#inanna the brood queen

[flowers-of-io]

@savyir-genesizz-the-wizard I didn’t want to clutter the post with another off-topic reblog but YES. YES. You hit the nail on the HEAD

[moonmaiden1996]

Summoned Part 2

Rumours around the absence of the Dream Lord had been circling for the last 100 years or so. Every possibility had been verbalised, not that you believed any of it. Something had happened. It was impossible not to have felt the disturbance, the delicate balance that had completely been thrown off. The world was not the same after that; it became aimless and bitter. Wherever and whyever he disappeared to seemed to be the reason the being wanted to restamp his mark on the universe upon his return.  

The endless were a strange lot but never had they married. Even Night had not married Time. So, the announcement sent shock waves through the waking world. Who he chose would become consort to the Dreaming and restore themselves to their previous glory, if not greater.   

The age of gods and goddesses was long over, and most had perished to Time; most faced annelation in a fury only to whimper out like a damp spark. Others, like yourself, faded, clinging to the last vestige of their power. Your cauldron allowed you to brew your potions and inspire just enough to still exist; others had clung to their earlier fame, trying to retrain what they once had.   

You grimace as you linger on the outside of the crowds. Too far away to see the King astride his throne save for those eyes, like burning stars watching impassively as Mightly Thor thrust up his hammer into the air sending a stream of lightening above the crowds. A great brooding cloud dominated room, sending a savage downpour of frozen rain onto the marble floor, drenching the other gods and goddesses. Aphrodite shrieked at her robes, sagging and crumpling in the water, causing the bulging redhead god to chortle ungracefully as he bowed off.   

One after the other, each God or goddess gifted the Dream Lord with an offering, each in competition with the last. Hermes had gifted a pair of golden wings, Aphrodite a large pearl seashell with nymph attendants who cowered beneath the shell as they proffered it up. Jiurtain Xuanniu offered her own phoenix egg, Inanna her eight-pointed sun. Thor, his thunder. Your offering was so insignificant in comparison. Though you crafted your best potions and elixirs, nested in a twisted basket of purest vines of inspiration nurtured by yourself, it was simply not enough.  

It was not that you did not want to be the future queen; you would be restored, elevated above anything you had previously been. You would lie if you said you hadn't plotted against the others. Being a goddess of knowledge gave you a slight edge in this race. You knew exact strengths and weaknesses of the other contenders and exactly how you wanted to present yourself. 

You had painstakingly weaved traditional robes, tied at the shoulder with your mother's Celtic knot. Not the elegant silks or plush furs of the others but it showed of your comely figure. You even placed your hair perfectly, to reveal your graceful neck and decolletage, even applied one of your own balms to your face and body. You looked beautiful but were not a goddess of beauty or love. Nor held the power that might beguile him. Your skill should be enough to catch the Endless's attention. But a deep sense of unease settled within you.  

The pageantry was sickening, fawning and fighting over a throne that would stop them from going a little further. Peitho had already taunted Eros to tears and had some of her follower's spill wine over Bathsheba's gown, no doubt under Aphrodite's orders. Peitho's outfit was undoubtedly an attempt to seduce, if it could call it an outfit. She wore a thin sheer belt around her waist tied at the hip, just enough to hide the lower regions of her body; her upper body was completely bare bronze breasts stood proudly out, no doubt to gain favour. It was not just them; the others had preened themselves too. The remaining Valkyries wore full flowing gowns and thick leather breastplates; one of their spears had already maimed some deity causing quite a scene, enough to solicit a sharp, steely glare from the King at his thrones. The room was tense, rippling with need and a sense of urgency, a perfect atmosphere for war. You had not fought in the hundreds of battles on earth and had no intention of wanting to fight now, even if that meant you were restored.  

"Lady of the Cauldron, goddess of knowledge, inspiration, witchcraft, and medicine. Daughter of Ceridwen. You may approach and submit your offering." the raven voice rang clear across the throne room.   

You were so lost in thought that you had not realised the line had advanced. Shaking off your thought, you inclined your head before proffering the basket you had made. Forcing your eyes up, you held your gaze demurely.  

Up close, he was nothing like you had imagined. He has been crafted in a star, skin like diamond dust hair as if it had been crafted by Night itself, which of course, it had been. The red of his ruby shone out against the paleness of his cheek where it laid just above his heart, that's if he had a heart, to begin with.  

Mercury's eyes held you. Swirling like a hurricane, you were not blind to the atrocity he has caused, the pain and suffering, what God had not caused that, but there was something hollow in the God. Empty. Desolate   

"I... I offer you my best potions, my knowledge of hearth and home, and the inspiration of every artisan. To aid you in seeking prosperity." The words sounded as weak as you felt. You had this grand gestured speech planned, practised to perfection, but it died on your lips like hopes. 

Bowing your head, you lifted the basket for the attendant, who plucked it from your hands. Like the other, the King remained silent, his gaze burning into you as you retreated backwards till you could no longer see his eyes.  

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  

Upon the dance banquet hall, you pondered who would be chosen. Would it be an embodiment of war or of peace, love or beauty? He may even pick one of the elemental creatures gracing the room. Maybe even a fairy or selkie. The Dream Lord gave nothing away, treating every one of his offerings with indifference. So, when the last offering had been given, and the feast called, there was a certain amount of disappointment that no proposal was made.   

Fountains of nectar and waterfalls of nectar flowed in the great hall. Fruits and pastries glistened under the touches that lined the walls. Steam trailed from palates of boar, suckling pigs, venison, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meats, long wreaths of sausages, pies, barrels of oysters, red hot chestnuts, immense cake, and seething bowls of pudding. There were jugs of mead, negus, ale and beer and tankers of toddy. Food that you had long forgotten even existed piled high like in the times of old.   

Yet you ate nothing, touched nothing. While all around you gouged and made merry, you wished to escape. There was something in his eyes, something bewitching, something that terrified you. Endless magic was, after all, completely different from the magic any of the gods and goddesses possessed. All the knowledge you and your cauldron have amassed it was all useless here, this was unknown. You were not prepared to allow yourself the foolishness and quick tempted reactions that had befell your mother to her fate.   

"Lady of the Cauldron,’’ a strange voice called from an even stranger creature dressed in a heavily embroidered waist coat. ‘’I must say your offering is one of my favourites; the basket style is... unique never seen such interesting wood." A strange creature primely bowed to you. 

"They are vines of inspiration; they used to grow worldwide till... I cultivated these myself, enthused them with my potions; they should still bloom and spread their pollen to bless the King and his new consort’’ you politely dipped your head.  

"Ahh, the flower... I have read about your illustrious flowers. Blooms that inspired some of the greatest minds...’’  

A soft glow flowered within you; it had been years since anyone had even acknowledge your blooms and a need to reward that praise. 

"Then take this..." You smiled unwinding one of the flowers that decorated your hair. 

'My lady...I simply cannot..."  

'You are by far the nicest creature here; take it as a token of apparition for being nice. I hope the bloom inspires you." You offered. 

‘’Thank you" And with that, the pointy ear creature plucked the flower from your hand and placed it in their lapel as an uproar surged in the room.  

"What is happening?"  

"The king is giving out Golden Apples to those he deems agreeable to court for his potential future consort." The creature primely supplied the answer, as they adjusted the flower, smelling the fragrant bloom. 

Straining your neck, you peered above the crowd. Of course, Aphrodite has an apple, held aloft in the air as she was carried on the soldiers of her nymphs. A few other apples shone brightly around the room, though those who had received them were obscured as the rest of the guests crowded around to see the precious apples. Which meant the festivities were over, and you were finally free to return home. 

Free... 

"Will you honour me by accepting this apple," A deep voice pulled through the air despite the calamity around you. 

Beside you, the shadowy figure curled over you, his eyes burning like a dying star as the bared down. Your eyes strained at the brightness of the apple, recoiling as it was held higher by the pale hands. An apple? For you? A shiver of pride or was its terror ran through you as you regard it for moment. A legendary golden apple, like the ones that once graced the silver branches of Ireland and the tree on top of Mount Olympus. 

"Lady of the Cauldron, will you not honour me with your acceptance, or am I unworthy of your affections and to be your future husband?"  

His skin burned into your fingertips as you delicately plucked the golden from his open palm. Mutely staring at it in your cupped hand, so large and plump and so heavy. 

"A gift as a token of goodwill, I hope to find my consort among you.' the Dream Lords voice reverberated against the walls. "Take a bite."   

The others had already sunk their teeth into their apple before he had finished his words, moaning in ecstasy as they devoured their apples.   

"Take a bite, Lady of the Cauldron you wouldn’t want to offend me."  his voice echoed darkly in your ear as hesitantly your teeth sunk into the golden flesh. 

His eyes burnt in you as the fresh sour crunch burst in your mouth, chocking you as the juice tickled down your chin and neck.  

Thank you so much for all your feedback! It really helped me to write this! It’s a mix of legends and myths and hopefully you like the direction it is taking. Please like and leave comments if you can  

Question- who else do you think received an apple? Might be some god/goddess rivalry next :p

@musemaniac42 @aralezinspace @boofy1998 @cipher-needs-2-sleep @avatar4eva (couldn't tag) @sassenach-the-pie-maker @ella33 @suszanne @ladyredstar1991 @alexander-arcturus-black @maripositanoctruna @xushisuxi @imaginovator @dotieeee @honeybeezgobzzzzz @cryban6 @lonelyladyghost

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Art by Richey Beckett

* * * *

In order to enter Mordor, the realm of Sauron, and so commence the final phase of his quest, Frodo must follow his treacherous dark double, Gollum, into the dark tunnel which is really the lair of a gigantic she-spider Shelob. Mating with and later slaying her own male offspring, feeding on all living things, Shelob is depicted as an insatiable and thoroughly destructive female monster:

“Great horns she had, and behind her short stalk-like neck was her huge swollen body, a vast bloated bag, swaying and sagging between her legs; its great bulk was black, blotched with livid marks, but the belly underneath was pale and luminous and gave forth a stench.

… still she was there, who was there before Sauron… and she served none but herself, drinking the blood of Elves and Men, bloated and grown fat with endless brooding on her feasts, weaving webs of shadow; for all living things were her food, and her vomit darkness. Far and wide her lesser broods, bastards of the miserable mates, her own offspring, that she slew, spread from glen to glen…

Little she knew of or cared for towers, or rings, or anything devised by mind or hand, who only desired death for all others, mind and body, and for herself a glut of life, alone, swollen till the mountains could no longer hold her up and the darkness contain her.”

The above is possibly one of the most striking literary representations of Jungian Terrible Mother, whom Ted Hughes also calls the Black Witch or the Queen of Hell. As Hughes explains, the Great Goddess of matriarchal mysteries consists of two antithetical figures – the Goddess of Benign Love and the Goddess of the Underworld (although the benign figure is sometimes further divided into Mother and Sacred Bride). In the most ancient manifestations, such as in Tiamat, the two are united, whereas in pairs such as Aphrodite and Persephone, or Inanna and Ereshkigal, the separation becomes more prominent. Still, as Hughes maintains, in every epiphany of the Goddess both aspects are present, 'one latent behind the other. In the foreground they appear to be two, and opposites, but in the background they are one. The rational ego of the patriarchal man, however, finds it impossible to cope with the Goddess in her completeness (even though, on the inner plane, she actually represents the totality of his natural, biological and instinctual life). In order to preserve the equilibrium and control required of him by society, he splits the Goddess into the part that supports and confirms his rational existence, and the part that would disrupt it. The dark, rejected part … not only includes the orgiastic, amoral and even non-human biological drive for reproduction… but associates herself, being forbidden, with everything forbidden, uncontrollable, naturally or supernaturally hostile, thereby uniting the world of death with the world of elemental sexuality, animality and the daemonic.

— The Knife, The String and The Tooth: Manifestations of Shadow in THE LORD OF THE RINGS by Nataša Tučev

[Centre of Applied Jungian Studies]

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Vesuviella: Part 16

It’s another overcast morning when you reach the edge of the woods outside Vesuvia. The air is cool and crisp, the dampness from last night’s fog lingering on the wildflowers dotting the clearing. Unsurprisingly, Julian is running a little late. Surprisingly, Muriel is already here. He rises from the boulder he was brooding on just behind the tree line and walks out to meet you.

“MC. It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Muriel.” Your gaze drops to the second striking pair of green eyes trained on you, Inanna appearing from behind her master to lope forwards and give your hand an idle lick. “Hello to you as well, Inanna. How have you both been?”

“Well enough.” He comes close enough to hold your gaze. “And you? … have you been well, MC?”

You smile and nod, pulling out your script. “Busy, but yes. Nadia won’t be able to make it today, so it’s just you and me and Julian.”

You watch his face drop into the slightest sulk. “There’s no point in rehearsing with him if Nadia’s not here too. I don’t need his help to practice lines.”

“But you won’t just be practicing lines!” Julian appears with a triumphant grin, somewhat sweaty and out of breath, with his well-worn director’s script in hand. “This is one of the only scenes where you take center stage, my friend! We can get you into your finest shape today, what do you say?”

Muriel’s deepening pout doesn’t deter Julian from dropping his cloak on a patch of underbrush and flipping to one of many dog-eared pages. Muriel sighs, following suit with his own booklet, as Inanna flops down to roll with uncharacteristic enthusiasm in a particularly wet, slimy patch of the forest floor. You’re just reaching the correct page in your own script when you notice her creep next to Julian’s cape, dripping in Arcana-knows-what, just in time to perform a full-body shake with one of the smuggest looks you’ve ever seen on a wolf’s face. Muriel’s scowl twitches into a fraction of a smile. Julian, absorbed in muttering over his notes, takes his director’s stance in front of his soiled clothing, oblivious to the events of the last two minutes.

“Right. Are we ready? I’ll take those smiles as a yes. Go ahead and begin at the beginning, I’ll hop in with Nadia’s lines as you go along.”

You nod and turn to Muriel, taking a moment to settle your gaze. “Father, Mother, I’ve found her. I’ve found someone I can build something real with! You have to let me go after her.”

Julian’s shout from across the clearing scatters a bird or two from the treetops. “My child, what marvelous news! What is her name?”

You sigh. “I don’t know.”

He continues to project across the field, his volume causing a familiar looking raven to caw in annoyance. “You don’t know? Do you know where to find her?”

You glance at him, real frustration mixing with your acted tone. “I don’t know that either!”

“Then how can you claim that she’s the one? How can you be so certain if you don’t even know her name? Where she lives? Take inspiration from her if you like, my child, perhaps you may seek out whatever charming person chose her dress and brought her to the ball. You’re free to explore your options for someone less … elusive.”

“But Father, I love her. And I believe she may love me too!”

“Have you considered that someone who hides away like that might not want to be found?”

“Enough.” Muriel’s rumble seems to settle into the earth beneath your feet. He turns to you, almost maternal in his earnestness. “When she spoke to you, did she desire to be seen?”

“Yes, Mother. I never looked away from her, and she never asked me to.”

“Then if she desires to be found by you, you will find her.”

Julian’s voice cuts back in, this time aimed at the Queen. “My love, surely you don’t mean –"

“I mean what I say.” Muriel sends him a withering glance before turning back to you, tenderness crossing his face. “We don’t know her reasons for hiding away. But if there is anyone worthy of her trust, it’s you. Whoever you choose to be with, my child, will be most fortunate.” The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. “So search for her. And when she’s ready, bring her home.”

A heavy, gentle hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and you smile into the Queen Mother’s face. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll start searching right away.”

“Perfect!” Julian snaps his script shut. “I don’t have much to add. That was very well done.” He smiles at you both tiredly, slipping down to the grass only to spring up again as the dew left behind soaks into his trousers. “And I, ah – oh, oh dear.” He lifts his muddied cape from where it’s somehow slipped off of the bush and into a nearby puddle. Off to the side, you can see Inanna’s tail wagging slowly. “I believe I have a town to get back to – patients to tend – not that the great outdoors isn’t refreshing, I – well, I’ll see you next rehearsal.”

Muriel turns back to you with a quiet smile. “You did a good job.”

“You did too. I haven’t seen you act like that before.”

You see a flush traveling up his neck as his eyes glance away. “That part about wanting to be found … I can relate to it.”

You watch his hands clench around his curled-up script. “You do?”

“I didn’t want to be found … before I met you. But you found me. And … here we are.”

You grin up at him. “In a play.”

He releases a shaky breath, putting his script away with a smile and a shake of his head. “In a play.” He pushes a bundle of dried herbs into your hand. “For the chill. I’ll see you later.” He’s melted into the trees before you can respond. You’d go after him, but you’re beginning to feel a slight ache in your bones from standing out in the chilly, damp air and you don’t want to catch cold. It seems you’ll be using his gift earlier than expected.

[pieandhotdogs]

Hey! I'm not the same anon as the others who've been asking about this (I'm just on anon because ✨ anxiety ✨ but I'm just curios, is there any reason you use the name Antheia specifically for God Herself? I love reading your posts on Her and I hope you share more 💚

Hello! So Antheia was the first epithet that I applied to my worship of Hera way back when I first got involved in Hellenic Polytheism. I really liked the title, which means "blossom" and loved the imagery of Hera surrounded by flowers.

Fast forward several years and I began to explore the "evolution" of religion and deities throughout the Mediterranean region. I was particularly interested in the etymology of Demeter ("De-Meter", God Mother) when compared to the common title for Mary ("Mater Dei", Mother of God) and with Aphrodite's evolution from Mesopotamian deities like Astarte and Inanna.

During this time, I received several dreams which combined aspects of various goddesses, reinforcing their relationships to each other in my mind and in my practice. Antheia is an epithet applied to both Hera and to Aphrodite, it shares an apparent root with Athena, and is the name of one of the Graces, as well as being thematically connected to Demeter and Persephone. Because Demeter was often conflated with Rhea, and Rhea was conflated with Cybele, and Cybele was conflated with Artemis who was conflated with Selene and Hekate... you might see how these deities all became interconnected as One for me.

Antheia became more than just a simple epithet to me, it became a symbol of the mixing and blending of these individual goddesses into an underlying current which was greater than the sum of its parts. As Hera She was the Queen of the Heavens, the Mother of the Milky Way. As Demeter, She was the God Mother, the Earth and all Her brood. As Aphrodite, She was the piece of the Sky that fell into the Sea, and as Artemis She was the Goddess of Light and our Savior from the darkness. She is the divine Gardener, creating beauty from the dirt, where She walks, flowers spring from each step, tiny mirrors of the stars in Heaven, symbols of the love between the Earth and the Sky, symbols of the union of all gods into One.

[rosheendubh]

“Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?”

Song of Songs 6:10 https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inanna

—What Uthyr quotes at the Battle of Guinnion (the White Fortress~Eboracum in my mind, but Uthyr’s forces have been beaten back to Danum/my interpretation of Mount Danius alluded by Geoffrey of Monmouth), as he and Brochmal Ysgithyr (my Bedwyr), and Ceiheiddon (Cai), amid keeping their lines enforced, desperately fending off the enclosing forces of Jutes under Hengist, Octha/Osa, Cedric of the Gewisse, and Sueones/Saxons under Onela (Ale/Onela if the Swedish King cycles, my version of Aella Bretwalda, father of Cymen, Cissa, and Wlencing/Lancelot…), the allied Scoti under Pascentius, son of Rheinwen by Vortigern, and his Picti allies under Huail, brother of Guinevra, Cunedda, and Cywyllog, who betrayed his own father, Aeturnus of the Cawnur/Votadini, and the Frankish forces naval forces en route to the Bay of Abos/Humber inlet (my Bassas). —Gwalchmai, up from the front forces under heaviest assault, informs Uthyr earnestly of an approaching host sighted from the north, under an unknown banner, leading mounted units in formation down the Old Military Way from Corstopitum/Corbridge by the Wall. Cei, Brochmal, and Uthyr climb a knoll overlooking the wide valley full of clashing men, Uthyr’s heart sinking, knowing if the Frankish forces have landed, their battle is lost. Hoping against hope Gwen received his message, sent in greatest haste, carried by his and Cei’s sister (Uthyr’s cousin, actually), Cywair, cross country to DinEidyn, a bundle of tattered and torn, moth-rotting cloth, delivered only to Gwen’s hands, with the news of her father’s death, and Huail’s betrayal to the Jutish side. An old Roman legionary Standard, hidden away from the light for almost 3 centuries, once born by the forces of the Iazyges under Artorius Castus, in defense of Brigantia, that had united the region of the Old North and disparate auxiliary units with legionary companies. Found by Vortimer/Emrys Wledig in the neglected strong-room of Danum’s base, lying at the bottom of chest. Gwen, who unfurled the bundle handed her by a road-weary and exhausted Cywair, the fate of Britannia tied to her women now. And Guinevra, understanding exactly what she holds, the Symbol of Brigantia—a Swastika as a Tetraskele, St Brigid’s Cross, transposed upon itself to form the 8 Pointed Star Wheel, once the sign of Celestial Brigantia Herself, Divine Protectorix of the Tribes of the North spanning half of the island, threaded in Silver upon the heavy wool/leather canvas of the banner, died a bright blue once, faded to molding yellow, the All Seeing Eye at its nexus, the White Winged Serpent and the Red Winged Serpent twined around the central pole of the image as a caduceus. Those of Uthyr’s men who aren’t Danes and Swedes, pagans still, battling in that terrible melee drowning the valley of Danium, who are Roman or British decent, and declare Christ as their chosen God, while still making obedience to Mithras and Jupiter and Mars, will see the banner growing increasingly distinct upon the horizon of the North as the sign of the Holy Virgin, Mother of God. Those of his Northmen, who Uthyr himself, a son of Waelsung blood, a child of Wotan, has sailed and raided and pillaged as a SeaKing before claiming his and his brother’s legacy back from their father, Vortigern, claiming Britannia as a refuge for Teutonic immigrant and Roman-British citizen alike, under one rule, knows that Banner as the Queen of Heaven, and the woman who grasps the shaft of the standard in her hand, at the head of the forces of a united Alba, Valentina beyond the Walls—Prydain all of them, the Caledonians—leads the Houses of the Prydain to his aid. The Sword of Mars strapped to her torso, her spear secured at her mare’s neck—magnificent creature of Heavy cavalry stock bred with blood of African equines—Llamrei a gift of the Ostrogoth prince, Theodoric when he parted company from Guinevra in Rome— And at her side, Palomydez, the Alani, with his thousand heavy Cavalry out of Luguvallium, Pabo the Pillar if Prydain, arrayed in the scale armor as their muscled horses were, a metallic serpent of a thousand catarphactii at head of the Hen Ogledd, impervious to Jutish spear and Saxon blade once they assembled on the crest of the northern hills, the eve of their charge. —Next to him, Gwalchmai numbers off in awe, the houses following in Guinevra’s triumphant decent. The AlClud under Maelrys-Coroticus ap Baeddan, allied with the DalRiada’s naval fleet, the Banner of the Boar heading the Fidaig under Drostanus, with the Fortriu-Verturiones, and the remnants of the Lothians, jogging their mounts amid the Gododdin and Manau Gododdin signaled by the standards of the Bull, the Ram, and the Stag. —Ceiheiddon can’t seem to stop muttering, “By Mitra’s Shit Balls, I can’t believe she’s brought them…all of them.” Joined by Brochmal’s measured gaze, taking in the growing mass of mounted warriors now, across the vale to the northern bluffs. The faint trumpet of their Teutonic adversaries resounds with urgency, attentive to the new arrivals of the battle. He glances at Uthyr, the question of what they will do with this unexpected, hardly hoped for reinforcement changing their chances just barely to their favor. Down at the eastern end of their line, Cunedda is already readying his foot, and Medrod controlling the artillery from the crumbling barricade of Danium’s earthen bulwarks. Their small company of horse Uthyr held in reserve, trying not to deploy them until they were absolutely needed, knowing they had few precious charges to waste against Hengist’s greater numbers. Uthyr wishes for many things in that moment—that Vortimer, his eldest brother, the one meant to rule—were still here as the ultimate commander. Imperator…Amerarddur. He’s not earned that title for himself as yet. He wishes he were commanding his fleet of Black Danes, left under the authority of his sea-brother, Swerta-Hrothgar, dispatched in too choked of a time span to head off the Frankish ships. Wishes, gazing now across the vale, to the figure of Guinevra, a speck really, in the distance, but her can discern her astride her proud steed, that even against the brooding storm washed clouds, dark with deluge, and the rumbling of thunder, just beginning to spit fire from the heavens, and soak the moors below, the cold winds of late winter brewing into a gale, he wishes he still held her in his arms, as he had that last All Soul’s Feast, residing at her father’s invite, at DinEidyn where he’d planned to winter until the thaw of spring hailed he and his war-band back south, having won the alliances his brother required of the northern houses. But not having secured the most important, despite the betrothal of his nephew, Medrod to Aeternus’s youngest daughter, Cywyllog, the younger sister of Guinevra. In the lands of Valentina beyond the Wall, the tribes whether Prydain of Picti, honored kingship through mother-right, the eldest daughter of the head-chieftain who imbued the right of rule to her chosen husband. He’d tried to gain that privledge, deceiving her among the Samana festivities, thinking to seduce her behind a celebratory mask, and drunken revelry, so Guinevra wouldn’t recognize him from his cousin, Maelrys, who had been her chosen lover at that time, and had given the AlClud a son, Dumnovallos of DunBreatan that past spring. Maelrys thereby, solidified by blood, and a marriage of a year and a day had won by abduction, and Guinevra’s complicity, an alliance between the two most powerful houses of Valentia beyond the Wall. The Votadini providing an heir for the AlClud ruling from the rocky dome overlooking the western Firth of the Clotha. Guinevra, who had anticipated Uthyr’s deception, and unsuspectiny devised a counter-strategy, playing along with his ruse, until the moment of consummation, about to take her. She had called him out in a desire soaked breath. *Eutherios-Eutigernos—I’ve known Maelrys my whole life. Did you think me so easily tricked?* Between her legs, tasting of her essence, he rose over, his fingers curled at her throat, gentle, but fully capable of crushing her slender neck, as she pushed aside the cloth about his eyes, and he lifted the owl mask covering her brow. In the dim flames of the hearth, warming her chambers, her gray eyes held no fear nor accusation, passion and a dangerous glint boded in their depths. *It would be a matter of moments to finish what I need to here, and proclaim my rule, with our coupling.” She gracefully dislodged his hand from her throat, twining her fingers with his, as she turned them over, simple as a dancer, with a supple move of hip and leg, their naked limbs sliding against each other, flesh heating to fire. He caught his breath, rough, looking up at her now, lithe lines of muscle smoothing arm, and shoulder, the sweet curve of waist blooming to thighs astride his loins, his palms shaping her soft flesh, riddled in places with scars over her back, a healed laceration puckering her torso, where she arched beneath him, moving against his swollen phallus. A woman, trained as a weapon herself in the defense of her people. As she’d been educated too, in the texts of classical medicine, to act as physician and surgeon, indoctrinated as well, in her years residing in her convent in Rome, in the texts of the Greek and Roman scholars—Law, philosophy, and right-rule. A woman raised to be a ruler. A woman who could match is own upbringing educated under the tutelage of the abbess of Avillion in Gaul, and Germanus’s own monestary, spent his youth reading under the direction of Macrobius Ambrosius. “You don’t strike me as the type who violates women. You would die in this bed first, by my hand or that of my men, armed and waiting only my call if shouted.” He realized then, she’d known all along of his deception. He’d expected no less, of which he informed her in a low voice. “I know. Which is why my men were warned not stray far from their weapons, and not drink to excess of stupidity.” His hand kneaded her breast, and she leaned into him, her lips parting with a sigh, eyes flashing at his words, and yearning into his. “You knew, Gwen, but you’ve remained silent in summoning them. That tells me one thing,” he rasped, feeling her sway along his member, moist in her need, but not taking him in. His hand slid to her cheek, and she turned to his palm, lips kissing the skin as her eyes dropped shut, concealing the melancholy shimmering there, motion of rapture, body rocking against him, as she drew forward, over him, lowering her mouth to his, dark waves of her hair cascading around their locked forms. A groan rose from him, his lips searched hers, questing tongues, her breath a tickle against his stubbled cheek. Urgency building where their thighs met, motions growing more insistent as he grasped her hips, strong trying to push her against him. Her teeth bit into his neck, and a strangled moan escaped, white heat rushing over his flesh, This urge to possess. Broken all at once by a pounding at her door, the rap of a heavy hilt against oak, the angered shouts of men, and slide of steel from sheaths as benches and tables from the outer hall banged and crashed against stone floors. *UTHYR! UTHYR! YOU’RE NEEDED—* The sounds of a combat reaching them, Guinevra tensed in his arms, wrenching herself out of his grasp before he could stop her. Pain shot up his jaw, her hand striking out in a back-handed slap. *You fucking bastard!” She raged, voice low and full of ice. “Is this how you thought to win my affection?” She grabbed for a linen sheet, meaning to loop it around his wrists. He caught the fabric before she secure a knot, pulling the length and her along with it. Gripping her shoulders, trying to restrain her as she struggled against him, he brought them to kneeling, facing each other amid the rummpled blankets. “Listen to me!” He commanded Furiously into her burning gaze. “I didn’t give any order for them to attack. I don’t know what—“ *UTHYR!* The door rattled on its hinges as someone worked the latch, the clang of metal erupting beyond, words of protest and insult hurled about. A last heave, and the latch tore from its rivets, the oaken slabs crashing wide against the wall as Gwalchmai stumbled into the room, on his heels, Drostanus, charging with his shield raised like a bludgeon, aimed at the back of his head. “Halt, Drost!” She ordered, firm. Anger and doubt still clouded her eyes upon Uthyr, as she reluctanctly turned her focus to the cluster of armed guards filling the room, 3 more figures just beyond the entry freezing at her words. Uthyr raised his hand in a signal for his own men to lower weapons, nodding toward Gwalchmai for assurance. Awkward seconds passed, the soldiers, both Guinevra’s guard and Uthyr’s own, seeing the state they disturbed their lady and lord. Guinevra, unaffected by the male presence, casually rose from the bed, freeing herself from Uthyr’s hands, nonchalance in the way she strode to where her chamber robe lay over a chair back. The men crowding her private quarters may not have been there at all, for the notice she took of them, coughs and throats clearing as furtive gazes tried to preserve her modesty, the honor of a noblewoman against the temptation to glimpse such a glory of vision. Uthyr took advantage of the moment, uncaring of his nakedness—these men were his brothers as much as battle comrades he’d known since boyhood—but sensing the need to reestablish dignity of rank, slipped his trews on, tying the draw-strings loose about his waist. Gwalchmai bowed his head brusquely, looking up with an apologetic flick of eyes toward Guinevra, before speaking. “My lord, urgent summons to the council chamber. Your brother and his forces lie ambushed outside of Eboracum, that’s been betrayed by Cerdic on Octa’s design.” Uthyr swore, dread sweeping away any remnants of passion. Someone muttered from past the doorway, how Aeternus’s units, with Lleudonus, always seemed summoned to salvage the fraying hold Eleutherius fought to maintain upon what had once been the expansive region of the Dux Britanniarum’s authority surrounding Ebrauc. It wasn’t the internicene resentments between Northern houses which concerned Uthyr in that moment. How could have let himself be so beguiled in this past summer and fall, enthralled by a Votadini princess and her mesmerizing aura? Even if his assignment here had been at the impetus of his brother’s wish. Even if she was the key to gaining ultimate authority over the lands of the Prydain, which would bring Caledonia into Vortimer’s rule. With Uthyr’s company north of the old Antonine divide, Vortimer’s forces were left dangerously under-manned. Guinevra asked in a strangely subdued tone, “When was this news received?” Gwalchamai’s cheeks went ruddy, unable to meet her face directly, obviously haunted by the image of her unclothed form, white limbs, willowy curve of breasts and hips, thick dark waves her only covering. “Just now,” he managed in a choked voice, adding belatedly, “my lady. It-it came to your father first.” Uthyr caught the disquiet darkening her brow, eyes leaping to him with an impenetrable look, before shifting to Drostanus, alert as a watch-dog at the door’s threshold. A few short directives to him, with a last reminder she would summon her maid to dress and join her father and brothers presently, and Drostanus bowed once, exiting her quarters with a brief call to her men to leave their lady her privacy. Uthyr only had to glance once a Gwalchmai, for his nephew to understand the silent order. He bowed as well, a precise turn and a word to Uthyr’s men, resheathing blades, securing axes or mallets into belt loops, and drifting after Gwalchmai’s broad profile, as Uthyr assured he’d be right behind them to the assembly hall of Din Eidyn. Despite the dire tidings, he found calm in the clarity of her gaze. In the dim flickering of the hearth casting shadows across her face, her eyes held the color of spring skies, rain doused over pewter waters, back lit by golden fire where the sun would peek from clearing storms on the brightening edge of heaven. Remorse filled him, torn by the shame of lust over-riding his purpose, the deception he’d been caught at. “I have to join my brother,” he said helplessly. Stupidly, at a loss for proper parting, feeling equal parts like a thief and a swindler, though he’d stolen nothing she hadn’t seemed as equally vested to offer. Until the disruption of this news. “My mother could care less about me, but she still loves him. I owe him a last chance to see her, make his amends. He’s never stopped loving—“ With a raised hand, she quiets him. “You don’t have explain yourself Uthyr, son of Vortigern. I know.” A soft *chuffing*, a spread of shadow the shape of wings fills the wall opposite the hearth. One her ravens, pets she’s raised since girlhood, settles on its perch. One of Sisters Three, who’ve stood as guardians, companions, and guides through this rare woman’s youth, her wardens of destiny. Midnight feathered, and as large as a muscled warrior’s single arm length when wings fully spanned, the one on the highest branch of their indoor arbor cocks a ruby eye at him. Daughter of Wotan, and child of Brigantia, they are not the one eyed god’s daughters, but that of Celestial Brigantia. Other men’s superstitions might warn of the Raven’s gaze mirroring Wotan’s unwanted scrutiny. But Uthyr has spent his life forfeiting the Christian god, and cursing this Northman’s deity as well, dispelling the icy sensation of his presence in the back of mind as fancy, and calling natural science to his aid in suppressing the wild power he knows that foreign otherness can promise. Winning this woman, that ultimate Wotan seeks,

—

This stream of consciousness inspired by HistoriaBrittanorum’s Battle 8, the Battle of Caer Guinnion/the White Fortress. It could be the Fort of the Legions as well, but York’s Latin-Brythonic Name of Eboracum, actually shares a root with the Latin of Ivory (eburone,or something??…Ivory has a sense of Whitish—maybe York’s Walls, repaired by Constantine, appeared white when viewed from a distance??), along with other speculations of meaning (its British/Welsh form of Efrauc mimics the AngloSaxon ‘Eofor’ which means Boar…not related, I don’t think, unless the Boar was the standard of the VI Legion Victorius, stationed in York, but that might have been a bull actually??). The boar belonged to one of Britannia’s other legions, I think. Anyway, Nennius writes that it was this Battle in which Arthur bore the Image of the Virgin on his shield/suspended across his shoulder…like a shield. In Welsh ballad tradition, Arthur’s shield is translated as ‘The Face of the Evening’. This was a common epithet given to the Virgin Mary, But was actually a phrase directly acquired from Venus-Aphrodite, as the planet Venus appearing with the Sun and Moon as the Morning Star and Evening Star. Venus, of course, was the Babylonian-Sumerian Ishtar/Inanna. The Queen of Heaven, literally, and…another epithet of the Virgin Mary. Celestial Brigantia was another appelative for the same goddess, as understood by the Romano-British. A tutelary goddess of what had been the most influential tribe of northern Britain, even after Roman occupation, through the 3rd c AD at least. And dedications to ‘The Virgin’, meaning ‘Virgo/the Constellation’, alluded to her archaic Sumerian origins as the great Creatrix of Life/Death/Learning/Science/Poetry/Music/Agriculture/Law/Civilzation/War/Medicine/Justice/etc…all the aspects embodied historically by Inanna, the Face of the Evening, who becomes Freya-Frigg-Skathi-Nanna-Hella in the Nordic pantheon. Anyway, Arthur, Uthyr in my take, when it’s mentioned by Nennius he bears the Face of the Virgin into battle, ACTUALLY harkens to a pre-Christian concept, molded to Christian tastes, of the Archaic Virgin. IDK if that was Nennius’s intent, or if Geoffrey of Monmouth understood that context when he compiled his epic 300 years later. Maybe he did. After all, it’s Geoffrey who conceived of Morgan le Fey/of the Faery, as the most learned in medicine, math, and astronomy, of her 9 Muse-like Sisters, who resurrect not just the Muses, but 9 Gallic priestesses who resided upon Sena, off the coast of Brittany, known as the Gallicenae. And, Geoffrey liked his Queens. He had no problem writing powerful women into his epic. After all, it’s from Geoffrey Shakespeare drew his inspiration for Cymbeline and King Lear/Cordelia. Anyway, the motifs of the Arthurian codex, resound from (my own speculation) a much earlier, borrowed concept lying somewhere between Inanna, and Athena’s aegis of the Gorgon (Medusa, being an aspect of Athena actually, and Andromeda as well. The name alone of Andromeda, means, in simplistic breakdown, ‘Ruler of Men’. And the symbolism when she’s chained to the rocks before the Sea-monster, Cetus, mirrors Inanna in the Underworld, having passed the 7 Gates of Hell, stripped of her Status, judged and condemned by her Sister, Ereshkigal, to be hung by chains, and tortured into death for her arrogance in daring to conquer the Land of the Dead). I love how unsentimental these first Sumerian myths were before they became softened by later Greek and Roman classical writers. What Anglo-Norman Medieval authors borrowed in the term Virgin, has nothing to do with purity, or a woman with an intact hymen. Virgins slept with men, or women whenever they wanted. The even had children, with or without a male progenitor. The oldest sense of the word ‘Virgin’ was an heroic woman. A woman complete into herself, who took on the traditional tasks of men, and women, w/o the assistance of a man. Or, like a Shield Maid, ALONGSIDE AND EQUAL with a man. Risking death, torture, rape, loss, or whatever else stood in her way (think Lagertha of Vikings), to triumph in the exact same conditions as their male counterparts. Sometimes with more ruthlessness, or more compassion, but human all the same, and judged by her actions before her gender/sex put a label on those actions. A Virgin has no bond with a husband, to whom she was subservient. That’s all the word meant. Thus, Guinevere—The Face of the Evening, the Raven Queen, Ruler of Valentia Beyond the Walls, uniting the Picts and the Northern British houses under the Banner of Old Brigantia, to the aide of a southern prince, a son of Tyrants. Uthyr, bastard son of Vortigern, begotten in an act of humiliation upon Ygerna, the wife of Vortimer, Vortigern’s eldest son, dishonoring Vortimer for his rebellion against his father. In Uther’s veins runs the blood of Irish nobility (Ygerna comes from the tale of Ingren, the daughter of the Leinster King, Crimthann mac Ennais—here, as in Welsh geneolgies—Ingren/Ygerna is the daughter of Amlothi/Hamlet actually, a Danish Sea Raider who sleeps with one of 3 wives of Crimthann— and joins the Irish dynasties of the Deisi and the DalRiada to the British/Picti/Germanic families inhabiting the lands United from the Atlantic to the Irish Sea and North Sea and the Black Sea rim), Roman magistrates, and Waelsung heritage (Sigfrid, Sigmund, and Sinfjatli of Niebelung fame) that have shaped Uthyr as a son of Vortigern, rebelling against his father, and allied with Danish/Swedish/Geatish houses of Northmen, who have their own rivalries against fellow Danes/Swedes/Jutes/Saxons. Geoffrey’s Yder/Idris/Hidernus/Edern/Eurderyn—Eutharios/Eutigern—of the Black Danes, becomes my Uther, allied with Hrothgar/Swerta, an exiled Dane living amongst the Angles of NE Britain (This is based off Hrolf Kraki Saga. The Danish king of Beowulf, Hrothgar/Hroar…Rodger in English , who’s forever a battle-brother of Uther, in later decades. It was said Hrothgar converted to Christianity, and ruled his hall of Heort/sp?? as a Christian King). Uthyr, a quasi-outlaw, exiled bastard residing between Gaul, Scandinavia, and Byzantium in his youth, a mercenary andca Sea Wolf/Sea-Raider finally reuniting with his older brother, the renowned Vortimer/Riothamus/Embreis Wledig, to wrest back their authority to rule from their father, and the Jutish/Saxon houses opposed to the Danes/Geat/Angles. Arthur comes later, as Guinever’s son, either—and both—by Uther and Theoderic the Great. Dynastic imperatives here span the transformation of Western and Northern Europe from Scandinavia to Ostrogothic Italy, and in-between. Guinevere, Uther, and Theoderic, encompass a strategy of this New World of civilizing Romanized Barabarians, amalgamations of Tribal cultures reviving old Roman precepts of rule and law, between Britannia on the Western end of Old Empire, to Ostrogothic Italy, that Theoderic seeks to establish as independent from Constantinople. Lying in their midst, a lion at the heart of Gallia, are the Franks, with Clovis clawing the Merovingian hold to sever Britannia, and Visigothic Spain, from Italy. Willing to ally with Byzantium to do so, in order to distract Theoderic into defending his eastern territories of the Adriatic, Clovis succeeds in driving the last of his Visigoth brethren out of Gaul, and the inception of the Kingdom of the Franks arrives like a tempest. And finds Uther slain with his long-time war-band on the fields of Poitier, in 507, and Arthagenes (a version of a title of Hercules/the Hindu-Hellenic-Persian Verethragna. The name resembles variations of Artogenes/Bear Kin or Bear Prince/Artius/Arthan/and Artogneu…from that hideous inscription, but in my mind, while not ‘King Arthur’, lends enough similarity to said names, I’m comfortable basing his persona, ultimately, off the mythic concept of Arkas/Arcas, the Bear Prince, who circles Polaris, son of the Bear Goddess/Artio-Artemis-Callisto, and the War-Lord/and the Guardian of the stars, Bootes and Draco), his son, or Throderic’s, serving in Theoderic’s forces, in the counter-campaign to win back southern Gaul from Clovis. Incidentally, one of Theoderic’s generals bears the name Ebba, or at times conflated as Eobba (like the Bernician king of the Anglo-Saxon king lists), as well as Ida—the first king of Anglians who defeats ‘Outigern’ (in my take, the son of Arthagenes, by a northern princess, Vivian/Nuvien—Nimue-which is Gaelicized as Bebhionn, and feeds into the renaming of Din Guardi as Bebenburg, after Ida marries the British princess, Beara, according to certain chroniclers of later era. Beara is my Nuvien, a British saint actually, and the name from which Vivian and Nimue derive, and Dutigern, her son, a form of Outecorigas, recorded on Celtic inscription from Dyfed, I think, as a Protector of the Region.) Where Ida accepts Outigern as a son, And so, at Din Guardi/Bamburgh in 547AD, Ida establishes the kingdom of Bernicia. That will, by his grandon’s time, unite under Aella of the Deirans, forming Northumbria. The Star of the North, and its emerging repository of Anglo-Celtic-Roman culture by 600-800AD. This segment involves my revision of Theoderic’s daughter, Amalsuentha (a version of Melisande), actually being rescued from her assassination (she was strangled in a bath, around 534, by her cousin who coveted the throne of the Ostrogoths, which opened up Justinian’s excuse to invade Italy), as more of an comedic abduction by Offa/Yffi of the Deira/East Angles, Ida, and Cethegus, whose my version of the warrior-saint, Cathog/Cathomalos. She becomes my version of Marcia—founder of Mercian law, as Geoffrey attributes Alfred the Great’s codex of law and rule procedure to a Marcia, a great queen of wisdom and courage, who…probably didn’t exist. Anyway, I’ve now expounded to the point of random outline, and the tale which falls between my 2nd Century Artorius Castus Tale (that might go back to 1st Century Cartimandua, Agricola, and Arviragus/Genvissa, as mentioned by Geoffrey), and PreRev Paris with Jefferson and his Scottish lady physician. As an underscore to the Uther/Guinevere tract of Gwen as Queen, and Defender of the North, later Uther’s Wife, and Theoderic’s lover, there’s this scene that comes from the Welsh Mabiniogion, of Culhwch and Olwen. The tale is basically a Welsh version of the Norse myth of Svipdag-Odr, and Menglod. Svips is cursed by his step-mother to only fall in love with a particular woman, who happens to be the daughter of a fearsome giant, and impossible to win. Unless the hero undergoes a series of impossible feats which he overcomes, of course, to finally win his bride, and kill her monster-father. Anyway, there’s this passage Arthur speaks when his cousin, Culhwch arrives at Arthur’s hall, seeking some Band of Bros to help in his quest of Lady Love. Basically, I’m a kow-tow to those ‘rules of hospitality’ we like to romanticize were inherent to tribal societies of Germanic and Teutonic origin, Arthur welcomes his cousin with every promise to provide him with anything he needs on his quest, except [paraphrased from rusty neurons]: “…my sword, my spear, my dagger, my ship, my shield, and…my Wife, Gwenhwyfar.” Every time I come across this line, I think that’s either the coarsest of insults to his wife, and his queen, listed in an intinerary of his weapons. Or, it’s the most oblique of compliments to his wife. As Guinevere is his greatest weapon, even over his other enchanted implements, and won’t be utilized to any other man’s cause than his own. I’d like to add, that would be at her discretion of course. Anyway, it’s this exchange I use between Uther and Theoderic the first time they meet on the eve of Badon 2.0, after Gwen has escaped Frankish forces. And masterminded winning a bunch of heavy cavalry to her cause/Uther’s cause in the civil wars erupting across their island in the late 480s-491/493AD. This coincides with Clovis’s campaign against Soisson and the last Roman count, Syragius’s kingdom, falling to Frankish hands. Somewhere in there, I fanciful-ize Theoderic has come to Northern Gaul in the years of his own campaign to win Italy against Adavacrius (my Erp/Hyrp/Tge AngloSaxon Eadawacer—the son of Gudrun of the Nibelungs-Burgundians, and the widow of Sigfrid of the Walsungs. He’s Odovacer, the Heruli chieftain who deposed the last Roman Emperor, in 476), seeking an alliance with Clovis, a most brilliant and Mschiavellian ruler of Merovingian bent, asking for Clovis’s sister, Audafleda, as his bride (she does eventually marry him—the mother of Amalsuintha). Somewhere in there, we have Gwen being betrayed by her own sister, Cywyllog, whose married to Medrod, Uther’s nephew/cousin, and Gwen trying to reach Uther in Brittany/Aremorica, as he’s fighting for/or against Clovis, depending on when Clovis attempts invading north of Orlean, into the lands of Alani tribesmen, and the British colonizers of Brittany. In an attempt to set the truth before Uther that there’s been a conspiracy weaving lies that she’s tried seducing/promising their lands to Cerdic of the Gewisse/Wessex and his son Cynric, when it’s actually their daughter Gwenog, she’s promised to Cerdic’s son when they’ve come of age, attempting to win an alliance against Medrod/Cywyllog, Medrod’s messengers reach Uther first, and Clovis’s troops intercept Gwen’s small landing party, killing her own guard, and capturing her. Brought before, he disavows her, and rips off her neck-ring, that bore the symbol of Brigantia, and the right of her rule of the North. That Uther truly has no authority to deny her. His action breaks the alliance of Alba from Britannia, and only lends further fuel to Medrod’s attempt at usurpation in Britain. The fracturing of allegiances proves beneficial to Clovis, while he entertains Theoderic’s proposal. Uther, casting off his wife as a traitor, readies to return to Britain, facing the the forces of Medrod, his and allies of varying Irish/Northern British/Teutonic mix (where we see Onale/Aella Bretwalda, and his sons, Cymen-Cissa and Wlencing, arrive enforce, a Nordic king establishing a foothold in Sussex—the tale involving the clash of Swedish-Geatish-Norwegian-Danish-Anglian houses, from the tale of Ohtere and Onela, and the sons of Ohtere, Eanmund and Athislus/Aedgils). Gwen’s leftvin the custody of the Franks, to be disposed of or dealt with after the coming wars. It’s here Theoderic crosses paths with Gwen, his first love from decades before, when they been teens/young adults coming of age in Rome, in the last years leading up to Odovacer’s victory. And Theoderic, never trusting Clovis, devises an entirely different plan than what he’d first come north for, his own war stalled at the Walls of Ravenna, and needing a naval fleet to blockade the harbor that keeps Odovacer afloat, and fending off the final victory of the Ostrogoths. In a borrowing of the legend of St Genevieve of Paris, Clovis sends Gwen on a time wasting errand to Tours, where she’s meant to secure a bread supply fending off famine in Paris, whilst she, of her own design, crosses paths with Clothilde, and arranges a marriage between Christian Frankish princess and the heathen Merovingian conqueror. Theoderic’s 1000 Strong Sarmatian Cavalry who have served him as indentured warriors since his defeat of their city, Singidunum, in 474AD, sweeps in as the entourage returns from Tours to Paris, Theoderic intent on rescuing Gwen back to Itsly, or using her as hostage-ransom to win Uthyr’s naval force of Black Danes. Backstory here is, Gwen and Theo didn’t part well in Rome all those years ago, when he only knew her as some British orphan, and later discovered her heritage as a princess of northern Pictish/Roman British nobility, made an offer of marriage to her at that time just after his father had passed away, leaving Theoderic the heir of the Wandering Kingdom of Ostrogoth Amalungs. He rejection out of loyalty to her father and her people offended him, thinking she spurned him out of pride, thinking herself superior to his barbarian heritage, however Romanized, educated in the court’s of Constantinople. And once more, it’s Gwen who rejects his proposal, but w/o allies in the wilds of Northern Gaul/Frisia, where Theoderic’s forces are camped, she learns of his Cavalry, their decent from the other 2500 Horselords who had been sent into exile by Marcus Aurelius centuries ago. And it’s Gwen, a descendent of those same Sarmatians, the other 5500 Iazyges, sent to Britain by Marcus Aurelius centuries back, on the side of her Pictish mother, whose blood ran back to the Horse Goddess of the Sarmatians when she and her warrior-priestessss first arrived in Britain (see the intriguing grave finds of 2 women buried with weapons and Cavalry armor from Brougham found in 2004–thought to be of Hungarian origin, and dared to mid 3rd c AD), following their men to exile. And it’s Gwen who speaks the old tongue of Saranyu, mounted on a stallion, galloping amongst 1000 Catarphactii, with their Standard aloft in her hand, moving between their ranks, and rallying them in the language of the Iazyges, turning Theoderic’s offer for refuge in exchange for becoming his queen or mistress, and instead, compelling 1000 HorseLords to her cause, tge cause of Britannia, by weight of her lineage, and the promise to no longer “be considered slaves, but citizens” with lands of their own upon British shores if they were, to once more, fight on the Isle of Mists, for her king, and her land (mmm, I always loved that scene of Daenerys suddenly winning the Slave Army of Unsullied…this is my tribute of the Raven Queen to the Dragon Queen. Cliche is as cliche does…but, I’m hoping my version contains some originality). And Theoderic, thinking himself the savior, suddenly becomes the usurped, as his own officers, Vidia, Hjalmar, drawn from the sagas of Thiodrrek, always loyal to him, follow her command to apprehend and restrain him, till she can figure out what to with him. Which, in her Gwen way, involves an intimate scene, and Theideric’s Promise to fightvat her side, in support of Uther. Which is where we arrive with Theoderic and Uther meeting. A very stoic and grieving Uther, whose son, Llacheu, had been slain, the son of his youth, fathered years before with the matron/abbess of the monestary-college where he’d been educated outside of Avillion/Gaul. And who’d sought service in Uther’s court when he’d come to adulthood. Uther, who’d taken his dead son to The isle of St Michael’s Mount, in a confrontation with Medrod’s greater numbers, in a battle he’d thought lost initially, until the 11th Hour arrival of his wife, who he’d cast off in a rage of jealousy and intriguing falsehoods. And by the gods’ justice, he’d been punished by the loss of his closest brothers, Cei amongst them, and Medrod, who he’d always loved, turned against them. Gwen, once the enemy was in retreat, beaten once, but hardly defeated, who searched for her husband in a panicked dread, not finding him amongst the fallen, but following the trail of bodies strewn in his wake all the way to the tidal Chanel looking out to St Michels. And the beacon, the pyre burning there, where dead Llacheu lay, with his father mourning him, who wished to die himself. Haunted by the the ghost of his dreams, his wife and Queen, the mother of his son and daughter, guardian of his vision, takes shape out the shadows of a ruined villa’s garden—where flames dance in the night as Llacheu’s body turns to ash and smoke, and the stars witness with icy diamond beauty, the tragedy of men inviting war and sorrow. She wakes in his arms with the dawn, and he knows this was dream. He sees the neckring in place of the one he’d torn from her throat, bearing the insignia of the Wulkknot, 3 interlaced triangles, just above her collarbone, and Uther knows this as the Sign of Wotan. And the Symbol of the Ostrogoth Amalungs. Her lips are soft upon his, her gray eyes, clear as the sun shimmering across the steel waters with the dawn, entreat him. “You’ve lost a son, but where a brother has fallen, and one turned traitor, you may have gained another. Meet him, Eurdeyrn. And you might find a kindred soul there.” Which finds him striding through their camp, arrayed to allow for a makeshift infirmary, where Gwen will serve later, and the commander’s quarters marked by the standards and banners of the companies of his army. The cheers resounding through the throngs as his officers welcome him in a rush of greetings, condolences, assurances of faith, and endurance, these men who’ve bled and wept with him, to victory and loss. And more, the furious cheer that rises through the assembly grounds, at sight of his Queen at his side. North and South, Alba and Britannia United once more. He pauses. The guards align, stepping aside to allow for Uther and this Ostrogoth lord, followed by his own comitatus/elite officers—some them who’d committed sedition only 3 days ago, at the pledge of this Queen they all believe a goddess in human form, rather Horse Queen reborn. Gwen has never hestitated to take advantage of old symbolisms, equine goddesses or Ravens some of the most powerful divinties many of these nomads or barbarian tribes, recognize, only a generation or two as converts to Christ, separating them from their pagan forefathers. He’s well-formed, this Maering, a barbarian Cheiftain who styles himself an enlightened philosopher king. A guarded look locks with his, eyes of marine seas meet Uther’s amber gaz. aquiline features of boldness and depth define the high brow, the angular cheeks, fine nose nose, and strong jaw. An assembly not unlike Uther’s own, Theoderic’s grandeur smacks of brightened and sun, a lion in his prime, his red-gold hair plainted, the fine stubble of his beard, flecked with gray. Theyre of an age, and similar physique, each just on the other side of four decades, Uther’s image, more somber, the Winter King indeed, tresses of oak brown drawn back, long at his neck, his posture straight, muscled body riddled with scars of old wounds, his joints feeling the damp and cold more so than in younger days.

[flowers-of-io]

It's so unbearably funny to me that about a half of named happy couples in Destiny are Hive. Like out of humans? We know Zavala and Cayde had partners, there's O14, Devrim and Marc, Ana and Camrin, Mara and Sjur, and the somewhat-loving but also Very Dysfunctional marriage of Sylvie and Clovis II Bray. For Eliksni all we know about is Eramis and Athrys. And Hive? Ah boy, there's the infinitely cursed love story of Hiraks and In Anânh whose fruit were so plentiful they almost overran the Shore. There's Alak-Hul, whose love for Verok Eris cites as the reason why he rose against Oryx. Also he slew a legion of Thrall in her name, aww. The whole reason, and I don't say this lightly, for why the weapon Thorn even exists is Rezyl Azzir killing a Knight who happened to be the fiancé of a Wizard Xyor and sticking the bones to his gun, and out of rightful anger for murdering her betrothed Xyor cursed him. She also changed her name to "Unwed" to represent her grief, which is a big thing considering the Hive system of naming things, definitions, reality-changing words and such; the Hive die all the time, and yet she *defined herself* with the death of her fiancé and her own abandonment as a result. And of course there's Omnigul, described as unending loyal to Crota, the embodiment of his Will (which is another crucial concept in the Hive culture and magic). When Lokaar tried to assassinate Omnigul, Crota grew so furious he chased her all the way to Oryx's court, and asked his father to kill her - although Oryx himself once said Crota had been taught to ask for nothing, and yet.

This love is war is love is war, and I'm very soft over it.

[flowers-of-io]

Toland and Ir Yût made friendships bracelets for each other, fight me on this

I’ve reached the uncomfortable and indisputable realization that Hive sorceresses are hot.

This is supported by lore.

Consider the following:

Rezyl Azzir

Epitome of a guardian. Paragon of what it meant to be a titan. Goes to the moon, comes face to face with Xyor the Betrothed. Gets whispered to intimately, and then immediately kills her husband, a Hive Knight.

To Rezyl, the approaching horror cut an imposing silhouette not unlike that of an ancient, disgraced knight. Maybe it had been heroic once. Maybe here in these shadows, to the watchful eyes of the wicked woman and her rotting horde it was a hero still – only for a darker, sinister cause. The thought intrigued Rezyl. 

Rezyl. No Rezyl. Noooo no.

We all know what happens next. 

This happens next.

Consider the Second: Toland the Shattered

Another guardian. Another Hive Sorceress. He hears her sing and is immediately smitten and fascinated, throwing aside his fireteam to meet her and listen to her deathsong.

I, too, am detached from my source. The charming Ir Yût made her introductions, and I was very pleased to meet her. We had a conversation, a little tête-à-Yût, a couple old wizards exchanging definitions.

Bestest of friends.

Consider the Third: Hiraks

Poor little dreg falls into the Hellmouth. Ends up fascinated by the Hive, learns all about them and ends up taking Ir Ananh, another Hive Sorceress, as his  consort.

ONCE IS A CURIOSITY. TWICE IS A CONCERN. THREE IS A PATTERN.

HHHRNNGN CROTA I’M TRYING TO CRAFT AN OVERSOUL BUT I’M DUMMY PARACAUSAL AND THE CLAP OF MY DEATHSONG KEEPS ATTRACTING THE MORTALS