#Athos Dane

[starsailores]

rest in peace athos and astrid dane. you could have been so silly

[holland-vosijk-antari]

headcanon that holland knew lila was antari as soon as she set foot in red london because the danes tried to use the stone to travel to red london themselves and didn't succeed so holland simply put two and two together

[thegreatgeodo]

Ngl the Lenos and Hastra paralelisms didn't become all that apparent until the third book but now that it's much more on the nose... Yeah actually i see how that goes.

Shades of Magic has a strong theme of paralelisms, Holland and Kell, Athos & Astrid and King George IV, etcetera, and in those paralelisms the most important thing is that Each Of These Characters Could Have Been One Another. If the twins had been born in the grey london, Astrid and Athos COULD have been the aloof and magic wanting monarchs, if George had been born in the white london... wait no actually he'd be dead. But Kell COULD have been Holland, Holland COULD have been Kell. Back to Hastra and Lenos, Hastra could have been Lenos but Lenos could not have been Hastra. They both accompanied an Antari (Lenos with Lila, Hastra with Kell), they both were religious, etcetera, yes, but their difference relies in that Hastra doesn't want his Equilibrium, he doesn't want to work in the sanctuary, so had Hastra been in Lenos's place, Hastra could have been Lenos. However what fucks me up so badly is that Lenos couldn't have been Hastra, he himself says this, had he had some more Magic he could have been a monk in the sanctuary, but unlike Hastra he would have accepted it outright, unlike Hastra, Lenos wouldn't have gone out of his way for an adventure, Lenos is much more adept to religiousness, Lenos, if he had been in Hastra's place, wouldn't have gotten into the boat because he would never have that chance. In conclusion if Lenos was a tadbit smarter he wouldn't be fucking dead. Hastra would be tho that femboy monk really was that good at being a guard.

[curiousscallop]

thinking of them <3 <3 <3

[hollow-vok]

Athos Dane sketch,,

[purplebass]

For Shades of Magic, what do you think of all the various villains/antagonists? Obviously, the Dane Twins and Osaron, but I'm also interested in your thoughts on George IV, Maxim and Emira, Berras, Ezril, and anyone else you consider to be in that category.

I will also make some theories about Threads so there will be spoilers!

Well, if we have to talk about who was better as a villain, it's a match between Osaron and the Dane twins. I would call this first group "the villains that were so hard to beat and we're not sure are really dead".

Osaron was the typical evil that was around you but you couldn't see and it was difficult to destroy - in fact we see how that went. It needed to be contained but it wasn't truly destroyed.

The Dane twins also scared the shit out of me because they weren't just cruel, they were plain crazy and unpredictable. It would be interesting if they were to come back, because sometimes I'm not sure they really left. What if they went to Black London? What if, when someone dies because of Antari magic, they are sent there? Because killing them looked so easy.

I'm still convinced that Kosika might've brought something to White London and it might be a mix of evil forces who have taken the shape of Holland. Perhaps they never even left White London.

Then there's a second group that I would define as "the villains who tried so hard and who are likely going to fail" and I would put Berras and maybe Ezril. Berras never posed a threat until he used the bracelet to steal Lila's power. I never took him too seriously to be honest, because he was covering for Ezril. Ezril is still a mystery. Since she's a priest, she might have skills we don't know about, like some kind of borrowed magic too. I think she will lay low because she needs Rhy and the others not to suspect her, so she can spy from the inside. We see that Kell doesn't seem to like her, and I hope he keeps an eye on her because it's clear Rhy trusts her too easily. She will also probably use her intel and her being a trusted person in the castle to steal any of Nadiya's trinkets (she probably gave Berras the ring and the bracelet). She might be outed in Threads #2, because I believe there is someone even bigger than her behind the Hand, even though we know her motive for treason is that her family is third in line after Nadiya's family. She would kill two birds with one stone if she got rid of the king and queen, but we all know that Rhy will only die if Kell dies, so... I expect things like a murder attempt at Kell or LIla both.

I am afraid because I also remember about the knife Lila nicks in the tavern that can kill someone using their power against them... even so, do you know what makes me feel like even Ezril will not win? It's because of the bond that now exists between Lila and Kell. I believe that by giving him a thread of her magic, Lila might've bound herself to Kell the same way he bound himself to Rhy. But for them, this may work differently: this connection could amplify their magic unbeknownst to them. The ring/bracelet might've been a foreshadowhing of that.

The last group is about "the ones who I wanted to slap so hard because they watched everyone from their high horse but were scum". I would put king George IV and Maxim and Emira, obviously. George was just plain annoying and I was glad when Kell literally said fuck you and stopped visiting him. I'm curious to know how he's doing, though, because I don't think Lila updates us on the king in Grey London? I hope they will go again in Threads #2, but so far he isn't a threat even though the fact that the box containing Osaron's power is in Grey makes it possible for the king to attempt to steal the power. We know he went to the Five Points to look for Kell, and he might do it again. I wonder what could happen if such a great power were to be used in Grey London. Would the magic tip from one London to another? Is that the reason why magic in Red London seems to have changed?

Last but not least, Maxim and Emira. I hated them with a passion. They weren't good parents not even to their biological son, but I mostly hated how they treated Kell like an object they owned and not as a human being. They are one of the root causes of Kell's abandonment issues too. The poor guy just wanted to be loved and being treated like an equal, but they only gave him a mere title to make people believe he was part of the family but he was their watchdog, basically. I was so glad when they died, because it served them right.

I think I said enough haha! I might add more in future posts because I plan a Threads reread and there is still a lot to say :) Thanks for the question!

[ravencromwell]

Headcanons for either or both of the Dane twins?

Going beneath a cut, because somehow this turned into 3k of Astrid stream-of-consciousness musings on ruling her city, bracketed with Holland's disgusted dead-pan snark.

The very worst thing, Holland thinks in the bleakest moments, is that the Danes aren't the worst rulers Makt has ever had.

***

Athos alone probably would be. He is the lord of infinite, fruitless defiance, and if the city wants to give him such gifts as rebellion, who is he to say no? He will simply fight them all as entertainment between bouts of indulging his insatiable curiosity about artifacts. Emerging victorious would soothe his terror that everyone lost the throne eventually even if it left the city in ruins and more corpses than living people.

But if Athos is lord of defiance, Astrid is lady of small mercies.

From the moment the old man was dead, Astrid knows she will show none of his faux love and camaraderie to her subjects. They might love her in return, and those who love a queen want to see it reflected back, need her words of praise for their devotion no matter how they prattle simple service will suffice.

Such displays are tedious, love reserved for Athos alone.

But gratitude? Gratitude has its uses.

She and her brother want to leave their mark on this world (and its people). If her brother's little stone is as strong as they believe, one day folk privileged to suffer beneath their blades may show their scars with pride and whisper what a gift they were given by Makt's saviors.

If they do not, well. More fool them.

But in the meantime, even an Antari cannot hold off a hundred angry citizens, if they decided to mob. And sometimes, the Danes satiation requires a few missing loved ones. And inevitably, discontented souls decide there must be new blood. In especially unfortunate moments, those close to traitors have chosen to mewl about her brother's punishments and must be put down in their turn.

Her beloved Athos never understood how the body forgets pain. Men and women drink. They promise themselves the blood they saw running in the gutter was not as red as all that. Besides, it will not happen to them. To live in this city is to become deaf to screams, even your own.

Look at her brother's pretty thing. How many times has Athos made him scream? (Enough it's added a permanent, graveled edge to his voice, Antari or no.) And still she and Athos catch those glimpses of defiant hatred that are almost better than the blood for her twin.

Profound appreciation, by contrast? Thankful obligation at holding a living, breathing child, where a month ago there was dying skin and bones? That will make a man hesitate before joining a revolution.

Appreciation may even bind the Antari better than the spell of which Athos is so proud.

'Obey and protect my sister' Athos always says when he won't be close to repeat an unheeded command.

Still, she has seen how he can resist myriad precautions binding every joint and muscle and bone ! Athos's will. Seen the foolish delays, misinterpretations. Seen him dare, if Athos' words are closer to suggestions ignore them outright, force her brother to the clearest possible command. She suspects he can withstand even better as Athos' proximity fades.

Wasted breaths are risk, when blood is in the balance. Fortunately, she is no fool, wrapping herself in enough amulets calling him to her aid is rarely necessary. He rides beside her to prove that even the Dane with slightly less black in her veins can easily control their demon.

But at almost every sign of threat, he moves unprompted. Not because he fears her brother's retribution, not because the seal compels. He comes too swiftly for either of those. Holland Vosijk comes because he knows if she died, he would never throw alms to the city that hates him. No subsidized wheat; Athos would love watching the men and women he trains to ride behind them—never beside, no one is given enough knowledge to stand as equal to they two—into Arnes—divide the city into wedges and make the people under their control scrabble and beg.

When she first saw the stacks and stacks of carefully labeled payments to spell-crafters and curse-makers, she'd thought none of Athos' experiments would be needed. The old man had found a way to open the doors, and now he was dead, and they could simply ride into Arnes and snatch the glory.

But a magical payment for each farmer to feed the city as a whole, rather than their chosen hoard, wasn't the worst idea. And Astrid would happily put the dead's ideas to fine use.

She graciously allows the pretty former knight over-see it, so long as he remembers the queen is always watching.

(Though when speaking of food and goods of all kinds, it is her brother who shines in trade. His tactic is so very simple. So very effective. A merchant enters the throne room. Athos informs them what they will bring to the city. Should they complain or protest, he does not even deign to blink. Merely says: "Unbutton your shirt." And while the merchant is gawping and spluttering, the Antari bears his Seal.

"Do you know what this is?" her brother asks, gently.

By the time he has demonstrated the Seal to his satisfaction—such a thorough tutor to the less accomplished, her twin— the question of whether the merchant's trade might improve under Athos' control does not need asking.

Once, Athos slipped a request for a woman's first-born into a contract revision and she signed without even looking, so desperate to flee from the throne before she had matching runes. She even dutifully paraded the child to the castle six months later. Athos had no interest now she behaved so well, but Astrid found gratitude at keeping her child made her a most excellent spy. within the city.)

And then there are the sick. Perhaps the Antari would be allowed his little preoccupation if her brother ruled alone, assuming the family were desperate enough to contribute a person to his servants' ranks. But even mindless, there's something in his guards that hungers to live, ducking blades and attacks on instincts most would swear puppets could not have. He rarely needs replacement.

On those occasions a petitioner dares bring the ill to their attention, Astrid takes whatever their pathetic tribute is. With gloves, of course, because assassins lurk everywhere. Takes the faded, wilted flowers and oddly shaped rocks with the tiniest bit of color lurking in stone veins from the children—so many are children, young and unscarred enough to believe facing the twins and their demon is a price gladly paid even as those they keep alive will likely betray them eventually.

Adults, when they come, bring carefully knitted blankets and finely spun clothes. Once, there were even the most lovely hair combs, made of some creature's shell far from the south the woman called a tortoise. Why she would surrender them for a squalling brat who has years and years to die while she has nothing else to barter, Astrid cannot guess. But she passed the combs to Albiz, her brother's favorite among the spell-working salon, to check for curses and let Holland do his work.

There are not many such petitioners, but every one will go back into the city and whisper of the queen's mercy, how she always stood between them and the demon, and when it was done, their friend or child or lover was alive. Whispers that will still other's discontent.

She keeps almost all those talismans, unless something catches her brother's fancy. Carves spells into the stones, wraps herself in the blankets, wears the finely made trousers.

Though she has little use for wilted posies. "Keep them," she says gently, savoring Holland's second flickering of desperate relief at being handed a token not steeped in blood.

Funny, how he is even responsible for Astrid's proudest creation, though he disdains her falcons. The complement to her brother's court of favored scholars and magicians. Where her brother's is equally spread between men and women, barely any of her falcons are men. Men are so terribly squeamish about having their bodies borrowed. And all her falcons wear a possession charm, so she may see any part of the city through their eyes whenever she wishes.

She could simply force her will, toss a charm over any likely-looking neck. But she wants keen servants, who will willingly call her attention to matters of interest. Made hungry enough from being overlooked they have the grit to never utter a word of complaint when she enters them abruptly. To never fight when she raises their hands or opens their mouths. To fall upon her prey in whatever manner she requires and ask no questions.

The obedience Athos must bind, given freely.

In return, they shall never starve, never offer their measly tributes to free family from pain, never serve anyone's will but she and Athos.

Years later, the keenest ferocity of them all, her magicless, intrepid Gudrun, under the thumb of a father who craved a drudge incapable of disobedience until she went to the market and ran to rumors of Astrid's glove, nets her flower boy. Whispers the most ridiculous, delightful story about forbidden letters and a knight-turned hound's vices that sees Astrid smiling even days later as she prepares to fully possess a prince. Whispers it with the sweet conviction she must have displayed to her father before Astrid murmurred he could not touch her. To do all the things she must have dreamed. (He learned then a knife could make even a magicless woman a man's greatest terror and Gudrun snarled in delight.) Whispers until the Antari falls to her talons, while Astrid watches from half a city away.

What she wants is easy. What she will call them does not come to her until after Holland's third visit to Arnes, feeling her brother's hand squeeze hers in delight at the wonders of this red city. Both their fingers ache pleasantly from expressing such delight at the hours-long recitation, as they have each time her brother told the Antari to 'account for each moment in the Red City'.

The prey-vulnerable Red Royals must think they are predators, dawdling with their letters, letting 'Master Holland' wander the city while they mull their answers, thinking themselves so safe with their doors. She would mock them more, save their complacency makes for beautiful tales.

Later, he will learn to speak of Arnesian wonders in a monotone as though they were fool enough to believe the city left him any less awestruck than they. But in these early days, even he cannot help closing his eyes at the thought of the fat, juicy rabbits a hunting party carried with them. Or perhaps it is the juice running in rivulets across her brother's fingers and lips as he savors the last few bites of apple. So sweet, that juice, when he had pressed it to her lips for the first bite. She had laughed until her sides ached, spun him about the throne room. She would offer her brother a bite of her own pasty—what a marvelous idea, to tell his pretty thing he must fetch back two things he had enjoyed most for them—but even three trips in, she knew his tastes ran to sweet and savory, not the burn that accompanied her meat and vegetables.

"Did you like it because it burned, pretty thing? Because everything in their world should carry the burn of their betrayal?" she had asked, hours ago, and relished the hiss of breath when he forced the Seal to jerk his head in affirmation.

"Even as you could not help wanting the sweet," Athos had laughed, graciously smearing some of the juice in a lingering kiss at the corner of the Antari's mouth. She could see the red shine of it still. Will he clean it away the second he is alone, or be unable to resist the last taste of sweetness even as he hates himself for it? she wondered, and then the Antari's voice cracked, and Athos gestured that he might fill one of the glasses beside the water pitcher and she exhaled her disappointment.

"We will scry his room and see what he does another day," Athos whispered, and of course he too had wondered if his pretty thing could resist temptation.

"The leader had a bird on his arm," the Antari continued barely a moment later, setting the emptied glass on the table and before he was done explaining how such a fierce thing rested so easily for bits of meat, she was striding to Athos' scrying basin, pulling Holland behind. "Clever, pretty thing, seeing what I need. Falcons."

Such beautiful ferocities, and she tried to touch the feathers even as she knew she would only ripple the water. "As Tosal," her brother said softly, pressing against her back and she blinked.

"Mhmm?"

"He will go back tonight and bring you one with As Tosal. It will make the bird still and silent, but not turn it to stone."

"Was it your favorite, when you made him demonstrate all his mysterious tricks to the salon?"

"You know me so well. We will send him jingling with compulsion coins and they will be none the wiser."

"It isn't a fruit I can have forgotten in a pocket if something goes wrong."

"Then you will not let it go awry, Holland. Do you think a week's silence on his return would make him more or less inclined to state the obvious. It is so very dull."

"More, to spite you. It is what comes of wanting a pet who bites. Athos, come here." She held her mad, foolhardy brother, who would weave a plan in an instant and risk all his great discoveries to bring her something marvelous without her even needing to ask, close to her chest. "The pretty thing is not wrong. Besides, I do not need a falcon, love, only their design. For my court. Can he-"

"Of course. Tell us the rest of the trip later. For now-"

"Holland-" This once, for bringing her such a gift, she will grant his name, since he has so little liking for her sobriquet, "Find the best silver smith in the city. A falcon, in flight. On a chain, small enough to slip beneath a shirt. Bring a finished one for approval by lunch tomorrow."

It was midnight, he would have to roust the Shal's leader from a warm bed to find a smith he would also disturb, he was tired. If the Antari thought any of these things, he did not say them, simply turned on his heel and left.

***

In the next seven years, Holland Vosijk can count, with fingers to spare, those Astrid Dane invites to her glove who flee the invitation. (Athos always let his magicians come grovelling, but Astrid's falcons were always keen-eared for new recruits) Perhaps it is his worst delusion, thinking they, too, see how much blood runs at the margins of a people who, if not content, are at least not especially restless.

There is fountains worth from the one hundred eighty-two killed by the Danes personally, and his sixty-four. The blood of fools who ran their mouths too freely to the innocuous-looking barmaid or shopkeeper or grandmother before a little silver charm emerged. Blood of crows know how many drunk by Athos' magicians for power.

When forced to collaborate or unearth magic, he can most easily hold his control near lady Albiz, who makes the job no crueler than necessary, heeds advice, and returns her dead to their people or buries them herself. And she still snuffed out two Maktahns the day she swanned into Athos' service. He will not forget that because she grants an ounce of respect.

Two lives she'd taken, that were merely one crime, on one day of two thousand five hundred fifty-five. Still full of all that blood, she'd strolled into morning court in a ragged tunic and skirt, pupils glassy from the sudden torrent of magic into a body that knew only a trickle.

Like Alox.

Fifteen and cocksure with it like him, too.

"I heard there was a place here for those who could take it. I'll be your best magician if you'll let me take enough. I'm tired of running dry."

There had always been people not even the king's knight could stop, no matter how it choked him to admit it. He could have wandered the streets, never sleeping, and still not stopped all the blood being shed. And sometimes. Sometimes, they had something Vor needed and he turned a blind eye and Holland fled to Arnes to be in a world where kings didn't have to allow atrocities for the greater good. Until the ache to smell ash and steel and the fear Vortalis was dead in his absence swamped the rage and tugged him home.

But Vortalis would never have leaned in and inhaled the blood clinging to her like a bouquet, licked the red from the corner of her mouth, mirth echoing off the walls until Holland's head throbbed when she moved like a desperate, striking snake to try for a kiss. As though he'd let it be stolen back from his tongue. Would never have said, for all to hear: "Defiant little thing, aren't you? You're the third most beautiful person I've seen all month."

How many lives might be saved, if Albiz and worse weren't infesting the city? How many slum magicians had killed some unwitting neighbor, watching them preen and knowing Athos and Astrid Dane would never care, so long as they were not challenged as the greatest sorcerers of the land?

Deluded or no, it is those few refusals Astrid grumbled over and insisted he keep an eye on ("If they dare not serve, they must have plans of their own. Look harder, pretty thing, and you'll find the rot they're tangled in.") he seeks when he returns for kingship. Hopes their refusal meant more than a disdain for fancy jewelry. Because Athos and Astrid Dane aren't the worst rulers Makt had, but he will be better by far.

[badassbutterfly1987]

prompt: housewarming

modern au, Holland + Athos + Astrid

It was a nice neighborhood as far as Holland could tell. Not upper-rich-mansion-owning nice but certainly well-off. Certainly nicer looking than his home in the Kosik, or the previous foster homes for that matter.

Mrs. Dane had been nice so far. Nice wasn’t the same as kind. It wasn’t the same as loving. It would have to be enough.

Just two more years, Holland reminded himself. Then he could be on his own. Just had to behave well; better than being recycled into another home.

So, gripping his backpack tightly, Holland followed his newest foster mother into the house. Her heels clicked on the marble floor.

“Athos, Astrid, come meet your new foster sibling!”

Two blond heads popped up over the stairway railing. Fraternal twins, he had been told, about his age. They stared in silence; just curious, he hoped.

Mrs. Dane was expectantly looking at him. Holland ducked his head; if he talked first, he might make a bad first impression.

She cleared her throat. “Astrid, why don’t you show Holland to his room?”

At least she used the correct pronouns. The bar was in hell, as people said.

He followed the blonde girl. The room had probably been a guest bedroom first. Simple, nice enough, completely impersonal.

“Is that really all you have?” She was eyeing his backpack.

Holland nodded. It carried the essentials and a couple mementoes from his childhood. Anything more would have to be loaned by the Danes.

She left him alone to settle in.

[bluecichlid]

OK, finished my second re-read of The Fragile Threads of Power. I'm All In on my personal fan theory. Astrid is back. The Master of the Veil is Astrid Dane who was possessing someone in Red London when she died and is now back from the grave and is fucking shit up.

[turtleneckgreen]

Favourite murder twins, i can’t fix them but i’d let athos carve as many runes in me as he wants😩😩😩

[ravencromwell]

@badassbutterfly1987 just look at @pinkcupboardwitch being brilliantly transgressive.

AU headcanon: modern day White London AU and/or selkie AU

Most of my selkie headcanons are some variant of “baby selkie Holland = adorable and sad,” so have some modern ones:

1. Athos tends to alternate between blasting opera and Scandinavian rap when he’s focusing on something. Holland prefers classic rock (and Hozier, obviously). Astrid? God knows. Probably she has a lot of Wardruna on her playlist.

2. Holland secretly loves fantasy novels; he’s a big Tolkien fan, but really he’s a sucker for the whole genre. Period dramas too.

3. The twins don’t speak English, but Holland can, along with either French or Italian (I personally see canon Red London as based on Mughal India, but the language sounds Romance-influenced, so I’m not sure where to situate Red London in the modern world. Maybe the Mareshes are expatriates).

             Mostly, I’m weak and I want to see Holland blasting down the Amalfi Coast with dark glasses and one hand on the wheel of a fast convertible.

4. Astrid’s perfumes: Bandit, Cuir de Russie, Tubereuse Criminelle. I kind of want to assign Aramis to Athos, but honestly he’d probably be more into something like Dead Writers. Or he gets lazy and just steals from Astrid.

5. The twins are casually pagan (Heathenism specifically, though neither of them runs in folkish circles). Holland is Jewish.

6. Not strictly a modern AU since I hold this for canon verse too, but Athos is trans. Being in the modern world does affect how he is able to interact with gender as opposed to being in canon WL.

(Because I’m an academic and textual support is my kink: when Schwab describes their differences, she singles out Athos’s shorter hair and broader shoulders (he does have great shoulders, but I also think he pads them a bit so he’ll look bigger). Beyond that, they’re “identical.” It is really unusual for fraternal twins to be that similar, especially in height. Schwab might be exaggerating, but I also think there’s room for a reading where the twins are actually identical. Having one of White London’s rulers be a cross-dressing woman and the other be a man - when Astrid got spit on for just wearing pants - adds a lot to the way I read the series.)

[thelastofthebookworms]

Other polls in my pinned post.

[holland-vosijk-antari]

i bet white london vine/tik tok would be absolutely insane

[pinkcupboardwitch]

@ashintheairlikesnow puppy mug!

It’s always good to slow down and enjoy the small things: a hot cup of tea at breakfast, men’s screams as you chain them in the Torture Dungeon, your collection of fun whips, their piteous cries as they beg you for mercy, your favourite mug with the puppy on it

[starsailores]

shades of magic characters as taskmaster screencaps i found in my phone:

kell:

lila:

holland:

rhy:

alucard:

athos dane:

astrid dane:

[orthodoxydaily]

SAINTS&READING: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2024

august 31_september 13

THE PLACING OF THE BELT ( Sash) OF THE MOST HOLY THEOTOKOS (395-408)

The Placing of the Venerable Belt of the Most Holy Theotokos in a church of Constantinople’s Chalcoprateia district took place during the reign of the emperor Theodosius the Younger. Before this the holy relic, entrusted to the Apostle Thomas by the Mother of God Herself, was kept by pious Christians at Jerusalem after Her Dormition. During the reign of Emperor Leo the Wise (886-911), his wife Zoe was afllicted with an unclean spirit, and he prayed that God would heal her.

The empress had a vision that she would be healed of her infirmity if the Belt of the Mother of God were placed upon her. The emperor then asked the Patriarch to open the coffer. The Patriarch removed the seal and opened the coffer in which the relic was kept, and the Belt of the Mother of God appeared completely whole and undamaged by time. The Patriarch placed the Belt on the sick empress, and immediately she was freed from her infirmity. They sang hymns of thanksgiving to the Most Holy Theotokos, then they placed the venerable Belt back into the coffer and resealed it.

The Feast of the Placing of the Venerable Belt of the Most Holy Theotokos was established to commemorate the miraculous occurrence and the twofold placement of the venerable Belt. Parts of the holy Belt are in the Vatopedi monastery on Mt. Athos, the Trier monastery, and Georgia.

SAINT CUTHBURGA, ABESSE OF WIMBORNE (England_725)

St. Cuthburga was the daughter of Prince Coenred, a second-cousin of Caedwalla, King of Wessex. Her brothers were St. Ine, King of Wessex and Ingild, great-great-grandfather of Egbert, the first King of the English, and direct ancestor of Alfred the Great. Her sisters were St. Cwenburga, Edburga and Tata. Caedwalla became a Christian, in AD 688, and went to Rome to be baptised, resigning the throne to Ine. Cuthburga married Aldfrith, King of Northumbria. He was the illegitimate son of Oswiu, King of Northumbria, and was educated among the monks of Iona. He was learned in the Scriptures and was a great friend of SS. Adomnan and Benedict Biscop. They were the parents of Osred, King of Northumbria, and probably of St. Osana.

Aldfrith and Cuthburga eventually separated for religious motives. Cuthburga took the veil with her sister, St. Cwenburga, at Barking. This nunnery was famous for the zeal of the nuns in the study of sacred and classic literature; and together they became pupils of St. Hildelith, the second abbess. Ine, now King of Wessex, saw that his sisters had devoted themselves to the service of God and was impressed. Desiring to build a church for the good of his soul and the advantage of his people, he had a double monastery erected, between AD 700 and 705, for Cuthburga, at Wimborne in Dorset, near his own residence. Cuthburga was its first abbess. Cwenburga was a nun there with her.

The divided enclosure at Wimborne was rigorously enforced by Cuthburga and not even prelates were allowed into the nuns' quarters. The saintly lady communicated with them through a little hatch. She was kindly to the brethren and sisters under her care, but austere to herself and assiduous in fasting and prayer. Her nunnery soon became the dominant of the two communities and was even more famous than Barking as a training-school for learned and active women. It was from here, in the next generation, that SS. Lioba, Walburga and others, at the call of St. Boniface, joined the great English apostle of Germany and helped in his grand mission. She died at Wimborne on 31st August AD 725 and, when the abbey was destroyed by the Danes about the year AD 900 and afterwards restored, it was dedicated anew in the name of St. Cuthburga and given over to secular canons. St. Cuthburga's chest, hollowed from a single piece of oak, was supposed to have survived the devastation and it is still pointed out in the North Aisle of the Minster. Her burial-place is said to be under the wall of the chancel.

2 Corinthians 7:10-16

10 For godly sorrow produces repentance leading to salvation, not to be regretted; but the sorrow of the world produces death. 11 For observe this very thing, that you sorrowed in a godly manner: What diligence it produced in you, what clearing of yourselves, what indignation, what fear, what vehement desire, what zeal, what vindication! In all things you proved yourselves to be clear in this matter. 12 Therefore, although I wrote to you, I did not do it for the sake of him who had done the wrong, nor for the sake of him who suffered wrong, but that our care for you in the sight of God might appear to you. 13 Therefore we have been comforted in your comfort. And we rejoiced exceedingly more for the joy of Titus, because his spirit has been refreshed by you all. 14 For if in anything I have boasted to him about you, I am not ashamed. But as we spoke all things to you in truth, even so our boasting to Titus was found true. 15 And his affections are greater for you as he remembers the obedience of you all, how with fear and trembling you received him. 16 Therefore I rejoice that I have confidence in you in everything.

Mark 2:18-22

18 The disciples of John and of the Pharisees were fasting. Then they came and said to Him, "Why do the disciples of John and of the Pharisees fast, but Your disciples do not fast?" 19 And Jesus said to them, "Can the friends of the bridegroom fast while the bridegroom is with them? As long as they have the bridegroom with them they cannot fast. 20 But the days will come when the bridegroom will be taken away from them, and then they will fast in those days. 21 No one sews a piece of unshrunk cloth on an old garment; or else the new piece pulls away from the old, and the tear is made worse. 22 And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; or else the new wine bursts the wineskins, the wine is spilled, and the wineskins are ruined. But new wine must be put into new wineskins.