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in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather · 3 years ago

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[ubi amor, ibi dolor] part 3

Part 1 - Part 2

Chapter summary: Jacques haunts the castle like a ghost and fights in the tourney. To no one’s surprise, he turns everything to his favor yet again.

CW: strong language – and I do mean strong at times, A Knight’s Tale vibes, everyone’s a shithead as they’ve always been in this story, some of that sweet medieval misogyny, promiscuity, bickering galore, descriptions of jousting and some injuries, but nothing too graphic

Word count: ~6.3k

Morning, or more likely midday, rolled around, casting bright rays across the floor of your chamber, creeping up the walls and setting the room aglow. With your eyes hidden in the crook of your arm, you stirred, looking for a comfortable position in which you may doze off some more. The distant awareness that last night’s drinking did not resurrect as an evil hangover bloomed and you took a deep satisfied breath. Guiscard sensed you move and rolled over with a grunt, the effort of heaving his massive body groaning out of him. All could have been wonderful had your nuisance of a brother not swung your door open and let himself in.

“Guiscard,” he called loudly, making sure to wake the man up. “Just the man I’m looking for. The bishop has been looking for you since last night. Crusade business, I gather. You should get dressed and find him, he’s being a nuisance.”

Guiscard groaned again in acquiescing tones and threw the sheets off himself, slouching around the chamber like a shaven beast, gathering his clothes and struggling to put his boots on the right foot as last night’s drunkenness still blurred his vision.

Your brother pulled the sheets back down and you felt the disturbance in the mattress as he flopped on his belly, face cradled in his hands, legs swinging in the air.

You sighed, wishing he would leave, but his gaze was amused and insistent, you could feel it tickling and irritating across your skin. “What?” you threw your arm down, uncovering your face, and turned to him.

He relished the moment, studying your anger, deliberating on his words. “You and this Le Gris character. Something is going on there; something very terrible and very fun.”

You fixed him with a murderous stare, long enough to blink a few times and for his grin to grow more and more insufferable. “I haven’t mentioned the man once. You, on the other hand… Perhaps you should examine your own feelings about him.”

“Feelings, you say?” he repeated victoriously and scooched closer, lining his body with yours and propping up his head on his hand to look down over you. So close, so slappable. “I thought it must be something along those lines. What I was hoping for was just some fun at your expense; bring this man who seems to have insulted you, show him around and get a delightful little outburst out of you. Some glasses breaking, some harsh words cutting – your usual. I expected he would be sent back to Exmes tumbling on his ear by morning, and yet… You were so oddly calm,” he stopped to consider a moment and you dared hope he would shut up, but he went on. “Naturally, I presumed you were just spoiling my fun, but the more attention you drew to Guiscard and your flirting, the more you ignored this walking insult was even there… I think I finally understood. You’re trying to protect him. Or yourself. I’m right, aren’t I?” he concluded and looked down again, hungry for a victory. He was long past caring who you brought into your bed and whom you did or didn’t have feelings for. His fun lay in figuring out secrets and playing with people like others play with cats, their anguish no more than a colorful ribbon he twirled in their face.

You closed your fist around a cushion, arm flying in an arc, straight at his face and he chuckled, tumbling out of bed and straightening himself out as he walked to the door.

“If this man has stolen my sister’s heart…. How wonderful,” he said warmly, a romantic sort of look in his eyes. You clenched your jaw; he did not care one bit about your happiness or misery. “That is much better ammunition.”

The day before the tourney flew by in making some final preparations, and it did not help your timekeeping that you had slept through half of it already. The next morning, your brother insisted you rise early and go to confession before the day once again got swallowed up in the tumult of the tourney. Your father liked the idea too much and you couldn’t refuse, so you covered yourself up suitably and went to the castle’s chapel. If your brother thought you were having any repentant thoughts regarding Guiscard, it only showed how little he knew of women and, indeed, the world.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” you said half-heartedly, arranging your necklace on your chest and smoothing your dress down. You would quickly run down your list of offenses, sit through the old man’s set of platitudes, and then do your penitence – if you find time – at whatever the going rate was for fornication and otherwise having fun.

“Well… Haven’t we all?” the man said, a hood obscuring his face, a forgiving sort of humor in his voice.

You frowned; that was not your confessor’s voice. Your servants were far enough away so as not to be able to eavesdrop and a quick bolt of panic shot through you. Then you remembered that if anyone wanted to do you harm, they wouldn’t wait until you fussed and preened and then give you warning by announcing themselves. “Who are you?” you demanded in your usual imperious tone, sharpened now by fright.

“Why, it is I, Helen of Troy,” he said, pulling down the white hood and revealing a face that could drive Christ himself to misanthropy.

“I should have known,” you muttered, getting up to your feet. “Did my obnoxious brother put you up to this?”

“Your benevolent brother did suggest we might converse, if that’s what you mean. And being the resourceful fellow he is, he went so far as to proffer a place where we would not be disturbed,” Jacques showed almost all his teeth in a grin and dashed in front of you as you made to leave.

He threw himself against the door and you ignored this, reaching for the handle anyway. One scream and he would be arrested, and you both knew you this. Still, he dared to close his arms around you, swinging and twisting your body until your back was pressed up to the door and he was barricading any escape route.

“Wait, please,” he asked with feigned contrition, enjoying that you had no choice but to stay, caught. “You still have not confessed to me.”

“Confessed what?”

He pursed his lips in thought, eyes cast up at the ceiling, as if that would distract from his heavy body curling in, tracing the curves of yours. “To start, what I’ve done to offend you?”

Your eyebrows shot up despite a resolution not to let him affect you. “Shall I quote from your letter directly, or enumerate chronologically?”

One end of his moustache quirked up and he pulled it down. “I’m flattered you read it enough times to remember it by heart.”

“Don’t be. I only read it once,” you lied, “but the mortification for your lack of sense was so powerful that it haunts the reader.”

He could not have hoped for a better reaction. Hips swiveling subtly from to side, they felt up against your dress and found your pelvis, pressing you more firmly into the door. Jacques felt the clench of your thighs as you readjusted, finding balance again and trying to will away that demanding heat that pooled right where he was pressing, exactly as he knew it would, spurred by memories of countless encounters that started with such teasing.

“Are you really so hypocritical to hold against me what you do yourself?” he was emboldened by this miniscule gesture he could read so expertly, and lowered his lips close to your ear so his breath teased the sensitive flesh of your neck as he spoke. “I’d bet if I undressed you now, I’d find the imprint of my opponent still pressed into your flesh.”

You took a decisive breath, chest pushing his away as you did and titled your head to look at him. “Two things. To have an opponent, you need to be in the running,” you explained, but Jacques was undeterred by this. He would not be who he is, nor where he is, if he just listened to people when they looked down on him. “And second, I have great amounts of fun in my life, as I’m sure you do too. I may even say I had a good time at Pierre’s. But you seem to think we are headed towards some sort of romantic entanglement, and that is where we diverge, Lord Fly,” you smirked at the name and observed how his face remained trained and stony, but that impish fire in his eyes grew dimmer. He could pretend, but he could not hide. “That is no way to court me and I would not take a lover who counts me one of many.” You finished and glared with your chin raised, waiting for him to finally understand. Your reasons were true enough and he should never know how it cracked your heart in two to watch him with another woman, regardless of how little he cared for her. The worst thing a lover can see – the object of their desire entangled with someone else. Nothing left to the imagination; from the first touch to the moment of ecstasy, playing out before you, like a nightmare.

Clever as the devil, he seemed to intuit at least some of your secret meaning, face growing soft and achingly sad. “Well, Lady Eagle…” he heaved a sigh and you felt it wrack his chest. “Then you should tell me to leave. If you say so, I won’t stay to fight in the tourney at all.”

Ah. Right. The tourney. The small matter of honor, fame, and prizes. “Yes, you will,” you rolled your eyes. To ask him to leave was tantamount to admitting you couldn’t deal with him sticking around; that he was right to pursue you as you were, in fact, winnable.

“I will,” he admitted easily, aware of how you sidestepped his little trap. “But I wondered if you had the cheek to lie to me and send me away. Is your pride so strong that you would rather see us both suffer when you could make us happy?”

You stopped and stole a long moment, looking at him, feeling the warmth and press of his body. When would he ever be this close again? Never, if you could help it. You would curse yourself if you didn’t enjoy the little of him you could afford.

You rolled your hips against him, nerves alighting like a bonfire, slit clenching, toes curling. Ready a moment’s notice, you could feel him though all the layers between you. You huffed a small laugh, eyes trailing down, between you, where your bodies writhed and battled. He followed them with his, looking pleased with himself.

“Maybe it’s best if you do go. I haven’t found anything you have that I haven’t had before,” you frowned, faux pondering and fought against your lips twitching into a smile.

Suddenly, Jacques swooped in closer, so near it was disorienting. Eyes intent on your lips, he demanded them; almost taking them, inclining his head one way, lips so close you tasted their heat, then the other, the hair on his chin brushing your skin. You stilled, like any movement would send him running away, like you couldn’t bear to disturb the intimacy of it all.

Just as suddenly, he pulled all the way back, taking his dizzying heat with him, weight shifting to one foot as he mused. “Oh, I think you found it just fine.”

You sat on two cushions lining your seat, already there for a half hour before the knights finally rode out. Guiscard had been unsure whether he would be staying long enough to see and fight in the tourney, but after he noticed Le Gris sniffing around, he decided to at least put in one day of showing off his prowess. He rode on his warhorse, tall and enormous, black coat shiny in the late morning sun. For the occasion of riding out and opening the tournament, he chose his flashiest armor, without a stain, scratch or chink, shimmering with gold ornaments. The more functional one he wore in his battles in the Crusades waited in his tent, to be put on between this public showing and his first match, later in the afternoon. He was greeted by cheers and adulation, and he rode ostentatiously to the place where you sat to the left of your father, your brother and his wife on his right. He bowed to everyone present and produced a marvelous red rose from behind his shield, extending it to you. You took it and placed in your lap, letting him pass by.

Other knights, most of whom you knew, and other miscellaneous fighters rode in a procession, Le Gris among them. Several at a time stopped and greeted the Duke and his family.

Something had told Jacques that the best thing he do could at present was to ignore the young duchess. Every last rider would be vying for her attention and the surest way to get it was to snub it entirely. Another, stupider, man rode next to him in opulent armor and eagerly stared at Jacques’ cold-hearted love, blissfully unaware that if she ever were to give him her attention, he would die from it.

“She draws the eye, doesn’t she?” he asked the man casually.

“Of course,” the fool sighed. “She’s all I see.”

“The only things nature doesn’t bother to conceal are creatures that could kill you. Poisonous fruits and flowers, colorful toads, beautiful women. If it draws the eye, it kills. Keep that in mind,” he warned, half-mocking, half-pity for the guileless wretch.

“Why don’t you do the same then?” the fool frowned, confused and angry in the midst of his own consuming stupidity.

“I’m willing to die to have her.”

The first day of the tourney went as predicted. The knights who were predicted to win did so, and were showered with adoration. Several injuries, only a handful severe. One blinding. One death, but he died during the night, so the passing did not mar the day itself. Jacques won all of his matches; one young knight, half his age and a quarter of his size wisely forfeited. He splintered two lances on another opponent and dropped his lance the final time he rode down the lists. Pierre leaned in to explain that Jacques did not like to hurt people needlessly, especially in a situation like this, where the man’s pride would have been wounded if he had not ridden. There would be no glory in shattering a lance on his head and leaving him to die within a year or two from the effects of that injury. By dropping his lance, he forced the other knight to act with chivalry and not raise his own against Jacques. He still carried the victory, but the older man was spared what might have been serious harm by the look of him at the end. The only knight Jacques injured was Guiscard’s cousin, flying his colors proudly, and sending Jacques into a furious charge. Though he was eventually decisively unhorsed, only his shoulder was injured and his wife would have to forego the pleasure of being picked up and tossed on the bed for a few weeks.

The evening was less eventful than the several preceding it. Fighters needed their rest for the upcoming matches, the injured needed recovery, and the revelers needed a night off to soothe chafed shafts and holes.

Your brother sat with a small coterie of adoring ass kissers, with Alençon a fresh addition. The blond drunk amused the group by retelling stories from the lists, the blunders, flubs, the loosened bowels and embarrassing proclamations grown men made as their bones were set. The men were crying with laughter by the end, clapping him on the knees and shoulders, filling their bellies with wine. In a different corner, you sat with some ladies and acquaintances, one half of the group disgusted by the talk reaching you from the male side of the room, the other excited by it and wishing they could join in.

You had had enough and decided to retire to bed. No one was interesting enough to take with you, so you said goodnight and let the drunken men give you their clumsy respects. Alençon stood to bow and took your hand to kiss it, thanking you for your hospitality, the tourney and for gracing the event with your inspiring beauty, or some rubbish to that effect. As soon as he took your hand, it was clear to you these were half-truths at best, as his intention was something else entirely. He fumbled his inebriated fingers inside your hand, trying to slip you a small piece of paper unbeknownst to others. You snatched it and hid it in your sleeve before anyone, including Pierre, was aware of any movement.

It was no surprise to find the note was written by Jacques, asking you most humbly to meet him in the chapel before your retire to bed. You almost marveled at his determination, to keep chasing after you and to stay concealed in the castle, potentially until morning if you had decided to stay up until then.

“I will thank you not to write to me anymore, Lord Fly. Your note was very inopportune, keeping me from my bed, while your letter was as despicable and brazen as I have recognized you to be,” you ordered as you crossed the stone floor that led to the altar, each step sounding loud in the quiet of the night.

“Thank you,” Jacques cut in, crossing himself, and stood up.

You shook your head, deflating in the face of his boldness. “You have no shame at all.”

“Not when my soul is burning for something.”

The words cut you off at the knees. He saw. He smirked.

“I assume you invited me here to say someth—”

“I will win this tourney for you,” he assured eagerly. “It will show you ferociously I am willing to fight for you and—“

“You won’t,” you interrupted, gentle and sure, as if it were fact. The soft tone, more than the interruption, made him stop.

“If you want to prove how you will protect me, fight my enemies for me…”

“Yes?” he advanced, salivating like a hound, trembling to gnaw someone for you.

“Then fight my enemies inside you, because that is where all of them are. Your lust, your ambition, your pride. Abandon them. Lose.”

“Lose?” he sounded the word out slowly, outraged and disgusted.

“Lose for me. Do penance. Humble yourself. And I might consider there is something worthwhile in you.”

“What?” he twisted his face, unable to wrap his mind around stupidity of this magnitude, hands resting on his hips in irritation.

“Admit you are a low creature, full of sin and flaws, and prostate yourself before me,” you barely kept an evil smile off your face as he writhed furiously before you.”Then we may have a chance at knowing one another.”

“Losing goes against my every impulse, everything I’ve ever done in life,” he said in a low tone, leaning in close, like he was admitting a well-guarded secret.

“Exactly,” you confirmed, wondering how he could be missing your entire point.

Jacques fumed, imagining inflicting every kind of punishment on you, from the bedchamber to the breaking wheel. “Do me a favor. Read my letter again. Only the first half,” he added bitterly, pulling his cloak closer around him and stomping past you and away, muttering about serpents and evil bloodsuckers.

After the previous day, all of Jacques’ opponents were on alert. The cowards were afraid for their safety, plucking up all their nerve and strength as they charged at him down the lines, while the braggarts worried for their reputations and sharpened their resolve to attack him with every speck of strength and cunning they had. He would have been fucked even if he hadn’t been set on losing.

Pierre knew his darling Jacques was set up for immeasurable pain and humiliation today and he could not be separated from a wine goblet. Jacques had paced in circles for an hour last night, ranting and fuming about his tormentor’s audacity to ask this from him. Pierre had done what he could to dissuade him from the idea, suggesting they should leave and forget all about her. That was a mistake, he knew as soon as he said it, as it seemed to make Jacques mind up. Having slurped down about a flagon in his chamber already in the morning and several more cups in the stands, Pierre’s tongue lolled and ran far ahead of his sluggish brain, too slippery to be caught. He could not be stopped from speaking and doing his best to make sure the villainous duchess felt some of the harrowing fear and injury Jacques was braving.

“Have you ever jousted, my lady?” he asked ironically as lively chatter burbled all around you. Everyone was pitching in their mostly uneducated opinions on who seemed like the likely winner of every match.

You only laughed and your friend replied, outraged. “Of course not!”

“Then you might benefit from some education,” he pointed out, getting to his unsteady feet and lumbering over two ladies to squeeze into a chair next to you.

“Go ahead, Alençon, I’m all ears,” you said placidly, looking away from him and directing your attention to the two knights mounting their horses and securing their lances in place.

“Well, for starters, lances measure twelve to eighteen feet, depending on the rider and their skill,” he started and someone immediately cut in, saying they would rather have a big one with less skill than a little one and all the skill in the world. Though he would usually be charmed and engage with the bawdy comments, Pierre was visibly annoyed and carried on as if he hadn’t heard. “They weigh about thirty pounds, often more. The points are steel, razor sharp, although in some tourneys they blunt them. Not here, I heard. See that rounded part? That’s a vamplate, to guard the grip. Some of those have been known to break wrists or fingers nonetheless,” he seemed to revel in the damage that can occur to the rider and, bit by bit, the cheer was sucked out of the spectators and they fell silent. “They hold the lance in a fewter until it’s time to charge, no need to exert themselves additionally. The armor is heavy enough to feel like punishment, 50 pounds at least. Ah, see how he couches the lance under his arm? The marshall will wave the flag any moment, he’s ready. It braces against his chest and the saddle, pointed at his adversary. He’s likely wielding around a hundred pounds, his helmet only permitting a narrow view, and he sends that gear and an enormous warhorse hurtling inexorably towards a similar projectile, looking to knock him off the horse. Knock him off, I should say, in the best case. Some people hold grudges, some hold anger they can’t explain. They might aim for the weak spots in armor, piercing a shoulder, knocking off a helmet and taking an eye out with it… stabbing right through the throat and leaving the knight to drown in his own blood…”

Your gut twisted as the two knights thundered towards the middle, lances pointed, and you felt cold sweat dew on your skin, hoping no one gets injured. Both lances met their targets, one breaking and sliding off and the other splintering. The match was ultimately decided by the way each lance had broken, and the two men left mostly unscathed, while Pierre provided more blood-curdling commentary on exactly what can go wrong.

By now it was too late to reach Jacques and you could only hope your request did not end in catastrophe.

The previous day, Jacques was dismayed not to be matched with Guiscard because he burned to see him under his horse’s hoofs. This day, he was grateful for it because he doubted he could keep his word and willingly lose if given the opportunity to joust the man who had everything he wanted in life.

As he prepared, Pierre fell silent, only sparing you a glance, full of accusation and venom. He could not even delight in how sick and guilty you looked as you stared back; he only cared about one. His hands flew to the railing, knuckles white as he squeezed the wood, jaw ticking, eyes wide and unblinking. A splinter buried itself in his palm and he did not have the presence of mind to go digging around for it. All his attention was on Jacques.

He lost the first match; four courses of riding and letting a lance shatter against his shield and later armor, once the shield had been bent out of shape, and even with his putting up no resistance, his opponent only managed to shatter two lances on him. He must have been so daunted by Jacques’ performance the previous day, he could not let himself contemplate victory. The crowd was shocked after the first course, not believed their eyes at first. The second and third saw an increase in cries and jeers and the fourth had them berating and spitting, angry that they were cheated out of an impressive performance from Jacques, growing more confident in their resentment of him and his apparent incompetence.

Whatever relief or pleasure you might have imagined you’d feel if Jacques did, after all, decide to lose was swallowed up in the all too real concerns Pierre planted in your mind. A wayward splinter could take his dazzling eye or leave it blind, his horse could fall and break his leg or ribs, he could fall unconscious and never wake. Suddenly, all the fun and games became all too real and you wrung your hands in your lap, so hard your bones wanted to snap. As they sped closer, and closer, oh God, leaning their heavy armored bodies in only to take bone-shattering blows, you wanted to look away, too anxious to see, but it was impossible. You had to see, had to know he was alive, at the very least. When it was done, Pierre stood and gathered his blue and gold cape around him indignantly, dashing off to see Jacques and you envied him bitterly, having to stay and make small talk while your heart lodged in your throat.

In the break between his first and second match, Jacques realized he might as well jump out of his saddle and finish the match early. It would save everyone some time – and end his humiliation sooner – and he would spare his beloved horse any potential injury. He did so, shame blazing in his cheeks, charring his insides, back bruised where he landed and throat coated with dust. His ears rang inside the helmet, but he could still hear the jeers and laughter from the stands. His eyes were full with angry tears and his lungs with stifled screams. He was living a nightmare and he wished he could disappear.

“Withdraw!” Pierre pleaded, desperate. “That still counts as losing. You don’t have to get yourself maimed or killed in order to lose.”

The blacksmith pounded away mercilessly at Jacques’ ruined shield, his helmet waiting on the ground to be mended. Neither Pierre’s whining nor the blacksmith’s pounding was helping Jacques’ headache.

“Eugh…” Jacques grunted as his leg, which he landed heavily on and bruised during his fall, was being stretched and twisted by the surgeon. “No. She wants to see me suffer, not just lose.”

“She said that?” Pierre stuck out his chin demandingly, hands on hips, like a disapproving mother.

“Not in so many words. But… Well, you’ve met her.”

Pierre was ready to finally unleash a torrent of choice words about the duchess that have been accumulating over many weeks that she has kept his favorite squire from his castle, from his bed, and now from health and life itself. But he sputtered and quieted as he saw people part and make way for the duke’s son, who seemed to be heading right towards the two of them.

“My lords,” he bowed humbly and Pierre and Jacques were forced to show even more humility to him in turn. “No, no, don’t rise on my account, my lord Le Gris, rest your leg. I don’t have my sister’s penchant for sadism,” he lied and leaned against one of the pillars holding the tent up, mulling his next words over. “Speaking of the she-devil, I have a little message from my sister,” he announced and looked at both men, studying their reactions. Pierre could not conceal his annoyance, so he chose to look out towards the field, staring daggers in the she-devil’s direction. Jacques winced from the pain in his leg, but otherwise just resigned himself with a sigh.

“I know it already – she wants to disgrace me and bring about my demise if at all possible. Is she not out there, watching her handiwork and delighting in it?”

“Oh, she is. She’s actually up there soaking her handkerchief, poor thing.”

“Really?” Jacques sat up straighter, forgetting all his pain.

The young duke nodded, looking sympathetic to both Jacques’ and his sister’s plight. “She has a different message now.”

The prospect of more demands brought Jacques crashing back to earth and he growled in response. “What does she say?”

“You should win.”

“What?” Pierre spun back towards them and said the word in unison with Jacques.

“She wants you to win your remaining matches. Guiscard is too far ahead of everyone else to be beaten, but you can still have more victories than losses overall if you keep winning your remaining matches.”

Jacques was blinking and gaping like a fish on dry land, assessing if he had enough strength and agility to win.

“Could she not come and deliver her message in person? Maybe encourage the poor man after he’s been fucked more than a whore on Fat Thursday?” Pierre kicked the helmet on the ground in frustration and it flew right into Jacques’ injured leg. He roared like a lion with a splinter in his paw and Pierre fell by his side, apologetic and adoring.

“My sister wouldn’t be the woman she is if she delivered her own apologies and requests,” he winked at Jacques and, to Pierre’s astonishment – despite all the pain and humiliation he suffered, Jacques gave a strangled laugh in response.

After the young duke left, Pierre was left sulking as Jacques gathered his resolve, readying to enter the fray again.

“I must admit I’m really beginning to hate this duchess of yours,” he pondered out loud, lips pouting like one of his little boys when they were particularly sullen.

“You can’t hate her more I do, I assure you,” Jacques said, rolling his shoulder, feeling for soreness. “And I am going to need a big favor from you.”

True to his word, Jacques shattered his remaining opponents. The first one came in too cocky, thinking that Jacques had been sapped of all his spirit, and was sent flying out of his saddle, clinging to it in a panic and almost bringing his horse down with him. The poor beast kicked and flailed against the pull, hitting the barrier that separated the two riders and bringing a part of it down.

While that was being fixed, his last opponent had time to rethink his certainty that he would bat Jacques around like a cat bats a mouse. He descended on Jacques with the kind of ferocity he only witnessed in the Crusades until then, seeming to want to skewer Jacques just to secure a victory. Jacques took the blow to his shield in order to take precise aim and plunge his own lance into the knight’s chest. This sent him reeling back, barely staying in his saddle and the man lolled on his horse’s ass as it trotted all the way down the lists. He was revived and sat back upright, fresh lance planted into his grip and sent barreling down the lists again; this time taking Jacques’ lance to the helmet as his own slid off Jacques’ chest. Just like on the first day, Jacques took pity on the man, bloody and disoriented as he came riding precariously down the lists again and lowered his own lance as soon as he rode out. Whether his opponent lowered his lance as a knight should or it simply rolled out his grip as he was barely clinging to consciousness mattered little to Jacques. It was the knightly thing to do and he had already won anyway. The crowd cheered ecstatically for him, like ten thousand women reaching a screaming climax at once, and he bowed, taking off his helmet and waving to all the people who adored him and despised him with the changing of the wind.

Before the feast that evening in honor of Guiscard’s victory, your brother happily agreed to sneak Jacques into the castle early so you could talk. Once the commotion started, it would be far less convenient, and you predicted your nighttime would be busy and crowded, so there was only a thin sliver of time you might dedicate to the irreverent squire.

Jacques was squirreled away in your brother’s solar while everyone’s attention was on the great hall where the festivities would be taking place.

“Lord Fly. What a surprise to find you here,” you feigned and both of you fought off smiles. Not only was he summoned by none other than you, but there was a remarkable lack of hostility about you. It made him light-headed to feel it.

He stood up and planted himself in the middle of the small room . “You may shut your windows, but us flies still find our way in. We can’t help it,” he said placidly and you had to take notice of how well he knew to blunt an insult before it cut through him. “But I am not here this evening to buzz around and annoy you. In reality, I’m here to do penitence.”

“And what for?” you narrowed your eyes as he unfastened his cloak and let it crumple to the ground, revealing him to be dressed in a simple, tattered sackcloth garment.

“I have offended you greatly and I only now begin to see how much,” he said earnestly, voice low and flat, solemnly bereft of its usual melodiousness and gaiety. “After the tourney and all its ups and downs, I’ve been offered a place in your guard, which I couldn’t refuse even if I didn’t want it. But before we can establish this new bond, you must understand how sorry I am. Even when my actions have been thoughtless or offensive, my intentions were nothing but true and passionate.”

“You should have been an actor; I believe every word you say,” you teased, but your voice would not cooperate; It sounded solemn and low, touched by his sincerity. He spread ashes on his face to show remorse, a biblical sort of gesture which retained significance for him from his days in the clergy. There was surely a basin somewhere for him to wash up when his performance was over and you were sure he had fine clothes stashed away out of sight, but even with that knowledge, he still looked thoroughly humbled. Lastly, out came a short blade and he grasped his hair in one fist, placing the blade under it, just below his ear, ready to slice and shear it in a gesture of mourning. You put your hand over his balled up fist and stopped him. “I like the hair, leave it.”

His face lit up and all the heaviness was lost in its glow. Jacques stretched, twisting the penitence out of his body, and shook out his hair, skin twitching reflexively where the coarse sackcloth scratched.

“You look ridiculous,” you told him quietly, like it was a secret.

“You’ve seen me at worse,” he reminded sheepishly, not too eager to remind you of other times he was caught with his pants down. But life was only bearable with humor.

“True,” you agreed after a pregnant pause and his body relaxed.

Jacques came close, slowly reaching out to wrap his hands around your arms, letting you move away if you wanted to. “Tell me it’s not too late,” he asked when you didn’t step away.

“It’s not too late,” you sighed, reluctant to admit something that would put you in his power.

“Tell me you dreamed of me too,” he demanded more forcefully now that victory was within reach.

“I dreamed of you too,” you said, remembering the voice of that girl he performed with for you at Pierre’s, shakily repeating his words, saying anything just to have more of him. A man like Jacques made for a dangerous master.

“Tell me to kiss you.”

“Kiss me,” you said, tone imperious like it was you idea. “Squire,” you added when he leaned in, lips just the merest breath away.

“Ah,” he stopped, leaning back just enough to look into your eyes, as arrogant as the devil. “Knight,” he corrected and paused for just a moment to let you understand.

“Really?” you started to ask, but he nodded as fast as a hummingbird and swooped back in, trapping you in a kiss that drove you insane, bruising and chafing like the sackcloth where it scraped against your skin.

#jacques le gris x reader #Jacques le gris x you #mind the warnings

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undeadlilies · 3 years ago

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Why is Sansa Stark so hated?

Link to the article that I used quotes from

Sansa Stark is a character still to this day that heavily disliked. From the moment she was introduced in the books to the moment she was crowned Queen in the North in the show. This daughter of the North is only seen as a character that is meant to be just a tool for another’s story, not the character of her own. Sansa still maintains a fanbase that loves her but even just liking her seems to cause in the fanbase get mad. So why is Sansa Stark so hated?

Let’s start off with how GRRM created Sansa. In an interview by Rolling Stone about the Stark sisters and the ending of the show, he explains how the setting of the ASOIAF influenced his creation of the two sisters.

“When I actually got to Winterfell in the later chapter, I knew I wanted to deal with the role that women and young girls had in this kind of society. So to show the contrast, [we] have two sisters who were very, very different from each other. The Middle Ages was very patriarchal. I’m a little weary of over-generalizing, since that makes me seem like an idiot — but generally, women didn’t have a lot of rights. They were used to make marriage-alliances; I’m talking high-born women now, of course. Peasant women had even less rights. But I was focusing on a noble family here as the center of the book.

At the same time, this is also the era where courtly romance was born: the gallant Knight, the fair lady, the princess, all of that stuff. That became very big, initially in the courts of France and Burgundy, but it spread all over Europe, including England and Germany. And it still has its roots in a lot of stuff that we follow today. I mean, in some sense the Disney Princess archetype — the whole princess mythos �� that we’re all familiar with is a legacy of the troubadours of the romance era of medieval France.

Sansa completely bought into that, loved everything about that. She dreamed of jousts, bards singing of her beauty, fair knights, being the mistress of a castle and perhaps a princess and queen. The whole romantic thing.

And then to have Arya, a girl who did not fit that — and who, from the very beginning, was uncomfortable and chafes at the roles that she was being pushed into. You know, who didn’t wanna sew but wanted to fight with a sword, who liked riding and hunting and wrestling in the mud. A “tomboy” we would call it, I guess. But that phrase, of course, didn’t exist in the Middle Ages, so I don’t think I ever use it in the books, but you know what I mean.”

In other words, Sansa was created to represent more positive parts of this era or as GRRM refers to it, the romance era. A character that is completely fine with the standards that her society has for women because she believes that she will live her life like the ones in the stories. But of course, after witnessing her father’s death and being beaten on almost a daily basis and knowing that others only see her as a tool and not a person, she still seeks comfort in her songs. All she wants is a knight that will protect her. Unlike the popular female characters Daenerys and Arya who in some way go against what society expects of them

(Daenerys going against her abusive brother’s plan of using her as a way to gain a army by instead taking advantage of the fact that she is a position of power above her brother to figure out what she wants even though she got into that position of power by being sold as a child bride and Arya still choosing to follow her desire of learning how to use Needle despite being told multiple times that she will have to abandon that desire when she gets older.)

Sansa is a character that doesn’t go against those standards and GRRM created her with the intent that yes this a character that can be considered the ideal lady in this world but even so they can be punished and harmed, just like what he said in his interview with Rolling Stone.

“The Middle Ages was very patriarchal. I’m a little wary of over-generalizing, since that makes me seem like an idiot — but generally, women didn’t have a lot of rights.”

Another aspect that most likely plays a role in the huge dislike of Sansa Stark is her actions and mindset.

When I read the book series for the first time, I didn’t like her because of the way she acts, her expecting life to be like the romance stories like she loves but when I got to the chapter where Joffrey forces her to look at her father’s head, I realized, “Oh shit. This is a literal child who just witnessed the death of her father and doesn’t know any better. She wasn’t taught the truth of how cruel the world could be.” But because the first book puts her in situations she knows very little on how to deal with (such as her telling Cersei about Ned’s plan to take her and Arya back to Winterfell with no knowledge about Ned’s true plan to tell Robert that his children are in fact a product of incest between Jaime and Cersei), Sansa is often criticized for not knowing any better despite being 11 and having very little power to begin with.

Overall, the hatred for Sansa Stark comes from how she dares to be the way she is. How dare she live the childish dream of wanting to get married and have children and be a queen. How dare Sansa be the way she is, by not fighting the sexist standards she was raised in. How dare she be Sansa Stark.

Let me just say real quickly that there is nothing wrong if you dislike Sansa Stark. People have different tastes and reasons when it comes to liking a character. The issue has to do with more of the fact that Sansa is a literal child forced into situations where she had no control over and acting her age but people use that against her. Even in the show when they gave her Jeyne Poole’s story arc in season 6 and people in the fanbase were justified to be upset over that, she was still seen as a power hungry character who still to this day where people believe that she will redeem herself with her dying or will never return home and remain in the south. In reality, she is a child that suffered for being naive and all she wishes is to return home to Winterfell.

At the end, Sansa Stark is a fictional character that was created with the intent to show the treatment of woman in the world of ASOIAF but instead many see the suffering she goes through as well deserved and isn’t a valuable character compared to the other popular female characters.

#sansa stark #sansa stark defense squad #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #game of thrones #sansa stark meta

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sunnyville36 · 3 years ago

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Mamihlapinatapai {part 2}

Thank you all so sooo much for the kind feedback on part 1! Part 2 is coming at you now! 💜

Need to catch up? {overview} {part 1}

Pairing: Bang Chan x Female Reader

Themes: royal au, medieval au, court intrigue, arranged marriage, original characters, mutual pining, slow burn

Warnings: injuries, mentions of death/war/murder, emotionally abusive parents

Rating: Mature

Word count: 4.5k

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Mamihlapinatapai - (noun, Yagán origin) a silent acknowledgement and understanding between two people, who are both wishing or thinking the same thing (and are both unwilling to initiate)

A Summer’s Ball | Kingdom of Gu, present day

The next few days were just as tumultuous as the first, Chan and Korenna slowly progressing from treating each other with complete silence, to short-lived bickering, to finally being able to hold a civil conversation for at least a few minutes. You escorted them to more ceremony preparation meetings, then to councils with the foreign affairs ministers, the historians, the priests, each one stressing how this union would be a stepping stone in your two kingdoms’ relations and they should think of it as a huge honor. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the both of them, being reminded over and over how their lives were simply a means to an end, to be controlled at the whim of their fathers’ aspirations.

A turning point finally came when the three of you visited the city surrounding the palace grounds, the prince refusing to miss his weekly visit to the village market. Chan loved to interact with his people, to support their businesses, to hear their grievances, to show he cared. You followed behind the two of them as you walked through the plaza lined with stalls, Chan waving to each of the merchants, Korenna watching him with a mix of reservation and admiration.

“Your people seem to be thriving. I wish I could say the same about our villages.”

You eyed Chan, knew he was forcing himself to hold back a biting remark, likely about how if Lajor’s people were currently suffering, it was the monarchy’s fault. He finally came up with a question, trying his best to keep the conversation going.

“Have you brought up your concerns to your father?”

“I’ve tried, but he doesn’t want to listen to anything I have to say. All he cares about is what he thinks is right, no matter who suffers for it.”

Chan nodded solemnly, “I can understand that.”

Korenna gave him a somber look and appeared to have something more she wanted to say, but was promptly dragged off by a small child wanting to show her his father’s bakery stall.

You nudged Chan’s arm. “See, she’s not so bad, Your Highness. If you give her a chance.”

He started in the direction of the princess, turning to walk backwards and smile at you with his arms out in a lighthearted shrug, “If you say so.”

***

That evening the king was hosting a ball, to celebrate the engagement of the prince. You’d helped Chan dress, his midnight blue velvet ensemble and dark hair set off against the silver crown he wore making him look more like a deity of the moon than an earthly prince. Then you had gone to assist Korenna. You couldn’t deny how beautiful she looked as you watched her from across the room, her champagne colored gown and perfectly curled blonde hair standing out against the relatively muted colors worn by the other attendees. She was standing away from Chan, talking amongst a group of noblemen’s wives and other high powered ladies, but her eyes never strayed far from his back as he talked with Minho and some other knights around a wooden table in the corner.

“You look quite stunning tonight, Y/n. Purple is definitely your color,” came a deep voice on your left, and you turned to see Prince Felix approaching you, his small frame clothed in a breathtaking deep red suit. The younger brother of Prince Minho, Felix had the sunniest personality of anyone you’d ever met, quite contrasting to his voice but in perfect harmony with the bright smile he flashed as he reached your side. It had been several months since you’d last seen him, his studies as apprentice to your kingdom’s Chief Healer taking him to the academy in the highlands far away from the city.

“Prince Felix!” you exclaimed, arms reaching to pull him into a quick hug. “I could say the same for you; that red suits you perfectly, Your Grace.”

Felix laughed, releasing you from his hold. You and he had been close friends since childhood, ever since, at the age of 5, he’d stepped on the hem of your skirt and you’d pushed him into a mud puddle, causing guards to rush over and attempt to have you arrested. His mother and the queen had stepped in, calming the guards as you remorsefully reached out your hand to help him up only to be pulled down into the mud next to him, the both of you dissolving into fits of laughter.

“I’ve missed the city. And it seems the city has missed me for all the excitement it’s spun up in my absence.” His eyes followed your gaze to where Korenna had made her way over to Chan, and watched as she led him out to the quiet balcony overlooking the gardens. “How are you taking all of this?”

“I’m fine, Your Grace. What reason would I have not to celebrate such a momentous occasion?”

Felix fixed you with a knowing look, but dropped the subject, content to stand with you at the edge of the dance floor.

“Y/n, I thought I told you not to let Christopher and the princess out of your sight,” came King Bang’s voice from behind you. “The last thing we need is for them to get into one of their verbal sparring matches with the whole court present.”

You turned, lowering your head to the king. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

You left Felix next to the king, his expression turned to one of distaste at his new company, and walked quietly out onto the balcony where the couple was talking.

They were standing closer together than you had ever seen them, leaning forward against the railing’s edge. They seemed to be deep in conversation, Korenna actually reaching her hand up to place it on Chan’s back. It didn’t feel right watching them without their knowledge, so you cleared your throat loudly, causing both their heads to snap up. Chan looked slightly embarrassed, his head tilting forward, but Korenna’s expression was almost unreadable. She stood staring at you for a few seconds, then pursed her lips, nodded her head to Chan, and walked back into the main ballroom as you approached him.

“I apologize, Your Highness, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Trust me, Y/n, you didn’t,” came Chan’s tired reply. You wanted to know if she had upset him, to know how you could comfort him.

“What were you discussing?”

A soft song started to make its way out from the half-open door. Chan looked up at you, completely ignoring your question.

“Dance with me?”

Several seconds went by in silence. He reached out his hand, eyes imploring you to say something, to say yes.

This was dangerous. You couldn’t think of a worse position to be caught in, dancing with a betrothed man far above your stature. But you also couldn’t think of a way to say no to him.

You took his hand and he pulled you flush against him immediately. You tried to resist the urge to place your head on his chest, but the feeling of being in his arms was too much, made you feel so safe. So you laid your cheek there and felt a low hum come up through his chest. It was quiet for a while, the two of you simply swaying back and forth, not doing any particular dance. You felt his head rise from where it had been resting on top of your head.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, but you look gorgeous tonight Y/n.”

“You told me that earlier, Your Highness.”

“I know. I wanted to tell you again.”

Then he placed his head back down and you continued to spin in slow circles until the song ended. He brought your movements to a stop, taking your hand and kissing the top of it as he leaned forward in an exaggerated bow, “Thank you for the dance, my lady.”

You looked at him with a small smile. “You’re welcome, Your Highness.”

He returned your smile, turned, and walked back towards the party. You felt your chest tighten, feeling a little too much like your dance had been his way of saying goodbye.

Thinly Veiled Threats | Kingdom of Gu, 6 years ago

“Watch out!”

You turned towards the direction of the voice just in time to see Chan break through the wooden fence in front of you, thrown off his horse by the force of the lance he just took to the chest.

The prince had just turned seventeen, which made him eligible to compete in the annual Four Kingdom Competition, where knights, lords, and even royalty from the continent’s four greatest kingdoms met to determine who among them would be crowned victor in a series of strength tests. His father had of course insisted he enter on his first eligible year, which had led to the activity you were currently engaged in, training a boy who was used to classrooms, libraries, and diplomacy lessons the intricacies of hand to hand combat. The tasks ranged from archery to sword fighting, wrestling to jousting, and while Chan knew his way around a broadsword and shield, it was clear that the latter of those was not going to be Chan’s strong suit.

You walked calmly towards where he sat on the ground, knowing he would only be more embarrassed by any attempts to rush to his aide. He was sitting up, so you could tell he wasn’t badly injured, but his right hand still stretched across his abdomen to clutch at his left side. He’d been hit there at least three times now, and if you had to guess, what was once a bad bruise was more likely a patch of broken skin at this point.

Voices floated around you as you pushed your way through the small crowd that had gathered around him, many asking the prince if he was alright or giving unsolicited advice on how to avoid the outcome he seemed to be cursed with. You picked up on the voice of a squire, one who served the boy who had knocked Chan down most recently, as he nudged the side of the older boy’s arm.

“You could have gone a little easier on him, you know. His mother just died.”

Great. Just what you needed; a physically and emotionally wounded Chan.

“Alright, give him some room everyone. His Highness is fine; go back to your own practicing.” You shooed away the stragglers and knelt so Chan could wrap his free arm around your neck, hoisting him up and slowly making your way to the infirmary tent. Leaning him against the side of a cot, you reached for the clean cloth and distilled vodka; this was going to hurt like a bitch, but Chan could take it.

“You’re pulling back too much and too early, it leaves your side vulnerable,” you said, carefully easing off his ripped tunic so you could tend to his wound.

He stayed silent for a few moments, fingers gripping harshly against your shoulder as you cleaned the cut and wrapped a bandage around his midsection.

“I…,” he trailed off, seeming to struggle to find the words he was looking for. “I’m a coward. I’m a failure and a coward and everyone knew it except me, until just now.”

His words knocked the wind out of you. You knew he was ashamed (entirely unnecessarily) when he couldn’t hold back the tears at his mother’s funeral while his father maintained his perfectly stoic expression (that heartless bastard), knew he was self-conscious about his fighting abilities, but you’d never heard him express that insecurity so directly before.

“Your Highness,” you spoke softly but forcefully, hands cupping his face to make him look you in the eye, “you are one of the bravest men I know. You have one of the hardest burdens a person can bear on your shoulders, have had it since you were born, and you carry it with grace and dignity and compassion. You inspire me and countless others every day with your strength and generosity. You are not a coward.”

He looked back at you, and suddenly you felt yourself being engulfed in his embrace, his legs parting to pull you close to him. He wrapped his arms tightly around your chest, his head pressing into the crook of your neck. Slowly you brought your hands up and began to rub small circles on his bare back. This was the most emotion he’d shown since that night you stood beside his mother’s bed, watching as he held her hand and whispered all the things he wanted to tell her one last time. You were a little overwhelmed, but mostly happy, happy that maybe he was feeling again. Eventually you heard his quiet voice next to your ear, “Thank you, Y/n.”

Then he released you from his hold, donned his shirt, and walked back to the jousting pitch. You watched him go, until a deliberate cough came from behind you, shattering your reverie.

“I suppose he’s lucky to have you.” The words spilled from the king’s mouth, his signature gravelly voice seeming to chase all other sound from the tent.

“My apologies, Your Majesty, I hadn’t noticed you were here,” you spoke, bending into a curtsey.

“It seems it is quite easy for the two of you not to notice others when you think you are alone.”

You blinked, unsure of where the king was going with his remarks. He sidled up to you, close enough you could hear him at a whisper.

“I may have owed your family a debt, but that has been repaid ten-fold. I know my son, know he would never be led astray of his responsibilities unless you gave credence to those thoughts in his head, fed his intimate physical desires. So do not delude yourself into thinking you can take him from me, little servant girl. And if he ever does come to me, asking me to set aside our laws, our traditions, so he can marry you, I’ll know what you have done, and you will never see the light of day again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Satisfied with your response, he left you there, his words staining your mind like the bloody cloth you clutched in your hands.

The Hunt | Kingdom of Gu, present day

How he managed to get his father to agree to this you had no idea. But Chan always was very convincing when he needed to be.

You were preparing for a day’s long hunt. In all honesty it was an excellent idea; it would give Chan space to be himself after having been shut inside the palace for two weeks, preparing for his impending nuptials. Normally this was one of your favorite activities to do with Chan and the knights; getting to ride, to spend time in the woods, maybe use your bow. But the one condition of the king’s agreement had been that Korenna was going too.

She’d been different with you, with everyone really, since that night on the balcony, avoiding attempts to make small talk and speaking harshly when she made requests. You didn’t want your relationship with her to turn sour, seeing as you’d soon be serving her for the rest of her life (and yours), so you held your tongue and pressed on with your duties.

Chan’s black courser and your chestnut palfrey were saddled, and you were in the midst of preparing a well-tempered white mare for the princess.

“Good morning, Y/n.”

You looked up, seeing the dark head of hair and upside down smirk belonging to Prince Minho smiling down at you as he leaned over your kneeling frame. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

You were not as close to Minho as you were to Felix, but you had always gotten along well, your similar sense of humor and affinity for archery solidifying your friendship.

He offered his hand to pull you up, which you accepted. “I’m glad you will be joining us on this outing, Y/n. I’m not sure I could handle Chan and Korenna on my own, even with 5 other knights to accompany me.”

You hummed in agreement, finishing attaching the bridle around the mare’s head. “I’m not sure you could either, Your Grace.”

Minho let out his signature high pitched laugh as the rest of your party approached, and the two of you maneuvered to the front of the pack as you set off towards the nearby woods. You all rode in silence for a while, riding not typically being an activity that required much talking, until you heard Korenna speak from her position next to Chan in the middle of your group.

“So, who is the best at the strength tasks of the Four Kingdom Competition?”

A strange question to ask so out of the blue, but you supposed it was somewhat relevant to the situation at hand.

“His Highness is an excellent swordsman,” you replied, looking back slightly in their direction.

“Sir Jeongin has given us all a run for our money in the wrestling ring,” you heard a voice from the back say. He must be one of the other knights in your party.

Chan replied next, “Minho is a skilled horseman, beats me in the joust nearly every time.”

Minho’s eyebrows rose up at that, smirking as he rounded out the answers, “And Y/n here is an expert marksman. She’s the best I’ve ever seen with a bow.”

You thanked him mentally, hoping he could read it in the look on your face. You weren’t about to boast about your own talents to the princess, but it was nice to know that she was now aware you weren’t just some lovesick girl who followed the prince around, that you actually took your responsibilities seriously.

“Really? And who taught you about archery, Y/n?” You thought you heard a touch of menace in her normally high pitched voice, but brushed it off.

“I’ve had many teachers, Your Grace, but the first was my father.”

“How very… non-traditional. Where is your father now? I’d love to meet him.”

You saw Chan and Minho tense in their saddles, well aware of what your answer would be.

“He died, Your Grace.”

“Oh,” said Korenna, her voice noticeably softer now, “I apologize for bringing up a sore subject.”

“It’s alright, Your Grace,” you replied. “It was a long time ago. You couldn’t have known.”

An uncomfortable silence fell on the group then, but luckily your first planned stop was not far ahead. A small grove of trees surrounding a clearing was where you usually began the hunt, splitting off in different directions and meeting back there before sundown. But because you had the princess with you today, it was a more laid back affair, and you’d planned to have a picnic of sorts before you continued in earnest.

Everyone set about unpacking the sacks that carried your meal for the day. You uncorked your canteen, taking a sip before heaving an exasperated sigh.

You’d forgotten to bring extra water for the horses.

You called over to Chan, where he stood spreading out a blanket for Korenna to sit on.

“Your Highness, I’m going to the creek to get water for the horses.”

Chan looked up and you could see the smile on his face from where you stood across the grove. “I’ll go with you!” he said happily, only to have his arm tugged back by the princess next to him.

“You are not a servant, Chan. I’m sure Y/n can go by herself.”

Your loud conversation had caught the attention of the rest of the group, who were all looking over at you in interest. You were surprised by her bluntness, but she did have a point. “Her Grace is right, I don’t need you to accompany me, Your Highness. I simply wanted to tell you where I was going.”

Chan gave a side glare at Korenna, but agreed. “Fine, but you shouldn’t go alone. Sir Jeongin - “

A tall boy, clad in the red, black, and gold uniform of your knights, walked over to the prince. He was no more than eighteen, must have only just taken his oath. You remembered his name from the earlier conversation about the strength tests, impressed he was making a name for himself so early.

“ - please accompany Y/n to the stream to fetch water for the horses.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

So the two of you set off, leaving the rest to their meals. You didn’t really need a knight for protection, but your heart warmed at the gesture of Chan not wanting you to go alone. You arrived at the bank of the creek and began filling some extra pouches you had brought with water.

“It’s so much quieter here,” Jeongin commented absentmindedly.

Despite the sound of the water running, you agreed it did seem calmer here than in the grove you came from. As you knelt by the edge of the stream, you noticed large patches of grass surrounding some nearby trees had been pressed down. Curious, you walked over to the area, observing the singed ground and muddy boot prints on the rocks, telltale signs of human presence. You hadn’t run into anyone else on your walk over, but maybe there were some others out riding today. Raising your head, you called to your companion, “Sir Jeongin! Were there any other hunting parties out today?”

“Not that I know of, Miss,” Jeongin replied, his expression revealing he was rather confused by your question.

You looked around again, and that was when you noticed the torn piece of blue fabric latched to a jagged branch on a nearby tree. Your blood ran cold and you grabbed Jeongin’s arm, breaking into a run.

“We need to get back to them. Now.”

You’d made it about half way back to the grove when you heard a scream, you and Jeongin sprinting to reach the clearing. But when you arrived, the scene was entirely not what you expected.

Your mind had immediately gone to the Lajorans when you spotted that piece of cloth on the tree. But here you stood, watching men clad in your own colors raise their swords to clash with the group of knights who’d accompanied you and the royals. Your eyes frantically searched among the chaos, looking for Chan, but before you could spot him you noticed Korenna, hiding alone behind a large rock at the edge of the treeline. You pulled Jeongin back behind a tree, gesturing in her direction.

“Do you see the princess over there? You’re going to grab her, get on a horse, and ride back to the palace now.”

Jeongin was looking at you with wide, scared eyes; his mouth was open, not making a sound.

You shook his shoulder. “Sir Jeongin, do you understand me? Do not look back at us, just take the princess and get her to safety. I need you to do this.”

Your words seemed to finally reach him, and he set his mouth in a straight line. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Good. Go. And don’t look back.”

He left your spot behind the tree and you turned back to the action in the grove, still trying to find the prince. Finally your eyes landed on two men standing back to back, swords flying as they blocked the attack of about 6 different men.

Chan and Minho.

You started towards them, reaching for your own sword, when you spotted someone perched in a tree right outside the circle of men. The attackers started to pull back from around the two princes, and you could see exactly who the archer had in his line of sight.

You screamed his name, sprinting to cross the clearing and threw your body in front of him, arms outstretched.

You felt a sharp pain in your left shoulder as you fell against Chan’s chest, his arms coming up to catch you.

“Y/n! Y/n!”

Trumpets were blaring from the direction of the castle as Minho dragged Chan back, still desperately clutching you in his arms. The attackers were dispersing and you heard the sound of a voice saying “Chris”; it took a moment for you to realize it was your own.

“I’m here, Y/n, I’m here. Just hold on please. You’re going to be okay, just please hold on.”

The last thing you saw were his eyes as your vision went black.

Of Flower Buds and Roots | Kingdom of Gu, 16 years ago

“Mother, when will they be here?”

You were standing in the open-air courtyard at the front of the palace, your mother’s hands on your shoulders. The two of you had moved to the palace a few years ago, when your mother had gotten a job as a servant there after the war ended. Today, you were told, would be the day you were to start your position there, as personal attendant to the young crown prince.

“I’m sure soon darling. Remember we never rush royalty.”

As you waited, your eye was caught by a small boy standing with a large scary looking man. He looked to be about your age and was holding a tiny bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. The man seemed to be trying to take them away, but the boy clutched them to his chest. A woman who you thought you’d seen before approached them, glaring at the man, who backed away from the boy as she took his hand. Then, they started walking towards you.

Your mother tightened her grip on your shoulders, bending into a curtsey and pushing you down with her. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“The pleasure is ours,” came the queen’s pleasant voice. She knelt down between you and the boy.

“You must be Y/n. This is my son Christopher, the prince. You will serve as his attendant.”

You stared at the boy, his eyes even with yours, hair mussed and shirt covered in dirt.

“He doesn’t look like a prince. He looks like me”

“Y/n!” your mother gasped, the queen chuckling slightly and calming your mother with a hand on her arm.

“You’re right, he might not look like one yet. But it’s going to be your job to help him become one. Do you think you can do that?”

You pondered her question and finally said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

She smiled and stepped aside, placing her hands on Chan’s back and pushing him forward.

“Hi Y/n!” the boy said excitedly. “My name’s Chris. Or Chan. Either’s fine! I brought you these flowers! I thought they might look pretty in your hair.”

He extended his tiny fist holding the flowers and you took one from the bunch, pulling back your hair and putting the flower behind your ear.

Chan’s face immediately lit up in the brightest smile you’d ever seen, his eyes crinkling cutely. “I was right!”

From that moment on, you decided there was nothing you wouldn’t do to see that smile on his face.

{part 3}

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deanwanddamons · 3 years ago

Note

Title - Larping? Really?

Word Count - 795

Warnings - None. This is just a simple little drabble.

A/N: Unbetad so all mistakes are my own.

Bingo Square filled: @girl-next-door-writes Make Me Feel Bingo - Head Canon

Feedback is golden ❤️

My Masterlist

Y/N and her boyfriend, Dean, had agreed, reluctantly on his part, to join their best friend Charlie and her larping friends at their most recent event. She had insisted that they both dressed the part, resulting in Y/N’s current attire.

Getting Dean to acquiesce to participating in the cosplay was a whole different matter. Eventually, through lots of pleading and bribery in the form of pie, watching any movie he wanted to and lots of sex, he had given in.

When they had arrived at the field for the medieval banquet and games, (including jousting, which Dean was actually excited to watch), the steward had marked their names off the guest list. The red head computer genius had instructed the man to give them the false names they had to use for the weekend, and he explained the rules in a monotone voice. He looked as happy to be there as the green eyed man by her side, who had complained and bitched the whole journey. She had to admit, she had started to get annoyed with him, and had snapped, telling him it was about time they did something she wanted to do for a change. This statement had shocked him into submission. He apologised for making her feel that way, and changed his tone somewhat, cheering up a little the closer they got to the grounds.

They had been shown to the tent they would be calling home for the next few days, by the same bored looking marshall and were pleasantly surprised at how comfortable and spacious it actually was. Granted, the bed was small, more of a futon really, but it would be fine for a couple of nights.

Unpacking the emerald green, velvet gown she had hired for this occasion, Y/N took off her jeans and tshirt, slipping the dress over her head. Smoothing down the soft material, she glanced down at herself. She had to admit that it made her waist look pretty shapley the way it was pinched in at the middle. Placing the cornet shaped headwear on her head, she adjusted it in the small mirror she had retrieved from her bag, bringing her long plait and the ribbon that cascaded from the hat, over her shoulder. Finally, she stepped into her lace up sandals, and began to tie them from the ankle up, criss crossing the straps over her shins.

“I feel like an idiot,” Dean grumbled as he fiddled with his knee length boots. Placing the mirror back in her bag, she stood from her sitting position on the floor having secured the last piece of leather around her leg, and turned to face the taller man, her hands reaching out to straighten his tunic.

“You look wonderful, Sir Giliade of Aragon,” she reassured him, chuckling as she kissed the tip of his nose.

“You can talk, Lady Vanessa of Hopkinstown,” he scowled at her, his nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“What happens now?” He questioned, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he flopped down onto the bed.

“Hey,” she chastised, grabbing his arms and pulling him up to stand at his full height, “you’ll crease your breeches.” Dean let out a sigh of frustration.

She couldn't help but smile at the petulant expression on the broad hunter's face, the material of the tan coloured tunic stretching across his wide shoulders. He had the air of a child who had just been told off.

“I have to say,” he said, leaning closer to her, his large hands coming to rest on her hips. “You do look delicious in that dress.”

“The emerald green matches your eyes,” she whispered, heat rising up her cheeks. Her boyfriend's mouth was so close to her, she could feel his breath on her skin. He smelled of spice and spearmint. She adored the scent of him.

He danced his fingers up her sides, his palm coming to rest on her cheek. Dean tilted his head and brought his lips to her in a deep kiss. It quickly became passionate, before she broke away, laughing at the mock pout he was now displaying.

“We haven’t got time for that,” she said, playfully swatting away his hand. “We need to go and find Charlie. She is meeting us next to the hog roast.”

“Ohh, I’ve been looking forward to this!” Dean grinned, rubbing his hands together in glee.

They left the tent, and began walking across the field to where they knew the red head would be waiting. As they moved, Dean hung back slightly, pulling out his cosplay sword and swishing it through the air, his bowlegs tensing as he leaned into the movement.

“You know, I could get used to this,” he said to no one inparticular, “This outfit is growing on me.”

He smirked to himself, replacing the item into its cover which was hanging from his hip. Catching up with his girlfriend who was a few steps in front of him, he rested his chin on her shoulder.

She stopped in her tracks, grinning broadly. Without turning around, she said, “Is that a sword in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?”

“I’m always pleased to see you, sweetheart,” came his response.

Tagging some who may be interested: @winchest09 @cockslut-padalecki @chocolateheart @soaringeag1e @flashxspn @flamencodiva @watermelonlipstick @mvdeanw @wonder-cole @downanddirtydean @deangirl93 @jensengirl83 @princessmisery666 @gh0stgurl @janicho88 @deanwinchesterswitch @lovealways-j @smol-and-grumpy @katehuntington @sandlee44 @siospins @pisces-cutie @kickingitwithkirk @facadeformyrealblog @spnwoman @impalaspixie @ejlovespie @superfanficnatural @thinkinghardhardlythinking @calaofnoldor @peridottea91 @percywinchester27 @jarpad24 @mckenziebyrd67 @fandom-princess-forevermore @pixie88 @libre1rose8 @rslizj @waywardbaby @jc-winchester @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior (If you would like to be removed from tags on future gif drabbles, please let me know. Alternatively, if you are not tagged and would like to be, I’ll be happy to add you) ❤️

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester drabble #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x reader drabble #dean winchester fluff

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demi-shoggoth · 4 years ago

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2021 Reading Log, pt 16

76. Sea Monsters by Joseph Nigg. This is a book devoted to one aspect of one piece of art: the sea monsters on the Carta Marina by Olaus Magnus from 1530. The book posits the Carta Marina’s information as a transitional point between medieval bestiary and actual natural history observation. For each monster, we get a translation of Magnus’ writings on the map in his History, a look at the artistic and scientific influences on each, how that monster would influence others, and a discussion of the (sometimes putative) real organisms the monsters are based on. A deep dive and a real treat, I highly recommend this for monster fans.

77. Gory Details by Erika Engelhaupt. This is a revised and expanded version of a National Geographic blog, which I did not know when I picked the book up. Each chapter covers the science of something dark, weird, gross or scary—raising maggots for food, the psychology of creepiness, how earwax works and why isolated feet keep washing up on one particular beach, for example. The book draws heavily on primary sources, and is written in a fun and engaging style. Fans of science and gross things should check this out—this was one of the more fun books I’ve read this year.

78. The Founding Myth by Andrew L. Seidel. The subtitle of the book is “Why Christian Nationalism is Un-American”, and the author is a constitutional lawyer. It seems aimed at a very niche audience—people who love America and respect the philosophical grounding of the Constitution but are alright with angry atheism. The book skips all the way from “Christianity has no place in American government” to “Christianity is inherently evil and wrong” almost instantly (Christopher Hitchens is listed in the acknowledgements, to give you an idea of the magnitude of misotheism here). It does do a good job at outlining the intentions of the Founding Fathers via their own words, and in explaining the origins of “In God We Trust” on coinage and other rhetorical jousts favored by Christian nationalists. But it strikes me somewhat as being 300 pages of preaching to the choir.

79. Marvel Monsterbus Vol 1. by Stan Lee, Larry Lieber and Jack Kirby. I read a compilation of Marvel Monster stories last year, and this is a much larger and more complete collection. It isn’t fully complete—it doesn’t collect all of the monster stories from Journey into Mystery, Strange Tales and the like. Only those penciled by Jack Kirby. Which means I would have to shell out for another collection if I wanted to read about Mummex the Living Mummy or Rro, the Thing from the Bottomless Pit! These stories predate the company branding itself as Marvel Comics, and a fair number of the monsters have names and/or powers that forecast later Marvel characters. There’s a Hulk, a Thorr, a Sandman, a Magneto, and both a Mr. Vandoom and a Doctor Droom. As for the stories themselves… they’re simple, fun, and repetitive enough that I read this book maybe 40 pages at a time over the last two weeks. The best thing is the wacky names the monsters have: Stan Lee was a genius for names. Check out some of my faves:

Grottu! King of the Insects!

Gorgolla! The Living Gargoyle!

Dragoom! The Flaming Invader!

Rorrg! King of the Spider Men!

Goom! The Thing from Planet X!

Gruto! The Creature from Nowhere!

Rommbu!

Googam! Son of Goom!

Spragg! Conqueror of the Human Race!

Manoo!

Trull! The Inhuman!

80. Dirty Old London by Lee Jackson. After the debacle that was Smells, I was on the lookout for actual histories of hygiene and sanitation. This was one of the first I found. The topic is 19th century London in particular, and how its various improvements to smoke, rubbish and sewage disposal were piecemeal and only occasionally effective. The highly compartmentalized nature of London politics and the desire to turn waste management into a profit making enterprise were the two major obstacles to comprehensive reform, and the author notes that things haven’t gotten much better in the present day.

#reading log #monster book #american history #marvel monsters #british history

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marybeatriceofmodena · 4 years ago

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Been reading a lot about Jane Seymour lately just to piece together her story from the VERY little we know about her, and there seems to be that line of thought that Henry didn’t really love her and/or that he may have married her in a rush because she believed she was pregnant and/or miscarried later...

And honestly, I have my gripes with David Starkey’s book about Henry’s wives (and him as a person lmao), but one thing I do agree with him is that Henry tended to marry women he knew before marriage and that it came as close as it possibly could to marrying for love at the time (making that one of the reasons why the marriage with Anne of Cleves fell apart)?

I guess I would go one step further by saying that Henry may have married these women because he was more in love with the archetype they represented in his eyes rather than the women themselves? To sum it up:

Katherine of Aragon: She *was* a catch, after all, being the daughter of two of the most respected monarchs in Europe at the time (Ferdinand and Isabel), and she did bring a lot of prestige and legitimacy on an international level to the Tudor dynasty (I make her sound like such a broodmare, barf, but that’s medieval political alliances for you). Add to that the whole aspect of her being a bit of a damsel in distress due to being impoverished after Arthur’s death, and that all appeals to Henry’s sense of chivalry. Add that to how ambassadors would write that Henry and Katherine seemed very close and loving in the first few years of their marriage - except, of course, that luster starts to wear off with Katherine’s miscarriages. So, um, I guess the broodmare comparison isn’t so far off from Henry’s PoV. *barfs again*

Anne Boleyn: She had the Renaissance Queen thing going on, similarly to Margaret of Austria or Marguerite de Navarre? Katherine was no dunce herself but my guess is that Anne was probably the kind of Renaissance Humanist Nerd who just goes on and on about stuff and is super passionate about it, added with a sprinkle of courtly love, so no wonder Henry is all heart-eyes about it? That gets shattered (or at the very least troubled) by Henry’s infidelity, but it does seem like his vision of her as the Perfect Renaissance Intellectual Queen was still going strong even close to her death, to the point it’s entirely possible Cromwell may have wanted Anne dead since Henry would have trouble completely detaching himself from her if she stayed alive (although I do think that thanks to some serious mental gymnastics and probably some brain damage after that 1536 jousting incident, he ended up really believing Anne was guilty).

Anne of Cleves: I mean, there’s the whole debate on whether she looked like her portrait or not, and what exactly pushed Henry to divorce her - but you know, while I agree that a big part of it might have been political motivations, I also think it may have been a lack of chemistry that just wasn’t compatible at all with the imagined idea Henry had of Anne before she came to England (whatever that was).

Katheryn Howard: I mean, that one is pretty obvious. Pretty young girl who’s very graceful and joyous, makes Henry feel young again, and the minute he has enough evidence to believe she’s not as pure and wholesome as he thought, and worst of all, she reminds him of his own long lost youth... off with her head.

Katharine Parr: Like, I think that a lot of the traditional point of view on Katharine being Henry’s ever-patient nurse might be due to how she was presented during her position as Queen Consort and after - nevermind her accomplishments but also the less savory parts of her life... And yeah, her Protestant sympathies might have not vibed with Henry’s traditionalism, but ya know, a caretaker also shouldn’t make you feel annoyed when you’re in pain with *GASP* heretical thoughts...

So with Jane... the problem with people who’ll go on how she was boring/plain/nasty/cold or even a sociopath is that a) we have next to nothing of Jane’s own words so she can’t even present herself as guilty, much less defend herself; b) I feel like that kind of PoV is exactly the kind of treatment Anne Boleyn gets from her detractors, which leads to a rather ironic case of a double standard?

We don’t even know the circumstances that led to her becoming Henry’s mistress, considering there are so many unanswered questions about her earlier life, such as the following:

1) Why wasn’t she married yet, when at least one of her younger sisters was wed before her? And no, the “because she was boring and ugly lol” excuse doesn’t work, simply because it wouldn’t have mattered much for noble parents of the time, especially an ambitious family like the Seymours, since it was all about properties, riches, and getting heirs (and with Jane’s mother having lots of kids, it would be expected that Jane would be similar).

2) How much of her marriage with Henry was her doing and her will? Like, I can buy the narrative of a young woman seeing herself becoming an old maid and being constantly belittled by her family as a failure of sorts, going for the golden goose but getting more than she bargained for, just like she could be a pawn used by various factions of the court who would have a reason to see Anne out (Catholics, for one, and Cromwell and his people, not to mention that Edward Seymour WORKED for Cromwell, so people who’ll try to claim that Cromwell had nothing to do with Anne’s trial and/or Jane becoming Queen make me lol). And for all the people accusing her of being a sociopath for getting engaged to Henry the day after Anne was beheaded, one begs to ask the question of how much of it was her will, and moreover, what kind of say she would have in it? For all we know, she *could* very well be the only one of Henry’s wives along with Katheryn Howard who had pretty much no say in marrying the King - not to mention that I don’t think her family would have been kind to her after failing to do that and effectively becoming an old maid.

And, most importantly, it wasn’t a case where “it happened one night”, where Henry sought comfort to Jane, she fell pregnant by accident and welp, time for a shotgun wedding? Simply because Jane *was* Henry’s mistress for a certain period of time, three months at least (unlike Mary Boleyn probably lmao), which does kind of make me think: “Yeah... I don’t think she was that boring and nasty, tbh”

Now yes, Henry didn’t exactly treat Jane with the same amount of respect he treated his other wives - but I wouldn’t see that as evidence that he didn’t love her, simply because of the archetype he may have attributed to her? Namely the one of the Modest Daughter of a Country Gentleman Who’s Elevated to the Highest Position But Keeps Her Humility, unlike her predecessor?

It’s entirely possible that Henry saw Jane as a sort of Cinderella figure, but that more importantly, he expected her to stay demure. So him treating her like garbage at times? It’s probably him realizing that Jane had a mind of her own (although I don’t really think she was some sort of mastermind, since some of her doings as Queen seem a little... gauche, added to the fact her husband was a wee bit of an arse and didn’t have much patience for her “mistakes”) and wasn’t the demure country girl he wanted her to be, so added to his probably still present turmoil about Anne, it made him snap, while she found redemption giving Henry a son... and conveniently die afterwards after fulfilling her duty.

#history nerd tag #jane seymour #henry viii

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illegalstargender · 4 years ago

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☕️ tell me about.. The palantirs and where they were kept and who used them again uwu

!!!!!!!! aaaaaa OH oh absolutely! ok OK SO let’s see ... how about a list to keep things sorta organized and contained??

Gondor was specifically charged with four of the stones, which became known as the Orthanc stone, the Anor stone, the Ithil stone, and the Osgiliath stone

If I think about what they might have been called before this, I’ll lose it completely so... just gonna pretend their history began in Gondor for know

the first three (Orthanc, Anor, Ithil) were kept in towers, the Osgiliath stone seeming to be an exception, however!

there are important architectural considerations to a room that houses a palantir, and those elements mean that actually, all four rooms are remarkably similar

one of those features is a domed ceiling, which in Osgiliath means, YES yes y e s! the stone was originally kept most un-secretly (though with great reverence and ceremony) within the Dome of the Stars itself, positioned at the center of the dome at one point, guarded by an honor guard similar to the one that guards the White Tree as we see in late third age Gondor

given the power of the stones themselves, the domed ceiling need not be at the top of the building itself, though! Meaning that in a tower like Orthanc, the room that houses the palantir is domed, even if the top of the tower itself isn’t, and this is no way impedes the stone’s function

as for who uses them WELL! they have a reputation of being associated with the kings by the time of the late third age, but this is more like we would associate jousting with medieval times rather than a specific indicator of usage, meaning people think of them in association with the kings because the height of their common use was during the time of kings in Gondor and Arnor

In fact, it is the stewards who were the stone’s caretakers and masters for the majority of their history in the hands of Men, for even during the time of kings, it was very rare for a king themself to use the stone, relying instead on their stewards (who perhaps even at one point themselves relegated the task to subordinate users)

and YES YES YES Denethor was the most legitimate and skilled master of a palantir at the time of the events of Lord of the Rings, Tolkien himself wrote this as FACT, I go spare pondering this and how his impression of Denethor shifted over time, only Aragorn could supersede him by right though he was clearly no match for him in skill, best not think about how things might have been different if they’d only had time to work together BECAUSE!

this is already quite long and that will turn this into a real and actual novella at least, so I will leave it here for now but I hope everyone who sees this knows I could, in fact, keep talking for hours about this, as Erran can attest uwu

#tolkien #gondor #palantiri #denethor #the stewards #aragorn #thinks about all tolkien gave us as gathered in the palantiri chapter of unfinished tales and vibrates with excitement and righteous fury #lesbiansforboromir

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221bsunsettowers · 4 years ago

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TK/Carlos Royalty AU: The Kingdom Lights Shine Just for Me and You: Chapter 1: Never Thought I’d Meet You Here

TK Strand is a Prince who has given up on true love after having his heart broken.

Carlos Reyes is a Knight who longs for true love but must put his family's needs first.

Carlos just won a jousting tournament hosted by TK's father.

The prize?

An arranged marriage with one Prince TK.

This can also be read on Ao3 here. The entire story is already outlined as it began as a response to a headcanon request for Prince TK and Knight Carlos, and I’m feeling really inspired, so chapters should be added pretty regularly! Thank you so much to everyone who have already been so excited and encouraging!

There will be soft boys with emotional baggage! Strangers to lovers! Hurt/comfort! Angst with a happy ending! Near death experiences but everybody lives and no one dies! Minor appearances by other Lone Star characters!

CW for medieval violence, mentions of overdrinking to the point of potential harm

Chapter 1: Never Thought I’d Meet You Here

There were a lot of words Prince TK Strand would have liked to use right then, but apparently they weren't befitting of royalty. So he just stayed silent, biting his tongue, watching a group of men compete for his hand in marriage.

Because clearly, TK thought to himself, adding in a mental roll of his eyes for good measure, that was going to fix every part of him that had been broken by Prince Alex. TK had thought that Alex was the one, even though his parents had strongly disagreed. They had pointed to the reports of Alex's reputation that already permeated the nearby lands, stories of multiple broken engagements layered upon tales of overworked servants and underfed subjects. But TK had been won over by Alex's sporadic assurances that TK was special, how well they would rule together, swayed so strongly that he was ready to propose marriage until Alex bluntly told him that he had been seeing Prince Mitchell for months and Mitchell's land was worth far more gold than TK's.

TK had drunk a lot of wine that night, so much he remembered nothing of what happened after Alex had left. Everything he knew from there was hearsay, what his mother and father had been able to get out at his bedside through their tears when he finally awoke. TK had lost months of his life to Alex's lies, two days of his life to Alex's cruelty, and he was determined not to lose any more time. He hadn't had a drop of wine since that night.

It was especially hard to fight the urge to numb the pain when he was subjected to this abundance of embarassment. His mother and father, the King and Queen of Austenia, having to hold a jousting tournament because their son the Prince couldn't make a match on his own. King Owen and Queen Gwyneth insisted that wasn't the case, that all that they wanted was their beloved son to be happy (happier than they found themselves was the unspoken message, as it was a poorly kept secret around the palace that Owen and Gwyneth retired to separate bedchambers every night). But all TK could hear resounding in his own head was that the only way someone would want to be with him was an arranged marriage that would at least bring them wealth and privilege.

Sir Carlos Reyes had always believed in true love. He grew up at the feet of his elder sisters, listening in awe to the fairytale stories they read aloud to him, knights going on dangerous quests to rescue a prince from a dragon, princesses finding their way through thorny curses to rescue their true loves, and he had believed that one day he would be in his own fairytale. He would rescue a handsome and kind prince, and they would live happily ever after.

No part of that tale had involved him in a jousting tournament, fighting for the right to an arranged marriage with a Prince he had never even met. All Carlos knew was his name-Prince TK Strand of Austenia-and the wideflung stories about Prince Alex's dastardly treatment of a now-heartbroken TK. Clearly the arranged marriage was not TK's idea, he was still hurting over Alex, perhaps even still in love with the man.

But clearly, as much as Carlos dreamed so strongly of a love match, he needed to win this tournament. His family had a decent holding, a small but well run estate, but his eldest sister was in love with a man of higher stature, a man who also loved her dearly, but whose parents were insistent on him marrying a woman they considered of equal stature. If Carlos could win this tournament, secure his position of Prince, no parents could deny his sister's dream.

So here he was, at the invitation of King Owen himself. Carlos had assumed that everyone had been personally invited, but in speaking to a few other men, he had quickly learned this was not the case. Each man had boasted of defeating every other eligible man in their area to be allowed to enter the tournament. Carlos had quickly decided that, despite being a very honest man, the personal invitation would be information he would keep close to his chest. Something told him that sharing even a hint of something he himself did not even understand would place a very large target upon his back.

However, Carlos was determined not to hide anything else, particularly not his fighting skills. He might not be from as large an estate or as wealthy a family as the other men at the tournament, but his father had trained him to be a protector and defender, just like him. Carlos had put in his time as a squire, been dubbed a knight, and continued to hone his skills. By the time he mounted his horse and faced down his final opponent, Carlos could see the fear in the other man's eyes before they lowered their visors and charged.

It was over before it truly began. The other man flinched, leaned back slightly, but enough that Carlos' lance swept his aside easily, landing a hit hard enough to tumble the other man off his horse and to the ground on the first pass. Carlos reined his horse in, leaping gracefully off and hurrying to his opponent's side.

"Are you hurt?" Carlos asked in concern. The other man stared at him in confusion, but shook his head, taking the hand Carlos proffered to assist him back to his feet. "You fought valiantly," Carlos assured him, before turning to face the royal party, bowing low as he removed his helmet.

Raising his head, Sir Carlos finally met the eyes of Prince TK.

Oh. Carlos felt all other thoughts fly from his head as he held TK's gaze.

Oh. TK's mind could do nothing else but unknowingly echo the very thought ringing through his now-bethrothed's mind.

Oh.

If you would like to be added to my Tarlos Taglist, please let me know!

@bikingthroughhawkins @i-had-bucky @highqualitykhakis

@meloingly @buddie-buddie @morganaspendragonss @marceee24 @ravens-words @laelipoo @a-l-ias @pragmaticoptimist34

#9-1-1 lone star #tarlos #carlos reyes x tk strand #tk x carlos #carlos reyes #tk strand #royalty au #prince tk strand #knight carlos reyes #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #tarlos au #strangers to lovers #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending

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to-many-towered-camelot · 4 years ago

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book notes

for anyone who is interested in a nuanced take on fairy beliefs vs the Christian Church in the Middle Ages, this book by Richard Firth Green was actually so good, if your library has it:

[Image: Front cover of the book ‘Elf Queens and Holy Friars: Fairy Beliefs and the Medieval Church’ by Richard Firth Green]

like, obvs it’s just one person’s take on a very complex topic, but it’s well-written, well-researched, and it uses a bunch of Arthurian examples throughout to explore this dynamic (see under cut)

really interesting exploration of how the Church’s response evolved from the early-High Middle Ages (”dude, you believe in fairies? hhhmmm, do penance for 10 days”) to the Late Middle Ages/Early Modern Period (”kill them for heresy and witchcraft!”)

and how it enfolded vernacular/fairy beliefs into Christian doctrine as fairies being either a) demons or b) the illusions of demons (and how dangerous/bad these demons were depended on the time/location/cleric in question - some packaged fairies as “neutral” demons who fell when the rebel angels did, and who must be punished on Earth but will return to Heaven on Doomsday - potentially doing this to soften things for their parishioners, who often held these fairy beliefs and reconciled them with Christianity, uh, differently than the Church officially would prefer)

and enduring belief in fairies existed in both common and aristocratic circles (can see this in medieval romances, although they’re not the only source of evidence), rather than just being used as cultural “decoration” by a more sceptical upperclass

aaaaand because of this conflation of fairy = demon, you get a really interesting blend/overlap with medieval demonology and enduring “folk” beliefs (obvs not all of medieval demonology was just rebranded fairies, but some of it defs was - you see stories being retold with “devil” instead of “elf”, for example)

INCLUDING in Arthuriana - how you get Morgan the Fairy (”le Fay”) vs Morgan who was raised in a nunnery and learned dark magic there, the Lady of the Lake as a (largely) positive force, Merlin inexplicably as a (perceived to be...) Good Guy despite being the literal antichrist, the Green Knight and all the overlap with Christian symbolism in that story, etc, etc. and they all just either??? co-exist in the same stories or appear through either more fay or more ~Christian lenses depending on the version

and it creates a very interesting and very confusing soup of Stuff stemming from a very confusing - and sometimes dangerous - soup of official and unofficial beliefs evolving over hundreds of years

anyway, WRT Arthuriana it’s got (and ymmv on these, but they’re all interesting thoughts):

(i think in Gottfried’s Tristan???) apparently Tristan has a rainbow fairy dog called Petitcriu...name a knight less deserving of such a Good Boy smh

Chretien’s Yvain flooding out Laudine at the fountain (...jerk) as a continuation of the beliefs surrounding a magical Spring at Barenton

Gingalain moving from being the son of Gawain and the fairy Blanchemal (and having a fairy love interest, Pucelle) in the French OG version (~1200-ish) to being the son of Gawain and his human mistress (with Pucelle also being human) in a later 15th-C Middle English version)

AJDKN UJ IOE E Merlin’s conception, that one’s a wild ride - theologians REALLY didn’t like the idea of demons being fertile, and the work-arounds they came up with were...incredible. but skipping over that sheer comedy, the author draws links between Merlin’s conception and the general trend of claiming a fairy lover/whatever when a difficult-to-explain pregnancy arose. He also theorises that Geoffrey’s idea for Merlin’s father being a demon/fairy may have come from Nennius saying that Merlin/Ambrosius’ mother “never knew a man”. Later adaptations of this storyline made it even more fay-like (when they weren’t, like Robert de Boron, making it more fucked-up) by making Merlin’s father invisible (Wace) or a super attractive guy in swanky gold clothes (Layamon) - and Vortigern’s advisor explaining the creatures that lived between the earth and the moon until doomsday, etc, etc (walking that line between fairy and incubi, whichhhhhh was not clearly delineated in the Middle Ages the way it is now). also there’s one 13th-C Anglo-Norman poem where Merlin’s father is a bird that transforms into a dashing young squire, which isn’t terribly demon-y. So even though most versions of this story describe Merlin’s dad as an incubi-demon, what people understood this to mean may have been more fay-ish that we’d expect nowadays (depending on the reader, and also on authorial intention - some are pretty explicit that he’s a demon [many clerics keen to push this as the main narrative], while others refer to him as an elf or fairy). some contemporary scepticism during this time about Merlin having any sort of supernatural parentage as well

[none of the same Church anxieties about explaining away how the Plantagenets and other aristocratic families claim a female fairy ancestress - maybe bc there’s none of the stress about patrilineal bloodlines??? who knows! but yeah, much less thought given to those stories in ecclesiastical circles, and they were very popular in vernacular romances (male aristocratic wish fulfilment?). also, fairy enchantments =/= necromancy, so there are stories like the non-cyclic Lancelot where the Lady of the Lake is found out to be “a fairy by education, not by nature or heredity” (Elspeth Kennedy), with the spirits used in necromancy being demons, not fairies. also potential trend of female-associated magic becoming more passive and book-learned, gradually demonising it leading up to early-modern witch hunts.]

Geoffrey of Monmouth in his Historia and in the Vita Merlini being actually pretty circumspect about saying whether or not Arthur was alive/dead, returning/not returning, maybe due to his work/text being a (hypothesised) defence of the Welsh as being “civilised” (and having been so for centuries before the Normans came) - with the corollary that believing in Arthur’s return was somehow “uncivilised”. Author argues that this may be due to an association with fairy beliefs, and that Layamon is the one that makes Avalon explicitly fey. Also the author describes Arthur as living in a “feminised version of the Christian heaven” (iconic) and says that later writers and people could be very scornful of this belief held by the Britons/Welsh/etc, and that it was contrary to orthodox ways of thinking.

Links the “discovery” of Arthur and Guinevere’s bodies in Glastonbury in the late 12th-C as similar to when individuals found the bodies of their loved ones, thus making it much harder to believe (and hope) that they were still alive in fairyland. Makes a suggestion that the monks in Glastonbury who “found” these bodies may have been trying to curry favour with the English crown (i.e. champion/hope of the Welsh isn’t coming back) but also may have been trying to “help”/”save”/correct the thoughts/ideology of the Welsh (i.e. “set them on the correct path to salvation”). Lots of medieval writers describing Arthur as living in “fairyland”. Precedent of people visiting fairyland and returning, so Avalon/fairyland =/= a place only for the dead (i.e. Arthur isn’t dead). An Arthurian example, albeit a less explicitly fay one, is Lancelot getting in and out of Gorre (with Gorre as a “typically supressed and rationalised” version of fairyland) in Chretien’s Knight of the Cart.

Some stuff about the wild horde (distinct from the wild hunt) being presented by some writers as very penitential (i.e. they are departed souls that may look like they’re bearing arms/hunting/whatever as they did in life, but really they are in agony e.g. because their weapons burn them) and tbh demonic (black armour, carrying torches, ominous aesthetic). Other writers thought maybe it was - once again! - demonic impersonators rather than actual mortal souls. (Should note also that the wild horde/wild hunt motifs were not always associated with their being dead). Relevant in the Arthurian context because Arthur and his court were sometimes associated with the idea of the wild horde (as in, sometimes the wild horde is described as Arthur’s court living it up in a cool, undying sort of way - “in the likeness of knights hunting or jousting, commonly known as the household of Hellequin or of Arthur” [Etienne de Bourbon, a medieval writer] - with Hellequin’s household often being used to encompass either the wild hunt or the wild horde). Ultimate point made by the author (props to him, he��s always like “if i’m right” lol) that for many clerical writers, it was very uncomfortable to leave people with the impression that Arthur and his court were living it up in fairyland (and similar for other figures associated with the wild hunt/horde) and this idea needed to be corrected/shaped to suit more orthodox perspectives - e.g. tying in with notions of purgatory, etc.

Aaaand this one was exciting to me just bc i’ve vaguely heard about Arthur and his knights snoozing under a hill, but for some reason i could only remember this being in Victoria-era-and-onwards poetry. 3 versions of the same tale, where a servant looks for his master’s lost horse on a Sicilian mountain. Version 1) servant of a bishop finds his master’s horse in the beautiful palace of Arthur’s court beneath Mt Etna. Aside from the fact that the ancient wound Arthur received from Mordred opens once a year, it’s not very purgatory-like. Version 2) a dean’s servant is told by an old man that King Arthur has the horse on Mt Gyber (Mt Etna). he is told that his master must attend Arthur’s court in 14 days, but the dean laughs it off...then sickens and dies on the appointed day (whoops). Enough differences to this story compared to the first to suggest an oral circulation. Also a note in the version/text that such mountains are said to be the mouth of hell, and only the wicked are sent there, not the chosen. Version 3) Etienne again! Also likely changed with intervening oral circulation. The master is not an ecclesiastical figure, and Arthur’s palace is now a populous city - also Arthur is not referred to, just a nameless prince. There is a gatekeeper who warns the servant not to eat or drink while he’s there (that...is a very fairy-ish proscription). This mountain is apparently reputed to be the site of purgatory. The book author (Richard, i mean) ties these versions in with other stories/accounts of different entrances to purgatory (e.g. one on an island in an Irish lake) as being part of a gradual process of “rendering [...] fairyland purgatorial”.

Finally, Gawain in Roman van Walewein: To get to an ‘earthly paradise’ [i.e. King Assentijn’s garden with its fountain of youth - side note that ‘earthly paradises’ were often popularly described to be fairyland/where fairies live, in addition to their theological functions, e.g. Avalon was sometimes described as an earthly paradise...i should also say that purgatory was frequently thought to be located beside earthly paradise, so there’s the proximity element] and the castle containing it, Gawain must cross a river (guided by a magical talking fox) that a) has waters that burn like fire, and b) can only be crossed by using a bridge sharper than a razor. His reaction? “Is it the enchantment of elves or magic / that I see?”. He is then guided by the fox underneath the river through a tunnel, and is told that the river’s source is in the depths of hell, and “[the river] is the true purgatory / All souls, having departed from the body / Must come here to bathe.” So it’s a very strong intermingling of fairy and purgatorial imagery/ideas!

I dunno, I just found this very ??? satisfying to read

it leaned towards lit-crit at times (which, considering the subject matter, is honestly fair enough), but it was more respectful of vernacular beliefs than so many other academic takes i see (ofc ymmv re: anything to do with non-Christian major religions, but i think the author’s pretty solid on this!), and it had an explanation for the survival of these beliefs that imo made a lot of sense, especially from a pan-European perspective, not just a Celtic one

plus it explored the undeniable damage done by Christianity over history without making up some “ranged battle between paganism and the Church” that i see e v e r y w h e r e in casual Arthurian circles...which, like, i empathise with the vibe, but also! that’s just straight-up historical revisionism! (i blame MZB and the 80′s for that one)

(there was a fantastic post floating around a while ago about how the religious syncretism in Arthurian literature is much more interesting than peeling away all of the Catholicism in the medieval lit (...you ?? don’t end up with much left?) and saying that this is more “accurate” to some obscure original)

anyway yeah yeah ymmv but it’s v interesting 😊

#arthuriana #Arthurian legend #religion #religious history #christianity #folklore #*#richard firth green #AUDEI FEF HEF this is hilariously long #but really it was such an interesting book!#esp if you're a bit like me and you've been turned away from discussing vernacular/folkloric elements in Arthuriana bc of how badly/weirdly #it's been handled in the past #arthurian literature #medieval history #medieval literature #medieval romance #(also im so sorry to any medieval historian reading this im just throwing around 'The Church' willy-nilly i know it's not a monolith!!!#pinky swear

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cowperviolet · 4 years ago

Text

A GUIDE TO MEDIEVAL TOURNAMENTS

Do you have a dynastic wedding to celebrate? A diplomatic visit to spice up? An axe to grind with a neighbour whose pageantry is eclipsing yours? Organize a tournament. It’s always the answer. A tournament of the greatest knights of the realm cannot go wrong.

Of course, it’s also a great and complex undertaking; but, thankfully, this step-by-step handbook should guide you through the process with only minimal pain and no injury

Obtain permission.

In England in France at least, organizing tourneys had become mostly a royal and ducal prerogative after 1340 – if you are not lucky enough to belong to one of those miniscule categories of the population, you would have to seek a special license. Obtaining it shouldn’t be a problem… unless, of course, there is a war on. In that case, you’d better check the latest royal proclamations – it’s more than possible that one of them contains a temporary ban on all tournaments while men of fighting age might have to risk their lives and limbs against an actual enemy. If this is true, it would be prudent of you to postpone your plans for a few months (or years, depending on how the war is going) – you wouldn’t want to content yourself with the kind of furtive affair that was the Le Hem tournament of 1278. It was hastily staged in direct violation of Louis IX ’s prohibition of tournaments because of the ongoing war, and as a result had to even dispense with the mêlée on the third day.

(If you think the prohibition overbearing and unfair, plenty of people would agree with you – and not just the kind of people who can afford swords and horses. The poet Sarrasin criticized the king in his Le Roman du Hem for bankrupting the heralds, armourers, saddlers and provisioners of France with his tournament ban).

2. Consider the time and place.

Most tourneys run from Monday to Sunday, with Friday being the rest day. You would need a spacious marketplace to divide into lists, too.

A lot depends on what kind of tournament you want to host. A general mêlée whose absence so disappointed the spectators in Le Hem would need more space than a contained joust; on the other hand, mêlée combat has been steadily losing its popularity as of late in favour of one-on-one jousts.

Of course, some people grumble that the old days when horsemen smashing into enemy in massed formations were the fixture of any tournament where the days when men were still men. But we are modern, fifteenth-century people, and we understand the importance of ensuring safety both for the participants and the spectators – hence the barriers down the centre of each list to prevent the knights from actually colliding with each other, and fenced enclosures to keep the audience strictly away from the danger. Which brings us to…

3. Decide on the rules.

The traditional rules of joust are the following: the knights are divided into two teams, those ‘within’ and those ‘without’ – or, in other words, the ‘defenders’ and the ‘attackers’. The space is, in turn, divided into three lists, each separated from the other by high barriers. The courses – the charges by two opposing knights – are going to be run down each, towards the spectacular splintering of lances. Each day, a prize, usually in the form of a small jewel or a golden chain, should be given to the best-performing knight and squire from each team.

You can, however, add or tweak a few details in order to make the sport safer for the participants – or more exhilarating for the audience. For example, you could take a page out of Maximillian I’s book and provide the knights with special spring-loaded shields that would flow apart if struck in the right place. You could also follow King Edward of England’s example and model your tournament after the béhourd he sponsored in Windsor in 1278: he specified, among other things, that the participants would have to wear cuir bouilli – a type of leather boiled until it was almost as hard as metal – and use wooden shields and whalebone swords.

If you scoff at the lightweight kind of tourneys popular these days, and especially if you care little for pageantry, then a different kind of joust might be more up your alley. The so-called passage of arms, or pas d’armes, is an undertaking to defend a certain place (usually a bridge or a gate) from all comers. It was inspired by various episodes from Arthurian romances, such as the Romance of Yvain by Chrétien de Troyes. In fiction, the knights undertook the defend a bridge, a gate, or a ford in single combat, and, if they were defeated, the winner took their place. Naturally, a real passage of arms plays out somewhat differently – for one thing, the defense only lasts a specified period of time (rarely longer than two weeks), and one defeat in a particular joust does not mean surrender. The most famous example of any knights attempting this kind of endeavor is probably the pas d’armes that Suero de Quinones organized at the Orbigo Bridge in northern Spain for two weeks until the St. James’ Day of 1434. They claimed a plan of breaking 300 lances in total – if they failed, the organizers promised, they would remain there for a further fortnight. They fulfilled that promise, and ended up withdrawing only on the 9th of August – but even with that extra time, they’ve only managed to break 178 lances in total. It’s no mean result, of course – plenty of minor conventional tourneys end in mighty disappointment for the spectators with not a single lance ending up broken at all.

It must be said that, although a passage of arms is a grandiose undertaking, jousting proper usually only takes a couple of hours a day there – in other words, the spectators are likely to be disappointed anyway. Your fellow knights, however, are going to be delighted by the concept – if, of course, they are true connoisseurs of tourneys just like you.

4. Think of the logistics.

The matter might begin with the rules of fighting itself, but it doesn’t end there. If you are in a position to organize a tournament out of your own purse in the first place, you must be the master of the lands where it’s going to be held, so make sure your subjects don’t suffer as a result of the soaring prices that usually accompany such events, not to mention the influx of professional warriors. Fix the prices firmly for the duration of the tournament, especially the prices on bread, fish, and meat; stipulate that no spectators or unarmed persons are to mix with the participants; make sure each gate of the city is manned by about twelve armed men, and station at least five hundred guards around the setting of the tournament itself.

5. Send out invitations.

Sending letters of invite seems to be the most logical course – however, it is also the most excruciating one, given the number of noblemen of fighting age who would be eligible for participation. In your situation, it would be better to contact the organizer of the tourney closest to yours and ask him to have your upcoming event announced there.

You would also do well to contact the tournament societies in your region – if you live in Germany, it’s going to be particularly easy: the whole concept, after all, originated in Bavaria. Tournament societies are essentially permanent tournament teams from different regions. Instead of laboriously summoning individual knights, one could simply issue a challenge from one society to another. Moreover, some societies’ rules even specify that the members have to meet annually at a tournament -it might as well be yours!

6. Think of the theme.

Of course, you don’t have to have a theme – you might want your tournament to simply be a bit of rough, honest fun it used to be in William Marshall’s days. We don’t live in William Marshall’s days anymore, though, and I suspect you wouldn’t want to be outdone by your neighbours.

The most go-to theme are Arthurian legends. It’s the kind of oldie-but-goldie you cannot go wrong with. The fashion was arguably started by Edward I of England, who set out a round table and acted out a number of Arthurian romances with the other noblemen at the feast after the tournament in honour of his daughter’s wedding. That was a far cry from the spectacular Arthurian festival arranged across the Channel by the lords Longueval and Bazentin in Picardy: they had the tournament presided over by ‘Queen Guinevere’, and stipulated that all the attendant knights had to bring a damsel with them. Another member of the theatricals was named as Chevalier au Lyon, who supposedly ‘rescued’ the ladies in ‘Guinevere’s retinue, and even had a real lion with him.

If this is all a bit too out there for you (or, the other way around, too pedestrian – everyone does the Round Table these days!), you could organize the pageantry of the tournament around your heroic ancestor or your sigil – possibly both. For example, the joust that Adolf of Cleves staged in Lille had been inspired by the story of the Cleves’ progenitor, a knight who was miraculously led along the Rhine by a swan and ended up marrying the local princess. During the joust, the ‘Knight of the Swan’ was to take on all challengers.

The procession, to quote the words of a contemporary, included

‘…drummers; and after them a pursuivant of arms dressed in a coat of arms full of swans; after him came a large swan, marvellously and skilfully made, with a crown of gold around its neck, from which hung a shield of the full arms of Cleves; and from this crown hung a golden chain on which, from one end, there hung the shield of the knight; and this swan was flanked by two very well made centaurs who had bows and arrows in their hands, and made as though to shoot at anyone who tried to approach the swan’.

7. Plan the banquet.

Nothing can sour the impression of a great tourney as a meagre banquet afterwards. The need for a generous display of food is self-explanatory – roebucks, suckling pigs, silvered eels, gilded bread, almond soup, kid goats, and the like – however, this is sadly not enough. You also have to think about the entremets.

What are the entremets? To put it simply, everything that is a part of the banquet, but is not edible. I’m not simply talking about straightforward entertainments like music, theatre pieces, or juggling. Entremets can also be elaborate installations for your guests to admire, such as a mini-carrack, exquisitely executed up to the last rope and laden with goods, or a mechanical forest full of strange, if thankfully unmoving, beasts. Even vessels sometimes count – you could have the sweets be contained in little chariots decorated with gold and azure. If you prefer to walk on the wild side, take a page out of Taillevent’s book (quite literally – it’s called Viandier) and construct a fake lion equipped to spout flame: ‘make it with a brass-lined mouth and a thin brass tongue, and with paper teeth glued in the mouth; and put camphor and a little cotton in the mouth and, when it is about to be served before the lords, set fire to this’.

Just don’t do what they did for the Feast of the Pheasant when they’ve made a statue of a naked woman in a large hat who spouted sweetened wine from her breasts for the duration of the dinner. Please.

Sources:

Normore, Christina. A Feast for the Eyes.

Andrew Brown and Graeme Small, Court and Civic Society in the Burgundian Low Countries c. 1420–1530.

Kelcey Wilson-Lee, Daughters of Chivalry: The Forgotten Children of Edward I.

#medieval history #medieval #Middle Ages #history #history geek #writing reference #writing resources #writing ref

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