#and being pronounced rewarded with a kingdom

[haveyouplayedthisttrpg]

Have you played EXALTED ?

By Robert Hatch, Justin Achilli, Stephan Wieck, Andrew Bates, Dana Habecker, Sheri M. Johnson, Chris McDonough, and Richard Thomas

Exalted is a game of epic fantasy set during the Second Age of Man, a time before our own. It is an age of magic and adventure, when heroes of legend are reborn into a time of woe.

At the dawn of the First Age, the gods gave power to men that they might slay the gods' Primordial enemies. Anointed by the gods, these beings were thereafter known as the Exalted.

The greatest of the Exalted were the Solars, the Chosen of the Unconquered Sun, the mightiest of the gods. So great was their power that, when a Solar died, his power was quickly made manifest in a new individual - a reincarnation of sorts, but into a mature adult rather than a newborn.

The Exalted triumphed over the enemies of the gods, and in reward, the gods gave the Exalted dominion over the Earth. For a timeless age, the Exalted ruled justly over Creation, and their kingdom was invincible.

But the enemies of the gods had pronounced a terrible curse against the Exalted. This dark magic ate away at the hearts of the Chosen. The benevolence of the Solars turned to tyranny, and peace turned to civil war. It was prophesied that the madness of the Solars would bring about the destruction of the world. Seeing no other alternative, the lowliest of Exalted, the Dragon-Blooded, murdered the decadent Solar Exalted and locked their souls away.

And so, a Second Age descended upon Creation.

The greatest of the gods' servants no longer walked the earth, and the Realm of the Dragon-Blooded was but a shadow of the lost old Realm. Solar Exalted whose power escaped to be reborn were slain by Dragon-Blooded inquisitors known as the Wyld Hunt, and the Realm claimed dominion over Creation. For more than a thousand years the Solar Exalted remained imprisoned and defeated - until now.

The Scarlet Empress, the Dragon-Blooded ruler of the Realm and controller of the Wyld Hunt, vanished five years ago. Without her might to enforce order in the Realm, the Great Houses of her Scarlet Dynasty have fallen to squabbling over the reins of power. And in this time of crisis, the Solar Exalted have returned. It is as if a gate was opened and the heroes of old rushed through it and returned to the world.

Your character is among those individuals who have become Solar Exalted. You are a being of legend, as mighty as a demigod and as cunning as an asp. Will you be the savior of Creation or one of the terrible menaces that beset your world?

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Is "tricking the villain into naming their own punishment/a reward for the hero" a common thing in fairy tales? I think it featured in one iteration of the Cinderella stories, and while not a fairy tale I know it happens in the Purim story, but is it a thing outside of that?

Oh yes it is! At least, tricking the villain into naming their own punishment definitely is. Asking the villain to name a reward, which then does not go to them but to someone else, as happens with Haman and Mordechai in the Purim story, I have personally not encountered in a fairy tale yet.

I wouldn't be surprised if it shows up in various types of folktales, but the one where I have seen it the most is in tales with the "false bride" motif. In those stories the heroine is forced to trade places with a wicked servant or (step)sister just before she meets her (usually royal) betrothed.

This is what happens in the Grimms' The Goose-Girl, which ends like this:

[T]he old king asked the chambermaid [the false bride] as a riddle, what punishment a person deserved who had deceived her master in such and such a manner, then told the whole story, asking finally, "What sentence does such a person deserve?" The false bride said, "She deserves no better fate than to be stripped stark naked, and put in a barrel that is studded inside with sharp nails. Two white horses should be hitched to it, and they should drag her along through one street after another, until she is dead." "You are the one," said the old king, "and you have pronounced your own sentence. Thus shall it be done to you." After the sentence had been carried out, the young king married his true bride, and both of them ruled over their kingdom in peace and happiness.

This is how most of the false bride stories end, with various horrid punishments (that usually still involve a barrel). Sometimes the question is asked to the wicked stepmother and both her and her daughter are punished, as happens in the Grimms' 1857 version of The Three Little Men in the Woods.

I must confess I cannot think of any examples where the person being punished in this way is a man, although I have a vague recollection that I did read something like that once. A man who passed off another's heroic deeds as his own and is found out in the end. If I ever remember it I will add it to this post!

[anastpaul]

One Minute Reflection – 19 November – “The Month of the Holy Souls in Purgatory” – St Elizabeth of Hungary (1207-1231) Widow – Proverbs 31:10-31;, Matthew 13:44-52 – – – Scripture search here: https://www.drbo.org/ “The Kingdom of Heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field; he who finds it, hides it and in his joy, goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.” – Matthew 13:44 

 REFLECTION – “Let us call to mind that widow who, in her care for the poor, forgot herself, to the point of giving away everything she had to live on, thinking only of the life to come, as our Lord Himself attests. The others gave of their abundance but she – even poorer, perhaps, than many of the poor, for her whole fortune resided in two small coins – she it was, who carried in her heart more wealth than many of the wealthy. She looked only at the riches of the eternal reward. In her desire for heavenly treasure, she gave up all she possessed, as being goods which come from the earth and return to the earth (Gn 3:19). She gave all she had, in order to possess that which she did not as yet see. She gave away perishable goods, so that she might gain immortal ones. This poor little lady had not forgotten the means foreseen and arranged by our Lord, for acquiring the future reward. Neither, therefore, did the Lord forget her on His part and even now, the Judge of the world has pronounced His sentence – He praises her whom He will crown on the Day of Judgement.” – St Paulinus of Nola (355-431) Bishop, Father of the Church (Letter 34 2-4).

(via One Minute Reflection – 19 November – ‘ … Thinking only of the life to come …’ – AnaStpaul)

[bradandbasket]

🦋 Blue Butterfly 🦋

Once upon a time, in a kingdom cloaked in tradition, lived a young boy named Milo. Unlike the others, whose hearts were tethered to expectations, Milo felt a secret tug toward another boy, Theo. Their bond, as precious as a whispered dream, was forbidden by the rigid rules of their land. Love, the elders preached, was a duty, a pact between families to ensure the kingdom's prosperity. But the fluttering in Milo's chest whenever Theo's laughter echoed across the marketplace defied such pronouncements.

One breathless summer day, the stifling confines of the castle walls pressed down on Milo. He yearned for a breath of freedom, a glimpse of anything beyond the endless rows of identical houses and preordained lives. He confided in Theo, a mischievous glint in his eyes usually reserved for daring pranks. Theo, ever the adventurer, grinned. "The whispering woods," he declared, a thrill lacing his voice. "They say it's a place untouched by the kingdom's grip."

The woods, a haven of emerald shadows and tangled secrets, welcomed them with a cool embrace. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, illuminating a tapestry of wildflowers. As they delved deeper, a flicker of blue caught their eye. A butterfly, its wings the color of a summer sky after a downpour, flitted amongst the wildflowers.

"Theo, look!" Milo's voice hushed with awe. He reached out, but the butterfly, a wisp of freedom, fluttered away. Its iridescent wings led them on a silent chase, deeper into the hushed embrace of the forest.

Curiosity, a familiar companion in Theo's mischievous heart, tugged at their heels. They followed the butterfly's mesmerizing dance, sunlight filtering through the leaves, painting fleeting patterns on the forest floor. It led them to a hidden clearing, bathed in the golden caress of sunlight. A majestic tree stood at its center, its branches reaching for the heavens like the gnarled fingers of an ancient being.

As they drew closer, the butterfly, alighting on Milo's shoulder, spoke in a voice like wind chimes. "Follow your heart," it breathed.

Milo's heart hammered against his ribs. He met Theo's gaze, a spark of defiance igniting within him. "Theo," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "I love you. No matter what they say, I want you by my side."

Tears welled in Theo's eyes. He grasped Milo's hand, a silent promise echoing in the touch. "I love you too, Milo. We'll face anything, together."

The ground trembled, a low rumble resonating through the clearing. The ancient tree's branches erupted in a dazzling blue light. The butterfly, a metamorphosis complete, transformed into a radiant fairy.

"Your love, pure and courageous," the fairy's voice resonated, "has earned a reward." With a wave of her hand, a shimmering blue light engulfed Milo and Theo. They gazed at each other, a love story unfolding in their eyes.

News of their bond spread like wildfire, challenging the kingdom's rigid beliefs. Inspired by Milo and Theo's unwavering love, whispers of dissent rippled through the cobbled streets. The baker, a woman with eyes as warm as her cinnamon rolls, recounted the legend of two star-crossed lovers who defied a tyrannical king. The blacksmith, a gruff man whose hands held the strength of a hundred battles, spoke of a time when love, not duty, was the cornerstone of a strong kingdom.

The king, a man hardened by tradition, bristled at the rebellion brewing in the hearts of his people. But as he looked upon Milo and Theo, their faces aglow with an undeniable happiness, a flicker of doubt ignited within him. Could love, truly, be a threat?

The following week, a royal decree echoed through the town square. The king, it declared, had seen the error of his ways. Love, from that day forward, would be a choice, not a command. The kingdom, once shrouded in conformity, slowly bloomed into a kaleidoscope of colors, a testament to the transformative power of love in its purest form.

And so, Milo and Theo lived happily ever after, their love story a beacon of hope, forever reminding everyone that love, in its truest form, knows no bounds. It was a love that not only changed their lives, but the very fabric of their kingdom.

[nostalgiachan]

What's this? Two art posts in one day? Bah gawd. Yes, it's 100 OC Challenge Time!

But yes, since I already cleaned up these images for that group image I posted, it's time for the individual images, the OG designs from 2010, and character descriptions below the cut.

#57: Illus Artemida Idea: Arrogant elven archer Story: Dragon Tavern

Of course, my second Mountain Kingdoms squad wasn't going to go without a Moon Elf representative, so I rolled up the other Moon Elf class - because Moon Elves and Dwarves have two specific classes each - the Ranger.

Illus, like most of the Seekers, got most of his development with his first redesign in 2017. In particular, I built his design around two inspirations: Kenpachi Zaraki from Bleach and the uniforms of the Mongolian State Honor Guard. Illus had always been a bit flamboyantly designed, and I decided to make that a character gimmick. Basically, Illus is an incredibly talented Ranger and he knows it. Though he's fairly mild of temperament and doesn't tend to verbally boast, he so thoroughly believes in his skills that he wears brightly colored clothes, puts shiny crystal beads in his hair, wears loud and heavy silver bangles, and has sleigh bells dangling from his torso and tied to his ankles; in his words, "You will see me coming. You will hear me coming. You will not stop me."

Also his arm being that long isn't an anatomy fuck-up, Moon Elves are just lanky.

#58: Darja Handrukkari Idea: Dwarven berserker...or should I say, beerserker huehuahueahu Story: Dragon Tavern

When I was making the Seekers, I figured it was high time I stopped being a coward and made a dwarf. Like the Moon Elves, there are two classes specifically for dwarves: Dwarven Earth Sage and Dwarven Berzerker.

Since this squad was missing a melee fighter, Berzerker was the only choice. Unlike the Moon Elves, the Dwarves are still rather a WIP when it comes to lore overhauling. I'd considered having them be created literally from the earth, but uh...I didn't realize that was already a Tolkien thing. Darja herself, unfortunately, is equally a WIP; like most Berzerkers, she's a violently heavy drinker, which makes her a more fearless and unpredictable fighter, and she's rather stubborn and short-tempered.

#59: Faid Innamorata Idea: Puppeteer and Pierrot stan (derogatory) Story: Dragon Tavern

Faid (pronounced "fade") is one of the three characters out of the Seekers who happened to win the development lottery and get a little more thought put into her backstory. In the beginning, she was essentially Tira from Soulcalibur, except replace the ring blade with two life-sized puppets. In Dragon Tavern, Dark Puppeteers are a class that puppets various salvaged body parts, and they're noted to go a bit batty thanks to all the concentration required to puppet larger hordes of parts, but I thought "Fuck that, I want her to have full marionettes because killer dolls are cool." Her particular madness was essentially cribbed from Tira's Jolly and Gloomy modes; when she did small-scale puppet shows, she'd be jolly, and when controlling her full puppets in battle, she'd be gloomy.

And then years later, I tossed that. I kept the puppets and the madness, but the new backstory is as follows:

When Faid was at the dawn of puberty, she was a massive fan of one Pierrot Douleur; she'd go to as many of his performances as she could, bought multiple copies of his wax cylinders (because she'd inevitably wear one out, so she needed backups), and even took up puppeteering in the hopes that she could one day go on tour with him. And then three years later, he fell off the face of the earth. As far as anyone knew, he'd gone out beyond the borders of the Deadlands to "find inspiration". It would be another six years before Faid would actually find out what happened to him - or, more specifically, that the Gate Council would put out a reward for his capture.

In that time, Faid had become skilled enough in puppetry that she could control two life-sized puppets, a masculine doll named Silvio and a feminine doll named Vittoria.

However, she'd pushed herself far too hard far too quickly in trying to get that skilled, and between the stress of training and the general havoc of adolescent hormones over the years, she was already approaching the deep end. By the time she heads out into the world and joins up with two compatriots, the Death Knight Lusine and the Bone Lord Sirno, she's begun to see her puppets as living beings - when she's not in her right mind, she believes she's in love with Silvio and that Vittoria is conspiring to steal him from her. Over the course of the story, it grows so bad that she violently abuses Vittoria, and plans to make Silvio into a "real boy" - by building him a body out of corpse parts. When she confirms that Pierrot's still alive, her plan changes slightly - she'll either convince him to come away with her, or Silvio's real boy body will be Pierrot's.

#60: Lusine Awaria Idea: The Most Dyingest Death Knight Ever Story: Dragon Tavern

I promise that's not Geralt. When I first drew Lusine in 2016 (after procrastinating on designing him for six or so years because I sucked at drawing heavy armor and horses), I accidentally made him look a bit like Geralt face-wise. With this redesign, I decided to lean into it more and directly reference a popular Geralt cosplayer because I thought it would be funny to have a guy who looks like your typical post-Geralt grizzled fantasy man, but who 100% sucks at his job.

See, if there was anything Lusine came to be known for as I played him, it was dying. I want to say he died in battle more than any other character I have, which is baffling considering he's a heavily-armored death wizard on a mighty steed. So, I made that the defining feature of his character.

Death Knights are essentially undead paladins; through a particularly complicated and resource-intensive ritual, a candidate for knighthood is trapped in a state of undeath. They're not completely immortal, as eventually the magic keeping them from passing through the Death Gate completely will wane, but until that time, they can only be temporarily killed . They're supposed to present a middle ground between the magic-oriented Necromancers and the melee-oriented Bone Lords, what with their combination of sword and sorcery.

But then there's Lusine. While Death Knight candidates are typically chosen from among the most elite soldiers of the Deadlands, and Lusine was presumably one of them, something must have changed once he underwent the ritual. Perhaps the process severely dulled his combat prowess and magical capabilities, perhaps he was suddenly possessed by a spirit with ill intent, or perhaps he was never actually a capable soldier at all.

Whatever the cause, the truth of the matter is that Lusine has died more than any Death Knight in history. Creatures big and small, magic wielders of all kinds, sentient being and automaton alike, all have at one time or another laid waste to this man. And yet, for all of his constant failure, he always manages to fail upwards. He'll get disemboweled six ways from Sunday and lose a limb or four, but somehow, he always wins the day. Surely, if the Gate Council could see the embarrassing displays Lusine put on in combat, they'd undo the ritual and put the man right through the Death Gate immediately.

Well, lucky him, he works alone so there's only the results to speak for him. Yet, despite his ability to fail upwards, Lusine feels that eventually, someone's going to actually catch wind of what a fuck-up he is and it'll all be over. So, when word is sent out about the Seekers, he jumps at the chance to get the hell out of the Deadlands for a while; perhaps by going out into the wider world, he can finally get his shit together and become an actually competent Death Knight.

[ukpoppers]

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Definition and Composition: Poppers are made up of various alkyl nitrite compounds, such as amyl nitrite and isobutyl nitrite.

Mode of Administration: Poppers are primarily consumed by inhaling the vapors, which are rapidly absorbed through the nasal passages.

Immediate Effects on the Brain

Vasodilation: Poppers cause the blood vessels to dilate, resulting in increased blood flow throughout the body, including the brain.

Rush and Euphoria: Inhalation of poppers leads to a quick onset of intense sensations, often described as a rush or head rush, accompanied by feelings of euphoria and well-being.

Altered Perception: Poppers can distort perception, making colors appear more vibrant, sounds more pronounced, and tactile sensations heightened.

Neurotransmitter Activity

Nitric Oxide (NO) Release: Poppers stimulate the release of nitric oxide, a gas that acts as a neurotransmitter in the brain. NO plays a crucial role in various neuronal processes, including blood vessel dilation and synaptic signaling.

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Conclusion

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[biancenieves]

❝  it  is  fine:  a  prince  can  never  be  too  careful  these  days.  we  are  beholden  to  all,  the  good  and  the  bad.  ❞  the  crown  can  either  heighten  or  lull  the  bearer's  sense  of  security,  at  least  that's  how  biancenieves  saw  it.  &  perhaps,  that  is  what  young  aurore  sees  too,  given  such  eerily  similar  circumstances.  though  they  wouldn't  try  to  insult  them  with  the  overused  sentiment  of  ‘  I  know  what  you’re  going  through  '',  biancenieves  did,  though  maybe  on  a  more  extreme  level,  for  at  least  aurore  was  fated  to  wake  up.  for  biancenieves,  that  apple  was  meant  to  kill  them  without  intended  resurrection.  perhaps  it  was  just  luck  that  florian  came  their  way  and  provided  life  to  them  once  again,  but  only  by  the  faintest  string  of  it. 

❝  indeed:  for  every  triumph  of  a  kingdom,  there  must  be  celebration.  monarchs  would  see  it  as  lost  opportunity  not  to  showcase  the  glory  of  their  rule  by  any  means;  anything  to  pronounce  the  rewards  of  being  a  good  ruler.  ❞  did  biancenieves  have  their  own  thoughts  about  that  ?  of  course.  but  there  was  no  room  for  that  tonight.  ❝  it  has  been  as  lavish  &  festive  as  your  father  planned  it  to  be,  I'm  sure.  an  absolute  pleasure  to  be  here,  though  I  came  more  so  to  offer  support  and  guidance  to  you,  should  you  need  it.  ❞

ari  only  knew  very  few  faces  currently  attending  the  festivities  &  most  of  those  he  recognized  were  those  living  here,  but  he  was  trying  to  change  that  -  for  himself,  for  his  family  &  for  the  kingdom,  so  that  their  loyal  subjects  knew  him.  but  most  of  all,  ari  yearned  for  connections;  friends  &  acquaintances  alike.  people  he  could  trust.  one  day.  he  already  assumed  the  person  he  chose  was  a  noble  by  their  outfit  alone,  but  that  hadn't  stopped  him  &  it  still  didn't  -  even  when  they  seemed  almost  worried  for  a  moment.  "i  apologize,  i  didn't  mean  to  sneak  up  like  that."  he  was  light  on  his  feet,  always  had,  but  not  maliciously  so.  the  smile  was  appreciated,  acknowledged  &  reciprocated  tenfold.  then  they  bowed  &  for  the  shortest  of  moments,  confusion  set  in  until  ari  remembered  that  ...yes,  he  should  probably  get  used  to  that.  it  still  felt  wrong.  "i...  thank  you,  but  the  pleasure  and  the  honor  is  all  mine."  fingers  were  itching  to  find  a  hand  close  to  his  chest,  but  he  kept  them  to  himself.  "oh,  i  mean,  how  could  i  not,  right?  it's  a  lot  -  don't  you  think?  but  i'd  rather  know  if  you're  enjoying  yourself.  you  came  all  this  way."  just  for  me.

[davidrmaas]

APPOINTED TO TRIBULATION

Disciples escape God’s wrath, but they endure tribulation. Indeed, the church has been appointed to suffer. 

The terms “tribulation” and “wrath” are NOT synonymous in Paul’s letters. “Tribulation” is what disciples endure for the sake of the gospel. “Wrath” is the horrific fate that awaits the wicked at the final judgment when the Lord arrives in glory.

In his first letter to the Thessalonians, Paul writes that God did not appoint the church to “wrath,” but in the same letter, he states that the church is appointed to “suffer tribulation.”

Persevering through trials and persecutions is part and parcel of being a disciple of Jesus, and Paul does not treat tribulation as something unexpected or extraordinary.

“GOD DID NOT APPOINT US TO WRATH, but to the acquiring of salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ” - (1 Thessalonians 5:9).

“Wherefore, no longer concealing our anxiety, we were well-pleased to be left in Athens alone; and sent Timothy, our brother and God’s minister in the gospel of the Christ, that he might confirm and console you over your faith, that no one might be shrinking back in these tribulations. FOR YOU YOURSELVES KNOW THAT HEREUNTO ARE WE APPOINTED. For even when we were with you, we told you beforehand, WE ARE DESTINED TO SUFFER TRIBULATION! Even as it also came to pass, and you know” - (1 Thessalonians 3:1-4).

Either Paul contradicts himself in the letter or he does not equate “tribulation” with “wrath.” By enduring persecution, the believers of Thessalonica, “Became imitators of us and of the Lord, for you received the word in much tribulation with joy inspired by the Holy Spirit” - (1 Thessalonians 1:6).

Likewise, Jesus taught his disciples to expect tribulation and persecution. Opponents of the faith will deliver them “for tribulation and kill them: and they will be hated by all the nations.”  Before his return, there will be “great tribulation” for the saints; so much so, that only “he who endures to the end” will be saved - (Matthew 13:21, 24:9, 24:21-22).

Contrary to human wisdom, disciples who endure persecution will be pronounced “blessed” in the Kingdom. Suffering for him is a matter for great rejoicing:

“Blessed are you when men reproach you, and persecute you, and say all manner of evil against you falsely for my sake. Rejoice! Be exceeding glad! For great is your reward in heaven!” (Matthew 5:10-12).

Paul also encourages his churches to rejoice in suffering. We are to “exult in our tribulations because they bring about endurance, and our endurance a testing, and our testing hope” - (Romans 5:3, 12:12, 2 Corinthians 1:4).

Disciples are to remain patient in tribulations and “continue steadfastly in prayer.” It is God who “comforts us in every tribulation, so that we ourselves may be able to comfort those who are in any tribulation.” Tribulations “prepare for us an everlasting weight of glory beyond all comparison” - (Romans 8:35-39, 12:12, 2 Corinthians 1:4, 4:17).

[Lantern photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash]

[Read the entire article on the End-Time Insights blog page at the URL link below]

[catsafarithewriter]

“That’s the creepiest statue I’ve ever seen and it’s just casually sitting in your living room.”

A/N: Hello folks, yes I am still working on these; just trying to find the best angle (ie: funniest, fluffiest, or angstiest) to write these from, and this one definitely falls in the funniest category. I doubt this was what you had in mind, chez, but I think you’ll enjoy it regardless :)

Also apologies for the weird “keep reading” placement; tumblr decided to place it in the ask, and now I can’t remove it. :/

x

“That’s the creepiest statue I’ve ever seen and it’s just casually sitting in your living room.” Hiromi prodded the figurine resting along the bookcase and made a face. “His head’s too big for his body and he has the teeth of a chipmunk.”

Haru leant over and slapped Hiromi’s prying hand away. “That’s because he’s a nutcracker, Hiromi. He’s meant to look like that.”

Hiromi wrinkled her nose. “Even with those teeth, I don’t think it’ll do a very good job of cracking nuts.”

“It’s decorative.”

“You mean useless.”

“So is your lounge window, but you don’t see me judging you.”

“You did judge me.”

Haru rolled her eyes. “Okay, but you used the latch key as a screwdriver and broke it. How could I not judge you?” She shook her head and moved the nutcracker pointedly out of Hiromi’s reach. “Anyway, a friend brought him back from their travels as a gift, so he’s staying.”

“Which friend? The hot English guy or...?”

Haru regretted introducing Hiromi to Baron, even if he had been conveniently human at the time, because Hiromi had immediately latched onto the truth both her and Baron had been politely ignoring in that they were both head over heels in love with one another. Hiromi didn’t know about complications such as immortal lifespans or Creations and had shamelessly made it her personal project to get them together.

Haru didn’t meet Hiromi’s knowing gaze, and tried to remember if Hiromi had ever met Louise. “No, his, um, sister.”

“Oh. The hot English lady then.”

“Yes.”

“Is she taken or...?”

“She’s married, Hiromi.”

“Drat. She’s cute.”

“Yeah. And married.” Haru shooed Hiromi out of the lounge. “Now if you’ve quite finished judging my interior fashion design, we have a movie to get to, remember?” She grabbed her coat and passed Hiromi’s jacket across. Honestly, if that was how Hiromi reacted to a nutcracker, Haru couldn’t pretend to imagine how she’d respond to seeing Baron’s figurine form.

Perhaps it was just as well she’d met his “hot English guy” form instead.

x

It was midnight when Haru awoke to the sound of scuffling.

She turned over in her bed and watched her clock mark the passing of one day to the next, and mentally berated the Bureau. Seriously, was it that difficult to let her sleep? Or at least give her a warning before they crashed her place with news of a fresh case?

She admitted defeat and rolled out of her room, pulling her dressing gown tight around her and rubbing the sleepdust from her eyes.

“This better be urgent, Baron, or I’m going to tie all your bows into Gordian knots--” She froze.

She hadn’t stepped into a sheepish Bureau, as she’d been expecting.

Instead, she seemed to have stepped right into a tiny battle that was ensuing between an army of rats and the tin soldiers that Haru had bought for Hiromi’s next DnD session. She could see the remains of their packaging torn and ripped as if burst open from the inside.

“I’m still sleeping,” Haru muttered. “That’s it. This is a dream. This has to be a dream, because this is too weird, even for me, and I’ve almost been eaten by plants at least twice. I’m clocking out at rat wars in my lounge.”

A rat sank its teeth into her foot and she yelped and kicked the creature into the wall. Bloody bite marks decorated her skin. “Okay, maybe not a dream,” she grumbled. She inspected her foot. “You lot better not have rabies...”

There was a roar of triumph as several of the tin soldiers discovered the tactical merit of dropping heavy books on the rats below. Haru yelped as she spotted her signed book of urban legends get merrily tossed over the side. She snatched up the next upcoming causality before it could join the rest. “Stop that!”

There was a tearing sound, and Haru turned just in time to see a rat slide down the curtains, its claws leaving long slashes in the material. She slammed the book into the rat. “I have fought pirates and kings and slime monsters,” she roared, “and I am not going to let you be the ones to ruin the deposit on my flat!”

She gave the rat another hit and punted it across the room.

Just in time to spot the tin soldiers setting up the miniature catapult.

Haru took a moment to appreciate how they had managed to cobble together a working catapult from elastic bands, lollypop sticks, and a spoon, and then another horrified moment to register the eggs they were using as ammunition.

“Oh my god, don’t you dare--”

An egg hit her sofa.

Another the TV.

A third painted a very yolky picture across her window.

In fact, very few seemed to be actually hitting the rats they were aiming for. Trust them to have stormtrooper aim.

“Charge, men!” cried the de facto leader, armed with a fork and a head too big for his body. The nutcracker. Naturally. “Let’s show these rodents what we’re made of!”  

“If Louise had any idea about this...” Haru muttered mutinously. She admitted defeat and grabbed the communication gem Baron had given her to contact the Bureau. She was going to need some back-up. As it began to glow, there was a decidedly rodent cheer, and Haru looked up just as the nutcracker was captured by who Haru could only guess was the Rat King, given the crown seated atop his head.

“At last,” the Rat King gloated in a voice that made Haru wonder if he had been born with that voice, or had carefully cultivated it to fulfil his evil role, “I have you in my clutches! Now, should I turn you into matchsticks or firewood...?”

“Not on my watch,” Haru said and she grabbed the nearest thing to hand - her slipper - and pitched it across the living room. It slammed into the Rat King with about as much force as... well, a slipper. 

Maybe she should have grabbed a book instead. 

Regardless, she suddenly found everyone’s attention on her - a hundred beady little rat eyes and a dozen soldiers’ gazes - and raised her other slipper. “I’m warning you, I’ve got friends in the Cat Kingdom and I’m not afraid to call them!” She tilted her palm so they could see the communication gem, which was still glowing with no reply. 

She didn’t have to call her bluff, though, for the mere mention of cats sent a rattle of nerves flooding through the rats. 

“Cats?” she heard hissed. “The Cat Kingdom?”

“My aunt was eaten by a cat.”

“One caught my great great grandfather and they say it took an hour for it to finish him off.”

“A whole kingdom of cats?”  

“I’m not sticking around for them to arrive.”

“Me neither.”

Haru watched with surprised relief as the rats scurried away. 

“Wait!” the Rat King cried. “It’s a trick! She’s...” He trailed off as he abruptly found himself very alone and very outnumbered. 

Haru grinned and leant in to the Rat King. “This is the bit,” she whispered conspiringly, “where you run away.”

The Rat King gulped and nodded. “Okay.” He fell back onto all four paws and scampered after his minions. “Hey, wait up! Wait for me!”

With a fair bit of earned smugness, Haru straightened and smoothed out her dressing gown. “Not bad, even if I do say so myself... aww, I’ve got egg on this--″

“Lady! You have saved us!”

“--and I thought I was doing so well until then...”

“Our lives are in your debt!”

Haru blinked and registered the figurine that was currently hugging her leg. “Oh, right. Sure. All in a day’s work with the Bureau, now if you’ve got any solution for how to get egg out of cotton...”

“We must reward you!”

“Sure, sure, just buy me a new dressing gown and we’ll call it quits.”

“Such a trivial gift is not enough to show our appreciation!” the nutcracker cried. “I am the prince of the Doll Kingdom, trapped in this world until I defeat the Rat King who overthrew me, but now I can return home--”

Haru blinked again. Rapidly. “Oh no.”

“--and I shall do so with you by my side!”

The gem in her hand chimed, and Baron’s voice rose up. “Haru? Haru, are you okay? What’s happened?! Why are you calling in the middle of the night?!”

Haru wet her lips and raised the communication gem to her mouth. 

“Baron, you’ll never believe this,” she said, “but I’ve just rescued another prince...”

[qqueenofhades]

The Green Knight and Medieval Metatextuality: An Essay

Right, so. Finally watched it last night, and I’ve been thinking about it literally ever since, except for the part where I was asleep. As I said to fellow medievalist and admirer of Dev Patel @oldshrewsburyian, it’s possibly the most fascinating piece of medieval-inspired media that I’ve seen in ages, and how refreshing to have something in this genre that actually rewards critical thought and deep analysis, rather than me just fulminating fruitlessly about how popular media thinks that slapping blood, filth, and misogyny onto some swords and castles is “historically accurate.” I read a review of TGK somewhere that described it as the anti-Game of Thrones, and I’m inclined to think that’s accurate. I didn’t agree with all of the film’s tonal, thematic, or interpretative choices, but I found them consistently stylish, compelling, and subversive in ways both small and large, and I’m gonna have to write about it or I’ll go crazy. So. Brace yourselves.

(Note: My PhD is in medieval history, not medieval literature, and I haven’t worked on SGGK specifically, but I am familiar with it, its general cultural context, and the historical influences, images, and debates that both the poem and the film referenced and drew upon, so that’s where this meta is coming from.)

First, obviously, while the film is not a straight-up text-to-screen version of the poem (though it is by and large relatively faithful), it is a multi-layered meta-text that comments on the original Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the archetypes of chivalric literature as a whole, modern expectations for medieval films, the hero’s journey, the requirements of being an “honorable knight,” and the nature of death, fate, magic, and religion, just to name a few. Given that the Arthurian legendarium, otherwise known as the Matter of Britain, was written and rewritten over several centuries by countless authors, drawing on and changing and hybridizing interpretations that sometimes challenged or outright contradicted earlier versions, it makes sense for the film to chart its own path and make its own adaptational decisions as part of this multivalent, multivocal literary canon. Sir Gawain himself is a canonically and textually inconsistent figure; in the movie, the characters merrily pronounce his name in several different ways, most notably as Sean Harris/King Arthur’s somewhat inexplicable “Garr-win.” He might be a man without a consistent identity, but that’s pointed out within the film itself. What has he done to define himself, aside from being the king’s nephew? Is his quixotic quest for the Green Knight actually going to resolve the question of his identity and his honor – and if so, is it even going to matter, given that successful completion of the “game” seemingly equates with death?

Likewise, as the anti-Game of Thrones, the film is deliberately and sometimes maddeningly non-commercial. For an adaptation coming from a studio known primarily for horror, it almost completely eschews the cliché that gory bloodshed equals authentic medievalism; the only graphic scene is the Green Knight’s original beheading. The violence is only hinted at, subtextual, suspenseful; it is kept out of sight, around the corner, never entirely played out or resolved. In other words, if anyone came in thinking that they were going to watch Dev Patel luridly swashbuckle his way through some CGI monsters like bad Beowulf adaptations of yore, they were swiftly disappointed. In fact, he seems to spend most of his time being wet, sad, and failing to meet the moment at hand (with a few important exceptions).

The film unhurriedly evokes a medieval setting that is both surreal and defiantly non-historical. We travel (in roughly chronological order) from Anglo-Saxon huts to Romanesque halls to high-Gothic cathedrals to Tudor villages and half-timbered houses, culminating in the eerie neo-Renaissance splendor of the Lord and Lady’s hall, before returning to the ancient trees of the Green Chapel and its immortal occupant: everything that has come before has now returned to dust. We have been removed even from imagined time and place and into a moment where it ceases to function altogether. We move forward, backward, and sideways, as Gawain experiences past, present, and future in unison. He is dislocated from his own sense of himself, just as we, the viewers, are dislocated from our sense of what is the “true” reality or filmic narrative; what we think is real turns out not to be the case at all. If, of course, such a thing even exists at all.

This visual evocation of the entire medieval era also creates a setting that, unlike GOT, takes pride in rejecting absolutely all political context or Machiavellian maneuvering. The film acknowledges its own cultural ubiquity and the question of whether we really need yet another King Arthur adaptation: none of the characters aside from Gawain himself are credited by name. We all know it’s Arthur, but he’s listed only as “king.” We know the spooky druid-like old man with the white beard is Merlin, but it’s never required to spell it out. The film gestures at our pre-existing understanding; it relies on us to fill in the gaps, cuing us to collaboratively produce the story with it, positioning us as listeners as if we were gathered to hear the original poem. Just like fanfiction, it knows that it doesn’t need to waste time introducing every single character or filling in ultimately unnecessary background knowledge, when the audience can be relied upon to bring their own.

As for that, the film explicitly frames itself as a “filmed adaptation of the chivalric romance” in its opening credits, and continues to play with textual referents and cues throughout: telling us where we are, what’s happening, or what’s coming next, rather like the rubrics or headings within a medieval manuscript. As noted, its historical/architectural references span the entire medieval European world, as does its costume design. I was particularly struck by the fact that Arthur and Guinevere’s crowns resemble those from illuminated monastic manuscripts or Eastern Orthodox iconography: they are both crown and halo, they confer an air of both secular kingship and religious sanctity. The question in the film’s imagined epilogue thus becomes one familiar to Shakespeare’s Henry V: heavy is the head that wears the crown. Does Gawain want to earn his uncle’s crown, take over his place as king, bear the fate of Camelot, become a great ruler, a husband and father in ways that even Arthur never did, only to see it all brought to dust by his cowardice, his reliance on unscrupulous sorcery, and his unfulfilled promise to the Green Knight? Is it better to have that entire life and then lose it, or to make the right choice now, even if it means death?

Likewise, Arthur’s kingly mantle is Byzantine in inspiration, as is the icon of the Virgin Mary-as-Theotokos painted on Gawain’s shield (which we see broken apart during the attack by the scavengers). The film only glances at its religious themes rather than harping on them explicitly; we do have the cliché scene of the male churchmen praying for Gawain’s safety, opposite Gawain’s mother and her female attendants working witchcraft to protect him. (When oh when will I get my film that treats medieval magic and medieval religion as the complementary and co-existing epistemological systems that they were, rather than portraying them as diametrically binary and disparagingly gendered opposites?) But despite the interim setbacks borne from the failure of Christian icons, the overall resolution of the film could serve as the culmination of a medieval Christian morality tale: Gawain can buy himself a great future in the short term if he relies on the protection of the enchanted green belt to avoid the Green Knight’s killing stroke, but then he will have to watch it all crumble until he is sitting alone in his own hall, his children dead and his kingdom destroyed, as a headless corpse who only now has been brave enough to accept his proper fate. By removing the belt from his person in the film’s Inception-like final scene, he relinquishes the taint of black magic and regains his religious honor, even at the likely cost of death. That, the medieval Christian morality tale would agree, is the correct course of action.

Gawain’s encounter with St. Winifred likewise presents a more subtle vision of medieval Christianity. Winifred was an eighth-century Welsh saint known for being beheaded, after which (by the power of another saint) her head was miraculously restored to her body and she went on to live a long and holy life. It doesn’t quite work that way in TGK. (St Winifred’s Well is mentioned in the original SGGK, but as far as I recall, Gawain doesn’t meet the saint in person.) In the film, Gawain encounters Winifred’s lifelike apparition, who begs him to dive into the mere and retrieve her head (despite appearances, she warns him, it is not attached to her body). This fits into the pattern of medieval ghost stories, where the dead often return to entreat the living to help them finish their business; they must be heeded, but when they are encountered in places they shouldn’t be, they must be put back into their proper physical space and reminded of their real fate. Gawain doesn’t follow William of Newburgh’s practical recommendation to just fetch some brawny young men with shovels to beat the wandering corpse back into its grave. Instead, in one of his few moments of unqualified heroism, he dives into the dark water and retrieves Winifred’s skull from the bottom of the lake. Then when he returns to the house, he finds the rest of her skeleton lying in the bed where he was earlier sleeping, and carefully reunites the skull with its body, finally allowing it to rest in peace.

However, Gawain’s involvement with Winifred doesn’t end there. The fox that he sees on the bank after emerging with her skull, who then accompanies him for the rest of the film, is strongly implied to be her spirit, or at least a companion that she has sent for him. Gawain has handled a saint’s holy bones; her relics, which were well known to grant protection in the medieval world. He has done the saint a service, and in return, she extends her favor to him. At the end of the film, the fox finally speaks in a human voice, warning him not to proceed to the fateful final encounter with the Green Knight; it will mean his death. The symbolism of having a beheaded saint serve as Gawain’s guide and protector is obvious, since it is the fate that may or may not lie in store for him. As I said, the ending is Inception-like in that it steadfastly refuses to tell you if the hero is alive (or will live) or dead (or will die). In the original SGGK, of course, the Green Knight and the Lord turn out to be the same person, Gawain survives, it was all just a test of chivalric will and honor, and a trap put together by Morgan Le Fay in an attempt to frighten Guinevere. It’s essentially able to be laughed off: a game, an adventure, not real. TGK takes this paradigm and flips it (to speak…) on its head.

Gawain’s rescue of Winifred’s head also rewards him in more immediate terms: his/the Green Knight’s axe, stolen by the scavengers, is miraculously restored to him in her cottage, immediately and concretely demonstrating the virtue of his actions. This is one of the points where the film most stubbornly resists modern storytelling conventions: it simply refuses to add in any kind of “rational” or “empirical” explanation of how else it got there, aside from the grace and intercession of the saint. This is indeed how it works in medieval hagiography: things simply reappear, are returned, reattached, repaired, made whole again, and Gawain’s lost weapon is thus restored, symbolizing that he has passed the test and is worthy to continue with the quest. The film’s narrative is not modernizing its underlying medieval logic here, and it doesn’t particularly care if a modern audience finds it “convincing” or not. As noted, the film never makes any attempt to temporalize or localize itself; it exists in a determinedly surrealist and ahistorical landscape, where naked female giants who look suspiciously like Tilda Swinton roam across the wild with no necessary explanation. While this might be frustrating for some people, I actually found it a huge relief that a clearly fantastic and fictional literary adaptation was not acting like it was qualified to teach “real history” to its audience. Nobody would come out of TGK thinking that they had seen the “actual” medieval world, and since we have enough of a problem with that sort of thing thanks to GOT, I for one welcome the creation of a medieval imaginative space that embraces its eccentric and unrealistic elements, rather than trying to fit them into the Real Life box.

This plays into the fact that the film, like a reused medieval manuscript containing more than one text, is a palimpsest: for one, it audaciously rewrites the entire Arthurian canon in the wordless vision of Gawain’s life after escaping the Green Knight (I could write another meta on that dream-epilogue alone). It moves fluidly through time and creates alternate universes in at least two major points: one, the scene where Gawain is tied up and abandoned by the scavengers and that long circling shot reveals his skeletal corpse rotting on the sward, only to return to our original universe as Gawain decides that he doesn’t want that fate, and two, Gawain as King. In this alternate ending, Arthur doesn’t die in battle with Mordred, but peaceably in bed, having anointed his worthy nephew as his heir. Gawain becomes king, has children, gets married, governs Camelot, becomes a ruler surpassing even Arthur, but then watches his son get killed in battle, his subjects turn on him, and his family vanish into the dust of his broken hall before he himself, in despair, pulls the enchanted scarf out of his clothing and succumbs to his fate.

In this version, Gawain takes on the responsibility for the fall of Camelot, not Arthur. This is the hero’s burden, but he’s obtained it dishonorably, by cheating. It is a vivid but mimetic future which Gawain (to all appearances) ultimately rejects, returning the film to the realm of traditional Arthurian canon – but not quite. After all, if Gawain does get beheaded after that final fade to black, it would represent a significant alteration from the poem and the character’s usual arc. Are we back in traditional canon or aren’t we? Did Gawain reject that future or didn’t he? Do all these alterities still exist within the visual medium of the meta-text, and have any of them been definitely foreclosed?

Furthermore, the film interrogates itself and its own tropes in explicit and overt ways. In Gawain’s conversation with the Lord, the Lord poses the question that many members of the audience might have: is Gawain going to carry out this potentially pointless and suicidal quest and then be an honorable hero, just like that? What is he actually getting by staggering through assorted Irish bogs and seeming to reject, rather than embrace, the paradigms of a proper quest and that of an honorable knight? He lies about being a knight to the scavengers, clearly out of fear, and ends up cravenly bound and robbed rather than fighting back. He denies knowing anything about love to the Lady (played by Alicia Vikander, who also plays his lover at the start of the film with a decidedly ropey Yorkshire accent, sorry to say). He seems to shrink from the responsibility thrust on him, rather than rise to meet it (his only honorable act, retrieving Winifred’s head, is discussed above) and yet here he still is, plugging away. Why is he doing this? What does he really stand to gain, other than accepting a choice and its consequences (somewhat?) The film raises these questions, but it has no plans to answer them. It’s going to leave you to think about them for yourself, and it isn’t going to spoon-feed you any ultimate moral or neat resolution. In this interchange, it’s easy to see both the echoes of a formal dialogue between two speakers (a favored medieval didactic tactic) and the broader purpose of chivalric literature: to interrogate what it actually means to be a knight, how personal honor is generated, acquired, and increased, and whether engaging in these pointless and bloody “war games” is actually any kind of real path to lasting glory.

The film’s treatment of race, gender, and queerness obviously also merits comment. By casting Dev Patel, an Indian-born actor, as an Arthurian hero, the film is… actually being quite accurate to the original legends, doubtless much to the disappointment of assorted internet racists. The thirteenth-century Arthurian romance Parzival (Percival) by the German poet Wolfram von Eschenbach notably features the character of Percival’s mixed-race half-brother, Feirefiz, son of their father by his first marriage to a Muslim princess. Feirefiz is just as heroic as Percival (Gawaine, for the record, also plays a major role in the story) and assists in the quest for the Holy Grail, though it takes his conversion to Christianity for him to properly behold it.

By introducing Patel (and Sarita Chowdhury as Morgause) to the visual representation of Arthuriana, the film quietly does away with the “white Middle Ages” cliché that I have complained about ad nauseam; we see background Asian and black members of Camelot, who just exist there without having to conjure up some complicated rationale to explain their presence. The Lady also uses a camera obscura to make Gawain’s portrait. Contrary to those who might howl about anachronism, this technique was known in China as early as the fourth century BCE and the tenth/eleventh century Islamic scholar Ibn al-Haytham was probably the best-known medieval authority to write on it extensively; Latin translations of his work inspired European scientists from Roger Bacon to Leonardo da Vinci. Aside from the symbolism of an upside-down Gawain (and when he sees the portrait again during the ‘fall of Camelot’, it is right-side-up, representing that Gawain himself is in an upside-down world), this presents a subtle challenge to the prevailing Eurocentric imagination of the medieval world, and draws on other global influences.

As for gender, we have briefly touched on it above; in the original SGGK, Gawain’s entire journey is revealed to be just a cruel trick of Morgan Le Fay, simply trying to destabilize Arthur’s court and upset his queen. (Morgan is the old blindfolded woman who appears in the Lord and Lady’s castle and briefly approaches Gawain, but her identity is never explicitly spelled out.) This is, obviously, an implicitly misogynistic setup: an evil woman plays a trick on honorable men for the purpose of upsetting another woman, the honorable men overcome it, the hero survives, and everyone presumably lives happily ever after (at least until Mordred arrives).

Instead, by plunging the outcome into doubt and the hero into a much darker and more fallible moral universe, TGK shifts the blame for Gawain’s adventure and ultimate fate from Morgan to Gawain himself. Likewise, Guinevere is not the passive recipient of an evil deception but in a way, the catalyst for the whole thing. She breaks the seal on the Green Knight’s message with a weighty snap; she becomes the oracle who reads it out, she is alarming rather than alarmed, she disrupts the complacency of the court and silently shows up all the other knights who refuse to step forward and answer the Green Knight’s challenge. Gawain is not given the ontological reassurance that it’s just a practical joke and he’s going to be fine (and thanks to the unresolved ending, neither are we). The film instead takes the concept at face value in order to push the envelope and ask the simple question: if a man was going to be actually-for-real beheaded in a year, why would he set out on a suicidal quest? Would you, in Gawain’s place, make the same decision to cast aside the enchanted belt and accept your fate? Has he made his name, will he be remembered well? What is his legacy?

Indeed, if there is any hint of feminine connivance and manipulation, it arrives in the form of the implication that Gawain’s mother has deliberately summoned the Green Knight to test her son, prove his worth, and position him as his childless uncle’s heir; she gives him the protective belt to make sure he won’t actually die, and her intention all along was for the future shown in the epilogue to truly play out (minus the collapse of Camelot). Only Gawain loses the belt thanks to his cowardice in the encounter with the scavengers, regains it in a somewhat underhanded and morally questionable way when the Lady is attempting to seduce him, and by ultimately rejecting it altogether and submitting to his uncertain fate, totally mucks up his mother’s painstaking dynastic plans for his future. In this reading, Gawain could be king, and his mother’s efforts are meant to achieve that goal, rather than thwart it. He is thus required to shoulder his own responsibility for this outcome, rather than conveniently pawning it off on an “evil woman,” and by extension, the film asks the question: What would the world be like if men, especially those who make war on others as a way of life, were actually forced to face the consequences of their reckless and violent actions? Is it actually a “game” in any sense of the word, especially when chivalric literature is constantly preoccupied with the question of how much glorious violence is too much glorious violence? If you structure social prestige for the king and the noble male elite entirely around winning battles and existing in a state of perpetual war, when does that begin to backfire and devour the knightly class – and the rest of society – instead?

This leads into the central theme of Gawain’s relationships with the Lord and Lady, and how they’re treated in the film. The poem has been repeatedly studied in terms of its latent (and sometimes… less than latent) queer subtext: when the Lord asks Gawain to pay back to him whatever he should receive from his wife, does he already know what this involves; i.e. a physical and romantic encounter? When the Lady gives kisses to Gawain, which he is then obliged to return to the Lord as a condition of the agreement, is this all part of a dastardly plot to seduce him into a kinky green-themed threesome with a probably-not-human married couple looking to spice up their sex life? Why do we read the Lady’s kisses to Gawain as romantic but Gawain’s kisses to the Lord as filial, fraternal, or the standard “kiss of peace” exchanged between a liege lord and his vassal? Is Gawain simply being a dutiful guest by honoring the bargain with his host, actually just kissing the Lady again via the proxy of her husband, or somewhat more into this whole thing with the Lord than he (or the poet) would like to admit? Is the homosocial turning homoerotic, and how is Gawain going to navigate this tension and temptation?

If the question is never resolved: well, welcome to one of the central medieval anxieties about chivalry, knighthood, and male bonds! As I have written about before, medieval society needed to simultaneously exalt this as the most honored and noble form of love, and make sure it didn’t accidentally turn sexual (once again: how much male love is too much male love?). Does the poem raise the possibility of serious disruption to the dominant heteronormative paradigm, only to solve the problem by interpreting the Gawain/Lady male/female kisses as romantic and sexual and the Gawain/Lord male/male kisses as chaste and formal? In other words, acknowledging the underlying anxiety of possible homoeroticism but ultimately reasserting the heterosexual norm? The answer: Probably?!?! Maybe?!?! Hell if we know??! To say the least, this has been argued over to no end, and if you locked a lot of medieval history/literature scholars into a room and told them that they couldn’t come out until they decided on one clear answer, they would be in there for a very long time. The poem seemingly invokes the possibility of a queer reading only to reject it – but once again, as in the question of which canon we end up in at the film’s end, does it?

In some lights, the film’s treatment of this potential queer reading comes off like a cop-out: there is only one kiss between Gawain and the Lord, and it is something that the Lord has to initiate after Gawain has already fled the hall. Gawain himself appears to reject it; he tells the Lord to let go of him and runs off into the wilderness, rather than deal with or accept whatever has been suggested to him. However, this fits with film!Gawain’s pattern of rejecting that which fundamentally makes him who he is; like Peter in the Bible, he has now denied the truth three times. With the scavengers he denies being a knight; with the Lady he denies knowing about courtly love; with the Lord he denies the central bond of brotherhood with his fellows, whether homosocial or homoerotic in nature. I would go so far as to argue that if Gawain does die at the end of the film, it is this rejected kiss which truly seals his fate. In the poem, the Lord and the Green Knight are revealed to be the same person; in the film, it’s not clear if that’s the case, or they are separate characters, even if thematically interrelated. If we assume, however, that the Lord is in fact still the human form of the Green Knight, then Gawain has rejected both his kiss of peace (the standard gesture of protection offered from lord to vassal) and any deeper emotional bond that it can be read to signify. The Green Knight could decide to spare Gawain in recognition of the courage he has shown in relinquishing the enchanted belt – or he could just as easily decide to kill him, which he is legally free to do since Gawain has symbolically rejected the offer of brotherhood, vassalage, or knight-bonding by his unwise denial of the Lord’s freely given kiss. Once again, the film raises the overall thematic and moral question and then doesn’t give one straight (ahem) answer. As with the medieval anxieties and chivalric texts that it is based on, it invokes the specter of queerness and then doesn’t neatly resolve it. As a modern audience, we find this unsatisfying, but once again, the film is refusing to conform to our expectations.

As has been said before, there is so much kissing between men in medieval contexts, both ceremonial and otherwise, that we’re left to wonder: “is it gay or is it feudalism?” Is there an overtly erotic element in Gawain and the Green Knight’s mutual “beheading” of each other (especially since in the original version, this frees the Lord from his curse, functioning like a true love’s kiss in a fairytale). While it is certainly possible to argue that the film has “straightwashed” its subject material by removing the entire sequence of kisses between Gawain and the Lord and the unresolved motives for their existence, it is a fairly accurate, if condensed, representation of the anxieties around medieval knightly bonds and whether, as Carolyn Dinshaw put it, a (male/male) “kiss is just a kiss.” After all, the kiss between Gawain and the Lady is uncomplicatedly read as sexual/romantic, and that context doesn’t go away when Gawain is kissing the Lord instead. Just as with its multiple futurities, the film leaves the question open-ended. Is it that third and final denial that seals Gawain’s fate, and if so, is it asking us to reflect on why, specifically, he does so?

The film could play with both this question and its overall tone quite a bit more: it sometimes comes off as a grim, wooden, over-directed Shakespearean tragedy, rather than incorporating the lively and irreverent tone that the poem often takes. It’s almost totally devoid of humor, which is unfortunate, and the Grim Middle Ages aesthetic is in definite evidence. Nonetheless, because of the comprehensive de-historicizing and the obvious lack of effort to claim the film as any sort of authentic representation of the medieval past, it works. We are not meant to understand this as a historical document, and so we have to treat it on its terms, by its own logic, and by its own frames of reference. In some ways, its consistent opacity and its refusal to abide by modern rules and common narrative conventions is deliberately meant to challenge us: as before, when we recognize Arthur, Merlin, the Round Table, and the other stock characters because we know them already and not because the film tells us so, we have to fill in the gaps ourselves. We are watching the film not because it tells us a simple adventure story – there is, as noted, shockingly little action overall – but because we have to piece together the metatext independently and ponder the philosophical questions that it leaves us with. What conclusion do we reach? What canon do we settle in? What future or resolution is ultimately made real? That, the film says, it can’t decide for us. As ever, it is up to future generations to carry on the story, and decide how, if at all, it is going to survive.

(And to close, I desperately want them to make my much-coveted Bisclavret adaptation now in more or less the same style, albeit with some tweaks. Please.)

Further Reading

Ailes, Marianne J. ‘The Medieval Male Couple and the Language of Homosociality’, in Masculinity in Medieval Europe, ed. by Dawn M. Hadley (Harlow: Longman, 1999), pp. 214–37.

Ashton, Gail. ‘The Perverse Dynamics of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Arthuriana 15 (2005), 51–74.

Boyd, David L. ‘Sodomy, Misogyny, and Displacement: Occluding Queer Desire in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Arthuriana 8 (1998), 77–113.

Busse, Peter. ‘The Poet as Spouse of his Patron: Homoerotic Love in Medieval Welsh and Irish Poetry?’, Studi Celtici 2 (2003), 175–92.

Dinshaw, Carolyn. ‘A Kiss Is Just a Kiss: Heterosexuality and Its Consolations in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Diacritics 24 (1994), 205–226.

Kocher, Suzanne. ‘Gay Knights in Medieval French Fiction: Constructs of Queerness and Non-Transgression’, Mediaevalia 29 (2008), 51–66.

Karras, Ruth Mazo. ‘Knighthood, Compulsory Heterosexuality, and Sodomy’ in The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality, ed. Matthew Kuefler (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), pp. 273–86.

Kuefler, Matthew. ‘Male Friendship and the Suspicion of Sodomy in Twelfth-Century France’, in The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality, ed. Matthew Kuefler (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), pp. 179–214.

McVitty, E. Amanda, ‘False Knights and True Men: Contesting Chivalric Masculinity in English Treason Trials, 1388–1415,’ Journal of Medieval History 40 (2014), 458–77.

Mieszkowski, Gretchen. ‘The Prose Lancelot's Galehot, Malory's Lavain, and the Queering of Late Medieval Literature’, Arthuriana 5 (1995), 21–51.

Moss, Rachel E. ‘ “And much more I am soryat for my good knyghts’ ”: Fainting, Homosociality, and Elite Male Culture in Middle English Romance’, Historical Reflections / Réflexions historiques 42 (2016), 101–13.

Zeikowitz, Richard E. ‘Befriending the Medieval Queer: A Pedagogy for Literature Classes’, College English 65 (2002), 67–80.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Diverting a bit from my approach to the writings of the Philokalia, I wish to put forward a few thoughts about how we often think about illness in our lives and how the Holy Fathers offer us fresh insight into the mystery of evil, sin, illness and their place in our struggle for holiness.

Often, when we are young, we do not think much about physical illness and the spiritual life. Life passes quickly as we are fully engaged in our work, studies and ministry and many of us rarely struggle with ill health except for the occasional flu or cold. But when illness does strike, in one form or another, suddenly our busy and “productive” lives can be disrupted and we are forced, as it were, to reconsider a great deal of things; not merely the meaning of health, that we have perhaps taken for granted, but the nature of our relationship with God, the depth of our faith or lack thereof, the meaning of suffering and how to engage it and not to become discourage even when we have been completely humbled by the burden of our physical and emotional vulnerabilities. When such circumstances arise, we are often unprepared for the trial - never imagining or wanting to think about the possibility of such a cross - a cross the comes to most all of us at some point. When illness plunges us into unfamiliar territory, even to the point of death, what place does it have within our struggle toward holiness? How do we pray when prayer seems impossible and when it feels as though our heart has been turned to stone? Where do we find our hope and with what faith must we enter the mystery of illness and suffering in order to know the healing touch of Christ, the Physician of our souls and bodies?

I offer for your consideration today brief excerpts from “The Holy Fathers on Illness” compiled by Bishop Alexander Mileant; in particular those thoughts from the Fathers on “Illness and Work of Perfection”. Their words offer some perspective on sickness and redemptive suffering as a means of glorifying God. There is much to say certainly about the meaning and origins of illness well beyond the purview of a simple post, but the Fathers show us in word and deed that it can be and often is a privileged way of holiness. Through thankfulness, endurance, and patience one can realize the highest form of ascetic practice and follow a spiritual path to intimacy with God. At such moments, one may exhibit no extraordinary virtue other than to suffer illness and its poverty with patience and so have this as one’s path to salvation. Thus, the Fathers’ words are full of hope and challenge:

“The desert ascetic Father, St. Abba Dorotheus, exhorts his disciples to "take the trouble to find out where you are: whether you have left your own town but remain just outside the gates, by the garbage dump, or whether you have gone ahead little or much, or whether you are half way on your journey, or whether you have gone two miles, then come back two miles, or perhaps even five miles, or whether you have journeyed as far as the Holy City and entered into Jerusalem itself, or whether you have remained outside and are unable to enter" (On Vigilance and Sobriety).

Illness helps us to see "where we are" on life's road: "sickness is a lesson from God and serves to help us in our progress if we give thanks to Him" (Sts. Barsanuphius and John, Philokalia).

No one may use illness as an excuse for resting from the labor of spiritual living. "Perhaps some might think that illness and bodily weakness hinder the work of perfection since the works and accomplishments of one's hands cannot continue. But it is not a hindrance" (St. Ambrose, Jacob and the Happy Life).

In the life of Riassophore-monk John, latter-day disciple of St. Nilus of Sora, we see how bodily infirmity is not allowed to interrupt the struggle for salvation. Riassophore-monk John was a cripple; because of this he had been compelled to leave the Monastery of St. Cyril of New Lake. Feeling sorry for himself, he shortly afterwards was standing for an all-night vigil in the deep of winter. "Suddenly he saw an unknown Elder in schema come out of the altar to him and say: 'Well, apparently you do not wish to serve me. If so, return to St. Cyril.

"At these words, the Elder struck him with his right hand quite strongly on the shoulder. Noting that the Elder exactly resembled St. Nilus as he is depicted on the icon over his relics, John was filled with great joy, all his grief disappeared, and he firmly resolved to spend the rest of his life in the Saint's skete" (The Northern Thebaid).

Even if we are bedridden, we are to continue the struggle against the passions, producing fruits worthy of repentance. This work of perfection demands that we acquire patience and longsuffering. What better way to do this than when we lie on a bed of infirmity? St. Tikhon of Zadonsk says that in suffering we can find out whether our faith is living or just "theoretical." The test of true faith is patience in the midst of sufferings, for "patience is the Christian's coat of arms." "What is it to follow Christ?" he asks. It is "to endure all things, looking upon Christ Who suffered. Many wish to be glorified with Christ, but few seek to remain with the suffering Christ. Yet not merely by tribulation, but even in much tribulation does one enter the Kingdom of God."

To those who suppose that they can only progress in the spiritual life when all else is "well," St. John Cassian replies, "You should not think that you can find virtue when you are not irritated — for it is not in your power to prevent troubles from happening. Rather, you should look for patience as the result of your own humility and longsuffering, for patience does depend upon your own will" {Institutes). Towards the end of his life, St. Seraphim of Sarov suffered from open ulcers on his legs. "Yet," as his Life tells us, "in appearance he was always bright and cheerful, for in spirit he felt that heavenly peace and joy which are the riches of the glorious inheritance of the saints."

"You are stricken by this sickness," the Holy Fathers say, "so that you will not depart barren to God. If you can endure, and give thanks to God, this sickness will be accounted to you as a spiritual work" (Sts. Barsanouphius and John, Philokalia).

Bishop Theophan the Recluse explains: "Enduring unpleasant things cheerfully, you approach a little to the martyrs. But if you complain, you will not only lose your share with the martyrs, but will be responsible for complaining besides. Therefore, be cheerful!"

In order not to lose heart when we fall sick we are to think about and mentally "kiss the sufferings of our Savior just as though we were with Him while He suffers abuses, wounds, humiliations...shame, the pain of the nails, the piercing with the lance, the flow of water and blood. From this we will receive consolation in our sickness. Our Lord will not let these efforts go unrewarded " (St. Tikhon of Zadonsk).

The patience we can learn on a sickbed cannot be overemphasized. Elder Macarius of Optina wrote about this to one who was ill:

"I was much pleased to hear from your relation how bravely you are bearing the cruel scourge of your heavy sickness. Verily, as the man of the flesh perishes, so is the spiritual man renewed."

And to another he wrote: "Praised be the Lord that you accept your illness so meekly! The bearing of sickness with patience and gratitude is reckoned highly by Him Who often rewards sufferers with His imperishable gifts.

"Ponder these words: Though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed."

St. Ambrose of Milan compared an infirm body to a broken musical instrument. He explained how the "musician" can still produce God-pleasing "music" without his instrument:

"If a man used to singing to the accompaniment of a harp finds the harp broken, and its strings undone...he puts it aside and instead of calling for its notes he delights himself with his own voice.

"In the same way, a sick man allows the harp of his body to lie unused. He finds delight within his heart and comfort in the knowledge that his conscience is clear. He sustains himself with God's words and the prophetic writings and, holding these sweet and pleasant in his soul, he embraces them with his mind. Nothing can happen to him because God's graceful presence breathes favor upon him....He is filled with spiritual tranquility" (Jacob and the Happy Life).

Quite often the most God-pleasing spiritual "music" of all is produced in anonymity, by unknown or nearly-unknown saints. But such holy "melodies" are all the more sweet because they are heard by God alone. One such modern sufferer who lived an angel-like life in spite of advanced and terrible sickness was the holy New Russian Martyr, Mother Maria of Gatchina. Her story is known to us only because it pleased God to providentially arrange for one of her visitors, Professor I. M. Andreyev, to record his memories of her.

Mother Maria suffered from encephalitis (inflammation of the brain) and Parkinson's disease. "Her whole body became as it were chained and immovable, her face anemic and like a mask; she could speak, but she began to talk with half-closed mouth, through her teeth, pronouncing slowly and in a monotone. She was a total invalid and was in constant need of help and careful looking after. Usually this disease proceeds with sharp psychological changes, as a result of which such patients often ended up in psychiatric hospitals. But Mother Maria, being a total physical invalid, not only did not degenerate psychically, but revealed completely extraordinary features of personality and character not characteristic of such patients: she became extremely meek, humble, submissive, undemanding, concentrated in herself; she became engrossed in constant prayer, bearing her difficult condition without the least murmuring.

"As if as a reward for this humility and patience, the Lord sent her a gift: consolation of the sorrowing. Completely strange and unknown people, finding themselves in sorrows, grief, depression, and despondency, began to visit her and converse with her. And everyone who came to her left consoled, feeling an illumination of their grief, a pacifying of sorrow, a calming of fears, a taking away of depression and despondency" (The Orthodox Word, vol. 13, no. 3).

"Thus God has acted. Like a provident Father and not like a kidnapper has He first involved us in grievous things, giving us over to tribulation as it were to schoolmasters and teachers, so that being chastened and sobered by these things we may, after showing forth all patience and learning, all right discipline, inherit the Kingdom of Heaven" (St. John Chrysostom, Homily 18, On the Statues).”

Excerpts taken from:

Missionary Leaflet # EA30

466 Foothill Blvd, Box 397, La Canada, Ca 91011

Editor: Bishop Alexander (Mileant)

[arilie]

GOD OF WAR

Ares!Eren X GreekPrincess!Reader

Rating: NSFW

Summary: A war waged on a small island that guarded a prize wanted by all of Greece. After years of bloodshed and battles, an unknown warrior graces the battlefield. He swiftly disposes of the armies and makes it to the gates of the castle that held the golden trophy. You stared into his eyes and realized who he was, and that he had come to claim you.

A/N: This was started at like two in the morning and I stayed up wayyyy too late writing it. Shoutout to Izzy for the prompt, this will definitely be a multiple part series because I have so many ideas. Enjoy!

IMPORTANT: this work was inspired by the art posted by @/artofneight on Instagram. Here’s the link to their page!

↓

https://instagram.com/artofneight?igshid=x1dz5mawokpj

Please do not repost my work without proper credit. Likes, reblogs and feedback is greatly appreciated!!

Helen was known to be the most beautiful woman in all of Greece. Thousands of men and mighty kings fought in Troy for a decade in her name. Even the great hero Achilles was seen on the battlefield, roaring in the name of great Helen. You wondered if she was truly that beautiful, and if her hand in marriage was worth so much bloodshed. As you looked out the window of your bedroom and onto the fortified walls of the castle, you also wondered if this is what she saw. Massive walls caging the castle in a protective circle. A sea of men armed to their necks in weapons stood before the walls. Beyond them were fields that were once a vibrant green. After years of war, the plains were now brown from all the blood they’ve soaked. It wasn’t unusual for you to sit beside your window and stare at the clouds of smoke and listen to the distant sounds of the battles. You have debated if this was all worth the deaths and massacres you’re sure have occurred on your land.

Five years later, the effort to overthrow your father and his reign was still raging on. Your people had options of course: side with the traitors or remain under the rule of the royal family. Those still loyal were the ones serving in your military. But after years of grueling battles your numbers were starting to fall. Your military fought against those part of the coup, and those from other kingdoms. The other nations of Greece were patient and their patience was rewarded with the uprising that suddenly occurred. They took the opportunity to try and take the island themselves. Many of them focused their efforts on the sea, fighting off other nations who wanted to join the war. Those who made it on land either joined the coup or fought against them. The island and its treasures were the spoils of war, but the biggest prize gazed out of a palace window deep on the island.

-

Winter was finally coming to an end, and you saw Demeter’s happiness in the way your plants were flourishing. They were the only things you could really have since the war started. Everything else went towards the war effort and trying to keep the army afloat. You stroked the petal of the flowers perched on your window. Persephone finally returned home from the underworld, and your flowers shared her mother’s joy. The air still had a chill from the remaining fragments of winter. You pulled on the silk that rested on your shoulders. The morning was still frigid and you wanted nothing more than to bury under the warm covers on your bed. Before you could act on your temptations, a knock was heard from your door.

“Y/n? Are you awake yet?”

“Yes I am awake. Please come in.” You replied.

A maid dressed in a simple dress entered your bedroom. In her hands she held a shining dress that had beautiful lace adorning it. You frowned at the item in her hands and stood from your spot near the window. The maid had placed the offending dress on a chair while she fussed over your bed. Watching her tidy the bed made you sigh in regret about not having dove under the covers. You picked up the dress and tried to keep the frown from deepening on your face. You knew this was expensive, you grew up with lavishness and riches many dreamed of. You were a woman after all, who didn’t like a new sparkling dress? But you knew your people—those left—needed it more than you did.

“Did this recently come in?” You asked.

The young maid jumped slightly at being addressed. “Yes my lady, the seamstress that has always made your clothes dropped it off this morning. She left some other items as well, but I thought you might want to wear that today.”

You hummed as an answer and placed the dress back on the chair. The soft patter of your feet was heard as you crossed your bedroom to the wardrobe that contained your clothes. You opened it, picked out an equally expensive dress and held it up.

“I’ve worn this dress maybe once, and I have hundreds more that haven’t even been touched. I don’t think I need new ones. I’ll take what I absolutely need from the seamstress. I want you to sell the rest and distribute it evenly among the workers in the palace.”

The poor girl flushed deep red. You didn’t know if it was at the generosity you just displayed, or the fact that she somehow displeased you.

“Please don’t think you have offended me. I appreciate the thought and tell the seamstress I loved it. What happens to my clothes stays between us, you understand?” You said.

The pink-cheeked girl nodded her head up and down furiously. You smiled at her and gestured for her to help you get dressed. She scurried behind you and helped you remove your nightgown. The linen on the dress you took out was soft against your skin. You thanked the girl for helping you and you finished tying off the dress.

“What’s your name?” You asked.

“My name is Clio, your highness.” The maid answered.

“From now on you’ll be the only one who is allowed to dress me. I look forward to getting to know you, Clio.” You smiled at the younger girl. She stammered before thanking you profusely. You reached out and stroked her hair lovingly.

“Please go and do what I said for my clothes. Once it’s done come by and let me know.” You said.

Clio curtsied before she grabbed the glittering dress from the chair and rushed out of the room. You glanced down at the one you put on and realized it really was one you barely wore. The war made you realize how much you had, and how little others did. You straightened your shoulders and shook the thoughts out of your head. Every morning you and your parents met to discuss any changes in the war. It was usually the same thing every dawn, this army retreated while the other was victorious. You saw no end to it all.

The palace walls were still warming up after the cold night that passed. You were grateful for the warm dress you picked out earlier that morning. Each servant that passed by greeted you and you responded with a soft “good morning” to each one. You were known to be kind and elegant. Your mother taught you well on the principles of how to be a princess. Even though it was rumored you were among the most beautiful princesses in Greece, you were sure you were the most boring. You kept to yourself and focused your energy on your people and your kingdom. You didn’t know how to entertain, let alone keep the attention of a man. If it wasn’t for the war, you’re sure you’d be stumbling from one match up to the next.

The throne room was grand and fitted for the rulers of the kingdom. Your father and mother’s thrones were the same in height, displaying the natural balance they shared in power. You were raised to believe that no man was allowed to keep you as a pretty ornate on his arm. You were born to rule, and that’s what you would do. The chair beside your father’s was yours. It was smaller, but no less striking and imposing. It was in this room you all listened to the pleas and demands of your people. The room has been empty of any subjects since the war began. You walked through the room and took a turn into another, more private room. This was where you and your parents met every morning.

“Good morning my darling y/n, how was your sleep?” Your father stood from the chair he was occupying. You smiled warmly at him and walked into his embrace.

“It was fine, father. Although I can see that yours wasn’t as peaceful.” You remarked. The bags under his eyes seemed more pronounced, and his hair continued to gray at lightning speed.

“War does that to a person I’m afraid. You’re old enough to understand.” The king said.

You gave him a look before your mother came in with a swirl of fragrance and poise. She captured everyone in the room in the grace she held herself in. You were in awe of her when you were little, and you hoped you could have a husband who looked at you like your father did your mother.

“Good morning mother. I was just telling father that he needs to prioritize his rest. He looks like he’s already preparing for Thanatos to come pay a visit.” You teased. Your father still had his arms around you and pinched your hip in retaliation. You squealed and jumped away.

“Yes he certainly does look that way doesn’t he? One could say he’s already in Hades’ domain.” Your mother replied. You heard your father huff in mock anger before the queen kissed his cheek in apology.

“Now that we have concluded the discussion on my withering, I have some news for the both of you.” Your father said. His face suddenly turned serious and the prospect of something finally changing in the war made you sit down in the chair beside his.

“Plague has struck all of the armies except ours. Even those participating in the coup against us have fallen gravely ill. I got this report this morning. I have yet to talk to a priest, but I am not sure if this is the work of a god yet.”

You blinked up at him while you tried to process his words. A plague had struck. Your army was spared but for how long? You picked at the skin beside your nails, a habit your mother has tried to break all your life. The woman in question looked horrified for a second before she composed herself. She was calm and collected whereas my father was brash.

“That’s not all; a warrior has risen among the armies. It seems that he fights alone. I’ve gotten reports that he plows through every brigade and unit mercilessly. He’s getting closer and closer to the castle each day.” Your father said grimly.

This news made your breath hitch. If the so-called warrior made it to the walls—no, if he made it passed them—he’d ask for a reward. You turned to look at your father and saw he was already looking at you.

“If he makes it here, he’ll ask for me as a prize, won’t he?” You asked.

Your father sighed and rubbed at his eyes. Such casualness was only reserved for you and his wife. In front of others he must always convey an act of indifference; not letting his emotions show. You knew giving your hand in marriage was something that had to be included in a peace offering. He wished he could keep you safe in the palace forever, but the bloody war had to come to an end.

“Father, it is alright if he does ask for my hand. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this war end. I want peace as desperately as you do. Our people have suffered too much.” You clasped his hand away from his face and into yours.

Your mother remained quiet, but you expected nothing less. She was more distant with you, having grown up in a different nation with different rules. She didn’t approve of your independence, but you knew she’d agree with you. The king seemed to age in his seat more as he debated your statement. You couldn’t stand to see him in this state any longer.

Before you could answer, your mother intervened, “It is decided then. If he does make it to the castle and gets past the walls, we will give him what he asks for. If that prize is y/n, we can use it to convince the other kingdoms to sign a treaty. The biggest prize would have been claimed and the war doesn’t need to continue.”

You digested your mother’s words and let go of your fathers hand so he wouldn’t feel the tremble in your fingers. You hoped the warrior slashing through all those men would be kind to you. You felt like a child again, hoping that fate would give you mercy for once.

-

The next morning, you were abruptly woken to the shouts of the guards outside your window. You stirred in your sleep, not paying much mind to the ruckus of men. Then you realized, those men were the ones guarding the walls. You jolted upright in your bed and swung the covers off of your body. The chill of the morning air bit at your exposed arms and legs. Clinging to the side of the window, you watched as the men outside all fought against a single enemy. At first, you were confused as to why it took so many of them. You didn’t see infantries and captains on horses. Then a single chill ran down your spine as you realized: the warrior.

You quickly opened your wardrobe and pulled out the first dress you could find. You hastily undressed yourself and put the dress on. If he made it past the walls, you needed to be present. It was just yesterday you were discussing this. Had he been that close already? Who was this man?

Having the dress securely on, you almost sprinted out the door of your bedroom. You hurried to the throne room where no doubt your parents were also arriving at. When you entered, you saw your mother sitting on her throne with her king pacing before her. You walked quickly to them and stood before their thrones gasping for breath. You made eye contact with your mother and for the first time in your life you saw nervousness. Your mother’s blatant show of emotions did nothing to stop the galloping of your heart.

The doors of the throne room were slammed open and you all turned towards the intruder. Standing before you was a man well over six feet. His hips had a white cloth around them that hung loose. His torso was bare and exposed, a clear sign of strength. No wounds were littering the ripples of muscle that shifted as he walked towards you. What armor he did have clanged as he walked; the bronze pieces were placed on his shoulders and around his calves. Dark brown sandals adorned his feet, and he held a mighty spear with one hand and a shield in the other. The shield had two wings adorned on it, a symbol that seemed almost familiar. Once he got close enough, he removed his helmet to reveal his handsome face. His brows were furrowed and his eyes were a forest green. His jaw was sharp and was clenched shut. His hair was past his shoulders and the brown accentuated his beautiful eyes.

You backed up against your father, and he came to stand before you. No words were spoken in the first few seconds, the shock of it all weighing on your shoulders. The warrior then inclined his head in a greeting. His lack of bow indicated he was someone important, of higher or equal standard to your father.

“Greetings. I have fought against many men and many armies to make it to this fortress. I heard a tale that a beautiful maiden was hidden away here. I have come to claim her as my prize.” The warrior said.

Your father didn’t react at first and you saw his fists clenched by his sides. Your mother soon came too and took his hand, instantly relaxing him.

“May we ask first who you are? It has been many years since this war began, and not one army has made it halfway to this castle. Yet here you stand, alone.” Your mother’s tone was curious.

“This war has been going on long enough, with no end in sight. As you said, no one has gotten remotely close to this castle. I thought it was about time I stepped in and put an end to things.” The warrior smiled and the wings on his shield glowed. I gasped as I finally remembered, the wings were the symbol of the gods. A man who obliterated armies and made it here alone was no man at all.

I stepped forward and passed my parents. The warrior—god, looked into my eyes and a warmth spread throughout my entire body. None of us spoke again, we stared into each other’s eyes as if looking for the answers to our own questions. I went through all the names of the gods and who would have any remote interest in a human war.

“I am Ares, god of war and brother to Zeus, king of the gods. I quite enjoyed the prayers and offerings this war brought to me in the beginning. But I believe this war has lasted too long now.” Ares said.

You felt a hand wrap around your arm before you were dragged back and into the chest of your father. You trembled in his grasp, not quite believing what you were hearing. The god of war has come to claim the prize all of Greece was fighting for. Not just any minor god either, an Olympian.

“Ares, god of war, you are welcomed into my home and in my kingdom. We will do our best to ensure your comfort and pleasure while you are here. But if I may be so bold, is my daughter really the only prize you want?” The king asked. You glanced at the glowing god before you and his eyes held a humor to them.

“Yes, I’d like your daughter’s hand in marriage. My siblings have claimed mortals as their spouses and I have yet to. Of course, if my wish is granted I will also stop the war.”

You froze at the last sentence. If you accepted his request, you could end the war for once and for all. You wove out of your father’s protective arms and turned towards the god of war. You took a deep breath in, looked at him in the eyes and curtsied as low as you could.

“I accept your request, my lord. So long as you end the suffering that my people have endured all these years, I will be your wife.” You said shakily.

Ares grinned as he lifted his hand towards you. You took his offered palm and he lifted you off the ground with ease. “Starting now, you will be my equal. You bow down to no one, not even to me.”

You widen your eyes in surprise before you nod your head. You turn back to your parents and a look of bewilderment overtook their features. Ares pulled on your hand some more until you were pressed against his side. His body radiates warmth and power. His smell was that of the hearth and firewood. It was intoxicating.

“Please announce the news that y/n is engaged. I will see to it that this war can finally end on peaceful terms.” Ares declared. Your parents looked at each other before they looked at you. You were still in shock of the events happening, but you gave them a reassuring nod. It was the start of something unforgettable.

-

Ares had kept his word and made sure the war ended. He revealed himself to the armies of Greece and declared your kingdom under his protection. Soon the armies dispersed and left your land barren for the first time in five years. The princess y/n was finally claimed, and Ares was the one who got her hand in marriage.

You spent most of your time enjoying the freedom you had once again. You were able to take strolls out in the gardens and pick more flowers for your bedroom. Ares had been occupied with the ending of the war, but he made sure to visit when he had the chance. He was witty, sarcastic, and everything a god should be. He was radiant and you quickly grew infatuated with him. He joined you on your strolls to the garden and helped you pick flowers. It had been months now since he first arrived at your castle, declaring that he would marry you. The wedding preparations were going as fast as they could after the end of a war.

You picked up a lily that you found and smelled it. The aroma made you sigh in delight. Arms suddenly encircled your waist and a strong chest pressed against your back. You kept the flower close to your face as you were turned to face the perpetrator. Ares glanced down at you and noticed the petals hiding the blush on your cheeks. He chuckled to himself and slowly moved the flower away from your face. He traced your features with his fingers and the gesture had your knees weak.

“We are intended to be married, yet you still blush in my presence.” He said.

“You are a god and I am a mere mortal. I still do not understand why you chose me as your prize.” You confessed.

He grew suddenly serious and you were afraid you had said something offensive. You opened your mouth to apologize when he leaned down to kiss you. His lips were as warm as the rest of him, and their softness made you melt against him. He grabbed your waist and pulled you towards him so his burning chest was against yours. You realized that he was always warm as if he was aflame. Your hands twitched before they reached for his shoulders. He sighed against your lips as they moved with practice and ease. His silky hair brushed against your fingers as you held onto his shoulders for support.

When he pulled away, he leaned his forehead against yours and cupped your cheek. His thumb stroked against the blush still present on your skin. You blinked up at him, still in awe of the kiss he placed on your lips.

“I’ve heard about you for some time now. I knew of your beauty first and was intrigued. Then I watched over you and saw how truly cared for your people. You’d put their happiness over yours in a heartbeat. I admire that, you’d make a fine queen.” He said softly.

You let out a breath and used your grip on his shoulders to drag his addicting lips back to yours. You felt bold as you stood on the tips of your toes and crashed your lips against his. His shock only lasted a second before he cupped your face with both hands. The kiss was more intense than the first, a clear longing present in his tongue as it brushed against your lip. Electricity shot down to your toes as you granted him passage, and you didn’t know if kissing you was enjoyable due to your inexperience. His tongue prodded at yours and coaxed it into a dance that had your legs shaking.

Finally breaking apart, you looked into his deep green eyes once again. His mouth was pulled into a mischievous smirk, and you gave him a small smile in return. If he was to be your husband, you figured you could enjoy the pleasantries that came with your marriage.

“You make me feel like a mortal barely plunging into maturity. I can barely control myself around you.” Ares whispered.

“I am to be your wife, please don’t hold back.” You replied. Your eyes were sultry and he quickly grabbed your arm before pulling you back into the castle. Your chest was full of fluttering monarchs at the prospect of him finally letting go and indulging himself in you.

Servants and soldiers watched you with silent eyes as the god of war dragged you to your chambers. Your blush was evident, and you thanked his siblings for watching over you and placing your parents in another part of the castle.

The door to your bedroom was pushed open and once it closed Ares pushed your back against it. You huffed at the slight force and impact before your lips were once again trapped against his. He snaked his knee between your knees and pressed it against you. You gasped at the feeling and decided to be bold again as you grind down against his thigh. He groaned against your mouth before departing from it. He placed kisses along your jaw and sucked on the space just beneath it. He continued to place searing kisses on your neck as he used his leg to further drive you up the door.

“I won’t take you here, not until you have the security of our marriage as comfort. But there are other things we can do.” Ares mumbled into your neck. He pulled back to look at you, flustered and with lust swirling in your eyes. He suddenly reached under your thighs and lifted you up. Your legs wrapped around his lithe waist and he carried you towards your bed.

He gently placed you on the soft cushion and began to slowly untie your linen dress. You stroked his arms and admired the muscle that rippled under the skin like strong waves in a storm. Once your dress was untied, he pulled it up and you took the indication to sit up. He took the dress up and over your head as you lifted your arms. The dress fluttered onto the floor beside your bed as you laid back down. You were told all your life that your beauty could rival Helen’s, but you didn’t believe it until the god in front of you stared at you like you placed the cosmos in the sky.

He leaned down and began to place kisses down your chest until he reached your chest. He whispered praise against your skin as he took one into his mouth and held the other. You took in a sharp breath and let out a low whine as he worked you into oblivion. His tongue was running over your nipple and you squirmed beneath his strong body as he massaged the other. He finally relented and switched breasts until he had you moaning. He smirked up at you as you gasped in the air you desperately needed.

“I’ve barely just begun and you’re already so responsive. I can’t wait for our waiting night.” The god quipped. He trailed his lips lower until it got to the undergarments that covered you. He pulled them down from your hips and his eyes sparkled at how wet you were already. He placed kisses against your inner thighs as he pulled the piece of fabric off of your legs. Then he breathed against you until he placed his mouth on your clit. You threw your head back and cried out. You’ve touched yourself and are aware of what you like and don’t. But all of your preferences were forgotten as he ate you out like a starved man. He moaned against you as your hands reached down to pull on his hair. He licked and sucked on your clit until you were writhing in pleasure, but it wasn’t enough.

“Ares, please…” you whined.

“Use your words, darling. What do you need?” He said.

Your chest heaved as he continued to suck your clothes making you take longer to respond. “Need your fingers inside. Wanna feel them inside please.”

Evergreen eyes looked up at you, and the sight of the god of war between your thighs had you losing your breath. His hand resting on one of your legs came up to your entrance. He erotically licked his lips and slowly eased them into you. Your head was thrown back as you moaned into your pillow. He began to pump his long fingers until his hand was in up to his knuckle. He began to make a motion upwards that had the tips of his fingers press against a spot within you that made you yelp. He grinned up at you as he began to twist and push against the same spot. There was a pressure in your abdomen as he continued to pleasure you. Then his mouth was on you again and you were crying out his name.

“Ares! Yes, right there! Please, please make me cum. I want to cum, let me cum please.” You cried. Your pleading words increased his efforts and you moaned loudly. His hair was still gripped between your fingers and his unoccupied hand was digging bruises into your hip. You felt scorching hot pleasure shoot from your core to the rest of your body.

“Cum for me, y/n. Show me how good I make you feel.” Ares growled beneath you.

One final push and suck had you opening your mouth in a silent scream. The pressure in you finally released making you feel white hot pleasure. Your legs shook as Ares continued his ministrations, prolonging your orgasm into the realm of overstimulation. You whimpered once you came down from your high, pulling against his hair to indicate you were done. He looked up at you and he licked his lips as if the very ambrosia that gave him sustenance was placed within you. He licked his fingers in the same manner, and you felt your body heat up again at the display. He crawled up your body and captured your lips in a searing kiss. You tasted your essence and didn’t mind as his tongue pushed against yours.

He pulled away and laid beside you as he took you into his arms. “That was just a glimpse into the pleasure I can bring to you. When we are married, I’ll lay my claim on you in the most passionate way.”

You smiled up at him and placed your hands on his chest. This was barely the beginning of your life with him, and you couldn’t deny the want and need the thrummed within you. An Olympian, the very god of war chose you as his. You were ready to see what else that entailed.

[bigkyloenergy]

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead, my first fic so please leave me alone. 

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back. 

read on ao3.

For some reason, you found yourself waiting for him. 

You’d noticed a routine in his travels, the Viper routinely found rest at the inn you worked at every 3 weeks. Nearly on the dot, which was odd to you. Most of the stories you’d heard of witchers told of contracts in kingdoms you didn’t even know how to pronounce, and The Phesantry wasn’t the most comfy place in Beaumont. Maybe it was because it was close to the palace, maybe he had someone there. You wondered so many things about a man whose eyes were the only thing you’d ever seen of his face. Deep yellow, piercing as the blades he kept, ones to match his title. 

The wind warned of a storm as you kneeled at the stables, changing the water that one of the helper boys promised he did. Of course you couldn’t count on them, no one in the damned inn seemed to know any responsibility beyond serving ale. 

  “Room for one more?” You nearly dropped the rag onto your shoes, not that they weren’t dirty enough. There the Viper stood, holding the reigns of his steed that was as dark as the cloaks he wore, one of the most beautiful you’d ever laid your eyes on. 

  “For Luxe? Always, she’s the sweetest girl I ever took care of,” first, your eyes went to the mask he donned — one that you swore was carved intricately by a blacksmith, but you’d never gotten close enough to be sure. He didn’t answer you, leading her into the remaining stall you’d just cleaned. His head nearly hit the top of it, and you had to stifle a grin as you looked back to the bucket. Speak, figure out something to say. Anything to say. Keep him out here with you.

  “The storm bring you this way?” 

Turning to you, he ducked under the archway this time, a raven lock escaping his hood in the process. You forgot how your lungs worked for a moment. 

  “No. Monster’s nest nearby causing trouble.” 

You stood now, still feeling dwarfed in his presence, having to tilt your chin slightly in order to meet his awaiting gaze. Nodding, as if it was a normal day in the neighborhood. “Lucky me then,” shit, you did not just say that, shifting on your boots, you cleared your throat, “more business.” 

It wasn’t just how big he was, that you had gotten past — or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Men, normal men, weren’t nearly as tall as your mutant guest, they all still barely met his shoulders in comparison. But the energy, the way the air got thick made you feel aware of each nerve under touch starved skin.

  “Business? Ah, for my coin, hm? Not the gwent players I’ve brought you?” You grinned this time, genuinely, circling him only to meet the horse with the cloth you’d been wringing out. Slowly you brushed the journey’s dirt from her eyes, it being much easier to speak with the witcher when you weren’t making eye contact. 

  “You may as well be some use to me, haven’t you noticed that you have a room now specifically made for you? Do you know why that is, Mr. Viper?” You waited for his response, turning back to him when you didn’t receive one only to find a curious, orange eyed man doing the same, so you continued, “Imprints on the mattress, only a man at a stocking six foot giant can be comfortable in that bed. And do you know how many of those I get here?” 

His eye twitched.

  “One. Who doesn’t come nearly enough to have a special bed of his own.” He stepped closer, one step, but enough to feel like your vision had suddenly been suffocated by nothing but him.

  “And what would I have to do to earn my place?” Fuck. What? Why did his voice sound so damn enticing. You swallowed the saliva collecting in your mouth, trying to grasp a response. A gloved hand reached up, leather skating over your lower lip, edging you further.

  “Uh — I’m sure I can find... some work... something,” as your mouth parted with your words, he forced his thumb in, and you gladly took it. Your tongue curled as he pressed down, heat siphoning between your legs while he watched you. Awaiting. A serpent with his prey. 

  “I’m sure you can,” You wanted him to touch you more, so badly. and if you knew more about his kind you’d know that he could hear every single pump of your heart — note every restriction of breath, “I think we’ve figured it out, haven’t we?” 

You sucked in a lungful, the brisk air not the only thing to blame for the gooseflesh that riddled your body. Nodding, this time not being hesitant in your determination to study his eyes — ones carved with violence, promises of death. He collected your skirts in one hand, enough have your legs completely exposed. “Dirty thing. You want this, don’t you? You want me to touch you out here, make you cum in these stables? 

Nodding so fast you could of kinked your neck, your supple thighs parted in invitation. Which wasn’t enough for him. 

  “Say it.” 

God damn it. This had to be something out of your dreams. A fantasy you conjured submerged in slumber.  

  “Yes,” you purred, heavy eyelids fluttering shut, his thumb still hindering your speech, “I want you to touch me, right now, please.” 

  “Good girl.” 

Within a literal blink of an eye, your bodice was torn directly from your chest. Greedy hands found your breasts, leaving your mouth empty and gasping while the harsh leather rolled your nipple between the pads of his digits, earning a soft moan. This only seemed to enable the Viper, hitching one of your legs onto his waist, forcing you onto your toes while your back hit the angled wood that made up the horse-keep. Even in the dark, his hues shone like the sun itself, refusing to break under the moon’s pressure. 

Curling into his body, your ankle made like an anchor at the back of his solid thigh, wishing you weren’t wearing shoes so that you may be able to wiggle your toes and feel his length. He gave too much restriction to allow you to push yourself against him, leaving you aching to know if he was hard under the light armor he dressed in. 

A finger dipped into your underwear, peeling them from your cunt, hearing a hiss from under his mask when he finally met the saturated folds under them. Swallowing thick, you didn’t even bother to attempt to look behind him — let the boats on the dock have a show, not that they could see anything but your leg past his broad frame. You never thought leather could feel so good, the seam of it meeting your clit in the most delicious way. 

  “Fuck. You’re so wet. Filthy whore, have you just been waiting for someone to come lift your skirts back here?” His chest pushed you harder against the pillar, your jaw slack with carnal pleasure while he began to circle, tight motions, listening to your body through it. His other palm was secured against your hip, keeping you where he wanted you, now noticing that this was just leaving a better view for him. Your thigh hit the hilt of the dagger at his side when you writhed, hissing through your teeth at the contrast from the warmth radiating from your body. 

  “Hm.” Your eyes jerked opened the moment he stopped, then his fingers were plunging into you — sending speckles into your hindered vision. His thumb kept within the territory of absolute euphoria, finding a rhythm with the tiny bundle of nerves that had you babbling nonsense, please and yesyesyes wondering how someone could even feel this good. By just using their hand.

The one that kept you still promised bruises into your soft curves, the strand of hair you cherished earlier being met with more as he craned over you, discovering a braid in the mix of tendrils that somehow turned you on further. 

  “I’m close,” you warned the moment he curled his fingers into you, sweat beading on your bare chest, eye contact much easier when the Viper was lulling you over the edge of an orgasm. Again, your nipple was being stretched, pulled, twisted as an act of further drowning you in this primal delight, this personal gratification right outside of the place you worked. 

And it worked, you were plucked at the center, coming completely undone under the stranger’s will. “Fuck, so tight, slut.” He shoved another finger into you for good measure as your ribbed walls clenched around him, a frenzy of motions from your climax descending you into another reality, your moans enough to alert the guests inside of exactly what was being done to you. 

Removing himself, you watched him under thick lashes while he mapped out your body, as if he needed one last image for memory before he continued on with his business. But not before his fingers were returning to your mouth, forcing you to taste what he’d just conjured from you, and you sucked every bit off of the rough material as a reward. 

  “Kylo.” He finally spoke, taking a step to free you from your position against the stables.

  “What?” You hadn’t even had time to collect yourself, the skirts falling back over your legs as you attempted to close your bodice in a way that was modest enough to get back to your room. 

  “My name,” the Viper explained, “I want to hear it next time I make you cum.” 

And with that, he was off, leaving you with a muddled mind and swollen cunt. 

[ask-de-writer]

DESORA : Part 3 of 11 : Classical Fantasy : Green  Velvet sequel

Desora is the second sequel to GREEN VELVET.

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Classical Fantasy

DESORA

Part 3 of 11

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

16893 words

© 2021

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may   reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge   for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

///////////////////////

Letting her outrage show, Desora withdrew a parchment document from her sleeve and slapped it down on the table.  “Recently, I found that Cedroc put out this proclamation shortly after I left his Court to come here.  It calls my land the so called Duchy of Evenstar, as if this Duchy were not given by Written Grant and Patent Royal!”

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Organe asked dryly, “Isn’t that a violation of Fealty?  What does your Grant and Patent say of that?  May I see the documents?”

Mistress Root was sent to the Scriptal for the documents upon which Evenstar was based.  She brought them and laid them on the table in front of Organe so swiftly that I barely saw the movement.  Brownies dislike being seen.

Organe absently said, “Thank you, Mistress Root.”  She was already deep into the intricacies of the legal documents.  Muttering to herself, “. . . the tip of Narthen Peak to the western end of Callas Moor.  That’s a debatable bit . . .”

When Organe was done, she looked up. An almost beatific smile played about her lips as she said gleefully, “. . . To make of it what you will!  I would never put that in any Grant or Patent Royal.

“You are right about the Proclamation, too.  It does violate Fealty!  You must confront Cedroc over the issue.  If he supports the Proclamation, then you no longer owe him the Fealty that he will not give.  

“According to your Grant, Desora, you do have humans included in your lands.  You have been given the entire Bokenkap range and Snaefel Moor to the Moonrise Sea.  The red and green crystal miners who stole Dimmer Delf from the Dwarves live in the Caldras Spur of the Bokenkap range and are therefore yours by right.  You have humans under your rule.”

Down at the tables, dwarfish heads snapped about at the pronouncement and their dark eyes focused on Organe like knife points.  Calculatingly they shifted their gaze to Desora.

She promptly called, “Master Granite! Please come here.”

When the dwarf approached, Desora told him, “I know that you heard what my mother said.  You have now a good place in Understone.  Those humans who stole Dimmer Delf may not yet be dispossessed.  In any case, they are important to the future of this Duchy.  For now, they have the protection of King Cedroc.  As King, he has ruled in their favor and I am bound by that ruling.

“I have confided my hopes for this whole Duchy to you personally before this. Some patience on your part will bear you and yours a rich reward. Do you understand?”

The craggy face of the dwarf creased into a smile.  “I do believe so, Your Grace.  You will have the whole-hearted loyalty of the Dwarven Peoples in support of your hopes.”

Nodding carefully, Desora replied, “I do hope so, Master Granite.  Your people are one of the strong foundations upon which Evenstar is built.”

Turning back to Organe, Desora said, “I thank you, Mother.  What you just said has confirmed my own reading of these documents.  These so called Patent Royal and Grant together with the proclamation are effectively a declaration of war.  I hoped that it would be so.

“It is clear that Cedroc meant for me to find a cave to Lair in and create a Desolation to secure his Southern flank.  Instead, I have made a good road, a port, a castle, a troll Garth and three Dwarven Delfs.  I cannot claim the making of the Elf Holts.  They were already here.”

From down a long table, a sharp eared elf spoke up, “Our Holts were dying out until your ogre, trolls and dwarves made those waterworks to save our forests in the glens from drought.”

Desora inclined her head in acknowledgment, saying, “You are correct, Master Aspen.  What did I demand of you and yours for that help?”

He said thoughtfully, “You demanded no thing of us but to reflect on the fact that we owed our very survival to dwarves, trolls and an ogre all working together in harmony.  You invited us to join that already strange company and we did, after much debate.  We have not regretted it.”

A new and firm rap came from the door. Looking to the hall’s end, I saw both the Elf and the Dwarven heralds quailing away from the big iron bound panels.  The rap came again, firm and clear, the sound of a cane or walking staff striking the knocker of the portal.  At Desora’s frowning nod to the heralds, they rose to their places and pulled the doorway open, crying out in their best Heraldic voices, “Morgon Blackmane the Mercenary!  Delf’s Bane!  Dragon of Darkness!”

A tall, straight, black haired woman, richly dressed, strode between them, into the room.  She leaned lightly on a cane and limped a little on her left foot.  Desora joyfully ran from her throne and stopped in the middle of the hall, hands outstretched in welcome.  Morgon smiled as she approached.

Desora exclaimed, “Welcome to the Hall of Evenstar, Morgon!  I haven’t seen you since Mother took me back from the tavern keepers in Blackwood!”

If Organe was startled by Morgon’s welcome, what came next astonished her.  Desora went on, “Tell me, Foster Mother, why are you here?”

Promptly and frankly, Morgon replied, “I am scouting your defenses for King Cedroc’s advance.  He will be here by next Moonrise with his retinue to demand his taxes, a Moon early.  When you can’t pay him, he will bring his army up to besiege you.

“He was enraged that you built this place instead of finding a cave and creating a desolation to ward his southern flank, as he intended.  As a result, he has decided to take your castle from you by force.  He claims that you built this whole place without Royal permission.”

Organe, quivering with contained rage, stated dryly, “Morgon, Cedroc lied when he told you that.  I was just studying Desora’s Patent of Title and Grant of Lands.”

Clapping her hands in glee, Morgon exclaimed, “Oh!  I must see that!”

The three dragons poured over the documents.  Morgon pointed unerringly at the same wording that Organe had found.  She howled with delight, “Cedroc lied about my hire! By the Mercenary Code I can keep his gold and not have to attack you, Desora!”

Sobering some, she went on, “Cedroc can’t take this place, you know.  He hasn’t the force.  You have traps all along the road to the castle.  Besides, this fortress looks to be made of the finest Dwarvish stone work and Elven woodwork. Your location and design are pure military genius.  If you had to, a mere handful could hold off all that Cedroc can bring to bear.  The only weak point that I saw was the straight road up the foot of the ridge to your main gate.  Even it is steep enough to defend easily.”

Smiling happily at the praise of an experienced warrior, Desora said, “Thank you, Morgon.  Mother taught me both strategic placement and military design.”

Morgon inclined her head to Organe, saying, “You are a good teacher.  Bane is impregnable too.”

A world of bitter anger freighted her words as Organe replied, “Not quite.  You got in, that night while I was out searching for Thomas, and kidnapped Desora.  And she just called you Foster Mother!  You would have let her die a Mortal Death, never knowing what or who she was!”

A shocked silence stretched tighter than the head of a marching drum before Desora broke it.  Softly, she declared, “Mother, Morgon couldn’t get in.  As part of King Cedroc’s plan to break your kingdom, he had Earl Mechan steal me from the Royal Apartments.  Mechan was going to take me away and kill me beyond your borders, where you could never find my body. Morgon intercepted him at the postern gate and took me from him.  She saved my life!

“Morgon placed me with the taverners in Blackwood.  She paid for my keep and visited often.  She taught me the Rules and Precepts of Theft.  Morgon never let me forget who or what I was.

“I thought that you knew,” she finished in a smaller voice.

Organe’s voice pounced dangerously on one bit of information.  “Cedroc’s plan to split my Kingdom?  I did not know that he was in it so early on.”

Firmly, Desora stated, “Yes, Mother.  Cedroc’s plan.  And you will behave as if you know nothing of it when he visits.”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS ~ NEXT==>

Desora is the second sequel to GREEN VELVET.

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Classical Fantasy

[gukyi]

for you, anything (post-script) | ksj

summary: in the midst of all of the coworker chaos over your newfound relationship, you and seokjin make a deal. 

{established relationship!au, friends to lovers!au, enemies to lovers!au}

pairing: kim seokjin x female reader genre: fluff word count: 2k warnings: bts being annoying coworkers a/n: shoutout to @aurawatercolor​ for being so wonderful and for commissioning this drabble’s monster predecessor: for you, anything!! thank you for being so patient with me and overall being a good friend of mine. much love!

Here

“Back off, he’s mine!” You shriek, furiously mashing your keyboard buttons as your eyes zero in on your computer screen. Maintaining as much of a grip onto your mouse and keyboard as possible, you push your office chair towards Seokjin’s in a desperate attempt to get him to lose his hold by crashing into him, bumper-car style. You hear the scratchy fabric collide, a soft thud that ricochets you forward, almost like you had crashed into a fuzzy rock. 

Naturally peeved, you turn around to find your boyfriend completely unbothered, having moved barely an inch. And yeah, you weren’t great at Physics when you took it in high school, but you have a feeling that that’s not how Newton’s Third Law works. 

Unfortunately for you, the split second you spend glaring at the back of Seokjin’s head means that he can go in for the killing blow, sword stabbing through the warrior king on the screen until he collapses in a pool of video game blood. The sound of a death cry and a cheer echos from your computer speakers, and you groan. 

“Not again,” you say, exasperated. You toss your head back against the chair, eyes rolling upwards, just enough to make out Seokjin eyeing you, a smug expression written all over his face. “I told you I had him.”

“You just weren’t fast enough, I guess,” Seokjin says casually, bouncing out of his chair to gloat to you all up front and personal. 

“You better share all of the money and rewards you got from that kill,” you demand, poking a finger against your cheek. Seokjin kisses you gladly, wrapping his arms over the chair and around you as he rocks your office chair side to side. The benefit of working together in Kingdom is that you always have backup you can trust (unlike some other MMO games, one of which rhymes with Meague of Megends), but Kingdom was designed for loot to be collected by whoever delivers the death blow, and not split evenly among all parties. 

Lucky for you, your boyfriend happens to be both good at the game and willing to share all of his treasure. 

“Ew, gross, PDA at three o’clock,” Jungkook says loudly, his whiny voice interrupting you and Seokjin’s lovers’ quarrel. 

“Ugh, just because you guys can have a successful and empowering relationship doesn’t mean you have to rub it in all of our faces,” Taehyung adds with a huff. At least nobody’s singing playground nursery rhymes about the two of you anymore. Since when last did people actually sit in trees, anyway?

“Get a room,” Yoongi deadpans as per usual. His attitude has not changed even though the state of you and Seokjin’s relationship definitely has. You know you can always count on him to give it to you straight. 

“Hey, no making out on office premises,” Namjoon says, barging into the room with his glasses tucked into the collar of his sweater, one of those pastel cream ones that dads who golf wear (though Namjoon is neither a dad nor plays golf). He’s switched to an iPad in recent weeks, which, despite being much more environmentally friendly, is still not Namjoon-friendly, and he often has to troubleshoot basic things like the functionality of the Notes app. Not to mention, his place of employment is filled with twerps who love doing things like spamming his camera roll and locking himself out of his own iPad. You think the record is three hours, but give the device to Hoseok and he’ll get it up to a couple of days with ease. “You guys agreed to that when you signed the employee handbook.”

“You always think so lowly of us, Joon,” Seokjin chides, and since he’s everybody’s best friend, he’s the only one who can get away with doing that. “We were just talking.”

“And playing Kingdom,” Yoongi pipes up, quickly switching away from his Haikyuu!!! tab. 

“If there’s a rule against Kingdom in the employee handbook, you’d have to fire all of us,” you remind Namjoon pointedly. Not even Yoongi would be spared, even if he’s terrible at the game itself. 

“But if you did, maybe Jungkook could finally live out his dream of being an E-sports gamer,” Taehyung adds, sending Jungkook into a tizzy. 

Seokjin scoffs, “He’d have to knock me and Y/N out of first and second place first, though.” 

“But please don’t fire us,” Taehyung pipes up weakly. 

“Nobody’s getting fired. You guys just better be doing your work,” Namjoon says. “Hey, it says that my iPad is going to be updated later tonight, do I need to do anything about that?”

Everyone groans. 

“Hey, what if we got married?” Seokjin nudges you with his shoulder. 

You sputter out the water you had been drinking all over your desk. “Married?” It dawns on you that shouting out that word in an office filled with nosy coworkers may not be the brightest idea. 

“You guys are getting married?” Taehyung shrieks excitedly. “Oh my God, I call being best man!”

“You don’t get to make that decision, idiot!” Jungkook shouts. “Besides, Seokjin would totally pick me over you anyway.”

“Who says?”

“Guys, we’re not getting married,” Seokjin says before the whole office breaks out into a brawl. Taehyung’s expression falls, sinking back into his chair, defeated. Yoongi had even quirked up for a moment before immediately turning back to his anime. “At least, in real life, we’re not.”

“Oh, you meant in-game?” You ask, the realization dawning on you. You notice everyone in the office eyeing you and Seokjin. Glaring at each and every person, you say, “He meant in-game, mind your own beeswax, you nosy freaks.” 

“Obviously,” Seokjin says with a roll of his eyes. “I love you, Y/N, but seeing as how we started dating three months ago, I think that marriage is pushing it. But in Kingdom, yeah, why not? We’ll get a lot of buffs from being married.”

Seokjin’s got a point. Being married in Kingdom means that the two of you will share wealth, property, and have the option of combining special powers during battles. It also means that the game will split boss and player rewards evenly amongst the two of you without you having to do it manually. Besides, isn’t it only right for the top two players in the game to get married? Assert their dominance? Remind Jungkook that he’ll never be an E-sports gamer for Kingdom? 

“Sounds like a plan,” you say, easily convinced. Besides, Seokjin could ask you to hand over all of your coins in the game, leaving you penniless, and you wouldn’t bat an eyelash. “We can do it later tonight.”

“My place? We can order takeout.”

“Only if we can get some cheesecake as well,” you say. 

“Done.”

Seokjin plants another kiss onto your lips before returning to his own desk, your office chairs facing away from each other as you get back to work, the promise of a nice meal and some quality time together keeping you motivated. 

Out of the blue, you say, “I would have said yes, you know.”

“To what?” Seokjin asks, not even turning around. 

“To asking if we could get married,” you tell him. He rounds on you, eyes wide. “I would have said yes.”

Seokjin seems frozen in place before he caves, body relaxing as his entire face begins to glow, red and orange and pink. “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll ask again later, and if your answer is still the same, then we can.”

“How much later?” You ask. You don’t like to be kept waiting. Especially since the both of you know that your answer almost definitely won’t falter. 

Seokjin grins. “You’ll see.”

There

“I never liked fancy dresses,” you comment, pulling at the collar of the white dress lacing your features, hugging your body like a bedsheet. It’s scratchy and uncomfortable and restricting, making you feel like you can’t eat a single apple without popping open. There’s a veil with a train the size of the castle behind you, and the tiara on your head is so heavy and sharp that ti feels as though you’re about to topple. All this for a wedding?

“Good thing you’ll never have to wear one again after this, right?” Jin whispers back, the two of you facing the officiant before you as a crowd of onlookers watches the two of you. 

“Is that a promise?” You ask. “We’re making a lot of promises today, aren’t we?”

“And I will keep every single one of them with honor,” Jin says dramatically. It almost makes you reach out to punch him in the shoulder, but you don’t for the sake of publicity, hands wrapped tightly around the bouquet, filled with roses and tulips and carnations. You can’t believe you’re saying this, but you think you prefer your knight’s garb. At least it comes with flat boots. 

You even tune out what the officiant is saying, an old, monotonous advisor who oversees all military weddings, waiting boredly until you are prompted to respond. Time usually goes by rather quickly in the Kingdom, whether you are strolling through the market or on the battlefield, but here, it feels as though it’s taking forever and a day. Discreetly, you turn to look at Jin, who notices your gaze and rolls his eyes, just to make you laugh. At least the both of you feel the same about this whole thing. You wish there were an easier way to do this, perhaps just going to a courthouse and signing some papers and making a vow or two. Does the entire kingdom have to watch? 

“Do you promise to uphold these values, Jin?” The officiant asks. 

“I do,” Jin says. 

“Do you promise to uphold these values, Y/N?” 

Relieved that it’s finally coming to an end, you nod. “I do.”

“Then, by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

Immediately, Jin turns to you, reaching an arm out to hold onto your waist as he pulls you towards him, your faces pressed up against each other, breaths hitting each others’ skin. 

“I’ve been waiting all day to do this,” he whispers softly. 

“Then don’t hold back,” you challenge. 

In one fell swoop, Jin presses a kiss on your lips, soft and warm and gentle. It’s filled with more promises than the officiant could even dream of making, filled with more vows than any wedding ceremony could produce. What this is is more than a silly pledge, a matrimonial technicality. It is an oath. To protect each other. To care for each other. To love each other.

And you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that for the rest of time, until the sun collapses and the moon vanishes, that you will.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget i’m still taking commissions!

[hypermanga]

Amralime? What does it even mean? (Kili x reader)

Requested by: @naniellesworld

Request:  Hi there! Hope you'll accept this other request from me! Thank you very much if you do. It's a gift for @dashesofink , so if you could tag her in please :) Request : Kili x Fem!Reader. Proposal.

Word Count: 1348

A/N:  Well, I’m really late posting this but I hope it lives up to the expectations <3. Also, the line of Durin doesn’t perish because I’m still mad about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For once in your life, you were at peace.

For once in your life, you could be glad for your actions, as your actions had brought you to where you were today.

Had you not fled Mirkwood at the precise moment the orcs attacked the back gate alongside the Company, not liking King Thranduil’s policies, you would have never met the love of your life.

Watching from one of the balconies that rewarded you with a breathtaking view of the mountain down below, you glanced at your lover, Kili. He’d been very cheeky when you’d met him, trying to bribe you into search him for he could have, as he had put it “Anything down his trousers” for which he’d earned a laugh from you as well as a spark of interest about his journey, as it was not every day that the dwarves of Erebor stumbled upon your kingdom.

You spent all night talking, for which you earned a reprimand from Thranduil, saying how all the dwarves were stubborn and greedy and didn’t need our help nor interest at all. But you were long gone, approving of the journey as well as the motives. Didn’t everyone deserve to have their own home? Well, it seemed Thranduil begged to differ, and that’s how you ventured to Lake Town and fought alongside the dwarves who had stayed with Kili, who was recovering from a poisonous arrow, courtesy of Bolg.

As the Battle approached, you made up your decision to participate after seeing Thorin’s unwillingness to see the consequences of the upcoming conflict. You gazed all the armours that were lined up and covered in dust alongside Kili “You don’t have to participate, you know, this battle is ours and ours only” He watched you intently “I’ve got people to protect, and perhaps I’m not the most skilled with a sword, but I can hold myself in battle” You sheathed your sword, turning away to go back to Dale “(Y/N)” Kili caught your wrist, looking sad, those sad eyes that were inked in your brain “Please...Take care...” “You too Kili...Don’t get yourself killed please” Part of his heart told him to stay alongside his uncle, but the other one wanted to go with you.

In this case, his lineage was stronger but it allowed his heart‘s other half some space to make him land his eyes on your lips “Kili, I...” He started to tilt his head, closing his eyes, with you mimicking his actions “KILI” Thorin’s booming voice broke you both from your train of thought “See you in the battlefield” You shrugged, plastering on a sad smile before cursing Thorin mentally for this and the future events if anything was to happen to Kili.

It had been a miracle for the line of Durin to survive the battle, you'd thought, as the ambush the orcs had prepared could have been fatal. Thank Valar, you'd decided to accompany Kili on his way to Raven Hill, as you had the feeling nothing good was going to come from there: Fili was almost murdered in cold blood, but the unconscious body of his brother had been enough for Kili to engage in battle with Bolg. You still remember to this day how you leapt behind the orc, stabbing him repeatedly with your sword, out of pure fear for Kili's life, as well as the genuine smile he had rewarded you with which made your heart jump from your chest.

Even in the middle of the battle, he was able to calm you and make you feel like everything was going to go well, that you were going to make it alive. From then on, you fought back against back in perfect synchronization, slaying through enemies together as if you’d studied the other’s moves all your life.  

At that moment no one could deny there was something more than just friendship, even Thorin, much to his dismay.

"Amralime" You turned, smiling at Kili "You ought to tell me what does that mean one day, Meleth nîn" "Whenever you tell me whatever does this mean" Making you chuckle "I will tell you...If you catch me!" You pushed him out of the way and ran for the corridors of Erebor "You sneaky...Come back! (Y/N) That's not fair!" You dodged gracefully anyone who happened to be in your way, such as Balin and Bofur, who just saluted you with a smile, they saw Kili not far behind "Thorin!" You stopped in a halt, as the Company's leader turned a corner, looking as majestic as per usual "(Y/N)" You tried to gaze anywhere but his eyes "Again fooling around?" He arched a brow, making you look down in embarrassment "Go down the stairs, take a left turn and a right one. It will be more difficult for him to catch you" He winked at you, making you smile back. Following his instructions, you made your way into a hall with a lot of columns in it,  making you understand Thorin's point "Oh (Y/N)" Kili said in a sing-song voice, making you hide behind a column "I know you're in here...Very funny Uncle! Taking her side" You heard him scream, as well as him stomping his feet in annoyance upon hearing Thorin's laugh.

"I don't care, for I always win, nobody beats me at knowing these...CORRIDORS!" He had jumped behind one of the columns, not too close but not too far from you "Well, bummer. This would have been...PERFECT!" Now he was just two columns across from you "AW, C'MON!" He looked like an enraged child, making you chuckle. His ears perched at that, making you cover your mouth in fear and excitement "It seems my sweet (Y/N) is not here...Now she'll have to live without knowing what Amralime means" You let out a huff "Unless...She" He stalked to your column "Is..." Another step "Behind..." Another "This..." Another "COLUMN!" He got the one next to yours "FOR MAHAL'S SAKE" You burst out laughing, not caring for anything "So you think this is funny huh?!" He embraced you from behind, making you yelp in surprise "I'm sorry! It was too much" As you came down from the high, you slumped to the floor "Fine, you win" Now that you were to pronounce those words, nerves seemed to come back to you, making you light-headed again "It's okay, you don't have to tell me" He smiled "No, it's alright. Nîn Meleth means "My love" in Sindarin...So yeah, now you can connect the dots, I really, really like you. In fact I might be in love with you, Kili Durin".

At that, he appeared at a loss of words, before bursting out laughing "What's so funny?" "All these months, not wanting to tell me what it means, and it means the same as Amralime!" He used the column as support, gasping for air "Wait...Does that mean that..." He didn't let you finish the sentence, as he grabbed your face and kissed you with all the passion he could muster after his laughing fit.

And what a kiss, like the ones you'd read on when you were a wee elfling, dreaming about love stories.

As you parted in need for air, Kili took out a little box from his pocket "What's this?" "This, Amralime, is a courting bead" Your eyes widened at that "W-What?" "If that's okay with you, I would like to court you, in hopes of one day being your beloved husband" He sounded all royalty like, making you chuckle "Yes, I shall accept it with happiness and joy" You mimicked his posh voice, earning a snicker from him as he started to braid your hair "Now, your turn" You grabbed the other bead, and secured it carefully in the braid you'd done "Wow..." Your eyes glazed at the realisation "I'm bethroded" You smiled sweetly, laughing in desbelief at the words that just came out of your mouth "Yeah" Kili took your hand in his bigger one "I thank the Valar everyday for letting him cross our paths"

"I love you Kili, Nîn Meleth"

"I love you too, Amralime"

Well, hope you liked it @dashesofink 😁 and was worth the wait!😘

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