#might actually be more known as the cowslip in english?

[regnigt]

I was surprised to learn that the primrose is a symbol of despair in Japanese flower symbolism. I have always thought of it as a lovely flower exuding a kind of gentle cheer...

But the dichotomy fits Hasegawa, sympathetic but spurned by fate, tough but despairing yet struggling on yet still kind to others.

[windingriverherbals]

COMMON NAME:  primrose GENUS:  Primula SPECIES, HYBRIDS, CULTIVARS: P. denticulata-lavender, purple, or white flowers; grows to 12 inches. P. japonica ‘Millar Crimson’-flowers whorled around the 24-inch stem; blooms May-June. P. polyanthus-best known; colors are red, pink, blue, gold, and white, all with small yellow eyes. FAMILY:  Primulaceae BLOOMS:  spring TYPE:  perennial DESCRIPTION:  Primroses form an attractive rosette of crinkly, light green leaves. The flowers are generally brightly colored and occur in tight bundles on individual stems above the leaves. CULTIVATION:  Needing partial shade, primroses thrive in well-drained, rich soil. They are indigenous to cool, moist meadows and woodland environments  Duplicating these conditions as closely as possible will create the best growing conditions for primroses. The soil should not be allowed to dry completely. To retain vigorously blooming plants, divide clumps every four to five years. Seeds should be sown in midsummer for bloom the following spring.

Primrose is beloved by people everywhere but is particularly cherished by the English. Buckner Hollingsworth, in his book Flower Chronicles, proclaims that “England displays a rose on the royal coat of arms, but she carries a primrose in her heart.” Primrose is a symbol of early youth, and to walk down the primrose path meant a life of pleasure and self-indulgence. According to English folk legends, the primrose was a symbol of wantonness. The word primrose also thought to mean “most excellent.” The name primrose is from the Latin word primus, meaning “first,” and was given to this plant because it is among the first flowers to bloom in spring. Common names for the plant abound. In Germany it is known as Himmelschusslechen, meaning “little keys to heaven.” Other names similar to this include our Lady’s key, marriage key, the key flower, Virgins’ key, and Saint Peter’s keys. It was thought that primrose had the magical power to open treasure chests, or even better, to open rocks to reveal hidden treasure. The references to keys stem from the resemblance of the cluster of flowers to a bunch of keys. According to a German legend, Saint Peter heard a rumor that some wayward souls were trying to slip into the backdoor of heaven rather than enter through the Pearly Gates. He got so upset he dropped the keys to heaven, and where they landed on earth, they grew into primroses. Other names for primrose refer to a mystical connection with fairies and elves and include such appellations as fairy flower, fairy cup, or fairy basins. Fairies were thought to take shelter under primrose leaves during a rainstorm. Cowslip is a favorite English name for the primrose. Although there is some question as to how the plant came to be known by this name, most people agree that cowslip probably came from cow slop. Since the plants grew abundantly in fields, the superstition arose that they must have sprung from cow dung.

Primroses have been used since medieval times to cure a wide variety of ailments. Called herba paralysis, it was considered good for those suffering from gout. According to a fourteenth-century herbal, to “put the juice of ‘primerose’ into a man’s mouth would restore lost speech.” Mountain climbers in Switzerland carried the primrose root for its supposed power to combat vertigo. The plant has also been used to cure convulsions, hysteria, neck and muscular pains, and coughs. Water distilled from an infusion of leaves and flowers was said to be good for “pain in the head from a cold, the biting of mad dogs, and woman that beareth a child.” Eating primrose leaves in a salad was thought to be good for arthritis. A book on household remedies published in 1898 suggested that an ointment made from primrose leaves would be good on burns and ulcers. In addition to its use as a medicine, primrose has also enjoyed quite a reputation as a beauty aid. Culpeper, a seventeenth-century English physician, wrote that “our city dames know well enough the ointment or distilled water of it {primrose} adds to the beauty, or at least restores it when it is lost.” Ointment from the common English cowslip, P. veris, was used to remove spots and wrinkles from the face. Primrose was used as a rouge. It was thought that the leaf if rubbed on the cheek of a fair-skinned woman, would cause a red glow. Primrose can also be used in the kitchen. The leaves and flowers are eaten raw in salads, or they can be mixed with other herbs and used to stuff poultry. The leaves and flowers add flavor and color to many foods, particularly egg or custard dishes. Tea can be made from dried or fresh petals. Steep the petals in boiling water for several minutes, strain, and enjoy. Juice from the flowers can also be made into tasty country wine, jams, jellies, and preserves. Pickles and conserves were also made from the blossoms. In the 1880s, April 19 in England was declared Primrose Day. This was in honor of Benjamin Disraeli {English prime minister from 1874 to 1880}, for the primrose was his favorite flower and this was his birthday.

Primrose is considered the flower of February.

The Victorian Language of Flowers

The language of flowers was quite suited to Victorian England, for it allowed for communication between lovers without the knowledge of ever-present chaperones and parents. Messages that would be a social impossibility if spoken could be conveyed by sending certain types of flowers. How these flowers were sent was of great importance as well, for this was also part of the message. If the blossom was presented upright, it carried a positive thought. If the flower came upside down, it might mean quite the opposite. If the giver intended the message to refer to himself, he would incline the flower to the left. If the message referred to the recipient, it would be inclined toward the right. If flowers were used to answer a question and were handed over with the right hand it meant “yes’;  with the left hand, the answer was “no.” Other conditions of the plant were important as well. For example, if a boy sent a girl a rosebud with the leaves and thorns still on it, it meant ” I fear, but I hope.” If the rosebud was returned upside down, it meant, “you must neither fear nor hope.” If the rosebud was returned with the thorns removed, the message was “you have everything to hope for.” If the thorns were left but the leaves removed, the message was “you have everything to fear.” If the young lady kept the rosebud and placed it in her hair, it meant “caution.” If she placed it over her heart, the message was clearly “love.” The Victorians took the language of flowers a bit further and actually began attributing personalities to various flowers, as Thomas Hood exemplified:

The cowslip is a country wench,

The violet is a nun;-

But I will woo the dainty rose

The queen of everyone.

During the last part of the nineteenth century, several floral dictionaries were published. Among these was The Poetical Language of Flowers {1847}, The Language and Sentiments of Flowers {1857}, The Floral Telegraph {1874}, and Kate Greenway’s The Language of Flowers, first published in 1884 and republished in 1978. Because more than one dictionary existed, the possibility of error was great. One of these floral misinterpretations was famous by Louisa Anne Twamley in her poem “Carnations and Cavaliers.” The poem describes how a knight gave his lady a pink rose, meaning our love is perfect happiness. His lady either did not know about the language of flowers or did not care, for she sent back to him a carnation, which means refusal. The result was the tragedy: the lovers died for each other’s love. It was during the Victorian period that tussie-mussies became popular. A  tussie-mussie is a small bouquet of fresh or dried flowers, usually surrounded by lacy doilies and satin ribbons. Tussie-mussies were popular, in part, for the very practical purpose of warding off bad smells and disease. Some of the most useful flowers for this purpose included lavender, rosemary, and thyme. Tussie-mussies made marvelous gifts then, and they still do. They are easy to make, and, accompanied by a card explaining the meanings of the flowers used, make a uniquely personal present. Tussie-mussies can be made from either fresh or dried flowers. Choose a relatively large, perfect blossom for the center flower. A perfectly formed rose blossom is wonderful for this. Surround this with smaller blossoms and ferns and put the stems through a doily or starched lace. If using fresh flowers, wrap the stems with damp paper towels and then cover them with plastic wrap or foil held in place with florist tape. If using dried flowers, simply wrap the stems with florist tape. Fresh flowers that are good to use in tussie-mussies include rose, baby’s breath, cornflower, phlox, aster, and carnation. Suitable dried flowers include strawflower, statice, honesty, ageratum, and sedum.

Flowers and Their Meaning

  alyssum, sweet: worth beyond beauty

amaranth, globe: immortality, unfading love

amaryllis: pride

anemone, garden: forsaken

aster: elegance and daintiness, the talisman of love

bachelor’s button: celibacy

begonia: beware! I am fanciful

bellflower {white}: gratitude

bluebell: constancy, delicacy, and humility

carnation {pink}: the floral emblem of Mother’s Day

carnation {purple}: antipathy and capriciousness

carnation {red}: admiration

carnation {striped}: refusal

carnation {white}: pure and ardent love, the good-luck gift to a woman

carnation {yellow}: disdain

Christmas rose: relieve my anxiety

chrysanthemum {red}: I love

chrysanthemum {white}: truth

chrysanthemum {yellow}: slighted love

clematis: mental beauty, ingenuity

cockscomb: affectation

columbine {purple}: resolved to win

columbine {red}: anxious and trembling

columbine: cuckoldry and deserted lover, a bad-luck gift to men

coreopsis: always cheerful

crocus: abuse not

crocus {spring}: youthful gladness

crocus, saffron: mirth

cyclamen: diffidence, a bad-luck gift to a woman

daffodil: regard

dahlia: instability

daisy: innocence, gentleness

daisy, garden: I share your sentiments

day lily: coquetry

fern: fascination

fern, maidenhair: discretion

flax: a domestic industry

forget-me-not: true love, forget me not

foxglove: insincerity

fritillary, crown: majesty, power

fuschia: taste, amiability

geranium: folly and stupidity

geranium, scarlet: comforting

geranium, wild: piety

gladiolus: you pierce my heart

heliotrope: devotion

hibiscus: delicate beauty

hollyhock: ambition

honesty: honesty

hyacinth: sport, game, play

impatiens: refusal and severed ties

iris: message, faith, wisdom, and valor

iris, German: flame

Jasmine {white}: amiability

jasmine {yellow}: timidity and modesty

larkspur: an open heart and ardent attachment

lily {orange}: hatred

lily {white}: sincerity and majesty

lily of the valley: purity and humility

marigold: disquietude and jealousy

morning glory: farewell and departure

narcissus: egotism and conceit

nasturtium: conquest and victory in battle

pansy: thoughtful recollection

peony: healing

petunia: anger and resentment

phlox: sweet dreams and proposal of love

poppy: eternal sleep and oblivion

primrose: early youth and young love

rose {pink}: our love is perfect happiness

rose {red}: love and desire

rose {white}: charm and innocence

rose {white and red}: unity

rose {yellow}: infidelity and jealousy

rosebud: beauty and youth

rose, withered: fading beauty, reproach

Saint John’s wort: suspicion and superstition

sedum: lover’s wreath

snapdragon: presumption and desperation

snowdrop: hope and consolation

sunflower: homage and devotion

sweet pea: departure and adieu

tiger lily: wealth and pride

tuberose: dangerous pleasures

tulip: a symbol of the perfect lover

verbena: may you get your wish

violet: modesty and simplicity

wallflower: friendship in adversity

yarrow: disputes and quarrels

zinnia: thoughts of absent friends

Botanical Names

The Victorian language of flowers is sometimes easier to understand than the botanical nomenclature that is assigned to every plant. This method of naming is based on the work done by Carolus Linnaeus {1707-1778}, who established three categories: genus, species, and varieties. Most of these names are from Latin though other languages are represented as well. Although the common names are undoubtedly more fun to use and perhaps easier to remember, the botanical names are indispensable for precise and efficient communication about plants. Many of the botanical names are based on quirks and characteristics of the plants, or on where {or by whom} they were first found growing. The following is a list of commonly used species names and their meanings.

africanus: of Africa

agrarius: of the fields

agustus: majestic or noble

albus: white

allianthus: with beautiful flowers

amoenus: pleasing

annuus: annual

aurantiacus: orange colored

aureus: golden

belladonna: beautiful lady

bellus: beautiful

biennis: biennial

biflorus: twinned flower

caeruleus: dark blue

campestris: of the fields

canadensis: of Canada

coccinea: scarlet

elegans: elegant

flava: yellow

fragilis: fragile

grandiflora: large-flowered

japonica: of Japan

nobilis: of fine appearance

officinalis: used in the apothecary shop

patens: spreading

purpurea: purple

repens: creeping

splendens: showy

tinctoria: used by dyers

Names and Meanings of Flowers

Floral communication is at least as old as the Golden Age of Greece. According to Greek and Roman myths, many gods, goddesses, and innocent nymphs were transformed into various flowers which, in turn, took on the characteristics of these personages. For example, narcissus is named for the Greek youth who spent his days looking at his own reflection, and now this plant is a symbol of egotism. Another example is of hyacinth, which, the myths tell us, grew out of the blood of Hyacinthus, a young man who loved sports and games. Hyacinth is now a symbol of sports, games, and play. The Greeks used flowers extensively in their ceremonies and in their day-to-day lives. Though they apparently conveyed messages by sending different flowers in a bouquet or garland, we can only guess which flowers had which meanings for them. Floral symbols seem to have been used by the early Chinese, Assyrians, Egyptians, and Indians. According to The Mystery and Magic of Trees and Flowers, by Lesley Gordon, the first mention of English floral symbols was during the reign of Elizabeth I {1533-1603.} William Hunnis, an English poet, wrote verses that included the phrases “gillyflowers are for gentleness,” and “marigolds is for marriage,” and “cowslips is for council.” It was the Turks in the late seventeenth century who truly developed the art of communicating with flowers. They could convey almost any sentiment using different flowers. Displeasure, love, compassion, forgiveness  friendship and countless other feelings could be sent by means of a bouquet of flowers. The language of flowers was introduced to England in the early 1700s by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, wife of the English ambassador to Turkey. On March 16, 1718, Lady Montagu wrote to a friend in England telling her that the “fair maidens of the East have lent a mute speech to flowers.” Enthralled with this custom, Lady Montagu published her Turkish Letters in 1763, explaining the floral symbolism for many different kinds of flowers. The custom caught on and appealed to romantics throughout the country. In the early 1800’s the poet Thomas Hood wrote that “sweet flowers alone can say what passion fears to reveal.”

Primrose is Considered the Flower of February. COMMON NAME:  primrose GENUS:  Primula SPECIES, HYBRIDS, CULTIVARS: P. denticulata-lavender, purple, or white flowers; grows to 12 inches.

[kahliethefangirl]

Hedda Pt. 3

Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Hedda Pt. 3 - How to be brave.

Pairing: Ivar x OFC Rating for chapter: T Warnings: Mention of violence, a touch of strong language. Note: Daily friendly reminder: My English could be so much better. Sorry. And I know there haven't been much Ivar yet and I'm sorry; but I need some things done for all this to work out as I have planned soo.. But he will be there, promise! And I realized just how complex I have made this and I start to confuse myself majorly. I know this part is rather jumpy and I'm sorry but I have been writing this over and over again without finding a way much better than this. I hope the next part will be better aha!

Winter had slowly passed to spring. Soon I would find the floor of the woods being covered in Hepatica, Wood Anemone and Cowslip. Already could I hear the singing of Wagtails and the Long-taled Tit; even through the lively atmosphere of the town. The sun was more generous with its presence and warmth and down at the docks the birds feeding of the water had started to gather around the fishing boats trying to steal some breakfast. Today the sun is modest and the colder and crisp winds whisper about the possibility of spring snow coming from the mountains. Yet the green grass had started to sneak out from under the now random spots of wet snow.

"We should find something for you to do." Aslaug says where we walk the muddy streets of Kattegat; the leather of our shoes splashing the mud onto our legs whenever a foot is put down in front of the other.

"Because you want me to contribute or because you fear I will be bored?" I smile faintly at an older woman greeting us and the calm weather spreads a form of ease within.

"You already contribute." Looking down towards the water I can see a sail falling from behind the rooftops and you could hear the people shouting in communication. Life was all around, yet something deep inside told me it is only a temporarily peace.

"With my dreams?" I look to her, taller and leaner than I; truly putting me in her shadow and I think that not only is she a queen by her acts but also by her looks.

"You are here for a reason Hedda. Spring is crawling at our doorstep and perhaps time for us to understand is soon here." She doesn't look troubled yet her smile is absent. I look down to the mud stuck to my dress and the light reflects in the watery puddles among the brown and wet soil. I have had the dream once more since the day Aslaug had enlighted me what I hadn't known myself but then just barely a moon back it had changed. The fox was constantly by my side, smirking with its white and red snout as I was in the bloody mud on the ground; the pleasure closer than ever. The flying swords was still there and so was the man turning into a wolf. But part from the fox now following me a raven had joined us; it's great black wings enveloping me and behind me in the darkness it throws over me I can feel the awareness of what I have to protect, what I have to sacrifice for and in front of me I feel the awareness of the threat. But I can't see, like the wings of the raven had blinded both my eyes. The queen had been more troubled by this than what she liked to let me know.

"You should go se the seer." She stops and I almost walk past her where I with a silent groan pleadingly look to her wise eyes.

"You know I don't wish for that." I complain like a child and Aslaug raise her chin in authority making me feel even smaller than before. Long had she asked me to go see the seer in hope for answers we could not find ourselves. The interest in finding out who I was had faltered amongst the people during the long months I'd been around but my dreams had only triggered the queens need to know. But I feared; I feared what he might know and therefor tell me. My insides was wrapped in such doubt and trembling terror during the nights I sometimes tried not to fall asleep. Aslaug knew this.

"Fearing is not what we do." She cups my cheek and her smooth thumb runs under my blind eye. Her words are a lullaby about trust and strength yet the already told unknown future in my dreams had me unable to truly enjoy it. "And this is your conribution. You are not given the gift of seeing for your own entertainment. We are not women to walk between towns; telling what we can see for a hot meal or for some coins in our hand." She starts walk again and reluctantly I follow; knowing her words to be true. I don't know how to put myself in that trance that would allow people like us to see and to be told what ordinary humans could not perceive. I only see what the dreams allow me to see. I had not come here to the fox's den for its wisdom for simple coin or prophecies of the weather or the falls harvest.

_____

With the soft cloak around me I sit outside one of the fishing shacks, the doors closed but the smell of fish strong around us. The wet ground had soaked the leather on my feet but the thought of being closed in by walls made me ignore it and instead lean against the chilly outside of the buildings structure. Ubbe had made me company a while ago where I like an animal curl inside my cloak, trying to enojoy the last light of day where he himself slowly run the grindstone along the sword over his lap. The sound is calming and regular; no surprises and I listen to it dreamily.

"Sometimes I wonder if I have seen something more bautiful than this." I mumble where the sun is setting behind the mountains. The sky is grey yet the shift of light is hypnotizing and the shadows crawling from the mountains, over the forests and down to the fjord in front of us is almost magic.

"Does it matter?" Ubbe asks, the sound of the grindstone against metal stopping and I look to him. The sword is resting across his lap and his arms over the sword and he stare to the scenery I was just commenting.

"Probably not." I sigh, a shiver running through me where a cold gust of wind sweeps past us and for a second the smell of fish falters just to return the same second the wind leaves us. "Yet I sometimes wonder what I may have seen before. What people did I surround myself with, what did I know?" I talk more to myself than Ubbe, yet he grunts before he puts the sword down beside him leaning it against the wooden bench we're situated on.

"My mother is right, you know. You could get some answers if you went see him." Now he looks to me and my face twists into disliking where I pull the cloak tighter around me as if it would protect me from what words is to come. "Perhaps it is important, what your dreams tells you and perhaps you understanding is even more important." He adds and his strong hand squeeze my shoulder. It's supposed to be supporting I know but I only feel annoyed.

"And what if I find out just to realize it is above my power, huh?" I turn my body so I can look at him properly. "What if what my dreams tells me is something I can't handle?" I sound pathetic, scared and desperate and it is all traits I wish to erase from my persona; however it is what I feel and I can't hide it from him. Ubbe have become a great friend, always supporting me and always listening. I don't know if I had any brothers and sisters before but I'm sure that if I had Ubbe is a perfect replacement.

"Do you think any of our God's would hand us more than we can handle? You are given the gift for a reason Hedda and not without knowing you can indeed cope with what is to come." The back of his fingers brush my cheek and for a short second I just wish to fall into his embrace and cry a tear or two; just to have some of my fear pour out of me.

"Then why am I scared? Aslaug told me fear is not what we do and she is right; yet I barely feel anything else." I huff, removing the hood of my cloak so the fresh breeze can cool down my face suddenly getting warm by the thoughts starting to swim in my head like watery porridge.

"You can't be brave without first knowing fear. To face what you do not fear is not to be brave." His hand pats my knee and I grunt; hating how his words make so much more sense than what I think and feel. "I will follow you, if you like. I know that you will find peace if you only look for it." He stands up, his hand extended towards me and I stare at it for a second; his skin slightly grey from the grindstone running over his blade.

______

I'm holding my breath when stepping in through the door to the Seer. Knowing Ubbe is behind me isn't much of a support where all I want to do is turn and throw me in his arms, escaping the fear of what I may know. But fear is not what we do, fear is not the solution to anything and I repeat in my head what Ubbe said about being brave. With the hand behind my back I close the door, fearing I will actually run if I looked back. Perhaps I don't need to fear. The Gods truly wouldn't put this on me if they didn't see me fit?

"You come with fear although it is not in your blood and you come with questions although the answers have already been given you." The raspy and old voice speaks even before I pass a wall to see him. The small house smells like dust, old age and dried blood. Everywhere are signs that the man sitting in front of me, hidden inside the black hood have been doing this for only Odin knows how long.

"I'm here because I don't understand them." I gulp, slowly finding a seat in front of the hunched figure and the smell of dusty and moth eaten clothes is all around him. So is the intense vibration of a presence I've only felt in my dreams.

"You come here because that fear is blinding you." He moves slowly as if he would break moving faster and when looking at me I see how the skin of his face is frail like old Birch bark and I start to believe that it could actually break if he wasn't careful. I grimace at his word, looking around. A pile of small bones, stones and antlers. Wood carvings, painted and carved runes. A shiver runs down my back like a cold finger following it from my neck to the low of my back.

"Why don't I remember anything?" I look at him from the corner of my eye, my hands clasped in my lap just as his. A small rumbling noice is heard from his chest where he tilts his head back as if watching the ceiling. But the scars where his eyes had been, can't see.

"You have forgotten-" He face me again and the stinging fear tickle my chest in a way that have me breath faster. "-so that you can focus on your task." The answer is not as bad as I thought, however it makes little sense and I frown.

"And what is my task? Why am I here?" The questions spill from my lips easily and amongst the fear a small curiosity is pecking my brain.

"The child. The child is your task; that is why you were set to this world." He hums for himself and new questions starts swirling inside my head. A child?

"What child?" I lean closer, my brows low over my eyes where I focus on his slow voice, trying to hear the meaning hidden behind every word.

"The child that will ride the waters and settle. The child who will allow the new beginning when the end is upon us." My heart skips a beat and I wince as if he'd struck me. I may not remember much and his words may be riddles but there's not one of my people that would miss the meaning of the last ones. A new fear settles inside and I clench my jaws.

"The child will allow the beginning after.." I swallow, the word so famous yet strange on my tongue. "After Ragnarök?" He hums, swaying a little in his seat before he face the ceiling again. My task is a child that will have it all start again? The realization strikes me that if a child of me would allow that then the end could not be far away. The thought is so staggering I open and close my mouth like a dead fish trying to find the right question. However I decide for a one that shocks even myself a bit.

"Who will give me this child?" My voice is a mere whisper. I know that what he knows is what is already decided yet a slight fear of whoever it may be, not wanting to give me a child is lurking inside my skull. Then; if this child is my purpose I would fail.

"He who sacrificed a part of himself for wisdom just like you did. He who is wise yet strikes fear in your heart and the world will father you this child." He shifts and if possible the thoughts have doubled and is now stinging my mind like a swarm of wasps. I search in my mind for the meaning, I search for a small memory that perhaps could induce a picture of someone like this I know.

"What have I sacrificed and for what wisdom? I am not wiser than the next." I mumble and the Seer sighs, or at least it sounds like it.

"Wisdom is not always knowledge. Wisdom can be the ability to handle and to do what has to be done. Wisdom is what makes a man, a man and a woman, a woman." I just stare at him in disbelief, knowing I will get nothing more out of him and as if confirming that thought he extends his hand, palm facing me and I put mine tendlery under it; his skin cold and dry. But as I am to open my mouth I stop myself, looking up to his face turned away like a King tired of helping the peasant.

"But why, why me?" I breath and for the first time it feels as if he can actually see me; the gone eyes seeing straight through me way past my soul.

"You are chosen by the Allfather, girl. Search within and you will find the spring from where your blood runs. A descendant from God and man shall birth the child that will be sowing the seed of the beginning at the end."

____

I stand outside the doors of the great hall, darkness soon eating away the last light lingering and tonight there's no stars or moon to be seen. Candles, a warm hearth and torches is the only source of light. As I suspected small and scattered snowflakes dances in the wind picking up in speed slowly. My mind is wandering like a man lost in the woods and my heart beats so slowly I would not be surprised if it decided to stop any second. All the words are running around inside my head, causing a light pain to spread behind my eyes and even though whatever fear I before held is gone; the emptiness of being so left out and drowning i ignorance is way more painful.

If I search within I find nothing but confusion and frustration and no matter how hard I try to remember anyone who even fit the description of the father of mentioned child ever so slightly, I fail. I remember no one. Perhaps I have not even met him yet. With a sigh I let my head fall back, the hood of my cloak falling off and the cold snow lands on my face, melting and rolls down my jaws and heats up under the collar of my dress. I have yet to tell Aslaug the details. The awaiting food caused us to have no time talking and in a way I was relieved. How will I explain what I don't understand myself? Ubbe had been asking how I was more than once during supper and I had repeatedly told him that I was fine. But I'm not fine.

"Why put this on me without letting me know what to do? How will I be able to serve when I don't know where to start?" I whisper to the sky and I do actually listen; just to recieve the sounds of the queen and her sons inside, Floki and Helga sharing our food as well. I can hear the people still outside and awake but I can't hear anyone coming with something I can use.

"Fool." I mutter to myself and when looking forward again I jump, a squeal spilling from my lips when something beside me catches my eye. On the bench beside me sits the young prince, staring at me as if I was the most strange woman he'd ever seen; the blue in his eyes curious and awake. I guess he could thank all the mead for that.

"What do you want? I don't have time for you mocking me so please drag yourself somewhere else if that's what you wish." I spit out and my aggitated hello have him blink, then feign shock and I roll my eyes.

"Here we dress and feed you, don't you think you owe me?" He snickers and I can feel the anger build inside. He's been at me, constantly trying to find my most sensitive spots and press it as hard as he can ever since he tried to strangle me during my first awake days. I learned pretty fast how to ignore him but it never calmed his fiery need to press at whatever spot he found, constantly looking for something new he could torment me with.

"I owe you nothing you little shit!" I snap, turning to him so when I lean forward my face is the same level as his. "I may owe your mother much but you-" I snarl, my teeth showing like I was a feral wolf and I realize that perhaps he indeed have succeeded pressing hard enough because it's way too tempting trying to strangle him. "-I owe you nothing but the back of my hand again." Perhaps I'm tired and confused but it dawns on me what I just said and Ivar don't look so amused anymore. His own teeth shows where he growls and the blue in his eyes grow dark and I can feel how he grabs my one wrist to yank me closer so that I can feel his cheek press to mine; his warm breath smelling of mead tickling my ear.

"Don't play with me One-eye. You are in no position using your mouth to disrespect me." He hiss and I swallow hard. I hate him, I hate him so much for being the little spoiled brat he is, never leaving me alone. Yet that strange pull is around me like an aura. It has been around since I first saw him; that strange sensation of that I should be right where I was; leaving his side being wrong and like walking towards the edge of a cliff and not back to saftey. But pull or no pull, I will not have him play around and mock me all day. I do my best avoiding him but he seems to be around whenever I want to be alone the most, no matter how hard I try.

"Oh and what am I supposed to do with it then, if not to treat you like you treat me, Boneless?" I smirk, not really knowing why. I pull back just enough so I can see his face; the grin on his lips surprising me and the way his tongue runs along the bottom row of his teeth, having his bottom lip pout; sends a strange warmth through my body.

"And how do I treat you, hm?" He tilts his head to the side, his eyes wandering over me with no shame and my face heats up, causing the cloak to feel too thick, too warm. I try to mentally put myself back into place, but the way his fingers snake around my small wrist and the way the blackness of his eyes glistens.. What is this?

"Like I was dirt." I try to sound strong, unaffected but I'm not entirely sure I succeeded. An airy laugh spills from his lips and I find myself staring at them. What is happening to me?

"And you say that is bad?" He cocks a brow and I frown, trying to yank my hand back but he just pulls me closer again; this time keeping his face in front of mine however. I gulp. "Have you not seen how I crawl around in it all day, woman?" My head spins at his whisper and whatever thought taking form inside my head I do my best suffocating it. I pull back and this time he lets me, looking mighty amused again and I press the hand he held, to my chest.

"I am nothing you can crawl over Ivar. I don't care how much you hate me but it will never matter to me." I hold my head high and for a second something vulnerable flashes past his eyes.

"Who said I hated you?" He calls after me where I walk past him, aiming for the doors. It is too much for just one day and I wish for nothing more than to hide away so I can ponder in peace.

"You did; when you started treating me like your beloved mud!" I call back but I stop dead in my tracks; a realization like a lightning cutting through my skull. My dream. The mud, full of blood and such strange pleasure I never wanted it to stop. My skin crawls when the idea is nesting and I hug myself tightly where I stare to the closed door of the great hall.

"He who sacrificed a part of himself for wisdom just like you did." The Seers words echoes inside. One-eye and Boneless.

"Have you not seen how I crawl around in it all day, woman?" Ivar's words comes back and my heart suddenly pick up the pace and the palms of my hands start to sweat no matter the cold.

No, that could not be. I've heard he can't even satisfy a woman; or at least that is what I've heard. And wisdom, Ivar is the last person I would call wise. Yet he does indeed strike fear in me; a form of fear I didn't know until he inflicted it upon me. No, that can not be.

[ecotone99]

[HR] I Know What's Best

Approximately two and a half days ago, I woke up at Hadrian’s Wall. I’ve been home for about four hours.

When I returned, it was a marvel that everything was as I’d left it. I can at least be thankful that I was competent enough to close the door. No one had bothered to check that it was unlocked, so it looks like I won’t have to call up my insurance suppliers this time.

The blisters and sores on my bare feet, brittle and fiery in the fierce October chill across Haltwhistle, tell me that I hadn’t quite been capable of fetching an old pair of shoes out of the wicker shoe basket right by the front door. Even my flat-soled slippers would have been fine, I’d grumbled after I woke up.

As expected, I was caked in mud and sopping grass, my ankles akin to stalactites: cold, mottled, and welted. My nightclothes are unsalvageable, which is to be expected after being dragged through autumnal pastures disrupted by cloven hooves and daubed in calf-deep puddles, whilst taking a hefty beating from Northern storms.

When I woke up, I could have been porcelain. I was numb from the cold and stiff as rocks on the shore, whilst my insides felt wet and watery: the rockpools to accompany my stone body. I felt like I’d merged with the wall I was propped against. How I popped and snapped when I heaved myself up, enough to startle the dawn-dappled jackdaws in the next field.

I only know I’d somehow made my way to Hadrian’s Wall because I recognised it from a forgotten, dust-covered pile of screen memories that still existed in my mind. That seems to be the pattern – a location, represented only through a pod of pinprick synapse colours projected on the blurry, astral window named “memory”, becomes an obsession for the untouchable parts of my brain, the gap dwelling deeper than lunar oceans. But that location becomes the fix, the focus, the next destination. I’m quite surprised I haven’t woken up maniacally butting my head into my computer screen, like a demented puppet trying to pulverise herself into the pixels to join the 2-D colours on the other side as they merged into the Uffizi Gallery.

On this occasion I’d been lucky – the benefit of living in the Midlands is that an unwarranted journey either north or southbound takes roughly a fraction of the time it took me to walk there to get back home. I knew I was a good 4 hours or so away from home, at least by train. At least if I had money. At least if I had a phone. But I didn’t have any of those things this time.

It took me two and a half days to get home because I had no choice but to walk.

Actually, Hadrian’s Wall is one of the more harmless places I’ve woken up at. I’ve come to whilst fighting against a brutal December hurricane, pirouetting on the rusty iron rails at the tip of Brighton’s Palace Pier, where my sleeping self would have happily tumbled off into the English Channel below.

I’d make the most interesting of friends there, although I’d have needed to have quarreled with myself about whether the fish would speak English or French. I don’t know much French.

At least the seagulls could have indulged in a new breakfast menu! Something a bit different from the previous night’s stagnant, vodka-laced curry dripping down the gutter from its flimsy polystyrene bed.

Then there’s been the crane, the cemetery, the roughly-tarmacked roof of a nightclub rancid with cigarette butts and rainwater. At least I’d had the sense to make my way to the roof. In the watercoloured 5 am sky, I peered over the edge and watched the gangs of girls, cheeks streaked with mascara trails, totting home on swollen ankles and pinstripe platforms. I had my slippers on.

I’m convinced my mind seeks my end, for a purpose I can’t seem to recognise. It waits until I’m in the deepest recesses of velvety, warm, black sleep - bundled up in the safe, secure cradle of night, and then it takes over, programming my hands to grip, my feet to walk. Quite literally, a death drive. What I seem to lack is the ability to split myself up. It would just take a fragment of me to shake my unconscious back in line! Throttle it, break it into submission, to release its sly hold.

Locking the doors is futile. Windows are breakable. Securing myself to the bedstead is extremely unwise because I’d have no hope in hell of surviving a fire or a gas leak.

I’m in the bath now, the closest thing I’ve seen to a bed in about a week. Ouch, even the most tepid of temperatures stings my skin. Yet what a relief it is to feel warmth and familiarity again. Unfortunately, the pale aqua water is pure for just a few seconds, before becoming paint-water. Specks of mud drift away, forming a hopeless mosaic, like me, they have no idea what to expect next. The sores and blisters on my feet appreciate the softness of something enveloping them, taking over the stress of protecting my muscles, delicate bones, toes, blood vessels, nerves.

All I can do is lie here and quiz myself on where I might end up next. My unconscious isn’t satisfied with boiling the kettle and finishing off a book that I’ve been struggling to complete due to its infuriatingly complicated use of language. If it’s the so-called “shadow self” making herself known, the district of our brains that we unknowingly squash down and silence due to its crassness, unsociability, and sociopathy, then I’m going to be forced to go to extreme measures to keep her bottled.

Where does she want to go? What does she want to be?

A wall, it would seem. No, no! That’s a daft suggestion. I felt like a china doll when I woke up this morning. A firm, unflinching, shell of porcelain. If I stayed there, sleeping, wildflowers would have bloomed around me. But that wall isn’t very comfortable. It hurt to lean against. I was becoming the old stones, and I looked like them as well, I was so grey and frigid. What kind of wildflowers would have bloomed, do I think? Cowslips, thistles, daisies. They’d grow into a gown for me. They’d grow into my skin, my hair, my fingertips would be awash with petals. I think I’d want to get up though. I always want to get up. I want to come home. I know what’s best. Why do I think I always go elsewhere? I know what the right thing to do is. I know what’s best.

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[davidastbury]

Ah, Lundun. Smells of weed, kebabs and sitting next to a man at the bus stop with a big box of economy Daz between his knees trying to crack a coconut on someone's garden wall :)).

Michelle Goldsmith

The Dreamer. 1962

From his bedroom window he could see how summer was expiring and giving way to Autumn. In the early mornings the landscape was obscured by low mists, as if changes were being made and, like in a theatre interval, we aren’t meant to see - and then it lifted and the leaves were a little more golden; the plant stalks were sagging even lower; the distant trees darker and with denser shadows, more blue than green. The wooden fence was slimy and speckled with moss and beyond it the meadow (Buttercup Meadow!) was like wet crushed velvet. Birds were circulating above the trees and thousands of creatures were preparing for the coming cold weather. Every tree, plant and animal knew exactly what to do ... he was entranced by the solemn purposefulness of everything - of the unquestioning and unquestionable perfection of it all. He was caught - hardly able to breathe, giving himself up to the voluptuous thrill of being part of the force driving every created being towards its own correct and individual destiny.

On the Train

Old couple. I bet they would agree with me if I said to them that the popular idea of long married couples ‘growing more alike over the years’ is a load of rubbish. You don’t become the same; you don’t develop a single mind; your souls do not ‘merge’. Instead, if the relationship is good, you actually intensify your individuality; you remain yourself; you do not deviate from what feels natural.

But there is something else - quite the opposite of the popular delusion. People who have been together for a long time take on a duty to each other for which there is no name. The only writer who has tried to illustrate this duty (the only writer I have come across!) is Rainer Maria Rilke, who refers to it as ‘...becoming the guardian of each other’s solitude’.

The guardian of each other’s solitude - magnificent,

Towards a better understanding of Hamlet’s Soliloquy

During the Elizabethan period most sensible folk would do anything to avoid doctors, depending instead on natural remedies for most of their ills. One such all-purpose embrocation was known as Gruffle, a mixture to be applied externally on the affected parts. The three main ingredients were Wormwood, Chamomile and Cowslip, pounded in a pestle and mortar and then stewed in Mead. When solidified it could be smeared, with a warmed spoon directly onto the skin.

Imagine, if you will, an Elizabeth bedroom, where, in the gloom of a seven watt candle, a typical hard-working couple grope their way to the bedstead. They toss off their heavy garments - the doublet and breeches; the corsets and ruffs and peer into the darkness for the pewter pot of Gruffle. The is a noise of small items falling onto the wooden floor - and then a voice rings out loud and clear - ‘Ay, there’s the rub!’

Nearly on the Train

Dad at the wheel and he’s going too fast on slow roads and too slow on fast roads - perhaps because he’s upset. Morning mists over the Cumbria moors and nearly fifty miles to Carlisle. Every visit home gets sadder; it’s like seeing a loved one becoming deaf - you do your best but they aren’t fully with you in the way they once were. The car passed the gate leading up to a farm; an old school friend now runs it - just a glimpse of farmhouse through the window condensation. There was no future for her here; she would never live here again; her childhood days on her friend’s farm, the village school, the church choir, the little shops, were becoming a closed book.

So...she would get the 10.50 from Carlisle to London - and then three days (and nights!) with her boyfriend before traveling down to the South of France. He was nice but couldn’t match the importance of her ambition.

She’s done two years at the Sorbonne and is taking a year of research at the university of Montpellier. Her speciality is C19 literature, particularly the work of Balzac. As the car swept through the villages it never occurred to her that all her life she had been surrounded by Balzac’s stories.

Watched a TV documentary on the life of Steve McQueen. Steve, apparently was deaf, and this added considerably to his sex-appeal. Let me explain. Struggling to understand what people were saying brought about his trademark facial expression - he would cock his head and narrow his eyes, which women found utterly irresistible.

My one good ear pricked up - in no uncertain terms - (as Holden Caulfield would say) - in no uncertain terms!

Ben and Lorna and Ian...........1966

I think I have mentioned Ben before; he was an old chap who, every evening during the working week used to occupy a bar-stool in the Bodega, Cross Street, Manchester. He was a widower, wealthy and weary - good suits and bow-ties, white beard and gold glasses, Coutts Bank, Russian cigarettes, and double measures of Irish whiskey. All the regulars knew him - and liked him.

One night I was drinking with Ian and his girlfriend Lorna. Lorna went to the bar to buy something and got into conversation with Ben. It went on for some time - Ian looking round every so often to see what was happening. Finally she left Ben and went to the toilets - again quite a long time. As soon as she rejoined us it was clear that she was upset. She wasn’t crying but she had that look - you know what I mean.

Ian didn’t miss out on this either; he wanted an explanation and she just sat and shook her head - I began to feel that I should leave them alone. The following week I met Ian and, into our second drinks, I asked him what had happened between Lorna and Ben.

Apparently it had been very difficult for Lorna to put it into words, but she tried. And now Ian, who had struggled to understand what she was on about, had the same difficulty in trying to explain it to me - and I now have the same difficulty, fifty-one years later, writing it.

Essentially - and incredibly - Lorna had felt during her short chat with Ben - that this elderly, elegant, sad old man was the only person, in all her nineteen years, who actually understood her.

Simon B

Simon came to Britain from Berlin in the Kindertransport system set up just before World War ll.

He was taken in by a Quaker couple who looked after him and with that sublime tolerance often found in Quakers, never tried to introduce him to their religion. Later, when it became clear that he no longer had a family, they formally adopted him. He found scholarships for his years through Grammar schools and then studied medicine. His chosen speciality was caring for sick children and he became a Consultant Paediatrician.

I have occasionally met him - the last time was at a Holocaust conference - where he was a guest speaker. I was near him during one of the breaks and caught some fragments of his conversation. He looked like everyone’s idea of the perfect English gentleman; the patient, kindly, slightly humorous voice; the top-drawer manners; the deference to the other persons viewpoint; the quick eye for peoples feelings and all the other qualities that are a delight to experience.

And I heard him say - ‘Yes, I have been back - and guess what? The factory is still standing!’

A Day at the Lakes.

It was a struggle finding somewhere to park the car but by luck and a bit of aggression he squeezed into a slot. For an hour or so they wandered the cobbled streets, drifting into a few shops, and then had afternoon tea in a crowded little cafe with tiny windows. He suggested spending some time ‘on the water’. Everything about the boy involved a story - he had a friend whose dad had a connection to the conservation authorities and....he had arranged to borrow a boat. All they had to do was mention the dad’s name at the marina office.

Soon, she was sitting prettily in a very narrow and elegantly varnished rowing boat. It had steel scrollwork at the passenger end, cushioned seating and all in all she wouldn’t have felt out of place holding a parasol. The boy started to row, enjoying being watched by queues of day trippers, and turned the boat towards the open lake. Her serenity was disturbed when she touched the water and the coldness surprised her. It would be awful to have an accident and have to swim - she would probably be helpless - she would panic and drown. He was rowing expertly, but he was also watching her - it was as if he could read her thoughts.

‘The water is three-hundred feet deep here’ - he said.

She knew he was the sort that would enjoy frightening her - that he might do stupid things, like rocking the boat side to side - and find it amusing.

But he continued rowing - they were a long way from the shore and he kept looking over his shoulder - heading for a small Island. She saw the small jetty and the painted sign with the words - ‘Private Island: Landing not Permitted’.

He said - ‘ It’s fine, don’t worry’.

Together they pulled the boat out of the water, dragging it into the waterside bushes, and then set about exploring the island. The trees took away most of the light and the ground was thick with pine needles. And then the trees ended and they found themselves in a sort of clearing - like someone’s back garden - a neatly trimmed lawn, flower beds and a wooden pavilion.

He tried the door and it swung open. She didn’t even look at him - she was tired of his irritating cockiness and was thinking of what she was going to do next.

once started work for a firm at about this time of year - the run-up to Christmas. It was an open plan office and most of the staff had worked there for years. Everyone knew what they were doing (except me) and there was a lot of proprietorial and territorial rules and customs to be observed - who sat where and who always had the first lunch break etc. I studied the various power groupings of the women and their likes and dislikes. The men, mostly dull and unhelpful, wanted to get through the day and then round to the pub.

Anyway, things were eased up as the holiday approached and the desks became cluttered with greetings cards. These people - or more accurately - these women, who worked together all day and every day, gave each other Christmas cards; and it was important to them that I wasn’t left out. My work surface was taken over by right pictures of robins and jovial Santas - placed surreptitiously on the desk by women I didn’t even know.

Given the chance I would throw this at every writer who has broken our hearts with the great love stories - ‘Yes, yes, yes - but you did not write about the “real one” - it is impossible to write about the “real one” !

Autumn Morning in Whalley Range ......1965

They had met at a party and had left together. They shuffled along, as young people do, jauntily kicking up the leaves, heading towards the main road, hoping that the buses had started. It was misty - the street lights acid yellow against a cold sky. They passed rows of Victorian villas that once-upon-a-time had servants in the attics and kitchens in the basements - now decaying and split up into flats.

You could hear their laughter in the silent street. And then - they stopped and kissed - just at the junction of Mayfield Road and Alexandra Road - near to the pub where there had been a stabbing.

R

R lost her mother at the age of twelve, and her father quickly remarried. She was the youngest of four; there was a eight year gap to her nearest sister. She left school at fifteen and took a job in a textile company where she learned to touch-type. At seventeen she became a receptionist at a dental surgery - but the job didn’t last because the dentist assaulted her. She was sacked and paid up to the day of the assault. It was around this time that she was also assaulted by her best friend’s dad. Her boyfriend was angry and went to the police. The desk sergeant listened to him and replied - ‘What you’ve got to understand son, is that men only do this sort of thing to women who give certain signals’. So that was that.

I think it was from then onwards that she really did give the ‘certain signals’. She entered and won a glamour contest run by her new employer. The advertising agency sent her to the Lucy Clayton school and she found work modelling. She left our town and as far as I know, never came back.

R. (and her boyfriend)

Following the second assault R’s boyfriend noticed a sharp change in her personality. After such shocks, at a vulnerable age, you might expect to see some sort of mistrust and withdrawal - instead she became aggressively extroverted and as far as men where concerned, very flirtatious. She viewed her exceptional good looks as the means to ‘get the better’ of every man she came across - she knew that she was irresistible.

All this was upsetting to her boyfriend. He was like the boy in the Arabian Nights tale - an orphan who begged in the streets and one day saw a diamond - a perfect diamond - lying in the dust. His joy subsided when he realised that every dealer in the souk would cheat him. R’s boyfriend wanted to keep her for himself, but she wanted to go dancing and drinking in clubs - places where she would make heads turn and provoke words of admiring insinuation.

The boyfriend was utterly unworldly - as innocent and wide-eyed as a lamb on the way to the abattoir. And the good friend advising him to finish with her - who consoled him and said he would soon find someone nicer - who bought him another drink and all the time had a R’s phone number scribbled on a cigarette packet.