#not boccaccio’s book sorry

[imaginarypasta]

okay the decameron was pretty good

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Do you have good recommendations of books/movies/ect that either do a particularly good job explaining certain facets of it (you mentioned Early Modern Catholicism recently, which was what got me thinking of this), or simply captures a vibe of the period in a way you think was particularly well-done?

Thanks!

Oooh like late medieval/early modern Catholicism/religious movements of the time (i.e., reformation)?

I think some of my favourites are:

Little Hours (film) - ok, so hear me out. Boccaccio would have LOVED the recent film interpretation of those stories of his (it's stories one and two from the third day, if I remember right. Been a while since I read the Decameron). It's modern in language, music, humour and incredibly pop-modern particularly. Yet the clothes and scenery etc. are all more or less of the late 14th century. Boccaccio, who wrote in the vernacular and enjoyed the bawdy and "common" entertainments of the day, would have been like "yes, you get it. you get what I'm doing" about it.

Just a fun, raunchy story of the late medieval era and it does capture some of the vibes~~.

(Story time: I got into an argument with one of the more curmudgeonly and pedantic historians I know irl and he was so against this movie and I was like "I'm sorry that you're wrong and Boccaccio's ghost is going to laugh at you but it is what it is I guess".)

Wolf Hall (book and show) - while I love the show, I recommend the books over it (for many reasons, not the least of which is: let Thomas Cromwell be fat). That said, if you're pressed for time or can't get into Hilary Mantel's writing style, the show is perfectly good.

She does a great job of capturing England in a state of change and the push pull of the early reformation. Cromwell is obviously of the Protestant persuasion but the dynamic, complicated quality of the average person's engagement with their faith and the Church is more or less captured. It's also just gorgeously written--very lush, you sink into her writing style, quite gorgeous. She also gets her historical details right, so that's a win.

(Unlike the movie Luther which is just like: Luther is always right, the Catholics are always wrong. The end.)

If you're a fan of Thomas More, he doesn't come the best in this, but you know - we are deep in an interior third person of Cromwell's brain so that informs the view of the world we are presented.

(There is a hilarious scene where Cromwell is trying to rally the troops to save More from himself and you get Cromwell, the Duke of Norfolk and a few others kneeling before Henry basically begging for mercy to be shown and it's so fucking funny. Bleak, heart breaking, but also funny.)

A Man for All Seasons (play and film) - and the famous play that Hilary Mantel is in direct conversation with! There's a good movie version of it that I was enamoured with for a time. It's very much a pro-Thomas More piece of writing, so take that for what it's worth. It does suffer a little from the Luther effect of Thomas More always being right and Cromwell and Cranmer and the others always being wrong (or, rather, Luther suffers from the A Man for All Seasons effect). But you know, it's still worth watching I think.

An Instance of the Finger Post (book) - a little later than the other pieces, this is set in the 17th century and is a great who-dunnit from three different perspectives, exploring the classic issue of an unreliable narrator. I remember feeling that it captured life in Oxford just post the Restoration quite well. Also we get some fun cameos from Locke, Boyle and others who were bopping around at that time. Two of the narrators are also known figures from Oxford in the 1660s.

Lent (book) - So, my main man Marsilio Ficino wrote that famous letter to the college of cardinals after Savonarola was executed describing Savonarola as a demon who didn't know he was a demon. Jo Walsh took that concept and ran.

Basically, we follow Savonarola (who is a demon that, at first, didn't realize he was a demon) as he gets stuck in this time loop where he has to keep reliving the last five(ish) years of his life until he manages to free himself from hell. It's like Ground Hog Day but in 15th century Florence.

I have questions around the mechanisms and theological implications of like...his birth, his childhood etc. but you know, don't let that ruin a fun read.

I will say, Lent is a sloooooow start. Like. very slow. I almost set it down and didn't pick it back up at first. It really hits its stride about halfway through. But, it's a fun look at 1480s and 90s Florence with Ficino, Mirandola, Poliziano, Lorenzo de' Medici for a hot minute before he dies etc.

My beef is 1: Piero Soderini, my boy, she did you dirty (tbf to Walsh, the book is from Savonarola's perspective and he and Soderini were not close, shall we say. I may, or may not be, biased); 2: Marsilio is present and we love that but there is no word on Cavalcanti. Not even mentioned in passing!; 3: some of the exposition is heavy handed and could have used some tightening up etc.; 4: Jo Walsh's use of the English for words like Prior etc. which she explains her motive for at the back of the book. I've still got quibbles with that choice, though I know that's a me-thing.

But if you want a novel that is a decent look at every day Catholicism in the early modern period, this is a good one.

Le Moine et la Sorcière (The Sorceress) (film) - a medieval French film from the 1980s that takes place in the 13th century and follows the arrival of a Dominican friar in a small southern French town investigating rumours of a sorceress. It's a delightfully weird piece that plays with the story of St. Guinefort (the dog saint!) as well as medieval faith healing and other local synchronistic practices that carried over from pre-Christianized France.

The whole exploration of local sainthood, where a figure is not formally determined to be a saint by the Church but local people venerate them and eventually they sort of are absorbed into the canon, is fantastic.

The friar, Etienne, is wonderfully drawn as a character. I do wish they had given the same treatment to Elda, the titular "sorceress". But it's still worth a watch if you can get your hands on it.

Name of the Rose (book and film) - an Umberto Eco classic! Another who-dunnit, but in a Medieval monastery in the 14th century. Absolutely worth reading - beautifully and intelligently written. Lots of back and forth on the different religious thoughts and movements of the time (some deemed heretical, others more just fringe things people were into).

William of Baskerville is the main detective figure but the story is told from the point of view of his acolyte Adso. It's got lots of gothic feeling to it with an isolated monastery, a labyrnthian library, murder, madness, sexual tensions and so on.

This is one of my favourite books (up there with Wolf Hall and Kate Zambreno's Heriones).

There is a movie version with Sean Connery and it's fun to watch but really, the book is worth it. 110% worth it.

Other good films/plays that I can think of off the top of my head (they're all more medieval but w/e):

Seventh Seal (film)

Becket (film and play)

Lion in Winter (film and play)

I hope this answers your question? (I mostly hope I got the time period roughly right! I know I veered heavily in medieval in some of the rec's but they're all gold and worth the time.)

Thank you so much for the ask! <3 <3

[overly-dramatic-artist]

15 Questions

tagged by @rinnysega and @emberkyrlee 💕

1. Were you named after anybody?

My first name, no, not that I’m aware of. My middle name though is after the author of the book my mom was reading before she went into labor with me.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Uhm, I think last Thursday. I had to pick up the remains of my childhood dog from the vet, and the cremation service had made a little clay imprint of her paw. When I saw that along with the box of her ashes, I cried for several minutes. I imagine that later today, I will cry once my LSAT is finished lol.

3. Do you have kids?

Nope. My mom jokes that my dog is the closest she’ll ever get to grandchildren from me.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Only with good friends. I try to be as genuine as possible with people I’m not super familiar with or am just not close to. I think sometimes my line delivery is too sincere for people to differentiate when I joke.

5. What sports do you play/have played?

I’m not a super sporty person, but as a kid, I played soccer and baseball. I also did a lacrosse camp at one point, which at liked, but I’ve never really enjoyed competitive sports.

6. What’s the first thing you notice about someone?

Hair seems to be the thing most notable to me, and is also the best way I remember people by.

7. Eye color?

Hazel.

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings, 100%. I like to end stories on a note that makes me feel hopeful and better about life. (My OCD also makes watching scary and disturbing movies really difficult mentally)

9. Any special talents?

Not very special, but I like to think I’m good at singing. Also, vocal mimicry.

10. Where were you born

California.

11. What are your hobbies?

Drawing, painting, acting, cooking, baking, singing, writing, some gaming (sims, skyrim, dnd), occasionally sewing

12. Do you have any pets?

I have one dog, Willy the weenie dog, and a big tabby cat that has a multitude of names, but most often is called Mister.

13. How tall are you?

5’ 4”

14. Favorite subject in school?

I loved my studio art class, I kinda had free reign to do whatever I wanted. In uni, I loved my Boccaccio class and my directing class.

15. Dream job?

I do not dream of labor…..but honestly if I could be a professional performer living a comfortable life without worry of a predatory work environment, that would be a dream. But I am perfectly content with my current track of hopefully going on to be a lawyer making a positive and fulfilling impact on the world, as well as doing my silly art things on the side.

No pressure tags (so sorry if you’ve already done it): @thecrazyashley-blog @rosellacwrites @unskilled-dabbler @chronic85doodler @dororoxpenana

[cassandraclare]

Italian Shadowhunter name/s

Hello and welcome to a bilingual post! I’ve had a few people ask me about the name of the Italian Shadowhunter, Filomena, who appears briefly in Chain of Iron. I reached out to Rò, who runs https://twitter.com/ItShadowhunters/ and works with Mondadori Books on their Italian translations of the Shadowhunters series. She’s helped me with a lot of Italian place information/translations/ names in the past (like Lord of Shadows’ Chiara Malatesta, head of the Rome Institute) and she wanted to tell you a bit about how we picked Filomena’s first name.

« Hi there! I’m Rò. Cassie has asked me to write down some of the reasons that got us to pick “Filomena” as the name of the Italian character from “Chain of Iron” – without being too spoilery, of course. 

We officially picked Filomena’s name back in August 2019 (yep. More than a year ago. She’s been a thing for a while).  {Cassie adds: This is also just the way book publishing works; it takes a long time for books to come out after they’re written.]

I wrote down a long list of names – most came from Italian literature… and, yes. “Beatrice” WAS one of them. However, we felt like “Beatrice” was the easy, boring choice. We were looking for something different.  

There’s a character called “Filomena” in Boccaccio’s Decameron. Back in 2019, we obviously had no idea what 2020 had in store for us… but now I do believe it’s weirdly fitting to have an Italian Shadowhunter called after a character from Boccaccio’s work in a book written during a worldwide pandemic.  

When I decided which character from Decameron I wanted to add to my list of names, “Filomena” is the only name who seemed fitting enough (I’m sorry, but whenever I think of “Fiammetta” I can’t help but remember that Pokèmon Gym Leader from Hoenn… and we already have an “Emilia” in the Shadowhunter world).

It’s a very old name and, even though it may not be that popular anymore, I think it suits an Italian Shadowhunter at the beginning of the 20th century. There’s a character called “Filomena” even in Verga’s I Malavoglia, after all!  

Both Cassie and Cat loved the name as soon as they read it, and I was and still am pleased, too: it has a few meanings I truly enjoy… and I think that one of them is especially fitting, now that I’ve read “Chain of Iron”. I cannot share which one, though!  

Now you only have to find out who her surname is paying homage to… »  

--- 

« Ehilà! Sono Rò. Cassie mi ha chiesto di elencare alcuni dei motivi che ci hanno spinte a scegliere “Filomena” come nome per il personaggio italiano di Chain of Iron – senza dire nulla di troppo spoileroso, logicamente. Mi spiace!  

Il nome di Filomena è stato ufficialmente deciso nell’agosto del 2019 (già. Più di un anno fa. Filomena esiste da un po’).  

Ho buttato giù una lunga lista di suggerimenti, perlopiù derivanti dalla letteratura italiana… e, sì. “Beatrice” FACEVA parte dell’elenco. Però avevamo tutte la sensazione che fosse una soluzione troppo semplice e scontata. Stavamo cercando qualcosa di diverso.  

C’è un personaggio di nome “Filomena” nel Decameron di Boccaccio. L’anno scorso non avremmo mai potuto immaginare cosa avesse in serbo per noi il 2020, ovviamente… ma a posteriori trovo stranamente sensato avere una Shadowhunter italiana con un nome che deriva dall’opera di Boccaccio in un romanzo scritto durante una pandemia mondiale.  

Quando ho deciso quale personaggio del Decameron aggiungere al mio elenco, “Filomena” è l’unico nome a essermi sembrato adatto (vi chiedo scusa, ma ogni volta che leggo il nome “Fiammetta” mi torna sempre in mente quella Capopalestra di Hoenn dai giochi dei Pokèmon… e un’“Emilia” nel mondo degli Shadowhunters ce l’abbiamo già).  

“Filomena” è un nome antico e, sebbene oggigiorno non sia più così popolare, penso che vada benissimo per una giovane Shadowhunter italiana di inizio ‘900. C’è una Filomena persino ne I Malavoglia di Verga, del resto!  

Sia Cassie che Cat hanno subito adorato il nome, e anche io ero e sono ancora soddisfatta: “Filomena” ha un paio di significati che mi piacciono tantissimo… e uno in particolare mi sembra molto adatto al personaggio, ora che ho letto Chain of Iron. Non posso rivelarvi quale, però!  

Adesso non vi resta che scoprire chi omaggia il cognome… »

[nanoland]

am writing hellblazer fic asfdfsfff

title: The Cave

fandom: Hellblazer

characters: John Constantine, Chas Chandler, the First of the Fallen

blurb: John gets lost in a cave. 

warnings: Depression, covid19, demons getting themselves Extremely murdered. 

0 

It was when the death toll had crested 100,000 that he’d snapped and made his way to Number 10 Downing Street with murder in his eyes and a briefcase full of every cursed artefact he owned.

“What are you gonna do, eh?” bellowed Chas, who’d been following behind him in his cab for the last half mile. He’d already tried to physically drag John into it and had received a bite on the hand for his trouble. “Chuck ‘em through the windows? That’s bulletproof glass, John! Fuck’s sake! Be reasonable!”

“Stop sodding shouting!” John shouted over his shoulder, wiping rain off his face. “You’ll spread sodding germs!”

“John, I already had it. Four months ago, remember?”

“You can have it more than once! Christ, does nobody in this city read the papers but me?”

It was fair to say that John wasn’t at his best. In his defence, he’d spent the last year sitting inside his tiny, poorly-ventilated, roach-ridden flat, vividly imagining what a respiratory virus would do to lungs that had suffered over forty years of heavy smoking, two run-ins with cancer, and the actual devil sticking his actual great big grubby clawed hand in ‘em. No fucking thank you.

Chas sighed heavily and climbed out of the cab again, slamming the door as he did. He splashed through a dozen puddles before coming to stand in John’s path, arms folded. “Listen, Conjob. I love you. Even when you’re a complete prick, which is most of the time. And I know you can do amazing things. But mate, hear me out; you cannot assassinate the British Prime Minister.”

“Someone bloody has to!” John Constantine, greatest wizard of his age, screamed at the top of his wretched, ragged, Satan-besmirched lungs.

Eventually, Chas managed to calm him down and get him home for a cup of tea.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John grunted as his socks dried in front of the heater and the rational parts of his mind re-exerted themselves.

“S’alright.”

“How’s the bite?”

“Didn’t pierce the skin. John, you need a break. A holiday. You need to get out of town for a few weeks. Go breathe fresh country air, do some weird mystical shit with a goat, whatever it is that sorts your head out these days. But you can’t carry on like this, mate. I haven’t seen you this miserable in years.”

He handed John one of Renee’s strawberry-patterned towels. Dragging it across his face, John grunted, “Holiday? At a time like this?”

“Why not? Makes as much sense as any other time.”

“What if you come down with it again? Or Geraldine? Or Renee?”

“John,” said Chas, gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You already tried to cure me with magic. It didn’t work. At all. Just wasted a lot of chicken blood and Renee’s best spoons. Get this in your skull: there’s nothing you can do. Alright? I know you hate that, but it’s the truth.”

John swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

So he went home to his tiny flat, stuffed fresh socks and his toothbrush into a backpack, booby-trapped his front door, and fled London in the dead of night, feeling like one of those gits in Boccaccio’s Decameron.

0

“It’s called glamping.”

“Some new wizardy stuff, I’m guessing?”

Chas’s voice over the phone was distracted, like he was half-watching the telly. John was relieved; he’d wanted to hear another human speak but wasn’t feeling up to a proper conversation demanding his usual levels of sparkling charisma and staggering wit. Not right now. Not without weed, and he’d not thought to bring any.

Nestling deeper into his teak folding chair and drawing a thick woven blanket up over his knees, John said, “Nah. Not buggering about with any of that old guff until I’m back in town. Promised myself.”

“Right.”

“Don’t sound so sceptical, you git. I’ve done it before.”

“Mm-hmm. What’s your record? The longest you’ve ever gone without doing anything mystical and creepy?”

“‘Bout… hmm. Three days.”

“You’re coming up on the tail end of that right about now.”

“I know. Chas, on my word, I am going to make it to Sunday without so much as sniffing around a graveyard or wanking off a werewolf. I am on holiday.”

“Alright, alright, if you say so. Good for you, mate. So what’s this ‘glamping’ business, then?”

“It’s camping. But posh. I’m sitting up here atop a hill in Yorkshire with a tent the size of a cathedral and me chic woodburning stove and me box of white wine and feeling like the yuppiest old cunt who ever drew breath.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It does, doesn’t it? That’s why I chose it over a nice comfy bed and breakfast. Figured I’d wake up with a cow shitting on my head and could use that as an excuse to come home early. Actually, though… it’s alright. Quiet. There’s a river at the bottom of the hill where these giggling honeymooners like to have a morning bonk but it’s far enough away that I can’t hear them unless they’re really having fun. And the weather’s been alright. It’s all surprisingly decent.”

“And you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. I should have come with you. You get all weird and introspective when you’re left alone for more than a couple days.”

“I’m not alone. There’re birds. Squirrels. A few ghosts hanging out by the toilets.”

“John.”

“Ain’t gonna talk to ‘em! Mind you, one did give me a wink when I was zipping up. How’s everything back home?”

“Er – look, I won’t lie, it’s shit. It’s all shit. But it’s not any more shit than it was when you left three days ago. Not any worse, not any better, yeah?”

“Right.”

(Stupid to be disappointed. Stupid that a part of him had secretly believed that as soon as he abandoned the sinking ship that was London, things would miraculously get better for everyone, even as another part of him, on the opposite side of his brain, had been convinced – maybe even hoped – that the moment he was gone, the entire city would descend into screaming anarchy, at which he could point and laugh from a safe distance.)

“Listen, John, I’ve gotta go. Renee needs groceries. Be careful, please?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t fuck about with any occult bollocks. Don’t go foraging for brain-melting mushrooms. Don’t do anything. Just stay in your tent and read your dirty books, yeah?”

“Heard and understood, Mum.”

“Bastard.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

John dropped his phone onto the grass and stared up at the sky. A herd of thin grey clouds drifted past. Off in the distance, he could just make out the shape of a barn – or was it a church? Either way, there were sheep next to it.

A squirrel scurried down a nearby tree trunk and then up another one.

Yawning, he scratched his chin. (Getting scruffy. Hadn’t shaved in two days now.)

“Should prob’ly do some reading,” he mumbled to no one.

A few minutes passed.

He dangled his head back behind his seat and sang quietly: “First produced my pistol… then produced my rapier… said ‘stand and deliver’, for he were a bold deceiver… mush a-ring dum-a do dum-a da…”

Heaving a sigh, he stood up and walked around his tent to dispel pins and needles, then went inside to read his book.

“I am not bored,” he muttered fiercely, staring down at pages that might as well have been blank.

“Oh, but you are, John.”

England’s greatest wizard jumped up, wielding his novel as though it were a club, and dealt a devastating blow to empty air while screaming something along the lines of, “Raargh die die die!”

Then he waited for a moment to see if the voice returned. Tried to determine whether he could sense anything. Nope. Admittedly, that didn’t mean much these days. Lots of beasties and bastards out there had learned how to hide from him.

“Either I’m hallucinating or someone’s pissing me about,” he concluded, placing his hands on his hips. “Chas, mate, I’m sure you would agree that either constitutes a fine reason to leave this fucking tent.”

And leave he did. 

0

He went caving.

The BBC had published an article a couple years back calling the UK’s cave systems its ‘last true wilderness’. He and Chas had had a good long laugh over that, Chas suggesting that John take the caver quoted on an expedition to Faerie or maybe direct him toward any of the two hundred portals to Hell between Plymouth and the Orkney Islands.

But the article had stuck with him. Perhaps it was the obvious love the caver had for his hobby, the clean and simple joy he got out of crawling around in dark, damp holes. John was always drawn to people like that, and not just because it sounded smutty.

(Imagine if he’d loved something clean and simple; gotten into bird-watching or carpentry instead of magic. Would have saved him a lot of hassle.)

Idly, one evening, he’d poked around on the internet – now that, that really was the last true wilderness – until he’d found a map listing all the cave systems in the UK, along with a guide to which were popular, which were dangerous, which were good for a family holiday, and yes (inevitably), which had been the scenes of grisly accidents.

(Wikipedia said that historically there’d been only 136 fatalities ‘associated with recreational caving’ in the UK and that, statistically, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous hobby. Hadn’t stopped him from having vivid dreams about bodies wedged in tiny tunnels miles below ground, cooling and rotting and bloating, except how could they bloat when there simply wasn’t enough room, what happened when…

Anyway, Chas had eventually rescued him from his maudlin musings and dragged him to the pub.)

And while his memory was a messy old thing, especially these days, that just happened to be the sort of useless information that tended to hang around in his head for years, like the words to every song in Sweeney Todd or the rituals required for an exorcism spell that didn’t actually work, doing nothing but taking up space.

There was a cave only a few miles from the campsite.

When he arrived, he beheld a clumsily painted sign nailed to an oak tree next to the entrance:

CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL SPRING

NO TRESPASSERS

HAZARDOUS! ENTER AT OWN RISK

He lingered at the cave’s mouth. Though it was big enough for him to stand up in, it made for an unassuming sight. Squirrels played in the old oak with three sets of lovers’ initials carved into it that stood at its left and the pathway leading up to it was strewn with weeds and wildflowers.

“Am I really this stupid?” he pondered aloud, before correcting himself: “Am I really this bored?”

After five minutes’ internal debate, he decided that yes, he was.

He took a step towards the narrow crevice, before stopping himself. No. This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

Three hours later he was back, now with a good pair of leather boots (stolen from an arsehole in a nearby village), a Power Rangers backpack (given to him by a kid in exchange for a cigarette and some magic tricks), a cheap flashlight, two cans of lager, and a packet of crisps (paid for with the last of his cash).

“Off we go, then,” he said, and marched into the dark. 

0

Like a well-fed leopard on a low-hanging branch, the First of the Fallen lounged across his throne of vertebrae, long black hair dribbling off his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground. Though he was wide awake, his eyes were closed. This, combined with the corpses of three supplicants dangling from nearby steel hooks, would hopefully discourage anyone from bothering him for the next few hours.

“My liege?”

Shit.

He kept still. Said nothing. Perhaps they would go away.

“Um… my liege, I’m terribly, monumentally sorry to disturb you, but…”

With a wave of his claw, the messenger exploded into red mist.

When, ten minutes later, a second messenger summoned up the courage to approach him, he realized that it must be very serious indeed.

“You have five seconds,” he said cordially, holding them up by the neck.

“Con… constantine!” they croaked.

Brightening, the First set them down. “Indeed? What’s the little bastard up to this time, eh?”

“Nothing, my liege. He’s dead.”

A few minutes later, a fourth corpse hung from a hook and the throne of Hell was empty. 

0

To the First of the Fallen, caves were still a novelty.

Confined spaces, in general, were still a novelty.

At 13.6 billion years, he was only slightly younger than the universe. While solid planets had come into existence around the same time, he’d not actually visited one until the emergence of homo sapiens and his subsequent quarrel and falling-out with God – a mere 300,000 years ago.

Cast from Heaven, naked and freezing cold, he’d stumbled into a rocky cranny by the shoreline and wedged himself between its slimy walls. That was his earliest memory of ever being ‘indoors’. No surprise, then, that he avoided such places when he could. He had built no castles in Hell; his throne sat atop a mountain beneath an endless red-gold sky.

But right now, it wasn’t the cave that had his attention, dark and chilly and, yes, slimy as it was.

“Stupid turd,” he grumbled, glowering at the corpse. “Ow!”

He’d bumped his head on the cave ceiling again. It was too low for the average human to stand upright, much less an eight-foot primordial being.

Constantine stared at him, blue eyes blank and glassy. His body was unmarred save for the dent in the left side of his scalp, which had stopped leaking some time ago. As far as the First could tell, his nemesis had simply tripped and fallen onto an unfortunately positioned, unfortunately sharp rock.

The First spat on his tie and snarled, “Pathetic! What the fuck are you even doing here, eh? And – God’s hairy bollocks, when did you last bathe?”

His soul was still dangling off him, like drool from a dog’s mouth. Heaven, obviously, had no interest in him and the First hadn’t yet authorised his admission into Hell.

Because he wasn’t ready, dammit.

He’d not been expecting to welcome John home for at least another thirty years.

“Always have to make it difficult, don’t you?”

When he reached down to take hold of the soul – such a grubby, tattered thing – it bit, blazing gold for a sliver of an instant before he snatched his hand back. Stuck his index finger in his mouth until the sting abated. Fumed.

He tried again, grasping it firmly, as one might a snake. It thrashed. He gave it a disciplinary shake before opening Constantine’s mouth with a claw and forcing it down his gullet.

Coming back to life was never enjoyable. Constantine spasmed and gurgled, legs and arms contorting as pink foam gathered at his lips. The First, bored, sat down beside him, reclining against the cave wall with one knee crooked. Surveyed their surroundings. The ground was – oh dear – littered with crisp crumbs, an empty foil packet, two cans, and dozens of cigarette butts. How foul.

“Disaster in your wake, as ever,” he commented, tutting.

Constantine groaned, eyelashes fluttering.

Belatedly realizing that he wouldn’t be able to see in this subterranean gloom, and very much wanting to afflict him with the identity of his saviour, the First snapped his fingers. A dozen lit candles appeared across the cavern, hovering ghost-like in mid-air.

“Urgh… fffu… whu… oh, Christ Almighty.”

Watching him sit up, the First assumed a lordly expression, tilting his head. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Unhealthily pale skin and facial muscles stretched and twisted to an indeterminable end.

Then John Constantine set his jaw.

Growled: “I’m on holiday, you bellend.”

And passed out. 

0

He awoke to the smell of slightly burnt waffles.

Better than burnt flesh, which was what he’d anticipated after His Infernal Bloody Majesty had popped in for a fag and a chat. Certainly better than sulphur.

“For you,” the First of the Fallen purred.

A white plate – averagely-sized but rendered absurdly dainty by the dimensions of the clawed fingers holding it – was set down in front of him.

He frowned at its golden-brown contents. “The catch?”

“No catch. I was peckish. I imagine you are, too.”

“Come on. Not in the mood. Did you piss on ‘em? Did you mix a baby’s blood into the batter?”

“Honestly, John.”

Scratching his chin, he reviewed the facts. Still in the same sodding cave, albeit far better illuminated than the last time he’d been conscious. Alive, but with that unmistakable stiffness that he’d come to associate with having recently been dead. Cold. Irritable.

Hungry.

His archenemy’s smug smile was almost enough to make him spit the first bite back out. Instinct borne from months of extreme poverty forced him to swallow instead.

“Tastes like shit,” he remarked, wiping his lips. “But I suppose you usually have minions to prepare food for you. Where’s the syrup?”

A regal sigh, before a bottle appeared beside the plate. He emptied a third of it and spent the next few minutes in delicious, sticky silence.

There were, as ever, consequences to allowing the First of the Fallen centre stage. The moment the big smelly git realised that John really wasn’t in the mood for banter, he waved a hand and conjured up a thin hardback with Into the Underworld: The Amateur’s Guide to Caving in Britain on the front.

As John rolled his eyes and stuffed another waffle into his mouth, the First cleared his throat and read: “‘According to the National Speleological Society, the minimum number of people required to safely embark on a recreational caving expedition is four – at least one of whom should have prior caving experience.’ Did you know that, John?”

John chewed sullenly.

“I did. I’d wager that most people do. At least, I’d wager that most people know that going caving in groups smaller than two – going caving alone – is wildly inadvisable. Caves are dangerous, John.”

Where were his cigarettes? Had the bastard nicked them?

“And… let’s see – ah! Here we are. ‘There is a great deal of commercial equipment available to a first-time caver, some of which is necessary, some of which is not. Two items, however, that are absolutely non-negotiable are a helmet and a helmet-mounted light.’ Do you have either of those, John?”

“Do I criticise your fucking hobbies?” he exploded, knowing better, knowing it would only encourage him. Sugary crumbs flew everywhere.

“You do, in fact. Often. And quite understandably. My favourite hobby is murdering your friends, after all.”

John threw the plate at his head. 

0 

He’d had a good sense of direction even before he’d learned how to see psychic residue coating streets and walls, left behind by previous travellers. Always scurrying around in places no kid should; subways, sewers, dirty basements, any haunted house his greedy little eye fell upon.

When he’d reached sixteen, burgeoning schizophrenia had muddled him up now and then. Occasionally, it’d even left him standing in streets he didn’t recognise with no earthly idea how he’d got there. PTSD had compounded the problem.

Even so, at fifty plus, he didn’t make a habit of getting lost. Meds, practice, and years of experience meant that he could walk from Chas’s house to Saint Paul’s with a blindfold on.

Long story short: This was embarrassing.

“I’m fairly sure we’re going in circles. That stalactite is very familiar.”

And he certainly wasn’t fucking helping.

(The floating candles, following them like ducklings, were. John’s torch had broken when he’d tripped. Still, he didn’t need the First of the Fallen for light. Could conjure it up himself, no bother. It just made sense to avail himself of a primordial being’s infinite magical resources before dipping into his own, far more limited stockpile.)

“Do you know the way out?” John asked, not breaking his stride.

“I do.”

“Will you tell me where it is?”

“I will not.”

“Then shut up.”

In his defence, John hadn’t thought the cave was big enough to get lost in. It hadn’t looked it from the outside.

But he’d wandered, then crawled, down at least a mile of twisting, increasingly narrow tunnels before getting himself killed. He’d kept meaning to stop; said to himself five times, ‘Okay, Conjob, this is getting stupid, let’s trot our arse back to civilisation’. Then he would notice another crevice wide enough for him to squeeze into.

“Curious place for a holiday,” the First of the Fallen commented after bravely keeping his tongue still for an unprecedented five minutes.

“Curious times we’re living in, innit?”

He hummed in agreement. “Are you really not here for any particular reason? Not – I don’t know – trying to find a missing child abducted by the fae? Searching for a wicked spirit who’s been cursing the local shepherds? Treasure-hunting, perhaps?”

“No.”

“You’re just here.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m on holiday. Taking a nice long break.”

“John. We’ve known one another for some time. I am familiar with the ways in which you ‘take a break’. You either go to the pub or you go to several pubs. Attempting to reconnect with nature is hardly your style.”

“Being oblivious to current events – especially shit ones – is hardly your style. Been too busy shaving your chunky arse to pick up a newspaper lately?”

“Print is dying. Besides, you try managing an entire dimension. See how much spare time it leaves you. Honestly, I’m run off my feet most days.”

“So quit.”

“Don’t be silly. What else would I do?”

“I dunno. Could be a camgirl. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Why aren’t you at home?”

John stopped walking and spun to face him. “There’s a plague, you gormless, oblivious prick. I can’t go to the pub. I can’t meet up with me mates. I can’t visit people’s homes to perform exorcisms. I can’t do anything but sit indoors, on my own, for months on end, just watching everything get worse, and that… and that’s not an option. Not for me. I crack too easy. So I got out. Before I killed someone. Now, for the last time, shut up and let me concentrate.”

He bent down to tug off his shoes and socks.

Telepathic magic tended to work best when you were naked. But sod that. Not with the First of the Fuckheads watching. Waffles or no waffles, he did not deserve a treat.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now? Marvellous! I do love watching your quaint party tricks,” he oozed with a mocking round of applause as John dropped to his knees.

Ignore him.

Taking a deep breath, John let his awareness expand.

It was hard, with the First standing right there. His presence was staggeringly heavy, weighing on the ley lines like an iron ball on a lace hammock. And so alien; elements found nowhere on Earth, bones and muscles formed before Earth had been a glint in God’s eye.

John sneered into the darkness. Piss on that. On him. This was child’s play. Buggered as his brain might be, John Constantine wasn’t going to falter at the sound, scent, or sensation of a mean-spirited old cosmic relic.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.

Seven years ago, three people came this way. A family. A woman; her sister; her daughter. They were having fun. The sisters had done this before; the daughter had been begging to come along for years. Afterwards, they were going for pizza. It was a good day.

Two years ago, four people came this way. All friends from work. Well – ‘friends’. One was the company CEO, the other three wanted promotions. Everyone but the boss was miserable. One was arachnophobic.

Eight months ago, a… sheep? Yeah. A sheep. Barely more than a lamb. It was lost. There was a storm and it came down here looking for shelter. Went too deep. By the time the shepherd found it, it was half-starved.

“John? What are you-…”

Ignore him.

Ten years ago, another family. Fifty years ago, a frightened child running from a monstrous father. And others – a hundred others – a thousand. The cave had a rich and storied history. Almost against his will and entirely against his better judgement, John followed its threads through the rock layers, chasing faded ghosts, brushing up against magic so ancient it had fossilised.

“John!”

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore-

His head was ringing. His blood was on fire.

Fuck, I’ve gone too far, too bloody deep, fuck, oh fuck.

“Constantine! Heed me!”

His eyes snapped open.

“Ah,” he said.

“Precisely,” said the First of the Fallen, who was holding him up by his coat collar like a jizz rag in need of a bin.

The cave had changed.

It was brighter, thanks to a small, well-constructed fire in its centre.

The walls were covered in paintings. Deer. Hogs. Great red and brown bulls.

A woman sat in the corner, wrapped in furs, adding detail to what might have been a fox. She didn’t seem to have noticed them.

“Did you mean to do that?” the First of the Fallen queried. 

0

“In thirty thousand years, a monk will come down here and find them. He’ll be horrified, believing that they’re the work of… well, me. So he’ll leave and return with water in buckets and scrubbing brushes. As he lies on his deathbed, he will be firmly under the impression that this great good deed will grant him entrance into Paradise.”

The First of the Fallen paused for effect, then added, “Alas, he will be mistaken.”

Without looking away from her work, the woman spoke several words in a language miles removed from any contemporary tongue John had ever heard.

“The young lady says she doesn’t mind spirits wandering her caves, but requests that we don’t chatter while she’s trying to concentrate.”

Crouching next to freshly-etched cow and her calf, feeling uncharacteristically dazzled, John said, “Ask her if I can take a picture. Ask her!”

“Homo neanderthalensis, John. She won’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

Rolling his eyes, he fished his phone out of his trenchcoat pocket and waved it at her. When she deliberately ignored him, he shrugged and took the shot.

The flash won her attention. She stood – revealing a faded seashell necklace and a long, curving scar across her left thigh – and approached them, limping slightly. John held out the phone to show her the picture and, after a resoundingly unimpressed inspection, she uttered a terse sentence.

“She’s unsure why the sickly-looking spirit thinks shrinking her beasts in any way improves them,” said the First of the Fallen.

The woman raised her head (hard to tell how old she was; younger than him, definitely) and looked John in the eye, squinting. Another few sentences followed, some of which sounded like questions.

Sarcastic questions, unless he was mistaken.

“She asks if you shrink them because large beasts frighten you. She speculates that, if the only beasts you can bear to approach are scrawny ones, it’s no wonder that you yourself are such a measly creature. She says that she too was scared of bulls when she was a child, but that her mother taught her not to be. She wonders why your mother failed you in this regard. Should I tell her your mother died in childbirth, John?”

“Stick your head up your own arse and choke. But ask her name first.”

Tossing back his thick black hair, he scoffed. “Why? What does it matter? She’s a primitive, doomed creature and she’s not even really here. This is just one of the cave’s memories.”

“Christ – are you jealous I’m talking to her more than I’m talking to you? Because that’s fucking inane. This is a one-in-a-lifetime type deal. I’ve never spoken to a legit bloody Neanderthal. I speak to you all the blasted time, more’s the pity.”

Yellow eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll kill her.”

John laughed. “You said it, squire; she’s a memory. You can’t kill her. She’s long dead. Now shut up.”

He wasn’t able to learn her name. Still, via pantomime and pointing, he eventually managed to convey his desire to find a way out of the cave – or so, at least, it seemed.

She took a bundle of sticks from beside her fire, lit them, and walked towards the nearest inky-black tunnel.

“See?” he said to the First of the Fallen as they followed her. “Politeness. All it takes.”

“Don’t act like you have any real idea what’s going on. She could be leading you straight into a trap. You’re aware, I’m sure, that archaeologists generally agree Neanderthals practised cannibalism? Ten muscular relatives might be waiting right around the corner with clubs and a cooking pot.”

“For fuck’s sake – I have literally stood and watched you slouching on that colossally pathetic bone throne of yours and nibbling the edge of someone’s pelvis like it was a turkey drumstick. Loathsome bloody hypocrite.”

“That doesn’t remotely count as cannibalism, John. That was a human pelvis. I’m not a human. I’m the prototype. A species of one. Which, I suppose, means it’s technically impossible for me to commit cannibalism. Hmm. What an interesting philosophical notion.”

Walking a short way ahead, bare feet soundless against the rock, their new self-appointed guide said something.

“What was that?” John whispered.

“‘If you must burden my ears by bickering like children, you could at least do it in a language I can understand’. Then she called us a rude word.”

Then the First of the Fallen spoke several sentences in his usual bored, drawling cadence and, to John’s surprise, she laughed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” the First of the Fallen said, innocently.

“I’m serious, bastard. What’re you saying to her?”

“Nothing important, John, really.”

More than once after that, he caught her glancing back at them and snickering. 

0

The artist and the twisting stone galleries through which she led them – it couldn’t possibly have all been hers; the monk had destroyed the work of generations – were insufficient to keep John’s mind from straying back to important matters.

“Hey. Ponce. What’ve you done with my cigarettes?”

The First of the Fallen had plucked them from his trenchcoat pocket while he was unconscious. When it came to his sorcerer, he’d learned, you always wanted a bargaining chip to hand.

“We’re in the company of one whose lungs are as yet unsullied by the Industrial Revolution, Constantine. Are you really planning on exposing her to second-hand smoke?”

It was a prospect John, it seemed, hadn’t even considered. Obviously angry with himself for that (oh John), he snapped, “No! I was – it’s – look, she can’t get lung cancer, can she? She’s dead. Doesn’t matter what she breathes in now.”

Smothering a smile, the First of the Fallen said, “Oh? So the fact that she won’t actually perish upon inhaling your fumes is all that matters, is it? Never mind her comfort or dignity, I suppose; as long as you don’t have to clean up another corpse.”

Nostrils flared. Fists clenched. Blue eyes gleamed with something hotter and even more violent than divine wrath.

“Like you give a shit about her,” John growled.

So much in this miserable world reminds me of Heaven. The grass. The sky. The beauty. You alone remind me of the time before Heaven; that bizarre, unpredictable time when there were no rules, no beauty, only feelings, only sudden bursts of light, fierce and erratic, cutting through the void.

“Or anyone,” John continued, gathering steam. Nicotine withdrawal, the First of the Fallen suspected, was kicking in. “Remind me, what was that you said the day we met? ‘To be mortal is to be stupid, proud, conceited – and ultimately pathetic’. You showed your hand, idiot; you loathe us all. Ergo, any taunts that depend on you concealing that are a total bust. Forget about the ciggies. If they’ve been anywhere near you, I don’t want ‘em.”

For years, the First of the Fallen had secretly hoped John had forgotten his, in hindsight, ill-considered words.

(He’d meant every one of them, but at the time he’d been trying to come off as a Gentleman Devil, the quintessential Man of Wealth and Taste, affable and urbane, not a bitter, angry old monster.)

Should have known better. John was so foolishly protective when it came to humanity as an abstract concept, even while his attitude towards actual humans tended to be far more variable. He’d probably been furiously gnawing on that phrase – ‘ultimately pathetic’ – like a dog with a bone for thirty years.

Thirty years.

Was that really all the time they’d known one another? John Constantine, his Constantine, He Who Was Most Hated… a mere thirty year acquaintance?

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Heh. Nothing, John. Reminiscing, that’s all.”

“About what? Poor old Brendan?”

Brendan, Brendan. Who -? Oh yes. John’s friend. The one who’d sold his soul. The catalyst, in fact, for their meeting. Pity the bastard was in Heaven; he’d have liked to thank him.

“You see these?” said the artist, holding up her torch to illuminate a painted wolf pack. “My grandfather did these.”

“What’s she saying?” John demanded.

As the First of the Fallen translated, he gazed dispassionately at her.

The first time he’d encountered a human, they’d looked much the same. Small. Unremarkable. Clad in skins and hardened from a life exposed to this planet’s weather (he personally hated weather and had made sure there was no such thing in Hell).

Mind you, the ones he’d run into while naked and terrified and still injured from being swatted down to Earth like some insect had been much less hospitable. They hadn’t known what he was; only that he was wrong. When he’d tried to approach their campfire, they’d thrown stones at him. Slaying them all hadn’t even occurred to him. Father had said that they were precious and at that stage, he’d still given a toss about His rules. Instead, he’d slunk away.

Catching food wasn’t a problem. He was faster than any buck or bird. It was loneliness, not hunger, that drove him to try again, and again, and again. In time, they grew used to him. Even showed him kindness. They had an extraordinary capacity for that. (For all that it was so often conditional and withdrawn the moment one became too strange or too frightening.)

But he’d never grown used to them. They were, at heart, creatures of community. And he simply wasn’t. He was a species of one. The prototype. He’d always been alone but for God’s company, and adjusting to life as a member of a tribe had proved impossible. Their norms, their traditions, their complicated etiquette – it had all bewildered him, then intimidated him, then irritated him. That, combined with his ageless body and supernatural strength, had driven an inevitable wedge between them, and he’d returned to the wilderness to wander alone.

He considered telling John that story.

(Why not? He’d told him everything else and the idea that his nemesis might have an incomplete view of him was, for some reason, concerning.)

Then he considered John’s likely reaction. The curled lip. The scornful snort. “What, you looking for pity? ‘Boo-hoo, my rotten childhood turned me into a git’? Hah! Jog on, squire.”

No. John’s hatred was a hard-won prize. John’s contempt was to be avoided at all costs.

“You realise most people aren’t allowed down here,” the artist said, glancing his way. She was shorter than John, who himself was slightly shorter than the average man; her eyes were level with the First’s navel. “Only elders and those who’ve earned the right. There are grave penalties awaiting any who sneak in.”

“Really?” he replied, interested only in John’s furrowed brow and silent, aggravated attempts to work out what they were saying.

“Yes. Because this place is important. Sacred. When I was young, I spent years dreaming of being allowed to venture this deep. I don’t know the ways of spirits – but I’ll not pretend it doesn’t rankle that you spend more time studying your sickly friend than your surroundings.”

“You’re still young. Compared to me, everyone is.”

“He doesn’t even seem to like you very much. Why are you travelling with him?”

“I don’t know. Why do urine and semen come out the same hole?”

“‘It’s none of your business’ would have sufficed. Are you always this rude? Is that why the sickly one doesn’t like you?”  

“No. No, he dislikes me for other reasons.”

“Well, well, well. Hullo,” came John’s voice, and they both realised that he’d stopped walking.

Turning, the First of the Fallen spied his nemesis standing with his hands in his pockets, studying a man dressed like a thirteenth-century peasant.

“Eh? Where did he come from?” the woman asked.

In quavering tones, the peasant said, “Are you angels?”

The First of the Fallen laughed. “John! He’s asking if-…”

“Just because I can’t speak Neanderthal doesn’t mean I don’t know sodding Middle English. Give me an ounce of credit. I’m only a cocking wizard, after all,” John snapped, before addressing the new arrival: “No. Just travellers.”

The peasant’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I thought maybe God had sent me angels. I’ve been requesting them for several days.”

John shuddered. “Bad idea. Trust me. You don’t want to mess around with that lot.”

“But I need guidance. Protection.”

“From what?”

Eyes wide, the peasant took his hand and clutched it. “My friend, can’t you see? I am being pursued.”

“By who?”

“By demons.”

(to be continued) 

[sanctificantur]

hello! sorry if this ask will sound weird, but can you please tell me if your copy of decameron by boccaccio is complete and has a good translation? thank you!

no that’s not weird at all!!!! i LOVE the translation i use. Mark Musa is an amazing translator of early Italian (and is easily one of my favorite translators of medieval literature)

here’s all the info for the book in full:

The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Introduction by Thomas G. Bergin. Afterword by Teodolinda Barolini. Translated by Peter Bondanella and Mark Musa. Signet Classics, 2010. ISBN: 9780451531735

let me know if you have any other questions! enjoy! :)

[spunknbite]

Camelot for prompts?

The joust was about to begin when Aziraphale spotted him - her, he supposed - across the arena. Poised in the front row of the raised spectators’ benches, the cushioned ones meant for the court, no less; she was leaning over the ledge, whispering something into the ear of one of the knights - Lancelot du Lac - lips fire-laden, treacherous, smeared with sin. But good Lord - for a Delilah, she was still a sacrosanct painting, a portrait taken from the centre panel of a cathedral’s finest triptych. Thick, fire-red curls spilled over her shoulders and poured down her back in intricate braids bound first to her temple like a halo. Radiant in the true sense, a flame-hot beacon in red amongst the dreary blues and greys of the overcast morning light. The women around her glittered in various jewels and gems, but Crowley was singular, awash in an inner (likely infernal, Aziraphale thought with reticence) glow that outshone all the finery in Camelot, that made sapphires and rubies and gold seem false, apocryphal, and Aziraphale was up and across the stands, ceremony quite forgotten. Moth to a flame.

Lancelot was nodding as Crowley’s lips moved almost imperceptibly, spinning a story, a tale, a temptation, fibres to thread. Tell me a story, something I haven’t heard before, Aziraphale had said to her before, and would say again millennia later, whispered in quiet moments far from court and humans and work. And Crowley would lean into him, irredeemable lips and tongue fabricating thick wool out of the barest of fibres. 

Crowley spotted him approaching, yellow eyes mooned into a crescent, a greeting, and then with a flourish, she produced a dagger from somewhere in her dress and sliced through a thin lock of crimson hair. Jousts, sword fights, they were war games, men playing at battle in peacetime; harmless really, with only stray blood-red hairs spoiling the ground, dripping from lily-white hands as Crowley passed Lancelot the lock.

“A token for today. For luck.”

“My Lady.” Lancelot bowed, respectful, distanced upon Aziraphale’s interruption, and he readied his horse. “Sir Aziraphale.” A nod, a courtesy, and he was off down the field.

“My Lady?” Aziraphale bowed, just a little, just enough to not draw suspicion, and Crowley grinned, caught red-handed, shameless. “I thought you were off fermenting somewhere else?” 

“Good Sir Angel!” An unnecessary curtsy with too much ado. “I can do that right here, it turns out.” She patted the bench next to her. “Fuck convention, am I right?” And Aziraphale sat down, despite himself. Always despite himself. “Are you jousting?”

“No, I find it a bit needless, honestly. Dangerous for the horses.” He edged away from Crowley’s inviting hand still caressing the bench between them.

“And hard on the buttocks, I imagine.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t find them uncomfortable? Horses.”

“I suppose so, yes. Still would rather avoid them being impaled on sharp pointy things though.”

“The sword, then? You’re fighting in that?”

“I had no plans to. Didn’t know there’d be a damsel worth impressing here.” It was meant as a joke, but the look that struck Crowley’s face - something between surprise and trepidation - told him it didn’t land.

“Pity.” Defences back up, easy smile on her lips again. “I’d have given you a lock. Only gave one to Lance over there to get him to leave. Terribly boring, that one.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Probably. Hell wants this place wiped out.”

“What? Why? It’s the only proper port of civilization across Europe.”

“Bit anachronistic, isn’t it? Europe won’t see this sort of organization for several centuries if Hell gets its way. Wipe it all out and start anew. Won’t even be remembered as fact if all goes to plan.”

“The Fall of Rome all over again.” He bit his lip and looked at Crowley. “And you’re helping with all this?”

Her face softened, a sad smile, like a Madonna and Child painting of the next millennia; cracked tempera lips, heart-sore eyes gazing at a baby she’ll outlive, knowing all this because the painter knew the outcome and thus the Madonna of the painting knows the outcome. Foreknowledge is dangerous. “I don’t have other options, angel.”

Aziraphale looked out at the arena, to the embroidered banners and the horses’ bridles and the food vendors and the roads leading in from the city. Roads dug into the dirt, ploughed by horses, laid with stones quarried not far from here. He looked at the people, rich and poor alike, all fed, all cared for as much as the Dark Ages allowed. There weren’t any other cities like this. Where would he go?

“Is it all in place?”

“More or less.”

“Nothing to be done then?”

“I didn’t know you liked it here.” And then, “I’m sorry, angel.”

She took his hand, held it in hers. Held it like Madonna clutched her child, like the disciples clutched the hull and mast on The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, like they would millennia later in a garden in London. It would be a scandal, this handholding, but Aziraphale supposed there would be little left to scandalize before long. And he closed his eyes and wondered why in God’s name he was here at all if not to hold her hand.

Crowley pulled away, took a braided lock from over her shoulder, a thick one with gold ribbon threaded through it, and twirled it idly about a slim finger before slicing it clean through with the dagger.

“A token,” she said, placing it in Aziraphale’s empty, tingling hand.

And some thousand years later, when the Great Fire of London torched the city and Aziraphale ran home after failing to keep St. Paul’s standing, only to find his house nothing but ashes and smouldering black timber, it was the lock of Crowley’s hair he cried for. Not Aristotle’s second book of Poetics, or the signed Pliny, or the Annals of King David, the Bede, the lost Boccaccio, the Copernicus, not the scores of Shakespeare first editions or Love’s Labour’s Won, it was a braid as silken as the day it was cut that left him weeping.

But that was centuries distant, and now Aziraphale simply slipped it in his pocket, fingers lingering against the soft tresses, memorizing each strand the texture of materials not yet produced in England. Velvet. Muslin. Chiffon. 

“Don’t have much hair to gift you, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps something else then.” A quirk of Crowley’s lips. “Lunch after the joust, your treat?”

And even in the yet-to-be wreckage of a burgeoning Empire, amidst what would soon be smoke and discord and civil war, lunch with Crowley sounded nice. 

“Yes, quite.”

[everything-is-tickety-boo]

I feel Life for the very first time-Crowley fanfiction, part. 2

Part. 1: https://everything-is-tickety-boo.tumblr.com/post/185928412964/i-feel-life-for-the-very-first-time-crowley

Elena’s point of view

it’s 6.00 a.m.

i haven’t slept much,I’m that kind of girl who has to control her own thoughts in order to avoid my premature and unwanted suicide: i know, i know, I am a disaster.

the alarm keeps ringing, but I don’t want to open my eyes,opening them means I have to respect my part of the deal with life, which would force me to leave my bed,the most fascinating boy I’ve ever met,really.

damn it

i finally find the strength to open my eyes,i walk slowly towards my bathroom where I meet a sleepy version of myself in the mirror...well it’s not a version,who isn’t sleepy all day long?

however,I stop,staring at my own reflection for a moment:long brown hair,some sparkles,and green eyes. i focus on my scars just a second,they’re quite a lot, but I have not idea how i got them.

a quick shower, and after preparing myself i leave my house behind me.

I’m late.

the bookshop is a great Victorian structure,but it’s London we’re talkin about,don’t we?

I’m still for a moment which appears to be too long,looking at the green doorway.

when i choose to go inside,i take a deep breath,and as soon as i walk in I hear a bell ringing behind me to salute me.

i’m alone.

“hello...it’s Elena...I was told to come here for a-”

“oh dear,have you been waiting for me?”- i turn and I find behind me a man,not really tall, white curly hair, a cream coloured tail cout and an incredibly big smile on his face. i didn’t see him when i came inside, i swear.

“well no, actually I’ve just -”

“Chaucer or Boccaccio?”

“Pardon?”

“faast dear! who would you choose?”

“you don’t really want me to answer this...is it a little trick or something?”

“why?would you like it to be?”

“well, no, i was just-”

“the answer was correct!”

“but i didn’t give you an answer!”

“that’s the point my dear!we can’t compare books,they are books! such unique and beautiful creatures! well,I am sorry,I didn’t introduce myself:my name is Aziraphale, I am the owner of the library you’re going to work for”

“am I really getting the job?”

“do you want this job to be yours?”

“well...yes!”

“perfect then! now listen to me sweetie, this library is my whole heart and soul, but i must confess it,It is also a mess. I need someone to help me to keep order and someone who would love to look for rare books! It is going to be an adventure!”

he looks at me with a smile full of excitement,so bright that I can’t hold myself, I keep smiling back.

a fast “this sounds lovely” comes out from my mouth,and he takes my hand,guiding me in the bookshop, and explaining me everything I need to know to begin.

I’ve always loved books, tiny little creatures, full of magic and hope.

this was the job I needed in my life.

i needed to change

a week later

the first week of work had been a blessing.

Aziraphale is the sweetest person I’ve ever met and spending time with him doesn’t really look like work for me.

however, it’s almost the end of the day, i’m quite tired but he has asked me to list a bunch of books before going home.

it’s not that bad actually, cause i’m sitting on the desk next to the front door and i’m sipping a nice cup of tea,cuddled by the the heat of the fire.

I take notes about a beautiful version of Paradise lost when I hear the bell of the door ringing.

i jump off the desk saying, without raising my eyes from the book “i’m sorry sir,but we’re closed”.

despite of this,when God created me I didn’t receive the honorable gift of physical coordination and here I am, falling in the arms of someone with a strong smell of Cologne.

i know this parfume.

i open my eyes when I’m sure not to risk my face and I see a tall men, completely dressed in black, and he has red hair,with a tuft similar to a blaze of flames. he has an angular face,and that same face pictures great dismay.

he’s really handsome.

i get back on my feet,but he doesn’t leave me.

that tattoo is so familiar,he is so familiar.

“it’s not possible” he whispers but I hear it.

he keeps staring at me,when he leaves my arm he steps back,running a hand through his hair.

i bite my lip,i keep feeling his eyes on me,even though I can’t actually see his eyes cause he’s wearing sunglasses.

“it’s really possible sir,I’m a thunder sometimes….however,we’re closed,I’m sorry”

he doesn’t answer,and I start feeling really uncomfortable.

“where is Aziraphale?”

“oh..he should be-” he doesn’t let me finish but he runs away in the back of the bookshop,calling Aziraphale out loud.

i turn around to look at him while he goes away,feeling lonely as soon as he disappears.

why do i feel like i know you?

jump into the heat

spinning on our feet

in a technicolour beat

you and me

caught up in a dream

in a technicolour beat

[italianartsociety]

The Nightmare Before Christmas: Florence December 1478

The year of 1478 had proven distressing and tumultuous for the citizens of Florence. On 26 April of that year, Lorenzo de’ Medici had narrowly survived a plot to overthrow his illustrious family: a conspiracy that claimed the life of his beloved younger brother, Giuliano. Commonly referred to as the Pazzi Conspiracy, this attempted dual assassination, although physically carried out by a diabolical consortium led by the Pazzi family, was likely masterminded by Pope Sixtus IV and Federico da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino. 

The immediate aftermath of the murder of Giuliano, which took place in the Cathedral of Santa Reperata (now known as Santa Maria del Fiore), saw the streets of Florence filled with chanting mobs, armed men and the slaughtered bodies of up to 70 conspirators. Agnolo Poliziano, the classical scholar and intimate friend of the Medici, described how the Perugians involved in the plot were the first to be slaughtered by being “cut to pieces.” Another Medici ally, Bongianni Gianfigliazzi, who was involved as an interrogator during this chaotic period, describes how clergymen and laymen alike were “hanged... at the Palace of the Magistrates and the Captain and cut asunder in palace and piazza.” 

By Christmas Eve 1478, the situation had worsened and must have appeared almost apocalyptic to the citizens of quattrocento Florence.  The apothecary and diarist, Luca Landucci informs us that on 24th December, 1478, “a peasant of the neighbourhood belonging to the Popoleschi, was found dead in his house, having hung himself with a towel. And during these days the Arno was very high and overflowed its banks opposite [the aforementioned] Mssr Bongianni’s houses. It caused great damage.” Furthermore, Luca also reveals that, “the plague was also causing much mortality: it pleased God to chastise us. And at this Christmas-time, what with the terror of war, the plague and the papal excommunication, the citizens were in a sorry plight. They lived in dread, and no one had the heart to work. The poor creatures could not procure silk or wool, or only very little, so that all classes suffered.”

References: Marcello Simonetta, The Montefeltro Conspiracy: A Renaissance Mystery Decoded, New York. Doubleday, 2008. 

Samantha Hughes-Johnson, “’Morto Giuliano de’ Medici’:The Pazzi Conspiracy and the Ricordanze of Bongianni di Bongianni di Giovanni Gianfigliazzi.” The Renaissance Society of America Annual Meeting Program Chicago 20 March - 1 April, 2017, p. 148.

Luca Landucci, A Florentine Diary from 1450-1516 by Luca Landucci: Continued by an Anonymous Writer ‘Til 1542 with Notes by Iodoco del Badia, London, J. M. Dent and Sons, 1927. pp. 25-26.

Images: Unknown, La Peste di Firenze, c.1620, oil on canvas. Wikimedia Commons.

L. Sabatelli, The Plague of Florence in 1348, as described in Boccaccio's Decameron, 19th Century, etching on paper, The Welcome Trust. Wikimedia Commons.

Pisanello, Hanging Men and Two Portraits, 1430s, metal point and pen on paper, The British Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

Italian School, Two holy men lie side by side affected by the plague: in the background, the plague epidemic, 17th Century, paper and brown ink, The Welcome Trust. Wikimedia Commons. 

Anonymous, Allegory of Plague, A Biccherna book cover. Siena, Italy, 1437, tempera and gold on parchment, Kunstgewerbemuseum, Staatliche Museen, Berlin, Germany. Wikimedia Commons. 

Posted by Samantha Hughes-Johnson.

[iamshannonmcfarland]

AAh, thanks for this! @flying-elliska​

how many books are too many books in a series ? if the (good)  quality of the book are the same the saga would last forever for me. But let’s say seven.

how do you feel about cliffhangers ? ambivalent, I don’t hate it but i don’t love the i will leave you months with the suspense for only resolve everything in a easy way in the fisth chapter way

hardback or paperback ? my favorite book of my favorite autors in hardback or paperback because i must feel the paper, underline my favorite part. I buy ebook and second hand book for the others. Mosly second hand because ebook don’t flattern my poor attention span

least favorite book ? Jane Eyre. sorry not sorry. I’ve a grudge with Charlotte and the way she treated Anne and her work.

love triangles, yes or no ? mostly not

the most recent book you just couldn't finish ? the goldfinch

a book you're currently reading ? the biography of the last zarina by Greg King and Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

last book you recommended to someone ? gridalo by roberto saviano

oldest book you've read ? i’m not sure if is boccaccios decamerone or the poetry of gaspara Stampa (both lived in the 1300)

newest book you've read ? my bad i rarely read new book so i must say  Maestre d'amore: Giulietta, Ofelia, Desdemona e le altre by Nadia Fusini. She is the italian translator of virginia woolf and in this book she analize the female characters of Shakespear in a wonderful way. But i love her so i’m biased

favorite author ?Austen, Emily and anne bronte, Cesare Pavese, Marina  Tsvetaeva, Antonia Pozzi, Plath, Scott Fitzgerald, 

buying books or borrowing books ? buying because i read almost four book  togheter most of time so i’m really slow at finish a simple book.

a book you dislike that everyone else seems to love ? la divina commedia by dante. i’m an awful italian. I know.

bookmarks or dog ears ? bookmarks. 

a book you can always reread ? Northanger Abbey and  Wuthering Heights

can you read while listening to music ? with my attention span? no

one pov or multiple povs ? One OR TWO. i’ve hated the way games of thrones changed pov endlessly

do you read a book in one sitting or over multiple days ? sometimes i don’t sleep at night for read an entire book but it’s rare. Mostly in multiple days or weeks

who do you tag ? everyone who want!

thank you @sinterblackwell for tagging me in this bookish ask game! these questions were really interesting !

how many books are too many books in a series ? i'm honestly pretty tolerant for long book series, i love seeing a world develop over lots of books - started the bone season series recently which has 4 books so far and is slated to have seven, it's going to be a bitch waiting but at the same time there is something so thrilling about having this sort of returning event year after year (i grew up with the HP books so that really marked me i guess). that said i think that only really works when the authors have solid plans because when an author gets stuck and you have to wait ten years for the next one that really sucks (lol GoT). and i think beyond 7-8 it's definitely getting excessive.

how do you feel about cliffhangers ? hmmm...depends if they're well done or if they feel like shock value. i think every book needs to feel like a cohesive unit and some cliffhangers happen too soon, without enough resolution - that said, i love it when books open up a new (but related) mystery in the last few lines

hardback or paperback ? i used to buy paperbacks only but over time those really get damaged super easily (i've moved a lot) and it feels like a waste of space and paper. so now i'm doing this thing where i mostly buy ebooks and whenever i really like a book and want it in my permanent library - or when a new book is coming out that i know i am going to love - i buy hardbacks ; at least when the covers are aesthetically satisfying. i just really love the idea of starting to build my 'forever library'

least favorite book ? it's tied between Manon Lescaut, which i was forced to read in high school and is the most irritating story ever about an old timey dude falling in 'love' with a prostitute and blaming her for it and everything else that goes wrong in his life until she dies and he can 'be free' ; and The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi which made me so uncomfortable i had to stop like one third of the way in and is a torture p*rn, fetishistic, racist mess about a Japanese cyborg girl who gets exploited and abused by everyone she meets. It's possible that these two books were trying to make a point about how the things they're depicting were bad, but there is a level of misogyny and violence that feels too illustrative, exploitative and graphic to ever serve that purpose properly in my mind.

love triangles, yes or no ? i'm not against a love triangle when it's well done, i.e it has a real impact on the plot and is tied into the themes of the story. For example, I think the triangle in the Hunger Games is a good one, because Peeta represents (to simplify it massively) peace whereas Gale represents violence, the escalation of war and never ending conflict, so Katniss choosing between them is not just about moody teenager feelings. That said, the trope has definitely been overused in YA ; I really hate love triangles when it's just an excuse to stall the plot and throw in artificial delays because the characters are being wishy-washy and indecisive and non-communicative assholes. also i wish more of them got solved by polyamory or something.

the most recent book you just couldn't finish ? last year, If I loved you less by Tamsen Parker, a modern wlw retelling of Emma which I expected to love but the overly casual-quirky writing and the excessively immature MC just irritated the hell out of me

a book you're currently reading ? rereading The Raven Cycle right now, I'm on the Raven King and I'll reread Call Down the Hawk after, I want to get to Mister Impossible

last book you recommended to someone ? Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed

oldest book you've read ? hmmmmmm not sure but the thing that comes to mind rn is the Tao Te Ching by Laozi, 6th century BC

newest book you've read ? ehhh probably Any Way the Wind Blows by Rainbow Rowell

favorite author ? lol i absolutely cannot answer that question no matter what i say it feels like a betrayal

buying books or borrowing books ? buying, i'm a shitty borrower tbh because i like having books sit in my TBR pile and just randomly decide to read them out of the blue

a book you dislike that everyone else seems to love ? the night circus by erin morgenstern - it's so popular everywhere and I wasn't even able to finish it ; it's the epitome of style over substance for me ; sure the descriptions are beautiful but they feel so empty and void of any meaning or character development ; it drags for chapters and chapters and then boom ! instalove, which is when i dropped it because that's one of the things i hate the most. i checked the rest of the plot on wikipedia to be sure and yeah it annoyed me too so.

bookmarks or dog ears ? bookmarks. i only ever dog ear my study books

a book you can always reread ? letters to a young poet by rainer maria rilke

can you read while listening to music ? nooo it's way too much input when i get into a book it's Intense i can't deal with anything else

one pov or multiple povs ? i absolutely love a well done multiple POVs when the switching allows you to compare the perspective of different characters and how it shapes the narrative and how they think of each other and how it slowly all merges together ! Especially when it's dumbasses in love pining over each other !!! chef's kiss !!!

do you read a book in one sitting or over multiple days ? depends, i binge when i have the time and it's gripping but not always and that's fine

who do you tag ? @beeexx @all-the-wr0ng-places @smblmn @peoniesandsmiles @bremmommye @dorkdumplings @petitspaceling @hellswolfie @iamshannonmcfarland if you want to no pressure !!!

[greypetrel]

Sorry not sorry. (Reaction to Inferno, the 2016 movie. Premise: I didn't read the book, and the movie got me half death by laughters, half perplexed from the connection between Dante and the Plague. It's of course a personal opinion). #dante #inferno #inferno2016 #movie #danbrown #cinema #reaction #funny #comic #vignette #instadraw #instaart #art #artists #artistsoninstagram #artstagram #doodle #middleages #boccaccio #illustration #blackplague #literature