#fire is her bridegroom

[aliciavance4228]

I've came across this Typhon×Echidna VS. Zeus×Hera comparison many times. Basically, people are talking about how the monstrosity who tried to overthrow Zeus and scared the shit out of all Olympians has a more stable, unproblematic relationship with Echidna than Zeus has with Hera, and that he would never cheat on her. Which is an unnecessary over exaggeration.

There's one version of the myth of Typhon (specifically in the one where he's Gaia's son, not Hera's) where he starts telling Zeus about all he's gonna do after he'll overthrow him. Here are some of the lovely things listed by him:

I will keep the chains of Iapetos (Iapetus) for Poseidon; and the soaring round Kaukasos (Caucasus), another and better eagle shall tear the bleeding liver, growing for ever anew, of Hephaistos the fiery: since fire was the for which Prometheus has been suffering the ravages of his self-growing liver. I will take a shape the counterpart of the sons [the Aloadai giants] of Iphimedeia, and I will shut up the intriguing son of Maia [Hermes] in a brazen jar, prisoned with galling bonds, that people may say, "Hermes freed Ares from prison, and he was put in prison himself!" Let Artemis break the untouched seal of her maidenhood, and become enforced consort of [the giant] Orion; Leto shall spread her old bedding for [the giant] Tityos, dragged to wedlock by force. I will strip murderous Ares of his ragged bucklers, I will bind the lord of battle, and carry him off, and make the Killer the Gentle; I will carry off Pallas [Athena] and join her to [the giant] Ephialtes, married at last; that I may see Ares a slave, and Athena a mother. ‘Kronion [Zeus] also shall lift the spinning heavens of Atlas, and bear the load on weary shoulders--there shall he stand, and hear the song at my wedding, and hide his jealousy when I shall be Hera's bridegroom. Torches shall not lack at my wedding. Bright lightning shall come of itself to be selfmade torch of the bride-chamber; Phaethon [Helios the Sun] himself instead of pine-brands, kindled at the light of his own flames, shall put his radiance at the service of Typhoeus the Bridegroom; the stars shall sprinkle their bridal sparks over Olympos as lamps to my loves, the stars lights of evening! My servant Selene (the Moon), Endymion's bed-fellow, along with Aphrodite the friend of marriage, shall lay my bed; and if I want a bath, I will bathe in the waters of starry Eridanos.

Chaining up Poseidon with the same chains that Iapetus is bound by (this one is justified, but still horrible).

Sending a bigger, stronger eagle to peck out Hephaestus' liver to avenge Prometheus (again; justified but still horrible).

Trapping Hermes in a jar forever.

Enslaving Ares, Selene, Aphrodite and Apollo (Selene and Aphrodite would've been his sex slaves).

Forcibly marrying off Artemis, Leto and Athena and letting their husbands rape them.

Forcing Hera to marry him (Typhon) specifically.

Etc.

And yet people are really going to claim that Typhon is faithful to Echidna just so that they could make the relationship between Zeus and Hera seem more problematic than it already was. Speaking about "problematic", both Typhon and his offspring could definitely be described like that. The reason why not all of them are terrible monsters is because the gods realized that the best decision is to make good use of them instead of letting them free.

[farity]

To tread lightly

Pairing:  Aemond Targaryen x reader 

Summary:  Aemond learns that his betrothed is a gentle soul

Warning:  Smut

“The Mowbrays may not be a large house, but their lands are in the perfect strategic spot in Westeros and they are far richer than just about any other family, including the Lannisters.”

Aemond looked at his grandsire, his expression showing the same disinterest he had felt throughout the entire meeting.

“It is an advantageous match, and she is said to be lovely.”

“Loveliness is wasted on me, grandfather, as long as she is malleable, quiet, and fertile, she will do.”

Otto studied his grandson.  There was a fire in him, a fire that did not exist in Aegon and had not yet bloomed in Daeron.  He often thought it might render Aemond into a pile of ashes if unleashed, but tempered with intelligence, it might make this grandson a great Hand of the King for his brother someday.

“Very well, I shall proceed with the negotiations.”

* * * * * 

You were sure you could guide a ship into harbor with all the jewels on your gown.  If you turned back and forth, a ship’s captain would see the rays of light firing from every single stone and go safely home.

“It also meant the floor length dress was incredibly heavy, and that did not include the elaborate headdress or the train that had yet to be attached.  “Is this really necessary?” you asked your mother.  “They’ve already agreed to the betrothal.”

"Stand up straight, darling,” Your mother walked around you.  “Remember you are well educated, highly accomplished, and come from two old families that can trace their lineage for centuries.  Just because we are a small House does not take away from our family history.  You are a Mowbray, be proud of it.”

She added a jewel encrusted bracelet to one of your wrists.  “And, unlike many of these so called noble daughters, you have remained pure.”

Oh yes, that had been stipulated in the negotiations.  A Septa sent by the Targaryens had personally confirmed it.  Your mother had held you the whole time, two servants holding a large cloth of gold to cover you from the hips up to the roof of your canopied bed as you laid, legs spread, on the bed.  The Septa had inserted two slim fingers inside you and then removed them and that had been that.  

What about your bridegroom?  He might have bedded half the land and it wouldn’t have mattered, but you, of course, had to be untouched and intact.  One of your cousins had been repudiated even though she insisted she had not lain with anyone, and all she could come up with was that she was a devoted horse rider, but all the same, she was banished to a small village so her shame would not be spread to her family.

“Try not to look so disdainful, darling,” your mother said, “whatever else they are, the Targaryens are in power.”

* * * * * 

“Your Highness, I am so glad to finally meet you.”

Aemond watched the girl drop into a curtsy, her gown sparkling with every movement.  She was pretty, he supposed, and looked agreeable enough.  He extended his hand and she placed one small hand upon it before rising, a sweet smile on her face.

“You are most welcome here, my lady.”

If she expected him to kiss her hand or her cheek, or for him to say he was happy to meet her, she did not seem disappointed when he did none of those things.  Maybe she had been well trained and would not be an annoyingly clingy wife.  At least he hoped so.  He led her to her chair at the banquet table, watched her charm everyone throughout dinner, and after the meal, stood when his mother suggested he take his betrothed for a walk around the gardens.

She looked up at him, that sweet smile back on her face, and followed him down the many corridors.

“Are the gardens this way?” she asked, as they went into darker and darker hallways.

Aemond, walking in front of her, said nothing.

* * * * * 

By the Maiden, could he be more disinterested in you?

You followed him as best you could, the heavy gown and new slippers making you a little clumsy.  He continued in front of you, his longer legs covering more distance than yours, and you really, really wanted to tell him to stop and let you catch up.

You turned a corner and found yourself pressed against the wall, but instead of a stolen kiss or some attempt at groping you, he planted his hands on either side of your head and looked at you.

“I am told you are learned, so I hope you will not have to be told more than once,” he began.  “You are my betrothed, and as of this moment you belong to me.”

You opened your mouth to speak but he continued.

“Your loyalty is to me, your every effort will be in my favor and dictated by me,” he leaned in until his nose was almost touching yours.  “I will not tolerate any treachery, lies, or betrayals by you, and should you attempt to defy me, I will-”

“Stop!”

You covered your face, unable to take any more.  

“Please,” you added, letting your hands slide down.  His eye bore fiercely into you.  “Why are you speaking to me like this?”

“I merely want you to know how things will be in our marriage.”

“Oh, is it a marriage now,” you felt anger rising inside you, “it sounds like I am to be your prisoner, unable to say a word or form a thought unless approved by you.”

“That would be ideal,” he snapped.

You moved to slip under his arm but he was quicker, keeping you against the wall.

“Why me, then?”

“Your family is the richest in the land.”

You turned away, anger and resentment coursing through you.  

“I was not finished.”

You did not move, still looking away.

“Other than your moon blood, I will accept no excuse for you to not be in my bed.  Once with child, you will follow every instruction you are given and take no risks, and after the birth, the maester will decide when you can take me again.”

You felt his lips brush across your temple.  “During formal events, I expect you to behave in a way that honors the throne and the family, otherwise you will be confined to your rooms.”

There were hot tears beginning to sting at your eyes and you did everything in your power to keep them from spilling.

“Compose yourself,” he said, “we are heading back now.”

* * * * * 

Aemond saw the effort it took for her to keep smiling through the rest of the evening.  She did not glance at him again, instead chatting with both his mother and her own.  Soon enough, she pleaded being tired and headed to her rooms along with her mother.  He stood as she passed, and took her hand to kiss it.  Her eyes looked somewhere past his shoulder and her smile was strained.

It was better this way.  She should know what was expected of her.  He had been betrayed and ignored by enough people in his life and would not allow his wife to do the same.  Her life with him would be peaceful enough, he was not a cruel man.  He would look out for her, make sure she had everything she needed, and protect her as best he could.  In exchange he expected her loyalty and a behavior that honored the crown and the family.  If she was expecting flowery declarations and a husband so besotted he praised her at every turn, it was better that she was set right.

He would have a marriage that brought no further insult to his life, a wife that behaved with decorum, and a family that might, finally, fill the void that lurked inside him.  He caught his mother’s questioning gaze and a pang of guilt hit him.

* * * * * 

“Darling, many things are said in the beginning of a marriage that have no bearing on the coming years.”

You were sobbing uncontrollably, wanting nothing more than to go home, away from the horrible man you’d been betrothed to.

“Mother please,” you managed between sniffles.  “I do not want this.  I will suffocate with all these rules and the way he talks to me.”

“Child,” your mother said soothingly.  “Let’s look at what he actually said.  We all know he has this stern façade because of what happened to him, but let’s take that away for a moment.”

“I don’t want to.”

You heard an exasperated sigh from your mother.  “Dearest one, he has warned you not to betray him, which is understandable, and has told you he wants children and to behave properly.  It is truly not all that awful.”

“He did not have to say it that way, mother.”  You wiped your nose with the handkerchief she had given you.  “So coldly, so brusquely.”  

“He does not know you, my dove.”

“So what?  One does not speak to one’s future spouse in such a manner.”

"We are marrying you to a man close to the throne, you will be part of the most powerful family in the realm, you must be stronger and not let petty disputes slip under your skin.”

She placed a quick kiss on your forehead before leaving and you decided you would not let your earlier interaction sour your disposition.  You had been well informed on what would take place during the consummation, you were prepared and would be pleasant and dutiful.  Maybe he would grow to like you, you thought.

* * * * * 

He watched her walk toward him on her mother’s arm.  It was unusual but Lady Mowbray had said she was merely substituting for her late husband and would brook no opposition. 

His betrothed was pale but composed, her smile sweet, and when he kissed her after saying the words, he felt her fingers tighten on his shoulders.

“Are you very tired?”

She turned to look at him, now in the candlelight of their bedchamber, and shook her head.  “Not really.”  She studied him for a moment, then asked, “would you like for me to brush your hair?”

Aemond had not expected this, and was silent for a moment.  Had she not realized that in order to brush his hair he would need to remove his eye patch?  He began walking toward her, deciding that he might as well show her what she had been wed to.  Maybe she would never again offer to brush his hair.

Better to find out now.

He pulled off the eye patch in one smooth motion.  “If you like, wife, I should very much enjoy having you brush my hair.”

To her credit, she did not wince or recoil upon seeing the sapphire in his eye socket.  He sat by the fire and waited for her, wondering if she would suddenly say she was too tired.

“Does your, uh, eye stone need to be removed?”

He turned, noticing how the fire backlit her form, making the nightgown she wore all but invisible.  Her hips were shapely and her waist slim and suddenly he didn’t care about his damn hair or his damn anything, but he turned back to let her begin her work.  “Every few days, and the maester deals with it.”

She gently pulled off the hair tie he also wore, holding the hair close to his scalp so she wouldn’t tug on it.  Her touch was delicate but sure, and then he wanted her hands on his skin.  When she ran the brush down the length of his hair, he  could have moaned, it felt so good.  Ridiculously good. 

She continued brushing, her bare feet making no sound on the floor as she went around him.  He wanted to pull her onto his lap, make her put her hands on him, kiss her mouth without an audience this time and take his time making her his.

“I am sorry.”

The brushing stopped and he felt her nervousness as if it had weight.  He turned and saw her standing with the brush in her hands.

“I spoke to you much too harshly yesterday.  I pray you can look past my transgression.”

The sweet smile reappeared.  “There is no need for this, husband.  We have all been overwrought from all this wedding business.”

He felt his own mouth curve in response.  She thought he had been nervous?  Him, the most feared man at court.  She was walking back to him to continue and he couldn’t wait any longer, he simply reached out and pulled her to him.  He felt her sharp inhale of breath and she tossed the brush onto the other chair before linking her arms around his neck.

Her lips were a new delicacy, and he took his time tasting her, delighting in the way she shivered in his arms.  She was making eager little noises, wriggling against him and he knew he had to get her on the bed before he took her on the floor in front of the fire.

Slipping one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, he rose and walked to his bed.  He sat on the edge, still kissing her as he undid the laces on the front of her nightgown.  Once undone the garment fell open, revealing the inner curves of her breasts.  Mesmerized, Aemond moved her to the bed, slipping the gown off of her.  He saw the instinct to cover herself, the way her arms twitched to cross in front of her breasts and then she looked up at him.

“The Mother has given me a beautiful wife.”

She swallowed as he began to remove his own clothes, her eyes never leaving his.  

* * * * * 

Your new husband was very fine, indeed.

He was tall and slim but all the training he did had given power to his lean, muscled frame.  You saw the way his hair moved across his shoulder as he discarded his trousers, and wondered how his skin would feel under your fingertips.

He kneed your legs apart, settling his weight between them.  You knew what was to happen, but it was one thing to be told about it and another to be experiencing it.

“Are you alright?”

His voice was soft, kind, and it soothed your nerves.  “Yes, I didn’t know I would enjoy the kissing so much.”

He smiled down at you and bent down to kiss you again.  This time you remembered what he had done a minute ago and touched the tip of your tongue to his lips.  He tasted like the spices used to mull the wine, even though you hadn’t seen him drink more than a sip or two.  He let you explore his mouth, his hand gentle on your hair.  

You felt his hand stroking your thigh, his touch leaving a path of warmth on your skin.  “Do you enjoy me touching you?”

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you nodded.  Maybe if you touched him you would feel less nervous.  You ran your hands across his broad shoulders and down his arms, then tucked one lock of hair behind his ear and caressed his scarred cheek.

“Are you repulsed?”

“By a scar?” you asked, incredulously.

“And a missing eye.  I will put the eyepatch back on if it offends you.”

You shook your head, and pulled him down to kiss the ruined skin. “It does not offend me.  Or repulse me,” you murmured softly, hoping he believed you.  Your hands continued exploring, now running up the planes of his back.  It was a strange thing, to discover another human being like this, something as mundane as skin revealing so much by the responses to your touch.

He was clearly indulging you, giving you time before he took you, and for that you reached up again, pressing your mouth against his.  Soon you felt his hand between your legs and were reminded of the Septa.  But whereas that was simply a process taken to confirm your status, this was completely different.  His fingers moved lightly over a spot the Septa had not touched, and you shivered, the sensation making you want more.

He kept rubbing the same spot over and over, and you felt a whimper escape you.  It was becoming too much, and at the same time you did not want him to stop.  “Give yourself to me, sweet wife,” he said.  When you began rocking your hips, he murmured his approval, and you felt something happening, something that was taking over your every sense, and still he did not stop.  You buried your face in his neck and cried out as pleasure and fire unfurled inside of you.  

* * * * * 

He felt her go completely still at that moment, her body frozen as she came.  She was clinging to him, one leg curled over his hip, arms wound tight around him, and he began driving inside her.  She gasped, pleasure and pain mixing as he tore through her maidenhead, but he felt the rhythmic grasp of her inner muscles as pain quickly faded.

She let her head fall back on the bed, her skin flushed, and he kissed her as he claimed her, his need for her barely tempered by the knowledge that he was her first, her only, and he needed to go slowly.  He felt her hand on his cheek, the gentle caress of her fingertips and turned to kiss her palm.  

Mine, he thought, my own sweet wife.  

The feel of her beneath him was intoxicating.  That she was his, that out of all the possibilities he had ended up with her as his wife, and that she had seen past his despicable behavior . . . Aemond knew he did not deserve her.  He did not deserve a woman who went willingly to his bed and placed her trust in him.  He lost himself in her arms, the touch of her lips on his face, and accepted whatever mistake the gods had made in giving her to him as a blessing.  

* * * * * 

Alicent knew the moment her new daughter-in-law had returned from the market.  Not because she saw the young woman herself, but because she saw Aemond look up and then his shoulders relaxed, his face lost its usual stern expression, and books and maps were abandoned as he went to meet his wife.  

She saw her younger son place a chaste kiss on his wife’s lips, then he took the basket from her hands while she showed him whatever she had purchased.  He looked back at one moment, thanking the two guards who had accompanied her and then let her maid take the basket.  

She watched the two young people walk away, the young woman at one point leaning her head against his shoulder, and his instinctive move to kiss the top of her head.  And she smiled to herself when they were late for dinner.

* * * * * 

@arryn-nyx​   @greenowlfactif  @hydrationqueensworld    @megzdoodle@melsunshine  @queenofshinigamis     @throughgoeshamilton   @travelingmypassion

@hb8301   @kaemond-zafiro    

[darkside-writing]

Konoha’s Bridal Run

Warnings: 18+ Only, everyone is above 18, Non-Con themes, bride stealing, mentinos of virginity loss, yandere, forced impregnation/breeding, misogyny, mentions of blood, belly bulge/cum inflation, female reader - extreme NSFW

Madara Uchiha

Imagine during the warring states period negotiations for peace between the Uchiha and Senju clan are on the verge of collapse due to failure of agreeing upon a political system that would mutually benefit both of the prestigious clans equally. With the Senju’s intentions to pack the chain of commandment with their own people and leave Uchiha out of power, it would quickly sour their already fragile temporary alliance. The loss of life during generations of war led to population of both clans to dwindle significantly unless they can come to an agreement that would bring prosperity to future generations. With the extinction of both clans weighting heavy on the leaders, a deal would be brokered between the clans would create a new tradition that would encourage the restoration of numbers lost during war. With Konoha established, it would be legal for any man to steal his bride and forcefully breed her into becoming his wife. The new tradition would forego any unnecessary trouble of courting a woman and planning multiple expensive weddings and instead opt for a massive hunt of available bachelors stealing their bride-to-be. Once a daughter becomes of age and reaches optimal condition for breeding - she is available to be taken as a bride against her will and bred thoroughly. The kidnapping of a bride would be written into law and there is no chance for the bride to divorce her husband once he has taken her virginity and dragged into their new home where the bride will become a housewife.

As the leader of the Uchiha clan, Madara would be required to choose a bride that was capable of carrying his strong Uchiha bloodline without her own genetics interfering with the Sharingan. Madara immediately chooses a young woman he has desired from a young age. He has pursued her many times without luck, but with the legitimacy of stealing a bride now legal in Konoha - Madara would instead kidnap her and bring her into his home. He would plan to force her into being his housewife and mother his children. The initial kidnapping would happen quickly in order to avoid other men from stealing his bride. Madara shows up to his bride-to-be’s house and is gracious enough to give her an advance to run away before he snatches her from her home. As the leader of the Uchiha clan and an esteemed shinobi recognized across the Land of Fire, it does not take long for Madara to hunt down his bride. He loves the chase, initially giving her enough distance to believe she may have gotten away before cruelly snatching her quickly. The look of pure terror causes Madara’s cock to swell, he recognizes this look of submission from the battlefield which never fails to make his blood boil. He is a predator at heart and revels in the way his prey tries desperately to fight against him, trying to escape to avoid a life doomed of being an Uchiha housewife and breeding bitch. Madara chooses to restrain himself from forcefully raping his new wife in the wooded forest and opt to take her virginity once he drags her back to their new home togther. The bridegroom is gracious enough to carry his newly captured bride in his arms to avoid her tender wounded feet from walking - having foregone shoes in haste to run away from her predator. The poor bride is only dressed in a sheer nightgown that does nothing to protect against Madara’s glaring crimson eyes. Konoha civilians and clan leaders congratulate the Uchiha on his newly captured wife as he passes in the streets, they celebrate the success of the new bridal stealing tradition. Feasts and congratulations will be planned in accordance once Madara breaks in his new wife. According to law, Madara must drag his bride through the front door of their new home and take her virginity immediately for the bride to legally become his wife.

The poor girl is sobbing and begging for Madara to return her to her former home, but these pleas fall on deaf ears as he enters the Uchiha compound and hastily carries her to their home. Madara’s cock aches in his pants at the submission of his bride once he gets her through the doors - her realization and acceptance of her fate finalized. He knew he chose well when his bride began to cease her cries and just accepted her fate of becoming the mother of the next generation of Uchiha. Once Madara wrestles his bride onto her knees and head pushed til’ near suffocation against a pillow, he wastes no time to rip the pathetic nightgown in pieces. His cock is hot and throbbing, balls heavy and full of potent sperm needing to be seeded into her fertile womb. The entire completion of making her into his wife relies on impregnating his new bitch. Regardless of the poor bride being a virgin, Madara cruelly pushes his fat cock inside til’ his balls are snug against her lips. He can feel the initial tear of her hymen and the slight trickle of blood coat his cock yet he doesn’t relent his brute pace. It would be impossible for Uchiha civilians to not hear the brutal assault and cries from outside their home, as a way to ensure witnesses can observe the ritual being completed. Madara grasps her wrists behind her back and uses it as leverage as his powerful hips slam into her plush ass that definitely will be bruised by morning. Their first time is not meant to feel good, but only as a means to officiate their marriage and fertilize her fruitful womb with his sperm. Madara is relentless and desperate to impregnate his new wife - he will not allow her to leave their bed until he is satisfied with an impressive belly bulge of cum stuffed inside her womb. After the brutal assault of his new bride, Madara may allow reprieve by allowing handmaids to attend to her injuries and dress her in a lavish silk Kimono so that he may parade his new wife around the village.

A married life to the clan leader of a prestigious clan leads to an unhappy home life. Madara expects his wife to resist her wifely duties until he can break her in. He is glad to chain his wife to the kitchen so that she may only have distance to perform her duties of cooking his meals and servicing his cock. Her only priority in life is Madara from this point onward. It would be impossible not to be pregnant on the first night of conception due to Madara’s brutal assault and his powerful cum quickly implanting in her womb. Soon enough she will be round and fat with his children, therefore a permanent reminder of being his wife according to Konoha society. The housewife is not allowed outside of their shared home unless accompanied by Madara, who easily parades his wife around the compound. The Uchiha are impressed with the selection of their leader’s wife and praises her for being the most fertile wife they have seen in generations. When Madara is feeling particularly sadistic, he will walk his wife to the spot in the wooded forest where he captured her during the bridal run and may forcefully rape her again. He wants to ingrain inside her brain that she will never return to her former life and that he has rightfully won her as a prize.

[ncfan-1]

There’s something really, really fairy tale about the way that the Osha-Qimir plotline and Mae-Sol plotline seems to be shaking out.

Mae was presented with her silly friend Qimir and her terrifying Dark Side master, and was given an implicit test by Qimir, one that she failed. She failed to divine that her silly friend and her terrifying Dark Side master were one and the same. She failed to grasp that these were two faces of the same man.

Osha spent her entire time under Sol’s tutelage and afterwards unaware that her kindly teacher/surrogate father had another face: that of her mother’s murderer. Sol told her a lie that the fire her sister set killed her mother, and even as the years wore on, Osha never grasped that there was something to this story that was off, because she trusted him. Because she never thought to go looking for her master’s other face.

It's just… It just feels very much like failing to recognize that the handsome stranger from your dreams and the animal bridegroom are the same person. It feels very much like failing to grasp that the friendly stranger and the wolf of the woods are the same person. Like not grasping that your new husband, Bluebeard, murdered all of his past wives until you’re standing in the room where he hid all of the bodies. So many archetypes have multiple faces in fairy tales, and I’ll admit that my understanding of it is not as deep as it could be, but it still speaks to me on a level I instinctively understand.

Meanwhile, you have Qimir admitting to Osha that he didn’t know Mae as well as he thought he did, that he thought that Mae wanted the same thing that he did, and moreover that he thought she wanted it with him. And Sol has mistaken Mae for Osha twice now. Granted, both were in moments of high stress, but still, it suggests that he doesn’t know Osha nearly as well as he thinks he does.

Mae was presented with a fractured image of Qimir, split into two faces, and meanwhile there was a third that she did not know at all. But she has now seen all of Sol’s faces. She has seen the face of her mother’s murderer. She has seen Sol in anger, nearly overcome by rage. She has seen his affection. She’s seen parts of him that I don’t think Osha knew very well—his grief—and she’s seen parts of him that I don’t think Osha has seen at all—his guilt and his shame. Mae knew a fractured image of Qimir. She will know Sol completely.

Osha was presented with a fractured image of Sol, so that just as with Mae and Qimir, she never knew him completely. But she has seen that third aspect of Qimir, the one that Mae never knew, and it follows that this is his true face. Osha has seen Qimir naked, she has seen him laid bare. There are no and there will be no secrets between them. Osha knew a fractured image of Sol. She will know Qimir completely.

Qimir did not know Mae as well as he thought he did. He will know Osha far better. He knew Osha wasn’t Mae at a glance. He is immediately struck by her upon meeting her. He does not need to read her thoughts to know what is on her mind. He will see her in her entirety, will see the sum of her as she reaches her full potential.

Twice now has Sol called out to Osha, a girl and later a woman whom he loves, for it to turn out to be Mae. He constructed an image of Osha in his head when she was a child, projecting his desire to be a father onto her. He saw her lack of desire to be a witch and failed to see anything else. And when they reunite when she is an adult, he tellingly responds in surprise to the idea that Osha might still be plagued by grief for her lost family and anger and resentment for the sister she thinks killed them. When Osha and Mae were children, Sol made a choice between them. He has already grasped the cruelty of the choice he made, but now he will see that there are other sides to Mae than just her grief and her rage. Twice now has he called out to a woman he loves, and has it been Mae.

From ignorance, they shall come into knowledge.

--

There’s something else to this, some other motif that the two pairs seem to be fulfilling as well in mirror image: that of the otherworldly bride and her mortal husband, and the taboo he breaks that makes her flee from him.

Before I go any further, let me be clear. I am not saying that these are literally two pairs of lovers who have now switched partners. Osha and Qimir’s dynamic seems set to be romantic, and who even knows how things are going to shake out between Mae and Sol when the dust has settled, but I am not literally saying that they are two pairs of lovers. It’s just the paradigm I know how to present, and honestly, my understanding of these things is not the deepest. But I can see the way they’re mirroring each other.

Osha and Mae are, in a sense, otherworldly beings. They are not simply Aniseya and Koril’s daughters. They are born of a vergence in the Force; they are the children of the Force. Both were at some point “claimed” as companions to ease the loneliness of Sol and Qimir respectively.

In the stories, a man will marry a mysterious woman, a fairy or some otherworldly being in disguise, who tells him that she will stay with him provided that he abide by a condition she places upon him. In effect, the otherworldly bride will stay with her mortal husband provided that he does not break her trust. But in the end, he always breaks her trust, one way or another. Take for instance the tale of Mélusine, who is in alternate sources named a water fairy or a dragon. She in one source agreed to marry Guy de Lusignan and remain with him on one condition: that he never intrude upon her privacy while she was bathing. When he, overcome by curiosity (or, one might argue, the need to possess and control her completely), broke his word and did attempt to conceal himself nearby while she was bathing, there was no hope that his breaking of this taboo would go unnoticed. She knew he had betrayed her trust at once, revealed her otherworldly nature, and fled from him, never to return.

Qimir violated two taboos, breaking Mae’s trust in two different ways. First was deceit: he fundamentally deceived her about who he was. Second was violence against her person: he choked her and threatened to kill her. Qimir violated two taboos, and upon discovering this, Mae fled from him, and went off with Sol. As of the end of Episode 6, whether she is safe with Sol is still questionable, but Sol has never lied to her. In the matters of truth and lies, he offered her a truth she did not expect in Episode 2, the truth that her sister was still alive, and though she immediately named him “liar,” she learned that he was, against all odds, telling her the truth. He offered her a precious truth, one that gave her back the hope she thought was gone forever.

Sol has violated the taboo of deceit, breaking Osha’s trust by fundamentally misrepresenting what happened during the defining event of her life. As of the end of Episode 5, when they were separated, Osha had yet to learn for certain that he had broken the taboo, but she had begun to suspect it. And while you can certainly and rightly argue that she did not “go off with” Qimir, the result is still the same. The mortal husband has betrayed the trust of his otherworldly bride, and now she is gone from his side. Qimir has not deceived her. He has offered her truth at every turn, even when these were truths that were difficult for Osha and which she did not want to hear. Though it was in service to breaking down Sol’s restraint, Qimir nevertheless attempted to apprise Osha of his deceit; he attempted to expose Sol’s lie. Osha does not trust Qimir, but he doesn’t ask her to take what he says about what happened on Brendok on faith. He never once asks her to trust him. He has offered her the means by which she may divine the truth herself. It’s not clear if Osha will use the cortosis helmet in that way, but nevertheless, Qimir has offered Osha truth, the truth that she needs in order to finally grow past the tragedy of her family’s deaths.

Osha and Mae both need honesty, both need the truth. They have both left the side of a man who has deceived them, and gone off with a man who has been honest with them. Sol gave Mae her hope back. Qimir has offered Osha the means to overcome her feelings of failure and misplaced resentment. They have both offered those they are now paired with what they need to move on from the tragedy of their burned childhood.

I think that Osha and Qimir will come to trust each other in the wake of Osha’s revelation of what truly happened on Brendok. As for Mae and Sol, though it seems that Sol has made a serious misstep in the way he approaches Mae, because these stories are mirroring each other, I believe that some epiphany will be reached between them. Mae’s hope and Sol’s remorse are not meaningless.

I also firmly believe that the mirroring reinforces Leslye’s Headland’s assertion that Qimir is not manipulating Osha in Episode 6. The mirroring does not work if Osha has left the side of a man who deceived her to stand at the side of another man who deceives her, this time about what he wants from her and what he wants for her. It is a discordant note in the song of this story that makes the whole song fall apart if Qimir has just been manipulating Osha all along.

Now, though I have been waffling a fair bit these past few days where Sol in particular is concerned, I am confident that all four of them will survive the season finale. I am also confident that they will part ways in pairs. The otherworldly bride does not return to the side of the mortal husband who betrayed her trust, even if she might still love him. I think that Osha and Qimir will go off in search of greater truths, and Mae and Sol will likely find themselves on the run from the Jedi Order, or else going into exile together.

Once we were in ignorance. Now we meet face to face, blessed with understanding and with truth.

[deathlessathanasia]

Why do I almost exclusively hear about Ixion when the topic of people who were interested in Hera is brought up? Here is a more comprehensive list:

Ixion - the first kinslayer among mortals, purified by Zeus and brought to Olympos, where he proceeded to show his gratitude by trying to sleep with Hera: „For although he received a sweet life among the gracious children of Cronus, he did not abide his prosperity for long, when in his madness of spirit he desired Hera, who was allotted to the joyful bed of Zeus. But his arrogance drove him to extreme delusion; and soon the man suffered a suitable exquisite punishment. Both of his crimes brought him toil in the end. First, he was the hero who, not without guile, was the first to stain mortal men with kindred blood; second, in the vast recesses of that bridal chamber he once made an attempt on the wife of Zeus. … the man in his ignorance chased a sweet fake and lay with a cloud, for its form was like the supreme celestial goddess, the daughter of Cronus. The hands of Zeus set it as a trap for him, a beautiful misery. Ixion brought upon himself the four-spoked fetter, his own ruin.” (Pindar, Pythian 2)

Endymion - Famous for being Selene's sleeping lover, but according to a fragment from the Hesiodic Corpus he was brought to Olympos and fell in love with Hera, slept with a cloud shaped like her just as Ixion, and was sent down into Hades: „In the 'Great Eoiae' it is said that Endymion was transported by Zeus into heaven, but when he fell in love with Hera, was befooled with a shape of cloud, and was cast out and went down into Hades.” Epimenides of Crete has a slightly different account: „Endymion in heaven fell in love with Hera, and Zeus condemned him to eternal sleep”.

Eurymedon - One of the Gigantes, he either raped the young Hera or was her lover before Zeus married her, whereupon both Eurymedon and the son Hera bore to him, Prometheus, were punished. The story is attributed to Euphorion and is quoted in the Iliad scholia: „Hera, while she was being nurtured by her parents, was raped by one of the Gigantes, Eurymedon, and she became pregnant and bore Prometheus. Zeus, after marrying his sister and learning of the event, punished Eurymedon by throwing him into Tartarus, and Prometheus, under the pretext of fire, was bound in chains.” (Schol. ad Il. 14.295); „Some say that Hera, when she was a maiden, fell in love with Eurymedon, one of the Gigantes, and by him bore Prometheus. Zeus, knowing this, hurled Eurymedon into Tartarus, and on the pretext of the stolen fire, chained up Prometheus.” (Schol. T ad Il. 14.296)

Ephialtes - One of the two Aloadai, the gigantic sons of Poseidon who attempted to make war on the gods. According to the Library of Apollodoros, „Ephialtes paid amorous attention to Hera, as did Otos to Artemis.”

Typhoeus - Zeus's greatest adversary, for whose birth Hera is sometimes responsible. In the Dionysiaca of Nonnos, he plans to take Hera as his wife after his defeat of Zeus: „Kronion also shall lift the spinning heavens of Atlas, and bear the load on weary shoulders – there shall he stand, and hear the song at my wedding, and hide his jealousy when I shall be Hera’s bridegroom.”

[evenhisfacewasanalias]

Fragments of Eros (Part 3)

Lady Jane Grey/Guildford Dudley

Rating: Adult

The last of the embers turned to ash, and something brushed her hand. She let out a small cry at the brief touch, the anticipation of claws or teeth that followed. But none did.

Only the feel of a warm circlet of gold slipped around her ring finger by human hands. The sound of a man’s voice, gentle, and not a beast’s.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

A Cupid and Psyche/(Beauty and the Beast) AU, inspired by and encouraged by schokoleibniz.

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Chapter 3: The Castle

The next morning, Jane woke to find herself alone in her bed, only the slight tenderness between her thighs to prove the last evening hadn’t been a dream. Beside her, on the vacant pillow, lay the blindfold she had worn. The dark, silken fabric had been carefully folded, with a slip of parchment set across the top reminding her of the need to wear it each night if she wished for a visit from her husband. She was puzzled at this missive, the idea that her ghostly lover wouldn’t return to her until nightfall. She still had a great deal she wished to ask of him. His sudden disappearance was strange, but it was no stranger than anything else that had happened to her since she had crossed the threshold into Kent.

Jane considered how she might fill her day in this new prison. Her bridegroom had told her she would be safe in the castle, and that she would have some freedom here. Jane decided she would use this day to explore the realm of her captivity, and perhaps to consider some new means of escape.

She took stock of the room around her. The furnishings were nearly as sparse as she glimpsed the night before - the small fireplace, the canopied bed she was still nestled in, and the wardrobe, with the addition of a small table and two wooden chairs that had been hidden in shadow the night before. Atop the table lay a small breakfast of toast and two boiled eggs. A cup of tea beside it, still half warm, made her wonder how recently her husband had left her, or whether someone else might have slipped into the room in the meantime. Though she saw no evidence of the presence of another human last night, she suspected she was far from alone in the castle.

Jane wolfed down her small breakfast, realizing just how hungry she had been after all that had happened. Once finished, her stomach still growled for more. She resolved herself to go in search of a kitchen, or some other source of food, as soon as she was able. 

Looking down, however, she realized she could not leave this room in naught but her thin chemise. Her wedding gown still hung by the fire, but it was far too cumbersome to put on herself. Was there anyone here who might help her? Or perhaps some other garment was left in the room - something of her bridegroom’s? Though she had not seen him, she had known he was clothed last night, and presumably left in the same state this morning. But if this were his room, perhaps the wardrobe was his as well.

Jane went to carefully unlatch the two artfully carved doors of the ancient wardrobe, expecting to find little but hoping there might be a robe or some linens to drape over herself. Instead she found hanging within several gowns of antique make. Dresses like those she had seen only in the palace tapestries and in books - slim and soft-bodiced with draping sleeves and swirling skirts. The fabrics were simple but beautifully trimmed - one even in soft fur. Jane hesitantly chose a gown of pale blue wool, with a delicate silver ribbon lining the low rounded neckline and banded around the upper sleeves. Folded ribbons of the same make she found in the drawers below, using one to tie low on her waist as she had seen in her book. The other she made use of to braid back her hair.

The simple frock had no boning, no lacings - none of the restrictions of the courtly gowns she was accustomed to, leaving her to feel almost naked within it. Her fine silk stockings, the pearled slippers of her wedding attire seemed a modern extravagance when matched with the simplicity of the archaic gown, so Jane delved deeper into the cupboard to find a pair of woolen stockings and simple leather boots. But the boots, when she tried them on, were a size too small for her feet. For a moment, she had been nearly convinced that the clothing had appeared here by magic, but here lies the proof of their reality. Jane hid her own ill-matched slippers beneath the hem of the borrowed gown before steeling herself to step outside the small room. Finding no lock, no guard to bar her way, she stepped through the doorway to the hallway outside. 

In the light of day, the castle appeared in a state of great ruin. The towering stone archways had crumbled and wooden supports and doors had nearly rotted away with time and the absence of human hands. By contrast, the courtyard had grown thick and sprawling, and within the stone walls small tendrils of green emerged from any crevice where even the faintest sunbeam could reach them. Sometimes, even when they could not. It had lent the castle a wild and ancient appearance - uncivilized but beautiful all the same.

Jane descended the spiral staircase she had climbed before, making sure she remembered the pathway to the outside door. It was closed now, the torches of the front hallway unlit but for the sunlight that streamed through. Still, down this way appeared the first real signs of life in the castle. Jane heard the faint echo of both animal sounds and human voices in the distance, and followed their trail.

Despite this, she was still taken aback by the sudden appearance of two extravagantly dressed men before her - one older, one younger, with a clear family resemblance between them. They introduce themselves as the Lords John and Stanley Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland and his son. 

Jane recoiled at the sound of the infamous name. 

She straightened to accuse the man before her - “I was told it was you who was responsible for poisoning King Edward.”

King Edward’s death had left to The Lady Jane Grey an ill-fated and ultimately short-lived reign. It had also taken from her a most beloved cousin. She had hated the very name of his purported murderer.  

The elder Lord Dudley appeared only slightly ruffled at the accusation. “I heard you were quite clever, but clever people can also be quite foolish. Tell me this, my Lady - why would I kill our poor invalid King when I was his most trusted Counselor, and nigh ruled the Kingdom in his stead?” 

Jane was forced to concede there was no obvious rationality to this, though men did not often behave rationally. “What reasons had they to falsely accuse you of such a crime?”

If there were no motive for Lord Dudley to have killed the King, what motive was there in accusing him?

At this, the man looked more sheepish. “It was I who suggested to Edward that you succeed him.”

She gasped. Then the man was, in fact, guilty - if not of killing her cousin, then of sealing her own fate.

“So you are the reason Queen Mary has condemned me.” 

“I am only guilty of trying to keep a bloodthirsty tyrant from the throne,” he confessed.

“So then you are a beast as well,” Jane suggested.

“How preposterous!” The Lord Dudley exclaimed.

“My brother - ” The Lord Stan Dudley unintentionally revealed, and was rudely elbowed by his father in retribution.

Jane began to piece this mistaken admission together with what she knew so far - the nobility of her husband’s education, his courtly airs, his arrogance. 

“You are Guildford’s father.”

Lord Dudley reluctantly answered in the affirmative, though he refused to answer any further questions about his progeny, or what manner of beast he might be - if indeed he was one at all.  

“Then will you tell me where I might find him?” If her husband’s relatives would not answer her questions, perhaps the man himself still might.

“You won’t find him unless he wishes to be found.” The Lord Dudley rebuffed her with yet another riddle.

Jane realized the two men would be no further help, and hoped instead they might at least show her where she might find some food.

They pointed her down another staircase and swiftly took their leave, the father clearly admonishing his son for his accidental slip. The kitchens were simple enough for her to find, led by the sounds of many voices at work within. The people - for they did appear in human form - paid her very little mind as she slipped into the large room, handing her a small apple and some hard cheese before they shooed her from the work at hand. She retreated to the scullery, where she surreptitiously slid a small knife into her sleeve. The castle itself had seemed as safe as promised, but she had no intentions of staying trapped within its walls. She only needed to find a way out.

****

Jane had not expected to find so easy an exit. Though the outer doorways were barred, and likely guarded, the doors to the castle yards were left unbolted. No one troubled her as she made her way across the overgrown grounds, studying the castle’s barriers. She eventually happened upon a tall apple tree growing just near the outer walls. Jane had not climbed one’s branches since she was a small child, but she found she remembered it well enough - though her pearled slippers suffered in the ascent, leaving a scattering of small white beads on the ground below her. Far more difficult was getting down from the wall, which stood several meters high even where it had suffered some previous bombardment. 

But, not wishing to be caught atop the wall, she risked a tumble to the soft earth below. Jane winced a little as old hurts resurfaced in the fall, her bruised ankle worst of all. Still, she was able to walk, and she set about to find the woods from the night before. She wished to retrace her steps back to the White Horse Stone where she had been made a sacrifice. If she were able to find it, she could then easily find the road she had been brought in on. Though returning to London would be dangerous, it was the only place she could hope to find any ally - her previously sheltered life and the brevity of her reign greatly limited the number of friends she might seek to aid her. But perhaps if she traveled some small distance away from the road, she could re-enter the city unobserved. She had just had to remain out of sight.

A hawk circled overhead - was it the one from the evening before? Jane hurried towards a copse of trees, hoping to hide herself beneath its canopy. She quickly lost sight of the bird, and hoped that it had lost sight of her as well. She pressed on, trying to discern which direction she might have come from last night. Jane vividly remembers the view of the castle she had first had as they emerged from the trees, and she can see the same view now in the daylight, but how had they gotten here? Which way had they traveled in the dark?

Jane understood quickly that she was woefully unprepared for the journey ahead, not having truly expected to make it this far on her first try. She did not recognize her way in these woods, and she had only her small rations of food and no water or warm cloak. The sound of a branch snapping in the distance reminded her she also had no real weapon but for the small knife she had stolen from the kitchen. She held it more tightly within her grasp, hoping that she would not need to make use of it. She moved more swiftly through the copse now, looking back every few steps to assure herself she wasn’t followed. She did not see the hunter’s snare until it was wrapped around her neck. 

Jane was trapped, the unseen snare tightening around her throat the more she tried to free herself. She reached up to cut at the rope with her knife, but the anchoring wire was placed behind her where she could not see or reach so readily. With each attempt, her breath was cut short by the tightening of the rope. She clawed at the noose, trying everything she could think of to loosen it but to no avail.

Just then, she felt the presence of a gentle hand at the back of her neck, another taking the knife from her hand. Jane had no more breath to fight, and she was forced to submit to her fate. But instead of pain, she felt the slight wriggling of the rope at her throat, heard the sounds of coarse threads being cut. Within moments she was free. She turned to face her savior.

A young woman, only a little older than herself, with curling red hair and familiar eyes.

“Susannah?” Jane wondered aloud. Could it really have been her friend from so long ago? 

The woman’s eyes brightened slightly which Jane took as confirmation, and she rushed to embrace the companion of her youth.

“The hawk - it was you, wasn’t it?” Jane asked, a muffled ‘yes’ was breathed into her neck.

“Why didn’t you show yourself to me before, when I saw you last night?” Jane stepped back to look upon her friend, so different and yet the same as she had remembered.

“I wasn’t sure if you would remember me,” Susannah half smiled.

“How could I have forgotten you?” 

Susannah’s smile widened further, and then she grinned. “Last night you seemed rather distracted by your new husband.”

Jane blushed to realize her old friend, and perhaps some of the other residents of the castle, may have overheard them last night. 

“There’s no need for that,” her friend assured her, brushing her knuckles across Jane’s burning cheek. “It’s only us birds who spend much time on the upper floors, the other beasties prefer to stay below. There’s almost no one on the third floor, but Rabbit offered up her room when she heard bonny Queen Jane was coming to stay with us.”

“I’m a Queen no more,” Jane lamented. She thinks back to the night before, the small grey bunny that had led her to the room. “Is Rabbit a…?”

“Of course,” Susannah laughed. “She’s been out here so long she stopped going by her human name. I’ve heard she used to be the royal dressmaker, half a century ago. Still has the hands for it, and always says how she misses the old styles.”

Jane looked down at her dress, the style of it having gone out of fashion far more than a century ago.

“Just how old is Rabbit?”

“Not so old as you’re thinking - we’re no conjurers. But out here there’s nothing to stop her indulging her fancies, though the rest of us prefer our modern clothes.”

Susannah herself was dressed much as Jane remembers her, in a brown overdress that ties at the front and cinches at the waist, with a green vest atop it. Her hair was only loosely tied back and left untamed, missing the cap and apron of her former station. Jane could see the work of many delicate repairs to the garment, and imagined this too was Rabbit’s doing. 

“I’m the lookout, of course, which is how I spotted you trying to make a run for it.”

A small sadness filled her that her old friend had now become her jailer. Susannah immediately sensed the change in her companion.

“These woods are dangerous, Jane. The Kingsland guard know better than to try to attack us here, but they’ve littered the woods with traps. They think of us as no more than ignorant beasts.” 

Jane rubbed at her neck and considered how easily she fell into such a trap - despite her human intelligence.

“Where can I go that would be safe?”

“The safest place for any of us is the castle, your husband makes sure of that. But before you go asking me any questions about him, it’s not my place to tell.”

“Can you tell me why I was brought here?”

“For that you’ll have to ask Archer, when he returns.”

Jane remembered hearing the name Archer years ago, the absent noble son of Baron Hundson. The name was often maligned as the terrible leader of the beastly hordes, but less had been heard of him as rumors of a more monstrous King had taken hold.

“When might I meet him?”

“You already have. But he’ll return in a few days time, you’ll see.”

Jane puzzled over the claim that she had already met with him, she had no recollection of meeting any man called Archer. But then it came to her - perhaps she had not met him as a man. 

“The bear from last night?” Jane had been certain the beast that had carried her to the castle could not have been a natural creature. 

“You catch on quick,” Susannah faintly praised.

Jane wondered at why he did not simply introduce himself to her last night, but none of the castle residents had then appeared to her in human form. Perhaps they had merely tried to avoid her questions, as Susannah and the Dudleys also had. Was whatever Guildford was truly so horrible? 

The question occupied most of her thoughts even as Susannah led her back to the castle. Jane was given a tour of the fortress, and some additional food, as she caught up with her old friend. She was introduced to many of the previously unseen residents of the castle - including Rabbit, who seemed pleased to have even a former Queen wear the garments that she had made herself again. Jane had hoped to discover more about why she had been brought here, perhaps from another accidental slip from another of the beasts.  But as night fell she had learned no more of substance about her phantom husband.

**** 

When she finally returned to her room, she considered whether or not to forgo the blindfold that night. She had no reason to obey his request, other than for the small chance he might return and answer some of her questions. This seemed unlikely, as he had avoided so many of her questions on the previous night.

There was also the other possibility that he might again take her into his arms and enjoin them. Jane shivered at the memory of his touch - his body pressed deep inside her, filling her senses so completely in a way she had never imagined possible. She had not expected his desire for her, or that she might match it with her own.

Equally unexpected to her was the way she already craved the stranger’s presence once more. It was this, as much as any hope of attaining her answers, that convinced her to do as she was bid. Jane dressed for bed, tying the blindfold around her own eyes, and waited in the darkness for her bridegroom.

Jane was made to wait for many hours, until she was nearly asleep. She had just begun to drift off when she felt the bed dip behind her, and a familiar form pressed against her back. Her lover’s lips touched the nape of her neck, and his fingers traced along the evidence of her encounter with the snare.  

“Where were you?” She inquired of her stranger.

“I could not be sure you would oblige my request for the blindfold,” his words ghosted over her ear, breath warm and tingling against her skin. “You certainly did not heed my advice to stay within the castle walls.”

“You did not heed my words that I would not be made prisoner again,” she remonstrated, even as her body pressed back into his touch.

“I am not the one holding you captive here - I hope that you can believe me now.” His fingers trailed down to tease at her clavicle.

“How can I believe you when you tell me so little?” She turned her body to face him, though she could not see his face.

He pulled her into his arms. “I have told you as much as I can for now, can’t you accept that?”  

“What if not knowing is more frightening than knowing?” She asked.

“What if it isn't?” He answers back. “I will tell you all you wish to know soon enough. But let me enjoy my bride one more night.”

Jane felt her pulse quicken at his words, and nodded her assent even though a large part of her still wished to argue further. She could wait a little while longer for her answers, at least, there would be plenty of time to talk after their bodies were sated. 

But her lover was in no hurry to slake their shared desire. He took his time to work her hair loose from its braid, combing his fingers through her long chestnut curls in a way that sent a delightful tingle across her scalp. She relaxed into his touch, allowed herself to be guided back against the pillows of their bridal bed.

Once her tresses were freed to his liking, she felt his lips dip down to gently map along her features - her smooth forehead, her blindfolded eyes, her flushing cheeks and elfin chin, even the soft tip of her nose. This drew an unexpected laugh from the former Queen, a sound that was quickly swallowed up as his lips finally pressed to hers. 

Again he seemed to bask in the leisure of the gesture, lips moving slowly against hers, learning their shape and their taste by heart. With his tongue he traced across the seam of her lips, dipping in to curl against her own. Jane felt herself grow dizzy from the indulgent kiss, nearly forgetting to breathe as his hands cradled her face to his, hers drawing him deeper into her. 

When he broke from their kiss it was only to then taste the skin of her throat, lips trailing along the line of her jaw, the arch of her neck. A gentle scrape of his teeth drew a sharp gasp from her, as did a soft bite to her collarbone. He kissed across the pale skin of her chest and shoulders that lay bared by her chemise, but trailed down no further. Instead, he set to work on her hands, pressing a kiss to each of her fingertips, her palms, and biting gently at her knuckles. Jane could practically feel the beat of her heart thrumming against his lips as he pressed a tender kiss to the inside of each wrist. Her arms were treated with similar relish, and Jane laughed as his lips dragged along the ticklish skin just above her elbow. 

Jane mirrored his actions, drawing his free hand to her lips and mapping its shape. His hands were broader than her own, strong, though equally gentle and agile - as he had shown her. His fingers and palms were lightly callused, used to labor but not only to this. She could imagine his fingers tracing lines of Greek and Latin text - though perhaps only in translation, as his Odýsseia had been. But they were warm and real and he chuckled when she bit at his fingers, less gently than he had done to her. Another, softer bite to the meat of his palm drew a pleased sound from her unseen lover.

This night, he again removed his own clothing before attempting to draw off her chemise - perhaps having already learned she desired fairness in all things. For this she was glad. Jane pulled her unclad husband against her own naked form, savoring the warmth and weight of his body against hers. 

Though her husband was not yet done with his explorations. Strong fingers traced the outline of her breasts, the softness of her belly, before his lips joined them to bring the tips of her breasts to stiffened peaks. His fingers cupped at the soft underside while his teeth tugged gently at the sensitive tips. It was as though each point were directly connected to the ache building between her thighs, and Jane writhed beneath him. Her fingers tugged none too gently at his hair as she tried to hold him more tightly to her breasts.  

But his lips continued their trail down further, tracing across her ribs and down to the soft skin of her belly, broad hands holding her hips in place as he leisurely explored her. His tongue dipped teasingly into her navel, halting her breath. With each touch she felt her something rolling and warm uncurl in her stomach. His teeth bit gently into the jut of each hip, and she arched into the sharp sensation of it. His tongue swept across the crease of her pelvis, and Jane was lost in the thought that he might bring his lips and tongue to where she ached for him.

Instead, he drew away, and made his way to the end of the bed where he pressed a small kiss to each ankle. Despite Jane’s pleas, and attempts to draw him back up to her, her phantom lover continued this exquisite torture, trailing lips and teeth along the lines of her bared legs. He discovered the ticklish spot on the inside of her knee, and the sound of her moan as his teeth bit into the softness of her inner thigh. Jane felt as though she would shake apart before he ever even reached her the apex of her thighs.

The first lave of his tongue against her sex has her nearly arching off the bed, but strong hands held her steady as she reveled in his touch. Jane could feel the soft hum of his mouth against her, proof that he too was savoring her taste, her scent. Each broad stroke and every delicate flick of his tongue coiled the desire tighter within her belly, her eyes pressed shut against the onslaught. Her lover brought her to new heights of pleasure with the work of his mouth against her, inside her - until she could handle no more, shuddering apart on his tongue. Any shame at the thought of being overhead by the castle’s other residents was quickly forgotten as Jane cried out her pleasure.

Her lover held her gently through it, soothing her trembling limbs and leaning up to press a tender kiss to her lips. She savored the taste of herself on his lips, and deepened their kiss.

When she had recovered, Jane attempted to repeat the slow mapping of her husband’s body. Though she found it more difficult with her blindfold, as well as her own impatience. Still, she delighted in the sounds she could draw from him with teeth and tongue along his neck, across his shoulders, down his chest and belly until he was panting beneath her. She sought to map the shape of his unfamiliar sex with fingers and tongue, feeling her husband trembling below with the effort to stay still for her. Her lips wrapped around him and she heard a deep, rumbling groan in response. A hand threaded through her hair, not pushing but rather making sure she did not attempt too much. Jane’s own contrary nature nearly reared its awful head at the gesture, but she quickly understood the good sense of not taking on too much this first time.

It was with shuddering breath that her lover drew her away, and led her to lie back once more beneath him. She could feel the hard length of him pressed in anticipation against her hips, and her own readiness to meet him. Any soreness from their previous lovemaking was long forgotten, as he pressed deeply inside her once more. The slow, easy rhythm of his hips against her own brought her steadily once again toward the precipice of her pleasure, until she was near exhausted with the efforts of her trembling limbs to pull him deeper, force him to move more quickly against her. Though he would not succumb to her pleas - breathed hotly into the space between their lips - the steady pace of him brought her almost inexorably over the edge, the slow waves of pleasure washing over her in near endless succession. He withdrew sharply before he was pulled under by her own pleasure, spending against the tender crease of her hip.

Jane felt her husband leave the bed briefly, only to come back with a damp cloth to run over heated skin and clear away the mess that lay between them. After, he drew her back into his arms and pressed his lips again to her face, and ran his fingers through her hair. Jane found herself drifting off to sleep before she could again ask the question she both dreaded and longed for the answer to.

****

Each morning she met again with her old friend, becoming reacquainted with the Susannah who no longer needed to hide her true nature. The outer walls of the castle were newly fortified where she had once made her escape, but she was allowed to freely roam the rest of the grounds within the stone barrier. Jane was even given over the care of a small medicinal herb garden, and allowed what supplies could be spared from the kitchens to start the beginnings of a small apothecary. Jane had never been one to remain idle for long, and she longed to be useful to those whom she now regarded as her fellow prisoners.

Every night she asked her husband the same question - what manner of creature was he? - and every night he put off answering. He distracted her with long, slow hours of lovemaking, with questions about her life before she came here, even with some small admissions about his own life - but he never answered the one question that gnawed mostly heavily at her mind. Jane decided to try a new question tonight.

“Tell me then - something about yourself, something this blindfold hides from me.”

He laughed at her newest form of interrogation. “Such as?”

Jane struggled to come up with a meaningful question. She settled on, “what color are your eyes?”

“A very dull brown,” he teased.

“Don’t say that - tell me they’re golden in the sunlight, or that they’re flecked with emerald hue.”

“Do you wish for poetry or the truth?”

“Poetry is nearer to vital truth…” She quoted.

“If it’s a poem you wish for, then I’ll oblige:

Pluto, Venus from her Mount survey'd 

Now fearless, and her son embracing, said. 

O thou, my arms, my glory, and my pow'r,

My son, whom men, and deathless Gods adore;

Bend thy sure bow, whose arrows never miss'd,

No longer let Hell's king thy sway resist;”

Jane’s breath caught in her throat at the words. What was he telling her?

“Is that why I’m here, were you so struck by Cupid’s arrows?”

He laughed again. “Perhaps I am Eros himself, here to save a mortal girl from a more beastly fate by taking her as my bride.”

“What more beastly fate is there than that?” She attempted to mock him back.

But her husband’s words became more serious. “The fate that awaited you had you stayed in your own world - the fate you took on when you tried to help us.” 

Lady Jane knows the truth of this. She had been accused of treason for promoting unity with the beasts, and had been held in the Tower for nearly a year by Queen Mary. It would have only been a matter of time before Jane’s own supporters drove her ruthless cousin to send her to the executioner’s block. Her marriage had spared her that cruel end, at least.

And so she did not fight it when her ephemeral lover pulled her tight into his embrace, hands stroking at her hair and once again lulling her questioning mind to sleep.

****

Jane awakened in the darkness, alone, to the terrible clashing steel, the growling of beasts and men at the walls below her window. But above it all, she heard a noise far more frightening to her ears. 

The sound of a monstrous roar.

“Poetry is nearer to vital truth” is a quote by Plato

The poem was taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book V, translated by George Sandys/John Dryden and modified.

[sspoike]

What do you think Buffy's wedding would have been like (your choice to who)?

OOoo okay realistically I believe that Buffy’s wedding would probably be some amalgamation of her dream wedding with angel (the clothes, his long ass suit-jacket and all, the classiness and setup of everything minus the church and the fire bit) combined with her plans made with Spike in Something Blue (Wind Beneath My Wings, Giles giving her away, making sure to incorporate the grooms wants into the details), all while keeping it really small and cozy with close family and friends.

I’d also like to think she’d have little personal details, like party favors with little weapons, his and hers nail polishes, keychain holy water vials (though if we’re being honest, it’d probably be some charm or trinket from the Magic Box bc Anya artfully and intensely pushed for a bulk order sale). Maybe as a surprise Anya would intentionally invite everyone in the town to get a gift for Buffy and her bridegroom to be, laying it on thick at how sunnydale death-rates are down bc of her and they’re LUCKY Buffy doesn’t charge (Buffy would hate that part but some gifts would actually come in and she’d switch her tune to “you know it might be rude to send them back..”). Of course, somewhere around the wedding venue there’s definitely a cheese plate somewhere. If I’m being real the cheese plate is the only thing I’m truly positive about, I just can’t picture her wedding without it.

[rmelster]

INTROITUS: THE FAREWELL OF A DAUGHTER, 1444.

Many years later, Isabelle would recall the only occasion she had seen her mother weep. It happened a forgotten day of the year 1444, and the memory of her tears would follow her to the grave that she untimely came to rest in.

That fateful night, she was eight years of age and her heart was heavy with anguish as she restlessly laid on her bed; her beloved sister, Marie, had been wed to Jean, the young Duke of Calabria, and parted with him to his domains, leaving a void where she had once been that Isabelle felt like a grievous wound. Even at that young age, the little girl knew what it meant: Her sister would never see Bourbonnais again.

The betrothal and wedding had been result of the Duchess of Bourbon’s cunning. Seven years had passed since she had offered the hand of her firstborn daughter to the heir of the Duchess of Calabria; seven years until both the bride and the bridegroom grew to an agreeable age to be wed. Isabelle had never thought that a wedding would occur; but it did. The bride was fifteen and, dressed in a heavy dress of golden cloth and a cloak ribbed with marten, she proved the fairest of all the daughters of Bourbon; the feast, the merriment, the dances… It had all all passed like a hazy dream, until Marie had came to kiss all her siblings goodbye.

When it came time for her to bid farewell, Isabelle had pulled her sister into an embrace; her eyes were full of tears.

“Promise me that you won’t forget us.”

A sad smile curved the lips of the now Duchess of Calabria: “I promise” she had said, pinning in her hair one of the flowers of the wedding, as red as the blood of a dragon, “And hereby I make the oath that, if it is in me, my first daughter shall have your name.”

And, just as she had been by her side for years, she left.

That night, Isabelle couldn’t sleep. Dream refused to free her from the sorrows of the vigil and, after what seemed like centuries, she decided not to wait, She had slipped off the bed, light like a young bird, wrapped in her nightshirt, tiptoeing out of her bedchamber, careful not to awake her maid.

The little Isabelle found his mother in a chamber, far from her own. She wandered through the solitary halls of the castle, looking for her mother. Duchess Agnès was, together with the guards, the first in rising from bed, and the last to return to the bedchamber for the night; in light nights like those, one could see her dwelling in a empty chamber, reading her precious book of prayers, making arrangements and reading letters, or silently embroidering near the fire; she was the image of virtue and dedication, of what a duchess had to be.

She still wore the beautiful gray gown ribbed in ermine fur and embroidered in silver thread that she had worn during the ceremony, but her necklace was resting over the table, and she had made her old maid disassemble the complicated veiled headdress that she used to wear, her long, flowing auburn mane falling gloomily on her back. At her feet, a little black-wooled lap dog slept soundly. Her white hands, those hands that Marie had too, with thin and agile fingers, were eagerly embroidering a delicate piece of tapestry.

"What death doesn't take away from me, a man will do," she heard her murmur.

Her father entered the room, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers; he no longer could be considered a young man, for his black hair was now stricken with silver, and wrinkles had made their nest around his raven eyes, but he still presented himself formidable like an oak and healthy as a man younger that his years. The shadow of concern veiled his ruddy face as he inched closer to the women with whom he had shared his life.

"My lady” he said, “The hour is late, and the day has been long. Thou must return to the bedchamber.”

The duchess denied.

“The Duke of Burgundy has sent a herald to Bourbonnais today. He says that his wife is looking for girls and maidens of serving age, so that she can foster them in their court. I have to send our Isabelle; I am aware that doing so, I am giving her so many opportunities and yet...”

A long, woeful silence followed; Isabelle tiptoed closer and pressed her cheek against the wall, her heart fast with inquiry. Even though she had never met him, she knew who her noble mother alluded; Philippe, the Duke of Burgundy, who the duchess’ brother, and the master of one of the wealthiest courts in Europe; fair and wise like none other, it was no surprise that his courtiers, from the Burgundian France to the Netherlands, had given him the name le Bon, “the Good”. His duchess, Isabel de Portugal, was also very known among their subjects, for she was not only a capable lady, but a famed matchmaker; any lady that came to her court and earned her favour could expect to be married to the best eligible prospect, from counts to rich merchants, and even kings and emperors.

That was a great opportunity, indeed; but the Duchess of Bourbon looked as if grief and exhaustion were breaking her will.

"I'm exhausted, Charles” she had finally said, and Isabelle had flinched; never had she heard her mother call her father’s name, not even once, “I feel like my strength is failing. I have handed over a very young daughter, and now I hand over another, knowing that she will never be mine anymore, that once de comes to Burgundy…”

The orderly Duchess Agnès, daughter, wife and mother of dukes, who had given birth to ten children of Bourbon in twenty years, and that was with child for the eleventh time; she, who had kept the estate when the duke had sunk in sorrow after the untimely death of their beloved son Philip, who had kept her head high when the constant disagreements of her lord husband with the king had despoiled them of lands and honours that had belonged to their lineage since centuries; she, who was the pillar where the family relied, she collapsed on the duke’s arms.

Troubled, the duke had held his weeping wife between his arms, and pressed in her brow a kiss so light it would had flown with the nightly breeze.

"Here, my lady, thou must not weep" he had cooed, “If thou cannot keep your courage, then I shall give thee mine. Our Isabelle shall be in her court, and we shall visit her as often as we can; we won’t lose her, my lady. We won’t lose any.”

Before Isabelle could even stomach what she was hearing, someone grasped her arm; her maid, Bonne, looked at her with a weary face, as of she was fresh from slumber.

“What are you doing out of bed so late, petite?” she inquired in a whisper, a soft note of concern in her voice. Isabelle looked down.

“I got lost” she lied. Her Bonne seemed not to believe her, but she decided not to disturb her masters with complaints at their young daughter’s behaviour, for she read the sadness in her eyes; instead, she raised in her robust arms, and carried her back to bed.

At last, Isabelle de Bourbon rested.

@lordbettany / @catherinemybeloved / @ricardian-werewolf

[blairstales]

Scottish Historical Beltane/May Day

Bealtiunn (Beltane) is a cross-quarter day, meaning it is approximately half-way between a equinox and solstice. Due to this, it was one of the four main fire festivals of the year, and a time when the veil between our world and the otherworld was said to thin. This was thought to allow fairies in particular to be extra dangerous.

"The first–called “Beltaine” in Ireland, “Bealtiunn” in Scotland, “Shenn da Boaldyn” in the Isle of Man, and “Galan-Mai” (the Calends of May) in Wales–celebrates the waking of the earth from her winter sleep, and the renewal of warmth, life, and vegetation. " Celtic Myth and Legend by Charles Squire[1905]

It was once a huge celebration that may even last a whole week, but it also served as a marker for when to start farming practices. For example, it marked when to sow barley, or put cattle out to graze.

Due to the pagan origins of the day, opposition towards May Day celebrations was not uncommon, and eventually led to it’s fall in popularity.

"In 1696 a number of persons were tried before the Kirk Session of Aberdeen and censured for celebrating May Day morning." Primitive Beliefs in the North-East of Scotland

For customs click "keep reading." ⬇

May Pole

May Poles are a pole that was raised on beltane and raised with a crown of flowers on the top.

“The May Pole is up , Now give me the cup, I’ll drink to the garlands around it, But first unto those Whose hands did compose The glory of flowers that crown’d it.” “Faiths and Folklore: Volume 2,” By William Carew Hazlitt (1905)

It was also often decorated with flowers, leafy garland, ribbons, and more. Thought to be a fertility symbolism, with it came the queen and king of May.

"We may infer,’ says Frazer, ‘that our rude forefathers personified the powers of vegetation as male and female and attempted, on the principle of homeopathic or sympathetic magic, to quicken the growth of trees and plants by representing the marriage of the sylvan deities in the persons of a King and Queen of May, a Whitsun Bridegroom and Bride, and so forth. Such representations… were charms intended to make the woods to grow green, the fresh grass to sprout, and the flowers to blow. And it was natural to suppose that the more closely the mock marriage of the leaf-clad or flower-clad mummers aped the real marriage of the woodland sprites, the more effective would be the charm." Silver Bough 2 By F. Marian McNeill

Dressing the Home

Due to the veil being thinner, all sorts of supernatural dangers were thought to be at play. To counteract that, people dressed their homes in flowers, greenery, and other decorations.

“To counteract their evil power pieces of the rowan-tree and woodbine, chiefly of rowan-tree, were placed over the byre doors, and fires were kindled by every farmer and cottar. “ “Notes on The Folk-Lore of the North-East of Scotland,” By Walter Gregor (1881)

It was not just leafy garlands, however, but flowers as well.

"In the country west of Glasgow it is still remembered how once the houses were adorned with flowers and branches on the first of May” “Essays in the study of Folk-Songs,” by Countess Martinengo-Cesaresco (1886)

May-Dew

The very first thing many girls wanted to do in the morning was race out to collect the morning dew.

“COUNTY OF EDINBURGH. At Edinburgh about four o’clock in the morning there is an unusual stir ; and a hurrying of gay throngs through the King’s Park to Arthur’s Seat to collect the May-dew.” “British Popular Customs, Present and Past; Illustrating the Social and Domestic,” by T. F. Thiselton-Dyer (1876)

Depending on the area, where you would collect it from may change. It might be from a specific hill of grass or a specific type of trees.

This liquid, called may-dew, was said to have curative or beautifying powers.

"It was long an article of popular faith in Eastern and Western Europe , that a maiden , washing herself with dew from the hawthorn on the first day of May at daybreak , would preserve her beauty for ever, the operation being of course annually repeated.” “Faiths and Folklore: Volume 2,” By William Carew Hazlitt (1905)

“Till quite lately there was a belief in some parts of England that a weakly child would be made strong by being drawn over dewy grass on the morning in question. To effect a complete cure, the treatment had to be repeated on the two following mornings.” “Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs,” by James M. Mackinlay (1893)

However, the dew inside a fairy ring would have the opposite intended effect.

“May-dew from the grass was equally efficacious, except when gathered from within a fairy ring, as the fairies would in that case counteract the influence of the charm.” “Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs,” by James M. Mackinlay (1893)

Egg Rolling

Egg rolling, something we trend to associate with Easter, was occasionally practiced on Beltane. Colorfully decorated eggs would be rolled down a hill.

"Egg rolling, something we trend to associate with Easter, was occasionally practiced on Beltane. Colorfully decorated eggs would be rolled down a hill." “The Folk-lore Journal, Volume 7; Volume 24,” By Folklore Society (Great Britain)

Visiting Healing Wells

“Besides saining with fire, there was also saining with water, and Beltane was the great season for visiting “magic” or “holy” wells. The custom has by no means died out, the most notable survival being the annual “pilgrimage” to the Cloutie Well on Culloden Moor, near Inverness, which described elsewhere.” The silver bough vol 2

Visits to healing wells was a common occurrence for people on May day.

Two centuries earlier an attempt was made by the kirk-session of Perth to put a stop to an annual gathering on May Day at a cave in the face of Kinnoul hill adjoining the town. This cave was called the Dragon Hole, and was the scene of ancient rites of a superstitious nature. Other illustrations might be selected from the Folklore of May Day, but those given above show that the season was held in much superstitious regard. Accordingly, we need not be surprised that well-worship took its place among the rites of May Day, and of May Month also, since the whole of May was deemed a charmed time. "Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs" (in regards to Hone’s Every-Day Book on Edinburgh)

Mock Human Sacrifice

During the quarter days, quarter cakes were eaten ritually. For Beltane, this was called bannoach Bealltain or Beltane Cakes.

"Beltane cakes were also made at Keith, being baked the day before. The upper side was watered with a batter, made of whisked eggs, milk, and oatmeal. Struan Michaels and Beltane bannocks were prepared in Ross-shire down to the close of the nineteenth century." “Primitive Beliefs in the North-East of Scotland,” by Joseph McKenzie McPherson (1929)

Exactly how they were eaten would depend on the area.

"In Caithness, within the last seventy years, each family in the neighbourhood of Watten carried bread and cheese to the top of a hill called Heathercrow and left it there. After sunrise, the herds might take away the spoil for their own homes." “Primitive Beliefs in the North-East of Scotland,” by Joseph McKenzie McPherson (1929)

For some, it involved a mock human sacrifice.

The boys would go out, kindle a fire, have a meal, and sing and dance around it for fun. After, someone would produce a bannock and divide it for the group.

"Towards the close of the entertainment, the person who officiated as master of the feast produced a large cake baked with eggs and scalloped round the edge, called am bonnach bea-tine—i.e., the Beltane cake. It was divided into a number of pieces, and distributed in great form to the company.John Ramsay, laird of Ochtertyre, near Crieff, the patron of Burns and the friend of Sir Walter Scott." The Golden Bough by Sir James George Frazer[1922] Chapter 62. The Fire-Festivals of Europe

One piece stood out from the others, and the person who picked it was doomed to be “sacrificed.” It was just a symbolized sacrifice and the group would act as if (but would not actually) throw the person into the fire.

“There was one particular piece which whoever got was called cailleach beal-tine—i.e., the Beltane carline, a term of great reproach. Upon his being known, part of the company laid hold of him and made a show of putting him into the fire; but the majority interposing, he was rescued. “ John Ramsay, laird of Ochtertyre, near Crieff, the patron of Burns and the friend of Sir Walter Scott." "The Golden Bough" by Sir James George Frazer[1922] Chapter 62. The Fire-Festivals of Europe.

Unfortunately for the poor boy, the victim would then be referred to as dead for as long as people remembered for the year.

“Similarly at the Beltane fires in Scotland the pretended victim was seized, and a show made of throwing him into the flames, and for some time afterwards people affected to speak of him as dead.” “The Golden Bough,” by Sir James George Frazer (1922)

Luckily, in other places, the sacrificed only had to jump the fire(typically either three or seven times), then that would be the end of it.

“….then lots are cast, and he on whom the lot falls, must leap seven times over the fire, while the young folks dance round in a circle. Then they cook their eggs and cakes, and all sit down to eat and drink and rise up to play.” Old Scottish Customs, Local and General by Ellen Emma Guthrie 1885

For others, it was not as dramatic.

"While the fire was blazing, a common meal was partaken, part of which was offered to the spirit of the fire." “Primitive Beliefs in the North-East of Scotland,” by Joseph McKenzie McPherson (1929)

After making and kneading a bannock, the boys would bake it on a flat stone placed on embers. When it is properly baked, they divide it to the same number of people there is in the group (trying to keep the pieces the same shape).

"They kindle a fire , and dress & repast of eggs and milk of the consistence of a custard . They knead a cake of oatmeal , which is toasted at the embers against a stone . After the custard is eaten up , they divide the cake into so many portions , as similar as possible to one another in size and shape , as there are persons in the company ." PERTHSHIRE . In Sinclair’s Stat . Acc . of Scotland ( 1794 , vol . xi . p . 620 ) British Popular Customs, Present and Past; Illustrating the Social and Domestic

Only one piece is selected and covered with charcoal until it is completely black.

That done, all the pieces are placed in a bonnet, and everyone is blindfolded to pick out a piece. The person who is holding the bonnet gets the last.

Whoever was unlucky enough to pick up the black piece is the symbolized sacrifice and must jump the fire three times.

“The boy, to whose share the black piece falls, is obliged to leap three times through the flames, at which the repast was prepared.” Statistical Account of Scotland, 1794, XI. 620, Witchcraft & Second Sight in The Highlands and Islands of Scotland

For others still, they would take a bannock, face towards the fire, and break a piece of the bannock while throwing it over the shoulder as an offering of protection. The request was different for each throw.

‘This I give to thee, preserve thou my horses,’ and ‘This to thee, preserve thou my sheep,’ and so on. After that they use the same ceremony to the noxious animals, This I give thee, O fox, spare thou my lambs! This to thee, O hooded crow! This to thee, O eagle!’ When the ceremony is over they dine on the caudle.” “Primitive Beliefs in the North-East of Scotland,” by Joseph McKenzie McPherson (1929)

Fires

The Beltane fires were man’s response to the attack of the powers of darkness which were believed to be abroad with peculiar force at this season. “Primitive Beliefs in the North-East of Scotland,” by Joseph McKenzie McPherson (1929)

A large heap of old thatch, straw, or other materials were piled. Traditionally, this was done on a hill.

“To the south of the Forth several sites are known to have been specially associated with Beltane fires. In Lanarkshire two such sites were, the hills of Tinto and Dechmont. “Tinto, indeed, means the hill of fire. It was used for beacon-fires as well as for those connected with nature-festivals, and was well adapted for the purpose, being 2335 feet above the sea, and 1655 feet above the Clyde at its base. Though not nearly so high, Dechmont hill commands a splendid view over the neighbouring country. Early in the present century a quantity of charcoal was discovered near its summit hidden beneath a stratum of fine loam. The country people around expressed no surprise at the discovery, as they were familiar with the tradition that the spot had been used for the kindling of Beltane fires. In Peeblesshire, too, the Beltane festival long held its ground. Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs

For some, this would serve as the need-fire; which was a purification fire that was lit by friction.

"Tein-ēigin, neid-fire, need-fire, forced fire, fire produced by the friction of wood or iron against wood." Carmina Gadelica, Volume 2, by Alexander Carmicheal, [1900]

It was a saining practice done on quarter-days, when there was some sort of calamity, or just when someone needed extra luck for an especially important event. It was considered bad luck to bring fire out of the house or gift any to someone on the day. For Bealtane, two fires might be lit, and cattle would be driven through to purify them.

"When the sacred fire became kindled, the people rushed home and brought their herds and drove them through and round the fire of purification, to sain them from the ‘bana bhuitseach mhor Nic Creafain,’–the great arch witch daughter Cranford, Mac Creafain, now Crawford." Carmina Gadelica, Volume 2, by Alexander Carmicheal, [1900]

After, the ashes would be scattered, sometimes with yells to “burn the witches.” The intent was to destroy and scare off the forces of evil, which would allow the area to become fertile.

“The fire in consuming them destroyed the powers hostile to man, purified the air, and allowed man and beast and vegetation to thrive and become fertile.” The circumambulating the fields with blazing branches carried the virtue to areas a considerable distance from the bonfire. “ “Primitive Beliefs in the North-East of Scotland,” by Joseph McKenzie McPherson (1929)

It would work in a way, too. The ash would fertilize the soil, helping to make it healthier for the coming growing season.

Other

Another significant ceremony, as showing the adoration of nature, was the combat between winter and summer which took place on May-day (Laa-boaldyn); the latter, which was represented by a young girl, decorated with leaves, being victorious, and thus typifying the victory of Nature’s reproductive power. The Folk-Lore of the Isle of Man by A. W. Moore[1891]

"On the night preceding it, i.e. Beltane eve, witches were awake, and went about as hares, to take their produce (toradh), milk, butter, and cheese, from the cows. People who believed in their existence were as earnest to counteract their machinations. Tar was put behind the ears of the cattle, and at the root of the tail; the animals were sprinkled with urine to keep them from fighting; the house was hung with rowan-tree, etc., etc. By having a churning past and a cheese made (muidhe ’s mulchag) before sunrise, the Fairies were kept away from the farm for the rest of the year. If any came to ask for rennet (deasgainn), it should not on any account be given to them. It would be used for taking the substance out of the giver’s own dairy produce.When the day arrived, it was necessary, whatever the state of the weather, though people sank ankle deep in snow, or (as the Gaelic idiom has it), though snow came over the shoes, to get the cattle away to the summer pastures among the hills (àiridh)." Witchcraft & Second Sight in The Highlands and Islands of Scotland

John Duncan’s “Riders of the Sidhe” (1911) “The artist here represents the fairy folk “setting forth on a Beltane eve in a kind of ritualistic procession, carrying symbols of their faith and power, and their good pleasure dowering mortals with spiritual gifts.” E.A. Taylor; Art. Some Pictures by John Duncan in The Studio, Vol. 80 (1930)

[liminal-zone]

little lady, we bid you very heartily welcome

I wrote a teeny thing! A million years ago (in 2006)! Slightly remixed. Just posting it here!

title: through a father’s eyes

fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Horse and His Boy | characters: Kidrash Tarkaan, King Lune

rated: gen | tagged: dads gotta dad, heartache, canon-typical problematic word choice, drabble-ish

summary: a letter arrives for Kidrash Tarkaan, with news unexpected. 

The letter arrived mid-day, tucked in with the rest of the notices. Sorting through the pale papers of state and business, he chose first to open the one with strange lettering about it. The paper had a slight fragrance of honey and a perfume unknown to him. Within a moment he could tell that it was from those elusive barbarians in the North as the script and choice of words only mimicked that of the great scribes of the Tisroc (may he live forever), for the style was not quite right. 

But the style was close enough to be of great interest. 

He, who had so little to do with the affairs between nations, what sort of business would those barbarians have with him? Before reading, he took a sip of wine and spoke a prayer to Tash, dispelling the evil spirits that might inhabit the sheaf of paper.

And he read.

"Lune, by the gift of Aslan, by birth, by prescription, King over Archenland, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion to Kidrash Tarkaan, lord and master over the province of Calavar in the Realm of Calormen, our most glorious neighbor:

In the name of the Lion, be it known to you that my son and heir, Prince Cor, has signed a contract of marriage between himself and the Lady Aravis, known to you as your eldest daughter, Aravis Tarkeenna. Her remarkable valor, renowned intelligence, and beauty which illuminates the universe have proven her to be a worthy future queen over all my lands and peoples. The Great Lion has spoken the Words over her, and marked her as His people. The Lady Aravis is deeply loved by the prince, and I believe that she returns his love, thread for thread from her heart. Their happiness brings delight to my eyes and peace to my heart. 

May it be known that I do not ask for the dowry of your daughter, nor do I ask for your blessing over this marriage. 

However, I feel that is it most honorable to tell you the fortune of the eldest surviving issue of your flesh. I of all fathers know the cruel challenge when the fate of your offspring is unknown.

I commit you to the care of your gods and may the breath of Aslan be upon you and yours."

Within the envelope is a sheet of paper bearing a drawing in the Northern style, featuring a beautiful young woman. She is in strange clothing and she is dancing, her hands in the particular motion known to all who venerate Tash – the inexorable, the irresistible – as a joyous celebration of union. A wedding dance on foreign soil. The artist had drawn her merry, and her eyes are unmistakably those of Aravis, for they are identical to Kidrash’ first wife (may her soul find rest in the many arms of Tash). A crowned barbarian is drawn dancing with her in the stance of a Calormen bridegroom. 

He found it hard to look at. 

His daughter, his strange unknowable daughter. Lost to these people, to be their anointed queen. And yet, it is celebrated that she dances in this manner. Still a daughter of Great Calormen. 

Kidrash read the letter twice over before throwing it and the drawing into the fire. And in the morning, he had his war horse saddled and packed for long journey.

[adarkrainbow]

Playing with fire, Transgression as truth (A)

The second article from the "Queering the Grimms" anthology I offer you was written by Kay Turner. It is part of the section "Queering the Tales" and its full title is...

Playing with fire: Trangression as truth in Grimms' Frau Trude

For many years I have been inordinately curious about an obscure Grimms’ fairy tale called “Frau Trude” (ATU 334). The tale concerns a witch and a girl and how their passionate relationship comes into being despite staunch prohibition. As a story arguing the nature of “truth,” it makes numerous direct and indirect claims concerning identity, feeling, sex and gender fluidity, kinship, and being—all within the framework of transgression and transformation, or perhaps better put, transgression as transformation

I make much of this brief tale, one infrequently given scholarly consideration. And yet, as I see it, and as the history of queer studies attests, the very task of queering the Grimms’ or any other traditional tales is to seek out the small and little-known story to discover queer possibility in the traces it offers, realizing that, as José Muñoz states, “instead of being clearly available as visible evidence, queerness has instead existed as innuendo, gossip, fleeting moments, and performances” (1996, 6). “Frau Trude” is a model for tracking the traces of queer existence in folklore.

The manifest and various relations between witches and girls in fairy tales, as between old women and young girls generally, have been undertheorized. Yet such attraction is as old as Sappho, who pined for and then penned her desire for lithe Atthis and youthful Anactoria.1 Fairy-tale scholarship rarely dips a proverbial toe into interpretive waters that might impel readers to take account of attractions, rather than repulsions, between witches and maidens. But in both well-known and obscure tales, girls find themselves drawn consciously toward, or inadvertently encountering, old women in various roles, including witch, sorceress, old woman, very old woman, grandmother, mother, mistress, wise woman, old hag, and stepmother.2 The old woman/young girl character dyad shapes a complex narrative model of female relationships, some of which beg for queer interpretation. Thus, working through “Frau Trude” leads down a winding path of transgressive wonder to arrive at bolder possibilities for understanding the diversities of desire between older and younger women in other fairy tales.3

The Grimms’ Kinder- und Hausmärchen is filled with a rich assortment of Frau Trude’s “sisters.” Though it is beyond my scope here, reading “Frau Trude” intertextually with others of its kind would no doubt bear analytical fruit concerning the structural position queer old women occupy in the fairy tale. Whether they are malevolent, like the cannibal in “Hansel and Gretel” (ATU 327A) and the kidnapper of one thousand girls in “Jorinda and Joringle” (ATU 405), or benevolent, like the old woman who hides the girl in “The Robber Bridegroom” (ATU 955) and provides for her in “The Sweet Porridge” (ATU 565), the charisma associated with these female figures emanates from their unusual propensity for agency. Housed in their marginality, abjection, and private nature, they seem to take secret delight in going it alone in those cottages deep in the woods. Frau Trude is among them: an outcast and outlaw living in her self-created house of marvels. But she finds her solitary confinement has lost its allure

Frau Trude’s tale merits reading in its entirety. I use Bettina Hutschek’s translation of “Frau Trude,” from the version in Hans-Jörg Uther’s (1996, 1:216–17) edition of the Grimms’ seventh edition of the KHM. 4

There was once a little girl who was very obstinate and willful, and who never obeyed when her elders spoke to her; and so how could she be happy? One day she said to her parents, “I have heard so much of Frau Trude, that I will go and see her. People say she has a marvelous[1]looking place and they say there are many weird things in her house, so I became very curious.” Her parents, however, forbade her going, saying, “Frau Trude is a wicked old woman, who performs godless deeds, and if you go to see her, you are no longer our child.” The girl, however, did not care about her parents’ interdiction and went to Frau Trude’s house. When she arrived there, Frau Trude asked her, “Why are you so pale?” “Ah” replied she, trembling all over her body, “I have frightened myself so with what I have just seen.” “What have you seen?” “I saw a black man on your steps.” “That was a collier.” “Then I saw a green man.” “That was a hunter.” “Then I saw a blood-red man.” “That was a butcher.” “Oh, Frau Trude, I was most terrified, I peeped through the window, and did not see you, but the devil with a fiery head.” “Oh, ho,” she said, “Then you have seen the witch in her proper dress. For you I have long waited, and longed for you, and now you shall give me light.” Thus she transformed the girl into a block of wood, and then threw it into the fire. And when it was in full glow, she sat down next to it, warmed herself on it and said, “For once it burns brightly!”

I read certain structural binaries—girl/woman; young/old; youth/age; life/death; human/witch (devil); parents/witch (lover); home/house; blood/ non-blood relations; fire/light; and light/dark—as leverage to interpret this short but provocative tale as it marks intergenerational mutual attraction and lesbian seduction, inviting understanding of strategic ways that social and sexual prohibitions may be overcome symbolically and imaginatively. Indebted to a generation of queer and LGBT academics who began broadly theorizing the heterogeneity of sex in the 1980s, I work with “Frau Trude” to invite folklore and fairy-tale scholars to touch queer theory in new ways.5 Queer scholarship generally accepts postmodern assumptions concerning the contradictory and contingent nature of signs and their systems of representation. I follow medievalist Carolyn Dinshaw, claiming for queer fairy tale analysis what she asserts for a queer history interested in unraveling the multiple meanings of sex (including sex acts, sexual desire, sexual identity, and sexual subjectivity): “Sex . . . is at least in part contingent upon systems of representation, and, as such, is fissured and contradictory. Its meaning or significance cannot definitively be pinned down without exclusivity or reductiveness, and such meanings and significances shift, moreover, with shifts in context and location” (1999, 12). Sounds like the stuff of folklore, doesn’t it? But Dinshaw’s new twist helps us rethink traditional narrative, suggesting that when queerness touches interpretation, it demonstrates “something disjunctive within unities that are presumed unproblematic, even natural. I speak of the tactile, ‘touch,’ because I feel queerness work by contiguity and displacement; like metonymy as distinct from metaphor, queerness knocks signifiers loose, ungrounding bodies, making them strange, working in this way to provoke perceptual shifts and subsequent corporeal response in those touched” (151).

There may be no better narrative site for discovering strange, ungrounded bodies and contingent sexual meanings than the fairy-tale genre, which problematizes desire, convened as wish fulfillment set in the realm of enchantment. Operating as a trope for the non-normative (but not necessarily the non-heteronormative), enchantment’s liminal state invites speculation along queer lines. Even if many tales hurtle headlong toward normative reunion, marriage, and stability, often the route navigates a topsy-turvy space filled with marvels, magic, and weird encounters that don’t simply contradict the “normal” but offer, or at least hint at, alternative possibilities for fulfilling desires that might alter individual destinies. Remarkably, in the case of “Frau Trude,” disenchantment never even occurs; rather, the witch’s marvelous realm is queered as a new home for the young girl and the old woman.

If sex, desire, and pleasure can signify heterogeneously in the fairy tale, attendant issues of kinship, family, and spousal attachment come to the fore. What narrative room does the genre supply to enlarge our consideration of relational bonds across binary differences of age, status, gender, sex, and even species? The heterogeneity of kinship is the central human problem the fairy tale presents, often queerly construed within the fundamental, if ambivalent and shifting, binary “belonging/exclusion.” Certain tales trans[1]pose the social and emotional tensions stemming from this division into architectural motifs (see, e.g., Labrie 2009). Two houses oppose each other in the landscape described by “Frau Trude.” One, symbolizing conventional belonging, is natal, heteronormative, parental, known; the other is non-kin based, homonormative, single dweller, strange. I seek in this chapter to demonstrate that the distance between them can be bridged by queer desire.

“Frau Trude” presents an especially useful example for exploring the predicament raised by these oppositions because the tale draws force from a considerably more profound one: natural/unnatural, or what Robert McRuer calls the ultimate binary of “who fits/who doesn’t” (1997, 143). The tale unmakes this divide’s inexorability by different terms of desire and agency. Queering, as a utopian project built with the brick and mortar of failure to comply, privileges the necessity of that which not only does not fit but chooses not to fit. “Frau Trude” offers two “choosey” gals—stubborn, unruly, in a word, perverse—who prove unwilling to belong to anything or anyone but themselves and each other

ENCOUNTERING “FRAU TRUDE”

My initial encounter with “Frau Trude” occurred in 1998. Invited to teach as a guest professor at the University of Winnipeg by co-editor Pauline Green[1]hill, I prepared a course called Sexualities, Folklore, and Popular Culture. For a session on folk narrative, I wanted us to study the fairy tale because the feminist scholarship in this area had by that time matured into its own fertile field of reconsiderations and new ideas. Indeed, feminist reimagin[1]ings of the Grimms’ and other tales had reached an apex of production. Among the rewriters, Irish novelist Emma Donoghue’s Kissing the Witch proffered an explicitly lesbian take. I vividly remember my first reading of her version of “Rapunzel” in which the sorceress and the long-tressed girl, after much despair, separation, and longing, come back together as lovers in the tale’s end (1997, 83–99).

I wondered how Donoghue got there. Did the Grimms’ version of the tale embed motifs, functions, or structural oppositions that made such rei[1]magining logical? Bonnie Zimmerman would answer that lesbianism as a way of knowing the world affects how we read literature, that lesbians may willfully “misread” texts, adopting “a perverse strategy of reading” (1993, 139). But what stood out most at the time and has sustained me through[1]out these Grimm years was Zimmerman’s instruction that appropriation through reading perversely requires “hints and possibilities that the author, consciously or not, has strewn in the text” (144). Thus while reading Jack Zipes’s (1992) translation of the KHM in preparation to teach, I found myself regularly exclaiming my discovery of deeply queer “hints and possibilities.” Numerous tales held such requirements, especially lesser-known ones such as “The Three Spinners,” “The Star Coins,” “The Grave Mound,” and, of course, “Frau Trude,” which struck me then, as it does now, as the queerest tale of all.

For class, I assigned Kay F. Stone’s (1993) feminist rewriting of “Frau Trude” called “The Curious Girl.” Comparing the Grimms’ original with her adaptation, what a difference a gay makes! With the encouragement and help of my young lesbian students, we interpreted “Frau Trude” as a classic “coming-out story,” an adumbration replete with the desire mixed with prohibition and fear that now distinguishes that genre. We found plenty of sex, too. Stone visited our class and I remember the evening’s brilliant explosion of ideas as we engaged with her. She conceded that, though she had “lived with” the tale for many years, returning again and again as she rewrote and told it, she had never thought of it in queer sexual terms.

Rather Stone’s interest landed in her conviction that the girl was neither destroyed nor punished for being too curious; instead, her inquisitiveness was prized. In Stone’s retelling, the girl is transformed into a log, becoming fire, a shower of sparks, a bird, a hare, and a fish. “Through these meta[1]morphoses, she experienced the sacrifice of her ego-self, which . . . gave her even greater power—freedom over herself as a fuller human being” (1993, 298–99), rewarded finally with her own story of self-knowledge and fulfillment. At the essay’s close, Stone summarizes the evolution of her relationship to “Frau Trude” with a question equally pertinent to my interpretation: “And I wonder: Is it possible to ignite oneself without being consumed?” (304). Our answers are different, but compatible.6

I, too, began to live with “Frau Trude.” Years passed and still she nagged, so to speak. My interest waxed and waned and slowly changed. Whereas earlier my interest—like the other Kay’s—centered on the girl, later I felt more and more Frau Trude’s fire drawing me to her hearth. It seemed she and I had been waiting a long time for each other. I became the curious scholar compelled to meet the witch.

THE TALE: ITS HISTORY, VARIANTS AND LANGUAGE

Numbered 43 in the KHM, “Frau Trude” (“Mistress Trude” or “Mother Trude”) conforms to ATU 334, “Household of the Witch.” It belongs to the complex of old “devourer tales” (Ranke 1990, 617–18), which also includes 333B, “The Cannibal Godfather (Godmother),” subsumed by Uther under ATU 334 in his recently updated tale type index: “A girl (woman) disregards the warning of friendly animals (parts of her body) and visits her godmother (grandmother) who is a cannibal. The girl sees many gruesome things (e.g., fence of bones, barrel full of blood, and her godmother with an animal’s head). When the girl tells her godmother what she has seen she is killed (devoured)” (2004, 1:225).

The Aarne-Thompson synopsis yields less information but more intrigue: “Visit to house of a witch (or other horrible creature). Many gruesome and marvelous happenings. Lucky escape” (Aarne 1961, 125). Demonstrating the longevity of ATU 334’s hundreds of variants, Kurt Ranke (1978, 98–100) traces its roots in Eastern Europe, with subsequent migration west from Slavic and Baltic realms—Poland, Lithuania, former Yugoslavia (Bosnia and Serbia)—to eastern Germany. He speculates that ATU 334 evolved from a myth concerning the realm of death, then changed to a macabre, demonic tale, and finally to a somewhat farcical one, happily ending with escape from the ogre. He counts about ninety variants, including thirty-six from Germany alone, where the historic-geographic record demonstrates the story’s notable change to its milder version.

In his study devoted to the form and function of gruesome children’s tales, Walter Scherf (1987) interprets twenty-seven thematically related types, including AT(U) 334, with “Frau Trude” as an example. To reflect its pro[1]gressive shift in content from horrific to moderate, he proposes the tale’s division into Eastern (334A+) and Western (334B+) European versions of different oikotypes (61–62). Reminiscent of Russian Baba Yaga tales, the descriptively more ghastly Eastern versions feature, for example, a fence strung with human intestines and doorknobs made of hands.7 Discovering her “true nature”—not woman but ogress—is a pivotal plot device in ATU 334, often intensified through a series of riddle-like questions and answers concerning what the visitor has seen at the witch’s house. In numerous variants, the girl (cousin, neighbor woman, sister, rarely a male) encounters frightening figures right before meeting the witch (Ranke 1990, 617). Once inside the house, the formulaic interrogation about these individuals be[1]gins. Initially ameliorating, the discourse recalibrates markedly in ATU 334 when the girl states she also saw a horrifying creature, witch, or devil. The ogress identified as such then usually kills her visitor but in “Frau Trude” transforms her

In older variants typically a horrifying devourer and uncompromising murderer, the witch—or death-woman (Tödin)—sometimes possesses a flexible animal head she removes at will, for the purpose of picking lice. This ogress who became Frau Trude changes dramatically as she moves west to Germany. For one thing, she gains a proper name. Likely a descrip[1]tion of her nature, it may be derived from trut or drut, a type of demon well known in the Bavarian-Austrian regions (Uther 1996, 4:88).8 As the gory, death-driven tale slowly modulates, the marvelous replaces the gruesome until finally “only a fairy tale, moreover for children, remains”; one that “is totally disarmed . . . and trivialized” (Ranke 1978, 99). If Ranke regrets that the German variant has been belittled, I offer a remedy for his woe. Once drained of the explicitly gory and murderous death drive, a different drive, equally potent, replaces it in the tale

The Grimms’ version of “Frau Trude,” first published in the 1837 KHM, substituted for “Die wunderliche Gasterei” (“The Strange Feast”), the co[1]medic variant of ATU 334, which filled slot 43 in the first two editions. This innocuous tale features a liverwurst escaping from a murderous blood sausage (Zipes 1992, 658–59). Zipes suggests the change happened because “The Strange Feast” too closely resembled number 42 in the KHM, “The Godfather,” ATU 332 (738). “Frau Trude” derives from a literary source, Meier Teddy’s Frauentaschenbuch (1823), a pocket book for women including the poem “Little Cousin and Frau Trude” (see Bolte and Polívka 1913, 377), which the Grimms retold in prose.9

According to Uther (1996, 4:88), Wilhelm Grimm conceived a new open[1]ing, creating a didactic tale to show children the punishment that results from disobedience to their parents. One wishes to have been present in the editorial chambers when the brothers decided to make the switch from sausage to witch. No doubt, sometime between publishing the volume of notes for the second edition in 1822 and the publication of the third edition of the tales in 1837, one or both read Meier Teddy’s little lyric tale and saw in it an opportunity to intensify their project’s moral agenda. Moving from meat to Mädchen (maiden), from comedy to tragedy, from lucky escape to murder seems to me a profound reflection of the Grimms’ desire to solidify their narrative portrayal of social values such as women’s silence and obedi[1]ence. Equally, it might signal their worry over changing mores, including those sexual ones slightly slipping out of closets across Europe, a result of the first prospects of the Enlightenment’s individual freedoms.10

“Frau Trude” evidences these concerns in its use of language. Though compact, the Grimms’ version nonetheless spends a wealth of linguistic currency in direct speech of an intense and ardor-laden kind: argumentative between daughter and parents, then discursive between girl and witch. Though the story begins with a standard “There once was a little girl” followed by description of her obstinate and stubborn ways, the third-person narrator soon gives over the account to the first-person protagonists. Plunged immediately into a tense, dramatic dialogue, the reader first hears the girl’s definitive, assertive tone as she demonstrates her desire to go to Frau Trude. Her parents respond by admonishing her and denouncing the Frau. A few lines later, in quick succession, girl and Frau engage with each other in interrogative, reported, expository, and declarative speech modes. Having transformed her visitor into fire, Frau Trude sits down by her bright flame and, speaking to herself/to the girl, declares her satisfaction.

The exceptionally argumentative and chatty girl and the loquacious witch by no means hold to the “silent woman” protocol Ruth Bottigheimer (1986, 116) finds in full swing in Germany by the 1830s, when “Frau Trude” was first published. Bottigheimer’s correlation of the Grimm tales’ speech patterns, gender hierarchies, and values is suggestive for “Frau Trude.” In what she calls the “century of criticism” celebrating “Wilhelm Grimm’s shift from indirect speech in the earliest versions of individual tales to direct speech in the later and final versions,” she finds, “No critic has asked, ‘Who speaks?’ or ‘Under what circumstances?’” (1987, 52). In contrast, Bottigheimer argues that Wilhelm consciously determined how much speech he would bestow any particular character (53).

Finding “good” girls and women muted or relegated to indirect speech and authority, often male, noted in direct speech, Bottigheimer also discovers that if “sprach” (spoke) too often introduces speech from a woman’s mouth, “it usually heralds a bad hat” (1987, 55). That girl and witch both speak di[1]rectly and constantly suggests Wilhelm’s editorial choices in “Frau Trude.” He loads the tale with a garrulousness that announces how “bad” he thinks both protagonists are. Again Bottigheimer is suggestive: “Transgressions can be carried out knowingly or unwittingly. Conscious transgressions by girls occur in at least four tales; in two the girls are punished and in two they escape. These two possible outcomes correspond with the good or evil nature of the prohibitor.” Bottigheimer says “Frau Trude” exemplifies a knowingly disobedient girl’s punishment, foretold in Grimm’s rhetorical insertion at the tale’s start: “so how could she fare well?” (88). We thank Wilhelm Grimm for filling the tale with direct speech, for thereby inadvertently he raises our awareness of the impassioned relationships between the characters by giving us access to their heightened emotional states (including fascination, anger, resentment, fear, yearning, and contentment) expressed in a range of speech acts.

[goodqueenaly]

If House Durandon had bent the knee to Aegon and Argillac had a male heir, would Aegon have given Harrenhal to Orys Baratheon?

In the three examples from the Targaryen Conquest IOTL where pre-Conquest male heirs of established ruling dynasties bent the knee to the Targaryens - Ronnel Arryn, Torrhen Stark, and Loren Lannister - Aegon the Conqueror allowed each established ruler to retain his (subsequently non-royal) ruling position and continue the dynasty already in place in that region. As such, it may well have been the case that, had Argilac Durrandon already had a son at the time of the Conquest who (perhaps following some version of the Last Storm) acknowledged the Targaryens as his overlords, the Targaryens would have in turn acknowledged this Durrandon prince as Lord of Storm’s End and House Durrandon as the crown’s ruling vassal family in the Stormlands. 

Of course, it’s worth pointing out that such a scenario would have completely changed one of the, well maybe not quite immediate inciting incidents of the Conquest, but an important political exchange that occurred shortly before it IOTL. King Argilac himself had, of course, reached out to the Targaryens prior to the conquest, “offering Lord Aegon his daughter in marriage, with all the lands east of the Gods Eye from the Trident to the Blackwater Rush as her dowry” according to Gyldayn. When Aegon Targaryen made a counteroffer, demanding more land and substituting Orys as the bridegroom, Argilac angrily rejected what he saw as an insult to his daughter and dynasty (a rejection that I think the narrative wants to suggest was poetically resolved by Orys’ (and Rhaenys’) victory and the subsequent Orys-Argella marriage). While I very much doubt Aegon solely based the decision of the Conquest on King Argilac’s refusal, I do think Argilac would have been that much less likely to even consider carving off some of his son’s inheritance to create a Targaryen buffer state.

Anyway, what would Aegon have done with Orys Baratheon in such a scenario? It’s possible that Aegon would have installed him as Lord of Harrenhal, although I think the great unknown factor here is to how and what extent Aegon wanted Orys to wield power. Having already accepted House Tully as the ruling dynasty of the Riverlands, Aegon would have been relegating Orys as Lord of Harrenhal to a secondary geopolitical role, which the king may or may not have wanted to do. Perhaps instead Aegon would have installed Orys as Lord of Highgarden (maybe married to some Gardener princess, any of whom could presumably have existed after the Field of Fire but none of whom, of course, we know anything about). It’s possible Aegon would have installed Orys as Lord of the Iron Islands (although maybe Aegon would have remembered the historical folly of Aubrey Crakehall in just such a role). It’s possible Aegon would have made Orys governor of Dorne, or even offered to marry Orys to Princess Deria Martell, as a means of incorporating Dorne into the kingdom of the Iron Throne. It’s possible that Aegon would have built Orys a new castle (as Aegon IV would promise to do later for another Targaryen-fathered bastard, Daemon Blackfyre). Or perhaps Aegon would simply have kept Orys on as his champion and strong right arm, without necessarily making him a great lord in the bargain.

[wingedshadowfan]

a friend said they didn't expect a third book in the alex stern series (and i don't know if anything's been officially confirmed or not, i don't really keep up with authors so correct me if i'm wrong) but there's just no way bardugo would leave us with so many unanswered questions and things to look forward to

what's going to happen to demon tripp (how does that work again? because he's not like darlington, who's bound in service to alex and has some sort of humanity/ability to change between forms, since tripp became a demon in an entirely different way), will he have to eventually start feeding on people's blood or emotions? who's telling his family?

cosmo the cat (what exactly is he? not a salt spirit, a familiar? how and why? it's not even that important i'm just personally very intrigued because he reminds me of that cute alien cat in the captain marvel movies that turns up a monstrosity with like a million tentacles inside its mouth)

reiter is still out there and alex pretty much vowed to avenge michelle at one point - i want a first row seat ("She would teach Reiter what real pain tasted like. It was all she could offer this girl she’d barely known. Vengeance that came too late, and prayers spoken in fire.")

darlingstern confession when?? what's going on here like i get the slow burn but it's about damn time come on

darlington's map of new haven magic as his graduate project or whatever!! i need that for my mental health idc, also dawes finally finishing her tarot card thesis

i want confirmation that my theory about turner's "prickle" is actually true and there's magic involved

what's happening with mercy and alex's friendship? we also know lauren, alex and mercy will be looking for a new dorm next year

we don't quite know enough about alex's father or grandma, let alone exactly what she is, like at first we only knew she saw grays and they could under specific circumstances touch her, then she learnt she can let them in, eat their souls, "bond" them like the bridegroom, she can hear them now, she can move freely (how freely?) between realms like?? what exactly is a wheelwalker again?

biggest one: um?? they left the door to hell open y'all, and things escaped: “That thing is the first,” Darlington said. “It won’t be the last. We have to find a way to shut the door for good, to seal the Gauntlet before the demons figure out how to keep it open.”

[hiswordsarekisses]

“The Bride of Christ goes through an intense and dramatic journey of being captivated, separated, broken, and matured to be the King's partner.

At this point in her journey, in Song of Songs 8:6, she is no longer new to her relationship with Him. She has already gone through many phases, discoveries, amazement, high and low places, blown by the winds of trials, and desperate searches for her Beloved. As well as persecution, contempt, and mistreatment by others in the Kingdom.

Now she comes from a time in the desert with many questions, where her life was so incredibly challenged that she had no choice but to trust and come out leaning on her Beloved, embraced by His arms.

She no longer relies on her own understanding, her own will, or trusts in her own righteousness - but only in His Strength, the Lord of all Righteousness and Holiness.

This is a woman who has grown in her knowledge of love. She knows how to rest in the security and trust of her Bridegroom. There is no fear or doubt in His Love.

The certainty of belonging imprints on her a Mark that gives her access, like a badge, to the living and Supernatural World of the Groom, which is demarcated by high and robust fences of Love.

In this place, shame and embarrassment are not obstacles. There, where she belongs, she yearns for new knowledge, like food when hungry and water when thirsty.

This Seal protects her. This Seal identifies her. This Seal includes her. This Seal sustains her. This Seal connects her. This Seal changes everything.

And the King's Seal upon her is backed by all of His Kingdom.”

~ Sara Lingel

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy is fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord.” Song of Solomon‬ ‭8‬:‭6‬

“But God’s firm foundation stands, bearing this seal: “The Lord knows those who are his,” and, “Let everyone who names the name of the Lord depart from iniquity.”” 2Timothy‬ ‭2‬:‭19‬

[betweenthetimeandsound]

--prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial

Through her crystalline tears and her acidic sorrow, the holes emerged from the veil in front of her. Lines of polyester and silken flowers started to fall, and in its abnormal beauty, everything had caught fire. Even the wooden floor, which was enough to hold down the remains of train tracks, started to turn into a long hidden volcano.

The veil falls, and her, the daughter of an anonymous royal and her haphazard husband, reveals her true form. Rubbing her eyes, she tries to adjust her vision despite ruining it, all while the miniscule crowd retreated in fear. Incense still imbued the room with a fraction of sanctity, but to her eyes, it's another way to keep her in.

"Get away from this inferno!" A priest cried out, and tried to grab her hand. Instead, he found his wrist pricked with stone nails and rose thorns which emerged from the woman, items which he hadn't recognized for years.

"Yes, but except it is mine," she replied, smiling. Her teeth revealed abnormal gaps, knives for canines, and a tarnished glow.

"Get away, again! And leave this place, if you don't see it fit." Holding up his staff, the priest invoked his own strength in lieu of the gods, hyperventilating as he willed his breath to its own being, to calm down a fragile girl turned a virulent woman.

Taking note of the smoke and flame, she smiled. She recognized the man's presence--huffing and puffing, as if the wanderers from across the land were his own children and to release himself would be surrendering to her immortal wrath. It ached them both, but she spotted something in his dark eyes, and it was enough to loosen her grip...for just a moment.

"I let myself become a bride for my parents' sake, so that they may be happy. I fell in love with my husband, but he didn't dare either."

"Then why don't you give up yourself entirely?"

"To whom?"

"To him!"

She smiled, a dimple forming in her right corner. "I admire how you suggested that I could be kind to everybody I meet. At the same time," she snarked, finding her hand loosen like a ribbon, "none of the gods were kind to me. Why is that?"

The priest gazed at the corner of the void. Hellfire attracted him like a candle in the darkness, a place where he might find hope amongst the billowing chaos. Through the incense, a violent veil wrapping around them, he saw them on the precipice of something terrifying, an angel revealing its true form.

"Why wouldn't they?"

And then, she flung her hand away from him, sending his body through oblivion. Biting her lip, she stood at the crack, waiting for it to consume her too, assuming the bridegroom won't come for her first. After taking a deep breath, she retreated, clasping her hands.

"Have mercy on him, if you can't have mercy on me."

[creatediana]

When Gilgamesh the king came back to the city after the victory over the demon Huwawa,

he washed the filth of battle from his hair and washed the filth of battle from his body,

put on new clothes, a clean robe and a cloak tied with a sash, and cleaned and polished the weapons

that had been bloodied with the hateful blood of the demon Huwawa, guardian of the forest,

and put a tiara on his shining hair, so that he looked as beautiful as a bridegroom.

The goddess Ishtar saw him and fell in love with the beauty of Gilgamesh and longed for his body.

"Be my lover, be my husband," she spoke and said. "Give me the seed of your body, give me your semen;

plant your seed in the body of Ishtar. Abundance will follow, riches beyond the telling:

a chariot of lapis lazuli and brass and ivory, with golden wheels,

and pulled, instead of mules, by storm beasts harnessed. Enter our house: from floor and doorpost breathes

the odor of cedar; the floor kisses your feet. Your doe goats give you triplets, your ewes also;

your chariot steeds and oxen beyond compare." Gilgamesh answered and said: "What could I offer

the queen of love in return, who lacks nothing at all? Balm for the body? The food and drink of the gods?

I have nothing to give to her who lacks nothing at all. You are the door through which the cold gets in.

You are the fire that goes out. You are the pitch that sticks to the hands of the one who carries the bucket.

You are the house that falls down. You are the shoe that pinches the foot of the wearer. The ill-made wall

that buckles when time has gone by. The leaky waterskin soaking the waterskin carrier.

Who were your lovers and bridegrooms? Tammuz the slain, whose festival wailing is heard, year after year,

under your sign. He was the first who suffered. The lovely shepherd bird whom Ishtar loved,

whose wing you broke and now wing-broken cries, lost in the darkness on the forest floor.

'My wing is broken, broken is my wing.' The lion whom you loved, strongest of beasts,

the mightiest of the forest, who fell into the calamity of the pits, the bewildering

contrivances of the goddess, seven times seven. You broke the great wild horse and snaffled him:

he drinks the water his hobbled hooves have muddied. The goatherd who brought you cakes and daily for you

slaughtered a kid, you turned him into a wolf chased away by the herdsmen, whose hairy flanks,

smelly and mangy, the guardian dogs snap at. You loved Ishullanu, your father's gardener,

who brought you figs and dates to adorn your table. You looked at him and showed yourself to him

and said: 'Now, touch me where you dare not, touch me here, touch me where you want to, touch me here.'

He said: 'Why should I eat the rotten food, having been taught to eat the wholesome food?

Why should I sin and be cursed and why should I live where the cold wind blows through the reeds upon the outcast?'

Some say the goddess turned him into a frog among the reeds, with haunted frog voice chanting,

beseeching what he no longer knows he longs for; some say into a mole whose blind foot pushes

over and over again against the loam in the dark of the tunnel, baffled and silent, forever.

And you would do with me as you did with them."

The Epic of Gilgamesh translated by David Ferry, 1992