#mani di fata

[batchilla]

Fata Morgana Chapter Two - A Dance Earned

Content warnings of violence, death, and outdated views on women.

Sweat drips down Jason's nose, and his breathing is laboured. He cannot wipe it away, not without lifting the faceguard of his helmet. So, he lives with the discomfort, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the stink of it within his metal suit. His arms, one holding his sword, the other bearing a shield strapped to his forearm, ache. His head is pounding. His heart feels as if it may explode with how fast it beats.

He adjusts the grip of his sword to refocus himself. In the edge of his vision, tied to its hilt, the princess ribbon flutters gently in the breeze.

Centred, and reminded of his reasons, Jason levels his sword, and charges to meet his opponent.

The man’s name escaped him - it had been a long day. However his green heraldry told Jason the man likely serves the Queen family. Formidable archers were plentiful in their barracks. It was likely the bow he held had carried him to the final round more than the shortsword at his side. So, Jason would make it his priority to close distance, to force him to rely on melee skill.

He strikes out, his sword colliding with the breastplate of the other, trying to unbalance him, sending a loud clang of metal on metal, almost lost in the cheers of the crowd.

His opponent hurriedly drops the bow, draws his sword and hits back, making Jason grunt as he feels the opponent's sword collide with his dominant arm.

Jason isn’t so easily distracted though, he had fought far too many more deadly foes to drop his blade or allow pain to distract him in the heat of battle. He takes his shield, slamming it into his opponent's chest, sending the man colliding with the ground.

His victory is swift and definitive over the green clad man. In a real battle, he would have ended the lesser warrior with ease. It would be so easy. Something in his blood urges him to do it. A ruthless instinct that had kept him alive thus far. He puts the point of his blade to the defeated’s throat.

The roar of the crowd fades out. Morphs and twists into the screams of battle. Of that battle. Of the fields of Arkham. His grip tightens on his sword, and he looks down, not at the Starling knight, but at the face of a boy. He holds a pike, and wears leather armour that will do little to save him - that will not save him - that didn’t save him as Jason plunges his sword into his heart. He hears the boy cry, not a scream, a whimper. The last, trembling word that leaves his lips as he dies is a call for his mother. He looks up, to a field of bodies. A battle won at last, an enemy army slain… The field of battle soaked in blood, the smell of death mingling with the ocean air. And in this moment he knows himself a monster.

Reality fades back in, and Jason is not looking at the seaside battleground of Arkham, but looking up at the royal box. At her. At his Princess. The princess, he reminds himself - not his.

She looks ��� beautiful. She always does, in his humble opinion. Today, however, he feels his breath catch at the mere sight of her.

She’s worn red. But not just any red, his red. The same velvet fabric as the ribbon tied to his sword - surely something she had done deliberately. She had planned this for him. He gulps, grateful that no one can see his expression due to his faceguard.

Her gaze trails down to his opponent, still laid on the dust. Yes. Right. The other knight.

“Yield.” Jason demands, his arm flexing as he ever so slightly presses the sword in further to make his point.

“I yield.” The other man says, a little too quickly. Jason sheaths his blade, and offers a hand to bring the man to his feet.

Jason takes a deep breath as he removes his helm, and locks eyes with her.

You are going to die.

It should be illegal, frankly, for Captain Todd-Wayne to look like that.

He offers his hand to his defeated opponent, and you near swoon. To see such an honourable act after witnessing him put the realms warriors to shame all morning near stops your heart.

His hair is stuck to his face with sweat, his face flushed with the effort of the fight. His chest, you imagine, is heaving under his plate. Mentally, you imagine that paired with his half tied shirt from the night before, and are forced to pull out your fan to cool your face.

Your lady in waiting, Lady Stephanie Brown, leans down to whisper in your ear over your shoulder. “Are you quite well, M’lady?”

“Hm? Ah. Yes. It is simply… the heat.”

“But of course.” She replies, in a tone that from anyone who wasn’t a dear, dear, friend, would have you asking if they were daring to imply your dishonesty.

“You there!” She calls to a servant “fetch the princesses parasol!”

Then, turning back to you, she whispers once more “The heat?”

She echos playfully. You swat her arm.

“Hush.” You chide, and in response she wiggles her eyebrows.

You watch Jason leaving the arena, watch him splash a ladle of water over his head from a nearby barrel, and doff his gauntlets to take from an adjudicator a plush pillow, on which rests the crown of roses.

You smooth your skirt and carefully arrange yourself to appear adequately surprised when he approaches. Certainly you knew that as much as your heart was his, that crown was yours - but it would not do well to be too obviously aware of his affections, nor display your own.

Sure enough, you watch as he approaches, bowing deeply to your Father, your Mother, your younger brother, and finally, you.

Jason lifts out of his bow, meeting her eyes and trying not to appear as nervous as he felt.

He knew, of course she would not deny him.

It was testament to her charity that she indulged his annual request, similar to giving alms. A single moment where he could pretend he stood a chance at being anything more than her guard dog.

He knows that should you not wish to allow him this, you would not have given him a favour. Still, his hands, hands that have ended countless lives, calloused and rough from a life of hard, violent labour in her fathers name, but for her sake, shake slightly as he takes the crown in hand.

“Your royal highness.” He holds the crown out, and she bows her head obligingly.

Jason places the roses among her locks, trying not to linger on the sensation of her hair under his fingers. She looks up at him, her eyes wide and so filled with…

Love. His soul whispers. Wishful thinking, he knows. Affection, perhaps. Fondness, even. But it would be prideful to the point of insanity to think she loved him. Certainly she looked at him as if she did… but it could not be. Surely.

He steps back, taking her in the sight of her in his crown, knowing that for a few minutes that evening, he would get to hold her in his arms.

The dress you’d laid out on the chaise for the ball tonight lays forgotten. Not Jason’s red - it would be too overt to wear such a colour twice in such swift succession. So, something close, but something that inspired innocence and femininity. You had risked much in sneaking away from the palace to his tent, much more in wearing his colours. Tonight, you must be the picture of what your father wished of you. Mindful, Demure, even.

You pace the length of your rooms as the sun sets, running a hand down your face in distress.

“And you are quite certain?” You ask, turning to Stephanie, who stands beside the gold coated four poster bed you’ve slept in since childhood.

“Do you think I would tell you this if I had doubts?” She counters, shaking her head. “My source is good. Your father has been made a… rather generous offer by the Earl Sionis in exchange for your hand. A significant portion of fertile farming land.”

You nod. You had always known it would be your fate to form a political alliance, since the birth of your brother had taken the kingdom from your grasp. You were not even particularly opposed. Many such marriages were tolerable, and realistically once your husband had his son, you would only need to see him on formal occasions, and enjoy a life free of strife and hard labour.

But Earl Sionis? You had heard nothing credible of course, at least to the courts. Only rumours. Only the claims of his survivors, few as they were. Chief amongst them, in your mind, being Stephanie. You knew not exactly what he had done. But mention of his name filled your closest friend with fear and that was enough for you to think the lowest of him despite being unintroduced.

Still, you understood at least the political mechanics of how the match came to be. In the divying of the spoils of Arkham the Sionis line had been richly rewarded. Rewards that may well have been due to Captain Todd-Wayne, had he not been thought dead. Between the peasants, lands, and spoils he had taken, the Earl would have resources enough to make your father amenable to the match.

You sigh, your shoulders falling in defeat, in helplessness. You feel Stephanie move closer, and her arms wrapping you up in a hug. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

She whispers in your ear as you allow yourself to rest your head on her shoulder, and take a deep, shaken breath to fight tears. It would not do well to be seen to have been crying, especially if you could not explain how you had come to know of your inevitable engagement. You take a hankie from your pocket and dab at your eyes.

“Fret not. I… I will be safe while my father lives. He will not risk the Kings ire. I have till his death to endear myself to him.” Your lie tastes of ash on your tongue. But Stephanie seems cautiously comforted by your words. You were, after all, a talented liar. You may well have been a talented mistress of whispers in another life.

This is not that life though, and rather than a mistress of whispers, you are a princess. A helpless, beautiful flower blown by the winds of fate. You are not a talented spy. You are property of the realm. Privileged and pampered property, though property all the same.

You take another, deeper breath and withdraw from Stephanie’s arms. “Well. I have a ball to prepare for and I daren’t be late. I presume the Earl is in attendance this eve?”

“He is.” she confirms, as you ring a bell to summon your handmaidens to help you dress.

“Well then, we must make an impression.”

You did wish to dazzle, of course, but not your potential husband. If this was your last chance to dance publicly with Captain Todd-Wayne? You intended to look your very best.

Jason was not a scared child. He was a seasoned warrior. He was not skulking. He was simply scouting the ballroom's perimeter. The rooms' grandeur, while beautiful, lead to many nooks and crannies for an assassin to take refuge in. He was most certainly not hiding from his adoptive father.

Take for instance the pillar he stood behind. 12 of them lined the walls of the ballroom, made of marble and polished till they shone. Anyone could be using them as cover. The polished tiles with their elaborate design and the way they made voices and footsteps echo and carry to create the most lively atmosphere could conceal whispered threats in their manufactured noise.

Technically he had the evening off. Though when it came to her safety, he refused to let the matter fall into another’s hands. Especially after West’s embarrassment last night, letting her escape. Honestly, she had never tried to flee his company, and couldn’t understand why his brothers in arms struggled so much in containing her.

She was a menace, more often than not. Take last night. He was a man of honour, or at least he would always portray himself as one in the presence of a lady. Perhaps a little less than honourable was that he had given the minstrials a heavy coinpurse to ensure the song that opened the ball was a long one. No harm was caused by his deception, but he felt a treacherous liar all the same.

He reluctantly steps out from behind the pillar, before anyone could dare to accuse him of anything so childish as avoiding the Duke. Besides, the royal family would soon be announced. Traditionally, she would enter with them, but as the crown of roses was hers, she would enter after, as tradition dictated.

Sure enough, The King, Queen, and the young Prince enter, and as he often does, Jason’s eyes rake the crowd, looking for any sign of an unordinary reaction from the gathered peerage. True he bore the King no particular fondness, but a threat to her family was a threat to her.

Jason observes the Earl, Roman Sionis, who uplifts his glass to the King in a smug gesture. It … was no crime. Nothing he did in public was. Nevertheless, it set his bones on edge. He didn’t care for the look in the Earl’s eyes. Then again, something about Roman Sionins had filled him, since his return, with great unease. Nothing the man had done seemed to earn this, beyond the many rumours… what Jason felt was more visceral. But a feeling alone is hardly grounds for an accusation if he did not have a crime.

But then, with an eruption of trumpets, your name is announced. Like a doomed sailor, Jason turns to her. She is his gravity. She is … his everything. She looks radiant. Her dress is a soft pink, like a sunrise, with white underskirts that shimmer ever so slightly as if made of woven starlight. She has worn the rose crown, and jewels fine enough to likely feed half the country for a week.

He moves towards her, A moth to a flame, he cannot look away as he extends a hand. She takes it, and Jason kisses the back of her hand, momentarily despising whichever handmaiden had put her gloves on this eve. “My lady.”

He whispers against the fabric of the glove. He rarely said it. Only when he forgot himself.

She smiles at him, and Jason … can’t help but to notice it doesn’t seem sincere. Well. Her performance of affection had been impressive thus far - he could hardly fault her if her facade wavered.

The nobility move back, clearing the dance floor as Jason leads her to its centre. He places a hand on his waist, the other behind his back. She places a hand on his right epaulette. She stands a slight distance from him, and Jason ignores the desire to pull her closer, flush against his starched black military uniform with it’s red sash and the array of medals pinned to his chest.

Jason guides you by your waist in a series of slow, sweeping circles, before taking your hand and spinning you, first away and then close. You have to stop yourself from colliding with him as you are pulled back by placing a hand on his chest. You feel him tense, which, unlike plate might, allows you to feel the raw strength he possesses. You breathe deeply. Now is not the time for depraved thoughts.

“You fought well today.” You whisper to him he takes your hand from his chest with the one that had been behind his back, lacing your fingers together as you move into a more traditional waltz around the room.

He shakes his head in self deprecation “I was… motivated, my lady.”

You try to fight your smile and your sorrow, which work in a strange dance of their own.

“I am only sorry that this shall be our last.”

Because it would be. While Captain Todd-Wayne was of high enough rank and respectable enough standing he could petition a space on your dance card at many a ball, he did not. Would not. For reasons unknown to you, despite your brazen affection for him, and his for you, you had danced only those four Fata Morganas. And now that was all there would be.

“What?” He asks, his voice pitching higher than you’d previously heard it. It was a risk to tell him, but you trusted in his ability to be discreet. He deserved to know, you figured, that this was in many ways goodbye.

“I suspect myself soon to be wed.” You admit, fighting to keep your voice appropriately light. You needn’t concern him with the worst of the news yet, needn’t ruin the night utterly. You feel his grip on you tighten, and see his expression become mournful.

“Well.” He says, his voice tight and forced.

“I suppose it was a day always on the horizon, Congratulations my- Your Royal Highness.”

You hear the music end, but can’t quite bring yourself to step away from him. Can’t look away from his eyes, the bluest, most beautiful in all the land, you were sure. Neither of you move as you look at each other, as you squeeze his hand back, and fight the desire to tell him you love him before the chance is lost to you forever.

You hesitate too long. Perhaps you will always regret it.

An imposing, stately man approaches. You have never met him, of course, but you know him at once. From his suit so fine it borders on the garish, to the smug and self confident smile on his face. Earl Sionis bows to you, seeming to ignore the Captain entirely.

He speaks your name in a manner far too familiar. He smiles, and speaks with the charm of a cat toying with a half dead mouse. “My Lady, your beauty was not exaggerated in the tales that reached me. Might I have the honour of your hand… For the next dance?”

The deliberate pause is not lost on you, though you pretend it is. He is goading his perceived rival, you figure.

A ridiculous notion. There is no rivalry. Captain Todd-Wayne… Jason, would win the contest for your heart with laughable ease.

But you are petals in the whirlwind of fate, and so you smile, and say you’d be delighted. You do not look back at Jason… Captain Todd-Wayne. It would surely kill you.

[moonymoon90]

can I ask (if you know) what style of bobbin lace your neglected project is?

Hi!

My neglected lace is called pizzo di Cantù, One of the regional laces in Italy.

Here, bobbin lace mostly constitutes in waving ribbons (fettuccia), joined by little braids and torchons (bacchetta). If you want to try some patterns look for the "Mani di fata" magazine, It has many publications about it

Other two Italian laces that I know are the Neapolitan one, for which I recommend this book

And the San Sepolcro lace, a bit more similar to othe European bobbin laces, here is an example of the bachino motif, traditionally used for weddings

For the San Sepolcro lace, you can check the M&F merletti site, Maria Elena, the owner, is a dear friend and a great teacher.

[falcemartello]

•••

"L' Italia è come quella tipa che ha più talento di tutti, è come quella che le altre se le mangia, perché è nata bella, più bella di tutte e le altre se le asfalta. L' Italia è come quella più ingegnosa, che ha le mani di una fata, che si inventa mille cose, perché è piena di risorse. Sa discutere di storia, di mare, di montagne, sa di cibo, di buon vino, di dialetti, di pittori, di scultori, di scrittori, di eccellenze nella scienza, non c'è niente che non sa. E quando questa tipa bella e talentuosa inciampa e cade, la platea delle sfigate esulta. È la rabbia delle poverine ingelosite, quelle al buio, perché lei è comunque bella anche quando cade a terra. Ma l'Italia è una tipa con stivale tacco 12, ovviamente made in Italy, che nessuna sa portare meglio di lei... solo il tempo di rialzarsi.”

[turuin]

Stasera, mentre ero vicino ai kids perché si addormentassero, mia figlia se ne esce con "non credo nelle fate, anche perché sono sicura che la fata dei denti non esiste e i soldi ce li metti tu; una volta mi sono svegliata la mattina presto, alle sei, e i soldi non c'erano, e invece poi quando mi sono alzata alle dieci c'erano, quindi li hai messi tu". Il piccolo "anche io non credo alla fatina dei denti, papà". Io, col tono di voce più serio del mondo: "State dicendo che non credete nelle fate?" Loro: "No, non ci crediamo". Io: "Dovete essere impazziti. Battete le mani, subito. Almeno tre volte per uno. Ogni volta che un bambino dice che non crede alle fate, ne muore una. Potete salvarla solo battendo le mani".

Le hanno battute. Le fate sono salve, per stavolta.

Ma perché devono essere razionali a nove e sette anni? Se perdono il contatto col mondo che non esiste, il mondo che esiste li divorerà. Quindi ho detto loro che è bene che stiano attenti, se dovessero trovarsi in un bosco, a non camminare in mezzo ai cerchi di fiori, di funghi o di pietre, e ho spiegato loro che non si fanno patti col Piccolo Popolo.

Magari non ci crederanno sul serio, magari gli resterà il dubbio. Piccoli miei, se solo sapeste - quel dubbio è la meraviglia della vita. Non perdetela.

[susieporta]

Sette di Bastoni

"Da burattini a Uomini d'Onore"

Le Energie di Settembre ci portano a rivedere il nostro Passato.

E mentre ricostruiamo interiormente a fatica "i torti e le ragioni", le "occasioni perse o lasciate", "le vittorie e le sconfitte", ci rendiamo conto che quella storia "non siamo più noi", da tempo.

I personaggi sembrano marionette che si muovono dinoccolate su un palco, incoscienti di essere tirate da un filo e governate dalle "sapienti" mani di un burattinaio.

E tutta la narrazione sembra "uguale a se stessa".

Stesso film, stesso copione, stessa dinamica.

E' commovente assistere alla scena di Pinocchio che diventa Bambino.

Ma ci dispiace per quel "pezzo di legno".

Era stato creato con tanta dedizione da Geppetto, padre materiale e spirituale di Pinocchio, che insieme alla sua creazione, matura il senso della Genitorialità come funzione evolutiva.

Nell'incoscienza, Geppetto offre il dono della Vita ad un "figlio surrogato", un burattino parlante, per riempire il proprio vuoto d'Amore. E sempre nell'inconsapevolezza, si ritrova catapultato nel viaggio verso la propria Rinascita interiore.

Per riconquistare "il diritto all'incarnazione" Pinocchio si perde tra le contraddizioni dell'Esistenza, sbattuto qua e là, nella mancanza assoluta di connessione interiore, di direzione, di radicamento, disperso nella dolorosa degenerazione dell'Io.

Ancora oggi è così.

Molti individui vivono la Vita senza provare l'Amore. Appiattiti nell'inedia, nella ipnosi del piacere compensativo fine a se stesso.

O esasperati dalla radicata mancanza di punti di riferimento, dalla ribellione, dall'autosabotaggio, dalla solitudine e dal vuoto interiore, dalla rabbia e dall'insofferenza, governati da fili invisibili che li incatenano ad uno schema disfunzionale invisibile, ma più potente di qualsiasi altra gabbia interiore.

Pinocchio incontra la Fata Turchina. Un Entità che da bambina, matura il proprio spazio energetico femminile e diventa "madre interiore".

Essa lo pone di fronte alla Menzogne che racconta a se stesso per non maturare, per non crescere nella Verità.

Lo pone di fronte alle sue scelte distruttive.

Pinocchio poi matura. E matura attraverso l'affettività e l'empatia.

Il "donarsi" all'altro con Amore e Verità, lo rende finalmente "Umano".

Rompe l'incantesimo della prigione di legno e lo trasforma in un Maschile responsabile ed "energeticamente vitale".

E' questa la Strada.

E' la Strada che ci propone di percorrere Settembre.

La Via della Responsabilità e della Maturità affettiva.

Per divenire Uomini e Donne integri, emozionalmente presenti, onesti e non più schiavi dei "fili del burattinaio".

Per divenire Maschili e Femminili energeticamente potenti e sani e "genitori interiori" consapevoli e abbondanti nell'accoglienza e nell'Amore.

Mirtilla Esmeralda

[summertimemusician]

*downs coffee like a shot* Before we go back to our regularly scheduled Linktober/Linktober Shadow (because I don't leave things unfinished if I can help it), I gotta get the idea of Revenant First out of my system and y'all get to suffer with me until it eventually ceases being an idea and it turns into an actual story. For some reason we talk a lot about First already being alive or already a ghost by the time the Chain meets him, but I don't think I've ever heard someone talk about him actually coming back to life and so y'all get to suffer with my insane ramblings like I'm an 1800's psychic ward patient who believes themselves to be a witch.

Can be x Reader or not idk just an idea that won't leave my mind.

Might expand on this later so Part out of I/?

Revenant First, who died for his people and in the name of his Goddess. All alone on the surface, fighting, fighting, fighting, always fighting. Just to make the land a little safer before the next hero arrives, just to contain the Imprisoned for a little while longer with likely nothing than a ordinary, common sword to his name and a slowly rusting armor.

Always giving so so so much for his people, always doing his best to protect them, though they scorned him, loathed him, didn't believe or support him, rejected him.

With a spirit so strong and lovely that a Goddess fell for him, hated herself for having to manipulate and put him through such horrid experiences just to save the many, just to turn the diamond of his soul into an unbreakable lonsdaleite blade agaisnt a mad deity.

Someone whose will would be enough to keep him going, just one more fight right? Just one more kill right? Forward, forward, ever onward, it doesn't matter if the flesh decays, if the blood drips drips drips until he is dry of it, if the liver doesn't process nutrients, if the lungs don't draw air, if the nerves feel nothing but the cold cold numbness of the winter of his final years, if the heart doesn't beat. If the armor rusts or the sword breaks. He must keep going, he must keep fighting.

To keep them safe he must have faith, faith that he can keep going, to grasp onto that one.single.thread of purpose until the day that fiery, indomitable, determined will finally burns out. Even if his Goddess may have forsaken him knowingly or unknowingly, even if his people have rejected him to the point he isn't even human anymore, even though they reviled him, even if that rejection should by all intents and purposes chained his spirit to the land or ground the jewel of his unbreakable soul into dust, he still loves them, still adores them, still wants to protect them.

No matter how long he must keep going for it. He wishes to see those he holds dear happy, though they cursed and imprisoned him once.

The Chain getting dropped into a completely empty, desolated and undeniably dead version of Sky's Hyrule, only to find the only living thing besides monster is a single man, with rusted gold armor and an old sword, a faded tunic of green with a long, crimson scarf like a bloody banner. With hair and eyes like theirs, undeniably a Link. But so very frigid, so very silent they almost didn't notice him, that they can't help but wonder just how many years he has spent there, eroding away, ruined but still kind, kind, so very gentle. A shadow of his former self, yes, but still himself, still so so so good, doing all he can until Sky's Era comes and maybe, just maybe, he can finally rest.

Or maybe not, after all, someone has to keep the land safe until the Hero after Sky comes around, no?

Just Revenant First in general.

Or maybe we give him the House in Fata Morgana treatment, the House in Fata Hylia Au if you will- *collapses from sleep deprivation*

[la-scigghiu]

Quale fantasia i sentieri della schiena e tu il covo nella mia testa - A te, che rimane l’attesa, lenta, da accudire e quando lasci le passioni scivolare lungo i fianchi, sei luce di persiane, muri di sabbia, bianchi passati, innesti e memorie. Sei quelle mani assorte, smorte della brezza, che mi sfiorano.

.🦋.

🔸La fata ignorante

[maimoncat]

Andersens "Kleine Seejungfrau" ist an einer langen Tradition von Wasserfrauen angelegt, die lang ins Mittelalter führt. Von ihnen ist die kleine Meerjungfrau die erste, die sich weigert, den Menschen, der ihr Herz zerbrach, zu töten, und damit von dieser Tradition abbricht. Darum hab ich mir diese Szene ausgedacht, wo die älteren Nixen versuchen die Jüngste zu überzeugen, auch ihren Prinzen zu töten. Hier eine kleine Verdeutlichung:

Links: Melusine, die Wasserfee. Ihr Sagenstoff ist bis ins 12. Jahrhundert verwurzelt und schon im 13. wurde er mit der Adelsfamilie der Lusignans in Verbindung gebracht. Melusine heiratete Raymund unter der Bedingung, er dürfe sie nie Samstags beim Baden zusehen. Natürlich konnte der Ritter der Neugier nicht widerstehen und als er seine Frau mit einem Schlangenleib sah, flog diese davon und nahm Großteil des Glücks, das sie ihm geschenkt hatte, zurück.

Rechts: die Meerfei aus Egenolf von Staufenbergs Rittermäre. Wie viele mittelalterliche Patenfeen beschützte sie den Ritter Peter Diemringer auf dem Schlachtfeld. Sie verliebte sich und nahm eine heimliche Ehe mit ihm auf, doch er ließ sich vom Kaiser überzeugen und verließ den Wassergeist für die königliche Muhme. Zur Hochzeit stieß die Meerfei ihren Fuß durch die Decke und sagte ihm seinen Tod vor. In vielen Verdichtungen wird auch sie Melusine genannt.

Oben: Undine aus Friedrich de la Motte Foucqués Erzählung. Name und Handlung stammen aus Paracelsus Buch um Elementargeistern, die auch sein Kommentar auf die Staufenberger Sage enthält. Undine ist die Nixe, die der kleinen Meerjungfrau am ähnlichsten ist und auch sie hätte ihren geliebten nicht umgebracht, wenn ihre Familie sie nicht dazu gezwungen hätte. Benjamin Lacombes Illustrationen davon sind unheimlich schön.

Andersen's "little Seamaid" is radicated in a long tradition of heartbroken waterwomen, that goes back to the Middle Ages. Of them the little mermaid is the first who refuses to kill the human that broke her heart, thus splitting from that tradition. That's how I came up with this idea, of the older nixies trying to convince the youngest to follow their example and kill her prince as well. Here some more info on them:

Left: Melusine, the water fairy. Her legend stems from the 12th century and was already connected to the family of Lusignan by the 13th. Melusine married Raymund under the condition, that he would never see her bathe on a saturday. Naturally he couldn't resist his curiosity, and thus saw her exposed snakebody, which made her fly away, taking with her all the luck she had gifted him.

Right: the Merfey, from Egenolf von Stauffenberg's chivalric poem. Like many medieval fairy godmothers, her job was to aid the knight Peter Dimringer in battle, yet she fell in love with him and married in secret. However the knight was convinced by the emperor to reject the water sprite and remarry the royal aunt/cousin. The Merfey burst with her foot through the ceiling at the wedding, and foretold Peter his death in three days. In many adaptations her name is given as Melusine.

Up: Undine, from Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué's novella. Name and plot are taken from Paracelsus book on elementals, which also contained his commentary on the legend of Stauffenberg. Undine is the closest related to the little mermaid, and she too would have refused to kill her love, hadn't her family forced her to. I was inspired here by Benjamin Lacombe's wonderful illustrations.

"La Sirenetta" di Andersen va a pescare da una lunga tradizione di tragiche donne acquatiche, che ha le sue radici nel medioevo. Tra queste, la giovane sirena è la prima a rifiutarsi di uccidere l'uomo che le spezzò il cuore, rompendo così con la tradizione. Da qui mi è venuta l'idea per questa scena, dove le sirene più antiche cercano di convincere anche la più giovane ad ammazzare il suo principe. Ecco un po' di informazioni:

A sinistra: Melusina, la fata delle acque. La sua leggenda nasce nel XII secolo e già nel XIII fu ricondotta alla nobile famiglia di Lusignan. Melusina sposò Raimondo, a condizione che lui non la vedesse mai fatsi il bagno di sabato. Ovviamente lui non resisté alla curiosità e quando vide la moglie col corpo di serpente, lei scappò, portando via con se la fortuna che gli aveva donato.

A destra: la Fata Marina, dal poema cavalleresco di Egenolf von Staufenberg. Come molte fate madrine medievali, era incaricata di guidare e proteggere un cavaliere, Peter Dimringer, in battaglia. Ma si innamorò del mortale e lo sposò segretamente. Furono felici finché l'imperatore non convinse il cavaliere a lasciare lo spririto delle acque per sposare la zia/cugina di famiglia reale. La Fata Marina sfondò il soffitto della sala col piede al matrimonio e predisse allo sposo la morte entro tre giorni. In molte versioni della storia viene chiamata anche lei Melusina

In alto: Ondina, dalla fiaba d'autore di Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué. Nome e trama sono tratti dal libro di Paracelso sugli spiriti elementari, nel quale è anche contenuto un commento alla leggenda di Staufenberg. Ondina è la ninfa più simile alla sirenetta di Andersen, e infatti anche lei non avrebbe ucciso il suo amore, se la sua famiglia non l'avesse obbligata

[t-annhauser]

Sempre a proposito del questionario dei tre giorni: ma chi le ha mai viste le "riviste di meccanica"? Tipo che davvero esisteva un corrispettivo virile del femminile "Mani di fata", ma con lo schema del carburatore "dal disdott" (del diciotto) al posto degli schemi del punto croce? C'era, è vero, "Rivista di Meccanica", ma i miei amici, anche i più impratichiti con gli organi di trasmissione, gli preferivano le pagine dell'intimo di Postalmarket, quella sì una rivista davvero più pertinente alla virilità, altro che pistoni.

[vaerjs]

googlare chi è la tata dei ferragnez per sapere a chi appartengono le mani di fata che fanno le treccine ai capelli finissimi di vittoria e chiederle di fare le treccine anche a me

[lunamagicablu]

La bambina prese con le mani le due metà della melagrana perfettamente combacianti e simmetriche incerta sul da farsi. Poi decise di separarle con dolcezza, lasciando che copiose gocce di succo agrodolce e vermiglio macchiassero la tovaglia bianca di fiandra con cui la tavola era apparecchiata. La donna si stiracchiò languidamente, svegliata dalla solerzia della bambina guardandola interrogativamente e poi con maggior indulgenza e disponibilità. Destarsi all’improvviso le era costato parecchio ma comprendeva la curiosità di quella donna in nuce e decise di accontentarla. Fece qualche passo di danza per sgranchirsi le membra intorpidite sul chiaroscuro della tovaglia damascata lasciandosi guidare da una musica immaginaria e dal piacere genuino di quegli occhi infantili colmi d’intelligenza intenti a seguire con interesse ogni sua mossa. Sfoderò tutta l’intraprendenza che possedeva nel percorrere il perimetro quadrato del piano su cui poggiava ben attenta a non scivolare oltre, verso profondità e altezze inesplorate. Continuò fermandosi davanti alla foglia lucidissima e verdissima di un’arancia matura, saggiandone la consistenza provando a dondolarsi con leggerezza, le mani ben salde al picciolo, e la bimba ripensò a pigre giornate estive trascorse nel dormiveglia intrecciando le dita nelle maglie di un’amaca lontana dal vago sapore di salsedine e le sorrise. Decise, allora, di offrirle la polpa sugosa di un acino d’uva maturo e la donna accettò con gratitudine. Insieme ne assaporarono la dolcezza senza pretese a lungo e in silenzio; poi la creatura misteriosa accettò di salire sul palmo di quella manina grassoccia e amichevole per farsi esaminare con la stessa precisione di uno scienziato intento a osservare al microscopio un organismo prezioso e minuscolo poggiato con cura su un vetrino: i capelli lunghi e liscissimi, dalla consistenza setosa. La pelle rosea e compatta del viso. Gli occhi color ambra, mobili ed espressivi. Un corpo femminile sinuoso e morbido appena velato da un abito di consistenza traslucida che alla bimba fece pensare alla sottilissima pellicina dell’acino d’uva appena assaporato. Una fata perfetta e amabile, simile alle tante creature fiabesche da lei conosciute e amate nelle ore di assoluta e compiuta solitudine trascorse nella lettura avida di pagine e pagine di storie senza tempo. A lungo rimasero l��, insieme, avare di parole, comunicando un mondo di idee e sensazioni attraverso le sfumature sottili ed espressive dei loro sguardi sino a quando un rumore improvviso e inaspettato non le fece sobbalzare entrambe, con la sgradevole percezione di essere state appena colte in flagrante. Il persiano di casa osservò sornione la sua giovane padrona dal basso, strofinandosi contro una gamba tornita del tavolo, riflettendo sulla prossima mossa da compiere. La fata portò l’indice alla bocca chiedendole silenzio e complicità e la bambina con delicatezza decise di lasciarla laddove l’aveva, quel giorno, scoperta per la prima volta, accanto ai grani trasparenti e rossastri del frutto che era la sua dimora e attese. L’altra annuì con un sorriso leggero lasciandosi racchiudere con grazia nella sua prigione dorata. La bambina guardò a lungo le due metà ora saldate alla perfezione e non disse nulla. Poi, con fare autorevole, si rivolse al suo antico compagno di giochi invitandolo a seguirla come sempre in giardino. Di quel pomeriggio magico e irripetibile non rimasero che poche stille vermiglie sul candore violato di una tovaglia delle feste e un’aria svagata e pigra ma stranamente appagante offerta dal sole e dal garbino attraverso la finestra aperta su una domenica di dicembre unica e speciale. Lucia Guida

[ran-orimoto]

Can you write a Junzumi/Takumi where Izumi announces she’s marrying Takuya and Junpei suicides or goes crazy?

The idea isn’t bad if I exclude the consequences you’ve mentioned. But I’m sorry, I think there are too many fics out there making Takumi win over Junzumi. Even if I love writing about unrequited love in general, also going deeper in the characters’ frustration and melancholy, my goal is to create a safe place for Junpei where he can realize his dreams. I’m his Fata Turchina, okay🤣💕?

If you want a good fic briefly telling about him getting depressed over Izumi marrying Takuya, I can link you a very delicate italian one-shot inspired from a song from here by Zarillo: “L’ elefante e la farfalla” (“The elephant and the butterfly”).

It’s very sappy, just like we italians adore🤣!

Sorry, again, Anon💕. This is a happy place for Junpei!

PSA: Now that I think about it, another anon asked me to write a similar fic but they requested a good ending I had to come up with. I still have that fic in my drafts, but the ending will be so bittersweet if I end up writing it in full.

[lesolitecose]

Io: "Oh ma mi metti l'arnica che mi fa male il collo?"

Lei: "Va bene, dai vieni qui che ti faccio anche un massaggino".

Sempre lei:

Grazie ma, hai proprio delle mani di fata.

[checolorehaunanimabruciata]

Hai lasciato un cuoricino sotto il mio post, quindi ora ti faccio delle domande:

Quali creature fantastiche (umane, animali, vegetali) ti affascinano di più?

Secondo te sono più intriganti i licantropi o i vampiri?

Se fossi una fata, quale sarebbe il primo incantesimo che vorresti provare?

Grazie mille per il tuo tempo ✨

buona sera, scusa se rispondo solo ora ma essendo un periodo un po' così a volte mi passa la voglia di interagire con le persone. le creature fantastiche che più mi affascinano credo siano i mostri mitologici in generale(soprattutto mitologia romana e greca), i draghi(le viverne più che altro) e tipo tutte quelle che si vedono in Spiderwick(non so se conosci) onestamente non saprei, i vampiri vengono usati talmente tanto in film, serie ecc che quasi quasi sono diventati "noiosi", i licantropi sono lupi per cui per me vincono a mani basse(ma vi prego basta porcate come Twilight) non saprei, credo sarebbe il farmi crescere le ali o non so, tipo fermare il tempo(?) grazie a te!

[la-scigghiu]

Lasciami i tuoi cieli neri, intrisi di pioggia, lasciali a me, non mi fanno paura le ombre della terra. Sono una piccola sciocca ma reggo lune pesanti, sigillate, canzoni stonate con un oscuro spleen. Lascia che ti salvi dal tuo silenzio, dalla schiva solitudine. Non sono io la tristezza, l’abbandono, io sono le mani che cercano. Le mani che cercano le note quelle svanite nell’aria, — che resta sempre lo spartito.

.🦋.

🔸La fata ignorante