#I know what you did Medraut

[the-winters-prince]

Medraut, why are Lleu's taste buds already so fucked he cannot taste aconite and spurge in water. 🙂🙂

[rotworld]

22: Echo

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

stranded abroad while a magic-reactive plague ravages your homeland, you've been separated from your fiance for over a year. you fear the worst when you return home to an empty house, but strange sounds and a familiar voice in the night tell you that you are not alone.

->original work. explicit; contains mild/implied gore, mentioned self-harm, fantasy plague, feral behavior.

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There is something in the woods that knocks at night. 

It won’t do it unless you’re alone. Everything is tranquil and quiet when Nesta stays late in the evening, sharing tea and watching you a little too intently. You wait, curled up against the armrest of a sofa that didn’t used to feel so big and lonely, but it never comes. A gentle breeze nudges through the wind chimes and makes tree branches tap and clatter. “Like that?” Nesta asks. 

“No. It’s knocking. It’s much more deliberate.” You rap your fist against the coffee table. One-two-three, holding on the third strike. One-two-three. “Like that, several times. And sometimes there’s a voice.” 

“How many times have you heard this?” 

“Four times now,” you say. Every night since you’ve been back.

Nesta nods slowly, looking out one of your living room windows at the stiff silhouettes of trees. Sitting in the sill is a clay pot with a handful of leafy stems emerging from the dirt. The spherical shape and bright colors peeking out from the top of unopened flower buds clenched in green sepal sheaths is distinctive and immediately recognizable. It’s a handfasting blossom, a component of traditional Ithyrian courtship. They’re hardy plants that can survive just about anything but they’ll only grow flowers when nourished with magic. Grown indoors without the ambient energies of wild soil, they require much more attention and sustenance. One mage can encourage it to bud, but it takes at least two to make it bloom. They’re often planted after an accepted proposal as a test of dedication, the first unfurling flower determining when talks of a wedding ceremony can begin.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admits. “I don’t want to tell you it isn’t possible, but I’m worried about you.” 

She’s trying, you know she is. Nesta is an old friend and a good one. She doesn’t mince words or try to smother you. She was here for all of it, a veteran of the Healer’s Guild who did all she could while Ithyr fell apart. She knows exactly how much it hurts to feel so powerless. There’s still a tremor in her fingers and a stiffness to her gait. Her eyes were hazel when you left Ithyr. Now they’re black and silver, her pupils bulging and uneven like frozen raindrops. 

“You told me he was gone,” you say. “Not dead. Missing.” 

“Yes,” she says quietly. You can tell it still disturbs her. The healing houses have been in chaos for much of the last year with the Guild’s usual meticulous record-keeping reduced to hasty scribbles on rumpled, blood-spattered parchment. You’ve heard of several cases of patients vanishing, lost in administrative purgatory until their corpse could be located or gone altogether from the healing house. Already cremated? Slipped away to die somewhere more peaceful? Surreptitiously smuggled by loved ones into a dollmaker’s workshop? The Healer’s Guild is half the size it used to be. Answers will take time.

“It sounds just like him,” you tell her. It’s not quite the truth. It does sound like him, but hoarse, ragged and coarse like gravel. Like he’s sick. Like he’s been screaming. 

Nesta finishes the dark, gritty dregs of her tea and sets the mug down on the coffee table. Her hands, unoccupied, go instinctively to the mask sitting in her lap. It’s white and bird-like, a slender beak protruding beneath the dark porthole lenses. She strokes the golden tip at the end of the beak absently, a magical filter that only failed her once. “Have you spoken to Medraut lately?” she asks carefully.

“I’m not having delusions,” you say.

“I didn’t say that you were. But you only just got back. You’re still settling in, and he’s been telling people all sorts of things when there’s still so much we don’t know about arcanapox—”

“Our handfasting blossom is still alive.” You gaze at the curling leaves and wavy, rising stems. You used to sit here with him on the couch, cuddled up together with books or food or just each other’s company at the end of a long day, watching the symbol of your love grow stronger. “It shouldn’t be,” you say. “I’ve been gone for so long, and he’s…I should’ve found a desiccated husk when I came back. Someone’s been taking care of it. I’ve asked around and no one else has been here.”

Nesta studies the pot on the sill with a pensive expression. “It really does look the same as before,” she marvels, a twinge of sadness entering her voice. “That’s remarkable, but…”

You nod. You know what she’s thinking because you’ve thought the same thing all week: If it’s really him, why is he hiding? Why won’t he come inside?

The moon rises, unveiled by slow-moving clouds. Nesta excuses herself. She retrieves her black hooded cloak and slides her mask into place, fully dressed in the formal attire of the Guild. Your heart lurches seeing her in your doorway. If she were just slightly taller, her shoulders a bit more narrow…

The light of her lantern becomes a faint golden glow no larger than a firefly, eventually swallowed up by the shadows of the forest. You close the door and retrieve the empty mugs from the table. 

And then you hear the knocking.

One-two-three. A pause. One-two-three.

You drift back into the living room. It’s here again, standing at the window. It’s too dark outside to make out anything but a silhouette looming on the other side of the glass. A moment of silence passes and then you see the shape outside shift. The knocking comes again, one-two-three. 

“Caderyn?” you say. For a moment, there’s only silence. Hope wars with despair in your heart. It’s him. It must be him. But how can it be? The figure at your window is much too large. 

“Yes,” comes the reply, weak and muffled. You walk over to the window and see him flinch, shrinking back as if fearful. 

“Please don’t go,” you beg him.

“I won’t,” he murmurs. “I’m here, dearest. I’ve missed you so much. But I can’t come too close.” He won’t tell you why. You wonder if he still fears he’s contagious somehow, or if the sickness left him with scars he’s ashamed of.

“I’ve missed you, too,” you say hoarsely. “Talk to me. Are you okay?” 

“Yes. You’re here, so all is well.”

“Have you been there all night?” 

A pause. “Yes,” he admits. “I heard you speaking with Nesta. I wish you hadn’t told her. Now she’ll worry even more.” 

“She thinks you’re dead.” 

And then a much longer pause, so long you would fear he’d fled if not for the stillness outside. “I am not as I was,” he says.

“But you’re here.” You press your hand against the glass. “We started a handfasting blossom together. I would never abandon you, no matter what.” 

Hesitantly, the figure in the dark draws closer. The gentle glow of the lamps and candles illuminating your living room show you flickering glimpses of long, red hair, unkempt and tangled with dry leaves and branches. A hand presses against the other side of the glass, mirroring yours. It’s enormous, the skin gnarled like the scaled talons of a bird, the fingers long, bony and tipped with claws. The eyes peering down at you bear the mark of arcanapox, silver and black with runny pupils. 

But it’s him. You would recognize him anywhere. Your face heats and your eyes fill with tears. 

“Is it still alive?” he asks softly. You see a flash of dagger-like teeth behind his lips. “I’ve come everyday to feed it, but I don’t know if it’s working through the window. My magic isn’t what it used to be.” 

“Come and see,” you plead. “It’s still alive. And with both of us here, it’ll bloom.” 

Caderyn’s claws clatter against the glass and he flinches, pulling his hand back. “Do you still want that?” he asks quietly. 

“Of course I do.”

Caderyn hunches slightly, trying to be closer to eye level. He studies your expression, searching for any fear, any disgust, any sign of rejection. “I’m afraid,” he admits in a whisper. 

“This is home. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.” You step back from the window reluctantly. You don’t want to look away because he might be gone when you look again. You’ve gotten this far before, urged him to come inside only to open the door and see nothing but the empty night. “I’m going to unlock the door,” you say. “And you can come in whenever you want. Right now. Or tomorrow. Or some other time. It’s up to you.” 

He makes a sound you never want to hear again—wounded and animal, a weak, mournful keening like a sick dog. Something thrashes against the trees behind him, rustling the leaves. “I’m not the same. It’s not just how I look. Everything is so much more, so overwhelming. I can smell you through the window, it’s—” He cuts himself off with a loud growl that admittedly makes your pulse quicken. 

“Caderyn, look at me.”

He does, his chest heaving with quick, frightened breaths. He’s not wearing a shirt or a cloak or anything, you realize. 

“I love you,” you say. “And I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.” 

He raises one trembling hand to the glass and sets it beside your face, as though imagining the feeling of your cheek against his palm. When you step away, walking towards the front door, you see him follow. He flits through one window and then the next, a spindly shape moving with familiar grace. You flip the lock and step back, waiting and hoping. 

Light, nervous footsteps pace back and forth. You hear him come closer, then start to leave. You hear him change his mind over and over again. He scares himself when his claws clatter against the door and your heart sinks at the silence that follows. Then, very softly, you hear creaking. The groan of old wood pushing against the frame. Caderyn pushes the door open in stages but he stumbles through in a rush as though he may not have another chance. He has to duck to fit inside, his head bent much farther than seems necessary until you see him clearly for the first time.

He has horns. Not curled like a ram’s but straight, jagged protrusions like spikes growing out of his skull. Some are long and some are short, just barely peeking out of his hair. Some are smooth and some are bumpy and segmented. Several of them, you notice, are broken. The sharp ends have been snapped off unevenly, leaving crooked nubs behind. He hunches to keep the unbroken ones from scraping the ceiling. 

Your heart aches to see him so afraid. He keeps his claws low, one hand covering the other. He’s naked from head to toe, mud and wet grass caked to his thin, trembling frame. The scales aren’t just on his hands but all of his limbs, tapering off at his elbows and just below his knees. A long, hairless tail whips back and forth behind him.

When you open your arms, he makes that sad sound again and lunges for you, knocking you both to the floor. You don’t know how long you lay there with him in your arms, sobbing into each other. Eventually, the sobs fade to sniffles. For a long time, you just look at each other. You savor the feeling of one another’s skin without a window in the way. There’s so much you want to ask him, so much you want to do for him—when was the last time he had a proper meal, or clothes? But you don’t want to let go of him yet. Part of you worries this is a dream. The way he looks at you, the quiet awe in his eyes when he caresses your cheek, makes you think he feels the same. 

“Let me wash your hair?” you ask him. 

He walks slowly through the house you once shared, studying every room as if seeing it for the first time. His gait is loud, sharpened by the large talons on his feet. He ducks into the bathroom behind you and he sticks close while you gather towels and shampoo, unwilling to be too far away. You’re startled when he plasters himself against your back, arms wrapped around you, his whole body vibrating with a low, constant thrum. Purring, you realize. He nuzzles against the top of your head. 

You conjure rain, testing a slow trickle against your palm and warming it to a more pleasant temperature. Caderyn’s grip is loose enough to let you turn around and face him but he won’t let go any more than that. So you stay, flicking your wrist to start a small downpour. When you tug on his shoulder, he immediately drops to his knees so you can reach the top of his head. You pluck the twigs and leaves from his hair and rub the dirt from his face. The water swirling down the drain is a stormy color streaked with red. Your stomach lurches.

You hadn’t noticed in the orange lights of the living room. Hadn’t looked closely, too relieved to have him back. But Caderyn is covered in blood. It’s dried in splotches across his body. It stains his claws, his fingers and his lips. There are large, gummy scabs along his scalp, tender spots that make him hiss when you brush against them. “What happened to you?” you ask, stroking a broken horn with your thumb. 

Caderyn shuts his eyes, enjoying the warm water and your gentle touch. “I can’t tell you everything,” he whispers. “Not yet. I’m not ready. I’ve done things I shouldn’t. I’ve lashed out in fear and anger. I’ve…hurt people. I tried to tear my horns out, but sometimes all I could do was break off the ends.” When you freeze in shock, he nuzzles against your hand. “It hurt. I probably shouldn’t have done it. But I kept thinking that it would help. I would look more like you remembered me.” 

“Caderyn,” you say softly. “I didn’t expect to come back here and find everything exactly the same.” 

“We’re mages. We don’t change. If we do, it’s because we choose to. We can control it,” he insists, his voice becoming strained. 

You wrap your arms around him, pulling his face into the crook of your neck. Caderyn shudders with a soft whimper. This is what upset him most. Not just his eyes or his horns or anything else, but all of it; the idea of it. Mages are not accustomed to loss or grief. Time is a companion rather than an adversary. Death is a distant tragedy, a sad thing that happens to mortals. Change, when it happens at all, is often a whim or fleeting fancy, easily reversible. You can’t imagine Caderyn, your beloved and reserved and meticulous Caderyn, realizing suddenly that his eyes are burning and his limbs are hardening and there are monstrous horns growing out of his head, and not being able to stop it.

“You really haven’t changed as much as you think,” you tell him. 

He laughs bitterly. “Love, you don’t have to lie.” 

“I’m not lying. I knew it was you from the moment I heard your voice. I recognized you as soon as I saw you.” You reach for him, gently slipping your fingers beneath his claw to scrub the blood away. “These are your gentle hands. I can feel how careful you’re being not to scratch me. They’re the same.” His eyes glisten with tears. “And your eyes. The color is different but I still knew them. You look at me the same way you did before. And this is your lovely red hair—”

Caderyn kisses you. It’s a sudden, forceful move that makes you lose your balance but he cradles the back of your head with his hand when you fall. He climbs over you on the wet tile, his hand cupping your cheek, and presses your lips together again, and again, and again. He keeps pulling back. Looking you in the eye. Searching for rejection. You wrap your arms around him and feel the soft tremor of his purr. It’s like you never left; like a year hasn’t passed. Everything is different, yet exactly the same. 

Caderyn knows your body better than anyone. He trails his palm down in a slow caress, lingering everywhere that makes your breath hitch. He’s careful like you knew he would be, slow and cautious as he tugs your clothes off, never leaving a single scratch. You whine when he pulls away, slinking down your body with appeasing kisses down your chest and stomach. He nudges your legs apart and settles between them, palms keeping your thighs open. You shiver feeling his breath come in warm puffs against your sex.

“You don’t have to,” you tell him.

“What do you think I’ve dreamed about for the past year?” he asks. Heat blooms in your belly from the look in his eyes. He leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to your heated flesh. “I dreamed of you. Every night, I dreamed of you. Your smell and your voice and how your body fits against mine. How cute you look in my Guild cloak. How wonderful you taste…” You’re embarrassingly sensitive and reactive, your hips bucking from the gentlest lick. “I missed this,” he whispers between swirls of his tongue and soft suckling. “Missed you so much.” 

Caderyn brings you to climax once with just his mouth. Then he does it again, adding his palm and the pads of his fingers. It feels strange, but not unpleasant. His scales feel smoother than they look, the texture adding small ridges of pleasant friction. Every sound he draws out of you emboldens him, makes him even hungrier for you. You’re begging for mercy when he pushes you to the edge of a third orgasm because he’s still going, his mouth still around you with his eyes closed in bliss like this is all he needs to live. 

You pull at the closest thing you can reach and it’s one of his longer unbroken horns. You realize what you’ve done only when he suddenly goes rigid and you let go immediately, worried that you’ve hurt him. But the sound he makes—a long moan, accompanied by a hard thrash of his tail that splashes water across the floor—wipes away your concerns. 

“Caderyn, please,” you say breathlessly. You spread your legs wider in invitation. His nostrils flare. 

It’s not the sweet, slow lovemaking you sometimes dared to envision, nor is mindless, animalistic violence, but something in between. Your legs are around Caderyn’s waist as he presses into you. He wasn’t this big before, and he didn’t have so many strange, varied textures on his cock. His palms press into the tile floor on either side of your head and his hips pump in small, quick thrusts that soon turn hard and relentless. There’s barely any build up before he’s pounding into you, the sounds of skin slapping skin loud and echoing in the bathroom.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Marry me. Please marry me. Give me eternity beside you.” 

If you could think—if you could do anything but gasp open-mouthed and meet Caderyn’s wild thrusts—you would know you’ve already had this conversation. You’ve said these things before. You’ve had that heart-fluttering moment of joy as you chose a pot and a handful of seeds and the perfect sunny spot on the windowsill. You would also think that it doesn’t matter. Love is ongoing. Sometimes it feels good to hear the words again. Sometimes, when it all goes wrong, you need them. 

You say yes, over and over. You cry his name. Caderyn starts to shake and then he’s hunched over you, his hips snapping faster and harder. You hear a shrill crunching sound as his claws rake through the bathroom tile, leaving long gouges beside your head. He looms above you, his hair a long, heavy curtain like red velvet. It could be the water that slides down his cheeks and chin, now a spotty, uneven trickle as you lose focus, but it could also be tears. You feel his rhythm falter and then his hips slam into yours, the last thrusts deep and grinding. 

He cums with a long moan. The tiles under his claws shatter as he jerks and shudders, hilted inside you. “Love you,” he babbles, a chant under his breath. “I love you. I love you so much.” His hips strain and grind into you as he fills you, cock pulsing with every thick spurt of cum. The spell breaks while you lay there, trying to catch your breath. When the sound of soft pattering water stops, your shared panting and soft sighs fill the space. 

“Caderyn,” you say. He hasn’t pulled out yet, or even moved. He’s still leaning over you, his hands buried in the mess he made of the floor. “I have to get up and finish your hair.” He smiles softly. You gasp when he rolls his hips. He didn’t go soft when he came, you realize. He’s still hard and twitching inside you. “Caderyn—” 

“Can it wait a little longer?” He thrusts into you again. It feels different now. Slower, gentler, much less frantic. 

He knows it’s real now, you think. He knows he’s home. “Yeah,” you say. “It can.” You reach for him and he lowers himself into your arms without hesitation, pressed against you chest to chest. You’re not thinking about his claws or horns or tail, or how much bigger he is now, or how his eyes are the eyes of every mage who has survived a brush with death. You’re thinking about how warm he is, how familiar he smells, and how beautiful your handfasting blossom will be. How in the end, some things don’t change much at all.

After a year of tossing and turning, pacing, and weeping, you will finally sleep soundly again.

[litcest]

No Humans Hands to Touch, by Elizabeth Wein

Recently, I posted about The Winter Prince a novel by author Elizabeth Wein that serves as the first instalment of The Lion Hunters series. While The Winter Prince focuses on Lleu and Medraut, the rest of the series cast them aside in order to focus on Telemakos and Goewin. However, Wein also made two short stories, one about Medraut before the plot of TWP and one about Lleu which covers what he was doing during the later events of the series.

Medraut's story is found in the Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers: Magical Tales of Love and Seduction collection and, told from Morgause's perspective, narrates the relationship between mother and son. As mentioned in TWP, Medraut had gone to live with his father Artos in Camlan as a little child, and there he remained for a long time, before being send to Aksum as an ambassador. From there, he returns to his mother.

Trigger warning: this post included descriptions of rape and sexual abuse. No Human Hands to Touch is a very heavy story.

No Humans Hands to Touch begins with Medraut's arrival at Morgause's castle in Orcades, and she invites him to become her apprentice, as she is a talented physician. Medraut suspects that there's more behind the invitation, saying:

"But I feel as though I am being tempted not for my good will, but to your own purpose, Odysseus ensnared by Circe."

Which is a curious comparison, considering that Odysseys and Circe were lovers.

Despite his weariness, Medraut accepts the invitation to stay with her, her husband and children.

That very first night Medraut spends in the castle, Morgause touches herself thinking of how his hands would feel on her thighs. And Morgause is not the only one to admire his beauty, the other maidens at the court also try to catch his attention.

Due to Medraut's constant envious remarks of Lleu beauty in TWP, I had pictured Medraut as brutish and unnatractive, but No Humans Hands paints his as quite the looker. Anyway, Medraut has no interest in any of the girls, as he had a consort in Aksum and intends to be faithful to her.

After three months, Medraut decides to go on a hunting trip, much to Morgause's displeasure and they argue. That night she goes to his room to apologise for her reaction, but Medraut mistakes her for a maiden called Teleri.

"That Medraut should mistake me for one of my handmaidens amused me. I grasped his hand and held the palm to my face, that he should know me. But he did not. He let me hold his hand there against my throat and chin, cupping my jaw."

He tells her to go away, but doesn't removes his hand from hers. Not even when she lowers it to cup her breasts. Morgause is amused that Medraut doesn't recognizes her and guides his hands to her private areas. This is finally too much for Medraut, who tells her to get of his bed.

"You are lovely, you are arousing, you are all you wish to be. But Teleri, I’m tired, I’m short of temper, and you are not the lover I would choose"

But Morgause isn't satisfied and refuses to go away. Without saying a word, she kisses his ribcage and reaches between his legs. At this, Medraut shoves her away from him and onto the floor. She scratches him in retaliation and he grabs her violently, pulling her to the bed and pinning her down.

"Do you want me so much? Do you really think you want me so much? Do you think I love kindly?"

He chokes her as he plunges into her and it's only when she screams that he realises she's not Teleri.

"Suddenly, as suddenly as the livid anger had taken him, he stopped his cold, punishing ploughing of me and let go of my throat."

It's a violent encounter. But Morgause acting like a victim pisses me off in here. Her narration says "I had come to give my son permission to leave me and ended in being raped by him". Bitch, you are the one who made him touch you despite he verbally telling you that he didn't want to. You hid your identity from him and groped him! And now you play victim?

I am not the only one pissed off. Medraut asks her who she is and when she speaks, she calls him a beast, at which he defends himself. Now knowing who the woman was, Medraut sadly says that this is just what had happened with his father. And Morgause has the guts to reply with: "I invited him. You forced me. [...] But your father would never use any woman so ruthlessly as you have used me." Gurl, what?

I am not saying that Medraut did nothing wrong, as he did penetrate her without her consent. But like, it was only after she groped him! He said no and she ignored until physically had to shove her away from him, and then she tears his back.

Medraut recognizes his wrongdoing, saying that he is indeed just like Morgause. He wants to send her away, but she tells him that he "owns" it to her to finish what he started.

"'Is it true that you cannot love kindly? Show me. You owe it me.' 'I will not finish! I was wrong, I acted evilly—' 'Must I command you?' I said in a voice that he surely knew not to challenge. He gave a wordless cry of disbelief and said in bafflement, 'You cannot want this!'"

Well, she did want that. And seeing no other choice, Medraut complies.

"I was thinking only of how I should triumph over my brother by this act, but I had not realized how sweet it would be to have Medraut as a lover."

For the next two years, Medraut continues to meet her in the night. The affair was known to most people in court, who all thought Morgause to merely be Medraut's aunt and foster mother.

Morgause is abusive, hurting Medraut physically just because she can, and poisoning him to force him to learn antidotes. When he refuses to have sex with her, she threatens him. It comes a point that Medraut begins to use poppy to make himself sleep to avoid having to be with her. But, at the same time, he himself admits he lusts for her. I personally think he was trauma bonded and never really loved her; nor did she love him, she just loved the power she had over him.

The story ends with Medraut finally gathering the strength to leave Morgause, but only after she had destroyed his hands and crushed his spirit. Morgause laments his departure, in the same manner a spoiled child would lament losing a toy they destroyed.

[tooboredforthis]

I hope you don't mind if I ask about the process behind creating your fascinating characters, Medraut and Lleu. Additionally, I was curious to know if "The Winter Prince" was originally intended to be a single volume. The reason I ask is that the epilogue seemed a bit hurried, and I was wondering if initially there might have been more to Medraut and Lleu’s story during the time of “the winter prince”. Thank you for your time and consideration.

such an arc. I was 14 years old and OBSESSED with King Arthur, and ALSO with the "Fourth Branch" of The Mabinogion, and then I saw Disney's Sleeping Beauty and became ridiculously obsessed with the image of Prince Philip captured by Maleficent's goblins, and the doodles began... and somehow it all morphed into this rivalry between Mordred and King Arthur's legitimate son, named for the hero of the 4th Branch, and whom I'd made up. During high school this developed into the original (quite different) version of what became The Winter Prince. Both characters refined as I matured, and while originally Mordred was fairly stereotypically evil, his character became more sympathetic after I read Rosemary Sutcliff's Sword at Sunset and renamed him Medraut. The present version wasn't written until ten years after the initial inspiration for the story. I am not sure what you mean by the epilogue - The Winter Prince hasn't got an epilogue - or about it being intended as a single volume, which it is. But I see what you mean about the novel ending abruptly. I mean, I did live and breathe these characters for ten years or so, so there is "more" to their story than I finally included in the book. Also, I toyed with a bunch of dead plotlines before I settled on this one! Or by "single volume" do you mean the whole of The Lion Hunters cycle? The Lion Hunter and The Empty Kingdom were indeed written as a single volume, which my publisher asked me to break up. All the other books in the cycle were written separately, though they are intentionally connected; by the time I got to the end of The Empty Kingdom I was very carefully setting up the action for The Sword Dance, which is the unpublished final book in the cycle. SIGHHHH I am sorry that it remains unpublished. It ties everything together and I think it is the most literary and emotionally complex book I've ever written. Thanks for reading and for getting in touch!

[jeweled-blue-eyes]

Wondering what Lleu would've thought had he known Medraut's inner dialogue of "loving all the wrong things"

Would he assume Medraut thinks he's a "wrong thing?" Or would he think his beloved big brother loving him was a wrong thing? Would he break down? Cry and scream? Would he be frustrated? Sorrowful? Just tired? Exhausted and angry that Medraut dragged him to this mess?

Would he ask him, "what will take for you to love me?" Like LP Athy? You ever think Medruat asked Artos that as well? Did Medraut's son ever ask him that exact thing too? Their family is destined to experience the horrors again and again.

What would've happened if Lleu was there for his nephew too? Would he be able to break the cycle? The youngest sibling is the family's salvation it seems...

(Anyways thank you for coming to my Ted talk and mental break down, I can't believe these brothers have affected me so damn much. God damn I am hungry it is past my bed time and I have school tommorow)

Everything you said in exactly that order. I don't think he would ask Medraut "What will it take for you to love me?", because deep down he knows his brother loves him. It's just that this kind of love is tangled with envy, hatred, obsession and lust. He struggles to remove Medraut's hatred for him from his love and desire for him, because he doesn't exactly know what caused these feelings and when it started to go wrong. The only answer to that question is to die and hope they will be both reborn as Artos' legitimate sons in their next life. Lleu doesn't doubt Medraut's love for him, he fears that the love that exists won't be enough and that Medraut is going to make a big mistake. What Lleu fears is that Medraut loves Morgause more than him. That Medraut's envy, ambition and loyality towards his mother will win over his love for his little brother.

I feel like Lleu asked "Have you ever loved anything?" to gauge Medraut's reaction but also to remind him that there is still someone out there who loves him and who he wouldn't want to disappoint with his actions. If you consider the sa theory, which I do, then this was Lleu wondering if Medraut was even capable to love anything in a pure way. He knows Medraut had sex with his mother and has threatened to rape him, so he wonders if his brother could love in a way that was not incestuous and self-destructive. Has Medraut ever loved Lleu normally? Is there still a chance he can be saved or were they doomed from the start?

I think Medraut was very close to breaking that night when he revealed the poisoning!

"Does that mean, my father, that I can expect no protection or aid of you, that I must give and give of my loyalty and strength and never receive anything in return?"

That scene reminded me a bit of lp Athy begging Claude for his love. I half-expected Medraut to fall on his knees and feel a sting of tears in his eyes that he won't allow himself to shed.

I haven't gotten that far into the sequels but the wiki states that Telemakos wishes his parents would love Athena more, which makes me guess that Telemakos is Medraut's favourite child, possibly because of his resemblance to his brother. I read somewhere that Telemakos eventually gets called "the bright one". Medraut blames Athena for causing something that hurt Telemakos. I'm surprised that Medraut would play favourites with his children when he himself had been in the position of the unwanted child once.

[thecrenellations]

okay, trying to go for at least one answer that’s funny because it’s extremely expected and one that’s funny because it’s unexpected???

2 3 6 12 21 25

these are the questions.

I think you succeeded, my anonymous inquisitor! (I laughed/smiled when I read the questions.)

2. Did you reread anything? What? YES, I DID! I was going to provide some numbers for this and got a little lost in the details, but half of the individual books I read this year were ones I've read before, I read some of those books (Lion Hunters) multiple times, and then I went and reread a bunch of the ones that were new to me, especially the Lymond Chronicles! The Game of Kings wins, I think. No, I know. I love rereading, and my favorite stories are the kind that make me love it more!

3. What were your top five books of the year? In alphabetical order, with an only-one-book-per-series restriction and my apologies to a few books I liked nearly as much or the same amount as these ones: The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett, He Who Drowned the World by Shelley Parker-Chan, The Legend of Auntie Po by Shing Yin Khor, A Power Unbound by Freya Marske, and Stateless by Elizabeth Wein.

6. Was there anything you meant to read but never got to? I should have thought to split up my answers, but yes! I remembered a few of the nonfiction ones: The Power of Babel by John McWhorter, Ducks by Kate Beaton, Caring For Your Books by Michael Dirda, Karachi Vice by Samira Shackle, and a biography of John Gielgud

12. Any books that disappointed you? Certain aspects of the Lymond Chronicles, the new-reading highlight of my year, disappointed me in ways that I have also found deeply interesting to talk and think about, and I felt that Wild Maps for Curious Minds: 100 New Ways to See the Natural World did not quite deserve its title. Get wilder and more curious!

21. Did you participate in or watch any booklr, booktube, or book twitter drama? These questions are from 2019, so I suppose they predate booktok becoming a major thing! But I certainly watched Claire run around Schuler books and, dramatically, cause The Thief and Code Name Verity to sell out!

At @red-sea-itinerary, the capital of booklr, our polls have been very dramatic, and an author has weighed in. We should all remember Abreha's palace's water clock. Nearly everyone prefers coffee with Turunesh over kingship and no one thinks Medraut should have the latter. Birds. And Telemakos is taller than Lleu!!!

25. What reading goals do you have for next year? To get around to a few of those books in 6, to read more nonfiction (I think trying more via audiobook would help), to read more diversely in terms of authors (including time periods), and to read another series that's new to me! Maybe to help poke a certain loose book club into meeting again? To have fun and escape and think and learn. Reading was enough of a challenge during and after college that I still feel delighted and grateful that I've been reading regularly and finding new books I love. :)

[orphiclovers]

If you're curious about Goewin and Lleu's namesakes they're from a welsh story called "The mabinogi".

The "lleu llaw gyffes" wiki tells you what you'd need to know.

By the way there's mpreg, just a warning in case you want to check it out, no Lleu llaw isn't the one getting pregnant

you got my hopes up for nothing with the potential of lleu mpreg jk jk

okay I did read the wikipedia page. I don't remember if they pointed this out in the book but it is interesting how lleu's name means 'the fair-haired one with the skillful hand' when that description much closer resembles medraut.

also dick move of Artos to name one of his children after the heroic figure of the story (lleu) and the other after a character who's only action in the myth is touching some old guys feet for years and then getting raped (goewin). he clearly had a favourite kid smh

[kinnoth]

Noble children are fostered from the ages of seven to maturity at 16 or so. In no human hands to touch Morgause says "The seven-year-old I had fought with and beaten and solaced regarded me through the poised and guarded gaze of the young man." I would assume that Artos send Medraut away to be fostered shortly after the birth of his own legitimate children. The story starts with the sentence "WHEN MEDRAUT STEPPED OFF the merchants’ ship I had not seen him since Artos, his father the high king, had taken him from me at ten" Did he spend only three years with her? It would certainly explain his defiance and kindness. Had he been his whole childhood with her he would have been to brainwashed and felt not the level of loyality to his father he does right now.

Ok. Guys. Storytime.

I gotta tell you. I originally read "the winter prince" in the year 2000. My first copy of "the winter prince" was a library copy, and then, because I read it so many times, I asked my mom to buy me a copy, which she did. And that's the copy I've had ever since.

Then, in the year 2020, during the pandemic, I was like, to my wife, hey, since we're bored, do you want to read this really short book with me, I remember being really into it as a child. And so we read it together, and I was like "lol I guess this book was more fundamental to my development than I thought it was", and so I started pulling it apart, like ya do.

And it was only then that I discovered that Liz had written more entries into this universe. I found the first couple of pages of the first "lion hunter" book online, didn't like it, and so just completely wrote it and everything else re: "books liz wrote after the original book" out of my mind

This is all to say, I had to look up "no human hands to touch". I didn't know it existed until literally right now. I am not interested in reading it. I am not interested in any part of this story other than the original book that I unwisely imprinted upon as a child. Ironically, I don't think Liz herself is interested in the original entry of this series, seeing as she appears to play it very loosey-goosey with the original chronology and themes in the subsequent books.

Now, regarding your interpretation of this timeline:

I don't think it makes sense for artos to have raised medraut between the ages of birth and 7. Morgause would have birthed him, so she would be the obvious one to keep him, especially if artos was as ashamed of his bastard-by-incest as he appears to be. Morgause's seduction of artos and then her subsequent reveal that she is his sister is probably what got her put into permanent exile in the first place.

I also don't think there is evidence to support medraut being sent away for fostering after artos took him in at age 10. We know lleu and goewin grew up with him in the household. We know that lleu wrote to him for 5-6 years while medraut was sent around europe and Africa, and he wouldn't have done that if his brother were a stranger to him.

I do think you are underestimating the amount of damage that can be psychologically inflicted upon a child within the first 10 years of life. Medraut was viciously tortured, beaten, burned, ostracized from Morgause's entire household. He had no relationship with any of Morgause's other children except to be beaten for infractions they caused. His only positive relationship in that house was with Morgause, his torturer, who was also the only person who would lovingly comfort him after he had sustained her tortures. Like, I don't think I can overstate how fucked up that can make a child.

The next ten years of his life he spends with artos, who is never loving to him, but who is also just, calm, consistent, and fair. Artos has him cared for and educated, and while Medraut is never legitimized, he is allowed to be a part of Artos' household.

It is not difficult to imagine why medraut would feel safety with his father and loyalty toward him, while still at the same time craving his mother's approval. I don't think this is a farfetched psychology to ascribe to a man.

[ofglories]

   he really didn’t know what to make of the question. thus gwalchmei did as he always would, by answering literally. “bors tastes like miswak. mostly of the peppermint that he chews on.” there wasn’t any waxing lyrical poetry here, nor did such a detail suit him. utterly unromantic, had medraut already not given his own reply and won being worst, but gwalchmei ignore that exclamation to curl up closer to his mate and instead surround himself in the scent that made up bors instead.

|| What Do You Think My Muse Tastes Like prompt ; accepting!!

The older Viera felt his ears twitch as Gwalchmei spoke, listening quietly while continuing to focus on his book.

Miswak and peppermint, huh?

Bors smiled slightly, eyes drifting from the page before him to gaze at the younger man. It was a better taste than he would have personally thought could be associated with him, though thankfully Gwalchmei was no Medraut. And Bors was certainly no Bedivere, allowing himself to be endlessly pushed around by someone else. So with a small hum the healer closed his book, leaving just one finger between the pages to mark his place, and leaned over to press a kiss to his partner's head.

Right between his ears.

"I'm glad I don't taste like the oils I put in my hair. I can't imagine that would be a good flavor for you, Gwalchmei." A small chuckle as the healer nuzzled against the younger Viera's fluffy hair. "You taste like smoke and oranges, personally."

[senadimell]

What's your favorite book by Gillian Bradshaw?

Okay, I think I fixed my technical issues! This ask keeps disappearing so fingers crossed that this works

So works I have read include the Down the Long Wind trilogy, London in Chains, A Corruptible Crown, The Beacon at Alexandria, and The Bearkeeper's Daughter. I own the Down the Long Wind trilogy and The Beacon at Alexandria, which does display my inclinations, but it's tough to pick between the two because I like them both differently.

I really enjoy the way the Down the Long Wind trilogy is structured, and I know the author has said that the first book was a product of early idealism that could only have been written by a person as young as she was when she wrote it, and I don't disagree, but I think that just lends a beautiful weight to the latter books.

You start with this idealized world of light and darkness and then you start to see the cracks and then we end the whole series from Gwynhyfar's perspective in a very human, messy, heartbreaking way. I don't know that I could say that In Winter's Shadow is my favorite (it's brilliant, but it's also wrenching and I've been meaning to finish a re-read for two years and just haven't brought myself to do it). Also I adore Gwalchmai. (slightly spoilery but what Bradshaw did with Medraut ripped my heart out because I don't think I've detested a character more, and yet I cried for him)

The Beacon at Alexandria is less...well, dramatic would be factually incorrect, but perhaps less heroic. Not in the sense that the characters are not doing good, but less traditionally heroic in the types of grand praised deeds. It felt very quiet at times, and it crept up on me. I really do marvel at her ability to write stories that are so quietly compelling. They are almost slow at times but I can't leave them alone.

I need to read The Wolf Hunt, and I'm open to suggestions! I somehow ended up reading more books from the beginning of her career (and which tend to be out of print and off of library shelves), but as I'm checking her Wikipedia page, she's written a lot that I haven't gotten to yet.

[the-winters-prince]

Did you read the dead dove fic I sent to you in your messages?

It's my first attempt lol

I read it today! I got super excited when you send it to me and it took me a while to focus on the words that are in front of me. I had to take a break every few passages because I was so giddy lol

It's so sad Lleu loves his brother so much and even as Medraut takes him against his will he feels sorry for him and even understands him. If Lleu had only put these thoughts in word and told Medraut that he loves him and forgives him. Medraut and Lleu draw parallels from themselves to heroes from myths to find comfort during their assault. I wonder if Lleu will bring that story up later and ask Medraut about his thoughts on Blodeuwedd's betrayal. One might wonder if Lleu saw the betrayal coming when he told her how to kill him and knew what his wife would do with that information but accepted his fate because he loved her.

Lleu is so disconnected from the situation and his body, I wouldn't be surprised if it's Medraut who breaks out in tears and Lleu who would try to comfort him afterwards. I can also see Medraut turning a little colder to elicit feelings of hatred that he thinks he undoubtly deserves in Lleu, because he cannot go on as long as Lleu treats him too well. Lleu will probably get sick again from stress & poison, which will make Medraut more gentle towards him (if he's lucky) or horny (if he is unlucky xD).

You should publish that story on AO3. I mean it's your decision not to but I liked it very much and would love for others to be able to read it too. So if you need a little confidence, I can give it to you. I felt many emotions reading your drabble and am curious about a possible continuation. 💕💕💕 Would Medraut turn over Lleu to Morgause? I feel like he cannot give him back to Artos now. He wouldn't be able to look into his father's face again. He doesn't want Artos to know. But taking him back to Morgause is a gamble. Does he think he can protect Lleu against her as long as he made it clear he has staked his claim?

[asmywhimseytakesme]

Hi, I just saw your blog and I have to ask; do you have any recommendations for people who really, really enjoyed the Murderbot Diaries? Im kinda obsessed with it

Hi @extra-plus-ordinary ! I am so flattered to be asked this because I LOVE giving recommendations.

The first thing I’ll say is, there is a very active Murderbot discord server and if you aren’t in it send me a dm and I’ll get you a link! The lovely folks there can probably give you lots more recommendations than me. I’ll admit I haven’t been on there much lately because life be like that sometimes, but you can bet I’ll be active there plenty when the next Murderbot book comes out in a few months! The folks there also found me links to a couple Murderbot short stories that you should absolutely check out if you haven’t yet.

I have to admit, my first thought on getting this ask is... there isn’t anything else quite like Murderbot! Sometimes all you want is more Murderbot and we don’t have any (yet). The first time I finished the series I started over again at the beginning because all I wanted was More Murderbot Please. It took me awhile to be in the mood for anything else. I absolutely recommend indulging that mood because personally, when all I want is Just This Book, I end up disliking anything else I try to read, even when I normally would like it. But! If you are in the mood to try something a bit different with perhaps some overlapping appeal, let me offer a few suggestions:

The Queens Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner

I have to mention this first because it’s fans of THIS series that got me to read Murderbot. Also I’ve been obsessed with these books since I was a teen. Similarities between the series include:

Sarcastic first person narration—this is mostly just in the first book of the series, The Thief. If you, like me, fell in love with Murderbot because of its voice, give this book a try. Gen is a different narrator in many ways, but I find the appeal similar. There are also some similar character dynamics and interactions with a group gradually getting to know a character they previously underestimated, and forming strong friendships over the course of the series.

However, I will note that The Thief is notably different from the rest of the series in tone and pacing, and some people find it boring. That was not my experience, but many recommend starting the series with the second book.

The second book has a character that I feel is similar to Murderbot on many levels, but I don’t want to say much more about it because SPOILERS. Actually I don’t want to say any more about the series at all because it’s really best to just go in and experience it for yourself. Take my word for it—many people love both series, there is lots of crossover appeal.

The Mandalorian tv series

Ok I feel kinda dumb mentioning this because I feel like everyone’s probably heard of this show by now and has already decided whether they’re gonna watch it. I mean, it’s STAR WARS. So I’ll be brief here, but I really feel like Mando and Murderbot have a LOT in common and would get along really well, and people drawn to one of these characters might also like the other. Murderbot wishes he had as good an excuse as Mando for keeping a helmet on at all times. They’re both similarly good at their jobs (which involve fighting), and end up coming to care for characters weaker and less experienced than themselves. They then put themselves on the line to protect their new Found Family, while steadfastly refusing to admit that they have any feelings whatsoever. Also, so far? No romantic pairings. Murderbot would approve. There are more comparisons I could make but I’ll stop....So yeah, if for some reason you haven’t given The Mandalorian a try.... do it.

Digger by Ursula Vernon

Ok, so the cool thing about this recommendation (aside from the fact that it’s a super amazing story, which I’ll talk more about in a bit) is you can read the WHOLE THING. FOR FREE. RIGHT NOW. Don’t have to put it on hold at the library, don’t have to order it and wait for it to come in the mail, don’t have to track it down in a used bookstore. ITS ALL FREE: http://diggercomic.com/blog/2007/02/01/wombat1-gnorf/

That link should take you to the first page of the comic.

The first comparison I’ll make here is the VOICE. Digger has a first person funny/sarcastic voice that reminds me a LOT a of Murderbot. Different, of course, but..., I think Murderbot would really like Digger. She would be a good client. Practical, tries to stay safe and make good decisions, and she would 100% get Murderbot’s sense of humor. She gets thrown into a crazy magical world and takes it all in stride, making plenty of friends she’s ready to defend with her life.

Yeah, Murderbot would like Digger.

I’d go on, but seriously—did you forget I just said THE WHOLE THING IS FREE TO READ ONLINE so just.... go start reading it and get a taste for it yourself.

http://diggercomic.com/blog/2007/02/01/wombat1-gnorf/

The Vorkosigan Saga

This is a big one that will keep you occupied for awhile! I don’t remember how many books are in the series... 20 maybe? I don’t even know. This is the series I re read when I was coming off my Murderbot high a few months back, because in some ways it has a similar vibe.

Anyway, this is another Space Drama that explores some interesting potential economics, politics, and conflicts of a future of planets linked by wormholes. Some of the planets have a more Corporation Rim feel, others are like Preservation, with many others thrown in the mix. The main character, Miles Vorkosigan... he would love Murderbot. He’d recruit it on the spot—a competent person who shows initiative? Wonderful! On the other hand, Murderbot would HATE Miles.... no sense of self preservation, barreling into problems with no clear plan of how to get out... he would drive Murderbot absolutely crazy.

Personally, I started reading the series with The Warriors Apprentice, and that’s where I recommend starting. However technically Shards of Honor, which tells the story of Miles’ parents and how they met, is the first book chronologically.

The Winter Prince by Elizabeth Wein

This is a very short novel (so if the Murderbot novella length worked for you, give this a try). It’s a gripping take on Arthurian Legend told from the point of view of Medraut (Mordred). Medraut reminds me of Murderbot in many ways—he feels unworthy of love because of what he is, wrestling with a violent past and trying to be better, struggling to know what to do when he is loved by people who he doesn’t think should love him. Also, like All Systems Red, his narrative is addressed to a specific person, which affects how the story is read.

So those are just a few books/series I recommend for Murderbot fans! And everyone, really, because these are all excellent because my taste is impeccable ;-).

I hope there is something here to tide you over til the next Murderbot book comes out @extra-plus-ordinary 😁

[gwenhvvyfar]

           I AWOKE FROM MY DEEP SLUMBER, the winter air sharp, fresh, lingering in my lungs. I knew why I had awoken, long before I need open my eyes. He had returned, that ghost of mine. That phantom from the abyss, a shadow that possessed my heart in my youth. That shadow which had vanished in my yearning for life and freedom and existence beyond the pale. My fingers twitched, coming alive along the scabbard of my blessed sword. I drew breath into my lungs and held it till I could no more discern the scent of sweet winter and blood. Held it until my lungs protested, reminding me that I lived. That I breathed. That I was awake.

And I wondered, if only for a moment, if Maria felt so in her Nightmare bound eternity. Did she always sit so properly, even slouched like a corpse? And when she stirred in her unlife, did she hold her breath until her lungs begged for release? 

How amusing that I would live as a shadow of her, the grand Lady Maria. Or, perhaps, that was not so. Perhaps I was more like an echo. Some homage to her. No, as truly amusing as that might all be, that was not what my children had in mind. They wanted me living and able. For how long I did not know. An eternity? Separated now from that watery curse, and from Flora’s terrifying might. They wanted me to live, to be able to live out my grief. To be able to live out my guilt-ridden existence, constantly wondering if I was the last of my kin, or if, at the very least my sister Gwenhwyfach still lived. If she had escaped the curse of the blood, if she had been able to have a family and love and all that entailed.

How I prayed such might be the case. That she was free while I remained in this frigged prison. Unlike I. Unlike our deathless queen. 

And now He. 

He stood tall as I had remembered, perhaps taller still. (When had I opened my eyes to look at him? )  Moon pale skin, hair long and dark as the midnight sky. He was as beautiful as I remembered, angular jaw and sharp features. I wish I could see his eyes, shadowed as they were by his low brimmed hat. But I knew, I knew them so well. His eyes had always reminded me moonstones rimmed in darkness. Pray that hadn’t changed, even as he was now, a BEAST in the flesh of familiarity. He had been such a beautiful knight, even when he obscured his face with the ornate mask of those below his station, dressed in the beauty and antiquity of our King’s Guard. A position I had longed for in youth, for no woman had ever been able to guard our King so far as I had been told.

Our dead king, silenced before I had been deemed full grown.

❝  Medraut? ❞  I asked, my own voice a quiet whisper, somehow carrying over the winter chill. I yearned for the sound of his voice, so very low, very dark. Reminding me of the loving bass my husband had adored before he left my side. ( My fault. I had poisoned him. ) I stood at last, my body moving with a mechanical grace, like a delicately crafted puppet on spider web strings. He shifted, and all the spines and spikes and tails moved with him, dark shape spilling across the snow slick roof. I could see it. See Him. The real Him, who had chosen to consume and change and evolve and become greater than Flora. Greater than Ebrietas and Rom and all the rest.

And who had he done this for? Not for I, nor our Queen.

❝  I haven’t been called such in so long. ❞  He spoke at last, the words rippling in the air as though they traveled across water. His voice made my soul quiver, made my chest tighten as though my corset had been pulled too taunt. Until my ribs felt like they might shatter. His presence was different from my twins. My deep sea prison guards. He was older than they, than I could perceive. He had traveled through that cycle far longer than any other I had seen, perhaps to the surprise of Gehrman. How long had he suffered to become this? How many times had he torn through Great One over and over again, every fragment of their existence within the spiraling dungeons and the hellish Dream? The Nightmare? 

And, at long last, I knew fear. I could perceive what could severe the ties binding myself to those children. I could perceive what could kill me if the whim struck it.

And I could not speak. I remained still, watching him through the crystals which decorated my lashes. He was so terrible, so beautiful. He stepped closer and I could see the burial blade in his possession, as heart stilling as it had been in Gehrman’s gnarled hands.   ❝  And I knew you. ❞

❝  Yes, long ago. ❞  I nodded slowly, snow falling loose from my own hat, my hair. He had known me once, long ago, pigtails and corkscrew curls. Elaborate gowns which never stayed pure for long. He knew me, clumsy in dancing shoes, unsteady with a blade. He knew me, as awkward as a duckling, or a new born fawn. And he had been patient with me. And he had overseen my slow progress into a knight. And he had seen the Queen lay sword upon my shoulders, and my lips upon her wrist. Did he recall it as I did? Did he see it in that murky light of yonder year? My hands remained poised over my sword, ready to draw forth my chikage. Ready to attempt to face off against Medraut. The phantom of my past. 

We were relics now of what once was, and could never be again.

[eldritchsurveys]

416.

What are you craving right this very moment? >> Nothing. First letter of the names of everyone you have kissed, like *that*; >> Nah. Have you ever slept for awhile but it felt like you just kinda blinked? >> Probably, yeah. What are you gonna do this weekend? >> This weekend is basically over, so I’ll just say what I did. Saturday we went to the Fulton Street Farmer’s Market and then I stayed home for a few hours while Sparrow and her sister took their mother to Robinette’s Orchard for her birthday, and then Sparrow came back and picked me up and we went to the Wayland house to have dinner (she made shrimp scampi with roasted veggies and salad; all of the veggies came from the farmer’s market so they were hella good). Today I just played a lot of Divinity Original Sin 2. What would you like to do this weekend? >> I’m fine with how it went.

Is there anyone that you really wish you could get through to? >> Not anymore. I realised it’s a pointless wish, if they’re not receptive. What did you do last Friday night? >> Went to Cafe Boba for a weekly meetup group. Do you know anyone who was born on a holiday? >> Probably. Do you like going to school sports games? >> --- Favorite football team! >> --- Have you ever worn your boyfriend’s clothes? >> --- Have you ever stolen your sibling’s clothes? >> --- Did you get into your mom’s makeup when you were a kid? >> --- Who’s locker were you last at besides your own? >> --- Have you ever loved someone and HATED it? >> No. What color’s your hair? >> Dark brown. Eyes? >> Dark brown. Are you gonna try to tell me that they magically change colors?? >> No. Do you like Starbucks or would you rather just have water or something? >> I would definitely prefer water over 90% of what Starbucks sells. Who last texted you? >> Aside from Boost Mobile alerting me to my upcoming bill payment? Sparrow. What’s your relationship with them? >> I have no relationship with my phone company, and Sparrow is my life partner. Have you ever walked into a door before? >> Oh, definitely. Do you know anyone who’s like, psycho-religious? >> I’m not sure what that means... do you mean, like, devout to the point of neurosis or whatever? No, I don’t think I know anyone like that. Have you ever had chocolate mousse cake? >> No. Have you ever done something stupid and hurt yourself? >> Yeah. Have you ever been stuck on a ski lift? >> No. Do you know anyone named Dakota? >> No. What about Chris? >> Yeah. What’s your name mean? >> From Welsh Medraut, possibly from Latin moderatus meaning "controlled, moderated" is what Google tells me. If you could take back saying anything to anyone, what would it be? >> --- Has the school ever taken away your cell-phone? >> --- What about actually LOOKING through it?? >> --- What do you own that’s bright blue? >> I don’t know, I can’t think of anything. Do you know who Nancy Sinatra is? >> Well, I’m guessing she’s related to Frank, but otherwise I have no idea. Have you ever bought anything from an airport? >> Yeah, mostly food. Do you want anything pierced? >> I’m fine at the moment. If you had to get a tattoo, what would it be of? >> I don’t know what to get next. Have you ever kissed someone with a tattoo? >> Yeah. Do you speak fluently in any other language but English or Spanish? >> No. Have you ever been in band? >> No, I was in Choir. If you’ve ever had a female gym teacher, was she kinda like a guy? >> --- If you could visit anyone who’s moved away, who would it be? >> --- If you could repaint your bedroom, what colour would you paint it? >> --- Who last gave you anything? >> A flower vendor at the farmer’s market gave me an extra flower for free when we bought some. I think it was a chrysanthemum. Do you drink Polar-Pops? >> No. Who do you absolutely adore? >> Can Calah. If I asked you who you were gonna marry a year ago, you would say; >> Sparrow, because we’ve been engaged for over a year lmao. Do you snore, talk, sleepwalk, or drool? >> I definitely drool. It’s annoying, lmao. When you woke up this morning, what was your first thought? >> I don’t know. What do you think about to get to sleep? >> Nothing specific. The last time you were at the mall, what all did you get? >> I don’t remember. Where’d you get it? >> --- Are you usually hot or cold? >> I heat up really quickly. Have you ever walked through a cornfield maze? >> Yeah, a small one. Have you ever had a crush on a kinda-country boy? >> --- Do you care about any of your exs, at all? >> Not now. I don’t wish ill will on them or anything, but I have been drained of all capacity to have any sort of emotional attachment to them. Who last slapped your butt? >> Me, lmao. Who did you last hit? >> --- Have you ever watched 24? >> No. What about Grey’s Anatomy? >> Definitely. Is anyone mad at you & you don’t know why? >> Not to my knowledge. Do you like ska? >> No. What about skramz? >> I don’t know what that is. Indie? >> Some. How big is your bed? >> Twin sized. When did you last sleep in past noon? >> I don’t know, I don’t usually do that. If you could start completely over knowing what you do now, would you? >> --- The last person you kissed, could you tell me what color their eyes are? >> --- What do you do when you can’t sleep? >> Read. What was your last nightmare about? >> Being institutionalised by Sparrow’s parents. (Yeah, it was fucked up.) Do you think the world’s gonna end in 2012? >> lmao 

[haraways]

Medraut

“You know what you feel you must do. And you know that I will not stop you even though it pains me to see this done. I said I would let you have your revenge and I will. I could command as your king to stop but that bitter revenge would seep into your very soul and I will not subject you to your torment further.”

Sansa must decide what to do with Ramsay's son.

------

Sansa Stark-centric

Jon is King in the North

Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning

OC Baby - Freeform

Mind the Tags

Child Murder

Murder

Dark Sansa Stark

Old Gods

Magic

Rape/Non-con Elements

Angst

Angst with a Happy Ending

MIND the TAGS! You are responsible for your own media consumption.

jonsa if you squint

Now then, this is why its important to have access to birth control and necessary things when a persons choice is taken away from them.

I know I have some spelling issues and grammar and I'm going to try and fix it as I see more of it. I just wanted to get the posting out of the way.

This didn't get as dark as I wanted actually.

This is my first GoT fic so I hope you enjoy. Please flow with some timeline stuff that got moved around for my purposes.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Medraut

“I am a part of you and I will never leave you. You will look upon our son every day and see me in his eyes. Not Tully blue nor Stark Grey, mine and only mine, wife.” A bloody sneer grew across the dead man's face as though he thought he won, a bloody victory.

Sansa took a moment to speak, sure that Ramsay thought she was overwhelmed with the notion of never being free of him but Sansa had already made peace with that; the scars on her body are a testament to that. She could either be destroyed from it or create something worthwhile from the suffering. She was one of the lucky ones; she knows this because not all have the strength to choose not to continue suffering after their nightmares are over.

“No Lord Bolton; everything you are will disappear. Buried deep beneath the snow. Taken apart stone by stone. Erased from all acknowledgement and thought. The earth will be salted and nothing will grow there ever again. Your words, your house… your blood and all memory of you will disappear.” Sansa spoke with cold indifference, fitting for the Lady of Winterfell.

Ramsay’s sneer dropped into cold hatred; how strange it was that a dead man wasted his last breaths on taunts and not in praying to the Old Gods to forgive his blasphemies.

“You will kill the boy then; how brutal the Lady Bolton has become. Truly a woman after my own heart.” Ramey did not have time to laugh at his own taunts as the sounds of snarling and hungry hounds greeted his ears.

Sansa did not look away. She was the one to pass the sentence, she was a Stark and she would be brave. She would not look away.

*

She approached the chamber door that held Ramsay's son. She refused to think about it another way, for what good would that do her. It would only bring a darker type of pain.

A moment of hesitation at the door, wondering if the baby still even lived. She knows the orders given of those loyal to the Bolton's, killed themselves rather than submit. Good riddance. Which in happenstance suits her just fine but it left her wondering about the wet-nurse and her loyalties. To the house or the children?

It truly would save her both grief and trouble for she does not delight in the thought of what she has to do. She must salt the earth of Ramsay's existence. It would be a kindness for no child deserve to have started the way this one's life did. The whispers would never stop, a blasphemous affront to the Old Gods. Darkness at its conception. There was no other way.

Sansa tells herself this; she's become a good liar. In the terrible truth of it; it is revenge. A dark, justified, revenge. Gut-wrenching bile formed in her throat, swallowed swiftly by her steel.

She pushed the door open, as it was not latched. Her heart speeds up with fear.

In the room stood Jon looking into the crib. Still dirty, blood-covered and sweaty from battle. He didn’t turn to her as she stepped into the room.

He blinked slowly in that blank way he does when in deep thought. His face was hard to read. There was no anger, sadness or resentfulness upon it as you would expect when finding that your sister lied.

Finally, he turned his head to look at her with the blank gaze he sported often times know when he had to repress his true thoughts and desires. He had told Sansa that after coming back from the blackness of his death, he thought he left a part of himself behind. That part that tempered his greatest impulses. Sansa thought rather than him leaving something of himself behind, he was unburdened by the restraints of being mortal. In any one situation, the worst possible outcome is death and Jon had overcome it with the scares to prove it. At this moment, Jon’s repression was counselling a myriad of emotions that Sansa could not imagine the depth of.

For the first time, Sansa was scared of Jon. Scared of what her King, her last brother would do.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It was a simple question with an equally simple answer.

“Would it have made a difference?” She asked, trying her best to hide the tremble in her voice; she was ill-prepared for Jon to know her shame. “They would not have followed if they knew.” She finished simply. Because it was the truth. The lords of the North would not have followed Jon knowing there was a true born son to Sansa Stark, regardless of the circumstances of his birth. They cared not for weepy tails of rape and blasphemous weddings. They cared for the Stark blood that flowed in her veins.

“Do you truly believe that?” he asked quietly, not raising his voice. His eyes had drifted into the crib where Sansa could not see.

“The child is a threat to you Jon,” Sansa said more strongly than she felt. There was a tremble in voice; she was burdened. “He is Ramseys son.”

“Sansa,” Jon signed,” he is also yours.” Jon turned to her completely now and in all his indifference she saw guilt and grief. This was the face of the man who saw her scars and wept. The man unburdened by death. If only it was that simple for her as well.

Sansa did her best not to cry at the truth of Jon’s simple words. She was a Stark and she would be brave.

“I cannot claim the child as mine Jon. He was brought into this world through broken vows and blasphemous means. His life would be misery,” and at this, the tires began to fall. “I cannot give him my love, nor my protection. He will never know peace and he will carry the burden of his birth for the rest of his life. He is a threat to you, Jon. All that you fought and bleed for and I will not be responsible for the end of my last brother.” She nearly shouted. The lies always came easiest when they sat close to the truth. But lies through omission are still lies.

Jon stood there in silence once more, his jaw was clenched in what Sansa knew to be a burning rage. Jon gripped the edge of the crib firmly, leather gloves crunching under the pressure. Before nodding his head shapely in a decision.

“I don't believe you. I don't believe that the only reason you’re doing this is to protect me, because you said yourself, no one can protect anyone. You’re protecting yourself from what was unjustly done to you.” He turned to her fully, looking her in the eye as he laid her truths bare.

“You know what you feel you must do. And you know that I will not stop you even though it pains me to see this done. I said I would let you have your revenge and I will. I could command as your king to stop but that bitter revenge would seep into your very soul and I will not subject you to your torment further.”

When had Jon become so confident to speak of such matters with a clear conviction?

He nodded again and stepped aside. And gestured with his hand over the crib. Sansa saw the surrender for what it was. She was a Stark and she would be brave.

She stepped slowly forward to the crib to look upon Ramsey's son for the first time. After the birth, they’d taken the baby away without her even holding it in fear that she may smother it upon arrival. And they were right to do so for she was going to follow through with that if given that chance. In truth, she hoped she would die in childbed as so many other women have before her. But she was young and strong; the Gods bid it not her time. She now believed they let her live to enact her revenge upon Ramsey and to remove his mark from the earth.

She looked down at the sleeping child, its little chest rose and fell in sleep. Its tiny fists were clenched near his face as babies did. Sansa let out a shuttered breath. She had hoped that he would have dark hair as his father did, brown and muddy. It would make it easier. But once again the Tully red had won. Darker than her own but still striking. The hair proof of his parentage; it could not be claimed that he was anyone else but hers.

She swallowed, “You shouldn’t be here.” She knew that he would understand her meaning. He should not be here for the gruesome act. For her revenge, her wicked, natural revenge.

He nodded stiffly before taking a step back, picking up his sword, but he did not move any further.

“You’re right, I shouldn't be here, but I will not let you do this alone. If you thought you had another choice to get closure, to make you feel safe again, you would take it. You’re not a wicked soul Sansa,” Northern Burr is strong in her name, so different from the lilt of the south. “I would do it for you. I would do it if I thought my doing it would be what you needed but this is yours and I won't take that from you. But say the words, Sansa, I need you to say it, I need you to say you don't want me to do this for you.” He was now a beggar King, begging to unburden his sister from her cruel sorrows.

“Please,” she whispered and he took a step forward before her hand flew up to stop him, “Please leave. I will not let you be soiled as I have been. I will not let you witness my depravity.”

She didn’t turn to Jon, not wanting to be swayed by his Stark features and his cool conviction.

“How will you do it?” again a simple question with a simple answer. Sansa drew from her pocket a small vile.

“Sweetsleep.” She looked at the vile pilfered from the infirmary. A small amount would work wonders for an adult who needed relief in sleep. But for children, it was a slow poison. For babies, it meant death.

“And after?” Jon pressed. There was an urgency in his voice that Sansa did not understand.

“And after,” Sansa sighed as she laid out her plan. “I will go to bury him beneath the Weirwood tree; return him to the Old Gods. I will dig the hole with my own hands because he deserves nothing less. I will brake my nails and bleed from the rock and frozen earth it would be my duty.” Sansa breathed slowly as her sorrow rotted in her gut. “I would wrap him in my wolf pelt on my shoulders; I would not leave him exposed to the wild of the world. The gods were cruel to bring him here.” Sansa brought her hand up to caress and pull the pelt from her shoulders, the ties quickly undone, falling to the floor in a heap.

Sansa swallowed, hands trembling as they popped off the top of the vile. She was a Stark and she would be brave.

“The gods are not cruel, they are indifferent unless they've been wronged, and they know they have been wronged, Sansa. That's why we are here. We gathered our strength and rid the land of the Bolton Blight. What you sought, Sansa, that was not revenge but justice.”

When did Jon become wise?

Sansa reached into her cloak and pulled out an embroidered handkerchief. In the corner, a snarling wolf bore its teeth, ready to fell its enemies, be it dirt, blood or sweat. She dumped the contents of the bottle onto the fabric; the baby would suck on the fabric and soothe itself to its death.

Sansa clenched the fabric in her hand tightly before swallowing down her hesitation.

“I will leave you now.” Jon was going to let her do this. He was going to keep his word to her. Good, honourable Jon, so like Father but still so different. He sees the gray where Father would only see the black and white of it.

“But heed my words,” Jon whispered from behind her, she nodded shapely letting him say his bit.

“If you do this,” Jon mourned, “you will regret it. No, I know it’s what you feel you need and I won't deny you this. But, when the years have passed and your soul has healed some, you will come to me and weep in regret because you’re not wicked Sansa and you will feel yourself to be. You will weep and I will hold you and speak nothing of this today.”

It was with that Jon turned around swiftly and fled the nursery. And Sansa was alone with her revenge.

Sansa looked down into the crib and she felt her heart grow heavy as Jons's words stirred a sorrowful feeling within her.

She would kill this child and weep. She would let it live and weep. How could she live with her shame? How could she live with the result of broken vows and blasphemies? In front of the Weirwood tree, Ramsey swore his protection to her, witnessed by the Old Gods and he broke it that very same night by raping her in her brother's bed. Sansa was not naive to think that women were not often raped by their husbands on their wedding night. But Sansa felt a stir within her as she was being hurt by her new husband. A whisper in her blood, the blood of the First Men, the Starks of old, that there was a wrongness like no other taking place and the Gods were not pleased by it. She could not explain this queer notion. It was this notion that dragged her out to the Godswood when she could, praying for clarity and understanding. And none came until she fell pregnant, despite her best efforts. And her best efforts to not continue carrying. In her deep contemplations, she saw Ramsey being eaten by his beaten dogs. Ripped apart by his own cruelty.

She was a Stark and she would be brave.

Hands still trembling, she lifted the head of the child gently, for baby's heads were soft after birth; skulls not yet stitched together, mercy for birthing mothers. She brought the cloth close to his face to nudge at his lips gently. She did not wish the baby to wake, she did not wish to look into its eyes as she took its life. It would take the cloth into its mouth, trusting that it was safe, trusting the sweetness with delight. Her father would be ashamed. He would demand she look into the eyes of the person's life she was taking as with honour. But she had no such honour and it was honour that got him murdered. A tired thought.

The Old Gods again ignored her pleas and the eyes of the baby fluttered open and Sansa wept. The baby's eyes were the eyes of Rickon, pail blue and not at all Tully or Stark, something uniquely his own. Her soul ached and she let out an anguished cry as she ripped the cloth from his mouth leaving only the smallest of droplets behind. She dropped it on the floor before using her sleeve to wipe away the droplets as delicately as possible.

Sansa was a Stark and she was Brave.

Her tears fell onto the baby's cheeks causing him to blink and scrunch up his little nose. Sansa could see the intake of breath the baby would use to wail. Despite it all, Sansa let a wobbly smile across her face as she leaned closer to the baby and wiped gently at his cheeks. This startled the baby into quiet.

“Hello,” Sansa whispered.

The baby blinked softly and slowly, taking in the ne w face. Red hair, bright and alluring, hanging within his reach. The baby smiled largely and reached its tiny hand to take the hair within his grasp.

A little, tiny laugh bubbles up in Sansa as more tears fell. Insane, grief-stricken laughter.

"I don't even know your name. Can you tell me?" She asked. She smiled fully as the baby took a clump of her hair and stuck it into his mouth with glee.

Sansa decided that it didn't matter what name was chosen before. This was her son. He was Stark and she would name him as she saw fit.

She only had one name in mind. An old name, seldomly used by Starks. Only mentioned in tales of the First Men, magic and the Old God's. It felt right and it was her choice.

Sansa picked up the wolf pelt from the floor. She held it aloft as she, for the first time, lifted her son into her arms. She warped it snuggly around the baby.

The baby was heavy in her arms, but her heart grew lighter as she became more confident in her decision. Sansa was a Stark and she was terrified. But only in her terror could she be brave. She would be brave when facing the evidence of her abuse and shame. She would look him in the eye every day and know that he was her son in every way that mattered. He was her son despite the circumstances of his birth, despite the hand that planted him.

She knew one day she may even be brave enough to love this baby.

Sansa made her way from the nursery and down the short hall to the Lord's chambers. She had someone to introduce her son to.

She knocked quietly upon the door and waited but a moment to be granted entrance.

Jon sat at the hearth in a tall chair that was not their father's. He sat forward in the chair, head in his hands breathing deeply. Gone was the grime of war, replaced by a clean tunic and britches that were too big for him, pilfered from some Bolton bannermen.

Sansa could see the wariness of the day upon him, the deep sorrow that Sansa felt internally sitting heavy on his shoulders. This was the most she’d seen of his open emotions since first parting from him all those years ago. Her heart ached for her brother, her good, kind brother that did not judge her for her actions; who understood her mind. He would not gloat and he would not hold this against her. They were the last of their family and they needed to trust each other. Though now, Sansa supposed, they weren't the last of their family.

“Jon?” Sansa asked quietly.

“I’ve ensured there will be no guards on the path to the Godswood if you take the serving entrance. They are feasting in the hall and I will not have you discovered.” He said this without looking up, too tired to move, too tired to look her in the eye. Sansa was not offended; she understood the hesitation.

“Jon,” Sansa asked again, “Will you look at me?” Sansa asked, trying to sound kind.

“I don’t know if I can tonight, Sansa,” the Northern Burr was strong again, sad and low. “But tomorrow all will be well and I will toast and feast with you to our victory. But not tonight Sansa. I need…rest.” He refused her again. Sansa grew briefly annoyed before taking a breath to calm her heart.

“My King,” She said strongly, she used her best King's Landing voice, the voice and steel that saved her more than once. The voice that commanded a room and turned the soul. “I would present to you my son, if your Grace will have me.” Her chin held high as she made the declaration.

Jon’s head snapped up. And quick as can be, bound to his feet. Eyes wide, he racked them over Sansa and landed on the furs in her arms. He took a hesitant step forward, not believing what he was seeing. Sansa made her way over to Jon, taking strong sure steps.

She was a Stark and she was terrified but she would be brave. Jon leaned back slightly at her approach, not knowing what to do in his bewilderment. He placed his hand on his heart for a moment before swallowing and reaching for the fur. He pulled it back to take a look at her son.

The look on his face was as open as she had ever seen it before. He was never allowed near Arya, Bran or Rickon as babies, her mother simply wouldn't allow it. Sansa wasn't sure Jon had ever seen a baby up close before right now.

Jon gazed at the small child with something akin to awe.

"Hello," he whispered. Sansas lip twitched at the corner of her mouth, wondering if everyone was going to greet him this way.

"He has all of you, Sansa, all of your mother, all of Rickon and Robb." Jon knew her mind again, he knew she would fear a reminder, and it still may come as the child grows but Sansa was a Stark and she would be brave.

"What's his name?" Jon asked hesitantly.

"It's an old name," Sansa started, "but it's my choice, regardless of the name recorded at birth. Whatever that name was, I will have it struck from any record." Jon could only nod in agreement, it was a good choice to do so.

Without hesitation, she gently pushed the baby into Jon's arms before he could say no.

Jon cradled the baby and fur quickly, looking mildly distressed and it would be amusing if the situation was any different from what it was.

"Jon, I would like you to meet my son." Sansa swallowed.

"Medraut."

Notes:

Medraut is taken from Arthurian legends, though that character is much different from this one.

One thing I wish the show did was have a little bit more magic in it (dragons and shadow murder babies isn't enough.)

Please let you know what you think! I might continue Medraut's story if there is interest enough.

Comments are a writers bred and butter.

[ta-ether]

Separate medievalist here! (A historian this time.) I'd like to speak a bit more on the """historical Arthur""" such that there was, or rather, wasn't really (it's complex). If you look into the potential sources for who inspired King Arthur, you get a handful of potential guys, none of whom really look like the Arthur we know today.

[Quickly, just about ethnicities: for the sake of simplicity I am conflating "British/Briton," "Welsh," and "Celtic." Technically it's more like the Celtic people on the island of what we now know as Britain were the Britons who were British, Germanic tribes (ie the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes) came to Britain and became the English, the Britons were pushed into what we now know is Wales (and also Brittany in France) and then became Welsh. Roughly. This is simplifying a lot still.]

First source is from British cleric Gildas called De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae from 510-530. He never called Arthur by the name "Arthur," but he does mention the Battle of Badon Hill, which he dates to his own birth year, which may have been 482, and he also talks about Ambrosius Aurelius – a Roman who lead the Britons to victory over the Saxons.

The second place an Arthur-guy shows up is in Historia Brittium, which is said to be written by the Welsh monk Nennius around 828. His Arthur is actually called “Arthur” and is said to have fought with the kings of Britain – Arthur here isn’t actually a king, just a dux bellorum [war lord]. No need for primogeniture, no need for any elections. Knights weren't super a thing, but heroic men who fought well certainly were. Nennius also says that Arthur fought in the Battle of Badon Hill.

Interestingly Arthur is conspicuously absent from Bede's Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, finished around 731. Now the thing about Bede you have to know is that a) he's English and therefore would not be compelled like Gildas and Nennius to write about a dope Briton, and b) he was a pretty diligent historian (by modern standards) and was sort of the type of guy who wouldn't include something unless he had reputable sources to back it up. He did include Ambrosius Aurelius in his book, and says that he was a Roman who lead the Britons to their first victory against the Angles at the Battle of Badon Hill in the early 490s.

Next are the Annales Cambriae (Annals of Wales) from maybe originally in the mid 900s, but that manuscript is lost, but there’s a copy from the 1100s and others from the 1200s, which says: “[In the year] 516: The Battle of Badon, in which Arthur carried the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ for three days and three nights on his shoulders and the Britons were the victors. [In] 537: The battle of Camlann, in which Arthur and Medraut fell: and there was plague in Britain and Ireland.”

A reference to Arthur can also be found in Y Gododdin, a Welsh poem that dates from around the 6th or 7th century. (It was originally an oral poem that eventually got written down, making it hard to date.) Assuming that it does date as early as the 6th century, it maybe could be the oldest reference to Arthur. In one stanza, the poem notes that the warrior Gwawrddur “fed black ravens on the rampart of a fortress / Though he was no Arthur.” So Arthur just gets a passing reference that alludes to his heroic status. However, it’s quite possible that the line about Arthur was added in later as it is the nature of oral stories to change over time, and for different poets or bards to add new things in.

So yeah, Geoffrey of Monmouth took these stories, and perhaps other stories he knew about that weren't written down or don't survive, and basically did a Vergil and wrote Britain's epic history. (Britain was even said to be founded by Brutus, a guy from Troy!) Something to note is that he's from Monmouth, which is in Wales, and at the time he was writing Wales was having ongoing problems trying to remain sovereign from England (it's a lot more complex than that, but that's the main point). This means that Geoffrey likely had a vested interest in creating/codifying a story about a mythical British king who defeated the English once and – perhaps more importantly – would do so again. Early Arthur was a figure of independence for the former Britons. It was only over time that the story of Arthur was adopted by others and became what it is today with the knights and the grail and such.

The story of King Arthur is just such a wild time because it combines history and literature in a way that is really fun and just weird. I haven't even mentioned all of the Arthur stuff – or the medieval Welsh legal systems! – I could've. It's a tangled mess that I find just endlessly fun to try and pick apart. Hopefully, this all made some sense and was interesting!

The problem started with stirrups.

So I’ve been working on writing Merlin fanfic and, like a moron, I decided I wanted it to be more historically accurate because the actual canon is a shitshow about that.

I start doing some writing, some researching, and discover that stirrups won’t arrive in Britain until the 10th century or so. King Arthur is like… early 500′s roughly.

So no stirrups. That’s not a big problem. Except it is argued that it might have been a major contributor to feudalism. Which, ok, good to know. So Arthur is pre-feudalism, got it. Shouldn’t change too much, right? (wrong)

Oh, what’s this that feudalism requires for those new wealthy landowners?

Fucking. Primogeniture.

(friendly reminder: this is the right of inheritance for the firstborn son. Like for land, or titles of nobility… or kings)

So if my research is right, King Arthur didn’t have an inherent right to the throne because he was the firstborn male heir. He was fucking ELECTED. (or maybe a lady in the lake threw a sword at him, who knows, this is all myth anyway)

But the fucking kicker?

The thing that DOESN’T EXIST in King Arthur’s time?? Because feudalism won’t show up for several centuries?

Fucking.

Knights.

In summary, the story of King Arthur is just modern day fanfiction from medieval/feudal Europe with rampant OCs, overpowered everyone, too much fucking drama, and like three different werewolves.

Also no stirrups.