#earl godwin imagine

[egocentered]

Beyond the high walls

Fandom : Vikings Valhalla (season 2)

Relationships : Godwin (of course)/OC (of course as well)

Warnings : explicit sexual content (medieval sex, whatever it may mean)

Summary : Godwin, Earl of Wessex, provokes a meeting with the woman who occupies all his thoughts to announce his upcoming nuptials with King Canute's niece, Gytha.

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If you get curious about the OC's backstory, it might be coming in a new chapter, because here is definitely not their first encounter.

Thank you for reading and please enjoy :)

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“Are you looking for something, my Lord?”

Earl Godwin froze for a moment, nodding before slowly turning back to Leofe with that usual flirtatious smirk on his lips.

“Not something,” he said in a cheerful voice, “someone.”

“Oh… in front of my door?” she asked falsely, “it must be someone important.”

“Absolutely!” he retorted, amused.

She walked over to him, seeing more clearly in the semi-darkness of the evening the mischievous eyes that were scrutinizing her with undisguised desire. Every time Leofe caught him staring at her in such a way, that shiver that crept up her neck never failed to make her flinch a little. The bond they had woven over the weeks they had met felt special to her, sincere and reassuring, restrained and yet forbidden by the indisputable attraction hovering over them.

She knew he would not have taken such a bold approach if her house were not so isolated in a little London alley. His position was hardly compatible with the frequentation of a simple commoner such as her, even less so when he was preparing to marry the niece of King Canute. However, Earl Godwin seemed to have perfectly mastered the art of discretion.

Silence fell between them as they stood face to face, Godwin casting shifty glances toward the front door, casually clearing his throat. The woman was tempted, as often, to tickle him on his restraint. He wanted to come in and it was excessively inappropriate to say such things aloud. Not that his position kept him from it. She knew better than that that it was above all a mark of respect on his part; just like the fact that he persisted in mischievously calling her my Lady since he had learned, at their very first encounter that she was of a higher origin than her present situation would lead one to believe.

“I brought back some ale from the tavern,” Leofe threw in an innocent tone, looking down at her arms loaded with a pitcher, “would you like to share it with me, my Lord?”

Godwin let out a fleeting smile as he waddled a little. Feigning hesitation, he finally blurted out:

“Well, why not.”

She walked past him to open the door, not without contentiously giving up a small smirk.

Her lodgings were small and dark, sparsely arranged. A table and a single chair stranded against the wall near the lighted stove, which served as light and warmer as well as cooker, and in the corner on the other side of the stove, a bed. At the other near end of the dwelling, a flimsy palisade separated what appeared to be a toilet area. Scattered everywhere, a few books placed on top of each other on the floor betrayed her education and former wealth.

She put her pitcher on the table and began to fill the only cup she had before handing it to Godwin who was watching in silence; she would drink directly from the pitcher and that did not seem to surprise him in the least. She liked to ignore manners — so had he already noticed — as a slightly provocative way to demonstrate that she would not be tamed by anyone or anything, but with him she tended to somehow soften her rebellious heart —which he had also noticed and elegantly joked about as often as he could.

“Unfortunately, I’m out of candles,” she apologized, looking around the dark room.

The open stove gave off an incandescent glow that reached no higher than their knees.

“It must be difficult to read in these conditions,” he retorted in a soft tone, ostensibly scanning the floor strewn with books “I will have some brought to you.”

Leofe blinked in slight surprise, there had never been any talk of gifts between them — was not that just for lovers? However, for the tender demonstration that this man knew what mattered to her, she could make an exception.

"Thank you my Lord" she retorted almost solemnly, genuinely touched.

Godwin smiled gently and bowed his head just as ceremonially, “My Lady.”

She reached for the chair for Godwin to sit in, while heading for her bed, but he ignored it and followed her instead before bowing slightly in front of her amused look, inviting her to sit on the used straw mattress. He then sat down beside her; too close for convenience, some would say.

They exchanged a few fleeting and complicit glances, without a word, each sipping their beverage.

After a light inspiration, she broke the silence:

“Congratulations on your wedding, my Lord, I heard the news!”

While he was still searching for the words to announce his upcoming nuptials, she had anticipated him with genuine enthusiasm, which made his heart ache a little.

“Thank you my Lady.” he replied swiftly, suppressing the bitterness that was rising in his throat.

“You must be so happy—“

“Yes,” he cut her off more curtly than he would have liked, “I am.”

Godwin looked down at his cup silently with a frozen smile as she stared at him in confusion.

“I'm sorry—“

“No, don't be,” he cut off again with a sigh. “This is…wonderful news, indeed.” He looked up and forced a wider smile. “I'm... glad it pleases you.”

She watched him in silence for a few moments, his smile faltering slightly at the corners of his mouth.

“I am not pleased, my Lord—” she resumed with strong innuendo in her voice.

He felt his heart race a little, as she continued:

“I know what kind of marriage it is and that you’ll greatly benefit from it in every way you have desired for so long.”

Godwin displayed an expression of true relief.

“Yes… you know it well, my Lady.”

She could read him; from the first moment they spoke, it was the feeling that inhabited him. Therefore, she had understood, even if he only mentioned it halfway, the hurt and the desire for revenge that gnawed at him. She understood the determination and dedication to fulfil his destiny. Yet, she never judged him for it even though she dedicated herself into going in the exact opposite way — although he had taken great care in never mentioning Ælfwynn and the tragic consequences she suffered on behalf of him.

Although she had always struggled against the conventions and duties imposed on her by her status of noble birth, and he on the contrary struggled to regain his fallen rank, they would not let fate decide what their lives would be, in this, they looked alike, respected and admired each other.

Nevertheless, the admiration did not surpass the attraction he felt towards this woman. When she looked at him, he could guess her sagacity, her intelligence and always that touch of malice that amused him so much. Sometimes he also seemed to perceive behind her beautiful mysterious eyes, centuries of lived lives and countless unspoken words about her sufferings.

At that moment, when he came to announce to the one he desired so much - and who, he hoped, desired him just as much in return - his union with another woman, she was simply delighted to see him get closer to achieving his dreams. She was like no other.

“So… it is indeed wonderful.” she finished almost in a whisper.

She took a long sip of ale, ostensibly meeting Godwin's sudden intent gaze behind her pint.

As soon as she lowered it, Godwin leaned over hastily and kissed her under her astonished eyes. The kiss broke off almost instantly, the time for a sigh on their lips, a troubled look exchanged, before Leofe returned it.

All restraints were released from that moment; they felt in their chests the last resistances fall like so many breaths they had been holding. Bucket and pitcher thudded to the ground as Godwin leaned even forward. Moving his body against her, he grabbed her face and pressed his lips closer to hers in a delicate kiss, then another and as their breaths grew deeper and louder, soon he parted her lips with his tongue before sliding it into her mouth. She let out a soft moan, uncontrolled; a rather explicit expression of her surrender to the act that they had both longed for.

He moaned back, embracing her harder than before. There was something so impetuous in his embrace, his fingers compulsively tightening around her shoulders, the pressure of his arms on her back holding her always so closer, and his nose buried in her cheek; he hardly tried to catch his breath. She had imagined before what it could be like to be in his arms, but she would not have dared picture him with such passion.

He invaded her shamelessly and she succumbed, rocking backwards under the weight of his chest. She clutched at his coat, trying to catch her breath while he reached for her neck, licking and nibbling on the thin delicate skin. His hands started frantically searching for an opening under her garment, movements made uneasy by the thickness of his sleeves. This clumsiness would not last; she recoiled on the mattress, briefly separating his lips from her skin, and sat up, bringing her legs in between his. He stood up in his turn, as she grabbed his coat and pulled it down his arms before letting it fall to the ground. Their lips joined again in a feverish kiss, their legs now intertwined and their hands finally reaching for the touch of their bodies.

Godwin swiftly reached for her breasts, making her wave under him with a sonorous sigh. He pressed his crotch on hers, feeling the increasing hardness of his sex. A raucous moan came out of his mouth before he looked up searching for her eyes; he needed to see on her face the reflection of the same pleasure he was experiencing. Her half-closed, wavering gaze suddenly locked on his and turned intense, she let her body express the words she could not say now, as she stroked his back until reaching on the edge of his pants, and then slipped her hands under the belt, gently cajoling the plump shape from the top of his buttocks.

He had such soft skin, undoubtedly a noble’s skin — she could never have said the same of her late farmer of a husband's. As doing so, she intensely rippled her hips against Godwin's already hard crotch. His eyelids fluttered as a shiver travelled through his back skin — she could feel all the little bumps rise and fall under the pulp of her fingers.

He jerked a short breath and looked at her with a vague disbelief in his eyes. Leofe nearly smiled at his uncontrolled reaction before he kissed her unceremoniously. Letting go of her breasts, he nimbly grabbed the tired skirt that covered her knees and pulled it up her legs until he could feel the undergarment below. Burying his face into her neck, feeling her hot breaths quicken on his hair, he tugged at the last thin piece of clothing protecting her virtue. The fabric tore so ridiculously easily under his fingers, inviting him to explore beyond, finally touch that warm defended fruit between her thighs; so soft, and already moist, calling for him to take it whole. Reaching into his own pants, he released his then painfully erect cock.

She moaned in anticipation, feeling his rushed hand movements over their respective intimacies, and then found all sound suddenly trapped in her throat when she felt him bluntly penetrating her. Their limbs stiffened the entire time he was inside; Godwin, so heavy and strong, made the first thrust last until both went out of breath. Finally releasing the pressure, both inhaled loudly and right away he resumed, entered again her humid cunt that contracted under the assault, making him jolt in pleasure from the sudden tightness.

“Oh God…” he let out in a feverish sight.

Their minds went gradually blank from the pounding and increasing pleasure, their movements became chaotic, hands hectically grabbing whatever fell under their reach; fabric, hair, flesh. The sounds of their bodies colliding soon became as vigorous as the lustful moans that even a biting on their lips could not moderate. Soon a last cry fell out their joined mouths as they simultaneously reached the peak of enjoyment in a passionate embrace.

It felt like the edge of a territory she had never explored before; that is the thought that crossed Leofe’s wandering mind as they lazily laid there, two exhausted and motionless intertwined bodies, Godwin’s head resting on the crook of her neck as she stared blankly at the dark ceiling. With her husband, it felt more like duty and a rare one to say the least. It surely took a great amount of vitality to intensely desire the other when one was already so drained by the physically enduring work of the crops. However, there, with this long and rather intensely desired man, it was an edge, as it seemed very unlikely to feel anything beyond the magnitude of the blissful waves that had irradiated her whole body.

Leofe had read theories, stumbled—not so hazardously—upon licentious writings of long gone roman poets as Lucretius and Ovidius when she was younger, but none had ever provided the closest clue to what she had felt there. If she had been able to find them daring at times in their evocations of the carnal act, she now found them well restrained.

Warm, cosy and cradled by the soft, even breathing of the Lord on her chest and the crackling of the fire in the hearth, her eyelids became a little heavier and her thoughts little by little turned scattered and incoherent. Soon she could no longer follow the thread, distinguish those that she consciously generated from those that arose by themselves in her head as a prelude to a dream.

[emma-ofnormandy]

Not Alone

(Emma and Canute post S2 E8. I am just continuing on with my obsession of Emma and Canute and filling in all the things we deserved to see but didn’t get.)

Read on AO3

The screams of a woman echoed within the confines of Emma’s mind. Involuntarily, her hand tightened around the parchment she had been reviewing; even lost in tedium of ledger payments and tax revenues, she could not escape the haunting outcome of her decisions.

Images that had flashed across her mind’s eye in the first few days, the waxy skin and glazed, unseeing gaze of her once trusted confidant did not bother her like it once had, but the shrill of Aelfwynn’s voice against the damp stone was not so easily chased away. The hollow shrieks had been her constant companion over the past fortnight. They were the thing that woke her at god forsaken hours of the night and the last thing she heard when she inevitably tumbled back into a fitful sleep, exhausted from the turmoil that wreaked havoc on her mind.

The experience left her stomach queasy and a chill in her blood that she could not chase away.

She imagined this was Godwin’s plan all along, to twist her up and turn her into someone she no longer recognized, someone who was so wracked with guilt and ashamed of her own image that she was just a shell of her former self. Though she would not fall into the Earl’s trap and had insured the rat knew he had not bested the cat, in the now quiet of her husband’s cabinet, with the screams silenced once more and only the parchment as company, Emma could admit that her strength wavered.

“You look tired, minn kærr.”

Emma jumped, startled by the unexpected baritone. Canute was propped lazily against the doorway, watching her intently. She could not say how long he had been there or what all he had seen, but it did not bode well for her peace of mind that the situation around Aelfwynn and Godwin plagued her so heavily that she did not notice when she was being watched.

A flimsy smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “It has been a long day.”

“It has,” he agreed, and let himself into the cabinet. The door gave a hollow click, effectively shutting out the rest of the castle, and with every step of his approach, Canute searched her face, as if taking in what she tried so hard to hide from him. He reached out and ran a thumb along the dark smudges beneath her eyes. “But these are not just from one day.”

It still surprised Emma that her husband noticed so much. While he never failed in his duties to London or Denmark, she had not expected the same attention to be paid to their personal life as well. As much as she enjoyed his attention, and appreciated the effort he put in, at times like this she wished he missed a little more.

“You have not been sleeping,” he continued, his hands grazing across her shoulders and down her arms until his hands grasped hers. Gently, as if dealing with a flighty mount, he brought her hands to his lips and kissed her ink stained fingers. “What worries you, my love.”

Uneasy, Emma withdrew her hands from his and moved towards the fire, her gaze trailing to the flames that leapt within the hearth. She was uncomfortable putting her fears into words, if only because it amounted to a show of weakness. Such an emotion was not becoming of a woman with her life experience and if it were to be known that she could be tripped up so easily by the actions of another, the carefully curated peace of the castle could be turned on its end.

But-

Emma watched her husband out of the corner of her eye. He stood, stoically, where she had left him. Unhurried and thoughtful, he waited for her to decide what move to make and the desire to tell him everything began to stir. Of all those within her circle, it was him she trusted most and there were no others that she could think of that would understand what she was dealing with.  He was no stranger to the cries of the dying or the ordering of a man’s end and yet he seemed to lose little sleep over it.

“Do they stop?” She glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze. “The screams.”

Something softened in Canute’s features and the look he gave her, one of understanding more than pity, shifted something inside Emma. For the first time, she understood that she was not alone in this self made hell.

He moved slowly across the room, but rather than pull her to him, he stood beside her, hands reaching out towards the fire to warm them.

“Eventually,” he finally said.

He did not ask why she was asking, nor did he ask for her to explain herself, but rather, he freely gave her the truth and for that she was grateful. Emma had made peace with why she had carried through with her actions and believed that her reasoning was just. Yes, she mourned the innocent life that was lost, but in the end, she would prove what she had always known, and the true villain would pay. The acceptance of her actions, however, did not seem to quiet her subconscious worry.

“And until then?”

The smile he offered her was not one of joy, but sadness. It was one that showed the years of experience that went into making ghosts, but also the skill of besting them so they could no longer invade his quiet. Silence lingered for a moment, neither of them daring to break the other's solace, and then Canute reached out and gathered her into his arms. “You just endure.”

Needing the comfort of his presence, Emma allowed herself to be held, burying her head against his neck. She inhaled his familiar scent and let it wash over like a balm to her frazzled nerves. Though she missed him while he’d fought in Denmark, it wasn’t until she had seen him standing in front of the fireplace once more that Emma had realized how much she had needed him back in London.

She burrowed her face deeper into his neck. “And if I am unable?”

“Oh, but you can.” Canute nudged her back until her face lifted and their eyes met. “People made of far less have done worse and managed to continue to carry on.”

Skeptical, Emma searched his gaze for a sign of a lie, for proof that he was simply placating her and hoping to protect her from her own decisions, but all she saw looking back was the understanding for what she was going through and the love he felt for her. The sentiment eased the ache in her stomach and warmed the chill that ran through her blood.

“You seem quite certain of my capabilities.”

He gave a raspy chuckle and kissed her forehead before pulling her close again, settling her head snuggly against his shoulder. “You have yet to prove me wrong.”

[gudvina]

The sea fig, ch. II, Adela.

(second chapter <3)

The sun was setting when Adelaide returned to her room. It had been a week since she first stepped into her aunt’s homestead, and she was still adjusting to how different London was to her homeland. The room was still showered with remnants of twilight, brightened by the light green of the walls. It didn’t have much furniture; by the south side was a bed, supplied with a swan feathered mattress and pillows and furred covers that contrasted nicely with the wood of the headboard. A wardrobe stood by the west well, and where the floor raised in a platform sat a simple bathtub. The north side held most of the windows, and a desk with a looking glass and some parchment alongside it. Though it was different from her room in Normandy, she enjoyed how simple it was.

Had she been in Normandy she would have lulled herself to sleep listening to the crashing waves, or the sounds of the city filling the air. London wasn’t much different, admittedly. While during the day it seemed dull and uninteresting, when darkness set its rule and the moon showed her face the city lit up. The alehouses represented much of the night’s entertainment, and the bustling sounds reached her windows, leaving her longing for something other than the stillness of the castle.

Her aunt and her ladies in waiting provided a good distraction, and quickly she had sparked up a friendship with Gytha, with which she spent the nights in pleasant conversation. Sometimes they were joined by  Aelfwynn, though she appeared busier than Gytha.

Adela undressed and put on her nightgown, waiting for Gytha’s company as she brushed her hair by the desk. After a few minutes of silence finally the door opened, and she smiled as she saw Gytha enter her room.

“I am sorry if I couldn’t wait for you, I just needed to get out of that dress”.

Gytha let out a soft chuckle as she closed the door and she sat on her bed, her blonde hair now goldened by the candle’s lights.

“I imagined, sorry if I was late, your aunt needed me and Aelfwynn to sort out some fabrics.”

In a moment Gytha and Adela were deep in conversation, talking about each other and their lives until then. Gytha had much to tell about Denmark, how different it was from England and its people, and Adela in return talked about Normandy and how different they were from Frankia as a whole, how her people lived in relative peace and convivence.

“Of course it isn’t all sunshine, admittedly many Frankish Lords dislike us, but we also have some powerful allies like our cousins in Aquitaine”.

“Oh, so I guess there are Earls like Godwin everywhere”.

Adelaide’s interest was sparked when Gytha mentioned that name, and she couldn’t help but want to satisfy her curiosity.

“Isn’t he the right hand of the Queen and King alike?”

Gytha scrunched up her nose, shaking her head. “He certainly plays the part. He does his job well, but never trust him too much”.

Adela’s mind went back to something her Aunt Maude once told her. It was about her grandfather’s father: William Longsword. He had been a good ruler, but too trusting of the other. That was his demise.

Gytha suddenly shifted and looked at her with a glimmer in her eyes.

“You ask an awful lot of questions, but never tell anything about yourself. All this talk of Normandy won’t fool me! Now you shall tell me about this Duke of Lyonnaise”.

Adela laughed a little and shrugged, not very entertained by the tale of the less amusing nuisance in all of Frankia.

“There is not much to tell, he is uninteresting but a good party. There is a man who I like much more, the Duke of Blois. But my family dislikes his, and my father would not have that union.”

“Did you love him?”

“No, I wouldn’t say I did. I just liked him far better. It wouldn’t be wise for a woman such as me or you to do more than like any man”.

“And yet Queen Emma and my uncle seem to have found more than just liking in each other”

“You are not wrong. But that’s rare, and the one exception that confirms the rule.”

“And don’t you hope to have… something more?”

Adelaide moved to answer but stopped herself. She had never thought about something more; yes, she had many examples in her family of people who married and loved each other, namely her forebearers Duke Rollo and Princess Gisla. She had been married to him by her father to form an alliance, and had fallen so deeply in love with each other that many Norman tales and songs still told of their love and how beneficial that union had been for both Normandy and each other. Their son William Longsword had found love in both his first wife Sprota and then Liuthgarda, who responded in treachery. Her grandfather Richard the Fearless had loved her grandmother Gunnora, and then his many mistresses, with which he had produced some of her uncles. And her parents themselves were very happy with each other. Despite coming from a line of people who had found love in their partners, that something more wasn’t what she saw in her life. Since she was a girl, she had been educated in all matters regarding the politics of her lands as was Norman costume. Her greatest desire had always been to form a beneficial alliance for Normandy, and maybe marry in the confines of Frankia, as to not stray away from her beloved Rouen.

Gytha’s question wasn’t one she had ever considered, that something more for her looked more like being fortunate to find a man who’d allow her to rule beside him whatever land would welcome her as its own. She found herself grow uncomfortable, her guts stirring for a question that had been innocent and yet had cracked a chasm where she had always found sure footing.

“I don’t know what’s more, Gytha. It isn’t in me. My Aunt was kissed by fortune, but I have never thought of more and I… don’t even know if I want it”.

Gytha looked at her with a knowing look, and smiled a little.

“Let me tell you, you resemble a lot your aunt when you make that face”.

They ended up giggling and changing subject, concentrating in lighter chatter. Adela was grateful to have Gytha with her, a friend with which she could be herself and not be judged as too harsh to be ladylike. Maybe her exposure to her aunt as her lady in waiting made it easier, or the fact that she was a Dane, but she didn’t seem to mind Adela’s sharp words and observation. And she genuinely liked Gytha, who was fun and gentle and kind.

When it was late enough they realized it was time to retire, and though they didn’t want to put a stop to their fun it was time to rest. They were exchanging the last few words before Gytha’s exit when a sound caught their attention.

They stopped talking and realized it came from the city. It was the scream of a woman, a horrifying wail that made Gytha and Adelaide rush to the window and open it. A few guards were already covering the area, and they couldn’t see what was happening behind the entrance arch that sheltered them from the view. In a mix of curiosity and fear the two made for the door so they could at the very least ask the guards some informations, when outside their corridor they met Earl Godwin.

“Ladies, stay in the room and do not get out for any reason. If in need of anything I will place guards outside your doors, though now I must hurry and call Queen Emma”.

Gytha nodded and moved to close the door, but Adela prevented it by holding the door in it’s place.

“What is happening?”

Earl Godwin was taken aback by her questioning, recognizing in her the same mannerisms he had only seen in the Queen before now.

“The Dane priest Cynleaf was killed; we are assuming the attack was provoked by another Dane in the alehouse”.

Adela could sense Gytha gasp and tense behind her, and soon the Earl left them. They ended up spending the night together in Adela’s room, with guards outside the door and the chaos of the city muffled by the windows now closed.

Gytha had succumbed to sleep almost instantly, leaving Adela alone with her thoughts. Before she fell asleep, her agitated mind kept circling between the events of the night and Gytha’s words.

He certainly plays the part.

[icarusthelunarguard]

This Week’s Horrible-Scopes

It’s time for this week’s Horrible-Scopes! So for those of you that know your Astrological Signs, cool! If not, just pick one, roll a D12, or just make it up as you go along. It really doesn’t matter. Better yet! Check out “Heart of the Game, Fredonia” and see if they can sell you those D12’s with the symbols on them. Tell them “Shujin Tribble” sentcha. And “Hail, Hail, Fredonia!” Home of the Blue Devil!

This week we’re generating random numbers from 1023 to 2023 - and looking to see what’s so special in each of those years. Look, it was either that or search for Animated GIFs based on those numbers, and that really doesn’t work in a spoken or print medium. So let’s go!

Aries 

The year 1202 started on a Tuesday�� otherwise known as M. Bison’s favorite day of the week. Lots of notable things happened during your year, mostly centered around various Crusade battles in what is now Western Europe. Nothing specifically sticks out as memorable, so we’ll use that as inspiration. This week remember that you are important in the grand tapestry of life… even if you’re otherwise a forgettable face. It’s a nice face, don’t get us wrong! It’s just… you’re more Best Supporting Actor than less Best Actor. Know what we mean?

Taurus 

Your year of 1501 started on a Friday - which means everyone got to enjoy the weekend off! (*Beat Pause*) No, no one was able to do that. It was winter in 1501 and people were trying not to freeze. In your corner though, the first printed collection of polyphonic music was published by Ottaviano Petrucci in Venice. Just for that, this week, learn to read music again… and look up what “Polyphonic” means.

Gemini  

1052 - a leap year starting on HUMP DA-A-AY! Ok, ok. Enough of all that. Here’s a GREAT item that happened that summer. Godwin, Earl of Wessex, sails with a large fleet up the Thames to London, forcing King Edward the Confessor to reinstate him into his previous position of power. So this week learn from Godwin, Earl of Wessex, and sharpen up your blackmail skills. And try to remember which side is PORT and which side is STARBOARD.

Cancer Moon-Child 

Also starting on a Wednesday, 1505 had the first recorded use of a Tennis Racquet. One of the people credited with using it was, and this was his full name and title… “Philip the Handsome, Duke of Burgundy” in the Netherlands. He was also known as “Philip the Fair”, since… you know… he was a handsome fellow. So this week, brush up on your backhand swing… and grant yourself a posh regal-sounding title. 

Leo 

1636 was a leap year starting on a Tuesday, and we’re not going to invoke the ghost of Raul Julia again this time. But this time we get to invoke the evil chuckle of Tim Curry! You see, in France, Cardinal Richelieu persuaded King Louis XIII to issue an ordinance excusing the French nobility from military service if they paid a tax which allows the hiring of paid cavalry. Now picture this - Tim Curry’s version of Cardinal Richelieu from the 1993 movie “The Three Musketeers” whispering in your ear, feeding you evil thoughts as only he can. This week keep imagining that and let everyone wonder why you’re smirking like that all day.

Virgo 

Starting on a Saturday, 1757 had a bloody awful start. There were no Saturday Morning Cartoons, no NPR News, no matinee movies to watch. Honestly it just sucked. BUT! Something good did come of it: The Rigshospitalet, national hospital of Denmark, is founded at Copenhagen. Its name translates as “The National, State or Hospital of the Realm” and is a teaching hospital, STILL IN OPERATION TODAY! So this week, do something long-lasting.

Libra 

Wow, Libra. Starting the year 1553 on a Sunday. Got to sleep in that year, huh? Again, no! ‘Cause it’s the 1500’s and you’re trying not to freeze. Born that year was Beatrice Michiel, a Venetian spy, who died in 1613. Now as any good spy would do, her actual birthdate is unknown. But is it fair to say when she died… she folded up? (*Pause*) This week, play You Laugh You Lose to some Dad Jokes playlists on YouTube.

Scorpio 

Another Tuesday-Starting year, you get 1353! In this year the Moroccan traveler Ibn Battuta makes the first recorded visit to Timbuktu and Kabara, when returning from a stay in the capital of the Mali Empire. And just like that, this is THE FIRST TIME The Horrible-Scopes have Zero’d the DJs! This week, try to do something that was never done before because nobody said you could.

Sagittarius 

1504 starts off crappy and doesn’t improve much, since it started on a Monday without coffee. Well, MOST of the world didn’t have coffee yet. Anyway, in your year, Michelangelo's sculpture of David is unveiled in Florence. And if you’ve ever seen it, or a copy of it, it is magnificent! And he’s got a properly-proportioned penis. Yeah, we said it. Nudes are art and anyone that doesn’t accept that can just avert their eyes. This week… don’t take a cold shower.

Capricorn 

Starting on a Friday, 1440 was a leap year - and statistically you’re right where you ought to be! Something else got started this year that’s still in existence. Eton College was founded by Henry VI of England, and how cool is this?! It’s got a coat of arms with a lion, three lily flowers… and a Fleur-de-lis… maybe because Henry was also the disputed ruler of France for a bit. So this week, take over someone else’s work-place zone by claiming it as your own. And just shrug to answer why you did it.

Aquarius 

1884 was another Leap Year, and another Tuesday. Weird, no Thursday starts in the bunch. Oh, well. How about this weird nugget? William Price attempted to cremate his dead baby son in Wales… the town. He was tried and acquitted on the grounds that cremation is not contrary to English law, thus allowing him to carry out the ceremony (the first in the United Kingdom in modern times), setting a legal precedent. So let this be a lesson to you, Aquarius… someone needs to be dead BEFORE you set them on fire. Good Talk, man!

Pisces  

Another Friday start, ending us at 1199. In YOUR weird history moment… A short-lived truce is declared, between the Kings Richard I (the Lionheart) and Philip II (Augustus). Two of Europe's most powerful rulers meet on the banks of the Seine River, while shouting terms to one another. Just think about it - screaming back and forth across a river to exchange data… just the same way that computer modems used to scream at each other on telephone lines. With the occasional, “WHAT?!” thrown in for good measure. This week look up the movie quote, “I hear you! I hear you! A deaf man could hear you!”

And THOSE are your Horrible-Scopes for this week! Remember if you liked what you got, we’re obviously not working hard enough at these. BUT! If you want a better or nastier one for your own sign or someone else’s, all you need to do to bribe me is just Let Me Know! These will be posted online at the end of each week via Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, Discord and BLUESKY.

[esandcasg]

Chapter Ten - Something Kinda Oooh

The landing on the glacier was hard. During my younger days of pioneering base jumping and wingsuit sky diving off Preikestolen, I had become accustomed to state of the art parachute technology, flaring the canopy around twenty feet above the DZ and generating a silky smooth landing that the average Ryanair pilot could only dream of.

But not here. Whilst Andrew’s rudimentary blanket parachute had saved our lives – as had his quick and imaginative thinking – it didn’t make for a particularly aerodynamic and controllable descent, like a Boeing 737Max in override mode.

We crashed into the hard glacial ice and the three of us were immediately pitched into a roll, becoming entangled in the blanket, like three sausages in a meaty triple layered Gregg’s. To make matters worse, Andrew hadn’t shaken vol-au-vent crumbs off the blanket after his lunchtime offering, so as we tumbled down the glacier I was blinded by sharp flakes of puff pastry that swirled around my face as we rolled.

We came to a sudden stop and my face slammed into what appeared to be a wall of granite, which I assumed was Ifan’s abdominal muscles. The three of us wriggled our way out of the blanket, disentangling arms, legs and other appendages on the way.

“Where’s the door?” Asked Ifan.

I sat up, neatly brushing my hair back into its standard windswept mountain bouffant styling, as vol-au-vent crumbs rained down on my lap. We were on a nondescript glacier in the middle of a nondescript mountain range. In truth we could have been anywhere, and I’d totally lost track of where Andrew had taken us in the last chapter. A few meters further down the glacier was a ten meter wide crevasse. I walked to the edge and gazed down. I shuddered slightly. It seemed as bottomless as Ifan’s drinking ability when handed pints to finish. If we’d rolled just that little bit further we would be dead, no question. I walked back to Andrew and Ifan and sat down next to them.

We sat in silence for a minute trying to comprehend what had just happened, and the series of events that we had been lucky to survive. The second Ifan. The avalanches. The parachute jump. As a blissful serenity surrounded us, like the time we drank beer on the pontoon by the lake in Sweden, I gazed up at the summit of ‘Craven Mountain’. Even some minutes after the series of avalanches and serac explosion that had nearly claimed our lives, snow and ice particles still rained down the mountain like a giant white blanket of fog slowly creeping its way through a horror movie set.

I looked a bit further down the mountain and saw the burning wreckage of the BMW M3 that had suddenly appeared in the story as a reference to my younger days. I thought back to the last time I had sat in an M3. My sister had picked me and Rob Buysman up from Marylebone station on our way to Earls Court to see Oasis on their proclaimed Be Here Now tour. Except her drunken ass of a boyfriend had other ideas and directed us all across London to the point where we missed The Verve who were supporting, and my sister turned up halfway through the Oasis setlist.

But the question that lingers on from that experience was why didn’t I take Ifan? Why did I end up going with Rob? Maybe these are questions to be answered in the Vertical Summit 2 Author’s Notes.

I was brought back to the present by Andrew breaking the silence, as he one-cheek-sneaked and let rip.

“I have no idea where the hell we are,” he said, as he cupped his fart and deposited it in Ifan’s face. “And I have no idea what we do now.”

We turned in unison as we heard the unmistakable mechanical throbbing of a tank drawing nearer. It was accompanied by shouting of Craven’s men. They were looking for us. And by the sound of it they weren’t far away.

“Well, we can’t stay here,” said Ifan, wafting fart away from his face. “It fucking stinks.”

We stood and started making our way up the glacier, in the opposite direction of the approaching troops. We had no equipment, no rations, no weapons. Ifan and I simply held an ice-axe each. Andrew still had his 5L daypack, but at that size I didn’t hold much hope of it containing anything useful. Perhaps an owl or two that we could grill later for dinner.

As we climbed we kept as close to the medial moraine as possible, hopeful of staying out of sight of the troops below. I could only hope that the tank couldn’t make it onto the glacier and cross the series of crevasses, but this is Vertical Summit where anything is possible.

As we reached something of a plateau that probably didn’t make sense from a geographical perspective, we had our first real opportunity to try and get a fix on where we were.

“There,” said Andrew, pointing back slightly the way we had come. “There’s K2. Next to it is Elbrus. I think we’re on some sort of tributary spur of the Godwin-Austen glacier.”

“That’s all very well. But where does this leave us?” Asked Ifan, picking up what appeared to be a sweaty sardine that had been left out overnight from another expedition. He inspected it before delicately putting it in his mouth.

“I have a theory,” I started. Both Andrew and Ifan looked at me expectantly. “I think we need to go back to Kangleong.”

“What?” Barked Ifan, as bits of sardine bone and flesh flew everywhere. “Kangleong is destroyed. You know this.”

“I know. But think about it. All this shit started that moment I tore those prayer flags from the summit. All of it. The storm that killed everyone, Craven, our lives being ruined, now this. It all leads back to that defining moment.”

As Ifan rummaged around on the floor for the bits of the all-important protein that he had lost, Andrew stared at me for a moment before nodding.

“You are right. I mean, at the time I thought it was really funny. But clearly you have angered some sort of mountaineering disaster novel god. The prophecy spoke of this.”

“But you are still missing the point,” continued Ifan. “Kangleong doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Something will exist,” countered Andrew. “Even if it’s just a pile of rocks. We climb it and put flags on the top. This is the way.”

“This is the way,” repeated Ifan and I in unison.

We set off for Kangleong, nestled deep in the Himalayas. In theory, it would have been a two month expedition to cover the twelve hundred kilometers, especially if we had taken the slow but necessary precautions to avoid Craven’s troops. But after half an hour we gave up as we had the Swansea 10k the next morning and had to save our legs. Andrew didn’t even want to risk a cheeky spot of parkour.

Worried about DOMS, Ifan drew back his sleeve to reveal a wrist mounted computer, like a 1980s Casio calculator watch on steroids. He punched in some numbers, and a few moments later his C-Max appeared. A red light oscillated from behind the front grill.

Whilst Andrew and I climbed in – I had called shotgun - Ifan opened the boot and dug out three Tesco’s meal deal bags, handing two of them to Andrew and I. Climbing into the cockpit, he put the C-Max into flight modus, and we sat back as he ignited the boosters and we shot off into the mountain air, leaving the Karakorum and Gasherbrum ranges behind us.

Once at an appropriate altitude, Ifan hit the hyperdrive switch, and the light around us was distorted into a rounded tunnel as we were propelled towards the Himalayas at lightspeed. I didn’t even have time to take a bite from my soggy southern fried chicken wrap before Ifan hit the switch again and we came out of hyperspeed. The journey had taken a mere 0,004 seconds; just long enough for Andrew to finish his lunch.

As speed slowed to normal I was startled as something hard hit the windscreen; a loud thud that seemed to resonate through the car as it bounced through the air. And again. I noticed a small fissure of a crack open up in the glass between where Ifan and I sat. As more and more objects hit the car I saw a buildup of ice on the windscreen that slid in an upwards trajectory due to our speed.

“Have we come out of hyperspace in a meteor shower?” Andrew asked from the backseat. He leaned forward so he was between Ifan and I.

“It’s ice!” Shouted Ifan above the noise of the impacts. “We’ve come out in a hail storm.”

“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this,” I said.

As golf ball sized hail stones hit the car, smoke started to seep out from under the bonnet. A moment later it was in the cockpit, pouring out of air vents. Lights and warning alarms flashed on the display panel.

“Hey, what’s that flashing?” Asked Andrew, pointing towards the dashboard.

Ifan wafted his hand away. “Hold on guys, we’re going down.”

As he wrestled with the controls my stomach lurched repeatedly as we lost altitude in big chunks. As we came down through the cloud line I noticed a snowy clearing in a valley ahead of us, between two Himalayan peaks.

“Over there,” I pointed.

“Yeah, that’ll do nicely,” said Ifan, as he tried his best to aim towards where I was pointing. Once more the car plummeted in altitude and I thought for a minute we wouldn’t make the landing zone. But in a battle of strength – Ifan versus mother nature – there would only be one winner.

“Brace yourselves…” warned Ifan, as we came over the clearing.

We hit the ground hard, and I felt the impact resonate through every bone in my body. The front suspension on the C-Max collapsed sending the nose of the car into the snow. As we ground to a halt, snow was pitched forward over the windscreen, a lot like when Luke crashed his snow speeder on Hoth.

Ten minutes later, Ifan had finally managed to finish parking and we all climbed out of the steaming wreck.

Whether it was Ifan’s brilliance as a pilot or my lazy writing, but fortunately we had come down just off the Yangma glacier, a big slug of ice that ran up to Kangleong base camp, which left us just a few hours trek to the start of our climb. Or maybe I should say where Kangleong base camp used to be.

I let out a sigh as I thought back to the last time I was here. It was 2013. I was working at BP and was bored to the point that my brain was turning to mush. But back then I was actually trying to write a serious mountaineering disaster novel. My how things have changed in the last eight years.

I shook the memories out of my mind and followed Ifan and Andrew into the local prayer flag shop, where we picked up a few tasty offerings that would hopefully restore peace to the galaxy. After that we popped into the adjoining Yangma Tavern for a cheeky pint and pub meal, and with that we set off for Kangleong.

I didn’t know what to expect as we approached Base Camp. My mind wandered again. Ground zero. The series of events that had changed everything from me. From seeing Ifan topless for the first time, to summiting the world’s toughest climb. Adrenaline and nervous energy built as we approached.

But as we climbed the rise that would give us our first view of New Kangleong, whatever I expected, it wasn’t this. The majestic granite monolith was gone. In its place was a pile of rubble and debris that rose a few thousand meters into the sky. Sitting on the top was a vertical slab of ice and rock that stretched a further one thousand meters up into the Himalayan air, and now represented the new summit of New Kangleong. It almost reminded me of a flake sticking out the top of a 99.

“What the fuck is that?” Asked Ifan.

“Don’t you guys see?” Replied Andrew. “It’s The Sill. In the explosion it has remained intact, somehow.”

He was right. The Sill was a mystical feature on Kangleong that changed both elevation and size based on what chapter you happened to be reading in Vertical Summit 1. But mountaineering purists and geologists would argue that it was approximately one thousand meters long and three hundred meters wide. Except now it stood on its own as the peak of Kangleong.

We would have to climb it. In some ways the climb of Kangleong had suddenly got even harder, especially as it would have to be done without ropes. Something referred to as free soloing.

I saw the fear etched on the faces of Ifan and Andrew. Whilst I came from a free soloing background, I knew that this was new territory for these guys. In my youth I had pioneered new free soloing routes up some of the worlds hardest climbs, most notably The Dawn Wall on El Cap, a climb that featured in a Netflix documentary The Dawn Solo. The documentary also focused on my penchant for a morning Tommy Tank.

People asked all the time why I did it. Why did I climb without a rope, harness or other safety equipment? Aren’t I scared of death? The truth was that I got really tired of answering those questions over and over again. But you can’t blame those who ask the questions: fans, friends, me, any rational, thinking, non-suicidal human being. Why is it not enough to be one of the best climbers in the world? Why remove the protection? It’s as if Novak Djokovic played a grand slam tournament where the penalty for losing was beheading. Which they should introduce.

But the questions were valid. Was it because I wanted to push myself? Because I didn’t value my life? Because I wanted to achieve absolute sporting perfection? All good questions. The answer was that I knew that it was the only way a guy with my ears was going to get a babe like Sanni McCandless.

I stared up at the summit of New Kangleong. Something about it made me uneasy. It wasn’t just the climb in front of me, but it was almost as if…  as if I felt a presence up there. Something that I hadn’t felt since…

I faced Andrew and Ifan. “I’ll go alone.”

“Don’t be stupid, we do this as a team,” said Andrew, but I could hear in his voice that he wasn’t quite convinced of his own words.

“This is my mess, I will fix this. Plus, Craven is up there. And I have to face him alone.”

“What? How do you know Craven is there? Why do you have to face him alone?” Asked Ifan, the questions spewing out of him like the infamous cous-cous honking episode.

I turned to face The Sill. I didn’t want to see their reactions.

“Because he’s my father.”

There was stunned silence behind me as I set off for the summit. I tried my best to keep my emotions in check. I had to be clear of thought and one hundred per cent focused if I was going to make this climb. Free soloing something of this magnitude was like a gold medal level of achievement, where years of preparation comes together in one moment of perfection. There would be no place for silver.

After a few hours of scrambling up broken rock I reached the smooth granite and ice face of The Sill. I placed a hand on it, felt it’s smooth surface and the energy running below it, as if it was the force that I would harness and help me climb this beast. I looked up. A sheer vertical slab of rock with an endless series of elite level ice and rock climbing pitches lay in front of me.

I took a deep breath.

“Fuck this,” I said to myself. I checked around to make sure that the Netflix film crew were nowhere to be seen,  before digging out my Mandalorian jet pack that I had concealed under my jacket.

I snapped it in place and hit the booster. I mean, it’s not my fault that no one challenged me with the whole ‘pictures or it didn’t happen’ ethos.

I blasted my way up the thousand meters in a number of seconds, and landed smoothly on the top of Kangleong. I was back. Seven years and lots of memories later. Except this time I was the first person to conquer the new mountain. New Kangleong.

But I knew that this was only wishful thinking. I’d known it since I saw Kangleong from base camp. Since I sensed it.

As I stared out over the shrunken view from the summit of Kangleong, I heard the unmistakable mechanical breathing from behind me. I turned slowly.

Twenty meters away stood Craven.

“You came alone. That was unwise.” Even at this altitude the wind was strong and he had to shout to make himself heard.

“I came to finish this, father.” I shouted back. “The ride is over.”

“Oh, no, no. l say when it's over.”

From his waist holster he pulled out his ice axe. He hit a button which turned on a series of red LEDs around the rim of the axe. An innovative feature that allowed climbers to see cracks in the ice, almost like an illuminative dye-pen. But in the hands of Craven it looked sinister.

He took a step towards me.

[nomercia]

what do yall think of the other earls? (harold godwinsson, osgod, siward)

edith: you can’t see it but i just cracked my knuckles and rolled up my sleeves. godwinson is just like his father - a power hungry, manipulative, entitled asshole. just because his father was a sub-regulus doesn’t mean he can walk around like he owns the country. he owns half, at best, and that’s considering shaky political alliances. i don’t like him, but i dislike his brother more, so there are worse choices for earl of Wessex. tostig’s sheer incompetency is beyond me. 

osgod is cool, i think. east anglia is important because, surprise! places other than wessex matter. who knew. but genuinely, i really respect him for challenging the king in a meaningful way, and i think most people who’ve been banished have valuable experiences to share. not godwin though.

siward... what an enigma, to say the least. he’s interesting. he’s chaotic and unpredictable and maybe a little unstable, but he’s kept northumbria safe these past few years and the region seems in good hands. also i probably like him most out of all of them because of his hand in the sort-of revolution in scotland a while back. that was pretty awesome.

edwin: i think godwinson is capable and smart. i love his use of tactics and how his feelings never get in the way. i look up to him a lot, actually. imagine having that much control and still ruling over such a large area wisely. he’ll always have an ally in me.

i agree with edith on this one. osgod has made a lot of smart choices and stuck by them. he’s a brave man and yeah, i guess i respect him. a bit.

siward is - he’s - well, he’s ruling. that’s the main thing. it would be stupid to get on his bad side because lord knows he south should always try to have the respect of the north, and vice versa.

morcar: harold godwinson is hot harold has always been a good friend to me. i trust him. i’d marry him if i could again, like edwin, he always has an ally in me, even if edith doesn’t trust him.

i don’t know too much about osgod but i mean...if edwin respects him then he’s probably deserving of it. edwin’s not too hot on authority most of the time. osgod’s fairly just when making decisions for east anglia, and he wasn’t always an earl. he’s been around for a long time, i suppose. that has to give him experience at least?

i LOVE siward. i think he’s genuinely the coolest of the earls. northumbria has always been intimidating and sort of distant but holy shit. have you ever sat in witan meetings with him? he’s not afraid to speak his mind at all! i wish i was brave enough to do that! siward is who i want to be when i’m older and more sure of myself. he’s so well respected as well, even though he can be unpredictable. and so brave! sorry, i’ll shut up now.

[jens-holland]

Imagine hearing you got cast as Earl Godwin hhh

Bastard man, kill with fire