#making morgana-defender my middle name... none of them get him like i do

[petorahs]

morgana is a good character when you actually put him anywhere outside of persona 5 main game otherwise you have to ignore the cringe 60% of the time but thats okay. i love meowgana that is my not-cat

[generallynerdy]

Our Little Secret Part 4 (Merlin & Child!Reader)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Summary: Morgana’s betrayal is revealed when Cenred wages war on Camelot. Between escaping her own home and betraying old friends, (Y/N) comes to realise what her purpose in Camelot is beyond learning magic.

Key: (Y/N) - your name

Warnings: violence, imprisonment, executions, some good old fashioned murder

Word Count: 1,839

Note: i big want to die i’m at a competition with @coolestuncle (gay uncle korbyn)

(Y/N) prided herself on being able to hide her magic from the most powerful and brightest people in Camelot. It was times like these, however, that she questioned whether hiding her magic was a good thing.

She was not yet a woman when Cenred’s men threatened the walls of Camelot. In fact, she was barely a child, though nearing her teenage years. She had gained years of knowledge from Merlin and Gaius as she aged, becoming more confident in her magical abilities. As it turned out, she had a knack for it. She was getting so used to having her abilities that it took every ounce of self control not to try defending Camelot with them.

(Y/N) was in Morgana’s chambers with Gwen the night before. She stared anxiously out the window while Spot whimpered at her feet. Reaching down to pet him, she heard Morgana enter.

Dread filled her at the sight of the king’s ward. Merlin had warned the girl all about how wicked Morgana truly was, how she tried to take the throne at every turn. This was no doubt one of her plans with Morgause. Unfortunately, this one seemed to be working.

She spoke as she entered. “Gwen?”

“Is it true they attack at dawn?” Said woman asked shakily.

“I’m afraid so,” Morgana said, faking anguish.

Spite filled (Y/N) at her words. Barely a girl with only magic and a hidden dagger in her ragged dress, she wanted to rip the lady of Camelot to pieces.

Yet, at the thought, she grew sorrowful. Morgana had been her friend once. She had taken care of her, given her quarters in the palace. She spent days alongside the girl, doing everything and nothing at all-- whatever they pleased. When had Morgana changed? (Y/N) couldn’t remember the exact moment.

“And no word from Arthur?”

“Nothing.”

Gwen shook her head. “Then all is lost. We will be massacred, every last one of us.”

“Not everyone has to die,” Morgana almost scoffed.

(Y/N) raised her head, eyes wide. Morgana was perhaps revealing herself to Gwen at this very moment.

Gwen also seemed to process the strange words. “What do you mean not everyone?”

“Those that defy them,” Morgana said as she walked toward Gwen. “Those that choose to fight, they will surely die. Those who do not resist, those that choose to welcome change, they will have a future here. Everyone has a choice, Gwen.”

The servant girl looked almost terrified and (Y/N) couldn’t blame her. However, she managed to swallow back shock and nodded. “You know I have always been loyal to you, Morgana. And I always will be.”

“Then have no fear,” Morgana said, taking her hands in hers with a smile. “No harm will come to you. I can promise you that.”

They embraced and out of Morgana’s eyesight, Gwen glanced at (Y/N), who shook her head violently. They shared a knowing look, one that made a silent promise that they were not loyal to Morgana from that moment on. Gwen was just keeping the both of them safe. (Y/N) knew that.

Gazing out the window, (Y/N) pet her mutt calmingly. When a shooting star careened from the sky, she closed her eyes and wished more than anything that Merlin and Arthur would return soon to save them.

(Y/N) watched from the balcony in terror from behind Gwen. The servant girl had tried to shove her back so she couldn’t see, but the girl refused to heed her instruction. She could not draw her eyes away from Sir Leon and the other knights in the square, all lined up with crossbows pointed at their chests.

“I will give you one more chance to pledge your allegiance to me!” Morgana cried from the very balcony (Y/N) and Gwen stood upon.

Looking up, Sir Leon gave her a sickly stubborn smile. He glanced left and saw (Y/N), likely noticing the redness of her face and the wetness of her eyes, which could be seen from miles away. He gave her a small nod, turning the smile into a genuinely proud one.

(Y/N) let out a sob, which Gwen coughed over to keep Morgana and her guards from hearing, before burying her face in Guinevere’s dress.

“Long live the king!” Sir Leon shouted. The other knights echoed his cry.

“Perhaps this will help you change your mind,” Morgana spat, raising and dropping her hand to motion for the crossbows.

(Y/N) looked away, but had to raise her head again when she heard the screams of innocent people. As she looked out upon the square, she soon realised that Morgana had turned the crossbows against the citizens of Camelot, not Sir Leon and the knights.

“NO!”

Sir Leon’s scream echoed against the walls of the buildings surrounding the square, reaching the ears of (Y/N) and making her shake.

Please, she begged whatever god was out there. Save us.

For though she wished it beyond measure, she could not rescue Camelot all on her own.

“We haven’t got time to waste,” Gwen said, letting Sir Leon into the house. She passed him one of her dresses and motioned for (Y/N) to get Spot.

Sir Leon took one look at the dress and flushed red. “You-- you can’t be serious.”

“Just hurry,” she huffed. “Every guard in Camelot will be looking for you. They won’t be looking for two women courtiers, a little girl, and a dog.”

(Y/N) could not help giggling at Leon’s dilemma as she wrapped a leash of rope around Spot’s neck in order to keep him close. Gwen had suggested he stay, but (Y/N) was worried Morgana would take revenge on the mutt when she discovered their betrayal.

Once Sir Leon was ready, they rushed out of Camelot and into the woods, following his directions to where he thought Arthur would be hiding.

When they finally made it to the hidden entrance, they were greeted by two swords out of nowhere. A man in armour grabbed Guinevere while two others appeared out of a nook in the side of the natural wall. She gasped, but the man let go of her for a split second.

“Guinevere!” He exclaimed, taking her in his embrace.

It was Arthur, Merlin, and Gwaine, (Y/N) realised.

“(Y/N), thank God,” Merlin sighed and crushed the girl in a hug, making her laugh slightly. “And Spot,” he added, glancing at the dog and giving him a pat on the head.

As soon as Merlin let her go, (Y/N) was greeted by Gwaine, who tilted his head at her. “Is that (Y/N)?”

“Gwaine!” She exclaimed, grinning up at him.

“No, it can’t be,” he said instantly, using his hand to measure her height. “You’re too old to be (Y/N).”

She huffed. “You’re too old to be alive.”

He gave a hearty laugh and hugged her, lifting her into the air as Spot barked at them joyfully. It had been a good while since (Y/N) had seen good old Gwaine. In fact, she barely remembered what he looked like outside of his silky long hair that she always loved to braid.

In the distance, a voice interrupted their little reunion. “We’ve been found! They’re almost upon us!”

Despite being joyful to see Elyan, (Y/N) rushed to help the others gather their things and get out. Though it seemed for a second they would be saved, Morgana’s men were right behind them. If things didn’t change soon, they wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.

Sprinting through a small ravine in the rock formation, (Y/N) was almost dragged along by Gwaine, who dutifully took her hand to keep her close.

A massive boulder fell from above, blocking Morgana’s men off from them, though none of them knew where it came from. A voice shouted for them to look out, but no one recognised who it was.

“Who’s that?” Arthur asked, bewildered.

“Don’t know,” Gwaine grinned devilishly. “But I’m liking him already.”

Two figures appeared over the edge of the rock formation and (Y/N) gasped at the sight of one. “Lancelot!”

They regrouped away from the rocks, where they came face to face with Lancelot and a new friend, who looked like a giant compared to the rest of them. (Y/N) let go of Gwaine’s hand to hug Lancelot, who took her affection gladly.

“(Y/N)! You’ve grown,” he noted.

Just quiet enough so only the two of them could hear, she whispered; “So has my magic!”

“I believe it,” he laughed. He then gestured to the giant beside him. “This is Percival. Percival, this is (Y/N).”

Percival waved awkwardly at the girl, who smiled up at him sweetly. She gestured to her dog, who had followed her from Gwaine’s side. “That’s Spot.”

“Nice to meet you, Spot,” Percival said, looking down at the dog, who barked in response.

(Y/N) laughed and looked at Lancelot. “I like him already!”

The journey to the castle Arthur spoke of was a long one, but it was worth it for a safe place to stay. (Y/N) sat by the fire with Spot and Gaius, watching curiously as the others surveyed the area.

However, Arthur soon beckoned them all to join him at a round table in the middle of the room. He gave a beautiful speech as they all looked up at him with shining eyes before standing, offering to join in his quest to save his father. Each spoke a word, making goosebumps appear on (Y/N)’s arms as she realised how valuable each person at this table was to her.

“If you need an old man…” Gaius said.

“Or a girl and her dog!” (Y/N) spoke cheerily from her own chair they had given her. Spot barked loyally.

They all laughed and once Merlin, the last man to stand, was on his feet, Arthur thanked them in his own special way.

As (Y/N) watched his sword touch each of the men’s shoulders, knighting them, she felt her heart swell. It was then that she knew what she wanted to do with her life outside of learning magic. She wanted to fight for Camelot, for Arthur, for Merlin, and all their friends. She wanted to be a knight.

“Ew,” (Y/N) whined, looking toward the other side of the dusty old castle room.

“Hm?” Gwaine hummed at her disgust.

She pointed a finger toward where she was looking. The newly knighted man followed her gaze, eyes landing on Arthur and Gwen, whose lips were interlocked passionately.

Gwaine faked a gag. “Ew is right.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Percival muttered mutinously.

“No, they’re right,” Elyan piped up. “It’s disgusting.”

Leon scoffed. “You’re biased.”

“Oh, you’re all so negative,” Gaius tsked. “It’s very sweet.”

Spot whined at them, probably disappointed at the lack of attention towards him.

“HAH! Spot says it’s gross!” (Y/N) announced, pointing repeatedly at her dog. “That’s majority!”

Merlin Tags: @pearlll09

Part 5

Masterlist

[absolxguardian]

Book of Ga-Huel/Age of the Amulet Lore masterpost

Instead of doing multiple posts about cool facts like I normally do with star wars books, I’m doing a masterpost instead. However, this one will only include new lore the two books have revealed, instead of character moments and the like I’ve marked. Anyway these two books are really good and you should read them! I’ll put all my comments under the cut because of length

The angry words popped into Spar the Spiteful’s mind as he charged through the humans’ pathetic excuse for a city. The Trollhunter never much cared for the hornless, helpless creatures Merlin had entrusted him to defend. And this new village of theirs—this “Sumer,” as they called it—paled woefully in comparison to the jeweled majesty of his own underground home, Glastonbury Tor Trollmarket. At least the Sumerians were asleep at this late hour and not around to bother Spar.

So from this, we can infer that Merlin, and the Trollhunters, predate the age of Arthurian legend. Which makes sense timeline wise, since the comic established that Kanjigar was the only trollhunter after Deya. And depending on how many trollhunters in Spar is, it’s possible that Merlin predates the agricultural revolution. Although that leads to the question of how Merlin was able to develop metalworking before the rest of the human species. It’s possible that the Island of Avalon exists in Trollhunter lore, which was home to technologically advanced magical humans like Merlin or Morgana. Although since historically Glastonbury Tor has been considered a location for Avalon, it could also be that the island doesn’t exist in trollhunter lore and the first Trollmarket is a stand-in. Trolls as a species also probably predate humans, which is probably why they ate them for so long. For a long time, they weren’t sentient, so the act wasn’t morally questionable.

The Amulet lit the tunnels like a torch. Spar crept down the passage, sweeping aside thick sheets of webs and keeping his Daylight Club at the ready.

The weapon of the amulet wasn’t always a sword (possibly because they hadn’t been invented yet), although Spar might have just been modifying his weapon with a gemstone.

“You . . . you are copying what these ancient walls show,” said Spar. “But how can they possibly show events that have just happened—events that have not yet come to pass?” 

“You’d have to ask their author,” answered the Troll, nodding to the carved likeness of the wizard. “He’s left them in countless caves across the surface world.”

Merlin created more future telling wall murals than just the ones located in his tomb.

“Sorta like A Brief Recapitulation of Gumm-Gumm Lore, huh?” joked Jim. 

“Just so, Master Jim,” Blinky confirmed. “The Gumm-Gumm’s former king, Orlagk the Oppressor, commissioned it after learning of the Venerable Bedehilde’s forty-seven volume magnum opus.”

All forty-seven volumes of A Brief Recapitulation of Troll Lore were written before the rise of Gunmar, although it’s possible Blinky is just misspeaking and not all the volumes were written before the book of Ga-Huel.

Despite himself, Draal could not help but feel sorry for Jim’s mother. He had sworn to protect Barbara to his dying day, much as he swore devout allegiance to the Trollhunter for sparing Draal’s life. The spiked Troll treated this bodyguard duty as the most important job of his very long existence, and intended to keep it just that—a job. But after months of secretly living in their basement, Draal had overheard how much Jim and Barbara truly loved each other. Their special bond often made Draal think about his own mother, Ballustra, and how much he missed her.

Draal has a mother (meaning trolls can have two parents), her name is Ballustra. And she’s dead.

“I’d hazard we’re here circa the year 70 CE on your funny human calendar,” said Boraz. “Actually, I know for a fact it’s 70 CE because that’s when . . . well, you’ll see!”

Moonlight shined down through the Colosseum’s open-air arena. Jim noticed how it reflected off their armor and asked, “Boraz, are . . . are we actually here?”

“HA!” roared Boraz. “Only in spirit, small one. In these Void Visitations, we may observe what has transpired. But none may see, hear, or touch us.

Boraz the Bold held the mantle of Trollhunter from after Spar’s death during the Sumarian age to around 70CE. Lucky guy, he survived for a really long time. Also, the spirits in the void can show living Trollhunters what happened in the past.

“Not where, human Trollhunter, but when!” corrected Unkar, who then paused, appearing momentarily confused. “Actually, I guess it’s where and when. Because we traveled through time and space and—look, kid, we’re in the Yucatán Peninsula around 200 CE, okay?”

Unkar the Unfortunate was the Trollhunter in 200CE. Despite this being before the Migration, troll settlements did exist in South America. 

“Correct,” said Kanjigar. “Although Gunmar had been vanquished to the Darklands by this point, the Janus Order still contracted these misguided humans to find and incinerate Bodus’s Last Rites. This, I could not allow.” 

The spirit nodded his horns to the side, and Jim saw the living Kanjigar steal into the castle through a tunnel dug by his gyre. The soldiers opened fire on the Trollhunter with their machine guns, but he deflected the hail of bullets with the flat of his Sword of Daylight.

Strickler/The Janus Order contracted Nazis to get them to burn Bodus’ Last Rites. The Sword of Daylight (and presumably the armor) can deflect bullets. Also, go Kanjigar the brutally efficient Nazi slayer!

It featured an old drawing of Jim in his armor, fighting for his life in the middle of an epic Gumm-Gumm war. The date inked below it read 501 CE.

This is just a hook for the next book, but based on Age of the Amulet, we can figure out that the rise of Gunmar and the death of Orlagk was in 501 CE.

The Gumm-Gumm flexed his claw, forcing strands of opaque energy to rise and weave into the jagged shape of a sword. Once it had solidified, Orlagk trained his Decimaar Blade on Tellad-Urr and said, “This one has a point.”

The Decimaar Blade originally belonged to Orlagk before Gunmar.

“England?” Jim marveled. “Blink, how can you be sure?” 

“Blinky from here,” AAARRRGGHH!!! said as he appeared over the next hill, carrying Toby and Claire on his back. “Well, under it.”

Blinky is from the Glastonbury Tor Trollmarket and is a young whelp during 501 CE (the past section the team is transported to).

Also, Tellad-Ur got really fed up with being a Trollhunter and became the only (known) evil trollhunter. He took over Trollmarket, imprisioning everyone who wouldn’t fight with him. He provided Gunmar with the metal, raided from human villages, to arm Gunmar’s rebels. He was defeated by a time traveling Jim, although the credit was given to the next trollhunter, Gogun. There’s no one quote for that because that’s the plot of the book.

“And Rundle sadly passed before Deya delivered us to the New World,” said Bagdwella.

Rundle probably died between the Battle of Killahead and the Great Migration

“So be it,” announced Kilfred, accepting the junk staff. “I shall lead you, and, together, we shall restore Trollkind to its former glory!” 

The assembled Trolls roared so loudly in approval, Steve and Eli jumped. The sudden movement reminded Kilfred of their presence. He pointed his new staff at the two humans and said, “Now let’s start by eating those two!”

Kilfred was very pro-eating humans. 

Blinky had squinted his many eyes as he and his two friends were pressed through the blinding tunnel of light and rock. Once they reached the other side, Blinky’s vision returned, and he beheld the Trollmarket in which he had grown up. It now seemed much smaller to the adult Blinky, although he easily recognized the purple Heartstone growing upside down from the cavern ceiling. 

The orginal hearstone was a stalgtite and also stayed around long after Gunmar’s birth. Although, this could be a second heartstone or they just still keep it around.

Impressed by Blinky’s ingenuity, the freed Trolls all dropped to their knees and bowed to their savior. Surprised by the sudden genuflection, Blinky said, “Great Gronka Morka!” 

“Great Gronka Morka!” repeated the worshipping Trolls. “Great Gronka Morka!”

 Blinky, Toby, and AAARRRGGHH!!! all looked to each other in surprise before the six-eyed Troll said, “I-I thank you for your praise, but please stop. My name is actually Bl—” 

“Great Gronka Morka! Great Gronka Morka!” chanted the liberated Trolls. “No, no, no,” Blinky dismissed impatiently. “Great Gronka Morka was a legendary wise Troll. A scholar, much like myself, with six eyes, also much like myself, who appeared out of the blue one day to lead one of the most famous jailbreaks in Troll legend and—”

Blinky is Great Gronka Morka! And the origin of the phrase/name is a paradox. The reason Blinky says it a lot, is probably because that's the troll hero that saved a young Blinky and Dictatious from prison.

AAARRRGGHH!!!’s runes faded as he stared the young Krubera in front of him. It was like looking into a mirror. The young Troll’s horns were stubbier and his shoulders were barely covered in mossy green fur, yet AAARRRGGHH!!! recognized the face, for it was his own. 

“You look . . . like me,” said teen AAARRRGGHH!!! before he decked his grown-up self.

Aaarrrgghh was taken during the time when Orglark ruled the Gumm-Gumms. So the whole kidnapping troll whelps isn’t a Gunmar thing. Also he had to fight himself at one point.

“Ah, a trio of Impures in our midst,” said Kilfred from atop the highest bleacher, wearing deflated dodgeballs on his horns like ornamental jewelry. “Bind them with the sacred trusses!”

Kilfred knows what a changeling is, so that means that they also predate Gunmar’s rule.

As they were shooed back to the past, Kilfred—who had been left rather traumatized by his visit to Arcadia—decided two things: One, he was cutting humans from his diet and going full-on vegetarian forthwith. And two, he was retiring from advising Trolls on how to live their lives.

So this would be how leadership of the Trollmarket passed from Kilfred to Rundle. 

[arabellaflynn]

Advent Calendar: "The Shoes of Fortune"

From Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales. "The Shoes of Fortune" actually goes on for quite some time, but there is a limit to both my patience, and the patience of any small humans to whom this may be read at bedtime. The rest of the stories, as well as others, can be found here. I. The Shoes of Fortune Every author has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style of writing. Those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their shoulders, and exclaim—there he is again! I, for my part, know very well how I can bring about this movement and this exclamation. It would happen immediately if I were to begin here, as I intended to do, with: “Rome has its Corso, Naples its Toledo”—“Ah! that Andersen; there he is again!” they would cry; yet I must, to please my fancy, continue quite quietly, and add: “But Copenhagen has its East Street.” Here, then, we will stay for the present. In one of the houses not far from the new market a party was invited—a very large party, in order, as is often the case, to get a return invitation from the others. One half of the company was already seated at the card-table, the other half awaited the result of the stereotype preliminary observation of the lady of the house: “Now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves.” They had got just so far, and the conversation began to crystallise, as it could but do with the scanty stream which the commonplace world supplied. Amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages: some praised that period as far more interesting, far more poetical than our own too sober present; indeed Councillor Knap defended this opinion so warmly, that the hostess declared immediately on his side, and both exerted themselves with unwearied eloquence. The Councillor boldly declared the time of King Hans to be the noblest and the most happy period. While the conversation turned on this subject, and was only for a moment interrupted by the arrival of a journal that contained nothing worth reading, we will just step out into the antechamber, where cloaks, mackintoshes, sticks, umbrellas, and shoes, were deposited. Here sat two female figures, a young and an old one. One might have thought at first they were servants come to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking nearer, one soon saw they could scarcely be mere servants; their forms were too noble for that, their skin too fine, the cut of their dress too striking. Two fairies were they; the younger, it is true, was not Dame Fortune herself, but one of the waiting-maids of her handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things that she distributes; the other looked extremely gloomy—it was Care. She always attends to her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having it done properly. They were telling each other, with a confidential interchange of ideas, where they had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only executed a few unimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet from a shower of rain, etc.; but what she had yet to perform was something quite unusual. “I must tell you,” said she, “that to-day is my birthday; and in honor of it, a pair of walking-shoes or galoshes has been entrusted to me, which I am to carry to mankind. These shoes possess the property of instantly transporting him who has them on to the place or the period in which he most wishes to be; every wish, as regards time or place, or state of being, will be immediately fulfilled, and so at last man will be happy, here below.” “Do you seriously believe it?” replied Care, in a severe tone of reproach. “No; he will be very unhappy, and will assuredly bless the moment when he feels that he has freed himself from the fatal shoes.” “Stupid nonsense!” said the other angrily. “I will put them here by the door. Some one will make a mistake for certain and take the wrong ones—he will be a happy man.” Such was their conversation. II. What Happened to the Councillor It was late; Councillor Knap, deeply occupied with the times of King Hans, intended to go home, and malicious Fate managed matters so that his feet, instead of finding their way to his own galoshes, slipped into those of Fortune. Thus caparisoned the good man walked out of the well-lighted rooms into East Street. By the magic power of the shoes he was carried back to the times of King Hans; on which account his foot very naturally sank in the mud and puddles of the street, there having been in those days no pavement in Copenhagen. “Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!” sighed the Councillor. “As to a pavement, I can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it seems, have gone to sleep.” The moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that in the darkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion. At the next corner hung a votive lamp before a Madonna, but the light it gave was little better than none at all; indeed, he did not observe it before he was exactly under it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the pictures which represented the well-known group of the Virgin and the infant Jesus. “That is probably a wax-work show,” thought he; “and the people delay taking down their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two.” A few persons in the costume of the time of King Hans passed quickly by him. “How strange they look! The good folks come probably from a masquerade!” Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a fire shot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend with the bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood still, and watched a most strange procession pass by. First came a dozen drummers, who understood pretty well how to handle their instruments; then came halberdiers, and some armed with cross-bows. The principal person in the procession was a priest. Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked what was the meaning of all this mummery, and who that man was. “That's the Bishop of Zealand,” was the answer. “Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the Bishop?” sighed the Councillor, shaking his head. It certainly could not be the Bishop; even though he was considered the most absent man in the whole kingdom, and people told the drollest anecdotes about him. Reflecting on the matter, and without looking right or left, the Councillor went through East Street and across the Habro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square was not to be found; scarcely trusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer discovered a shallow piece of water, and here fell in with two men who very comfortably were rocking to and fro in a boat. “Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the Holme?” asked they. “Across to the Holme!” said the Councillor, who knew nothing of the age in which he at that moment was. “No, I am going to Christianshafen, to Little Market Street.” Both men stared at him in astonishment. “Only just tell me where the bridge is,” said he. “It is really unpardonable that there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one had to wade through a morass.” The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did their language become to him. “I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect,” said he at last, angrily, and turning his back upon them. He was unable to find the bridge: there was no railway either. “It is really disgraceful what a state this place is in,” muttered he to himself. Never had his age, with which, however, he was always grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening. “I'll take a hackney-coach!” thought he. But where were the hackney-coaches? Not one was to be seen. “I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to be hoped, I shall find some coaches; for if I don't, I shall never get safe to Christianshafen.” So off he went in the direction of East Street, and had nearly got to the end of it when the moon shone forth. “God bless me! What wooden scaffolding is that which they have set up there?” cried he involuntarily, as he looked at East Gate, which, in those days, was at the end of East Street. He found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went, and stepped into our New Market of the present time. It was a huge desolate plain; some wild bushes stood up here and there, while across the field flowed a broad canal or river. Some wretched hovels for the Dutch sailors, resembling great boxes, and after which the place was named, lay about in confused disorder on the opposite bank. “I either behold a fata morgana, or I am regularly tipsy,” whimpered out the Councillor. “But what's this?” He turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was seriously ill. He gazed at the street formerly so well known to him, and now so strange in appearance, and looked at the houses more attentively: most of them were of wood, slightly put together; and many had a thatched roof. “No—I am far from well,” sighed he; “and yet I drank only one glass of punch; but I cannot suppose it—it was, too, really very wrong to give us punch and hot salmon for supper. I shall speak about it at the first opportunity. I have half a mind to go back again, and say what I suffer. But no, that would be too silly; and Heaven only knows if they are up still.” He looked for the house, but it had vanished. “It is really dreadful,” groaned he with increasing anxiety; “I cannot recognise East Street again; there is not a single decent shop from one end to the other! Nothing but wretched huts can I see anywhere; just as if I were at Ringstead. Oh! I am ill! I can scarcely bear myself any longer. Where the deuce can the house be? It must be here on this very spot; yet there is not the slightest idea of resemblance, to such a degree has everything changed this night! At all events here are some people up and stirring. Oh! oh! I am certainly very ill.” He now hit upon a half-open door, through a chink of which a faint light shone. It was a sort of hostelry of those times; a kind of public-house. The room had some resemblance to the clay-floored halls in Holstein; a pretty numerous company, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen burghers, and a few scholars, sat here in deep converse over their pewter cans, and gave little heed to the person who entered. “By your leave!” said the Councillor to the Hostess, who came bustling towards him. “I've felt so queer all of a sudden; would you have the goodness to send for a hackney-coach to take me to Christianshafen?” The woman examined him with eyes of astonishment, and shook her head; she then addressed him in German. The Councillor thought she did not understand Danish, and therefore repeated his wish in German. This, in connection with his costume, strengthened the good woman in the belief that he was a foreigner. That he was ill, she comprehended directly; so she brought him a pitcher of water, which tasted certainly pretty strong of the sea, although it had been fetched from the well. The Councillor supported his head on his hand, drew a long breath, and thought over all the wondrous things he saw around him. “Is this the Daily News of this evening?” he asked mechanically, as he saw the Hostess push aside a large sheet of paper. The meaning of this councillorship query remained, of course, a riddle to her, yet she handed him the paper without replying. It was a coarse wood-cut, representing a splendid meteor “as seen in the town of Cologne,” which was to be read below in bright letters. “That is very old!” said the Councillor, whom this piece of antiquity began to make considerably more cheerful. “Pray how did you come into possession of this rare print? It is extremely interesting, although the whole is a mere fable. Such meteorous appearances are to be explained in this way—that they are the reflections of the Aurora Borealis, and it is highly probable they are caused principally by electricity.” Those persons who were sitting nearest him and heard his speech, stared at him in wonderment; and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully, and said with a serious countenance, “You are no doubt a very learned man, Monsieur.” “Oh no,” answered the Councillor, “I can only join in conversation on this topic and on that, as indeed one must do according to the demands of the world at present.” “Modestia is a fine virtue,” continued the gentleman; “however, as to your speech, I must say mihi secus videtur: yet I am willing to suspend my judicium.” “May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of speaking?” asked the Councillor. “I am a Bachelor in Theologia,” answered the gentleman with a stiff reverence. This reply fully satisfied the Councillor; the title suited the dress. “He is certainly,” thought he, “some village schoolmaster—some queer old fellow, such as one still often meets with in Jutland.” “This is no locus docendi, it is true,” began the clerical gentleman; “yet I beg you earnestly to let us profit by your learning. Your reading in the ancients is, sine dubio, of vast extent?” “Oh yes, I've read something, to be sure,” replied the Councillor. “I like reading all useful works; but I do not on that account despise the modern ones; 'tis only the unfortunate 'Tales of Every-day Life' that I cannot bear—we have enough and more than enough such in reality.” “'Tales of Every-day Life?'” said our Bachelor inquiringly. “I mean those new fangled novels, twisting and writhing themselves in the dust of commonplace, which also expect to find a reading public.” “Oh,” exclaimed the clerical gentleman smiling, “there is much wit in them; besides they are read at court. The King likes the history of Sir Iffven and Sir Gaudian particularly, which treats of King Arthur, and his Knights of the Round Table; he has more than once joked about it with his high vassals.” “I have not read that novel,” said the Councillor; “it must be quite a new one, that Heiberg has published lately.” “No,” answered the theologian of the time of King Hans: “that book is not written by a Heiberg, but was imprinted by Godfrey von Gehmen.” “Oh, is that the author's name?” said the Councillor. “It is a very old name, and, as well as I recollect, he was the first printer that appeared in Denmark.” “Yes, he is our first printer,” replied the clerical gentleman hastily. So far all went on well. Some one of the worthy burghers now spoke of the dreadful pestilence that had raged in the country a few years back, meaning that of 1484. The Councillor imagined it was the cholera that was meant, which people made so much fuss about; and the discourse passed off satisfactorily enough. The war of the buccaneers of 1490 was so recent that it could not fail being alluded to; the English pirates had, they said, most shamefully taken their ships while in the roadstead; and the Councillor, before whose eyes the Herostratic event of 1801 still floated vividly, agreed entirely with the others in abusing the rascally English. With other topics he was not so fortunate; every moment brought about some new confusion, and threatened to become a perfect Babel; for the worthy Bachelor was really too ignorant, and the simplest observations of the Councillor sounded to him too daring and phantastical. They looked at one another from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet; and when matters grew to too high a pitch, then the Bachelor talked Latin, in the hope of being better understood—but it was of no use after all. “What's the matter?” asked the Hostess, plucking the Councillor by the sleeve; and now his recollection returned, for in the course of the conversation he had entirely forgotten all that had preceded it. “Merciful God, where am I!” exclaimed he in agony; and while he so thought, all his ideas and feelings of overpowering dizziness, against which he struggled with the utmost power of desperation, encompassed him with renewed force. “Let us drink claret and mead, and Bremen beer,” shouted one of the guests—“and you shall drink with us!” Two maidens approached. One wore a cap of two staring colors, denoting the class of persons to which she belonged. They poured out the liquor, and made the most friendly gesticulations; while a cold perspiration trickled down the back of the poor Councillor. “What's to be the end of this! What's to become of me!” groaned he; but he was forced, in spite of his opposition, to drink with the rest. They took hold of the worthy man; who, hearing on every side that he was intoxicated, did not in the least doubt the truth of this certainly not very polite assertion; but on the contrary, implored the ladies and gentlemen present to procure him a hackney-coach: they, however, imagined he was talking Russian. Never before, he thought, had he been in such a coarse and ignorant company; one might almost fancy the people had turned heathens again. “It is the most dreadful moment of my life: the whole world is leagued against me!” But suddenly it occurred to him that he might stoop down under the table, and then creep unobserved out of the door. He did so; but just as he was going, the others remarked what he was about; they laid hold of him by the legs; and now, happily for him, off fell his fatal shoes—and with them the charm was at an end. The Councillor saw quite distinctly before him a lantern burning, and behind this a large handsome house. All seemed to him in proper order as usual; it was East Street, splendid and elegant as we now see it. He lay with his feet towards a doorway, and exactly opposite sat the watchman asleep. “Gracious Heaven!” said he. “Have I lain here in the street and dreamed? Yes; 'tis East Street! How splendid and light it is! But really it is terrible what an effect that one glass of punch must have had on me!” Two minutes later, he was sitting in a hackney-coach and driving to Frederickshafen. He thought of the distress and agony he had endured, and praised from the very bottom of his heart the happy reality—our own time—which, with all its deficiencies, is yet much better than that in which, so much against his inclination, he had lately been. III. The Watchman's Adventure “Why, there is a pair of galoshes, as sure as I'm alive!” said the watchman, awaking from a gentle slumber. “They belong no doubt to the lieutenant who lives over the way. They lie close to the door.” The worthy man was inclined to ring and deliver them at the house, for there was still a light in the window; but he did not like disturbing the other people in their beds, and so very considerately he left the matter alone. “Such a pair of shoes must be very warm and comfortable,” said he; “the leather is so soft and supple.” They fitted his feet as though they had been made for him. “'Tis a curious world we live in,” continued he, soliloquizing. “There is the lieutenant, now, who might go quietly to bed if he chose, where no doubt he could stretch himself at his ease; but does he do it? No; he saunters up and down his room, because, probably, he has enjoyed too many of the good things of this world at his dinner. That's a happy fellow! He has neither an infirm mother, nor a whole troop of everlastingly hungry children to torment him. Every evening he goes to a party, where his nice supper costs him nothing: would to Heaven I could but change with him! How happy should I be!” While expressing his wish, the charm of the shoes, which he had put on, began to work; the watchman entered into the being and nature of the lieutenant. He stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and held between his fingers a small sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some verses were written—written indeed by the officer himself; for who has not, at least once in his life, had a lyrical moment? And if one then marks down one's thoughts, poetry is produced. But here was written:                   OH, WERE I RICH!      “Oh, were I rich! Such was my wish, yea such       When hardly three feet high, I longed for much.        Oh, were I rich! an officer were I,        With sword, and uniform, and plume so high.        And the time came, and officer was I!      But yet I grew not rich. Alas, poor me!      Have pity, Thou, who all man's wants dost see.         “I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,       A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,        I at that time was rich in poesy        And tales of old, though poor as poor could be;        But all she asked for was this poesy.      Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me!      As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.         “Oh, were I rich! Oft asked I for this boon.       The child grew up to womanhood full soon.        She is so pretty, clever, and so kind      Oh, did she know what's hidden in my mind—        A tale of old. Would she to me were kind!      But I'm condemned to silence! oh, poor me!      As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.         “Oh, were I rich in calm and peace of mind,       My grief you then would not here written find!        O thou, to whom I do my heart devote,        Oh read this page of glad days now remote,        A dark, dark tale, which I tonight devote!      Dark is the future now. Alas, poor me!      Have pity Thou, who all men's pains dost see.” Such verses as these people write when they are in love! But no man in his senses ever thinks of printing them. Here one of the sorrows of life, in which there is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that barren grief which the poet may only hint at, but never depict in its detail—misery and want: that animal necessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen leaf of the bread-fruit tree, if not at the fruit itself. The higher the position in which one finds oneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering. Everyday necessity is the stagnant pool of life—no lovely picture reflects itself therein. Lieutenant, love, and lack of money—that is a symbolic triangle, or much the same as the half of the shattered die of Fortune. This the lieutenant felt most poignantly, and this was the reason he leant his head against the window, and sighed so deeply. “The poor watchman out there in the street is far happier than I. He knows not what I term privation. He has a home, a wife, and children, who weep with him over his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is glad. Oh, far happier were I, could I exchange with him my being—with his desires and with his hopes perform the weary pilgrimage of life! Oh, he is a hundred times happier than I!” In the same moment the watchman was again watchman. It was the shoes that caused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown to himself, he took upon him the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but, as we have just seen, he felt himself in his new situation much less contented, and now preferred the very thing which but some minutes before he had rejected. So then the watchman was again watchman. “That was an unpleasant dream,” said he; “but 'twas droll enough altogether. I fancied that I was the lieutenant over there: and yet the thing was not very much to my taste after all. I missed my good old mother and the dear little ones; who almost tear me to pieces for sheer love.” He seated himself once more and nodded: the dream continued to haunt him, for he still had the shoes on his feet. A falling star shone in the dark firmament. “There falls another star,” said he: “but what does it matter; there are always enough left. I should not much mind examining the little glimmering things somewhat nearer, especially the moon; for that would not slip so easily through a man's fingers. When we die—so at least says the student, for whom my wife does the washing—we shall fly about as light as a feather from one such a star to the other. That's, of course, not true: but 'twould be pretty enough if it were so. If I could but once take a leap up there, my body might stay here on the steps for what I care.” Behold—there are certain things in the world to which one ought never to give utterance except with the greatest caution; but doubly careful must one be when we have the Shoes of Fortune on our feet. Now just listen to what happened to the watchman. As to ourselves, we all know the speed produced by the employment of steam; we have experienced it either on railroads, or in boats when crossing the sea; but such a flight is like the travelling of a sloth in comparison with the velocity with which light moves. It flies nineteen million times faster than the best race-horse; and yet electricity is quicker still. Death is an electric shock which our heart receives; the freed soul soars upwards on the wings of electricity. The sun's light wants eight minutes and some seconds to perform a journey of more than twenty million of our Danish miles; borne by electricity, the soul wants even some minutes less to accomplish the same flight. To it the space between the heavenly bodies is not greater than the distance between the homes of our friends in town is for us, even if they live a short way from each other; such an electric shock in the heart, however, costs us the use of the body here below; unless, like the watchman of East Street, we happen to have on the Shoes of Fortune. In a few seconds the watchman had done the fifty-two thousand of our miles up to the moon, which, as everyone knows, was formed out of matter much lighter than our earth; and is, so we should say, as soft as newly-fallen snow. He found himself on one of the many circumjacent mountain-ridges with which we are acquainted by means of Dr. Madler's “Map of the Moon.” Within, down it sunk perpendicularly into a caldron, about a Danish mile in depth; while below lay a town, whose appearance we can, in some measure, realize to ourselves by beating the white of an egg in a glass of water. The matter of which it was built was just as soft, and formed similar towers, and domes, and pillars, transparent and rocking in the thin air; while above his head our earth was rolling like a large fiery ball. He perceived immediately a quantity of beings who were certainly what we call “men”; yet they looked different to us. A far more correct imagination than that of the pseudo-Herschel had created them; and if they had been placed in rank and file, and copied by some skilful painter's hand, one would, without doubt, have exclaimed involuntarily, “What a beautiful arabesque!” They had a language too; but surely nobody can expect that the soul of the watchman should understand it. Be that as it may, it did comprehend it; for in our souls there germinate far greater powers than we poor mortals, despite all our cleverness, have any notion of. Does she not show us—she the queen in the land of enchantment—her astounding dramatic talent in all our dreams? There every acquaintance appears and speaks upon the stage, so entirely in character, and with the same tone of voice, that none of us, when awake, were able to imitate it. How well can she recall persons to our mind, of whom we have not thought for years; when suddenly they step forth “every inch a man,” resembling the real personages, even to the finest features, and become the heroes or heroines of our world of dreams. In reality, such remembrances are rather unpleasant: every sin, every evil thought, may, like a clock with alarm or chimes, be repeated at pleasure; then the question is if we can trust ourselves to give an account of every unbecoming word in our heart and on our lips. The watchman's spirit understood the language of the inhabitants of the moon pretty well. The Selenites disputed variously about our earth, and expressed their doubts if it could be inhabited: the air, they said, must certainly be too dense to allow any rational dweller in the moon the necessary free respiration. They considered the moon alone to be inhabited: they imagined it was the real heart of the universe or planetary system, on which the genuine Cosmopolites, or citizens of the world, dwelt. What strange things men—no, what strange things Selenites sometimes take into their heads! About politics they had a good deal to say. But little Denmark must take care what it is about, and not run counter to the moon; that great realm, that might in an ill-humor bestir itself, and dash down a hail-storm in our faces, or force the Baltic to overflow the sides of its gigantic basin. We will, therefore, not listen to what was spoken, and on no condition run in the possibility of telling tales out of school; but we will rather proceed, like good quiet citizens, to East Street, and observe what happened meanwhile to the body of the watchman. He sat lifeless on the steps: the morning-star,* that is to say, the heavy wooden staff, headed with iron spikes, and which had nothing else in common with its sparkling brother in the sky, had glided from his hand; while his eyes were fixed with glassy stare on the moon, looking for the good old fellow of a spirit which still haunted it. *The watchmen in Germany, had formerly, and in some places they still carry with them, on their rounds at night, a sort of mace or club, known in ancient times by the above denomination. “What's the hour, watchman?” asked a passer-by. But when the watchman gave no reply, the merry roysterer, who was now returning home from a noisy drinking bout, took it into his head to try what a tweak of the nose would do, on which the supposed sleeper lost his balance, the body lay motionless, stretched out on the pavement: the man was dead. When the patrol came up, all his comrades, who comprehended nothing of the whole affair, were seized with a dreadful fright, for dead he was, and he remained so. The proper authorities were informed of the circumstance, people talked a good deal about it, and in the morning the body was carried to the hospital. Now that would be a very pretty joke, if the spirit when it came back and looked for the body in East Street, were not to find one. No doubt it would, in its anxiety, run off to the police, and then to the “Hue and Cry” office, to announce that “the finder will be handsomely rewarded,” and at last away to the hospital; yet we may boldly assert that the soul is shrewdest when it shakes off every fetter, and every sort of leading-string—the body only makes it stupid. The seemingly dead body of the watchman wandered, as we have said, to the hospital, where it was brought into the general viewing-room: and the first thing that was done here was naturally to pull off the galoshes—when the spirit, that was merely gone out on adventures, must have returned with the quickness of lightning to its earthly tenement. It took its direction towards the body in a straight line; and a few seconds after, life began to show itself in the man. He asserted that the preceding night had been the worst that ever the malice of fate had allotted him; he would not for two silver marks again go through what he had endured while moon-stricken; but now, however, it was over. The same day he was discharged from the hospital as perfectly cured; but the Shoes meanwhile remained behind. from Blogger https://ift.tt/2R5Xzyd via IFTTT -------------------- Enjoy my writing? Consider becoming a Patron, subscribing via Kindle, or just toss a little something in my tip jar. Thanks!