#lady of the green kirtle

[nochd]

This was on @whatareyoureallyafraidof's post where they put up this:

And I responded with this image:

and promised in the tags to elaborate if asked. And, @frodo-the-weeb, I will. But it's going to get long and I'm going to have to split it up into several reblogs.

First of all, since not everybody in the world is a Silmarillion enthusiast, let me explain what we're referring to.

One of the stories in the Silmarillion, and possibly the one Tolkien cared about the most, is the tale of Lúthien and Beren; a highly condensed version of a narrative poem called the Lay of Leithian, which Tolkien began writing in the 1930s and tried to get his publisher interested in after the success of The Hobbit.

(Their readers said no, and they tactfully asked him to focus on his Hobbit sequel instead. "The result," in Tolkien's own words, "was The Lord of the Rings.")

The skeleton of The Lay of Leithian is as follows; I'm intentionally leaving out a bunch of information that weaves it into the overarching story of the Silmarillion but isn't relevant to the thesis I'm advancing here.

Lúthien, an Elven princess and enchantress, falls in love with a mortal man, a ranger called Beren. Her father, the Elven King Thingol, disapproves and sends him Beren off to fetch one of the jewels from the crown of the Dark Lord Morgoth. Lúthien tries to join Beren but her father imprisons her in a tower to stop her, only it's actually a treehouse because they're forest elves. Lúthien magically grows her hair long and uses it to escape. By the time she catches up with Beren he is chained in the dungeons of Morgoth's second-in-command, Thû (whom Tolkien later renamed Sauron). She rescues him with the help only of a dog, who defeats Thû himself in single combat. They then live in the forest together for quite some time, but Beren feels bad about being the reason she can't go home to her family, and still intends to finish his mission and get the jewel. He leaves one morning while she's still asleep, so as not to put her in danger, and then when he's on the threshold of Morgoth's underground fortress in the far North of Middle-Earth she catches up with him again and he accepts that she's not going to be put off. Together they enter Morgoth's fortress and make their way to his throne room. They are in disguise but Morgoth is not fooled and uncovers Lúthien in front of everyone, declaring his intention to make her one of his many slaves. Lúthien offers to sing and dance for him, which is the way she works her magic. She puts everyone in the throne room to sleep, including both Beren and eventually Morgoth. She wakes Beren and he takes the jewel and they flee, but as they get to the outer door they are stopped by Morgoth's guard-wolf, who bites off Beren's hand holding the jewel.

That's as far as Tolkien ever got with the poem, but we have the synopsis in the prose Silmarillion to tell us the rest of the story; again cutting it down to the quick, Thingol accepts Beren as his son-in-law, Morgoth's guard-wolf attacks Doriath, Beren goes and hunts it but is mortally wounded, his spirit goes to the Halls of Waiting in the Undying Lands where the dead in Middle-Earth go, Lúthien also goes there and, again through her magical song, persuades Mandos the god of the dead to let him come back. Mandos offers her a choice: live on immortally as an Elf without Beren, or return to Middle-Earth with Beren but both of them will grow old and die. She chooses the latter.

Tolkien created Lúthien as a portrait of his wife Edith, which makes Beren a picture of himself. We know this for a fact because he had LUTHIEN written on her grave when she died, and when he joined her in it two years later the name BEREN was written for him:

Now on the lower right side of my response image you'll see Pauline Baynes' illustration of the Lady in the Green Kirtle from The Silver Chair, one of C. S. Lewis's Narnia stories. A quick synopsis of the Lady of the Green Kirtle's part in the story:

The Lady is a witch who rules a gloomy kingdom underneath Narnia, accessible through a fissure in the earth in an old ruined city far to the North. Before the story opens she has enspelled and kidnapped King Caspian's son Prince Rilian, whom she intends to send leading an army to conquer Narnia in her name. For twenty-three hours a day he is her willing slave and lap-dog; to maintain the spell, he must be bound to the titular silver chair for the remaining hour, during which he is sane and aware of his imprisonment. The protagonists, Eustace and Jill and their guide Puddleglum, meet her and Rilian unawares on their journey to the North; she sends them astray and almost succeeds in getting them eaten by giants. Eventually they rescue Rilian from the chair, but she sings a magical song which very nearly puts them all to sleep but for Puddleglum's intervention. Foiled, she transforms into a serpent, attacks them, and they kill her.

It is my contention that the Lady in the Green Kirtle is Lewis's caricature of Lúthien, with the enslaved and befuddled Prince Rilian representing Beren; and further, that Lewis knew or recognised that Lúthien and Beren were a literary portrait of the Tolkiens, so that The Silver Chair is ultimately a nasty commentary on their marriage.

In forthcoming reblogs I will lay out my evidence for this thesis.

[who-canceled-roger-rabbit]

A Narnia adaptation where the witches are both David Tennant in drag

Jadis in the style of the Time Lord Victorious, especially if they cover The Magician's Nephew

The Lady of the Green Kirtle as, like, Kilgrave but with the a green color scheme (the opposite side of the Joker/Incredible Hulk/Barney the Dinosaur/etc. color duality) and turning into a green version of noodle Crowley at the end

And yes, since my headcanon that the Lady of the Green Kirtle is Jadis's avenging widow, we would nees body doubles and possibly more advanced visual effects to convey the hot Tennant-on-Tennant action I would want here

[iliveinnarniaandstudyathogwarts]

People of Narnia

Lady of the green Kirtle Queen of Underland

[to-the-western-wood]

Narnia characters as: iconic tumblr quotes (part 2/4)

edmund, to eustace: pick a god and pray

.

lucy: there's no point being grown-up if you can't be childish sometimes

.

edmund, to peter: god may judge you but his sins outnumber your own

.

eustace, holding a sword: tell me the name of god you piece of shit

the lady of the green kirtle: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters

eustace, raising the sword, tears streaming down his face: I'M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

.

puddleglum, ten minutes after the previous quote: decay exists as an extant form of life

.

jadis, to edmund: you kneel before my throne unaware it was born of lies

[witchesinstuff]

Images of The lady of the Green Kirtle from The Silver Chair.

[liminal-zone]

The Lady laughed: the richest, most musical laugh you can imagine.

[missempanada]

Does anyone think Narnia's Lady of the Green Kirtle may be inspired by Persephone? Just a thought.

[who-canceled-roger-rabbit]

I realized that I find Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" more tolerable if I picture the Lady of the Green Kirtle passionately singing it to her wife Jadis, accompanied by the mandolin, after smoking too much of that "incense" and decorating the entire palace with mistletoe

(This was probably a regular occurrence that eventually inspired Jadis to ban Christmas altogether)

[iliveinnarniaandstudyathogwarts]

The White Witch and The Lady of the green kirtle according to AI

[to-the-western-wood]

eustace, to the lady of the green kirtle: if the good die young then you might live forever

[muse-write]

.

I’ve had a hard time working on my IC story this week, and I think most of it is bc I’m not certain how to fit the horror vibe with the Christian themes without being way more on the nose than I want to be. I don’t necessarily want overtly supernatural events to be the main cause or solution, and I’ve had it in my mind while writing that my main character is perhaps an atheist/agnostic who nevertheless finds herself resonating with certain Christian ideals, even as she does not explicitly convert. I’m just not sure how to do that in the story itself, or how to mix that with atmospheric horror.

[gingersnaptaff]

enid/gwen YURI! 🤍 kiss at the wedding (adultery but make it sapphic 😏) or 💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy. perhaps a combination of both? your choice!

CAIN!!!!!! I had so much fun with this. I think I was possessed or smth cuz I have no memory of writing this. Anyway I hope u enjoy! ☺️

The room was cloyed with the perfume  of violets and rosewater. White clouds of meadowsweet and the golden nuggets of broom flowers hung from the walls while the green fingers of ivy curled about the rafters. Conversation droned through the air, the sound akin to a thousand worker bees, while merry bursts of laughter matched the sun for brightness.

Yet Arthur’s hand was stiff in mine. Cold. His wedding ring gleamed upon his twitching, pink finger; a shackle that made my stomach flip.

And, at the head of the room, she stood on the dais, drawing the eye as well as any queen.

Backlit by the golden sun that was pouring through the windows her hair spilled down her back in a wild tangle of curls. Geraint was next to her, reclined on his seat with a goblet in his hand, dressed in gleaming gold and sullen. 

She smiled at me as I entered, a secret, sweet smile that made her hazel eyes glow and her eyes slowly took me in, stripping away my gown until I was bared to her. 

Fy enaid.

My soul.

My Enid.

With a twinkling laugh she swept forward, sweeping away from Geraint's surly figure and casting him back into darkness. The white of the pearls entwined within her hair were stark against the dark river. Arthur, seeing her coming, immediately let go of my arm and strode away, content to join our cousin where he sat, deep in his cups and moping.

A smile bloomed across her face. The apples of her cheeks flushed a pretty rosebud pink and she took her hands in mine and squeezed them in greeting. “Gwyn. I'm so glad you could come.”

My heart clenched, a dull, searing throb. “I wouldn't miss it,” I said around a strained smile. The cool, solid band of her wedding ring burned my skin, branded my palm. “You look lovely.”

She giggled sweetly, her smile morphing into a toothy grin. “Diolch, my lady.” She said, dipping into a shallow curtsey, and exposing the shimmering green silk of her kirtle and I smiled softly when I saw the wave pattern swirling about the hem like the lapping shore.

My throat tightened. I could not tear my eyes away even as she rose, even as the white silk obscured the green again.  “You… You used my pattern.”

“Of course,” Enid said as she blinked owlishly, seemingly stricken by my surprise. “It's yours. And you're my heart, my lady, just as you were Lord Ail Don's once. I couldn't not.”

Tears stung my eyes. I choked out, “Does Geraint-”

She shook her head, squeezing my hand in comfort. “He doesn't know. He doesn't need to, no matter what he believes.” A muscle ticked in her jaw as she turned her face away for a brief moment as though she was searching for something and then she turned back and murmured, “Shall we go and sit? There's a bench near the fire.” 

“Oh?”

“Mmm.” Her voice had dropped to an alluring purr. “And we won't be disturbed.” 

I laughed softly. A syrupy warmth unfurled in my gut that was as lovely as honey cakes, while my heart skipped a beat. For a few moments I did not speak, not because I was overwhelmed, but because Arthur was staring at me from the bench, his expression stony.  

Enid turned her head a little, caught his eye. Then she smiled, overly cheerful, as though to deflect attention. After another tinkling laugh she pouted pleadingly.

“Of course.” I whispered at last, letting myself be tugged away to the bench.

—

We had talked for hours, until the fire had burned to embers. Arthur and Geraint had long slunk off to bed. Both had drunk far more than they ought and Gwalchmai and Owain had had to support them as they stumbled out the hall. 

And now it was just Enid and I.

The way it was meant to be.

Her smile was puckish as she nestled into me, laying her head on my shoulder. Her hair was soft against my cheek. She smelled of lavender and sage, of summertime and I smiled, humming contentedly from the residual heat of the fire and the solid warm weight of her. 

Our fingers were still twined together. Blessed bare of our wedding bands, for we'd discarded them as soon as we were able, once the nobles had filed through the doors and away to their beds, their cheeks flushed crimson from their revelry, and I enjoyed the smooth skin beneath my finger tips, delighting in her breathy giggle when I traced the slight indent of where it had rested.

Enid did the same to mine. The indent was a florid red, the tarnished band having cut into my finger from years of wear. Yet it felt freeing not to wear it. As though I was no longer weighed down by my husband’s expectations, or the prophecies that haunted me.

“What was it like, Gwyn?” Enid said at last, her voice the quiet hum of spring. “When you married his majesty?” 

I blinked in perplexity before pulling over her words. What had it been like? Gods, it had been so long ago that it was as faded as sun bleached linens in my memory. A cloud of spindrift clinging to the edges of my mind. I swallowed, smoothed down an errant curl of her hair and murmured, “Awful. I didn’t want to marry him.”

I did not continue the rest of my sentence. How I'd dearly wished to’ve married Dylan in his stead, or that I was pregnant with Llacheu when I had. Arthur had raked me over hot coals more than enough for them during the course of our marriage. Sometimes I think he thought I was the sole cause of all the grief and greed that had befallen him over the years. 

My heart ached, became a cairn stone of bereavement. 

Yet Enid knew. She always did. She uttered a little sigh and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek just as the first of my tears began to fall. “Then he doesn't know what's good for him,” She hissed fiercely, straightening. Her eyes flashed with anger, the hazel of them darkening to a jet. “Why - Why I ought to bite him.”

Gently I shook my head, amusement softening my sorrow. “No. You don't have to. It's in the past.” 

She huffed in response, tossing her head back in disdain. “Pen y ddraig? Pen y cachu more like.” 

“Enid!” I squeaked out, trying not to laugh, raising my eyebrows so high I thought they would take flight. “If anybody hears you-”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she pressed a quick kiss to my lips before pulling away. “Then I shall simply say that I was gossiping with my lady Queen and nobody will be any the wiser.” 

I smirked. “Of course.”

We lapsed into silence for a few moments, each of us content with our thoughts. And then, softly, rawly, Enid whispered, “I don't know why I married him, you know. Geraint. He'll hurt me.” 

“I won't let that happen,” I hissed fervently as though it were an oath, cupping her cheek. “I won't!” 

Tears beaded on her lashes and she let out a quivering sigh before closing her eyes. “You can't. You're my queen-”

“I know what I am,” I said, fury coiling, red hot and molten, up my spine and through my body. “And I swear on Bendigeidfran's head that he will not touch you.”

Enid’s face crumpled. She let out a sob, muffled though it was by her sinking into my chest, and I stroked her hair. 

At her desolation the coil tightened, roiled. My grip on her tightened, and the want - No. No, not want, never want, not when I already had her so near me that it was like she’d burrowed herself into the fragile chrysalis of my heart - the fierce, burning need to possess and protect her melded into one. “Oh, fy enaid, there now. There.”  I pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, my lips brushing the cool, milky globes of the pearls that were tangled in her hair and then gently lifted her head. “You're mine. You understand that, don't you? Mine.”

Something flickered across her face. I did not know if it was understanding or befuddlement. A ragged gasp tore from her lips. “I - Gwyn-” 

I met her gaze head on. The fire illuminated the remnants of fear in her posture, the slump of her shoulders, the tremor in her hands. And then, quick as a flash, I kissed her, all teeth and tongue and want. My hands combed through her hair, greedy for the silk soft feel of it through my fingers. 

I drank deeply at the well of her. Inhaled her until I was giddy. Drunk. The sweetness of honeyed braggod clung to her lips, as intoxicating as the most expensive of wines. Playfully, I nipped at the bottom lip, laughing as Enid yelped before she eagerly responded.

A forest fire scorched my veins. Her perfume enveloped me. The sensation of having her so close, of holding her in my arms maddened me. Peppering her jawline with adoring kisses, she wheezed, her head tilted back, her throat bared. Her offering presented, I all too gratefully partook, nibbling at the hollow of her throat, preening at her broken gasp. 

Her pulse thrummed beneath my lips. 

She moaned softly as I travelled further down, trailing kisses in my wake. “Gwyn…”

I hummed in response, sucking a love bite on the sensitive skin of her collarbone bone. 

“G - Gwyn, please,” She pleaded around a sigh, resting her head against the wall. “Oh…” 

When I'd finished I drew away to admire the mark I'd created. Wine red, that's how it was against her skin. She pressed a delicate hand to it, covering it. 

Coveting it.

She smiled dreamily, blissful. “Cariad,” she murmured before she kissed me back, our teeth clacking together.

Her hands were grasping. They trailed over my body until I was febrile. Brought low by her. My heart echoed with the beat of her name - my Enid. Mine. Her kisses stole my breath, swallowed my whimpers, and I could do little more than savour them, tuck them away for safekeeping.

And eventually the room grew colder. Made us shiver. The wind howled outside, bringing us back to ourselves. The ashes stirred in the grate. 

Our breaths came in pants as we drew apart. 

I touched her cheek. Her skin burned as I stroked it, my breath catching in my throat as she leaned into my touch. “Do you see now?”

She did not answer. She only wrapped her arms around my neck, tight and unyielding. Her muscles strained as she crushed me to her, clinging to me with such strength that not even my giant’s blood would aid in my escaping. She stiffened then. Convulsed. The dam broke and her tears burst forth. I think, in that moment, witnessing her profound grief at what she had been cast into, I would've cried too.

As it was, I held her.

I could do no more than that.

And, in the watery moonlight, on the table opposite us, the blades of our wedding bands glimmered.

[dionysiaproductions]

Today at Pemberley, The 10th of December:

In addition to her daily love letter from her husband, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy was delivered a book of poetry by Walter Scott. She examined it with great care, noticing that a page was marked with a sprig of mistletoe.

At her askance look, the housemaid explained, “Mr. Darcy said to deliver the book at the same time as the letter.”

Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy read the short letter on which was written:

I recall with some trepidation, your once voiced opinion on poetry’s unique ability to extinguish love. Although, I believe even at the time you conceded an exception for how every act of love nourishes what is already strong. As poetry is traditional, I eventually decided it was necessary. Having spent many hours tracking down a verse I thought even you would think tolerable, I hope you will find the underlined verse nourishing.

The sprig of mistletoe marked a page with the following verse underlined:

The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen;

The hall was dress’d with holly green;

Forth to the wood did merry-men go,

To gather in the mistletoe.

“Perhaps, sending poetry is not so awful,” she said to her lady’s maid who only smiled at the remark.

Previous days at Pemberley here

[who-canceled-roger-rabbit]

This is how I picture the Lady of the Green Kirtle in noodle form

[characterswithcolorsnamesfight]

Prelim Poll 12

Propaganda here

[who-canceled-roger-rabbit]

Jabba the Hutt, Claude Frollo, the Child Catcher, and the Lady of the Green Kirtle are all in that category of villains who creeped you out as kids and creep you out in a whole other way when you revisit it as an adult