mess. And both of them still kind of think that the other’s going to change their mind at any given time even after they begin the process of clearing things up, not the least because neither one of them have really ever been in a place of stability in their lives. 

But then, it’s a month onwards, then it’s a year, then it’s two years, and both of them are still there, and it’s just like “Oh. This is a Thing” and there’s just this general feeling of security that starts to creep in. And, gradually, their lives just kind of naturally intersect. Both of them interact with one another regularly, both of them know each other’s families (regrettably, in Sreng’s case, given that he is the founding member of the Elatha Hate Club, even though he does love Bres’ children dearly), both of them have stuff over at the other one’s place. In the modern day, it would be painfully obvious that they were a couple, but since it IS this time, everyone else thinks They’re Just Good Friends, because that’s how good friends ARE at this point in time. Except for Lugh, who post-Cath Maige Tuired firmly believes that Bres is The Actual Devil and that Sreng and he have some sort of devious plan to take Ireland back. 

Mordred/Galahad

For once, they stop thinking about their respective destinies as much. 

Like, don’t get me wrong, in Galahad’s case in PARTICULAR, his eventual destiny is something that’s ALWAYS at the back of his mind, because he’s spent literally his ENTIRE CHILDHOOD being told that. We do not discuss the truly endless depth of my hatred for his mother and grandfather for THAT ONE + their treatment of Lancelot. 

And for Mordred, I think that on some level, there’s just this resignation that he’s going to be the villain, he’s going to kill Arthur one day, he’s going to be Evil™. He’s known that since he got the prophecy, and I tend to see him as having this “Then let me BE evil” moment after he murders the old priest and then Lancelot, the knight who he’d IDOLIZED and probably had a little bit of a crush on, tries to kill him. And that’s why he tends to see all the bad in Camelot, because it makes it that much easier to bring it all down. 

But, for a little while, there’s this period of time where they have the luxury of thinking about something outside of their fates, they can have a LIFE that’s theirs, without worrying about the future. It’s one of those things that they don’t even really NOTICE until it’s like “Wait, I haven’t thought about my tragic but inevitable death for a month now, where’s the time gone?” 

27. Why do their friends get annoyed with them?

Bres has FRIENDS? 

Alright, alright, that’s probably a little cruel, but...Well, he doesn’t really HAVE anyone. I tend to HC that Sreng’s brothers don’t really understand the relationship AT ALL and tend to view Bres as The Tuath Dé Who Shamelessly Seduced Their Brother (If you ask Bres, HE’LL say that it was the other way around, if you ask Sreng, he’ll just shrug because honestly to this day he has no idea how he scored Bres.)  

Tailtiu thinks that Sreng is essentially tying himself to a sinking ship. (Which...is she WRONG?) And Bres’ presence is basically a gigantic wedge between Sreng and Lugh being Bros™, which would obviously be Tailtiu’s endgame of choice. That, and Bres did. Kind of. Try to kill her former husband. Even though he had a Very, Very Good Reason for it at the time. Still. That has to sting a little. 

Elatha REALLY doesn’t like Sreng or the relationship, because he views it as a Distraction™ (that, and he doesn’t understand the appeal. If his son’s going to throw everything out on the line for someone, couldn’t it have been someone better, more attractive, more witty, less blunt? Someone that he could bend to his own ends), but he also knows that he has to tacitly allow it to continue, because he does NOT want to deal with the fallout. (Not even from Bres. Oh no, there’s a bigger threat to be considered. Eriu. Who is Very Happy That Her Boy’s Found Someone To Make Him Happy and won’t hear a bad word against Sreng, who she considers to be A Very Nice Boy. If she were a modern mom, she totally would be knitting Sreng a Christmas sweater while they speak and asking them when the wedding was even before either one of them had really THOUGHT of proposing.) 

Bríg does NOT like Sreng at all, not necessarily because of personal jealousy (she never really loved Bres, he never really loved her, even though there was a definite possibility that they could have loved one another in the early days), but because of the Nuada Incident. She doesn’t really understand why Bres would spend so much time with him when he’s The Enemy, and he’s a Fir Bolg so he’s inherently lesser than the Tuatha dé anyway. 

Bres’ brothers don’t really understand it either. Over 3000 years in and the Dagda STILL thinks that Bres’ problem is that he doesn’t get laid enough and that if Bres would just get away from That Fir Bolg... (If only he knew, if only he knew.)

Meanwhile, the Fomorian lords, sans Elatha, are more or less completely oblivious. Tethra might have a better idea than the others, but does he care? Nope. He’s not overly invested in this whole thing anyway. He’s got his own issues at home to take care of, thank you VERY much. He participates in the raids because he has to dole out the loot to his men the same as anyone else, but he’s not INVESTED in it. It’s a necessary part of maintaining his kingship, nothing more. Sreng isn’t overly fond of them because he considers them to be essentially a snakepit of intrigue and corruption that will stab the two of them in the back at their earliest opportunity and he’s not wrong for the most part, though the one thing I WILL emphasize is that it’s not because they’re Fomorians, it’s that they’re...well, medieval kings, but they have a decent enough working relationship because they both hate the Tuatha dé’s guts. 

Mordred/Galahad 

Agrap-Agravaine tends to be annoyed that his brother’s spending all his time with someone who’s such a goody two shoes. Mordred and he have always been the closest in terms of age and personality, and suddenly he’s no longer Mordred’s Favorite. 

I actually think that Morgause would like Galahad? She’s definitely very, very pro-her sons being happy in Le Morte d’Arthur and Good Mom Morgause is a hill that I’m willing to die on. Because fuck T.H White. I do think it would be a little strange, to say the least, given that obviously Galahad is staunchly religious whereas I don’t REALLY see Morgause having that same bent. Morgause just...lives her own life, regardless of what society says, and I think she would have some trouble understanding why her son would go for someone like that when he’s HIM. But I do think that for the most part, she would just be thrilled that Mordred has someone who he’s devoted to given that he’s REALLY not been OK since That One Quest With Lancelot. 

ANY of Galahad’s friends tend to be annoyed at Mordred simply for the fact that Mordred is...Mordred. He doesn’t have the best reputation for a REASON, and it’s very, very dissonance inducing to see the two of them constantly in one another’s presence, even though they try to frame it in terms of Mordred being a charity case of Galahad's.

And Lancelot obviously hates Mordred because he knows of The Prophecy™. He is NOT pleased by this turn of events, and it goes way beyond “annoyance.” 

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 14: Cusco - In Which I Ride Through A Desert (National Park) On a Horse With No Name (It Was Called Treacle)

We were up earlyish again, today, for the second of our booked excursions in Cusco. This day, however, we had eschewed the ATVs  to instead ride around a lovely big national park on horseback, like the rough and ready cowboys that we (I) definitely are (am).

We hauled ourselves out of lovely warm bed and into horrible cold flat and, after a frankly joyless breakfast of children's cereal, which, by this point, I am utterly sick to my back teeth of, bade a temporary goodbye to our apartment and all its resident ants and headed to our horsey pickup point: San Blas temple.

After a few (twenty) minutes wait, our driver, Marciel appeared from nowhere, like a little Peruvian goblin and ushered us into his car. He spoke no English, though insisted on speaking to us at length, anyway, so lots of smiling, nodding and saying “si” and just hoping ensued.

Marciel drove us up through the outskirts of town and, annoyingly, alongside the Saqsaywaman ruins, where he stopped, insisted we get out and take pictures from an infuriatingly better angle than we had enjoyed a couple of days ago, thereby making the incredibly gruelling uphill walk now entirely pointless on every conceivable level. Don't tell Sam, though, even though she knows and was also there.

After around twenty five minutes total drive time, we pulled up alongside the actual, for real ranch, with horses and men in hats and everything, and were quickly greeted by our incredibly lovely guide, whose name, unforgivably, I have totally forgotten- I'll call him Ruben, because I think it was probably something like that – and Robert, another punter, also from Britain, whom you could tell just by looking at, was definitely in Peru to do Ayahuasca, but was fairly nice, regardless.

After a brief bit of small-talk, which I hated, we were assigned our horses. I had, from nearly the exact moment of booking this particular tour, some month and a half prior, been insisting that my horse would be called Treacle, because for some reason, it seemed to annoy Sam and I found that incredibly funny. In actuality, my horse's name was Caramel, which I'm sure you'll agree is startlingly close to my original guess and indeed definitely close enough for me to continue referring to it as Treacle, throughout this post, which I will.

After only a single incredibly ungainly failed attempt to get on top of Treacle, before finally cracking it (meaning I managed to get into the saddle- I didn't punch the horse) I was up and on horseback and officially a cowboy. Yee haw. Neat. Wowzer.

I had never ridden a horse before this point, never really having had the cause, interest or availability to, but despite feeling constantly for the first half hour or so like I was definitely going to slip off my saddle to the side and be trampled under Treacle's magnificent, pounding hooves, it wasn't all that bad, at all. It was a bit like driving a living car, I suppose - one which could arbitrarily decide to go mental and kill you at any point. I concede that does actually sound quite bad, now I read it back, but it really wasn't.

After a while, I found my bearings and settled into clopping around like I was in a very, very slow version of Red Dead Redemption. No sooner had I begun imagining myself as a cowboy, clad in a poncho, shooting all the natives to bits with a very big gun, however, than we stopped, demounted and went for a bit of a wander around the nearby Temple of The Moon.

Neat.

The temple, despite not getting to go inside it – site of delicate historical significance my arse – was incredibly neat. It was created by the Incas, as a sort of partner to the nearby Temple of the Sun, only this one was used to worship...yeah, the Moon. Exactly. You're really good at this. Apparently, though, due to the Spaniards being undeniable bastards and smashing up, murdering or building over everything Incan they could find, some savvy natives decided to cover the entire temple in soil to hide it. I have no idea how they might have accomplished this, or if indeed it is even true, but Not-Rubem says it was, and honestly? I trust him more than you. What this meant, however, was that for many years, up until even the last six or so, a lot of the temple had remained undiscovered by modern eyes and indeed, was still, in part, in the process of being excavated. It also had a hole in its ceiling, where the moonlight would shine through during clear nights, illuminating an alter, where they performed ritual sacrifices and if that ain't the most HP Lovecraft shit, I ever heard.

Our brief, though interesting interlude now completed, I hopped back onto Treacle (first try) and we continued our sojourn. Now quite enjoying myself, even when Treacle arbitrarily broke out into a gallop for a while, terrifying me ever so slightly, we climbed up through the valley along winding paths and eventually reached a genuinely very impressive viewpoint. I'd describe it as breathtaking, but at that altitude, everything is, so it would be pointless to do so.

Still pretty alright, though...

Afterwards, we sidled back down the path, Ruben talking about all the different wildlife we had seen (including apparently an Andean Condor, which I didn't realise at the time are actually quite a rare find, but also, still just birds so basically a bit shit) and plant life we were passing, making me feel every inch the outdoorsman, despite how much this sentence implies the opposite.

Despite a couple of interludes, wherein Treacle unexpectedly galloped, or launched himself over tiny puddles in the most overly dramatic way possible, crushing my hands and genitals against the saddle in the process, I was now decidedly enjoying my time on horseback and had begun to feel so comfortable that when Ruben suggested that we gallop back to the ranch on the final strait of road, I eagerly(ish) agreed. Sam's horse, however, whose name neither of us can remember, but whom she dubbed “Li'l Asshole” was not so gallop-inclined and so, once back at the ranch, we did have to wait for some time, while Sam and Li'l Asshole trotted along at entirely its own pace, which was close to that of molasses. I befriended that ranch's cat in the meantime, however, so didn't mind in the slightest. In fact, I only wish they could have taken longer.

We lunched at the ranch, “enjoying” a little packet of salted crackers, a melted chocolate cake bar and a bottle of water (and also, the ranch's cat, Arthur, now sitting on my knee, purring loudly like a big idiot) and the smalltalk began, once more.

Robert told us that his plans for the rest of his time in Peru were to attend a three week ayahuasca retreat (I fucking knew it). I mean, again, he was a nice guy, but for fucks sake, Robert. Grow up.

Conversation then turned to Machu Piccu. Robert asked us if we had been; we told him we had not. He asked when we planned to go and we told him that we had no plans to do so. We had been wavering on going, since initially booking the trip. Wonders of the world are neat and all, but when viewing them with with literally thousands of other people at the same time, for about an hour and at a cost of several hundreds of pounds, it just didn't seem that worth it and by the time we had reached the point of saying “fuck it, lets just spend the money and do it”, all of the limited entrance tickets had sold out.

Ruben, however, chipped in to tell us that the travel agency for which he and his ranch worked would have some available tickets and he may be able to hook us up for tomorrow, should we still want to go. We told him we were definitely interested and he made a quick phone-call to check availability and prices. Four hundred and fifty dollars. We weren't that interested, fuck. We sadly declined Ruben's proposal and vowed to come back at some point in the future instead, perhaps to walk the Inca trail for like eleven days to get there, which apparently, even that you have to pay for. Walking. You have to pay to walk there. Get your shit together, Peru. Absurd.

A little dejected to not be going Piccu-side, we said our goodbyes to Ruben, Treacle and Li'l Asshole and clambered back into the taxi to be briskly driven back to San Blas temple. Once there, we also said goodbye to Robert, who at the point of writing this, is probably off his little tits on drug-soup, and headed to a cafe we had had our eye on since arriving, for a bit of lunch.

Once inside, I opted for half a basil, mozzarella and tomato panini (which turned out to be absolutely gigantic; I could not even fathom eating a full one) and a frankly monstrous slab of tres leches cake. The food was incredible and honestly, definitely the best thing I had eaten on this trip. All other food I had eaten thus far (including the chicken roulade, from the previous night, which at the time, was lovely, though in comparison was like chewing through a bag of soot) can eff off into the bin, where it clearly belongs.

Now feeling a little sleepy - we had been up since like 6am, had a fairly physically demanding day and now, as I say, were full to the brim with bread and cheese – we decided to head back to the flat, despite it only being around 2pm, to nap and otherwise relax for the rest of the day and indeed, to figure out what to do with our last remaining day in Cusco, tomorrow. Tentatively, our plans were to go and see some of the other, less amazing ruins that the city and surrounding are had to offer. Did we actually do that? Who knows! You'll have to read the next entry to find out! (We didn't. We're lazy and have spent all our money.)