#gaelic memories

[gaelicmemoriesphotography]

Aurora at Gara - County Sligo

[just-an-enby-lemon]

Thinking about the complexities of a "losing your magic" story in a DnD (and similar) scenerio because what it means completly depends of your class. Because while not everyone is born with magic, everyone can have it.

How for a sorcerer losing their magic is genuinally about losing a part of themselfs, to suddently not being able to do something they always did. Losing your magic is like sudently losing a limb or one of your senses. And how besides being always theirs, their magic is ancestral how it can mean losing a connection with a part of their family history.

How for paladins is about morals. About breaking their vows whatever they are, dealing with the fact that they changed or maybe that morals were always way more complicated than they thought they were. (The Oathbreaker subclass changes things but I think it can work if Oathbreaker is one of the ways to embrace the emotional conflict that took your magic). Is almost phylosofical. Is the what makes Thor worthy?

How for druids, clerics and warlocks are different levels of losing a connection. For druids is with nature, with a force beyond their comprehension but that became a part of you for so long and who are you without this feeling? For warlocks is so many things, is losing a boss, a friend, is the price of freedom, is the loss of whatever you had with the sentient being that gave you powers. And for clerics is a mix, is about if their gods are feelings like nature or beings that talk to them, but whatever it is, for clerics, for clerics is a lack of faith. Is about what happens when you doubt your god, when you can't belive it or in it. Is also about what happens when your god doesn't belive in you.

For bards and mages is the loss of a skill. The bards might have the loss of their playing or voice but even if not, even if is just the magic that is gone, well they, just like the mages, studied hard to be abble to do magic. If for a sorcerer is like losing a limb, for them is like waking up in the morning and noticing your accent changed or that you don't speak a language you once did anymore, is trying to ride the same bicycle you used to go to work everyday and noticing you just doesn't know how.

[ceo-draiochta]

How could I forget "Is binn béal ina thost"- The silent mouth is sweet. Easily the best way to tell someone to shut tf up.

[embraceyourdestiny]

I hope when I type the word amen your brain reads it as “ah-men”

[ancestorsalive]

Waulking Skye Weavers Tweed

“These women have stamina! As well as fantastic singing voices. A few highlights from the day I spent at Auchindrain Township, finishing a length of Skye Wool tweed over several hours with waulking groups Sgioba Luaidh Inbhirchluaidh  and Cuigeal. Make sure you turn the sound on for a taster of some of the many traditional waulking songs (Òrain Luaidh in Gaelic) that are integral to this process and an important part of Scotland’s cultural heritage. Watch to the end to see the finished tweed back in Skye.”

- Skye Weavers

Find out more about waulking on our blog: https://www.skyeweavers.co.uk/blog/waulking-the-tweed

[streetsofdublin]

ÉIRE MEMORIAL RESTORED AND RELOCATED WITHIN MERRION SQUARE PARK

In 1928 Jerome Connor became involved in a proposal to create a memorial to the Kerry poets, which was to commemorate four leading Gaelic poets of the 17th and 18th centuries at Killarney.

SCULPTURE BY JEROME CONNOR I used an iPhone 12 Pro Max to photograph one of my favourite sculptures in Merrion Square Public Park. Éire Memorial (1974) By Jerome Connor (1874-1943)[Restored And Relocated Within Merrion Square Park] In 1928 Jerome Connor became involved in a proposal to create a memorial to the Kerry poets, which was to commemorate four leading Gaelic poets of the 17th and 18th…

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Halloween

REFERENCES (Banshee; Ghost; Ghoul; Goblin; Haunt; Specter; Vampire; Wraith; Origins of Halloween)

Banshee

A female spirit in Gaelic folklore whose appearance or wailing warns a family that one of them will soon die.

Banshee came from combining the Gaelic words meaning “woman of fairyland,” but any positive associations with fairies ends there.

Are female spirits that, if seen or heard wailing under the windows of a house, foretell of a death in the family that lives there.

Today, the word is most frequently heard in the idiom “scream like a banshee” or “wail like a banshee,” which shows the power of myth and the imaginative power of language, since probably no one has actually heard one.

Ghost

Most common meaning today is “a disembodied soul” or “the soul or specter of a deceased person”, which came next, a meaning based on the ancient folkloric notion that the spirit is separable from the body and can continue its existence after death. It originally meant “vital spark” or “the seat of life or intelligence,” which is still used in the phrase “give up the ghost.”

An older spelling of ghost, gast, is the root of aghast (“struck with terror, shocked”) and ghastly (“frightening”).

The German word for ghost, geist, is part of the word zeitgeist, which literally means “spirit of the time.”

Ghoul

A legendary evil being that robs graves and feeds on corpses.

Ghoul is a relatively recent English word, borrowed from Arabic in the 1700s.

Because it’s spelled with gh-, it looks vaguely like the Old English words ghost and ghastly (which share a common root in the Old English word gāst, meaning “spirit” or “ghost”).

In fact, it comes from the Arabic word ghūl, derived from the verb that means “to seize,” and originally meant “a legendary evil being held to rob graves and feed on corpses.” The word was introduced to western literature by the French translation of Arabian Nights.

Goblin

An ugly or grotesque sprite.

Usually mischievous and sometimes evil and malicious.

Haunt

To visit or inhabit as a ghost.

However, this is not the original sense of the word.

For centuries, it had a perfectly unfrightening set of meanings: “to visit often” and “to continually seek the company of.”

In the 1500s, it began to mean “to have a disquieting or harmful effect on,” as in “that problem may come back to haunt you.” The meaning here is simply the lingering presence of the problem, not the possibly scary nature of the problem itself; it is applied to thoughts, memories, and emotions.

The noun haunt retains this fright-neutral definition, “a place that you go to often,” as in “one of my favorite old haunts.”

A lingering idea, memory, or feeling may have led to the ghostly meaning of haunt, or one by a disembodied or imaginary spirit.

Specter

A visible disembodied spirit.

Specter originally meant “a visible disembodied spirit” in English—a good synonym for ghost. But, unlike ghost, the notion of being visible is paramount in specter, which came to English from the French word spectre, which developed directly from the Latin word spectrum, meaning “appearance” or “specter,” itself based on the verb specere, meaning “to look.”

Specere is also the root of many English words that have to do with appearance: aspect, conspicuous, inspect, perspective, and spectacle.

Vampire

The reanimated body of a dead person believed to come from the grave at night and suck the blood of persons asleep.

Legends of bloodsucking creatures go back to Ancient Greece, with harrowing tales of them rising from burial places at night to drink peoples’ blood before hiding from dawn’s daylight. These stories were popular in eastern Europe.

Originally comes from the Serbian word vampir, which then passed from German to French, coming to English in the 1700s.

The extended senses of vampire, “one who lives by preying on others” and a synonym of vampire bat, were both in use within a few decades.

Wraith

The exact likeness of a living person seen usually just before death as an apparition. The distinguishing quality of a wraith, compared with other ghosts, is its specificity.

Originally, it referred to either the exact likeness of a living person seen as an apparition just before that person’s death as a kind of spectral premonition of bad news, or a visible apparition of a dead person.

When referring to a living person, it’s a synonym of doppelgänger, or the “spirit double” of a living person (as opposed to a ghost, which refers to the spirit of a dead person). Doppelgänger is now frequently used in a broader sense to mean simply “someone who looks like someone else.”

When referring to a dead person, wraith is a synonym of revenant, which originally referred to a ghost of a particular person and subsequently has been used for a person who returns after a long absence.

ORIGINS OF HALLOWEEN

The traditions of Halloween have their origins in Samhain, a festival celebrated by the Celts of ancient Britain and Ireland.

Samhain marked the end of summer and the onset of winter, and occurred on a date that corresponds to our November 1st.

It was believed that during the Samhain festival, the world of the gods was visible to humans, and the gods took advantage of this fact by playing tricks on their mortal worshippers. Those worshippers in turn responded with bonfires on hilltops and sometimes masks and other varied disguises to keep ghosts from being able to recognize them. Things tended to get spooky and dangerous around Samhain, with bloody sacrifices and supernatural phenomena abounding.

Samhain chugged along for centuries, until Christianity poked its nose in: in the 8th century CE, All Saints' Day, a somewhat new Christian holiday, got moved from May 13th to November 1st.

The evening before All Saints' Day became a holy—that is, a hallowed—eve. Within a few centuries, Samhain and the eve of All Saints' Day had been merged into a single holiday. Protestants of the Reformation and all that came after largely rejected the whole thing, but the holiday persisted among some communities.

19th-century immigrants to the U.S., including many from Ireland, brought their Halloween customs with them and deserve no small amount of credit for the holiday as it's celebrated in the U.S. today.

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Word List: October

[sgiandubh]

Heughan’s voice is as smooth as his whisky. His latest venture is his multi-award-winning whisky and gin, ‘The Sassenach’, the Gaelic word for ‘outsider’. He feels he is an outsider to the industry, but the idea behind the name seems to have emerged from his mother, who is an English artist and was called ‘Sassenach’ when she arrived in New Galloway, and in Outlander, Jamie Fraser calls his wife Sassenach as s term of endearment. “The name is very special to me,” he tells me.

Perhaps the video he recorded at Everest Base Camp was for his mother ?She's on IG too and we know Sam loves her so much and sometimes doesn't call her Mum but Chrissie. Cait is not a Sassenach because she's Irish. Sam calling her the Original Sassenach it's because of her character, Claire and he recently stated Caitriona is nothing like Claire (SheKnows interview). Either way it's not a big deal so don't blame me. It's just a thought and cute anyway .

Dear Sassenach Anon,

Let me count the ways. Quoting from memory first we had ' She [C] is the original Sassenach' (at one of the seasons' premieres in London, where he brought a bottle and waxed lyrical to the press over it). Then, we had 'Sassenach means foreigner in Scots Gaelic and it's a term of endearment of Jamie Fraser, the character I am playing in OL, for his wife' (numerous times for various media outlets). Then, 'I am the Sassenach, I always felt as an outsider, but also Jamie Fraser's term of endearment for his wife, Claire' (ditto). And then 'the name emerged from his mother who is an English artist and was called ‘Sassenach’ when she arrived in New Galloway, and in Outlander, Jamie Fraser calls his wife Sassenach as s term of endearment.'

The Arbuturian is a well regarded online magazine, founded in 2009 and based in London. It looks and reads to me as The New Yorker's slightly more plebeian, younger cousin of sorts - check their masthead mascot...

... and remember (ROFLMAO) The New Yorker's Eustace Tilley, its illustrious inspiration:

By the way, Eustace Tilley, one of my favorite dandies, was itself inspired by an engraving of the French count Alfred d'Orsay, by a certain... James Fraser, sometime around 1830. I kid you not and yes, totally Clan Fraser, born near Inverness:

Can't make this shite up, even if you wanted, huh?

Anyways, back to your question and this little media outlet that could. Its targeted audience is, according to Wikipedia:

In sociological lingo, AB means an educated mid-to high level management audience, with a hefty disposable income to boot (usually more than 1 million £/year net revenue). All it takes is a short stroll through their Lifestyle pages: according to them, among this year's most sought after Xmas gifts gimmicks are a Turnbull & Asser silk pocket square (£75) for him or a £200 voucher for Fairmont Windsor Park’s Ultimate Diamond Facial, for her.

This interview's one and only raison d'être was to sound appealing to this particular dinkie (double income, no kids) Generation X audience, especially as far as his booze was concerned. For he was on booze promo mode here and he obviously twisted a bit whatever (I repeat: whatever) his real motivation behind the brand name might have been to the least controversial possible version. It's hard to question or throw shite at this mum version, let alone at a version involving a heroic single parent as Chrissie H, let alone at Christmas time. This allowed him, at the same time, to elegantly keep his personal life away and separate between business and private: something he should have been doing since the very start. But S is a sentimental man and a people pleaser - we all know that, don't we?

It was important for S to be featured in this London online magazine, read by the same people he was once serving drinks to, at parties. It's all about aspirations, social climbing and being a part of that crowd. Finally!

And you, darling, are a troll, despite your protesting. I nevertheless hope this answered your very transparently targeted question, in the spirit of Christmas. Otherwise, it would have landed in the bin, where it probably belongs.

PS: Caitriona is Caitriona, probably nothing like Claire, indeed and thank God! Being 'like Claire Fraser' was certainly not what prompted the coup de foudre - I daresay, quite the contrary. Sorry, darling, to pop your bubble, but this is not exactly how the real world works.

Later edit: if the entire Everest trek was something 'just for himself', then the recorded video was also 'just for himself'. The reason he posted it on Instagram was to probably childishly rejoice/brag he finally made it and damn the consequences. Use a bit of logic.

[elucubrare]

looking up scots gaelic naming traditions & one of the wiki examples is "An Caillteanach ("The lost one"), a man who had become lost, causing the entire village to spend the night looking for him," which is rough for that guy. the night he inconvenienced everyone in town, memorialized forever.

[gaelicmemoriesphotography]

Hi all,

My book, "Celtic Visions of Ireland," is a fantastic gift for the holidays. It's a hardback with 212 full-color pages, showcasing Ireland's stunning landscapes, folklore, poems, and history. Plus, every purchase supports the Barnardos children's charity in Dublin. Perfect for the season!

[thenameswinterfics]

CAOINEADH

Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Banshee!Reader Settings: Season 2, brief mention of moments from S3 to SKMD Summary: While wandering outside Dunholm with his mother, Sihtric is visited by a creature whose presence brings terrible news to his family. Years later, the Banshee returns to the mortal lands and Sihtric, now grown up and in the service of Uhtred, faces the consequences of a bad omen. But the tragedy also brings them closer together. Word Count: 5,2 K Warnings: Angst, mention of blood, mention of death, mention of main character death(s), human/monster romance, hopeful ending? , me writing Finan's Irish accent. A/N: After a long time, I'm back to writing for my favourite Dane rat boy. I'd somehow forgotten how much I loved and enjoyed writing for him, especially after a period of putting him aside for a while. This feels like I'm republishing a fic of his for the very first time, so I'm terribly nervous. I hope you like and enjoy it. If you find the ending a bit rushed, I'm sorry. I finished it while it was late at night in my timezone, and everything will be fixed eventually when I'm awake and more aware of my actions. Many thanks to @foxyanon , @legitalicat and @zaldritzosrose for helping me with the Banshee lore, for writing Finan's accent, for the emotional support, for the beta reading and last minute corrections, and to @sylasthegrim for the early beta reading and emotional support as well.

This fic is my entry and first submission to the Fan-Frankentober event, organized by @fandomeventcenter. Here the masterlist to take a look at the other works.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header by me (template by @zaldritzosrose) Dividers by me and @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3 (COMING SOON)

Caoineadh: Irish and Scottish Gaelic pronunciation of "keening" (to cry, to weep); traditional form of the vocal lament for the dead in the Gaelic tradition.

By the time Sihtric stopped running, he had no more memory of the place he was in.

His hands, clenched into small fists, rubbed his tired eyes as he tried to scan the surroundings, looking for any detail that might help him orientate himself in the unknown space. He could not recognize the long tree trunks rising from the ground, their dry branches seeming to touch the twilight sky as he watched the sun's rays filter through the few remaining canopies. 

The place was eerily quiet, the sound of the wind blowing and moving the branches and leaves on the ground the only sound to break the surreal yet disturbing atmosphere. He felt a shiver run down his spine and the little Dane suddenly hugged his shoulder, as if to hide his head between them like a turtle. 

It was one of the few times he and his mother had left the strong walls of Dunholm together, Sihtric enjoying the fresh air of the forest while Elflaed was busy gathering flowers and herbs that he had little interest in. Sometimes his curiosity would get the better of him, his big, mismatched eyes fixed on Elflaed's wooden basket and how many herbs she had managed to gather. When his mother felt his eyes on her, she would patiently stop picking and crouch down beside him, patiently explaining what she was doing as she wrapped his small body around her, only to see her son wriggle out of her embrace soon after and play with small sticks nearby. 

Sihtric was usually a quiet and obedient child: when his mother asked him to stay close to her, he obeyed without a fuss. That day, however, something caught his attention, a heartbreaking wail that filled his ears and shook his heart: it was a gentle but sad song that carried pain and sorrow, hiding a sense of concern and care towards to whom it was addressed. Armed only with a small stick and with curiosity teasing him, Sihtric dared to disobey his mother for the first time, and entered into the woods while leaving his mother behind.

And there he was, lost in an unfamiliar place, with nothing to defend himself but a small stick. He was too young to call himself a warrior, barely able to hold a knife, let alone wield a sword that was too heavy for his tiny hands and a shield properly. Hiding and fleeing was the only option he could take in case of real danger, for he had spent his whole life hiding from the wrath of his cruel father; but the surroundings would make the task impossible, as the tall and twisted trees casted long shadows, and the undergrowth cracked with every step he could take.

Suddenly, the silence of the forest was broken by the same sorrowful chant that dragged him in the deep of the woods. Holding his wooden stick in his hands, Sihtric moved carefully in the direction of the voice, trying not to make noise while the ground cracked beneath his feet. 

The walk was short, and he found himself in front of a small lake he had never seen before. Squatting on the bank was a young lady in a blue gown, her black hair cascading down her shoulders like pitch-black watercourses, giving the little boy her back as she continued to sing her lament. Sihtric could hardly understand what she was doing, her head almost hidden beneath her shoulders, her hands working frantically to move the water in small ripples.

Holding his breath and trying to be as quiet as a mouse, Sihtric crept up behind her, lifting his small head and trying to find the right angle where he could see what she was doing underwater. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, fear and anticipation creeping into his bones as he felt the keening close to him, the chanting drawing him in even if he couldn't understand it. But as he crept closer, something beneath his boots cracked softly, and the sound was enough to make the lady turn and show her face to the boy.

It was the first time he met you. 

Sihtric watched with frightened eyes as your icy blue gaze locked on his and a low hiss escaped your mouth, your pale complexion adorned by scarlet tears rolling down your eyes. Behind you, piles of clothes lay scattered on the grass, others dripping in the water that had lost its transparency and had become muddy with blood. 

The little Dane found the strength to stand up and try to run away, but he soon fell, tripping over a stone behind him. Your ghostly presence, now calmed down after the initial fright, lightly approached him and crouched down. One of your slender hands rested on his cheek, your touch as cold as the death itself. But the words that came out from your lips were way colder, breaking the silence with your voice as soft as the silk but sharp as a piece of glass. 

“She cannot escape to the Other World.”

“She?” “Escape from what?” “What is the Other World she is talking about?” These were the words that filled the boy's mind, filled with nothing but fear and the coldness of your touch. But soon Sihtric's tiny body was enveloped in a familiar warmth, and two arms lifted him from the floor. It was only when warm, trembling lips were pressed to his forehead that he recognised the touch of his mother, who had searched for him after losing sight of him.

“Sihtric!” Elflaed cried while holding her son close to her. “Why were you here all alone? I told you never to leave my side, never! Oh, my sweet boy!” 

The young Dane watched as he silently pointed to the spot where you appeared before him, but a cold realisation hit him as you were no longer there, gone like ashes in the wind.

Sihtric did not answer, too lost in his mother's warmth and love, and the bad omen you gave him still shook him to the core. He clung to her presence, and each time your words echoed in his mind, he sought comfort in his mother's presence, even when they left the forest and the warmth of her small hut welcomed them.

But a few days later, the opening of the Other World shook nature and its creatures. And his mother's soul was claimed after a long agony.

Standing outside Eoferwic, you looked up at the walls that surrounded the town, admiring the mix of Roman, Danish and Saxon architecture that was unfamiliar to you: you were there when the Romans laid the foundation stone on the ground, and the same souls were the first you guided to the Other World, announcing the sad event in the form of a manifestation to the families you watched over. 

And you were called to do your duty again: to find the same boy you met years ago, to tell him that more of his family's souls will be claimed in the days to come. They will not be gentle and innocent like those of his mother and grandparents you guided through the other world: they were violent, reckless, stained with blood’s innocents and sins far from forgotten. But it was up to the god or gods to decide where their souls would go in the afterlife. 

Your pale eyes scanned the area, and when you found a small stream where you could wash the dirty clothes you were carrying, you walked over and dipped your hands into the cold water. You watched as your fingers swirled around the cloth and the water lost its translucency, a faint reddish tinge staining it.

The night was still, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees, lightly caressing your raven locks. You continued to scrub the clothes in the water as your wailing began, your lament filling the air and mingling with the sound of the rushing water as your eyes watered and scarlet tears rolled down your white face. 

As on that night, something soft cracked on the ground and your wailing stopped. You lifted yourself from the ground and turned towards the sound, and soon found yourself crouched beside a young man, probably trying to sneak up on you without attracting attention. 

He was a handsome man, the most beautiful your eternal eyes could ever have seen; his features sharp, his fair skin adorned with a few scars on his forehead, eyebrow and cheekbone, a knotted tattoo crossing part of his head, his dark hair cut at the sides and combed into three plaits and knotted at the back. These were features that were strangely familiar to you, your mind trying to remember when was the last time you saw him. 

But it was his eyes that captured you the most. There was pain, melancholy and innocence in them - the same light you had found in the bicoloured eyes of the little Danish boy you had reached outside Dunholm. You felt a sudden flicker of recognition, your eyes widening slightly as you recognised that lost and frightened boy in the man he had become. The years had moulded him into a skilled warrior, but the softness of his eyes remained unchanged, you noted. 

You chose a cautious approach, slowly closing the distance between you. You noticed his body trembling and his jaw clenching, his muscles not moving from where he was: it was still unclear to you whether he wasn't moving out of fear or anticipation.

“It has been a long time, sweet boy,” you broke the silence, using the same nickname you had heard his mother call him. Sihtric stood frozen, partly enchanted by your ethereal appearance and your voice, as melodious as the birdsong at sunrise.  

His eyebrows furrowed and his expression changed from alienation to curiosity: your figure was too familiar to him, but he could not remember where he had first met you.

 “Do… Do I know you, lady?” the Dane asked, holding his breath as the silent nod of your head answered his question. 

You took a long pause before answering him, "You do, in a way," you said in a soft voice that carried the weight of your grief. You took a step closer, noticing that the Dane was shifting his incongruous gaze slightly away from you, "But I have known you since you were a little boy playing spy in the deep forest.”

One of your hands reached out and rested on his cheek, the cold touch awakening something in Sihtric that he thought he had buried deep in his heart. He remembered your figure knelt near the lake shore, your icy blue gaze that penetrated deep into his soul, the cryptic prophecy you had given him but he was too young to understand.And then he remembers the mother he lost, and how it was one of the last nights they wandered the Dunholm woods together, and how after her death the Dane desperately tried to find you to explain, but you never showed again.

Instinctively, one of his calloused hands reached for yours, shivering at the cold of your pale skin. But he never pulled you away: instead, he leaned against you, finding the softness of your touch endearing.

“I remember your touch,” he murmured shyly, lowering his gaze as it briefly met yours, fascinated by your pale eyes, “It was you, all this time,” he continued, earning your satisfied hum.

“It is your family that forged our bond,” you announced with a solemn tone, absently doing circles on his skin with your thumb, “It was your mother’s souls that bound you to me.”

The mention of his mother made Sihtric snap back to reality, and pain filled again his mismatched eyes, “My mother’s soul?” he repeated in a whisper, a slight trembling could be heard in his voice, “What did you do to her? Why didn’t you save her?” 

His voice broke down when he asked his final question, and the red tears rolled down your cheeks furiously “Why did you take her away from me?” 

“It is not me who willingly chose to wrestle your mother from your arms,” you murmured softly, your other hand resting on his other cheek, cupping his face completely. Your thumbs gently wiped away his tears, and you could hear him draw in a sharp breath. Under the moonlight, you could see a faint blush in his cheeks.

“It is fate that foretells a mortal's permanence in this world and how their entry into the Other World will come about,” you explained carefully, as if you were talking with a child. “It is my duty to show myself to you and to guide you through the painful parts of death. Your pain is my own burning.” 

An uncomfortable silence fell over you, the weight of your words making it almost impossible for you both to speak. Finally, you summoned the courage to speak again, and your next words sent shivers down his spine. 

“The Other World is shaking, more souls from your family should be claimed,” You solemnly stated, and your words brought a sense of uneasiness and confusion in Sihtric. 

“Lady,” The Dane lowered his gaze, his cheeks burning at the sight of you, his body trembling at the surreality of the information he was receiving that night, “I have no family left outside my mother and my grandparents,”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, amused at his naivety, "Even if they neglect you, there are still ties of blood that fate will sever."

Sihtric clenched his jaw, his gaze darkening at the memory of a father who neglected you and looked at you with disgust only because he was guilty of being born a bastard, and of his half-brother who always looked at him with the same disgust for their father. The news of their imminent deaths brought him an unexpected sense of peace, and the chains of his tortured past will be broken forever: but he would fear how their deaths would affect him, when the damage they had done was far from repaired, and the memories of his past would knock furiously at his door, reminding him that no matter how hard he worked to forge his own path, he would forever be marked as a slave.

The Dane was about to open his mouth to reply to your words when a loud, rough voice called him out from a distance. 

“Sihtric! Come back here, yer little runt!” Finan’s voice brought him back to reality, forcing the Dane to shift his gaze and look at him. 

“I am coming, Finan!” Sihtric replied to him as quickly as he could, so that he could face you and ask you about the fate of Kjartan and Sven in death.

But when he turned his eyes again, you were gone. And a sudden emptiness filled his heart and saddened his soul.

Later in the evening, the atmosphere within the walls of Eoferwich was playful and joyful. Warriors gathered around small tables outside, filling their stomachs with food and ale while telling stories of women, successful raids, or simply myths and legends from their homelands. 

Sihtric's mind was elsewhere that night. It was common for the warriors who shared a seat at his table to see the young Dane so shy and taciturn, a pattern they justified from his earlier days as a slave in Dunholm, his eyes darting around while his body tensed at the proximity of the too many people in front of him.

But this time it wasn't the echo of his past that tormented him: it was you, your stunning, ghostly presence and melodious voice had bewitched him and altered all his senses. It was as if he was seeing you for the first time, for he had seen you when he was a little boy, unaware that his world was about to collapse upon him and that he would have to rebuild it all by himself. Now that he was a young man and more aware of his own feelings and the world around him, it felt like a string pulling him towards you, longing for your touch and the way you spoke of destiny and its inexorable flow. And the mystery surrounding your figure made you even more desirable in his eyes, and he often wondered if he was facing a goddess herself.

Sihtric's thoughts about your figure were suddenly interrupted by Finan's speeches about his homeland, Ireland, its customs and its most famous legends. One in particular caught the Dane's attention, and he shifted his gaze from his reflection in the mug to the Irishman.

“I told yer tha these creatures ain’t nothin’ but an omen of death!” Finan spoke with such emphasis, looking at Clapa and the few men at the table listening to him. When he felt Sihtric's gaze resting on him, he continued his story. “Legends say they’ll appear in front of yer, sometimes washing bloodied clothes, and they’ll cryin’ and wailin’ somethin’ terrible tha will hit ya family.”

Sihtric listened intently to Finan's words and felt his hand tremble as he gripped his mug of ale. He felt all the dots connect at once, especially when he saw you washing dirty clothes and singing a mournful chant, your wailing so tearful that it filled the listener's heart with sadness. He also remembered facing you twice and seeing the tears of blood leave your eyes. 

There were no creatures like you in the Norse legends and beliefs, and Sihtric wondered how a creature from a different faith could become the spirit guardian of his family.

“I found a beautiful lady washing a pile of clothes not so far from here,” The Dane murmured against his will and soon the animated atmosphere died down and he shrugged as he felt all eyes on him. His mismatched eyes found the Irishman's brown ones and with a slight nod he silently ordered him to continue.

“She was singing something,” Sihtric continued, his voice faltering slightly as he could feel the intensities of their gaze on him, “It was a lament, something so heartbreaking that it chills the blood in your veins.”

His gaze rested on Finan while he spoke his last words, “She brushed my skin and was cold at the touch. And then she was looking at me with her pale eyes, crying blood-“

“Cryin’ blood, yer said?” the Irishman asked in an urgent tone, and Sihtric nodded his head. Then he reached for the Dane's shoulder and squeezed, but not too hard: Finan knew what the wrong touch could do to a former slave, especially one as young as Sihtric.

“That woman you claimed to have seen before… Did ya know what a Banshee is?” Finan asked Sihtric, and received a shake of head as an answer. The Irishman sighed quietly, and leaned his face close to the Dane. 

“Tha’s the spirit I was talkin’ about before. They’re bound at yer family and they’ll come wailin’ and cryin’ blood while announcin’ the death of yer loved ones. She can be either a gorgeous woman or a vindictive old witch. Tha’s someone ain’t to be trifled with, remember this.”

Sihtric gulped at Finan's description of the Banshee, which was nothing like what you really were. You were so gentle with him, taking care of his pain and not putting the burden of grief on his shoulders. How could such a sweet creature as you be the dangerous spirit that Finan described earlier?

“She treated me with nothing but kindness, Finan,” the Dane replied almost innocently, and the Irishman grinned at his words. 

“Then ya were a lucky bastard!” he retorted in an ironic tone, gently slapping Sihtric’s cheek and returning to his seat. 

The conversations continued with more stories of the Banshees and Irish legends until Uhtred broke the mood by calling for Sihtric, who obediently rose and reached for his Lord. And after preparing the final strategies of war, everyone fell asleep, thinking of the battle they would face at Dunholm and how you would draw the veil of death over their heads.

After a day of celebration, Sihtric found an opportunity to sneak out of Dunholm fortress through the small door in the east wall used by the servants. He followed the small watercourse that flowed into the forest entrance and, armed with his sword and dagger, he walked into the heart of the forest, his movements light as a feather to avoid any upcoming dangers.

Once again, the prophecy you told him about your family proved true, and on the day of the battle both Kjartan and Sven were killed, their souls taken by you and sent to the afterlife. While the event lifted a great weight from Sihtric's shoulders, free at last to forge his own destiny without the cruel shadow of his father tormenting him, he wondered if you knew the difference between your afterlife and his, and if his father's soul did not rest beside Elflaed's. The image of Kjartan distressing his mother even in the afterlife made his heart skip a few beats: he would rather accept slavery under the cruel Lord of Dunholm than see his mother tormented in heaven, having found the peace she never had in life.

Finding you would be the only way for him to be reassured and to have the answers he wanted. But finding you would also mean surrendering to your cold touch, losing himself in your lifeless eyes that stirred emotions he could not believe he was feeling. Finan had warned him to be wary of spirits like you, but you were nothing more than a comforting presence at his side, a guardian who would watch over him even if he could not feel you.

Fortunately, Sihtric found the little spot where he had found the two of you the first time, remembering the details of the foliage and surrounding vegetation. And there you were, sitting near the shore, gazing out at the shimmering water, your presence quiet and not filled with your lamentations. When you appeared, Sihtric noticed how your pale face was cleared by your scarlet tears and held his breath at how even more beautiful you were without crying, the pale rays of the moon caressing your skin.

"You came," you said with a gentle smile as you stood up and approached him.

"I thought I would find you here, lady," Sihtric replied sheepishly, his cheeks turning red as he saw you closing the distance between us. He swore he had never seen such a beautiful creature as you. 

"I realised I never asked what your name was," the Dane continued, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“Names are not important for eternal creatures like us,” you explained while you cupped your cheek in your hand, brushing his skin with your slender fingers, “you do not need to know my name to feel close to me. I will always watch over you, Sihtric.”

“I refuse to believe a creature as beautiful as yours is deprived of a name that does her justice,” Sihtric replied, closing his eyes while abandoning himself to your touch, ignoring the lump that was forming in your throat. 

You could not remember what your real name was, for you had forgotten it when death took you in its arms. You did not remember your former life as a young woman full of hopes and dreams, and how a violent death, coming from those closest to you, extinguished your light forever.

Ignoring all your thoughts, you shook your head and looked at Sihtric, who covered your hand with his calloused one and pressed his lips to your palm, feeling the coldness of your skin against his. It was a small gesture of affection that set a heart beating that you had forgotten you had, for it beat only with sorrow and grief.

"You claimed the souls of my father and half-brother today," it was Sihtric's turn to break the silence, wrapping his strong arms around your slender waist and pulling you close. Even though you were a ghost, you looked so real in his eyes and he was content to touch you and cradle your form.

"The doors of the Other World have indeed been opened to them," you replied, almost lost in his touch, "but for them there is another path to take, one filled with eternal pain and damnation."

The sight of his body tensing at your words saddened you, so you spoke quickly to reassure him, "Your mother and father have taken different paths in the afterlife. They will never meet again.” 

Sihtric felt another burden lifted from his shoulders, and his body suddenly became light: he was glad to see that his dear mother's soul was enveloped in the eternal light of beatification, while his father was probably rotting in the depths of Niflheim, surrounded by cold and darkness, for he died without a weapon in his hands. But even if he had gripped his sword tightly with his last breath, Sihtric did not believe that Odin would open the gates of Valhalla for him.

“Thank you,” the Dane whispered softly, giving you the first sincere smile you’ve ever seen while watching him growing up. His bicolored eyes shone with a renewed life, tasting that freedom he thought he could never have in his life. 

But a new realisation hit him hard, and the light in his eyes was replaced by a look of suffering: your duties were done, and you would return to the veil that separates the living from the dead, and watch over him silently but without concealment. He was not ready to say goodbye to you, not after he had found a person who would treat you with kindness and make his heart beat faster, it mattered not if that person was a creature from the afterlife or not.

“Do not go, please,” Sihtric pleaded in a feeble voice, his jaw clenching as well as the grip he had on you, afraid that you might vanish at any moment. He moved your body close to his own, resting his warm forehead on your cold one.

“I have to, Sihtric,” you explained quietly, though you felt your eyes burning and your scarlet tears about to escape. “I am bound to the spirit world, preparing families for their upcoming deaths. You are a young warrior, with life burning inside you.”

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth his living body is giving to you, a warmth you used to radiate as well. And when you felt a rivulet of blood escaping from your eyes, Sihtric’s arms were quickly cupping your cheeks, wiping them with his tattooed fingers. 

"One day, when the doors of the Other World open again and the veil between our worlds forms its rift, they will give me the call to take you, and only there will you be mine forever," you added, the words slipping easily from your tongue as you lifted your gaze and locked it in his eyes. You have never had anyone look at you with love in their eyes, not even in your previous mortal life. Sihtric was sent to you to show you that a damned spirit like you could be loved and deserve to be loved. But he was the right person at the wrong time. 

“Promise you will live and wait for me until your hour will come.”

Sihtric took his time to calm down, closing his eyes and breathing slowly to calm the tears that were about to fall and to suppress the pain inside him. He thought he had found the right person to spend the rest of his life with, to take you as his wife and build a family with you. But he had to face the cold truth that you were not a living being and that you would soon have to leave his side.

The Dane opened his watery eyes again and looked at you with burning desire as he gently lifted your head with his hands. "I promise I will wait for you, my love," he swore, clutching his Thor's hammer with one hand, "and when that day comes and death takes him, I will be ready to go. And there I will be yours forever."

You both raised your faces to each other like a magnet drawing you close, sealing your eternal promise with a kiss that poured out all the love you both had carved out of each other, but that your time had not yet allowed. And when you reluctantly broke the kiss, you slowly turned and walked towards the small lake, your body disappearing into a cloud of mist that slowly dissipated into the air, the sound of a bird flapping its wings in the distance. Sihtric watched your disappearance with pain in his heart and watched over the lake until morning, when he returned to Dunholm to be reunited with Uhtred and the others.

Over the years, Sihtric had kept his promise and lived a true warrior's life, the once shy boy growing into a skilled warrior and confident man. He became one of Uhtred's most trusted allies and closest friends, and together with Finan and Osferth they wandered the borders of Mercia and Wessex, the Danelaw and East Anglia, eventually reclaiming Bebbanburg for Uhtred, who reclaimed his birthright and became its lord.

Feeling that you were always watching over him, you only appeared sporadically to bring him and his band of friends bad news: it was your job to inform him of the impending deaths of Gisela and Thyra while he was at Coccham, to warn him of Father Beocca's death before their first attempt on Bebbanburg fortress, and to claim Osferth's soul at Rumcofa. Uhtred was next, succumbing after a long and arduous battle, followed soon after by Finan, too old to even stand properly on his feet.

You were at his side, emptying his heart of grief as his mouth claimed yours in fleeting kisses before you went back to hide in the veil. You watched Sihtric grow old over the years, loving every single wrinkle on his face and every white hair that appeared over the years, while to him you were always the same young woman he fell in love with when he was a young and inexperienced lad.

And when he grew old and grey, surrounded by nothing but the walls of Dunholm, of which he had become lord, he felt the doors of the Other World open and a bird flap its wings, followed by the sound of a gash. With dying eyes and a tired smile, he watched you keep your own promise and claim his soul as he breathed his last, and feeling his body rejuvenated by the effects of eternal life, he took you by the hand as you reached the gates of the Other World, and with a long, desperate kiss, you sealed your eternal life together, and your souls at last lived and rested in peace.

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.

Sihtric Kjartansson Taglist: @whitedarkmoonflower @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @foxyanon @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

@alexagirlie @sylasthegrim @lord-aldhelm @sihtricsafin @arcielee

@volklana @gemini-mama @ladyinred2248

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

He Canceled Hot Girl Summer 🔥

18+mdni series master list

The night before Aries season…|

You paced back and forth in the hospital room, trying to walk through the discomfort of early labor. Your mom and dad had traveled to see you and be with you during the birth of your son. Your dad, being the man that he was, couldn't stand seeing his baby girl in pain and went to harass the nurses to do something about it (despite your mom saying it was all in God's hands).

You sit down on the bed and groan in frustration. You start crazy laughing. It was only five hours in, and Omari was taking his sweet time. “He's such a drama queen.” You huff, “Of course, his little ass is doing things on his terms, like I'm not sitting here hungry for more than ice.”

Your mom just laughs and shakes her head, “It's the only time he's ever gonna be able to tell you to wait, and you gotta.”

“But if I let him call the shots now, he'll expect to keep calling the shots.” You grumble and rub your back.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah mom?” You look at her, and your breath hitches at another contraction.

“How are you feeling? I know the last few months you and Ricky haven't been the best.” She says.

She's not really asking how you are right now physically, she's got four kids, she knows. You roll your eyes and look up at the ceiling in thought, “Dad is just being Dad, I don't even care for real.”

“You know he just didn't want this for you, neither of us did.”

“Yeah, but my baby is almost here, and Dad, I suppose, is deciding to pay my rent for the year instead of apologizing to me for what he said.” Your voice wavers slightly at the memory of what was supposed to be the happiest moment of your pregnancy. Telling your parents they were going to be grandparents.

“He's here now, and he wants to make it up to you. Ya know he never stopped, during that six month stretch, never did he stopped asking about you and the baby.” She moves to sit next to you and holds your hand. “Pray on it and forgive him.”

Your eyes close, and you chuckle sadly, “Prayer doesn't fix other people's shitty actions.”

Your mom opens her mouth and closes it multiple times. She's trying to say something, anything profound to smooth over an already tense relationship. Rehabilitate, like most mothers do when their family has been smashed on the rocks.

You hope that Omari doesn't ever have to pray for the strength to forgive you. You'd rather eat hot nails than ever guilt trip him for your actions. You think briefly that having your father here instead of his father may be his villain origin story. So maybe it's already in motion. Who knows?

Another contraction takes hold of you, and you pray for a healthy baby that will never need to be told to pray.

Chapter 4: The thing about video calls…is that you can hang up. 📱

It's been two weeks of Johnny inserting himself into Omari's life and, by extension, your life, too. On days that you don't work from home, he's at your apartment and helping you by getting Omari ready. You can always hear him speaking that strange language to him, and when you asked Johnny what it was, he told you with a sly smile.

“Gaelic chuilein.” He then went back to softly speaking to Omari as if you're not even there.

And you thought Aaliyah spoiled Omari? (Despite her telling you to send him to glory in the beginning, she comes over, and when she does, her first greeting is “Where's Big Mari? Aunty has a gift for him.” And then she produces another pair of baby Jordans that he will grow out of.) Johnny goes absolutely wild with daddy duties. The man doesn't even like the idea of his mini me being even slightly uncomfortable or upset. He bought a towel warmer just so Omari wouldn't have to leave a warm bath and use a cold towel. He didn't like that Omari's nursery had street facing windows (and the only reason his nursery faced the street is because you and him would people watch on Sunday morning) and while he fussed and complained, he got privacy film so his baby and his woman could see out but people couldn't see in.

He applied that film to all of the windows.

And then he bought you a ring camera doorbell for his peace of mind.

You've heard him on the phone with his mom or one of his three sisters. All of them sounded cheerful about Omari, asking to see his chubby little face and cooing about his features and how he looks like some man named Johnathan (who you correctly assume is his father). His mother, a sweet woman with bright blue eyes and a warm smile, speaks to you each and every time she's on the phone. She'd asked about your diet, admonished you about not eating enough, and then promptly began scolding Johnny about the importance of making sure you ate enough. She explained that a breastfeeding mother needed to eat hearty and healthy and that she was sending him a list of foods for him to get and cook. The whole time, Johnny sat there nodding his head, cheeks flushed pink, and a little bit embarrassed.

You give him credit though, you thought he'd give you bland British Food, but he was making family recipes, and they were surprisingly good.

That's when he asked if he should know your parents. Which led to you calling them up on Skype one Saturday afternoon and your mom answering with a smile.

“Sweetie!” She smiles, “And how are you doing? Are you still having trouble with your depression?” She's asking before you can even shake your head no and switch the subject. “And did you speak with your therapist and psych about getting on new meds?”

Johnny is in the kitchen, Omari strapped to his chest (once again, that baby doesn't sit on his own ass…ever) and he's looking at you with concern. His blue eyes are unreadable, but you spy the clench in his jaw as he quietly listens along. He's warming up a bottle on the stove since Omari is more demanding for being fed more often, and your nipples are too sore to handle his little gummy gnawing. It's clear from the looks he keeps giving you that a conversation will be had.

“Nah, mom. I haven't seen them in the past three weeks since work picked up and stuff.” You lean back on the sofa and situate the laptop on the coffee table.

Your mom frowns and opens her mouth, but then she stops when she hears Omari start crying offscreen. “Where's the baby? Is Autumn with you? Tell that boy that he needs to call more.”

“No, Autumn isn't here…” You take a deep breath, “Omari's father John is here.”

She stares for a moment, “now don't you going pullin' my leg.”

“No really, he is. It's a long and interesting story, but we, and really I mean Aaliyah, found him by accident, and he wants in.” You try to sum it all up neatly, and the way you purse your lips, clearly say you won't be explaining much more.

“Ricky!” Your mom gets up and calls for your father, “Richard Knights!” She's walking offscreen, and you can hear the familiar squeak of the screen door and the distant sound of the lawnmower.

Johnny comes over and sits down. He's got Omari eating. He's a bit tense, and you understand him, meeting Davina over FaceTime was stressful. The woman wasn't the same as happy and go-lucky as Johnny or his other two sisters Fiona and Blair. You chalk it up to her being the eldest daughter as she acts similarly to Aaliyah.

“How does mah hair look?” His free hand messes with the front of his hair. The bottle is leaning against his chest.

“Johnny, you're holding your son, and you are about to meet my father and mother, and you wanna worry about hair?” You smack his hand away and fix it right for him. He leans into your touch and smiles at you. That smile makes your stomach flip, and he knows that it does because the smile becomes a bit devilish.

“Chuilein,” He whispers, his eyes are half lidded, “You smell nice.”

“I smell like milk.” You playfully push him away.

“You smell like a mother, and I'm trying to hold myself back from making Irish twins with you.”

“John really?” You shriek. At this time, both of your parent's are sitting down, and you're praying they didn't hear him. (The angry look on your father's face says otherwise.)

“What did you call me in here for Portia?” Your father says.

“She saying that this is Omari's father.” Portia smiles, “Hi darling, I'm Portia, and this is my husband Richard, but we call him Ricky.”

“You can call me Colonel.” Your father flat out denies Johnny of any familiarity. You can only groan and roll your eyes heavenward.

“Daddy, please don't be difficult.” The sigh you let out can be no less dramatic if you try.

“Nice to meet you, sir, Sergeant John MacTavish.” Johnny sits up straighter, and you are reminded that he is indeed an army soldier. He fell into the roll so easily.

“Hn.” Ricky grunts and nods his head once, “a sergeant? Can't say I'm displeased. Better than what I initially thought only by a margin.” His arms are folded across his chest. He watches from beneath his heavy brows, and his eyes squint just slightly. “Can you say what branch, or are there a bunch of NDAs involved?”

“Daddy would you-”

“A bunch of NDAs, but I do serve in S.A.S. sir.” He answers coolly. Omari starts to whine and cry slightly, and Johnny is immediately tuning into what he wants. He whispers softly to him and asks if he's tired of eating and wants to burp. Your mom is smiling and looks moved. Your father not so much.

“Hm.” Ricky nods his head again, “At least my daughter got pregnant by a decent man. Can't wait to see and learn if you're respectable and responsible.”

“Ricky, be nice.” Portia frowns, “He's here now, and it's a prayer answered that she won't be on her own and Omari will have his father.”

“He's black ops. I know their kind.” He doesn't budge, and he looks down at your mom with a knowing look.

“Anyway-” Portia rolls her eyes, “John, are you planning to come to the States for Omari's baptism?” She smiles at him, “Unless you and my daughter have decided to not get him baptized.”

“ah'm actually a Catholic ma'am.” He sits Omari up after burping him so he can see the screen.

“There's Mimi's little fat man!” Portia squealed, “and you're Catholic? I'm not all that familiar with the Catholic faith, but I suppose a baptism is a baptism for you all, too? Does it matter the denomination?”

“Mom, I still haven't decided if I want to get Omari baptized.” You try gently reminding her. You've all had this conversation multiple times, and you really don't wanna go all the way back home for a baptism.

“You know your GiGi already started picking out fabric for his suit.” Portia sighs.

“She's sewing it? Good lord.” Ricky huffs, “That sewing machine is gonna catch on fire. It's so old.”

“Point is, Sweetie, that we gotta schedule the baptism soon. Don't want that baby coming up on six months without it.” She says.

“We aren' doin’ a baptism.” Johnny says before you even open your mouth, he's still smiling down at Omari and tickling his little toes.

“Huh?” You and your mother speak at the same time.

“Yea, me an’ mah chuilein are more focused on get'n tha family thing right.” He looks up. His eyes are bright, but his smile is more like a tight grimace. Then, without prompting, he leans over and kisses you on the cheek. “‘Sides” He continues, “wouldnae be right to baptize him if his his mum an’ da are livin’ in sin aye?”

“Wait, he's living with you?” Your Dad growls.

You quickly go right into damage control, “No he ain't. It's an expression.”

“Aaww” your mother is crying now, “he's a God-fearing man, I was so worried she'd end up with a heathen.”

“Portia please…” Ricky sighs, “not every man who has religion is God-fearing…” he's trying to console her cries and praises of ‘Won't he do it.”

Johnny is watching the two of them with a raised brow and a crooked grin. He looks at you and nudges your side. “The're quite tha characters.” He whispers to you. He's leaning close to you, the warmth of his breath on the shell of your ear. “An’ donnae think we aren' gonna talk ‘bout yur depression an’ mental health.”

You meet his serious gaze, and those blue eyes aren't as playful and sweet. Instead, they are worried and his lips in a firm line. The moment is tense, and you feel sorta like you're in trouble, but that can't be right. It can't be right because you're a grown woman and who the fuck is he? So before you can even stop yourself the words come out of your mouth.

“John,” you say, the corner of your lip raised a bit, “last time I checked, I'm grown.”

He doesn't say anything, and his grimace only tightens. He won't be backing down on this one. His best mates all have abysmal mental health, and while he's semi adjusted, he too suffers, and he knows it's no joke. Your mom breaks the tension with a wail, and you just now realize the woman has started speaking in tongues.

“Mom, what?” You say watching the woman cry and sob. Some of the words are ‘Thank you Jesus.’

Your father is rubbing her back, “we will talk later, Baby girl…seems your mom has decided to work herself into a frenzy.” He looks at Johnny and hums. “Give him my number, I'd like to chat with him one on one.” And before you can rebuff anything, the screen goes blank.

“Does she do that often?” Johnny asks, clearly confused.

“She's probably in the middle of a spiritual psychosis episode.” You say with a sigh, “also please don't call my father Colonel. He's retired. And on a second note, when you inevitably meet my eldest brother Junior, don't call him anything but Junior.”

“Yur family sounds fun.” He laughed.

“They are…but we all love each other. Also, did you mean what you said about the baptism thing?” You ask.

“Aye, ah did.” He looks back at Omari, who at this point has decided to chew on his shirt and doze. “Alla tha stuff can be handle’ later. Mah own mum an’ sisters ‘ave been hintin’ at a catholic baptism an’ already itchin’ about first communion.”

You watch as he rocks and soothes the baby to sleep. He's really different from what you remembered. He didn't seem like the party boy that drank shots off of you and had dipped his tongue into your navel while you laid on the bar top. He didn't seem like the good fuck that spit in your mouth and made you call him daddy (and boy was that a self fulfilling prophecy). Johnny didn't even seem like some army dude, though he was somewhat paranoid about the windows and the front door and balcony door, even though your place was on the second floor. Right now, he painted the pretty picture as a guy who just wanted to take care of his son, affectionately whispering to him in his mother tongue the tune of some lullaby.

Your phone is out, and you've already snapped a photo.

“Don't post it to your insta.” He says just as you opened the app.

“Why not?” You ask.

“Because…” there is hesitation in him as he looks at you, “yur da mentioned he knows mah type.”

You scoff, “He knows the military, I guess.”

“He specifically ask'd ‘f ah was an NDA soldier or a regular one.”

“Okay and? So you can't talk about your work? How's that a big deal?”

“Chuilein…we gotta talk ‘bout mah job, an’ safety, ‘an we gotta talk ‘bout how I wan’ tae keep ya both safe an’ move ya both somewhere safe.” He is tense now and watching your face for every bit of reaction. Slowly, you understand what he's referring to. Your own father was that type of secretive, never spoke about work unless it was just your mom. It only became worse after he made Colonel. It really didn't relax until he retired, and everyone changed their last names to Knights.

You groan and place your head into your hands. Not only did you fuck a army boy, you fucked a spec ops army boy.

“You have gots to be fucking with me.” You whine.

Because, of course, your baby daddy is a shady war criminal, NDA soldier.

A/N: Plot in this story? Say it ain't so. Lol, IDK how the plot showed up, but it's still comedy and a hint of drama. There won't be any kidnappings or his job coming back to physically harm the reader and Omari. Thank you all for following.

Tag list: @evergreenlake @royalty-cashinout @leahnicole1219 @gxuxhdjdu @daft-queen

[scotianostra]

December 12th 1902 saw the birth of Nan Mackinnon or, to give her her Gaelic patronymic, Nan Eachainn Fhionnlaigh, at Kentangaval, Isle Of Barra.

Nan was a tradition-bearer, whose remarkable memory, enthusiasm, and love of the Gaelic oral tradition has ensured that her wealth of knowledge has been preserved and shared with future generations. She became known as Nan of Vatersay, or Nan of the songs.

Nan was the youngest of seven children. Her father, Hector (Eachann Fhionnlaigh), was also born and raised in Kentangaval, and was descended from the MacKinnons of Strath, Skye – the historic grazing constables to the MacNeils of Barra until the 19th century. Nan's mother Mary was from Mingulay, and had strong connections with the MacPhee family, who – according to local tradition – came to settle in Barra in the 14th century. Nan grew up in what was a politically tumultuous time in the Highlands, and this influenced her early life greatly. Despite having won security of tenure twenty years before Nan was born, there remained a strong sense of injustice at the uneven distribution of land in the Highlands. Having spent her early years in Barra, in 1907 Nan's father was part of the 'Vatersay Raiders' – landless cottars from Barra and Mingulay who carried out a land raid on Vatersay, establishing crofts on the neglected land. Despite the eventual failure of the Land Raid, Nan's family were eventually given a croft in Baile, Vatersay following the purchase of land on the island by the Congested Districts Board.

Nan's repertoire was among some of the most extensive and varied of her generation, and this is reflected in the recordings of her featured on the Tobar an Dualchais website. She came from a rich musical tradition, and was said to know around 400 songs by heart, most of which she learned from her mother. After receiving her schooling on the island, Nan left home when she was seventeen and – as was common for women of her age at the time – spent a number of years in service for a variety of people in Argyll. She also worked at the herring for a time, in both Shetland and Yarmouth before going to Glasgow. One of her sisters died suddenly in 1940, leaving four young children and a husband who was away at sea for long periods. Nan returned home to Vatersay to raise the children and remained there for the rest of her life.

Nan McKinnon had a great fondness for the stories and songs she knew, and she was convinced of the importance of the oral tradition to Gaelic communities. Growing up she would spend hours practising them until she knew them in their entirety. As Nan herself commented: "[Each story] tells the ways of the people that lived in those days. The waulking songs kept news alive from generation to generation. There were no newspapers, whereas today we read it in the papers and forget about it tomorrow. But the songs kept it alive. Those happenings that happened centuries ago are still to be told in song and story. It's wonderful." Over and above her repertoire of songs, Nan was also well known for her tales and legends – often of a supernatural nature – and her captivating story style. She also had a deep knowledge of the traditions of Uist and Barra, and was recording speaking about a variety of subjects from cures to feast days, to interpretations of omens and dreams. Her knowledge of the material culture of her native island was also extensive, and her recordings include discussions about traditional diet, including about what would be eaten when food was scarce.

There are almost 1,000 recordings of Nan on the Tobar an Dualchais website, the earliest dating back to 1953 when she was recorded by Donald MacPherson for the Canna Collection, several other visited her and recorded her over the years, she must have been quite the wee celebrity on Vatersay

James Ross summed up her significance as a tradition-bearer by saying: "Nan is the type of person that the folklore and folk-song collectors dream about. There is absolutely no trace of 'memory effect' as she responds to queries … Her answers are always a direct affirmative or negative, usually … the former. She never has to search her mind, and this, together with her unstinting co-operation, endless patience and subtle sense of humour, made the work of collecting a joy."

At the link below you can listen to Nan singing Griogal Cridhe, (literally "Gregor of the Heart", or "Beloved Gregor". It is a traditional Scottish lament and lullaby that was composed in Gaelic by Mór Chaimbeul ("Marion Campbell"), the widow of Griogair Ruadh Mac Griogair ("Gregor the Red MacGregor") (1541–1570), the chief of the Clan MacGregor of Glen Strae, who was executed at Taymouth Castle, Perthshire, on April 7th, 1570. There are many versions of the lyrics

Griogal Cridhe

Chorus;

Òbhan, òbhan, òbhan i ri

Òbhan i ri ò

Òbhan, òbhan, òbhan i ri

'S mòr, mo mhulad, 's mòr.

'S iomadh oidhche fhliuch is thioram,

Sìde nan seachd sian,

Gheibheadh Griogal dhomhsa creagan

Ris an gabhainn dìon.

Eudail mhòir, a shluagh an Domhain,

Dhòirt iad t'fhuil o'n dè,

'S chuir iad do cheann air stob daraich

Tacan beag bho d'chrè.

B' annsa bhi le Griogal cridhe

Teàrnadh chruidh le gleann,

Na le Baran mòr na Dalach,

Sìoda geal mu m' cheann.

Chan eil ùbhlan idir agam,

'S ùbhlan uil' aig càch,

'S ann tha m'ùbhlan-s' cùbhr' ri caineal

'S cùl a chinn ri làr.

'Nuair a bhios mnàthan òg a'bhaile,

'Nochd nan cadal sèimh,

'S ann bhios mis' air bruaich do lice,

'Bualadh mo dhà làimh.

Many a night, wet or dry

weather of the seven elements

Gregor would get me a rocky shelter

Against the storm

Greatest treasure in all the world

They spilt your blood yesterday

And they put your head on a post of oak

A little way from your body

Would that I were with beloved Gregor

Herding cattle in the glen

Than with the great Baron of the Dale

White silk around my head

I have no apples at all

Others have all the apples

My apple with the fragrance of cinnamon

The back of his head to the ground

When the young women of the village will be

Tonight sleeping soundly

I will be at your graveside

Beating my two hands

With the above being a lament I thought I would post another song from Nan, Haoi Ho Nach Dannsadh Sibh E is a much more upbeat song, according to the notes Nan’s mother heard this song from Lewis women at the fishing. Another source tells me that this is the only variant of that song, so without t the work of the likes of Donald MacPherson, and indeed Margaret Fay Shaw, some of these songs would have been lost to the world, they are an integral, very important part of our Gaelic roots. This song is a light vocal dance tune with a love theme. The song is of the type common among the women who worked as herring gutters.

https://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/track/108438?l=en

[cactusisconfused]

Some COD headcanons of mine.

Ghost:

Mans is a crow, will pick up shiny little rocks or trinkets he finds amusing on his excursions, be it in base or on a mission. He gives those findings to soap when they get together.

Ghost loves languages and is surprisingly fluent in a good solid few. He makes sure to learn Scottish Gaelic just for Soap despite the fact that he will always act like he doesn’t understand a single word soap is saying. The only exception to the rule is when ghost proposed to soap and did it entirely in Gaelic. Soap cried (out of love).

Ghost does not have a green thumb, far from it, but he has one little succulent that he’s kept alive since after Roba. (He made a little paper hat for it to wear and when soap finds out about this he gets so excited.)

When Soap and Ghost were in the early stages of dating, Ghost would have to put a pillow between the two because he couldn’t have soap touching him as memories refused to stay away. They ended up compromising and holding hands on the barrier pillow. That was the best sleep Ghost got in a long time.

Ghost and Gaz gossip, all the time. Some rookie did something? They’re both whispering to each other like no tomorrow. Some superior did something stupid and is most definitely gonna get their ass handed to them? They’re talking all about it.

This man can gives the softest but firmest hugs known to man, the kind that feel like they’re gonna break your back.

On his fridge in his flat is a drawing that’s a bit singed around the edges and it’s of stick figures representing a family. Joesph, his nephew, did that drawing, it’s one of the few things ghost has left of his family. Soap finds it incredibly endearing. Price also knows about the drawing and smiles whenever he thinks about- he always knew Simon never died.

Autistic, no further questions

Idk I have a lot of ideas in my head but don’t feel like writing a whole fic. I’m gonna make more of these. :)

[sharpedgedfool]

Here's Blaze! Her name is is Iris Flare, I started giving them just generalised names in English as I started incorporating more than Scottish folklore into these guys so it didn't make sense to have them all named in Gaelic, the Seasons travel constantly all over the world as they come and go with their seasons so I thought I'd be fun to assign different cultures to each of them!

Some more extensive lore under the cut!

Summer is the second most targeted Seasonal Spirit, but unlike Winter who is largely hated, Summer is regarded as a loved season and those challenging her often want to overthrow her place with malicious reasons, she has no gripe about fighting back but can often leave damage in her wake due to the nature of her flames. She does not see as much war as Winter but she fights just as fiercely. Summer is often compared to Winter but is adamant she does not agree with the ill-manner most refer to Winter with. They've never met but she is not disillusioned by the endless praise she receives against criticism against him. She firmly believes that all seasons are just as equal and should not be given favour over another. She hears about Winter mostly from the birds who migrate between their seasons, and she knows that if Winter was so bad then no bird would make the journey there willingly to avoid her own.

In contrast she is close to the other two seasons Spring and Autumn. She is the second youngest of the four, the order being Winter, Spring, Summer then Autumn. Her and Autumn are particularly close as she helped guide him through his first season when he was largely unprepared for it. Her and the other seasons took up the mantle willingly with an expectation on what their duty was. Iris used to be a mortal Royal who stepped up to inherit the responsibility when a rival kingdom set out to slay the previous Season, her family were historically friends of the Fae so she was asked for specifically and knew what she was getting into and did - and still does - take the responsibility very seriously. She doesn't often engage in festivities without request, but enjoys talking with every being of life regardless of status within a court (or outside one even).

Her flames are an indicator of her emotional state, they sometimes change colour and the temperature can range, so mostly she tries to keep calm and dim her flames especially around dry times in the season, her Sari is woven to be flame-resistant and prevents any accidental burns so she doesn't often take it off. Her jewellery are a close replica of the ones she wore as a mortal, it has been eons since so she pays tribute to the memories even as they grow faint. Ironically she mostly enjoys the rain when she can let her flames burn as bright as she likes. She enjoys flying as high as she can, where the only thing that can catch fire is herself, and the chill allows her to push her fire beyond what she could do safely on the ground.

[veltroxx]

Did the man know the video would be broadcast to the world? Did he realize that his interaction in front of the drone’s lens would be seen by an entire nation? Absolutely not. Certainly not. Without a doubt, no.

When the protagonist of Thorns and Carnations threw his weapon at the invincible aircraft, it wasn’t to be admired or to set an example. Bloodied and standing to his last breath, he was challenging his enemy with honor, not seeking to create a heroic image. He wasn’t bound by the fear of defeat or driven to make his final act one of indomitable bravery.

He was simply a true leader, confronting his enemy with nothing but courage. All he wanted was to deny his foe the satisfaction of a victory where brute force triumphs over the sword in the final act. His only goal was to leave his enemy — and his enemy alone — with a look of defiance that would echo in their memory forever.

In that moment, the man didn’t see us. He didn’t care to be seen by us. He saw only his enemy, focused solely on challenging them with his final breath.

But fate had other plans. Fate turned his final stand into an immortal memory, witnessed by the world — a testament to his bravery, heroism, and sacrifice, and to his enemy’s arrogance and incompetence. Free palestine and fuck Israel.

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