#Gawain Graves

[rubiatinctorum]

still mortified that i didnt realise that some pdf viewers keep a file's original download name instead of whatever it's changed to so for two years i thought i was saving my ass by changing the file name of my sir gawain and the green knight essay from "sir gawank and the greeb knot" and then found out TWO YEARS LATER that my prof could probably very much see that and still didn't fail me in a subsequent course i took with him. man i am so sorry

[grymkoena]

Dragon's Dogma 2

[OCs: Desma Gawain & Elaine Aeryn]

[grailwishes]

new character tags ( blorbos first ) ^-^

📖  *  guinevere pendragon.   ‣  queen of camelot.

📖  *  cassandra of troy.   ‣  princess prophetess.

📖  *  helen of sparta.   ‣  the most beautiful woman.

📖  *  maid marian / william scarlet.   ‣  lady of the merry men.

📖  *  saito momoka.   ‣  wisteria & peaches.

📖  *  yuuki cupid saito.   ‣  last hope of humanity.

📖  *  percival.   ‣  the dove knight.

📖  *  gawain.   ‣  knight of the sun.

📖  *  agravain.   ‣  knight of iron.

📖  *  sieg.   ‣  balmung's heir.

📖  *  siegfried.   ‣  dragon slayer.

📖  *  emiya shirou.   ‣  hero of justice.

📖  *  cú chulainn / sétanta.   ‣  hero of ulster.

📖  *  fiore forvedge.   ‣  yggdmillennia's true talent.

📖  *  jeanne d'arc.   ‣  holy maiden.

📖  *  rama.   ‣  brahmastra.

📖  *  asterios.   ‣  chaos labyrinth.

📖  *  nursery rhyme.   ‣  born of fairytales.

📖  *  bazett fraga mcremitz.   ‣  god's holder.

📖  *  waver velvet / lord el-melloi II.   ‣  cringefail professor.

📖  *  grey.   ‣  grave for you.

📖  *  charlemagne.   ‣  joyeuse ordre.

📖  *  name.   ‣  tag.

[aliceauthorallegedly]

We had a fun TTRPG session on Monday, you can tell because I got to send this unhinged text to my cousin

[knight-serpentine]

@sentinaels | gawain : ❝ how are you today, my little hero? ❞

the greeting making him jump, mordred quickly turns his head to see whether there is anyone milling around. seeing that most have already left the courtyard and those that stayed are not near them, he mentally thanks his saints and stars that they've just completed their training for the day. gawain calling him "my little hero" may make him blush and feel a bit proud in private, but at the thought of other squires being in hearing distance, he can already picture the smirks.

putting his water flask back on his belt, mordred wipes his mouth with his sleeve and smiles sheepishly. ❝ i'm good! we've just finished for the day . i was about to head inside, do you want to come ? ❞ he is quite pleased she managed to drop by.

[sanddef]

Out of all the Arthurian name reveals Perceval has got to be the funniest. Like okay Lancelot read his off his own grave, Gareth goes under a pseudonym before the reveal, Gawain is constantly hiding his identity from people and while insisting he never does that, but Perceval didn't know his name and guessed it correctly. Who else is doing that

[larluce]

MERLIN PROMPT

Merlin is capture by some bandits for information. Normally he would escape quickly, but these ones figure out soon that he has magic and restrain him with cold Iron. They do torture him in other ways to try to make him speak, but being cut off of his magic is what really traumatizes Merlin. He manages to escape in the end, but one of the bandits shouts at him while he’s running that he will tell the king what he is. So, even when Merlin is later save and sound in Camelot, he’s in constant fear his secret will be exposed at any moment.

The thing is, when Arthur, after sending a lot of search parties, finally finds Merlin in the woods all scarred and terrified and later Merlin refuses to talk about what they did to him, yet Merlin flinches of every touch and is constantly a mervous wreck around everyone, he thinks the worst: Merlin was not only tortured, he was raped. His best friend, the person he treasures the most and has feelings for has been hurt in the worst way possible and it was his fault.

Arthur shares his suspicions with the knights, who share his grief, and they make a vow to protect Merlin. They basically take turns watching over him. Even Lancelot believes this, since Merlin hasn’t told him anything either, but he does think there's more to it, because he finds weird Merlin hasn’t been able to defend himself with his magic. They also make their own investigations to find the bastards who did this to Merlin.

Then the day comes where a man appears in the castle, saying he has relevant information for the king regarding his personal manservant. Arthur, believing is someone who has information about the bandits who took Merlin months ago, lets him in. However when the man is about to speak Merlin storms in.

Arthur: Merlin?

Bandit: (smirks at Merlin) Hello, little pet.

Merlin: (to Arthur, begging in full panic mode) Arthur, please don't listen to him!

Arthur: You know him?

Bandit: (points at Merlin) This man is a sorcerer. He killed all my men with magic!

Silence. All the knights and Arthur somber their gazes. Is not the first time Merlin is accused of magic, but it's definitely the first time he looks so terrified.

Arthur: That's a grave accusation you're making.

Bandit: I can prove it, sire. If you allow me.

Arthur: (turns to Merlin) Merlin? (Thinking) Why aren't you denying it?

Merlin: (breaks into a crying mess) I'm sorry I didn't want you to find out this way.

Bandit: You see? he confessed!

Lancelot: Wait, why did you call him like that?

Bandit: What?

Gawain: (incipient fury) You called him "little pet". Why?

Leon: That's a strange way to call the evil sorcerer who killed all your men, don't you think?

Arthur: (conects the dots, hardening his features) It was you. You are the bastard who raped him!

Merlin and Bandit: (utterly confused) ... what? 😧

Arthur: (roars in rage an launches at the bandit)

Gawain: (does the very same thing)

Elyan, Percival and Leon: (trying their best to stop Arthur and Gawain despite being as furious cause the man can't pay for his crimes if he's turn into a pulp)

Merlin: (too stunned, not knowing what's happening or how to feel)...

Lancelot: (to Merlin) He didn't do that to you, did he?

Merlin: No.

Lancelot: (sighs in relief) Should we tell them?

Merlin: Maybe later... when they are, you know, more willing to listen.

[tyrantisterror]

Some stuff I learned at the Medieval Studies Congress today that will be of interest/use for Midgaheim:

There's a passage of Beowulf that, in the original old English, lists Grendel's kin/fellow descendents of Cain (the biblical first murderer). Two are easily translated to modern English: elves and giants (specifically "gigantes," one of the few times the poem uses a latin word rather than an Old English word, which probably specifically implies these are Biblical giants/nephilim like Goliath). The other two words are hard to parse because they have no modern English equivalent, and different translations use different words to try to give the same flavor. One is translated roughly as phantoms, undead, revenants, draugr, goblins, evil spirits, or demons, while the other is translated as trolls or ogres. However, both of those words mean something different than those equivalents - in the second term's case, it specifically means Jotunn, i.e. frost giants. And that's especially important for two reasons: 1, Grendel is referred to as being most closely related to that term, sometimes outright being called a Jotunn, and 2, Jotunn are VERY different than giants/ogres mythologically speaking, and the Beowulf poet would have known that. Troll is probably the best fit of all modern English monster words, since trolls were synonymous with Jotunns (and most other monsters) early in the history of Germanic languages, but the word Troll now means its own specific thing, so it's still not a good fit, and as the speaker surmised, it's probably best just to translate Jotunn… as Jotunn.

On a related note, the word "Ettin" is derived from Jotunn, so at some point I should make Midgaheim Ettins some sort of sister clade of ogres to Jotunns.

Beowulf says that giants were "wiped out in the flood," and because it specifically uses the Latin word "gigante," it's likely this is a reference to the death of the nephilim in Biblical apocrypha. BUT! Given how "Jotunn" is used often in the poem, it could alternatively refer to the flood of Ymir's blood in Norse mythology that ALSO wiped out a population of giants. OR! it could refer to BOTH, which would be an explicit instance of the poem trying to fit Norse myth and Christian apocrypha into one united mythos. It is possible the Beowulf poet may have been trying the same heretical bullshit I've been doing in Midgaheim.

A prominent theme in Norse myth was people who act monstrously turning into monsters as a result, and it's possibel that the word "Jotunn" may be rooted in the Germanic word for Gluttony, since early descriptions of Jotunns describe them as cannibals/maneaters whose voracious appetites are particularly destructive - a trait that they share with folkloric ogres across Europe.

Dragons, especially in Norse myth, have some psychopomp connotations, particularly with regards to the word "wyrm," which has always had an intended double meaning to include both serpents/reptiles and vermin/invertebrates. A wyrm is both viper and maggot, snake and worm, with the connective trait that unites all things under the category being its ability to inspire a primal fear. The Beowulf dragon specifically has connotations with Death and Rot, living in an ancient grave and ending the life of the near-unkillable hero of the poem. Nidhoggr also fills this role, as do his fellow root-chewer dragons who torment the particularly dishonorable dead in Norse Hel.

Gawain and Lancelot were disaster bisexuals. It is also probably arguable that most if not all of the knights of the round table are disaster bisexuals, but Gawain and Lancelot definitely are.

At least one incarnation of King Arthur kinda blatantly desired to be a throuple with Gwenevere and Lancelot, which would have solved so many problems. Like, he was aware both Lancelot and Gwenevere were more functional when they could fuck, and he loved them both dearly so come on, let them be a throuple.

There's a good argument that many, if not all versions of Mordred could have been gay.

One Gawain story has him accidentally kill a woman while getting into a fight with a knight over a dead white stag, and Gwenevere tells Gawain that from this day on he has to take a solemn vow to ALWAYS respect and protect women. Or, to sum up:

Lanval was a sub and that's why the fairy maiden asked him to visit her. Their dynamic also subverts a lot of medieval expectations of masculinity and feminity in Marie de France's version of the story, which subsequent authors tried to "fix" in later retellings - a big example is how in Marie's version, the Fairy Maiden steers the horse that rescues Lanval, while in subsequent retellings Lanval gets to steer despite the Fairy Maiden being the one who came to the rescue. Marie's version has both of them take on masculine and feminine roles, serving and protecting each other in turn, and seems to have this message that a good relationship should be an equal partnership where both sides shoulder each other's burdens while also caring for themselves. Marie de France continues to be my favorite medieval writer.

There was a lot of argument and theorizing about the nature of souls as incorporeal things that still can feel pain, with a lot of Christians arguing about what pain means to a spirit without a body, and how exactly hellfire can hurt a soul without a body. Dante kinds put the final word on it by drawing on the fact that angels and demons, who are beings of soul without corporeal forms, can create corporeal representations of themselves from air, smoke, fire, and light - damned souls are given substance, and thus pain, by Hellfire that wraps around their bodies, with one passage of inferno describing how the fire surrounding Ulysses curls at one point "almost like a tongue" to allow him to speak. The fire is also something that, depending on how you translate the poem, may be self inflicted - summoned by the sinner, or at least manifesting as result of their sins and faults, which goes with the theme of Dante's Hell where all the punishments are self inflicted/reinforced by the sinners themselves.

There's a medieval French poem about an island called Cokaygne (pronounced "Cocaine," no I'm serious I'm not shitting you it's called Cocaine) where the houses are made of crepes/pancakes, the rivers are made of sweet milk, food is plentiful, the weather is never bad, predators and disease are nonexistent, and the only people who live there are monks and nuns who spend all their time eating, resting, and engaging in kinky and satisfying sex. The poem is a satire of other stories of the time that attempted to describe Heaven, and explicitly says Cokaygne (Cocaine) is better than Heaven, because all you have to do in Heaven is look at clouds and grass, while in Cokaygne (Cocaine) you get to fuck nuns in your pancake house. To get to Cokaygne (Cocaine) you have to sit up to your neck in pigshit for seven years straight. It kinda reminded me of that hobo folk song "The Big Rock Candy Mountain."

Finally (for today), there's a Medieval story that's based on the story of the Buddha that fucks up the concept of "letting go of attachments" when trying to adapt it to fit a medieval french worldview, turning the concept from "free yourself from your desires" to "listen you shouldn't care about material wealth because the wealth you'll get in the spiritual world of Heaven will be WAY better, you get jewels and a throne and stuff it's sick dude," which proves white people have been fucking that concept up in stupid ways for centuries.

[smokerswifey]

I promised y'all a cute Tristan and Lancelot drawing like a month ago, but since Nakaba decided to be angsty these past few chapters I decided to take a similar route :

My take is after Percy's death, Lancelot was ready to murder all of the knights if Camelot that they had previously captured .

Everyone tried to protest, but the only person who could convince Lancelot NOT to commit multiple homicides was Percival and he was dead so Lancelot didn't give a shit .

The only one who could actually try to stop him was Tristan seeing as Gawain was injured and low on magic .

I think that despite their shared grief, Tristan still tried to stop Lancelot from harming the knights because, A : he would regret it later and that isn't who he is, B : they could use them for information, information they could use to avenge Percy and C : despite them being their enemies, Percival wouldn't want them to be killed especially since he thought that his very existence would bring death to others, so that would just make his fears come true in a way.

Lancelot would be hella pissed, but the sheer thought of hurting Percival even in the afterlife stopped him from harming the Chaos Knights .

I like to think that after they burried Percival, Lancelot stayed watching over his grave till their departure back to Liones and Tristan was always watching over him from somwhere, simultaneously giving him space and making sure he wasn't alone . ( just like lancelot did for percival )

Lancelot could obviously sense Tristan's strong magic power and knew that he was following him, but he never mentioned it, just silently appreciating the support that he was given.

I think they're just neat like that <3

[seriouslysam8]

Brumous Sneak Peek

Chapter Sixty- Six

Harry’s entire body quivered involuntarily as he walked into the wards around Hogwarts with Sirius by his side. His eyes were locked on Dumbledore’s deathly pale body floating in front of Remus’ wand, his arms limp on either side of him and his long white hair nearly touching the ground beneath him. Harry’s mind reeled with everything that happened at the Gaunt House. If obtaining every Horcrux was going to be like that, Harry wondered how they were going to manage to find and destroy them all.

Hagrid met them at the gates, a lantern illuminating his concerned face. He opened the gates without hesitating, asking Remus if he needed help. Harry only felt numb as they continued across the grounds, his body going through the motions. He couldn’t even concentrate on Remus’ and Hagrid’s conversation, their words nothing but senseless syllables vibrating in his ears. It seemed impossible that Dumbledore, out of all of them, was the one to be gravely injured.

When they entered the infirmary, McGonagall and Snape were waiting for them. Snape and Remus immediately tended to Dumbledore while McGonagall made her way to Sirius and Harry. All Harry could do was cross his arms in front of his chest and try to breathe. The adrenaline he felt coursing through his veins while obtaining the Horcrux was long gone now that they were out of danger. The weight of the situation accumulated into a hard lump in the pit of his stomach.

“What in Merlin’s name!” McGonagall exclaimed, her hand touching Harry’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Harry nodded. “It’s not my blood,” he assured her in a hushed tone.

McGonagall huffed as she turned her attention to Sirius, her hand still pressed against Harry’s arm. “Sirius,” she said, her wide eyes staring up at him.

“You know I can’t tell you anything, professor,” Sirius replied in a dull tone.

“I think given the circumstances–”

Sirius shook his head. “You know why the Order is compartmentalized,” he interrupted. “We all have our roles to play and we don’t talk to one another about those roles.”

“The Order needs to be informed that Albus has been injured!” McGonagall protested, her hand finally dropping from Harry’s arm. “Remus’ Patronus made it very clear he was in critical condition.”

Sirius sucked in a breath. “Look, we need to contain this. Nobody can know he’s injured or, or worse. This is on a need-to-know basis. You want to call in Tegan and Gawain, that’s fine. They’re probably the best ones to run the Order if Dumbledore is incapacitated for some time. But we need to create a cover story so this doesn’t reach Voldemort. If he knows about Dumbledore’s injuries, he will not hesitate to attack the castle.”

McGonagall pursed her lips to the side.

“I will help you protect Hogwarts, all right?” Sirius insisted, his hands pressing on his hips. “We will figure this out. But this needs to be kept quiet. It’s imperative. Even more, Voldemort cannot find out where we were tonight. If he does, we are fucked. More than fucked. We’re so fucking fucked that we may as well flee or count down the days until Voldemort murders us all.”

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Writing Share Tag Game!

Tagged by the lovely; @aintgonnatakethis

No Pressure Tag; @holy3cake + open tag

Rules: Honestly, I think this one is just a "share whatever you feel like, so fuck it, here's a random segment from Chapter 4;

GAWAIN's POV:

"We'll help each other, ok?" Gawain said. The man didn't reply, but he felt Lancelot's arm tense, a fist grab the fabric at his shoulder.

"Ready?"

Lancelot nodded weakly.

"On three. One, Two,"

Gawain mustered all his strength to drag both himself and Lancelot to their feet.

"Three..." He groaned, that now all too familiar stab of pain searing into his lower back. It was so powerful sweat immediately beaded up on his brow but he dared not try to stop and breathe through it, all too aware Lancelot was just as liable to collapse if he did, and that trying to stand a second time would be near enough impossible.

The pair staggered up like a drunk couple, lurching and dragging feet all the way back to camp. They managed not to trip over a single root, and to only walk into two trees- one of which Lancelot seemed to apologise to, and Gawain, in his current state couldn't help but snort at the absurdity of the great Weeping Monk apologising to a fucking tree before immediately regretting the action when he staggered into a low hanging branch himself. He heard an odd wheezing sound from the other man and realised that he was laughing at him, or at least attempting to despite his agony.

And so it was that they appeared through the trees to the bewildered face of a young fey boy, who wasn't entirely sure if the others had gone quite mad... 

Gawain would have been inclined to agree. This was utter madness, the entire fucking situation, what he hell had become of his life in the space of a few short days that he was here, now, ambling like a drunkard with his gravely injured sworn enemy in the middle of nowhere...

[gringolet]

question about SGATGK. i understand that gawain could never "win" no matter how he approached the challenge since he had to save his honor and therefore had to really try his best when attacking the green knight for the first time (and therefore doom himself to death in a year) instead of just like idk giving the green knight a papercut or something. but. unless i have gravely misunderstood the story, the green knight didn't single gawain out at the christmas dinner, right? the other knights who didn't rise to the challenge and didn't attack the green knight neither lost their honor nor doomed themselves to death in a year. could he have saved his honor AND life by just following what the other knights at the christmas dinner did and just rejecting the green knight's game? or would that have been dishonorable in some other way? (not that HE would ever do that. but in theory, if it had been someone other than gawain, could they have "won" the situation by doing that, i guess)

this is an interesting question, and like « why did gawain accept the challenge » is a major question i think the poem is interested in. theres the suggestion that he is one of the youngest and newest members of court, and is therefore untried; so the challenge is an opportunity to begin building the reputation that he needs. theres also the fact that for every else to « win » by not playing, someone has to lose, because otherwise arthur, their king, will accept. and if they by their cowardice allow their lord to be slain, that would shame and ruin them all. gawain has an additional obligation to arthur by virtue of their close family relation ( consider, similarly, how interested in and protective of gawains reputation his brothers are in other texts. same principle ) so yes, if gawain had not taken up the challenge not only would he personally be shamed but the entire court and his family specifically. thats my read on it anyway i hope that makes sense

[jurakan]

Fun Fact Friday! Arthur's Sons

Once again, it is Lent, I cannot answer requests, but! Here is a scheduled Fun Fact!

Today You Learned about King Arthur's sons.

In the famous romances, and the modern works adapted from them, King Arthur rather famously has no heir--unless you count Mordred, his nephew and maybe illegitimate son (yeah...) who turns out to be an evil douchebag! And Arthur has to mutual kill him at Camlann.

But it turns out that there ARE sons of Arthur in some medieval sources. Nennius, for instance, mentions the grave of Arthur's son Amr, who for an unspecified reason is also killed by Arthur (maybe he was the basis for later Mordred stories?).

Also Amr's tomb changes sizes sometimes.

The story of Culhwch and Olwen, sometimes considered the oldest Arthurian story (the titular Culhwch is Arthur's cousin), contains a quick mention of Arthur's son Gwydre--he's killed by the giant boar they're hunting, sadly.

Wikipedia describes a few other children like Duran and Llachau, who also die horribly, and a couple of daughters, who pop culture generally ignore.

Being a child of Arthur just seems like bad luck.

It's interesting to me because a lot of modern Arthurian stories run on the idea that Arthur doesn't have any children. In The Green Knight film, for instance, he is implied to be willing to make Gawain his heir because he has no child of his own. But they're there, in the literature, if anyone wants to take a look further than what they're taught in high school.

Mind you, some modern fantasy does have Arthur with children. Here, There Be Dragons has Arthur's descendants as monarchs of the Silver Throne, starting with his son Artigel. The Dark is Rising series plays around with it too. And the ones from Welsh literature are actually important (antagonistic) characters in Cornwell's Warlord Chronicles.

[prairiesongserial]

epilogue 22

Iris answered the phone.

“Iris Madsen.”

Her interpreter skipped the standard spiel that this was an interpreted line, the call was confidential, and to allow pauses for interpretation. Anyone with Iris’s direct line knew how to talk on the phone.

“This is Berkeley checking in.”

This was not Iris’s ten-thirty appointment. Agent Berkeley worked for the Foreign Office. She should have been communicating up her own chain of command. She shouldn’t have had Iris’s direct line, either, but she was a spy, so Iris wasn’t particularly surprised.

The clock ticked over to ten-thirty-one and the call-waiting light on Iris’s phone flashed.

“Why break protocol?” Iris asked.

There was a longer than normal pause while the interpreter informed Berkeley of the poor connection and asked her to repeat her answer.

“Yes, I’ll repeat. I’ve run into something unexpectedly high profile,” Berkeley said. “I thought you might have concerns about flow of information. Sorry, I’ll get to the point. The four missing bounties from the Maine conflict are here. Well, not here. They were here. They appear to be operating as agents of the Dauphin.”

“Berkeley, remind me of your assignment.”

“Without broadcasting the details, Ma’am, I’m calling from London.”

“Hold, please.”

Iris yanked open a filing cabinet under her desk. She did not have to thumb through to find what she was looking for. The file for the ongoing disaster which had started with a loan of ten thousand silver from Hemisphere Central to the Dead-Eyes was a very familiar one. She pulled out her notes about the Maine conflict.

Johannes had intended the circus to rendezvous in Canada. Iris had strongly hinted that he should get out of the country, and she understood that he had attempted to go through with it. He had forged passports. When Cody Allison dropped off the map, she’d had no reason to think he hadn’t stuck to the plan.

Her sources within the circus seemed to think so, too. There were people there who would still talk to her–another reason she had gone in person to Johannes’s funeral. Unfortunately, none of them had crossed paths with Cody Allison since the day of the Maine conflict. Iris’s intelligence had lost track of them as well.

“We thought we lost them to Canada,” Iris said. “Why are they in…” She paused. “Why are they working for the Dauphin?”

“Rest assured, Ma’am, that I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Give me everything, in order.”

Berkeley gave her a detailed report, minute by minute, of the brief glimpse she’d caught of Cody Allison, John Graves, Friday Wilmot, and Valerie Lecter in the Queen’s receiving hall. Apparently Cody Allison had attempted to cross the border into England from France without a passport, boasting a ridiculous letter from the Dauphin in lieu of paperwork. He’d been detained,  obviously. After that, Berkeley was missing a few details. Her position in the palace was intended to keep Iris abreast of major moves, not the comings and goings of individuals. She hadn’t been able to tail Allison without arousing suspicion.

All Berkeley knew was that the Palace had lost track of all four members of Allison’s cohort in the middle of the night, and had cause to believe they were working with a political faction to move the princes Gawain and Percival across the French border. 

The Queen was new to her position, and the ascension had been a little sloppy, but given Hemisphere’s bloody origins under Constantine, a murdered regent wasn’t bad. Georgiana was Canada’s pet project, and Iris hadn’t given her much thought. Nothing in Berkeley’s explanation indicated why Allison would have taken action. Then again, past experience indicated Allison would cause an international incident at any opportunity.

“How good is that intelligence?” Iris asked.

Berkeley paused.

“We know that Cody Allison entered the country via France, but we don’t know if the letter from the Dauphin is legitimate. The Palace overheard the plan to move the princes via covert listening device. From my position, I wasn’t able to gather any more information. Should I make a move?”

“Don’t act. I need you where you are.” Iris needed an eye on Georgiana, especially since the Foreign Office didn’t have any agents in France. France wasn’t Hemisphere and didn’t have trans-Atlantic telephone lines. The agents posted there eventually stopped sending letters, so the Foreign Office eventually stopped sending agents. “Do you have anything else to report?”

“No, Ma’am.”

They ended the call. Iris stared at the flashing call-waiting light, and transferred her ten-thirty to her secretary’s phone.

*

Iris tramped down two flights of stairs to the Foreign Office. They shared a floor with the switchboard, which took up most of the available space. Iris passed the open door of the switchboard operators’ break room, where the conversation was so loud that she could feel the vibrations. She burst into the Foreign Office without knocking.

The Foreign Office was about the size of the break room next door. They didn’t need many desks, since their agents spent all their time in the field. There were only four office staff: an analyst, a typist, a stenographer, and the Head. 

Iris stopped in the center of the room. The analyst and stenographer appeared to be engaged in an argument–light-hearted, by their facial expressions, which soon went to blank horror as they realized Iris’s presence. The typist was building reports out of the steno’s notes with single-minded focus. She was the last to notice Iris’s arrival.

The Head was bouncing a rubber ball off the side of the wall. Ben Cataldi was an old-timer from Constantine’s crew. He’d built the Foreign Office after he retired from gunslinging. He was the reason Iris could make a trans-Atlantic phone call.

“Iris,” he signed, dropping the rubber ball. It rolled under the typist’s desk. “Why are you here?”

Cataldi was a novice signer, still terrible after all these years, but Iris found his necessary bluntness enjoyable. On the wall behind his desk, there was a large map of the world littered with colored push pins. Each one tacked a scrap of paper with the name of an agent over their city of operation.

“I need you to move some people around,” Iris said, signing with exaggerated clarity. She pointed to the map with raised eyebrows.

The analyst got up from her desk. Iris remembered her now. Her name was Zara Darvish; she specialized in translation. She maneuvered through the cramped space on crutches, apparently in order to better see the assignment map.

“Move who? Why?” said Cataldi.

“Whoever you can spare. I need someone to pick up Cody Allison’s trail of destruction. The four of them just left England.”

Cataldi stared at her. He mirrored the sign for England back to her, and she fingerspelled it.

He painstakingly spelled back: C-O-D-Y A-L-L-I-S-O-N. E-N-G-L-A-N-D. As if he hoped her answer would change. Iris confirmed with a nod.

“Berkeley has them headed to France with two kidnapped princes.” Those who had understood–Cataldi and Darvish–winced. Nobody wanted to send someone into France. “You know how slippery Allison is. It could be a misdirect–find out and tail them.”

Cataldi, Darvish, the steno, and the typist stared at her. She raised her eyebrows, and the room burst into activity. She could feel the prickle of raised voices as Cataldi and Darvish pointed at different names on the map.

Iris left them to it. As she passed the switchboard operators’ break room, she paused. The smell of tobacco drew her in. The room had mostly cleared out, but there were two women chatting over coffee and cigarettes. They both jerked to attention as Iris entered the room. Iris waved hello with a smile, but if anything, the women were put even less at ease. Iris got down a mug from the cabinet. It was pink. She poured herself a cup of coffee.

Iris looked at the two women again. She thought about asking them for a cigarette, but decided not to. Instead, she took small sips of burnt coffee and stared past them at the cabinets on the opposite wall.

Iris considered very briefly asking the two women if they’d like their palms read, then snorted into her mug. They’d plotz. Even better, nobody would believe them. Spycraft was the same, really, as fortune telling–the same skills, applied differently–except for the scale. And the stakes.

22.7 || 23.1

[hamlets-spoopy-dad]

I absolutely created this gradblr blog and let it rot. Now I'm gonna pull it out of its watery grave and try to use it for productivity. Here's my to-do list -- at the end of the day I'll edit it with what I've gotten done~*~*~*~*~

Read another 35 pages from my book review book (The Trading Game by Gary Stevenson)

Finish editing my submissions for my literary journal internship

Opera practice

Practice Irish

Read "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight" and study it to prep for comprehensive exam Begun, not completed

Boo yah~*~*~*~~**~

*PHOTOS FROM PINTEREST*

[sanddef]

Interlude | May as Rebirth

1100 words

It was almost May in Camelot, the weather was warming and the ebbs of wind were just beginning to cease. Flowers were blooming by the creek, water lilies, and daffodillies, and Mordred sucked a drop of blood from his finger. He placed the roses he picked onto a nearby grave, and kept walking. It was bizarre, mourning those he knew would hate that attention. Mordred could almost see Gaheris’ grimace, Gareth’s wet eyes, Agravaine’s empty stare.

‘They said your name a million times at the wake.’ Mordred told him, ‘Isn’t that what you always wanted? To be celebrated? You should have seen how the king held you. You’d think you were his very own son.’

Of course, Agravain didn’t respond. He didn’t snark, didn’t even humor him. He never will again.

‘Well fuck you too.’

It was almost May in Camelot, and the staff usually would be making preparations in a few weeks. Between May Day and birthdays to celebrate (though never Mordred’s, admitting the date of his birth only ever got him sympathetic looks and hard-to-answer questions) it seemed May was one big celebration. Of course, to any common knight, any of these supposed holidays were just pretense. Who gave a shit about Gawain’s birthday other than people trying to curry favor? By the end, knights could hardly tell you the day of the week if they were even sober enough to speak. The staff would be exhausted.

Mordred stopped walking, shook his head, and continued. He quickly steered his thoughts away from Gareth. Gareth, who always got him something for his birthday, despite Mordred’s wishes. He was utterly gone by May 31st last year, somewhere between the busyness and the merriment he had forgotten, or just forgone, moderation. Mordred had simply put him to bed, leaving quickly and letting his gentlest brother forget that he had borne witness to his momentary degeneration.

‘I knew no one could be perfect.’ He told no one at all. ‘You’ve always told me that.’

It was always about Gawain, but still.

Almost May in Camelot and where were all the people? The hall seemed empty, only a few straggling knights and servants. Lucan didn’t meet his eyes when Mordred waved him over, his face neutral and steady, he poured him a cup of wine. Mordred considered dropping the chalice, let him not react then, as wine spilled across the floor and over them both, let him wash out some red stains of his own. At least he still had his brother with him.

Gawain would be coming back soon.

‘God dammit.’

Mordred took another long drink.

He didn't remember Lot's death, being much too young at the time, but his brothers spoke about him like he hung the moon and stars.

“Don't be like that, Mordred.” Gaheris had told him one night, his gaze tracing the scar on Mordred's forehead, “He went to war for you.”

Mordred was harsh, he knew he was harsh, and he didn’t need everyone telling him all the time. In his opinion, he couldn’t be the worst of his brothers, how could he? Yes, their deeds far surpassed his own, but so did many of the ones they swept under the rug, overlooked, or wore as a public confessional if they were clever enough. Besides, Gaheris had funny ideas about a parent's love. Mordred had to discount his opinion long ago. Mother's death was regrettable, but Mordred followed everyone's example and moved forward swiftly. Why waste time thinking about something so unpleasant?

“Why waste time indeed,” Mordred muttered, leaning back on his throne.

“Ah, my lord?” Sir Brunor was looking uncharacteristically nervous, “Mordred?”

“I didn't hear you enter.”

I didn't invite you in.

“I just want to offer my condolences.” Brunor sat beside him, again uninvited, “I know it's hard. Losing Sir Galahad and then your brothers and the king.”

Mordred grunted, gesturing for Lucan to refill his cup. Why even bring up Galahad? It felt like eons since he had last seen that poor doomed youth. He had died, apparently wondrously and prettily. Holy. They used much nicer words for it than ‘easily.’ Mordred had imagined it dozens of times, his final breath of earthly oxygen as his hands grasped for what he had chosen above all else. All that effort in blocking Galahad out of his mind, and Brunor had to remind him.

“My father is dead. My brother too.” Brunor took Mordred's hand in his, “I know how it feels.”

“These things happen.”

“Doesn't mean we can't avenge them.” There was that cold fire in his eyes that got Mordred's attention when Brunor had first arrived at Camelot, “You know that. It was murder.”

“Yes. Yes, if I learn anything you'll be the first to know.” Mordred tilted his head upwards, examining the higher stonework of the walls, stone put in place only decades ago yet never touched by human hands. He was starting to feel dizzy when he moved too fast. “For now I need your service, Brunor. We’re at war.”

And where would Mordred be without his supporters? If there was one thing he was glad to have learned at this farce of a court, it was how to perform.

“Yes of course.” Brunor straightened, “There’s a fleet coming from the south. Just say the word.”

“From France?”

“We think so.”

“You know so. We can’t afford to allow enemies any closer.” He especially can’t afford for it to be Arthur. Mordred was confident that even if he did return, there were enough people on the court on his side to end the battle early. He hadn’t done the exact math yet, but even a handful of kings had plenty of men at their disposal. Even so, it would be simpler if Arthur just didn’t come back.

“Shall I prepare an offensive?”

“A man after my own heart.” Mordred smiled, crooked two fingers, and beckoned him forward, “Come here, Brunor.”

He didn’t miss Brunor’s sigh of relief as he kneeled before the throne and accepted Mordred’s kiss gratefully. He really was such a good marshal, fearing him just enough. He was a good friend too, when Mordred still considered himself worthy of such privileges. At least the loyalty remained.

Keep him close in hand and he’ll never learn what happened to Dinadan.

‘I should really get married.’

Mordred knew just the person, but for now, Brunor was set to sail for battle tomorrow and Mordred might as well give him a few more hours of his time.

Hopefully, Gawain and Arthur were already dead. If they weren’t, Mordred prayed they’d die easily.