#Death of an Irishwoman

[mournfulroses]

Michael Hartnett, from a poem titled "Death of an Irishwoman," featured in Contemporary Irish Poetry

[marzipanandminutiae]

I'm pulling you back onstage, what's this about the dangers of white lead makeup being known already at the time it was used?

They were!

Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo, writing in 1598. For anyone who's struggling with the typeface (spelling preserved):

OF CERUSSE, AND THE EFFECTS thereof. The Ceruse, or white lead, which women use to better their complexion, is made of lead and vineger; which mixture is naturally a great drier; and is used by the Chirugions [surgeons] to drie up moiste sores. So that those women which use it about their faces, doe quickly become withered and gray-headed, because this doth so mightely drie up the naturall moysture of their flesh. And if any give not credite to my reporte; let them but observe such as have used it, and I doubt not but they will easily bee satisfied.

That's putting it mildly- ceruse could also cause skin peeling, hair loss, paralysis, seizures, organ damage, a host of other symptoms, and even death. But still, they were at least aware that it was Not GoodTM, and it's possible other sources I haven't read more accurately stress the gravity of the danger. Certainly it was known to be deadly by the 18th century, when the death of 27-year-old socialite Maria Gunning, Countess of Coventry was ascribed to her alleged use thereof. (I've never seen proof of this, and it's important to remember that as an Irishwoman, she may have faced undue hostility in English high society- and had very light skin naturally).

It's also difficult to trace just how popular ceruse even was, because less harmful forms of white face paint and powder also existed. One could speculate that this woman or that used ceruse, but nobody did a survey of such things. It was definitely real- cosmetic white lead tablets have been found dating as far back as ancient Greece -but whether it was the Sephora foundation of its day or the BBL (ie a dangerous beauty aid that a few devotees turned to but most eschewed) cannot truly be known.

By the 19th century, ceruse makeup had passed completely out of use as far as I know. Its legend grew as a cautionary tale on the dangers of vanity; the "fact" that Queen Elizabeth I used it was repeated over and over until it became common- if totally unsupported -knowledge. They had arsenic complexion wafers in the latter half of the 1800s- although one brand much advertised in the US was tested by contemporary scientists and found to be mostly lactose with only tiny amounts of arsenic or none at all, so cost-cutting entrepreneurs may have accidentally prevented illness or death. IF the wafers were popular at all, which once again remains unknown- certainly few letters and diaries I'm aware of mention them, if any.

(Interestingly, there's an echo of Maria Gunning's legend in Victorian newspaper stories about socialites "enameling," or applying a plaster-like layer of semi-permanent toxic makeup to their faces. Enameling was alleged to be undetectible but It's Definitely There; Trust Us; A Friend Of A Friend Of Alva Vanderbilt's Cousin's Underbutler Said, etc. This is similarly lacking in any solid evidence; recipes for a product called "enamel" do exist in period texts, but it always seems to be more akin to liquid foundation today, and I've personally only seen one such preparation containing lead. Many even included zinc oxide, which might have provided some unintentional SPF.)

[saintsenara]

Fenrir Greyback/Lupin ; Fenrir Greyback/Narcissa Malfoy ; Fenrir Greyback/Hagrid

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

fenrir greyback/remus lupin

into it.

the divergent treatment of lupin and greyback's lycanthropy within the canon narrative is a really interesting example of the harry potter series' overarching - and kind of shit - politics.

by which i mean, we are supposed to recognise that lupin's various flaws are a product of his experience as someone who is considered subhuman in the eyes of wizarding society and who is, accordingly, discriminated against constantly by the state. we are supposed to consider it insulting and prejudiced that lupin is perceived in this way - because we know him to be a good man who also just happens to be a werewolf.

we are never asked to do the same for greyback. his violence and cruelty is presented, by the text, as inextricable from his lycanthropy. greyback - who chooses to indulge his savage nature - is a bad man because he is a werewolf, and the fear and loathing wizarding society has for werewolves is entirely justifiable when it comes to him.

we are never asked to think about greyback as a victim of the state. and we are never asked to interrogate why the text's sympathy for lupin is so rooted in him bearing - as he puts it - "the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards".

all the evidence of canon is that lupin is the only werewolf in the twentieth century - which means, i think it's fair to say, that he's probably the only werewolf in british history - who is permitted to attend hogwarts. in doing so, he gains access not only to an elite magical education, but to the social education which comes with it - by which i mean that, in a society which is obsessed with status and convention, lupin knows how to behave in a way which signifies that he is "civilised".

other werewolves have - as lupin tells us - "shunned normal society and live on the margins, stealing - and sometimes killing - to eat". this is presented in the text as a deliberate - and stupid - rejection of the gloriousness of civilisation on behalf of these werewolf communities - an embrace of their base savagery, to the detriment of good werewolves, like lupin.

the imperialist overtones are explicit - and i'm also always struck, as an irishwoman, just how much of lupin's way of speaking about werewolves as having self-marginalised and as being resistant to the civilising influence sounds exactly like the way traveller communities are spoken about...

but greyback is a victim of the state - a less sympathetic one than lupin, but a victim nonetheless.

and so i think you can do so much, when pairing these two together, especially during one of lupin's undercover missions, with the incredibly thorny power dynamic these experiences create.

because greyback clearly has physical power over lupin - since lupin is described physically as appearing chronically ill, whereas greyback seems to be hale and hearty. greyback also holds the balance of power within his self-created community - since lupin describes him as being regarded as a persuasive leader who has a major influence on community opinions. when lupin is undercover, his survival is essentially contingent upon greyback's goodwill - and i think a lot can be done with this, especially since lupin is on such a self-destructive kick in half-blood prince, following sirius' death.

but - in wider society - lupin has the power. he's protected from what we can assume are the state's heavy-handed ways of dealing with werewolf communities [spurious arrests, being moved on from places they're staying, indiscriminate violence on the part of aurors who know they'll never get in trouble for it], because his ability to pass in wizarding society as a non-werewolf means both that he's not as immediately identifiable as a target of the state's discrimination as someone who looks, speaks, or behaves like greyback and that he's able to access support and resources through the connections he made during his elite education [i.e. being welcome to live at grimmauld place, where he has access to food, shelter, and - presumably - healthcare] which other werewolves have no chance of.

something really interesting could be done, i think, with the interplay between lupin's fear of greyback - lupin's loathing of greyback's lack of "civility" - lupin's self-loathing belief that he's just as "savage" underneath his mask - lupin's reluctant admiration of what he perceives as greyback's "authenticity" - greyback's loathing of lupin's pandering to a society that hates him - greyback's jealousy of lupin's social advantage - and so on...

and something interesting could also be done with the major similarity between lupin and greyback... that they are both dependent on the goodwill of a patron [dumbledore and voldemort respectively] who treats them with, at best, bland contempt.

it's messy and i love it.

fenrir greyback/narcissa malfoy

i also back this - since it shares the potential to be something which could enable a really interesting exploration of power dynamics in wizarding society.

narcissa - a pureblood woman from a rich, socially-influential family - obviously has considerable power over greyback, even with their respective genders taken into account, prior to the events of deathly hallows.

but it's always stood out to me that - when greyback and his snatchers bring the trio to malfoy manor during that book - greyback thinks narcissa is being deliberately rude when she pretends not to know who he is, but that her rudeness is faintly ridiculous, a way of giving herself airs. he is similarly unthreatened by lucius malfoy.

this is evidently because he's aware that the malfoys have fallen so far in voldemort's favour that all they have remaining of their once enormous social power over him are the aesthetics of it - their nice manor, and their disdain for the dirty and poor, and their imperious way of speaking to those they consider beneath them. and he feels no fear about playing them at their own game - "now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, i hope, mr malfoy?" is an iconic line - whereas bellatrix, who does retain voldemort's favour, is someone he's less inclined to risk crossing.

i think you could do something really quite nasty with the tension between narcissa's collapse in fortunes as lucius' influence vanishes - greyback's ascendency as he's placed in charge of one of the gangs of snatchers - that ascendency being only partial because voldemort doesn't actually respect him - narcissa also being someone voldemort doesn't respect - voldemort expecting narcissa to continue to perform the rituals of aristocratic womanhood [he talks about himself as though he's a guest in the malfoys' home, from which i think we can reasonably suggest that he expects narcissa to play the hostess for him] even though he holds them in contempt - narcissa hating him doing this but also thinking that her ability to perform these rituals makes her better than greyback - and so on.

add in the contrast between greyback's masculinity and lucius' - especially since emasculating lucius is a voldemort-sanctioned way of passing the time - and the threat that greyback poses to draco and you've got a recipe for total, compelling disaster.

i'd tune in.

fenrir greyback/rubeus hagrid

for my sins, i've answered this one before - here. i regret to say that i back it.

[victusinveritas]

'Death of an Irishwoman' by Michael Hartnett, from 'Selected and New Poems (The Gallery Press, 1994)'

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings:  SA mentioned in passing/implied, abuse implied, death mentioned in graphic detailing (because it was deserved) and overall sexism because it is the 9th century. As always, MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 4857 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.   Author’s Note: This chapter is definitely a hybrid of the show vs the books, with me adding flare to what happened to fit the narrative for this story as it is the fanfiction way. Anyway, enjoy. 💜     Thank you to my darling beta reader @aspen-carter for helping me with this chapter. 💜 Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond​ @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @greenowlfactif @larlarle @babyblue711 @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @lauftivy​ @tssf-imagines​ (bold means I was unable to tag you!) 

Chapter 4

Coccham thrummed with the return of their lord, and his stride brimmed with an almost arrogance as Uhtred entered the great hall. Keavy thought it endearing to see how he greeted Gisela, how she glowed when his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. 

“I have the monk you sent me,” she said, pulling back with her brow raised, her lips curled upwards. 

Uhtred had his own roguish grin. “He has left that life behind and wishes to serve me instead.”

Now both her brows raised, with a hum to acknowledge what he said, and then Gisela beckoned to Keavy to follow behind as they moved back towards the small side room. With their entrance, Osferth pushed to sit upright, his dirty blonde hair mussed, and he smothered a groan. He looked expectantly around before his gaze settled on Gisela. 

“I understand you left the monastery,” her tone held no judgment, and her smile remained on her lips. “You truly wish to serve a heathen, Osferth?”

Keavy peered at Uhtred and saw his brow quirked, his expression amused by his wife’s blunt tongue, but Osferth remained focused, his lips pursed in a thin line. “My uncle Leofric told me your husband is a good man, lady,” and he then looked up to meet her eyes. “A great man.” 

“He said that?” Uhtred of Bebbanburg had a presence preceded by reputation; he was fearsome, tall and built solid, but with Osferth’s words, he seemed to soften at the mention of Leofric. 

“Yes, he did, lord.” 

Gisela ignored her husband, her eyes still focused on Osferth. “And yet, this good man will let you join him for one reason only,” and then she looked to her husband. “To embarrass Alfred.” 

His gaze fell back to Uhtred and he nodded. “It’s true.” 

Osferth brought his legs to the side, pushing himself to stand; though Uhtred was tall, he just peeked just past his height. “That may be the reason you allow me to join you, lord,” and there was a determination that burned, complementing the blue of his eyes. “But I will give you a reason to let me stay.” 

Amusement flickered over his features again, and then Uhtred called for them both to be brought to rooms of their own, back at the barracks that housed his men; there were vacant rooms at the end, with Osferth’s next to her own. 

And Keavy began to find a sense of comfort within Coccham’s walls, beginning with the friendships of Gisela and the abbess.

As a grown woman, Keavy had a newer appreciation for the wit and the conversation of Lady Gisela, and she adored Keavy in return, as well as the extra set of hands to help her with the homestead. The children were taken with the Irishwoman: Stiorra was fearless with her affections, whereas Oswald was more reserved, but still offered shy smiles and would always come when she called. 

The friendship that blossomed with the abbess felt forced at first; Keavy eventually understood that Gisela must have confided in Hild and was relieved to know the abbess’ disposition never changed. Instead, she seemed to exude a warmth with her understanding, her blue eyes watchful and kind as Keavy began to share, little by little, what truly happened in Lunden. In return, Hild shared the horrors that Uhtred rescued her from, and she gifted Keavy the chainmail she wore for her years when she fought at his side. 

Keavy felt choked from the gesture, from finally admitting out loud, “I feel broken, Hild.” 

The abbess’ hands still held calluses, though they started to soften with prayer, and her touch was warm, like a balm to the ache that Keavy carried still. “I did as well, for a long time, and I burned through that anger I carried as I fought alongside Uhtred,” she began, and Keavy felt lighter with her confession. Hild smiled. “But it clouded my mind, kept me from the true purpose of my life and the plan that God–” 

Keavy could not smother her groan and Gisela’s laughter was light above them, calling to the abbess. “Hild, remember we sit in a pagan hall,” she teased, a gold glitter that danced in her hazel eyes. “Keep your God within the four walls that my husband allows you and allow us our own beliefs.” 

Hild held up her hands, her own good-natured smile worn, and Keavy looked to Gisela. “I believe in the true gods, Keavy, and I see that you have been brought here by fate,” she finished, her smile as though she was aware of more than she gave on. 

Fate, how it echoed in her mind with uncertainty, something she pushed aside with crimson cheeks that accompanied her daily routine.

Which included her instruction to tend to Osferth. 

Keavy would wake him with a soft tap on his door, bringing fresh bandages and a plate to share their morning meal. She enjoyed his company, how he was not shy to share about himself and she listened with rapt attention, with a rose color dusting her cheeks. 

Osferth shared his origins, how he was King Alfred’s bastard, though the weight he put behind the word meant nothing to Keavy as she viewed that his blood still held royalty all the same. When she said this, she watched how his dimples lined his cheeks with his pursed smile, “It is not the same, my lady.” 

And Keavy was lost in her thought of how handsome Osferth was, dimples and all. “I am not a lady,” she reminded him, her complexion almost crimson.

As time healed him, she saw how his skin mended together, the bold pink stripe of new skin across his chest, and how the bruising faded into muted shades of green, peeking beneath his chest hair. Osferth was lean, but without his shirt or his albe, she was able to admire the tone to his lithe figure and the pale planes of his chest; she was so lost in her thoughts, her fingers were soft to trace his scar, from his shoulder until the middle of his chest before she realized the intimacy of her touch. 

Osferth was watching her, the brilliant blue of his eyes wide. 

Her hand dropped to her side. “You are healed enough,” she announced, her voice too loud, moving to gather the clean cloths she brought with her. “You have no need for these…” 

She burned, too focused to notice how he reached for her, her name fell from his lips, “Keavy…” 

And she recoiled from his voice, her mortification boiling under her skin. “Excuse me,” she rasped, leaving his room and fleeing back to the hall where she found Gisela and Hild at the large table. They were startled with her abrupt entrance, their attention focused on the red that bloomed on her pale features.

While Hild tilted her head, her brows knitted above, Gisela wore her same knowing smile. “How is Osferth fairing today, Keavy?” her tone teasing, as always. 

She was grateful that Osferth was a gentleman, not breathing a word about earlier and accompanying her when she took the children out from under Gisela’s step. He lifted Oswald to his shoulders, with a slight grimace still, and Stiorra rested on her hip and a quilt on the other, and they walked out to a knoll in a nearby meadow.

It was one of the last sunny days of the season and Keavy laid the quilt on top of the grass, a place to sit as she braided daisies into Stiorra’s curls. The boys found sticks and Oswald preened for the praise as Osferth corrected his stance, while the girls’ cheeks were rosy from cheering them on. 

The evening was her own, as always; after supper was had and the children were tucked into bed, Keavy was able to wander through the village. Often, Osferth would join her, his long legs easily keeping with her pace, his eyes watchful as she explored what she considered to be her newfound sanctuary. 

As the autumn months crept, an evening frost accompanied it, and a large bonfire was often made. They seated themselves on a log, talking under the night sky by the crackling fire, long after Coccham was lulled to sleep. Osferth stood, reaching for her hand, a habit that remained and she was always glad to take it still, and he walked her back to their rooms. 

Her cheeks burned within his peaceful proximity, and she shyly admired his sharp features. In the daytime, she was able to speak freely, unabashedly, and enjoyed when she could cause cracks in his stoic demeanor, to see the upwards curl of his lips. 

But in the quiet of the night, underneath the stars that sparkled against the navy velvet sky, she felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, an inability to string two words together before they arrived to her door. 

“I never thanked you,” she almost whispered and she peered up. His face was shadowed with dark, an offset amber hue from a lone torch still perched in the sconce outside; her cheeks grew warm, her gaze falling down. “For saving me that night in the woods.” 

Osferth hummed, a finger curled under her chin and brought her eyes to meet with his. “You saved me first,” he reminded her, a soft curl to his lips. “Sleep well, Keavy.” 

She slipped into her room, the door closed quick and quiet, her backside pressed against and she covered her face. She could feel the heat of her blush against her palms and her fingers flitted to her jawbone, to her marment; it was a reminder of her lot in life, of her place and purpose supposedly ordained by the Christian God, if she wished to entertain the words spoken by holy men and women. 

She was a shadow of a nursemaid, serving an unpayable debt, and possibly cursed, if she chose to believe the slavers. And Osferth had the blood of a king that she knew thrummed underneath; he was honorable, and held no resentment with his disposition, just an understanding of his place in this world.

“I am cursed by God because of my birth, the sins of my father have already doomed me,” he once shared the night they watched Æthelflæd arrive with her new husband. Keavy could see the similarities between his sister, how they shared the severity that Osferth carried in his features.

“I am cursed as well,” was all she said in response, and she did not dare look to him. 

His words embedded into her mind, pushing aside the so-called fate of the gods, and she saw his drive, his determination to create from nothing. There was a flicker of disappointment when Untred denied him to join the men to retake Lunden, how Uhtred pressed his fist into his shoulder and Osferth flinched, subtle, but enough to be decided that he would remain in Coccham still, to continue to gather his strength.  

Silly girl, she chided herself, pulling from the door and undressing for bed. She knew soon enough that Osferth would be well to go and fight alongside Uhtred, and she would remain in Coccham, braiding daisies into a crown for Stiorra to wear. 

And she laid down with the heavy acceptance of this fate that Gisela spoke of, though her last thought was his touch: how right it felt when he held her hand, how gentle his touch was when he tilted her chin upwards to meet with his gaze…

+ + + +

The first four years of his life was spent in the shadow of the family his father had, separate from the mother he never knew and who died bringing him into the world. His brother was too young, but his sister Æthelflæd always regarded him with a curiosity, a kindness that he did not receive anywhere else in the court. 

Osferth only had one memory of his father, remembering how large his hands felt holding his own, and the hereditary severity that lined his features. Dusk was settling over Wintanceaster and the king walked brisk strides across the cobblestone, pulling Osferth to keep with his pace. 

He recalled when they passed the queen, how her dark eyes glared at him in an unsettling way, in a way that pierced into his chest. Her gaze never faltered, holding his siblings tight at her side; Edward seemed sleepy, and Æthelflæd seemed confused with what was happening.

The queen’s heated gaze followed him, as he looked over his shoulder to see her, leaving Wintanceaster for what he thought would be forever. 

Osferth was quick to understand that this haunted look would follow him throughout his life, something that would accompany the title bastard. Sometimes it did not hold the heat, the hatred of the queen’s eyes, but cruelty all the same with smirks and scoffs, always some visceral reaction.  

This was, of course, until he met Keavy. 

His first morning in Coccham, he laid in his bed and listened for the soft tap on his door; he groaned quietly as he sat up, the wound across his chest felt as if it was tearing open with his movement, with a bruising that bore down into his bones. 

Despite the early hours, her smile was bright and she held a tray with fresh bread, cold cuts, cheese and some sliced fruit. He chewed quietly as she then fretted over his injury, unabashed with his shirtless state, her fingers flitting over the gash and a soft hum or tsk that rolled off her tongue. 

He enjoyed how Keavy was open and honest with him, how easy it was to speak with her. There was no judgment that clouded her green eyes when he finally admitted that he was a bastard, how she did not even flinch at the word. “So, you have the blood of a king in your veins,” she stated, as if it was the simplest thing. 

Until then, the taste of the word was bitter, something he had to learn to not react when it was spoken with venom. Though he was grateful that Uhtred housed both him and Keavy, there was the fluttered anxiety that rippled in his chest when his lady wife admitted to the real reason her husband allowed him to stay. 

The short time with Leofric had him imposing the thought that a man’s worth was carried in his sword and Osferth was determined to be just that; he wished to create a name outside that bastard smog that followed his steps. 

But for now, he did not mind the reprieve for his recovery, nor the company of Keavy. 

His chest healed without infection, thank God or the gods–he was no longer certain. When Keavy came that morning, he watched how her pink lips pursed as she looked him over; the rose color that bloomed on her cheeks was lovely and his skin prickled from her soft touch as her fingers trailed his scar. 

Osferth was silent, unmoving. He watched the sudden crimson to her cheeks when she realized, but he had been too slow to catch her hand as she pulled away, all by sprinting to leave his room. 

It left him flustered, his mind cluttered from her touch, something that felt so intimate in the moment. But her reaction left his stomach curdling with a misplaced feeling. Guilt? His anxiety returned?

He dressed quickly with the intention to follow, instead running into the Irishman and the Dane. They saw the shades of red that plumed on his features. “What’s going on, lover boy?” Finan spoke up, his voice loud as always.

Osferth was aware that they did not consider Keavy the conventional beauty that they would lust over; any time alone with them involved them crowing about his crush, saying it would dissipate the moment his cock was wet. He ignored their words; Keavy was a kind of beauty that resonated from within, something so uniquely her own, with her fine figure, her fair skin, her eyes as green as the meadows that lead to Coccham… 

He disregarded their unsolicited advice–”Go and just kiss her already!”–instead he sought her out, shadowing her task to watch the children that day. He knew that the evening would be their own, and that they would be able to speak freely, boldly, without prying ears. 

This was when she opened about the horrors of Lunden, before they had arrived, and it awoke something within him that he had not felt before. 

A bloodlust, a want for vengeance, and the need to gut the one-armed Dane, Sigefrid Thurgilson. 

Uhtred denied him joining to go to Lunden, but took to heart his words spoken–to gather his strength. He found Finan and Sihtric, and they agreed to show him pell stances, ways to train and prepare to be a swordsman. 

Osferth felt weak at first, a soreness that touched every muscle within his body, but it soon dissipated as he pushed through. Then the men returned and he saw a darkness that accompanied them, along with the news that his sister had been taken by the Danes. 

It was a white heat of anger that flitted across his brow before his stoic nature settled again.

He had only regained his sister, remembering how he watched with Keavy from the shore as Æthelflæd climbed onto the docks, walking the shadow of her husband, her mouth a tight line.

Osferth saw her again later that night when she left the church the nun Hild brought up, hearing her soft steps and seeing her cheeks were wet with tears. He had been making his way towards the barracks, but held still at the sight and she stopped, spotting him, her hands wiping her face. 

“Lady,” he was quick with a formal greeting, bowing his head.

“Osferth,” her voice was sad and he met with her eyes, glassy from her tears. “I… I have not expected to ever see you again,” and a soft smile came to her lips. “Did you come to Coccham to spite our father?” 

Her words warmed his chest with how she openly admitted to the relationship that so many skirted around, or would openly jest–other than Keavy, of course. Osferth watched her for a moment, seeing how their father reflected in her posture, with the same severity of her gentle features. 

“Yes I did,” and his own lips curled upwards in response. 

He offered to escort her back to the great hall, where they would expect her husband. But with the mention of Lord Æthelred, he saw how his sister darkened, in the same way Keavy flinched with the mention of Dane Sigefrid. And he knew that he was not a good man. 

It curdled in his stomach that night, the news of her capture rekindling that burning vengeance and he felt its grip on his heart. 

“Lord,” he called when he saw Uhtred. “I will come with you.”

Uhtred noticed how his jaw ticked with his words. “You will come when we have reason to go,” he placed a hand on his shoulder. “When Sihtric and Rypere come back with news.”

Rypere returned and soon enough they were called by the king for negotiations, the similar echo to the time in Lunden–all ego, and without a satisfying conclusion. As they returned homeward, Osferth saw the worry that lined Uhtred’s face, though he did not learn its cause until a private moment with Finan, when Uhtred shared the truth of his sister, and what she was asking of them. 

“She loves him,” Finan almost laughed at the idea, his tone incredulous. “Did we just not attend her wedding to another man?”

“He is not a good man,” Osferth cut through, and he did not expand. Instead, he looked to Uhtred. “What must we do?” 

They returned to Coccham, to rest, to plan, to wait until Sihtric came; Osferth felt the anxiety knitting into his lower abdomen again, and his steps brought him to Keavy’s door, rapping his knuckles against the wood. 

She opened it, pulling a shawl over her simple cotton dress, its burgundy tones bringing out the emerald of her eyes. “Osferth?” Her tone was a mixture of her pleasure, of her surprise. Keavy stepped aside, opening the door to allow him inside. “What is the matter?” And he was a dam broken, reliving the prior days and its events: from the debt of Wessex to his sister’s true-heart desire. Keavy held a quiet contemplation, allowing the spate of his words that broke down the concern he felt for his kin. “You only want the best for your sister,” and her simple words were a balm, a warmth that soothed the knot in his chest. “What do you need from me?”

He had not thought of that when he knocked, balking a moment before he said, “...I thought I would come for that promised haircut.”

The returned rose color that flushed her cheeks, her smile that tugged at his heart in a way he could not describe. “Very well, allow me to get the scissors from Gisela and we can do that later this evening, once Stiorra and Oswald are asleep.” Her eyes met with his own and he swallowed thickly when she added, “I will come to your room.” 

Ofserth was waiting for her when she came that evening, the same soft tap to his door. Inside, he moved to seat himself on a stool, his legs long and his knees jutted up with his feet on the floor. He closed his eyes as she combed through his hair, humming when she replaced it with her fingers. 

Keavy was methodical and he listened to the clipping sounds of the silver edges, his dirty blonde locks falling to the floor around him as she trimmed away the last remnants of his days at the monastery. 

It was quiet and she set the scissors down; he felt her hands rubbing over his scalp, brushing away the stray hairs and it tickled his ears as it fell to the growing pile. She stopped, her hands paused to cradle his cheeks and he opened his eyes to see the green of her eyes watching him. 

He reached to cup one of her hands against his cheek and her eyes met with his, with the slight quirk of her brow. Osferth took a breath, turning his face and pressing his lips against her palm, before releasing his hold and letting her hand fall back to her side. 

Keavy watched him still, her pink lips parted and wet from her tongue, and he pushed to stand, daring to close the space between them, his large palms settling on the small of her waist. “Keavy,” his timbre low and he saw the flush of color deepen on her features. “May I kiss you?”

She nodded mutely and his palms knitted behind, cradling her lower back and pulling her against his chest; Keavy pressed to her toes, the sweetest sigh that spilled from her lips– 

“Baby monk,” the unwelcome bark of the Irishman jolted them apart, accompanied with the hammered sound against the door. Finan pushed it open, his dark brows lifted at the sight of Keavy, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes as he looked Osferth over with a wry smile that spread across his jaw. “I see you have a new era about ya,” he teased, his hand running over his own low cut. “Looks good on ya.”  

“Thank you, Finan,” Osferth was flushed, his eyes glancing at Keavy before returning to the Irishman and his smug expression.

“Sihtric arrived,” he finished. “It’s time to go.”

He then dipped through the door, leaving them behind with their broken moment. Osferth moved to grab his scabbard, though he wished to grab Keavy, to pull her close once more; instead he knotted the leather around his slender waist.

When he finished, he paused for a moment, his hands balled then his fingers flexed before he looked up to see Keavy. She was standing still, her hands folded in front, her eyes still watchful. Osferth nodded his head and as he left, something caught his sleeve and he looked back to see her fingers pinching the fabric of his albe.

“Return to me, Osferth,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

There was the subtle curl of his lips and he reached for her hold, bringing the back of her hand to lips for a kiss, savoring her smell of lavender and thyme. “I will, Keavy. I swear it.”

That moment replayed in his mind as he met with the men, the hurried relay of the note Sihtric brought and a quick departure from Coccham. They rowed eastward, easing the boat to dock a ways up and away the main docks of Beamfleot. The followed the shadows of the woods that lead towards the fort; Osferth felt the flutter of his nerves, as well as the gaze of Uhtred. “Are you afraid?”

“Am I even allowed to admit that?” Osferth asked back.

Uhtred shrugged. “Osferth, at times we’re all afraid. Courage is just finding the will to overcome that fear. Nothing more,” he reached and placed his palm on his shoulder. “But you must find that courage.”   

Ahead, they spotted the Danes that lined the dock, more than was initially thought and a hazard to their escape; with Uhtred’s command, there was a frenzied onslaught and they left the bodies to litter the Temes. 

They pressed until they reached the walls that surrounded the burh, a ruction echoing the stones. Osferth was offered to be hoisted upwards, and even with his lean length there was still a struggle to climb over the battlement, but he managed to land on the cobblestone curtain wall. 

He followed this pathway, finding it unguarded, but remained low, unseen; once he understood he was truly alone, he dared look over at the clamor of Danes that drank and bellowed below in the fortress. From his spot, he also saw the smoke that began to pour from the Great Hall, accompanied with yells.

He was quick to return and called down. “Lord,” his chest heaving. “Fire!”

“Jump down, baby monk,” Finan called back. The gates creaked open and Danes poured through, spilling and coughing through the mouth of Beamfleot. 

Osferth instead returned, ignoring the yell of the Irishman; he moved quickly, his eyes burning in the smoke that rose, but did not stop until he spotted Æthelflæd, the stream of her dark hair as she followed behind a blonde Dane; he pulled her with urgency, and the roar of his name echoed over the chaos.

“Erik.” 

And Osferth saw him, the same Dane from Lunden, his eyes black and his knifed hand glinted from the growing flames. He moved, peering over the stone wall at the gate’s top, watching how the Dane escort paused, how Æthelflæd now pulled at him, begging him to run.

“You dare betray me, brother?” Sigefrid roared.

“I will pay your share of the ransom,” Erik pulled away from her, both covered in soot and she was stanced with the desperation to run still. But instead, Æthelflæd watched. 

There was the disarray of Danes that fled the fire, paying no mind to the ruined fortress or the ruined kinship. Sigefrid laughed, dark and boisterous. “And how will you pay?” His voice was cruel. “In what? Piss?” 

“I will pay the ransom,” he insisted, almost pleading.  

Sigefrid moved towards him, swelled with fury, and only then did Erik unsheathe his own blade, both hands curled around the grip. “You couldn’t pay a goat to lick the sweat off your balls,” and with those words, Sigefrid lunged at his brother.

There was a clash of steel that rang out and Osferth saw the astonishment that played on his face as his brother parried, gutting him with the knife embedded on his arm. Æthelflæd screamed her heartbreak, watching the blood pour from this man she swore she loved, and she screamed again when Sigefrid turned his attention to her, pulling back his bloodied hand and stalking towards her.

“Æthelflæd!” Uhtred ran to the outside of the wall, Finan and men in tow. The distraction halted Sigefrid at the entrance and without a thought, Osferth drew his sword and leapt over, crushing down on top of Sigefrid, his sword piercing through his chest and lungs. 

The Dane did not cry out, only the wet hissing sound of his life leaving his body as they both crumpled to the ground. His shins burned, but Osferth stood upright, looking to his sister, then to Uhtred. 

He saw how his eyes shone with a new admiration of the bold behavior of the bastard; Uhtred then looked to Æthelflæd, taking her hand and he called for his men to follow. 

Osferth pulled his sword from the dead man and then cut through his forearm, then reaching to grab the blade, the blood nub thumping to the dirt. He then slipped it around his waist and followed after, leaving Beamfleot to burn.

previous | Chapter 5 | masterlist

[charcoalgrayswriting]

I have had a horrible HP OC idea :DD

So the premise is a 6th year Ravenclaw, Elizabeth Clarke, student who's father, Dorian Clarke, works for MI6. It is the beginning of Harry Potters 4th year.

Now stay with me here because; Dorian works for MI6 he already knows about magic, because the Muggle/Magical government sometimes have to work together.

This is technically multifandom but you don't have to know anything about anything other than harry potter

Under the cut is a lot of info I have literally been thinking about this for 6 months. I have issues ;.;

So I headcannon that around the world, lots of other places are much more lax with the statute of secrecy. So when Dorian went and fought in Vietnam he was very violently introduced to magic, on his side and on the side of the Viet Cong.

So when his daughter is born and has magic, he goes to one of his magical coworkers and asks for advice. This coworker just so happens to be Kingsley Shackbolt. So he learns a whole lot about the magical world and gets an insight into magical politics. He also enlists Kingsley to help her with her magic and anything else Eliza may need.

When she was born, her mum, Marie, died in childbirth. This meant Dorian had to take a step back from the field and care for her. But when she is five, he meets her ma'.

Her ma, Nora, is a strong independent Irishwoman who was stuck in an abusive relationship with an armsdealer. In exchange for his death, she informed on him to the government, and that is where Nora and Dorian meet. He was her government contact. When her husband died, and she got a new identity, they kept in contact and fell in love.

She took to Elizabeth like she was her own daughter. The pair married when Elizabeth was eight, two years later. They had twins who are Elizabeth's half siblings, Sloane and William. They were born a year after the marriage when Elizabeth was nine.

During this time, Dorian has become renowned throughout the magical and muggle espionage worlds for his work.

Some of Elizabeths honorary multifandom family include; Alastor Moody (Grandpa Ally), Kingsley Shackbolt (Uncle King), Amelia Bones (Auntie Amy), Henrietta Lange (Granny Hetty), Napoleon Solo (Uncle Leon), Illiya Kuryakin (Uncle Iliusha), Gabby Teller (Auntie Gabby), Harry Hart (Uncle Gal), Hamish Mycroft (Uncle Merlin), James Bond (Uncle Spy), Russell Adler (Uncle Russ), Helen Park (Aunt Helen)

Now onto the actual plot :DD

It starts in book 4 at the quidditch game. I would like it to be from Harry's perspective when he makes it to the top booth and sees the British Minister chatting with the Bulgarian Minister. So she comes into the booth wearing a Princess Diana esque outfit and the Bulgarian Minister is so happy to see her and starts chatting to her in Bulgarian.

Harry can't tell what she's saying but it's clear from her tone of voice she is making fun of the British Minister. No one picks up on this but him. She then introduces herself, and when Malfoy Sr. asks how she knows the Bulgarian Minister she tells him that it's classified lol. The Bulgarian Minister looses his shit with laughter.

(can you tell i dont remember these mens names lol)

Then the games begin and go how they went in cannon. At the end, the Bulgarian Minister convinces Elizabeth to come with him and meet the Bulgarian team.

Then when the Death Eaters attack and everyone runs into the forest they see her, perched in one of the trees with a HK33 assault rifle aimed at the Death Eaters. She is ready to obliterate them if they get too close.

Since she is still a minor, she is not yet allowed to use magic, so she has to make do with one of the guns her father/family taught her to shoot.

When the Death Eaters vanish and the Ministry Officials get there, she is still holding her gun. This is when the POV switches to her and her thought process is something along the lines of her hoping they don't ask to look into her bag so she doesn't have to show them the small arsenal her family gave her.

(Guns in her arsenal 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7)

She defends the trio and tells the ministry to talk to her lawyer, and tells them to fuck off. Then she goes home and promptly tells her father everything. Mysteriously, she is not contacted by the ministry again.

When she goes back to Hogwarts, she already knows about the TriWizzard Tournament. So she isn't shocked. Since her birthday was September 29, 1978 she could put her name in, but she is uninterested.

So when her name is called as the Hogwarts official champion, she is understandably pissed off. Still she goes back with the other champions, and decides to wait for the officials before reaming them out. When Harry Potter comes back and says he is a champion though, she really looses her shit.

Not at him though, at the adults. She starts raging and cursing and demanding to see the rule book. When she does confirm both her and Harry have to compete, she demands to keep a copy of the rule book. She promises Harry all the help she can give him, which prompts the other champions to do the same.

When she gets back to Ravenclaw tower, she stands on a table in the center of the room and makes an announcement. She tells her housemates that she is outsourcing the work of this tournament.

There will be a prize for anyone who can tell her, with proof, who put her name in the goblet, and who can tell her what the challenge is, and the best way to beat the challenge. She may not want this, but she will make the organizers regret not taking her out.

Flitwick gives her a look and she adds that if their schoolwork slips between now and them giving her the advice they would not be getting the prize. Then she goes to bed.

For the next few weeks she is getting intel about the first task, and filters the important bits to Harry and Harmione.

She also takes this time to snag Moody's flask. She's been around him since she was 6, she knew how he acts. And he never drinks around children. So she steals the flask and asks Snape to test it. When he does he finds out it is Polyjuice Potion.

Instantly she goes to the fire and calles Auntie Amy, who assembles some Aurors to go to Hogwarts. Elizabeth leads them to 'Moody's' classroom and they restrain him and find out who he is. After some (lightish) interrogation, BC Jr. gives up the location of Moody. Once he does, she gets him out.

Moody is proud of her, telling her, "I knew you would figure it out." before passing out. He is sent to St. Mungo's for treatment. Because he wasn't held long, he was able to come back and teach within the week.

It is classified, and no one knows about the switch. They just think that Moody got nicer and stopped drinking.

When Rita tries her BS she tells the cockroach "No comment, and if you put anything else in that paper about me I will sue you until you can't even get a job in Knockturn." and Harry follows suit because he knows a good idea when he sees one.

Eliza makes some pointed comments about "A grown woman wanting to go into a broom closet with a little boy isn't a good look now, is it?" and Rita completely backs off.

So on the day of the trial, she is prepared. When Harry draws the hardest dragon, she forces him to switch with her because he is a literal child. Then she goes out there and gets the egg.

When she gets back to the common room she outsources the second trial again with a similar speech.

When she completes the second task, she is furious because they took her muggle ma from her. She nearly kills Dumbledore for allowing this. Thankfully, her ma talks her down, and states that they can just sue instead when this was all over.

Everyone sweatdrops like they're in an anime.

When she learns she has to dance at the ball she is annoyed. When Harry says he has no one to go with, she offers to go with him as friends. They agree and have a good time.

When she finally gets to the maze, she is armed to the teeth. She summons her extendable bag from her dad, who is in the audience. It is filled with enough ammunitions to supply a small army. Once she slaughters her way to the cup, Harry makes it at the same time.

They both agree to grab it, and get transported to the graveyard. Voldemort orders her dead, but when the Killing Curse is shot at her, it only knocks her back. Her fathers old identity disks stopped it. She lays there stunned, waiting for the perfect moment to get up and kill the bastard, take Harry, and run.

Unfortunatly, Moldymort manages to finish the ritual before she gets up. Then he summons the Death Eaters, and she really has to pretend to be dead. Him and Harry duel, and while everyone is distracted, she slowly inches her way towards the Cup.

When she is in position, she lays down covering fire with one of her guns, hitting Death Eaters, and getting Voldemort in the heart. As the Death Eaters return fire and Harry runs towards her, she watches Voldemort stand back up, unhindered by her bullet. The same can not be said for the other Death Eaters who she has shot.

They grab the Cup and are whisked back to the Tournament. She still has her gun out, and doesn't let anyone approach until her dad comes and talks her down. When she tells him about Voldy, he gets quiet and murderous, before turning to Moody, who turns to Dumbledore.

Eliza, her family, and Harry, as well as Snape are ushered into Dumbledores office. When they demand to know why Voldy didn't die, Dumbles talks them in circles. When Eliza gets sick of it and starts shouting, he tells the truth about Horcruxes. Everyone is pissed.

Eliza then tells Harry that he would be staying with her and her family over the break, and he readily accepts. Dumbledore questions Harry's safety, but then Dorian lays out the nonmagical defenses he has set up at their mansion, and Moody chimes in with the magical defenses he set up. Safe to say, the questions about safety are unwarranted after their brief explanation.

Then she goes through the rest of the year like normal, never finding out who put her name in the Goblet of Fire. When she gets off the train, she and Harry walk to her family. There they are greeted with hugs.

Bonuses:

On easter break she goes home and we get to see her interact with her terrifying uncles/aunts/grandparents. Even better if Harry/Ron/Harmione join in and are slightly horrified by how dangerous these people are lol

Eliza and her non-mgaical family play capture the flag but they use real tactics and gear with their paint guns. No magic and it kinda terrifies the magical people.

Napoleon has a bank vault in Gringotts for all his stolen things

Napoleon, Illiya, Hetty, and Harry (Hart) helped her pick out her Yule gown. Her parents are there of course, but they don't have the same passion for fashion that these spies have. They mostly sit there and give confused but supportive thumbs ups.

Merlin and Bond keep giving her new tech to try out at school to see how it interacts with magic.

Gabby and Sloane work on cars together.

Hetty, Nora, Helen, Gabby, and Amelia form a terrifying relationship that scares all men. Eliza and Sloane don't get what's so terrifying about them, and are slowly being indoctrinated by the scary women.

When the DA is made, Eliza finds them in the bar and scolds them for shitty spycraft, before pointing out the man listening in on them. She quickly moves them elsewhere, and becomes one of its core teachers. She teaches weapons, self defense, and espionage.

When they go and storm the Ministry Eliza kills Bellatrix before she can hurt Sirius because she used one of her guns.

When she met the Order of the Phoenix she was completely unimpressed with how they were running things, and taught them how to run a better resistance group. When they tried to shit on her for this, she tells them that her dad literally did this for a living for many years and she knows what she's talking about. She is also unimpressed that they only have one spy.

Eliza in her 7th year steals blood quills and sends them to her parents as proof of the abuse. It is halfway through the year when this happens. She got a detention for snoging George Weasley. Then she does international interviews about how the British Ministry is allowing this to happen, and circumventing Dumbledore. Umbridge is quickly fired. A revolving door of Aurors start teaching DADA.

Eliza roundhose kicks someone in the head and then John Cena elbow drops onto them in her second year because they called her a mudblood. She gets lots of detention but that was the last time anyone tried that, so she saw it as a win. So did her family. After all, in Hetty's wise words to her afterwards, "You can't negotiate with fascist bigots, dear. Better to just kill them instead."

She prefers riding horses to riding brooms (riding a thestral was the highlight of her year) and her ma owns a farm where they ride together because they are the only ones who really enjoy it. (The others will join if Nora asks, but only then).

She is Flitwick's favorite student. He tried to convince her to become a Prefect but she just laughed and told him she would switch schools if he tried to do that to her. (She was not joking and he knew it).

Maybe, her mum was not who she seemed to be, and knew more about magic than she let on...

Anyway I'm all done for now and congrats if you read through all'at

Will probably add to this if I have anymore ideas

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1932 – Death of Augusta Persse, better known as Lady Augusta Gregory, Irish dramatist, folklorist and theatre director; also a co-founder of the Abbey Theatre.

Lady Gregory was an Irish dramatist, folklorist and theatre director; also a co-founder of the Abbey Theatre. George Bernard Shaw once described Lady Augusta Gregory as “the greatest living Irishwoman”. Lady Gregory, also known as Isabella Augusta, was born on 15 March 1852, in Roxborough, Co Galway. She married Sir William Henry Gregory in 1880. Sir Gregory owned an estate at Coole Park near…

[handeaux]

Johanna McNamara, Always Immaculately Clean, Terrorized Cincinnati Police For Decades

It was front-page news when Johanna McNamara was found dead on the day after Christmas, sitting in a rocking chair at a friend’s house with a smile still visible on her face. Johanna’s death was so unlike her tumultuous life that Cincinnati’s journalists spilled barrels of ink competing to communicate the irony. Here is the Times-Star [26 December 1900]:

“The passing of Johanna McNamara takes from the police stage a character who was known to almost every policeman on the force. Simple-minded, she was a good woman when sober, but when drunk she was a terror to them. She would fight like a tigress and many a policeman has had his clothing ruined by her vicious attacks.”

The Commercial Tribune [27 December 1900] echoed the theme:

“Every policeman, every fireman, the newsboys around the corners, tell incidents regarding Johanna. For years she resisted arrest and fought as few men can fight. Many a ‘copper’ has been sent to the ground by a blow from Johanna’s terrible right; many a man who presumed to take advantage of her condition regretted, with aching jaw or black eye, his presumption.”

And the Enquirer continued the accolades, with flourish:

“In those halcyon days Johanna liked nothing better than a scrap, and it invariably required the combined efforts of four or five officers to land her in the patrol wagon. She could hit like John L. Sullivan and many a policeman has been floored by a blow from her good right.”

Who was this phenomenal woman? Johanna Doyle was born in Ireland around 1845 and emigrated to the United States as a young woman. She married William McNamara in 1867. He was a pastry chef at the Burnet House, at that time among the most elite hotels in the United States. Johanna was the head laundress at the Henrie House, past its days as the best hotel in the city, but still respectable. They had three children together. After more than a decade in comfortable circumstances, William contracted pneumonia and died. His death drove Johanna to the bottle and she never recovered. She spent so much time in the drunk tank and the Workhouse that her children were taken from her and she had no permanent address, crashing wherever circumstances led her. Although dissolute and abandoned, Johanna was unanimously known among the police for her honesty, for the highest moral character, and for being always scrupulously clean.

One day, wandering near the Gibson House, Johanna was approached by a man who uttered a very improper remark to her. With one punch, Johanna set the cad sprawling into the middle of Walnut Street. According to the Commercial Tribune [27 December 1900]:

“She struck him once, and that was enough. He rolled half way across the street, and by the time he had picked himself up, Johanna was there, newspaper in hand, scraping the mud from his clothing. After repairing as much as she could the soiled condition of his clothes, she told the man, by that time thoroughly ashamed of himself, to in the future be a gentleman and then walked up the street looking for other worlds to conquer.”

Johanna was as attentive to her own attire as she was to her victims’. Police and reporters regularly remarked how clean she and her clothing were no matter the situation. Per the Commercial Tribune:

“Johanna, picked up after a drunken spree of days, was always clean. When arraigned in court, or while in prison, her appearance was always a model of neatness. Somehow, somewhere, Johanna always found a place and a way of caring for her clothing.”

Although the police dreaded the call to corral the feisty Irishwoman, reporters loved to write about her exploits. Almost every court appearance involved a wry twist. Hauled in before Christmas in 1897, the judge fined Johanna and sent her to the Workhouse for a month. When the prosecutor inquired whether she had been drinking, she blamed, according to the Cincinnati Post [18 December 1897], the liquor-infused holiday baked goods:

“Judge, your honor, I only ate some Christmas mince pie, but it was too mellow.”

In those days, when parades clogged the city’s streets almost every week, the Cincinnati Police turned out in force, not for crowd control, but to march. Johanna saw the coppers’ contingent as an opportunity to do some parading herself and, for once, the officers indulged her fancy, knowing it was unlikely she’d attack any of them while on review. According to the Enquirer [27 December 1900]:

“One of her characteristics was to join in with the police at any time the force appeared on parade. With her hat set jauntily over one ear, with a jag, and with her dress lifted up over her shoetops, she attracted much attention. She would keep up a running stream of talk to the rear end of the parade and the coppers had hard work keeping straight faces.”

Despite their long acquaintance, the police and the courts realized something had to be done to help the charming miscreant. Even Johanna’s friends were reaching the limits of tolerance. Johanna had to apply to the city infirmary for shelter one night and a judge reminded her that a new habitual criminal law had been enacted. Her thirty-day respites at the Workhouse might now involve years in prison. Johanna made a good effort to stay sober and succeeded for the best part of a year. One of her estranged daughters brought her into her home and it looked like Johanna was on the road to a new life.

But the end of December brought wassail and toasts and Johanna rolled out a legendary bender. After three days roaring, Johanna ended up at a friend’s house on Sycamore Street. She fell asleep in a rocking chair, her chin on her chest, and that’s how they found her next morning. Johanna’s sister took care of funeral arrangements and the immaculate nemesis of the Cincinnati Police rests peacefully now in New St. Joseph Cemetery.

[brian-in-finance]

Twitter

Twitter

Sinead O'Connor at her home in County Wicklow, Republic of Ireland in 2012. David Corio/Redferns/Getty Images

Caitríona Balfe, Michael Stipe and more pay tribute to Sinéad O’Connor

On Wednesday, as the news of Sinéad O’Connor’s death broke, many celebrities took to social media to pay tribute to the music icon.

As reported by Irish broadcaster RTE earlier in the day, O’Connor’s death was confirmed by a family statement. No cause of death was immediately available.

“I hope you are at peace,” actor Caitríona Balfe wrote on her Instagram page, adding “and with your baby boy. Thank you for sharing your soul with us and soothing us with your incredible voice beautiful Sinéad.”

O’Connor contributed her vocals to the opening credits of Season 7 of acclaimed series “Outlander,” in which Balfe stars. The actor’s mention of O’Connor’s “baby boy” was in reference to the singer’s son Shane, who died by suicide at age 17 in 2022.

Michael Stipe, famed REM singer-songwriter, simply wrote on Instagram aongside a photo of him with O’Connor that “there are no words.” Stipe has spoken about how much he was influenced by O’Connor, telling the Washington Post in a 2020 interview that “so many people have lifted from her, from me to Miley Cyrus. She’s one of our great, living icons.”

Belinda Carlisle, lead vocalist of the all-girls 80s rock band The Go-Gos, wrote “may she find peace now. Forever loved,” on her Twitter page on Wednesday, while singer-songwriter Melissa Etheridge wrote on her page that news of O’Connor’s death “is such a tragedy.”

“What a loss. She was haunted all her life. What a talent,” Etheridge continued. “I remember my first Grammy show meeting this small shy Irish girl.”

The Cranberries – who lost their lead singer, the Irishwoman Dolores O’Riordan, in 2018 – shared a tribute on their official Instagram account, writing that they “are shocked and saddened to hear of Sinead’s sudden passing. We have all been big fans for many years. Our thoughts are with her family.”

Shirley Manson, lead singer of Garbage, posted in honor of O’Connor to the band’s Instagram page, writing, “I’m heartbroken.”

“This disgusting world broke her and kept on breaking her. Godspeed dear fragile dove,” the post continued. “Thank you for all the beauty and all the wise teachings you offered up to us. I wish you nothing but peace and I will love you for all of time.”

O’Connor’s contemporary Annie Lennox shared a poem in the late singer’s memory on her Instagram, beginning it with, “You bared your soul… | Shared your brilliance | Through exquisite artistry”.

Oscar-winner Jamie Lee Curtis penned a lengthy tribute to O’Connor on her Instagram page, saying, “I once heard Sìnead (sic) sing acapella in an empty chapel in Ireland. It was under construction at the private home of our host. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I loved her. Her music. Her life,” Curtis added, going on to reminisce about the time she spent with O’Connor at a music festival.

“Sixth Sense” actor Toni Collette also shared a personal memory with O’Connor, writing on Instagram, “I was lucky enough to hang out with her a few times in my twenties. On one occasion we all sang in the hills of Wicklow in Eire. I sang a Jane Siberry song and Sinead then asked/encouraged me to sing one of my own. Can you imagine the terror? The intimidation? The thrill?!”

“She was so talented, so generous, humble, resilient, courageous and true,” Collette continued. “What a voice. What a force. My heart breaks.”

Beyond those in the arts, O’Connor’s impact was felt in her home country of Ireland.

“What Ireland has lost at such a relatively young age is one of our greatest and most gifted composers, songwriters and performers of recent decades, one who had a unique talent and extraordinary connection with her audience, all of whom held such love and warmth for her,” Irish president Michael D. Higgins said in a statement sent to CNN.

“May her spirit find the peace she sought in so many different ways,” his statement concluded.

CNN

Remember… you bared your soul… shared your brilliance through exquisite artistry. — Annie Lennox

[sunflowers-and-sweetviolets]

AN: Ah well I’m a little late, and this is probably the only one I’ll do knowing me, but anyway x

Sure I’m using Grace instead of Daithi since she makes my life a bit easier, I’ll make Daithi content soon x

Ship: J.ames  “J.immy”  L.anik / Grace MacLochlainn

TW!!!!: Mentions of death/murder (In the song like), possibly triggering historical events, heavy (Hindu and Catholic) religious themes,  that’s it x

P.RO/C.OMSHIP DNI, GNASHING OF TEETH.../NEG!!!

=========

Prompt: Simple, but sweet.

“Will you not dance with me?”  Grace requested, taking her husband’s arm like she was Radha in the Rasa-Leela, taking James in such an embrace it was akin to God Themselves. 

Ironic for a man with a Biblical name, no?

“Honey,” James began, taking Grace’s form in his arms, “I’ll always dance with you, mh?” 

“I love you, Jim.” 

“Love you too, Grace.” 

They were silent for a moment as they began to dance, the DJ quickly getting the notification to play the song Grace had requested to play when she danced with James. 

“As we gather in the chapel here in old Kilmainham Gaol”

As the aul Rebel song went on, the story of a man soon to be killed, and his ever loving wife, that story lingering with the two. 

The story of that Irish prison,  and the husband's punishment, not to mention his wife’s grief. 

The song continued as the two danced. 

“Yet, all I want in this dark place is to have you here with me” 

It was hard to see beyond their own personal struggles, but together it was like the Allies..but given the song's nature they were more akin to the ICA. 

“Oh, Grace, just hold me in your arms and let this moment linger” 

She, Grace, had had the song played at their wedding, she knew the significance, and Fuck, it ment the world to her. 

Plunkett and Giffords story was one for the ages. 

The song had continued for a good while, but the lyrics meant everything to Grace. 

“Now, as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking, too

On this May morn', as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you”  

Grace, herself named after that famous Irishwoman, a sweetheart in history, a beloved person - Grace was named after a historical figure just in the same vein as her James was named after one of the Christian Saints of the same calling. 

As Lord Krisna took the Gopis of Vrindavan, not to mention His beloved Radharani, James took Grace in his arms and gently guided her along the divine dance they were performing. 

How Holy was She? 

The Divine Couple.

[boricuacherry-blog]

It was not that the dead disappeared, which created in us the capacity to love their qualities; it was that their disappearance caused the death of our ego, and in its place the recognition of other's values. My mother sought to make of me the woman I did not want to be, who capitulated to wifehood and motherhood, and while she lived she threatened all my aspirations to escape the servitude of woman. When she died, I realized I had long ago lost the battle. I am a woman who takes care of others on the same level my mother did. I loved my mother, who had visited upon us her own angers and rebellions, who had not achieved her first wish to be a loved and pampered concert singer, a wish which her marriage to my father had seemed to make possible (he trained her as a singer) but which ultimately was destroyed by the burden of motherhood and an egocentric husband. Mother's singing did not survive. She had to surrender all hope of a career in order to raise and later support her three children. My mother had been over optimistic when she started a purchasing-agent business, to shop mainly for our wealthy relatives who bought everything in New York. She would come home and tell us she made so much on commissions, but as these purchases were charged by clients, some clients paid very late, and some did not pay at all, and so we accumulated debts and were hounded by creditors. The secretarial work for my mother which I did was overwhelming. The bills from the shops had to be examined and a separate list of items made for each client, charged to a different person. The house in Richmond Hill needed repairs. The furnace did not work. My mother started to rent rooms again, but here it was a home, not like the separate floors of the brownstone house, and we lost our privacy. My reaction was to take a job. My mother objected to that, maintaining Latin standards. Fortunately an Irishwoman who rented rooms in our house made a suggestion. She sent me to The Model's Club in New York where I began my profession as an artist's model, later as a fashion model.

-Anais Nin

[elecctricsugars]

Not that he had had time to make any kind of assumptions yet, Willy was nevertheless quite pleased to find the waxy woman both mannerly and forgiving.

“… Oh… How did it… Actually, I don’t think I want to know… ” The chocolate maker’s overall expression wilted visibly. Just as quickly, it perked up again. “Mama!” he shouted, not intending the yellow-tinted entity to hear his thoughts, a proverbial light bulb going off above his head. He turned to the candle-like person, resigned to what he could only assume was his fate. Death. While it was certainly a disappointment he hadn’t gotten to share his chocolate with the world, at least SHE would be by his side again one way or another. “Miss… um… May I ask your name? My name is Wonka. Willy Wonka… I was wondering if… well, if you knew someone, perchance… Irishwoman, dark brown hair, full smile… makes the best chocolate in the whole world...”

Past was quiet for a moment, caught off guard by the water being thrown over her, which she was not too pleased about. Arms crossed, she looked over at the culprit with a furrowed brow. "Well, excuse you." She said, huffing a little.

Of course, it hadn't even occurred to her how odd it was that someone was able to see her, not yet anyway.

She brushed off her initial frustration after a moment, and offered a laugh and a smile. "I'm quite alright." She assured when he asked if she was okay. "And don't fret, there's no need to apologise."

It was as he used his scarf to try and absorb the remaining water that she realised that this meant...he could see her? Very few could see spirits like! This was quite a rare occurrence. She contemplated mentioning something of the sort. After all, it wouldn't be such a weird thing to ask, after all if he could see her, then he could probably tell she wasn't normal to put it lightly.

"So..you can see me? That is quite rare actually."

[saintsenara]

the velveteen rabbit mrs cole & tom riddle general | 3.2k words

‘i don’t want you,’ he says, dark eyes bleary, tongue full of pus. ‘leave me alone.’

‘well, i’m what you’re getting,’ i say to him.

‘you ain’t worth having.’

‘and, yet, here i am.’

a boy has scarlet fever and wants his mother. he gets mrs cole instead.

this piece was written for week two of @ladiesofhpfest, which focuses on mothers [you can find the masterlist of the week's fics here].

author's notes under the cut

motherhood is one of the key themes of the harry potter series, but it’s often handled in a way i find quite reductive. in particular, the marian symbolism of lily potter means that all other mothers are found wanting beside her - the series understands motherly love as it understands all other love: as something whose nobility comes through sacrifice and suffering [as we see in its treatment of alice longbottom and nymphadora tonks, who it thinks did the right thing for their children].

mothers whose affection for their children is self-indulgent [petunia dursley, pre-deathly hallows narcissa malfoy], selfish [the more negative aspects of molly weasley’s characterisation], subordinate to their own concerns [kendra dumbledore], or lacking in affection [walburga black] get a bad showing across the seven-book canon. similarly, childless women either get forced into a quasi-maternal role [such as being a teacher at a boarding school] or become one of the many female characters who are portrayed as lacking some fundamental capacity for tenderness [rita skeeter, dolores umbridge, bellatrix lestrange].

but one particularly interesting mother whose relationship with her child is criticised by the text is merope gaunt.

and by this, i don’t mean that merope is criticised for how she became a mother - indeed, the text is remarkably dismissive of what happens to tom riddle sr. at her hands - but that she is implicitly criticised by both harry and dumbledore in half-blood prince for failing to stay alive for her son, with the subtext of their conversation being that witches are able to prevent themselves dying in childbirth and that merope just didn’t have the heart to make the effort.

i have always loathed this. i hate the implication that "muggle" ways of dying are things magical people are immune to - not least because it directly supports the views of blood-supremacists that wizards and muggles are essentially different species, which the series otherwise thinks it doesn’t agree with - and i hate the fact that the idea that merope "chose" to die inadvertently confirms her son’s belief that death is weak or shameful. childbirth was historically - and, indeed, still is - extremely dangerous, and plenty of witches must have died alongside muggle women, all of them hoping they could live to raise their children.

and this is what mrs cole tells us in this story: that merope wanted to live.

mrs cole - who, here, is an irishwoman in london, which gives her her own additional otherness to go alongside being childless - is one of those incidental characters i’m unjustifiably obsessed with.

i read a lot of voldemort-centric things, and she often ends up shouldering a sizeable portion of the blame for his obvious childhood trauma. to some extent, i can see why - she’s drunk in the middle of the day when there are dozens of children in her care, she treats examples of voldemort’s emotional damage [especially him learning as a baby that crying was futile] as nothing more than amusing gossip - but i also think that focusing criticism on her is unfair.

instead, i wanted to have a look at her as a woman doing her best to be a surrogate mother to an extremely messed up child, but never quite being able to succeed owing to the pressures she’s under.

because, after all, love is something which also requires resources. it requires time to invest into the child; it requires the caregiver to have the mental and physical capacity to provide the child the attention they need; it requires the child to be warm and fed and clothed and the caregiver to not have to worry about those things; it requires the child to feel safe enough to be childish. mrs cole loves her charges innately, but it’s not always possible for her to spare the time or energy to make that love all-encompassing.

and that isn’t her fault. the failure of the state in tom riddle’s life isn’t given a lot of space in canon. the harry potter series emphasises the value of individual - rather than collective - choice as its central theme and, even when the wizarding state is criticised for something, that criticism is often aimed at one person [such as cornelius fudge in order of the phoenix] rather than at the systems which have enabled them.

but it is a matter of fact that orphanages cannot provide children with the support they need because they’re not set up to do so. the wool’s of the velveteen rabbit is underfunded and overcrowded - like institutions worldwide - and mrs cole spends all her time trying to get her charges through the day unscathed. state figures - such as the doctor who will not work for free [this being before the invention of the nhs] or the member of parliament who ignores letters or the magistrates ["beaks"] who fail to understand that stealing is an expression of the orphans’ fundamental trauma - let down the children at every turn.

including one particular child: tom riddle, whose complicated relationship both to his mother and to mrs cole is examined here through the lens of childhood illness. 

i’m wedded to the idea that tom was quite a sickly child. he is described in canon in terms which suggest that he’s somewhat physically fragile, and it provides an explanation for why he becomes so obsessed with magic if physical strength is a power that other children have over him. it also provides some more insight into his fear of death - after all, you’d want to live forever too if you knew you’d be dying as a child with only a woman you hate and who can’t give you the love and affection you need sitting at your bedside.

[the title of the piece is, of course, taken from the horrifying 1922 children’s book of the same name, in which a velveteen toy rabbit is burned to ashes after its owner has scarlet fever, but everything is alright for some reason.]

[sweetlyburningobject-blog]

Exploring Michael Hartnett's early development as a poet....

Exploring Michael Hartnett’s early development as a poet….

Bridget Halpin’s Small Farm in Camas Formative Influences on the young Michael Hartnett

Brigid Halpin’s cottage in Camas as it is today. The photograph is by Dermot Lynch.

  Bridget Halpin, formerly Bridget Roche, was born in Cahirlane, Abbeyfeale in 1885 to parents John Roche and Marie Moloney.  According to parish records in Abbeyfeale, she married Michael Halpin from Camas, near Newcastle…

[carllisle]

Your previous Siobhan writing was really touching and beautiful! It definitely made my day! Would you like to elaborate on Siobhan finding out the “Esme’s magic” and perhaps Carlisle and Esme telling the story of how they met and how he changed Esme?

Thank you so much for your ask! I apologise for the delay in response, but I really enjoyed thinking about this. Thank you so much for sharing, and I’m honoured that you’d like me to write more! 

Mentions of infant death and abuse. 

-----------

“Does it bother you?” Siobhan asked as they made their way along the coast. The sea air was fresher in Ireland than anywhere Esme had before been and she liked it. The sky was so big, the salt so cleansing. The land felt ancient around her. With the old vampire at her side, there was something almost tangible about the sanctity of the world about them. 

Esme looked up at the woman running at her side and smiled. “No. Does it bother you?” 

“It does bother me a little,” Siobhan admitted with a laugh. “You fight your basic nature and for what? You’re missing out on the greatest joy in life!” 

Esme slowed their pace and Siobhan followed her lead. They came to a jog and then to a stop. In the distance, the lights of a seaside town popped into life under the twilight sky. “I’ve... I’ve not found the joy of human blood worth the pain it brought me.”

“Pain?” 

It wasn’t easy to talk about, but there was something about the Irishwoman that made Esme want to talk about it. She was very beautiful, and her frightening, kind face invited her stories willingly. Siobhan reminded Esme of Carlisle - when she asked a question, she truly wanted to know the answer. Esme looked away. “I remember the loss of my child. I cannot bear to think of inflicting that pain onto another.” 

“Do you think humans feel like us?” 

Esme smiled softly again. “Yes. My human life ended not long ago and I still feel the pain in my bones. I will do whatever I can to avoid causing that pain in anyone else. But I make no judgement on those who do.” 

“It sounds like you do,” Siobhan pointed out. “You sound like Carlisle.” 

“I don’t mean to. But he and Edward are my greatest influence in immortality, it can’t be helped.” Esme felt very watched but there was nothing threatening about it, it was just odd. “I am sorry if I have offended you.” 

Siobhan laughed and it was a joyful sound. “You have not, don’t fear. Your husband has been much more forthcoming with his ideas than you and I’ve been offended less!” 

Esme clasped her hands in front of her and looked down. Her dress swung in the light breeze and she felt pretty. 

“Would you tell me how he found you?” she asked after a comfortable silence. 

“It’s not a nice story,” Esme admitted. 

“But it has a nice ending, does it not?” 

Esme looked at her and nodded after a moment. “Could we go down onto the beach?” 

Siobhan took her hand and together they made the running leap off the grassy clifftop and seconds passed as their bodies rushed through the air and they landed side by side on the damp sand below. Esme felt calmer on the beach now. There had been something about the clifftop that felt too familiar. 

“Will you tell me?” Siobhan asked as she brushed off her bare feet. 

“Yes, if you like.” They began walking along the beach as the sea lapped quietly against the shore some way off. “My first husband did not love me, and when I fell pregnant I ran from him. It was easy to pass myself off as a war widow, you know, American soldiers were being sent home and then back to the Front to rebuild, even in 1920 men were being sent back in body bags.” Esme sniffed. The salt made her nose tingle. “But he found me, and I moved on. After my baby was born, he died. I had two days of bliss, and one day of terror, and the worst happened. I threw myself from a cliff and I was thought to be dead. Carlisle found me and took my body home and changed me.” Esme rolled up her sleeve and then pulled her collar to the side. 

Siobhan looked at the bite marks that were usually hidden. “That’s a lot of teeth marks you’ve got there.” 

Esme smiled faintly. “He tells me it was a frenzied effort. All of them can be covered, though, so I don’t mind. Seven or eight, I haven’t counted, but I’m glad for them all.”

“Why you?” 

Esme wanted to blush. It was a forward question and one that had haunted both she and Carlisle since the day she woke. “We met when I was sixteen. He remembered the girl I was, and I think it made him sad to see how I had fallen.” 

“He loved you as a girl?” Siobhan’s eyebrows creased. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Esme smiled. “Our paths crossed fleetingly. I think God put us in each other’s way so that when the time was right, we fell into place.” 

Siobhan looked like she disagreed completely but she didn’t voice her opinion. Instead, she asked another question that knocked Esme. “You first husband? What of him?”

Esme bit her lip. “He’s dead.” 

“Did you do it?” 

She shook her head. “Edward did. Charles was his first kill.” 

“Good lad. You know, I killed the vampire who turned me?”

Esme looked at her with wide eyes. “Why?” 

“He was a man who took what he wanted. He took me and I didn’t want him, so he was presented with a choice - let me go, or die. Three others stood by his side and they died too.” She smirked. “I don’t regret it. It was a small price for freedom. Do you think that’s wrong?” 

“Does it matter what I think?”

“It does. I want to know you, Esme.” 

Esme’s voice was gentle. “I think it was incredibly brave of you. You were put in an impossible position but you came out of it. And now you have a life that you love. It that not wonderful?” 

The taller woman watched Esme and cocked her head to the side. “I think you’re very kind, Esme. I think you’re brave, too. Don’t let Carlisle overshadow that.” 

That surprised her. “What makes you say that?” 

“I’ve known him for a long time, and he is the best of us, I think. He’s determined and compassionate and intelligent, but you’re still you. You’re still made in the eye of God, like him and like me. Don’t dull yourself for him.” 

“I don’t think I will,” she replied slowly, confused with the turn the conversation had taken. 

“Men will always try to dull the great women around them, that’s all. Carlisle is still a man, despite his other virtues, but you’re a great woman, I can see that.” 

It was humbling for Esme to be stood before Siobhan and be told that. She didn’t feel great compared to her new friend, but there was no reason to believe that she was being lied to. “You’re very kind.”

Siobhan shrugged. “I’m too old for games and lies, I only say what I see. Protect yourself, alright? Carlisle will never intentionally hurt those he loves, I know you know that, but he’s still a man.”

Impossible to know whether she should laugh or not, Esme fell into silence. Their feet were quiet against the damp sand along the beach but eventually Siobhan’s arm made its way around Esme’s shoulder and she felt safe. “How did you meet Liam?” she asked after a while. 

Siobhan’s smile was broad at that. “Now there’s a tale to tell. Now tell me, Esme, what do you know of that English bastard Cromwell?” 

[not-museing-around]

A brow quirked up on the assassins forehead at the daring way he spoke to a woman who held his life in her hands. Saoirse couldn't trust that he wouldn't attack her. What good would a dick do him if he was too dead to use it? But still her lips curled into a smile. Saoirse enjoyed a guy who knew how to be sarcastic in the face of certain death. He was funny, and it was dangerous for her to enjoy it as much as she was.

That tone in his voice shot through the assassin like lightning, leaving behind goosebumps on her pale flesh. "Aw, sure know how to make a girl feel special," The Irishwoman replied with that same playfulness. His hands moved for her ass and Saoirse moaned softly at the feeling. The hand around his throbbing manhood pumped him just a couple times to get a real feel for his arousal before he'd get a chance to feel her own. "I think we're both in for quite the view." With a moments hesitation, she released him from her grasp and turned her back to him. Climbing onto the bed with ease, the mercenary rested her hands on the bed and spread her knees just a little for him. Her hips wiggled for him, eyes finding his in his reflection in the mirror.

Saoirse saw fit to warn him about the consequences of disobedience once more, and to that Ronan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Again, I’m not dumb enough to try and run away when I’m stark naked and there’s some killer chick with a load of knifes after me. If I’m gonna die, I’d really rather not die getting my dick chopped off,” Ronan told her, sarcasm clearly lacing his tone. It was a bold move for him to talk in such manner considering his situation, but he didn’t see any point in pussyfooting around, not with how the encounter had presently turned out.

As Saoirse proceeded to trail her fingers down his chest and abdomen to his hard member, Ronan’s gaze tracked her progress without relent. The first touch of her fingertips upon his cock made Ronan growl, tone low and gruff. “There’s a first time for everything, babe. You’re the first person whose tried to kill me that I’m fucking,” Ronan mused to her point, no laugh coming from him unlike her, but the provocative sentiment all the same. His cock throbbed to Saoirse’s touch, and rather than stand solely before her whilst awaiting her direction, Ronan reached round to take a firm cup of her ass. “Gotta say I’m gonna enjoy seeing this arse when I’m fucking you from behind,” Ronan told her, hints of assured cockiness underlying his tone. As she touched his cock, Ronan massaged her rear, anticipating her move to get in the doggy position all the while.