#nottinghamshire live

[mymichaelbryanthings]

On The Steps. by Jeff Wharton Via Flickr: Papplewick 1940's Event

[spookyfoxdreamer]

[witchyafterdark]

Consolidated HL Character Profile #1:

— Ominis Gaunt —

Note: The following information on this post are a combination of my personal headcanons and canon-compliant resources. I have done research on this but, of course, these are pure speculation since we do not have actual canon information about this character. I hope you all enjoy this! 💕

Tags and shout-outs are at the end of this post!

This is a very, very long post! Take your time.

—---—---—---—---—

I. Possible Birth Place

The last of the Gaunts, as we know it, have lived in poverty. The members of this once noble house trickled down to Marvolo Gaunt and his two children — Merope and Morfin.

According to the book, (Half-Blood Prince; Chapter 10, "The House of Gaunt") the family was living in a rundown shack that Harry Potter wondered whether it was inhabited, or not.

"... its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime."

The description of the Gaunts' living conditions were shown during Bob Ogden's visit in Little Hangleton around the early 1920's. As the wiki suggests, Ominis should already be in his late 40's (and close to his supposed death). It was also said that due to their vein of instability, arrogance, and pride, the family gold has been squandered well before the last generations were born.

Now, based on the canon timeline, there is a high chance that Ominis and Marvolo were siblings — something this fandom seems to agree on.

"Chronologically, Marvolo Gaunt could be one of the elder siblings who tortured Ominis with the Cruciatus Curse."

However, I personally find it hard to picture him having been born and raised in that same shack in Little Hangleton. While it's very possible to have a family living together in a small, decrepit house, it seems like there are more than four members of the second-to-the-last generation of Gaunts.

Ominis had both parents present, his Aunt Noctua, and older siblings (one of which could be Marvolo himself). That would be at least five family members living under one roof. I just find it a little difficult to believe that someone who is as kempt and posh-looking as Ominis would be living in a shack.

Also, he seems to be the least-favorite child based on how his parents and siblings have treated him. So, why would he have neat school robes if they couldn't really afford it, right? And why give the good clothes to the blind, black-sheep of the family?

This led me to think that maybe, they did have some money to spare during those times. Another accepted headcanon of the fandom is that the Gaunts needed to keep up with the façade that they are still rich and prominent by dressing up aristocratically and by speaking in a posh accent (which is called Received Pronunciation, also called the Queen's Accent).

Furthermore, we literally almost got the Gaunt Manor questline, with a courtyard, in the game but the developers cancelled it. This could be the proof that they have also thought of the fact that Ominis did not grow up, nor was he born, in a dilapidated shack.

—

But wait!

How and where did I start pinpointing the Gaunts' possible ancestral origins? Well, I found a theorized Timeline of Salazar Slytherin's Descendants compiled and analyzed by Obversa (whom I am a long-time fan of, and usual source of information). Please take a moment to check this part out:

[This is the Reddit link to the whole post!]

—

So... where do we start with Ominis' theoretical birth place? I have attached a map that is highlighted in different colors to make it easier to understand.

1. Derbyshire or Nottinghamshire (Highlighted in blue)

Situated at the center of the English map, one of the possible birthplaces of Ominis Gaunt is either Derbyshire or Nottinghamshire.

We know that the Gaunts were descendants of Cadmus Peverell, the original owner of the Resurrection Stone (a.k.a. The Heirloom Gaunt Ring). So, I got to trace back the origins of the last name Peverell, where they're from and which period they came to be.

According to House of Names, the Peverell line is one of the thousand new names that the Norman Conquest brought to England in the year 1066 CE.

William Peverell, the "natural son of William the Conqueror," received his share of 162 manors; many of which were in these two counties.

As stated from the pictured timeline above, Cadmus Peverell had been born at around the year 1214 CE.

A hundred and sixty-two manors under the Peverell family name alone seem like it's a possibility that the three Peverell brothers (Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus) inherited at least one of these manors as part of familial land distribution.

And once again, citing the timeline above, the Peverell line (at least in Cadmus' side) possibly ended with a female; who married a male Gaunt. It's likely that they moved to one of these manors as a start of the foundation of the House of Gaunt.

— An example in Derbyshire:

— An example in Nottinghamshire:

These two examples look like Gaunt Manor style, in my opinion. So far, I'm highly convinced that it's either Derbyshire or Nottinghamshire due to the manors being quite sequestered from city propers and large, populated towns.

2. Yorkshire (Encircled in red on the map)

This one is actually the suggestion of the lovely @diligentcranberry (Thank you for entertaining my unhinged obsession about the Gaunts origins).

It is said that Little Hangleton is approximately 200 miles north of Privet Drive. Now, Privet Drive is in Surrey. When I checked on the maps, York is directly north of Surrey; at around 203 miles, if you travel by foot.

There is also the possibility that perhaps the Gaunts simply moved towns instead of counties and cities. Maybe there is a magically hidden part of Yorkshire that is isolated enough to be far away from the muggles (or muggleborns) and nosy neighbors for them to conduct their wicked and inhumane past time activities: torturing muggles for sport.

Not only would this place be an ideal location for illicit activities, the density of trees around this area sounded like something the Gaunt family would like to have so that they are not easily accessible to anyone, including Ministry officials.

—

Runner-up Place: Godric's Hollow (Lined in pink on the map; the whole West Countryside)

There has been speculation that the Gaunts once resided in Godric's Hollow (as did other Wizarding families). Most people would also think that the Gaunts have ties to this place since one Peverell was buried here.

"Every now and then, he [Harry] recognized a surname that, like Abbott, he had met at Hogwarts. Sometimes, there were several generations of the same Wizarding family represented in the graveyard: Harry could tell from the dates that it had either died out, or the current members had moved away from Godric's Hollow."

The wiki even suggested that Godric's Hollow is Cadmus Peverell's final resting place. However, there is no canonical reference to this speculation. According to the book (The Deathly Hallows; Chapter 16, "Godric's Hollow"), Hermione only confirmed seeing Ignotus' tombstone. And while it was the norm to bury family members together in the same graveyard, we have no evidence that Cadmus was, in fact, buried alongside his brothers.

Lastly, official information from Wizarding World states that it was only Ignotus that had been found buried there, but no evidence pointed to where the others may be.

Runner-up Place: Leicestershire (Highlight in orange on the map)

This is actually the last place I researched because I remember that there was a man named John of Gaunt (1340-1399). He was the father of King Henry IV, and used to be one of the richest men of this century. I didn't find anything about him at first... until I saw who his wife was.

John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had been married thrice in his lifetime. But it was his second wife, Constance of Castile (1354-1394) that piqued my interest.

Now, this sounds like a long-shot. But the theorized Timeline above proposed that Salazar Slytherin could be from Burgos, Castile, Spain. It wouldn't be totally impossible that Slytherin himself had children back in Spain; or that some of the children he sired during his stay in Scotland possibly moved back to Spain.

At least in my mind, there is a chance that Constance of Castile might be one of the descendants of Salazar Slytherin who ended up marrying a Gaunt.

Then again, Constance and John only had a surviving daughter, and the canonical information about the Peverell line was completely thrown out of the window with this theory. So, it's highly unlikely that this place was the ancestral origins of the future Gaunts. Still, this was fun to include!

—

End Results:

There is strong evidence that Ominis Gaunt may have been born in either Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, or Yorkshire. I know there's so much information to consider regarding this, so it's your decision which county you would use that fits your headcanons.

As for my personal headcanon, I'd say he's born in an ancestral manor that once belonged to the Peverells, which was located in Derbyshire.

But as the family fortune started to dwindle due to poor management, it ultimately fell unto Marvolo to sell the property and find another place to move to. And since Marvolo doesn't seem to be the type to find employment, the money he had gotten from the sold property almost immediately got used up. In the end, he and his remaining family had to move to that dilapidated shack in Little Hangleton, Yorkshire.

—---—---—---—---—

II. Possible Date of Birth

Note: If you're not interested in astrology, you can just skip this one, and go to Part 3, 4, and 5!

This section of the post is pure speculation, and no solid proof at all. But we do know that Ominis should be born between September 1, 1874 and August 31, 1875 if he was to be eleven years-old during the start of his first year at Hogwarts. Therefore, all of the following information is gathered by astrological observations of his character.

(I have a personal tarot and astrology account, @tarotwitchy, if you guys are interested in knowing more about this type of content).

Based on character analysis, I believe that Ominis is a Capricorn Sun, Pisces Moon, and Scorpio Rising.

Now, what does that mean?

Let's break down his character one astrological placement at a time.

1. Capricorn Sun

— a person with their Sun in Capricorn is someone who is determined to make the most out of their life. Hard working, perseverant, and resilient, they don't allow themselves to succumb in to their losses and admit defeat.

— Ominis surely displayed these characteristics throughout the game. He doesn't let his disability stop him from accomplishing the things he set his mind to. He doesn't want his traumatic beginnings to inhibit his potentiality for success and happiness outside of his family's customs. When he sets his mind on something, he sees through it (no pun intended).

— Also, he is loyal to the good cause. He knows what's right and what's wrong. He isn't afraid of calling out anyone for their wrongdoings, nor does he back off from confrontation. This behavior of his was very apparent when he secretly followed the new fifth-year and Sebastian to the catacombs.

— There's also a bit of a savior-complex in him; wherein he feels he could set someone straight, tell them what to do or what not to do, can have a demanding demeanor at times, and could perhaps want to control his environment to make it easier for him to navigate. (So, yes. All of those Dominis stories can actually be a canonical behavior of his).

2. Pisces Moon

— With all that was said about his Sun Sign, his Pisces Moon is the reason we get a softer, gentler version of his Capricorn. People with Pisces Moons are known to be emotionally wise beyond their years. Their ability to empathize people's experiences are astounding, and their compassion is matched only by their fellow water signs.

— This admirable kindness that Ominis possesses is what we eventually understand and come to associate with him. When faced with the opportunity to torture muggles like his family does, his first instinct is to refuse. In spite of his blindness, he doesn't need sight to see how all of that was very immoral and apathetic. And even as he was forced to cast the Cruciatus Curse, he still laments and regrets that event up to the present time.

— One more thing to note is that Ominis could have simply reported Sebastian as soon as the latter displayed interest in the Dark Arts. But he didn't because of three reasons: He didn't want to lose his best friend, he still believed in Sebastian's chance to redeem and pull himself out of the darkness, and he empathized with Sebastian's desperation to find a cure for Anne. This altruistic attitude is what's best about him.

— It also affirms my previous headcanon about Ominis' sleeping habits, as Pisces rules over the realms of sleep.

3. Capricorn Mercury

— It's very obvious that Ominis is quite mature for his age. The way he talks, thinks, and carries himself is trademark Capricorn Mercury. He is also straightforward and he plans ahead not just for himself but for others. At the end of the game, he literally said, "whatever lies ahead, we must face it together."

— Mercury is the planet of communication, intellect, memory, and learning. Ominis' style of communication is quite formal and authoritative in nature, and he keeps it that way. He is able to express himself in a put-together manner that conveys his thoughts crystal-clear. He doesn't speak in riddles (👀) and he wants to be understood the first time around.

4. Sagittarius Venus

— Alright, this one is a surprising placement for Ominis. But after a while, I found this to be quite fitting for him! While he is someone who we consider as "docile" or "serene" on most days, having his Venus in Sagittarius gives him a streak of curiosity and a yearning for exploration; as Sagittarius is the sign of higher learning and traveling.

— The first time we see him (if you're a Slytherin) is in the common room being cheeky about the first-years who are trying to spot mermaids through the windows. He has a playful side to him that balances out majority of his more serious and somber placements. The fact that he is closest to Sebastian (who is really fiery and passionate) is proof that Ominis can hold his own when it comes to his best friend's fervent personality.

— Of course, Venus is the planet of love and romance. Majority of the stories I've read, Ominis is the kind of man who will study his partner's personality, routine, habits, quirks, likes and dislikes, special interests, and goals and dreams. This is the behavior of a well-developed Sagittarius Venus. They will absolutely love to get to know their partner's personhood beyond the superficial. They will also keep their partnership alive by sharing life experiences together and encouraging their partner to explore more novel and romantic moments with them.

5. Scorpio Mars

— Where to begin with this placement? It's quite hard to believe, at first, that Ominis would have his Mars in Scorpio. That would entail someone who is traditionally brusque, aggressive, and would embody the combination of Martian-Plutonian qualities.

— But in his case, there is a reason why people are compelled to write, draw, and express him as Dominis. It's because even if he haven't actually seen him being a dominant man, we instinctively know that he is capable of it. That's the effect of Scorpio Mars. The evidence of this placement is not always "in your face." It can be subtle, it can be a secret. His dominance and assertiveness is just dancing along the edge of his skin.

— But one of the most important things to remember about them is that once a Scorpio Mars has had enough, they snap. And they will always get the last word after they have put people in their place, snapped some bones, and razed the earth. And this is something Ominis is very much capable of doing. But his self-control is immaculate.

6. Scorpio Rising

— Again, this seems very unlikely at first glance. But upon further observation, Ominis is the type of guy you don't really know much about unless he purposefully let you in on his private circle, explicitly says something about himself. He also has strong eyes that pierce through others in spite of his blindness. His striking face and cheekbones are unforgettable, and he doesn't look like anyone else. Others also can't help but feel compelled to want to know more about him, as his enigmatic aura inevitably pulls them in (whether he likes it, or not. That's why most Scorpio Risings have trouble with unsolicited attention).

— To drive this point further, if you check out this video of other NPC's talking about him, they all seem to come to a polarized conclusion, with the common thread of 'Ominis is hiding something.' Granted that the name Gaunt, in and of itself, strikes fear and wary in people's hearts, others have really strong opinions about him without even getting to know him personally. That, too, is something most Scorpio Risings struggle with.

—

End Results:

Ominis Gaunt was born on January 11, 1875 at around 03:00AM, during the winter season.

Of course, this is only my personal headcanon, and based on my astrological research and experience. The runner-up dates I had in mind would make him fall in the Sun Sign of Pisces, Cancer, Aquarius, and even Scorpio! But the rest of the chart doesn't really align with the rest of his personality. Ultimately, January 11th is the final date I believe suits him most.

—---—---—---—---—

III. Psychometric Analysis

Note: I will be linking the sites for these tests should you want to take them yourself! 😊 Have fun!

1. MBTI

— ISTJ (Introvert, Sensing, Thinking, Judging)

"They rely on their past experience to guide them, and are most comfortable in familiar surroundings. On personality trait measures, they score as Calm, Stable, Steady, Cautious, and Conventional. The ISTJ’s main and most admirable strength is perseverance; people of this type simply do not give up. They also have a natural instinct to protect and defend, as they are loyal, reliable and committed."

These descriptions speak for themselves when it comes to knowing Ominis' personality type. People who have a lack of sight (or those who are legally blind) rely on fixed structures and routines to help ease their everyday needs. While it is possible for them to be spontaneous, they still have to have familiarity and past experience in the spontaneity they'll participate in.

He is very loyal, to a fault sometimes. He's committed in making sure that his beloved friends are not dallying in things they shouldn't be. He knows the difference between right and wrong, and trusts his life experiences to guide him to proper decisions.

2. Enneagram

— Type 6 with wing 5; SP/SX (The Defender)

"The committed, security-oriented type, sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious."

"Their basic fear is being without support and guidance, having nowhere or no one to hold onto. This is why their basic desire is to have security and support from their chosen people."

This one is very obvious. It's quite apparent that he is the type of person who can be anxious if things and people aren't where he wanted them to be. While he yearns for cooperation due to his need for security, other people who aren't used to this kind of behavior will find him controlling; and perhaps, even smothering.

Nevertheless, Ominis' intentions come from a good place. He doesn't want his people to be hurt or harmed. He also has an impeccable intuition to predict outcomes of certain situations, which makes him look paranoid. But his assumptions, more often than not, are proven to be correct!

3. Four Temperaments

— Melancholic–Phlegmatic (The Analyst)

"The Melancholy-Phlegmatic is a pleasant and accommodating person who tends to seek a structured environment requiring attention to detail. They have a self-sacrificing, self-critical nature, and struggle with guilt feelings about things that are not often their fault. The Melancholy-Phlegmatic is more conscientious and private than the other Melancholy blends."

This is quite self-explanatory. Ominis has two distinct behavior: the calm and peaceful, and the anxious and prickly. When things are going the way it's supposed to be (in his definition), he would be placated and docile. We see him as approachable and a little more open. But when things aren't going according to plan, or when things suddenly happen unexpectedly, he's like a rolling wheel going in different directions trying to extinguish the uncontrollable fires of disaster.

He's the first to respond by going to Headmaster Black to fabricate a story to hide what really happened between the Sallows, and make it look like a family argument instead. He's the one to alert MC that Anne went to get Solomon, and that we should do something about it immediately. He is the safety net of all these people in his life.

—---—---—---—---—

IV. Corporeal Patronus

I want to give a shout out to @ponfarrdraws for discussing this with me!

We were wondering what Ominis' corporeal Patronus would be, should he be able to cast one. I've had a lot of speculation, going through one animal at a time. But ultimately settled with a Mongoose. This animal is not on the official list of Patronuses but it still has a lot of weight and meaning.

This article states that mongooses are a symbol of protection and are considered to be wards against evil. To quote:

"As a totem, the mongoose has the magical attributes of defense, protection, and destroying evil. The mongoose symbolizes action, adventure, boldness, fearlessness, impulsiveness, independence, optimism, rebellion, resistance, resourcefulness, speed, and adaptation. As a spirit animal, it encourages us to confront our enemies because we can overcome much stronger rivals than ourselves."

If Ominis were to find himself facing a dementor, he would probably be the first to sense its presence, and probably the most affected. Even though he wouldn't be able to see the frightening features of a dementor, he would be feeling the immediate change in his senses — his environment growing cold, no sounds of animals around, and the overall sensation of hopelessness and misery. He would be completely thrown off by the sudden change in his surroundings; something that would send him into a state of panic.

But with this Patronus, it represents his determination to stand firm in the face of adversity, to not give in easily without putting up a fight, and to prove that he is as deadly as any dementor that would stand in his way.

I personally headcanon this animal for obvious reasons. He truly is a fighter in a den of snakes. No matter how many times his family strikes against him, he just takes his time to recover and stand back up again. He is clearly outnumbered by his family members. No one else can support him in his opposition ever since his Aunt Noctua passed away. Regardless, he doesn't seem the kind to bow his head in defeat just to save his skin. He fights back until he can't anymore; something the mongoose is well-known for.

And let's just say that Ominis did die at 50-years of age. He still got the last laugh out of them all since he got to pass away on his own terms, away from the very people he loathed since childhood. That's still a victory in his book, and that's what this patronus represents.

—---—---—---—---—

V. Wand Information

1. Wand Wood

Based on the physical characteristics of this wand and the meaning of the wood, it's highly possible that Ominis' wand is made from Ebony Wood.

According to the wand wood information:

"This jet-black wand wood has an impressive appearance and reputation, being highly suited to all manner of combative magic, and to Transfiguration. Ebony is happiest in the hand of those with the courage to be themselves. Frequently non-conformist, highly individual or comfortable with the status of outsider, ebony wand owners have been found both among the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix and among the Death Eaters. [...] the ebony wand’s perfect match is one who will hold fast to his or her beliefs, no matter what the external pressure, and will not be swayed lightly from their purpose."

This type of wand wood, in my opinion, is a reflection of Ominis' conviction in his views. I find it fascinating and admirable that even in the face of losing his friendship with Sebastian, he didn't bow down and agree with Sebastian's methods. Sure, he gets convinced by the MC to let them deal with it. But at the end of the day, Ominis is strictly against the use of the Dark Arts. Furthermore, he does everything to maintain his moral compass despite being surrounded by people (friends and family) who practice and preach about the unforgivable curses.

Also! I'd like to add the conversation I had with @tennoujinerin about Ominis' godly self-restraint. We believe that while most of us admire Ominis for his kindness, temperance, compassion, and commitment to the good cause, he is someone who can easily turn it all around. He is born in a family of pureblood supremacists who have no qualms in utilizing the Dark Arts like it's a daily chore. He most definitely is very, very familiar with Dark Spells that maybe even Sebastian isn't aware of. If pushed to the brink of survival, there's a possibility that Ominis could reconsider his relationship with the Dark Arts. And this wand wood is perfect for that kind of change of heart.

2. Wand Core

For this part, I admit I was stumped for a while. I believe all the three cores that Ollivanders usually has could be a good fit for Ominis for a plethora of different reasons. But it still feels... lacking. Like, something was missing for this special wand to work.

That's why in the end, I think Ominis has two wand cores that were needed to suit his special needs. He needs a core that reflects his personality and another to aid him with his magical abilities. And for that, the cores of his wand are a combination of Unicorn Hair and Horned Serpent Horn.

"Unicorn Hair generally produces the most consistent magic. These wands are the hardest to turn to the Dark Arts. The most faithful wands have unicorn hair, making them bond strongly with their owner. They are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may ‘die’ and need replacing."

While this core could technically be enough, it just doesn't feel customized enough. We know that his wand emits a red pulse at the tip to help him navigate his surroundings. Therefore, this wand needs another core to bolster its utility.

"Wands made with Horned Serpent Horn are exceptionally power, creating massive spell effects regards of the user's skill. Sensitive to Parseltongue and would vibrate when Parseltounge is being spoken near it, and can warn their owners of danger by emitting a low musical tone. These wands were said to only bond with one user through it's lifetime, but this is only a rumor for now."

These two cores encased in ebony wood make for such a personalized wand. The fact that Horned Serpent Horn core warns its owner about incoming danger is an important factor for Ominis' safety and security. He needs to be alerted for when hexes and spells are being blasted in his way. And as for all serpentine cores, it's also sensitive to Parseltongue.

(Maybe it's just me but I believe that Horned Serpents are the antithesis of Basilisks. Having this creature's horn as Ominis' wand core would be the ultimate and tangible symbol of his rebellion against Salazar Slytherin's secret weapon, that lies in the Chamber of Secrets, and everything his family taught him to uphold).

3. Wand Flexibility and Length

According to the official source:

"Wand flexibility or rigidity denotes the degree of adaptability and willingness to change possessed by the wand-and-owner pair."

Because of that, his wand is most likely Rigid. This source had explained it perfectly:

"A wand of this flexibility will only give its complete loyalty to an owner who has faced great personal tragedy. It is particularly good for practical magic use, and thus usually doesn't perform well for magic that is frivolous or silly. Rigid wand owners are cautious and have difficulty trusting others, but they are not usually unkind people. Generally, they prefer to be left alone so that they can do what they want to do, regardless of what anyone else says."

(If you're not a Slytherin in the game, your first interaction with Ominis is surely abrasive and tense. And that's because he truly is cautious, and wants his private spaces to be left alone).

Lastly, this wand is on the longer side, measuring at around 14 inches. He needs a wand that can act like an extension of himself; just like blind muggles need a mobility cane.

TL;DR:

Ebony with Unicorn Hair and Horned Serpent Horn Core, Rigid and 14 inches.

—---—---—---—---—

Phew! 😮‍💨 This post took a very, very long time to make. But I am extremely glad for the assistance, conversations, and opinions of other wonderful people here on Tumblr and Discord! I swear, I love you all.

I want to give love and credit to the following:

@damn-it-a-hogwarts-legacy-blog (You're the one who really inspired me to finally get my mind together and put my brain cells to use. I admire your creativity towards your headcanons so much, and I want to share this with you!) 🫡

@tennoujinerin (Our conversations are the highlight of my obsession in this fandom. I love our collaborative thoughts, and I hope you enjoyed this one. See you in the basement! 😈)

@ponfarrdraws (I think my delusions have reached its peak with this long-ass post. But I just have to let out my aggressive emotions about Ominis! I know you get it, and I'm glad I got to know you).

@diligentcranberry (Thank you once again for entertaining my craziness. My OCD is now satiated with these information out in the open. I originally didn't want to post anything about this until you talked to me about the locations. So, thank you!)

Update (October 29, 2024): I recently finished Sebastian's version of this post, as a companion post for this one.

[girljeremystrong]

✨️ best books i read in 2024 in no particular order ✨️

CLASSICS

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

french epic historical novel following the struggles of ex-convit jean valjean and a lot of other characters at the same time. what to even add! it's great! 1.500 pages and absolutely worth it!

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

beautiful english novel about the adventures of titular character david copperfield as he grows up and becomes an adult. just a perfect novel and the most wonderful characters you'll ever meet!

The Rainbow by D.H. Lawrence

a novel following three generations of the brangwen family living in nottinghamshire in the nineteenth century. you will not believe how incredible this book is! so unique and so full of humanity! ursula brangwen is the best.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

the great american novel? might be. the story of teenager holden caulfield during a long weekend before christmas. he's sad, he's grieving and he feels so lonely. re-read it for the third time this autumn. fuck the phonies! read this book!

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

the great american novel? might be. tells the story of nick carraway's meeting with jay gatsby and the great mess that follows as he gets to know him better. the very best characters and one incredible story. my second re-read and i loved it.

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

her first novel! all about pecola who has a difficult childhood and through all her painful times wishes for blue eyes so she could finally feel beautiful. honestly it's devastating but unforgettable and necessary. nobody uses words quite like morrison!!!

CONTEMPORARY + LITERARY FIC

Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar

a very special book about a man who feels doomed by his traumatic and violent past and becomes obsessed with the idea of martyrdom which leads him to brooklyn to meet a terminally ill artist at her final exhibition. i really did love this book and trying to find the perplexing answer to what's the meaning of life...

Family Meal by Bryan Washington

wonderful and warm and hopeful story of cam reuniting with his estranged childhood best friend as he tries to deal with his grief for losing the love of his life. cried the whole time i was reading this! but let it be known, it is not tragic whatsoever, it's just beautiful and brilliant! it's about old friends!!!

Henry Henry by Allen Bratton

sorta inspired by shakespeare's henriad, so you already know it's good. the story of the eventful first year out of university of hal lancaster as he tries to avoid his father and spirals and looks for a place to store inside all of that catholic guilt. so fun and heartbreaking and sweet and i really loved it.

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver

a transposition of dickens' david copperfield and in many ways just as brilliant. set in the mountains of southern appalachia it's the story of a boy growing up through difficulties and addiction and losing his family and finding love. it was wonderful and i loved demon so much!

NON FICTION

Black AF History by Michael Harriot

"the un-whitewashed history of america. a more accurate versionofamerican history." just a very interesting and very important book that thought me so much. granted i'm not american but it was very cool to read this book and find out how much of what i knew was fundamentally wrong and conditioned by a white pov.

The Greatest Nobodies in History by Adrian Bliss

so well written and wonderful and so funny but also surprisingly moving. i absolutely loved all of the stories told in this book. it's just so good!!

There's Always This Year by Hanif Abdurraqib

"on basketball and ascension." abdurraqib was born and raised in columbus, and this book is sort of about lebron james but also about so much more! life and all its struggles and all its joy!! it's beautiful and poetic and comforting and i can't think of a single person who wouldn't enjoy reading this.

[justforbooks]

Dame Joan Plowright

Stage and screen star who was part of a radical generation of actors responsible for establishing the National Theatre

Joan Plowright, who has died aged 95, played a central role in the historic overhaul of British theatre at the Royal Court in the late 1950s. A founder member of George Devine’s English Stage Company in 1956, she made her name as Beatie Bryant, the working-class heroine in Arnold Wesker’s Roots in 1959, and married Laurence Olivier in 1961. The union of Plowright and Olivier was symbolic of the new theatre order embracing the old glamour, as the greatest actor of the day threw in his lot with the younger generation.

Olivier had scored one of his biggest successes as Archie Rice, the dying music hall star, in John Osborne’s The Entertainer at the Court in 1957. When the play transferred to the West End and Broadway, Plowright took over from Dorothy Tutin as Jean Rice, Archie’s daughter, and their friendship ripened into an unshakeable intimacy, and marriage, that lasted until Olivier’s death in 1989.

Plowright embodied the qualities of common sense, honesty and a sort of earthy vitality that characterised her acting. She had deep brown, currant-bun eyes in a face of plump beauty and openness. Olivier always admired the self-deprecating quality in her performances, and encouraged her to develop this as a comic weapon in her armoury. As she revealed in an affecting autobiography, And That’s Not All (2001), she worried about being employed at the National Theatre as the wife of the boss when Olivier launched that institution first at Chichester in 1962 and then at the Old Vic. But her early performances, as Sonya in what many believe to be the greatest Uncle Vanya ever seen on the British stage (Michael Redgrave in the title role, Olivier as Astrov, Sybil Thorndike as the old nurse), and as George Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan, put paid to suspicions of nepotism.

She had an intense and fiery quality, and a wonderfully melodious speaking voice that was a constant, grounded musical counterpoint to the brilliant skitterings of the NT’s star turns, Maggie Smith and Geraldine McEwan. In later years, she acquired a comforting matronliness in her film performances, though a quality of rare decency always shone through, as in her supporting role as a suspected witch in Roland Joffé’s version of The Scarlet Letter (1995) or as a trusted confidante in Franco Zeffirelli’s Callas Forever (2002).

Plowright’s father, William, was a journalist and newspaper editor from Worksop in Nottinghamshire, and her mother, Daisy (nee Burton), an enthusiastic actor from Kent. Joan, born in Brigg, Lincolnshire, was the middle of three children; her younger brother, David Plowright, became a senior executive at Granada Television and was closely involved in much of Olivier’s later television work, including Brideshead Revisited and his final King Lear.

From 1931 the family lived in Scunthorpe, where Joan attended the grammar school before joining the Laban Art of Movement Studio in Manchester and the Old Vic Theatre School in London. At the latter (from 1949) she studied with Glen Byam Shaw, Michel Saint-Denis and Devine, and this period was crucial to her development as a prominent artist in the postwar theatre, as new British writing and the European theatre of Brecht, Ionesco and Beckett fuelled an upsurge of brilliant acting among a new generation, many of them from the provinces. This crew articulated the changing face of modern society, and Plowright was in the vanguard, alongside Albert Finney, Alan Bates, Eileen Atkins, Billie Whitelaw and Robert Stephens.

Before joining Devine at the Royal Court, she appeared in Orson Welles’s bare stage, kaleidoscopic production of Moby Dick at the Duke of York’s in 1955, a show described by Kenneth Tynan as “a sustained assault on the senses which dwarfs anything London has seen since, perhaps, the Great Fire”. As Pip the cabin boy, she was the only girl in a cast that included Patrick McGoohan, Kenneth Williams, Gordon Jackson and Welles himself as Captain Ahab.

The impact of Roots at the Court, in John Dexter’s famously incisive, unsentimental production, was nearly as great as Osborne’s Look Back in Anger had been three years earlier. Beatie was in some ways a feminine, rustic counterpart (the play was set in Norfolk) to Osborne’s metropolitan antihero, Jimmy Porter, but she was also a young woman finding her voice. At the end of a blazing tirade lambasting her own family for their ignorance and conservatism, Plowright’s Beatie cried out, said Tynan, with the wonder that is cognate with one’s first sense of identity – “I’m beginning. I’m beginning!”

You could argue that no subsequent performance was ever so stirring, or ever so influential. But at the National she made a great impact even when she shared a role, Hilde Wangel, with Smith, in The Master Builder, and then as Masha in Three Sisters and Rosaline in Love’s Labour’s Lost.

Her finest NT performances following the opening season were as Portia in Jonathan Miller’s brilliant 19th-century production in 1970 of The Merchant of Venice and, in the following year, opposite a candescent Anthony Hopkins, in John Dexter’s stark and scrupulous revival of Thomas Heywood’s A Woman Killed With Kindness. In the first, she gave full rein to her capacity for wit, irony and a scathing sense of justice; in the second, she boiled with fallibility and indignation as the unfaithful Anne Frankford.

When Olivier gave way to Peter Hall at the National, she sidestepped with some dignity all rumours that she might have wanted to succeed her husband, and her memoirs give a lucid account of the jostling that took place between the factions. She worked with her “beloved” Zeffirelli for the first time on the smash hit Saturday Sunday Monday by Eduardo de Filippo at the Old Vic in 1974 (transferring to the Queen’s theatre) and repeated her success with the same author’s equally popular Filumena at the Lyric in 1977.

In between those hits, in 1974, she joined Lindsay Anderson’s newly formed West End company to play Arkadina in The Seagull and the sexually awakened Alma in Ben Travers’s jaunty but tiresomely scatological The Bed Before Yesterday. There followed modest successes as Nurse Edith Cavell at Chichester in 1982 and an imposing Ranevskaya in The Cherry Orchard at the Haymarket in 1983, with an all-star cast but, alas, an unfinished set on a disastrous opening night. Plowright recalled how the abandoned old retainer Firs (played by Bernard Miles) wailed disconsolately that everyone had left and locked him in while rattling the handle of a door that swung invitingly open and rendered the last moments of the play quite meaningless.

By now she was happily reconciled to the older roles, joyfully seizing on Lady Wishfort, “the old peeled wall”, in The Way of the World (Chichester, 1984), with Smith as a definitive Millamant, directed by William Gaskill. In Núria Espert’s glorious 1986 production of Lorca’s House of Bernarda Alba at the Lyric Hammersmith, as a sleeve-rolling old maid, Plowright suggested “a lifetime of drudgery in the folding of linen”, said Michael Billington. Both shows sailed triumphantly into the West End.

After Olivier’s death, she gathered her family around her in a sombre revival of JB Priestley’s Time and the Conways at the Old Vic in 1990. Both daughters, Tamsin and Julie-Kate, were in the cast, as well as her son-in-law, Simon Dutton, and her son, Richard, directed. Her last notable West End appearance was a great one as the fraught mother-in-law, Signora Frola, in Zeffirelli’s sleek 2003 revival of Pirandello’s Absolutely! (Perhaps) at Wyndhams, with a new text by Martin Sherman.

She worked mostly in films, however, from 1990, gracing two charming Italian idylls: Mike Newell’s Enchanted April (1991) and Zeffirelli’s Tea With Mussolini (1999). The latter was based on the director’s own memories of wartime, scripted by John Mortimer, and co-starred her old friends Smith and Judi Dench as well as Cher and Lily Tomlin – a regular galère of delightfully entertaining eccentrics.

Before she announced her retirement from acting in 2014, due to her failing eyesight from macular degeneration, she made several more films including Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont (2005), in which she embarks on an unlikely friendship with a young writer played by Rupert Friend, the animated movie Curious George (2006) and Anthony Hickox’s spooky horror thriller Knife Edge (2009).

She celebrated her retirement in a series of onstage anecdotal conversations in 2014 with the director Richard Digby Day – “Acting is an outlet for comedy and grief, and all the characters inside you,” she said; and, now almost totally blind, invited three fellow dames, and good friends – Dench, Smith and Atkins – to join her in an overlapping, chatty reminiscence filmed by Roger Michell for the BBC in the garden of the West Sussex home she had shared with Olivier and her young family. Feisty and funny, Nothing Like a Dame (2018) was a surprise delight.

She was made CBE in 1970 and a dame in 2004 and was particularly pleased to receive an honorary degree from Hull University, conferred in a ceremony in Lincoln Cathedral, which she had often visited as a girl.

Her first marriage, in 1953, to the actor Roger Gage, ended in divorce. She is survived by her children from her second marriage, Richard, Tamsin and Julie-Kate, four grandchildren, Troy, Wilf, Ali and Kaya, and a great-grandchild, Sophia.

🔔 Joan Ann Plowright, actor, born 28 October 1929; died 16 January 2025

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[little-doggy-boy-kisserstraight]

What if the houses in tlt were actually British counties (or where I think the characters in gideon the ninth would live if they were British)

9th house (gideon and harrow)- Cumbria, tucked away at the top of the country, pretty much forgotten by most other counties. Stuck back in time (full of traditionalists and racists), cold dark and depressing (more so than the rest of England. There is no way gideon is a southerner

8th house (colum and that prick)- Oxfordshire, enough said, hate those pretentious pricks

7th house ( dulcinea and pro)- Nottinghamshire, green, pretty close to yorkshire *wink wink*

6th house (pal and camilla)- Yorkshire, no I'm not splitting it into the like five different counties. However palamedes is definitely from York itself just due to the aesthetic, I can see that man walking around the minster. York is full of history/old buildings. Camilla is probably from a more rural area where she cam like bench sheep

5th house (abigail and magnus)- Kent maybe? somerset???their vibes or like wholesome family make me think of a decently well off middle class family who like to go visit the park or a wine tasting

4th house (Jeannemary and issac)- Tyne and wear, specifically because i just want them to have geordie accents

3rd house (the twins and babs)- Essex, i feel like this is so obvious, the gossip, the ridiculous outfits, hair curlers

2nd house (Judith and marta)- Northumberland, for the i was born in blyth but made in the royal navy advert (it wouldve been cumbria cause i feel like that ones more well known), due to the fact their in the cohort

1st house (???)- i have only read gideon the ninth so idk much about the first house but they are london cause yk its london

[dykepuffs]

May 7th:

Suddenly I wonder if the dinner service is all gold because Dracula can't touch silver? The holy metal was definitely an established idea already.

How many of those books that Dracula calls "his companions" are things stolen out of the luggage of English victims over the years? Obviously he could order English periodicals and reference books and literature (Laura's family in Styria were ordering English books to their Austrian schloss a generation earlier) but something about the old magazines and newspapers - Things that visitors had picked up in the railway station to read on the trip and then absently kept with them all the way to his gate? - Feels very different. How many crosswords and riddle pages are filled in partway with some visiting clerk's smart secretary hand, and then finished in Dracula's best attempt at copying it? A gentleman in London would of course have a club, and would be expected to keep up friendly correspondence with other members, he couldn't very well write out his visiting cards in his own ancient handwriting...

He's got the Red and Blue books - Much debate over exactly WHICH red and blue books, but I'm choosing to believe that this is the Blue Book from the office of national statistics (ie, telling us about Britain's industries and GDP and where things are made, so by inference telling us about the New Rich industrialists) and Debrett's red book (ie, telling us about the peers, the historic ancient rich families and their relative positions, and where they are). So he will know who the major players are in England, from the ancient seat of a lord in Nottinghamshire, to the owner of the most productive steel mill in Sheffield, who live on each other's doorsteps but likely wouldn't give each other the time of day.

And Jonathan is already investigating- he doesn't know what yet, its only been a couple of days, but he's looking around, testing doorknobs, tracking what's going on around him, who he can hear in the distance (ie, nobody)...

I love the incongruity, of this brooding medieval edifice of Carfax, with its oak gates and barred windows sunken into the thick stone walls, and then chippy young solicitor Jon climbing about in the overgrown gardens with his Kodak camera, to take the photos for the new buyer, much like I still see estate agents doing today, hovering with their cheap digital cameras and leaning in against the windows when they've forgotten their keys too.

God, Dracula's manipulations are amazing. He knows already that he can control Jon by basic politeness - leaning on that employer-employee relationship - and by food (Which, looking ahead, will probably get more and more pronounced as Jon gets more sleep deprived and confused).

[jeusussavearmyveteran1205]

Elsie Allcock has lived in the same house for 104 years in Nottinghamshire

[sloanesallow]

The Call of the Void | Chapter 1

Shy girl meets distracted boy. Chaos ensues. This is my "canon" retelling of Siobhan Sloane and Sebastian Sallow's story. (full synopsis here. Chapter Summary: Siobhan Sloane makes her way to Hogwarts with Professor Fig, but all she wants is to go home. Chapter warnings: None [Ao3] | [Wattpad] | [NEXT]

I: (U n) l u c k y

Darkness.

Nothing but black, eternal darkness.

It is all Siobhan sees—not that she can see anything. What’s the last thing she remembers? Nothing comes to mind. For a moment she thinks she must be dead, and that the afterlife promised to her by a childhood pastor and God is a lie when she opens her eyes.

Darkness, still, but the glow of the full moon and stars make her current surroundings more bearable. Where exactly is she? She continues to stare up at the night sky, the gargantuan trees that surround her swaying in the late-summer breeze. For a long time the rustling of leaves and wind is all she can hear, until the sound of boots padding through soil echoes through her ears.

“Are you alright, Miss Sloane?”

Suddenly, she remembers everything.

Four months ago she is just a simple girl, living in Nottinghamshire with her father on their family homestead. She awakes every morning with the sun to complete her chores around the farm and spend her afternoons in the garden, or perched on the tree-swing up the hill with an old book. Her life is quaint and uncomplicated, until her sixteenth birthday when with a swish of her fork, she sends the celebration cake flying into the hearth.

A representative from the Ministry of Magic comes to the cottage shortly thereafter, effectively turning her life upside-down. Magic? She can wield magic? All she can think of are the Brothers Grimm fairytales that line her bookshelf, wondering if she’ll end up as folklore—the strange girl from Nottingham who is secretly a witch.

An anomaly—that is what they call her, with only a handful of other cases on record of a person’s magic manifesting so late in life. Not that Siobhan is old, but by wizarding standards, she is a very late-bloomer. She remains in denial until another visitor arrives, this time a teacher sent from a magical school from which she has been offered admittance.

“Hogwash?” Mr. Sloane, her father, asks.

Professor Eleazar Fig shakes his head, a humored smile curling his lips. “Hogwarts,” he clarifies. “More specifically, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

The Professor is a man who resembles her maternal grandfather, grey hair and all. He is a patient and kind person, sitting for hours in the family kitchen answering every question that comes to her father’s mind. It is Professor Fig who will be her tutor that summer, should Siobhan and Mr. Sloane accept, preparing her with as much baseline knowledge as he can before the start of the next term.

It seems like a lifetime ago, now.

Then came an airborne ambush, followed by a disorientating apparition to the chilly Scottish coast, shadowy labyrinths filled with vengeful statues, and the power-hungry leader of a goblin rebellion. Not to mention the discovery of ancient magic. It is the same magic Siobhan uses to escape Gringotts with the Professor, frantically activating a magical portal that deposits them in the middle of an overgrown forest.

“Miss Sloane?”

Siobhan snaps out of her daze, grasping Professor Fig’s outstretched hand so he can help her stand. As she dusts the dirt from her hands along the front of her already soiled coat, the older man inspects the dilapidated brick from which they just traveled through. Three times now she has performed the feat, and she suspects it has everything to do with the ancient magic burning in her veins.

With her limited knowledge of the wizarding world, she cannot begin to speculate on her newfound power, seemingly dormant until she touched the container Mr. Osric received from Miriam Fig. Unfounded as it is, she can’t help but feel strangely guilty for their deaths. She reaches up out of habit to fiddle with her braid, realizing with shock that the ends are burnt and frayed, likely from the dragon’s fire she and Professor Fig barely evaded. There is little time to mourn the loss of hair, however, not when she isn’t sure the danger has passed.

“Remarkable,” Fig sighs, interrupting her frazzled thoughts. He looks to where she is standing, staring at her upturned hands. “Are you alight?” he asks again.

Siobhan shakily nods, though she can tell the professor does not believe her. Thankfully he does not press the issue, offering a sympathetic smile while he waits for her to settle. She wonders if it’s not too late to return to Nottingham and pretend this was all a strange dream. But she does not want to fall victim to cowardice, or disappoint her father, who despite his resignation and confusion, allowed his only daughter to leave home.

If only her father knew how close to death she’d been, he would lock her up in the cellar for the rest of her life, just to keep her safe.

“Where are we?” she finally asks in a quiet voice. She can almost make out a path beyond the tree-line, illuminated by a lone lantern. In the distance, a train horn bellows.

Professor Fig joins in on surveying the area, his eyebrows twitching up in surprise. “It can’t be…” he says with a slight shake of his head. “It seems those who set up the Pensive, the locket—and the path to both—wanted someone with your ability to end up here…”

His words taper off and for a moment, the professor appears deep in thought, as if contemplating his own role in today’s events, and what the future holds for them both. The introspection doesn’t last, and a moment later Fig is regarding her with an amused grin.

“I do believe we aren’t very far from the castle grounds,” he announces. “Rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

Siobhan wryly smiles. “Very.”

“Come along,” he gestures for her to follow.

Not a few steps down the hill, her curiosity gets the better of her. “What will happen now?” she asks, clarifying when the professor glances her way. “To the locket, I mean, to…” she trails, hesitant to broach the subject. His wife’s research on ancient magic will need to continue…right?

“I will study the locket as soon as I can, but first I must contact the Ministry,” he explains “They need to know what happened to George…and be warned of Ranrock.”

“For the moment, I ask that you keep all that’s happened this evening between you and me,” he continues before Siobhan can reply.

“O—of course, sir,” she answers, unsure whom she would even tell, or if they’d believe her. 

The remaining trek to Hogwarts Castle is spent in relative silence, allowing Siobhan more time to comprehend all that has transpired. Not that she believes it possible to fully understand, not for a naive girl like her. Instead, dread coats her stomach, twisting round and round until she feels like she might be sick.

There isn’t enough time for Siobhan to admire the architecture, though the high ceilings and imposing towers do little to quell her anxieties. She hurries after Professor Fig as he leads her towards the Great Hall, where beyond the shut doors are the murmurs of celebration.

“With any luck, we haven’t missed the sorting ceremony,” he says. Siobhan refrains from making a quip about how terrible their luck has been so far, but she wouldn’t have been able to say anything anyways, not when a booming voice calls out to them.

“Fig!”

A tall and imposing man has slipped through the large doors without their notice, though Siobhan is sure by the sneer on the man’s face he isn’t there to greet them—at least not in the way she expects. His suit is impeccably tailored and his facial hair is well groomed, not a wrinkle or stray whisker in sight. Whomever he is, he must be important—or at least think he’s important.

Professor Fig grumbles and lets slip a curse before forcing a grin.

“Ah, Phineas!” he replies in a strained but jovial manner. Siobhan straightens her posture, recalling the name from the list of Hogwarts staff Fig provided her. Phineas Nigellus Black—the Headmaster.

“How nice of you to join us,” he says, face scrunched up as if he’s smelled something foul. His dark eyes flick across Siobhan’s appearance and she freezes, holding in her breath until her lungs burn. She wishes there had been time to fix her likely abyssal appearance and avoid making such a horrible first impression. Then again, it’s likely she could be dressed in the fanciest gown from Worth and still receive the same reaction.

Headmaster Black sighs. “But I’m afraid you are too late.” 

Professor Fig protests, shaking his head and hands in disagreement. “There were…complications—”

“Complications?” Black scoffs. Before Fig can begin to offer an explanation, the Headmaster continues. “You already know of my displeasure about this…” he motions lazily at Siobhan. “Situation. A new fifth-year? It is simply unheard of, especially one of her pedigree.”

Professor Fig scowls, shaking his head at Siobhan’s questioning glance. He will explain later, but the malice in Black’s tone doesn’t bode well. She feels the last shred of her already weakened confidence fade away and gulps down the bitter sting of emotions.

“Alas, the Ministry insisted upon her acceptance,” Headmaster Black grumbles.

“Even you could not sway their decision on the matter, it seems,” Professor Fig retorts, and if it weren’t for Siobhan’s presence, the two might have exchanged blows—magical or otherwise. “Siobhan Sloane is a capable witch, I assure you.”

“Humph,” Black scrutinizes her with disdain. “That remains to be seen.”

Siobhan wants nothing more in that moment than to be somewhere else. Home, she thinks. I want to go home.

Professor Fig’s expression darkens. “Phineas—”

“No matter,” the Headmaster waves his hand, silencing the older man. “Miss Sloane may join the rest of the students in the Great Hall. Consider yourself lucky—”

There’s that word again.

Siobhan never wants to hear it again.

“—we might still be able to get you sorted this evening.”

Headmaster Black spares once last glance at her before sharply turning on his heel to renter the Great Hall, not bothering to wait for them to follow. Siobhan deflates, exhaling as tears immediately flood her vision. Professor Fig quickly steps to her side, offering a handkerchief from his coat pocket.

“Allow me to apologize for the Headmaster’s abhorrent behavior,” he murmurs, eyebrows creased in a mix of concern and frustration. “Godric knows he never will. How he is permitted to keep his position whilst disrespecting the students and staff is beyond me.”

Siobhan says nothing, too preoccupied with sniffling and drying her tears. She feels like a inconsolable toddler, annoyed with herself for being so damn sensitive. Her father claims it as his favorite trait, but she feels cursed, embarrassed by the flush on her cheeks. Knowing she cannot stay there in the hall forever, she attempts to regain at least some of her composure.

Professor Fig—bless his patience—doesn’t speak until she lifts her chin, just enough to see the same sympathetic expression from earlier. She wipes at her face one last time, clutching the handkerchief tightly in one hand.

“Here, allow me,” he says, taking a step back as he brandishes his wand. With a flick of his wrist, he transforms her tattered coat into a dark, clean robe. She stares down at the Hogwarts insignia and the heavy reality of the situation comes crashing down.

“Are you ready?” Fig asks, affectionately patting her shoulder to offer some small encouragement for what she is about to face. No, she wants to scream to the professor and anyone else who will listen. She wants to run away while still can, but her feet shuffle forward, closer to the Great Hall doors.

Something tells her there is no turning back now.

Siobhan feigns bravery with a shaky smile. “Y—yes.”

It is a lie.

[cryptid-quest]

Cryptid of the Day: Sherwood Forest Thing

Description: In 2002, an 8 ft tall, red eyed creature was seen prowling around Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire, England. Some think the creature lived in underground caves and tunnels that exist under Notts and Derbyshire.

[english-history-trip]

Fictional minstrels are common in medieval literature but references to real-life performers are rare and fleeting. We have first names, payments, instruments played and occasionally locations, but until now virtually no evidence of their lives or work....

[Dr James] Wade’s study, published in The Review of English Studies, focuses on the first of nine miscellaneous booklets in the Heege Manuscript. It contains three texts and Wade concludes that around the year 1480 Heege copied them from now-lost notes written by an unknown minstrel performing near the Derbyshire-Nottinghamshire border.....

A little tale I will you tell

I trow it will like you well

Thereat ye shall have good game

But where it was I dare not say,

For haply another day,

It might turn me to blame...

All three texts are humorous and designed for live performance – the narrator tells his audience to pay attention and pass him a drink. The texts all feature in-jokes to appeal to local audiences and show a playful awareness of the kind of audiences that we know minstrels performed to.....

Richard Heege was a household cleric and tutor to the Sherbrooke family, part of the Derbyshire gentry, to whom his booklets first belonged. Wade said: ‘"Heege gives us the rarest glimpse of a medieval world rich in oral storytelling and popular entertainments.

The hare thought she would out win,

& hit Jack Wade upon the chin,

That he fell upon the back.

‘Owt, owt!’, quoth Jack, and ‘Alas,

That ever this battle begun was!

This is a sorry note!’

Jack Wade was never so afeared

As when the hare trod on his beard,

Lest she would have pulled out his throat... 

-- "The Hunting of the Hare"

[archivist-crow]

The Haunted Atlas

Newstead Abbey - Nottinghamshire, England

53.078333°N / 1.1925°W

Former priory and home of poet Lord Byron, inhabited by several ghosts. Newstead Abbey, located in Nottinghamshire, England, was built in 1170 as a priory for Canons of the Order of St. Augustine, or Black Canons. In 1540, Sir John Byron acquired it and turned it into a mansion. It remained the Byron family home for nearly 300 years. According to superstition, ill luck comes to those who turn religious houses into personal or secular use. So it was with the Byron family, who suffered generations of bad luck, including declining fortunes.

The last Lord Byron to occupy the home was the famous Romantic poet, whose given name was George Gordon (1788-1824). When he inherited the estate, it was in terrible shape. His mother was too poor to live on the property, and his father, known as "Devil Byron" and "the Wicked Lord," was living in the scullery, the only room with a roof intact against water. Devil Byron died there alone.

The poet Lord Byron was a handsome, colorful and eccentric figure. Club-footed, he nonetheless attracted many female admirers but was contemptuous of women. He was notorious for his love affairs, carried on both during and after his ill-fated marriage to Anne Milbanke. His most famous paramours were Lady Caroline Lamb, wife of Viscount Melbourne, and Claire Clairmont, the sister-in-law of poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.

In 1817 Byron went to live in Venice. He sold Newstead Abbey in 1818 for 95,000 pounds. Far more money had to be devoted to repairing it. The curse stuck, for successive owners also were plagued with bad luck. Byron, meanwhile, wandered about Europe. He was working for Greek independence when he died in 1824.

The most famous ghost at Newstead is the Black Friar or Goblin Friar. The appearance of this spectral figure was considered a portent of disaster by the Byron family. Byron himself saw the Black Friar on the eve of his wedding in 1815, a union which he later described as the single most unhappy event of his life. The marriage lasted a year.

The White Lady is believed to be the ghost of Sophia Hyett, the daughter of a bookseller, who was infatuated with and obsessed by the dashing lord. She wanders about crying, "Alas, my Lord Byron!"

Byron's Newfoundland dog, Boatswain, also haunts Newstead. Byron described his beloved pet as his only friend and left instructions that he was to be buried alongside the dog on the site of the Black Canons' high altar. Byron buried the dog there, but his wishes for his own burial were ignored. Some believe that is why the restless ghost of Boatswain wanders about, looking for his master.

Another ghost, now seldom seen, is Little Sir John Byron, who lived in the 16th century. He was fond of appearing under his portrait, reading.

The ghost of the poet Lord Byron himself is not present at Newstead.

Text from The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits, Third Edition by Rosemary Ellen Guiley (Checkmark Books - 2007)

[torntruth]

━ BARBARA MINERVA PLOT POINTS .

this is a combination of both prime earth and new earth to anyone that pays attention to universe names / rewrites. i personally do not , i just consume the media and then mash it together in my head like i'm about to show you here.

BACKGROUND , born in oakstone abbey , nottinghamshire , to a couple of rich parents and the heiress of an estate -- her mother died early and her father held very little affection. she learned of archeology from her tutor and against her disbelieving father's wishes , started a path to get two phd's and become obsessed with greek and amazonian culture , eventually becoming the world's forefront expert in amazons.

big background plot points include nearly finding themyscira on her own before a cave in forever hid the last clue that would be the discovery. she moved on to teaching before diana of themyscira made an appearance.

RELATIONSHIP WITH DIANA , barbara was specifically called to meet with diana to both translate and help understand amazon culture. they quickly became friends. barbara was actually the leading reason diana then went on to figure out how to translate all languages , both by magic and education , so she could become the diplomat she is today.

big relationship plot points include barbara informing diana of her expedition to africa. diana gave barbara a gps tracker that broke halfway through the expedition making barbara hard to find when she was in distress -- leading to the transformation.

CHEETAH ORIGIN BACKGROUND , i just wanted it to be noted that barbara isn't talented in combat or survival just as cheetah. she fought tooth and nail , saved some of her crew , before urzkartaga finally defeated her. and this also ONLY happened because she thought diana had abandoned her. it was all secretly a ploy by veronica cale on the low to get barbara minerva as an ally. the cheetah transformation was more of an ... accident. urzkartaga took her as the sacrifice / wife where she then lived a life of trying to control urges , hunger , and an anger that tears her apart from the inside.

cheetah has very little personality outside of hunger and the urge to consume / kill. she isn't barbara and this is far more important in my canon then it shows in actual canon. certain plot points will suffocate the cheetah and reveal barbara again.

THE RISE OF BARBARA AGAIN , after a thirst for power and reveling in a hunger that denotes only her vices : abandonment , greed , envy -- she kills aphrodite , diana's domain goddess , the goddess that gave diana her powers , and the amazons most beloved divine being. and maybe somewhere in there something finally clicked into place for barbara again as the start. the obsessed archeologist killed living history and something so wholly connected to the person she considered a friend. IS THE GOD KILLER WHO SHE REALLY IS?

diana helping to kill urzkartaga and barbara refusing to help sovereign leading diana to purposely get captured to find cheetah to help her escape are the other important plot that permanently kills most of cheetah and revives barbara.

[eaglesnick]

“Each betrayal begins with trust”  Martin Luther

What on earth is wrong with the Labour Party? Can Starmer get anything right? From accepting freebies worth tens of thousands of pounds to queue jumping in Madeira this man's sense of entitlement seems to know no bounds. Although Starmer is a dictator within his own party, having either expelled existing left-wing Labour MP’s or having blocked left-wing labour candidates form standing for election, he has no command of the country.

Like all dictators, he is so concerned with maintaining his own position within his own political party he is neglecting to tackle the problems facing ordinary workingmen and women within the wider country. Starmer is so out of touch with the lives of ordinary men and women that a group of 20 Labour councillors from Broxtowe, Nottinghamshire, have resigned on mass from the Labour Party.

“Twenty Labour councillors quit party accusing Starmer of abandoning values." (Independent: 02/01/25)     

It appears that Starmer is prepared to spend more time and energy in blocking 10 of these “left-wing" councillors from standing in upcoming local elections than he is on governing the country.

“They claimed that 10 of them had been prevented from standing for Labour in upcoming local elections after raising concerns about cuts to the Winter Fuel Payment."  (The National: 02/01/25)

Starmer campaigned during the election on the promise of "change", yet time and time again he has hesitated, dithered and done nothing. A prime example of this is today’s announcement that instead of ACTULLY reforming social care planning for the elderly (what have they been doing during their 14 years in opposition?) there is to be an Inquiry into social care provision that will report back in 2028.

When those at the top are more concerned about their position within their own organisation rather than the people they are supposed to serve we have a recipe for disaster. When the leaders of a political party are more concerned with internal opposition and securing their hold over their own organisation rather than governing, then we have a recipe for disaster. When the leaders of a political party suffocate internal political debate and rule with an iron hand we have a recipe for disaster.

The sad fact is the people of Britain did want change and they believed Labour would provide it. After 14 years of Tory rule – austerity, public sector rundown, sleaze, lies, cost-of-living crisis,  and incompetence - the people were ready for a Labour Government.

Unfortunately, as the councillors of Broxtowe so acutely observed,  Starmer has abandoned Labour values and is more interested in absolute control of the party, where no views or opinions other than his own are to be tolerated.

What is needed is more Labour Party councillors, MP’s and party members publicly rebelling against Starmer and his acolytes,  so the Party can go back to its traditional values and regain the trust of ordinary working people. 

[foreignemotion]

Lye Soap & Lavender Fields

Summary: Sir Guy of Gisborne has been absent from Locksley for several months; you have only recently joined his household and are yet to meet him. Upon his return, you form a fragile bond, one that only becomes stronger day by day. He returns from Nottingham one night, wounded, and you fulfil your urge to dote on him.

Relationship: Guy of Gisborne/Fem!Reader

Tags: Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Strangers to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Tending to Wounds, Bathing/Washing, Hair Washing, First Kiss.

Word Count: 7.4k.

Dedicated to: @puggledy-huggledy-is-not-a-pig, @loupsgarou and @emmyspov <3

This fic was also posted on AO3, which you can read here.

Despite being employed at Sir Guy’s estate in Locksley, you had never met him. You’d heard of him, of course, but had not laid eyes on him. He’s in the Holy Land, you were told months ago when you had arrived in Nottinghamshire from London. A woman of your standing would have turned her nose up at being sent to Nottingham, classing it as a demotion from working in the bustling capital.

            Not you, however. You enjoyed the countryside, with its golden wheat fields at the turning of autumn and drooping snowdrops in spring. It would be different, of course, but a welcome change. There were enough ghosts in London for a lifetime.

            You had arrived in Locksley at the approach of Christmas and the air was bitterly cold when you stepped down from your carriage. Your family wasn’t rich by any means, but your father had been adamant that he would not send his eldest daughter over one-hundred miles, alone, to a household that may not have needed her by the time you arrived there. You had conceded, eventually.

            Locksley Manor, in Sir Guy’s absence, was presided over by the housekeeper, James, an elderly gentleman of welcoming disposition. Yes, the manor needed a maid but, he admitted sheepishly, that he was also lacking a personal attendant to the Lord of the Manor. Sir Guy had made an enemy of the women when he’d been living here, and they had fled service when they realised he would not return from his journey to the Holy Land for several months. That made no difference to you. Work was work, regardless of what you were doing or who you served.

            And so, the days rolled into weeks and weeks into months. You were in good company at the manor, and the townsfolk of Locksley were endearing enough. You soon learned that the Sheriff, too, was in the Holy Land, as well Marian of Knighton and the legendary Robin Hood. News of the Sheriff’s absurd taxation rates had travelled to London by the time you’d left, as well as Robin Hood’s efforts to give it back to the poor, and you imagined that the town’s good mood had aligned with the absence of their governor. Their lives were far from easy, but they were relaxed and, thus, were you.

It was an unnaturally warm day in February when the news of Sir Guy’s return arrived. You were sweeping the Lord’s bedchambers when James appeared at the doorway, clearing his throat to make his presence known.

            “His lordship has sent a notice of his arrival this afternoon.” The man’s hands were trembling, the note in his clasped hands fluttering like a panicked bird. “Could you finish up here and then sweep the hall?”

            You nodded in assent, returning to cleaning when the man had disappeared. Although the house was alarmed by this news, you felt calm and collected. You were to meet your employer after two months of unsupervised service, that’s all this was to be. No self-deprecating questions rose unbidden in your head, no fear as to whether Sir Guy would like you or not. Those were girlish questions, for the childish and insecure.

            Sweeping Sir Guy’s chambers did not take long for most of the floorspace was taken up by the four-postered bed and then a table with two wooden chairs. It seemed as though he had left in a hurry all those months ago; his papers and clothes had been strewn about the room. Since then, you had organised his manuscripts, folded his shirts and breeches, changed the sheets, and made the bed. It was the least you could do. Satisfied, you left the bedroom and descended the stairs to sweep the manor’s main hall.

            The setting sun stretched the shadows long and still Sir Guy made no appearance. The hall was as clean as you could make it with the knowledge that an entourage would soon be traipsing through the manor. You had just set your broom side when a horse’s high-pitched squeal was heard. It was as if the whole town were holding its breath for what came next. Thundering hooves began to shake the ground; the townsfolk let out a shaky exhale and prepared for the worst.

            “Come, young lady.” James stretched out his hand, as if she were a cat that needed coaxing from the corner, "Sir Guy shall want to see you.”

            The horses came into view as soon as you stepped over the threshold to stand beside your fellow servants. Your hands smoothed over your dress, trying to swipe the dust from it. You would have to do.

            A sharp jerk of the lead horse’s reins pulled the creature to a stop; its mouth foamed around the bit after a too-hard ride. The man atop wore a tattered leather coat and matching trousers, but its shine had long been lost. His hair was a tangled mess, shoulder-length black curls strangled around themselves. His nose was strong, as were his jaw and cheekbones. His pale gaze swept over the small crowd, but they didn’t reflect the happiness of homecoming. Instead, they were dull and lifeless. This was a man who, also, had seen too many ghosts in his time.

            He swung his leg over his mount, dropping to the ground with a grunt. His features momentarily tightened into a grimace before falling back into passivity. He thrust the reins out to the stableboy, who took them with a shaking hand, before striding forward to push his way through the gathered servants and into the manor.  

            “Sir Guy,” James called after him, voice wavering, “There’s someone I want to introduce you to. You have a new woman in your employ.”

            Guy stopped abruptly, hands curling into fists as he glanced over his shoulder, hair screening his face from view.

            “Who is she, then?”

            James beckoned you forward, and you dipped into a curtsy on instinct. Guy scoffed through his teeth, and he turned his body to face you completely.

            “Do you have a name?”

            You nodded and told him. His face did not change, and you were unsure if you had spoken out of turn. You met his gaze and held it. A crease deepened between his eyebrows and his lips pulled back in a snarl.

            “She’ll do.”

            He turned on his heel and pushed his way into the manor. Your eyebrows were raised in surprise before you could school your face into indifference. No one had claimed Sir Guy was charming, but it did not dampen your shock at learning he far from it.

It was as if Sir Guy had not returned, for he stayed in his bedchamber for the remainder of the afternoon. The manor crackled with tension as if too many logs had been thrown on the hearth. Afternoon bled into dusk. The table was set for dinner, but still the master of the house did not show. You stood to the left of Sir Guy’s chair, wine jug in hand in preparation to pour, until the chilled liquid had turned warm from the warmth of your palms. No one dared clear the table until the evening had darkened completely into night.

            “Would you take a plate up for him?” James asked when you, alongside the other servants, had taken the uneaten food to the kitchens.

            “Of course,” you said obligingly, “But only if you promise me that it the remaining goose won’t have been eaten without me.”

            The housekeeper chuckled and consented, offering you a plate of sliced meats, roast potatoes, carrots, and turnips to take upstairs. Your mouth watered at the sight of such a full platter. With that in one hand and a fresh cup of wine in the other, you exited the kitchen and ascended the stairs.

             You paused before the master’s door, taking a breath before intending to make your presence known.

             “Sir Guy, I have a plate for you.”

             A moment of hesitation, and then you pushed open the thick wooden door. You stopped short just beyond the threshold.

             Guy sat hunched over on his bed, shirtless, face in his hands. Newly stitched wounds littered his shoulders and back alongside aged, silver scars. The muscles in those shoulders were tense with the sobs that wracked through him, muffled by the palms of his hands. You stood there for one moment more before finding your voice again.

              “Sir Guy, I brought—”

             The man’s head snapped up, fixing you to your spot with reddened eyes. His tangled hair hung limp in front of his face, and his lip curled back in that same grimace he first fixed you with that afternoon.

             “Get out.”

             “But, sir, are you not—”

             “Did you not hear? I said leave me be!” His voice, made rough by crying, cracked halfway through.

             “I apologise. I shall leave these—”

             You caught the instant Guy moved, jerking forward to grab a pottered mug. You only had the sense to duck and cover your head before the mug was dashed against the wall above you. The plate and chalice fell from your hands, clattering to the ground.

             You glanced up at Guy from your crouched position, and saw that instead of remorse, his face was painted with enjoyment, a harsh smirk slashed across his features. Now, you saw him as he truly was, a man who lived for retaliation, who lived for a fight, and for glory.

             You would not give it to him.

             Without speaking, you picked up the ruined food and the now-empty chalice. The wood would stain, but there was little to be done about that now. The ruined pot you would leave, but out of the corner of your eye you spotted Guy’s discarded leather coat. You hoisted that over your shoulder and turned to leave.

             “I shall launder this for the morning, my lord.”

             Only then did you meet his gaze; the smirk had disappeared, replaced by irritation, confusion, wonderment. You spoke in a tone that invited no criticism.

             “You will not do that to me again.”

The next morning was different from any before it. You awoke before dawn, this time after a particularly late night of cleaning and polishing Guy’s leather overcoat, and then set the table for the lord’s breakfast. Once again, you stood to the left side of his chair, ready to be called upon to pour his drink.

            Guy was not subtle in his own home. He must have just pulled his boots on because he could be heard through the floorboards. He carried his sword and scabbard in hand as he descended the stairs, passing you by with no more than a glance. The spurs on his boots chimed with each step he took, silencing only he took his seat at the head of the table. He did not look as though he’d slept well. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hair remained tousled and dull. You approached his side, ready to pour ale into his chalice, when he held up his hand to ward you off.

            “I don’t drink ale in the mornings.”

            You dipped your head, keeping this in mind for the next morning, and found yourself speaking before you could help yourself.

            “Can I get you anything else, Sir Guy?”

            “No,” and as if it were an afterthought, “Thank you.”

            You dropped back, handing off the ale jug to another servant to await Guy’s next order. He ate quickly, and then announced his departure to Nottingham. Your eyebrows furrowed at this. Could the Sheriff not give Guy more than a night’s rest before returning to service? It seemed absurd to you, to return back from the Holy Land and only be rewarded with one night’s inadequate respite to recover.

            “—coat. Where is it?”

            You blinked rapidly, returning to the present. Guy was standing before you, looking expectant, yet he did not appear angry at your inattentiveness. With a jolt of panic, you remembered that the overcoat was still folded on the stool at the end of your bed.

            “I shall get it for you, just give me one moment.”

            “I’ll come with you. Save you the trip back.”

            You forewent an answer and led Guy to the servants’ quarters. They were small, admittedly, but most of the staff lived in the village proper. But you, without property or a wealthy family name, had to make do at Locksley Manor. It was fine, more than fine, albeit a little lonely.

            Guy’s coat was exactly where you left it. You lifted it by the shoulders, letting it fall to its full length but careful not to let it touch the floor, holding it for the man to shrug into. He stood admiring the leather’s revitalised shine before he put it on, a smirk quirking at the corner of his lips. This one was the opposite of the cruel smile he provided the previous night, and you were, strangely, happy to see it.

            “I wanted to speak with you, lady, about last—”

            It was your turn to hold up your hands, shaking your head softly.

            “A lady I am not,” you scoffed, but the sound of it was not unkind, “And you do not need to explain yourself to me, Sir Guy, but I shall reiterate that you shall not throw pottery at me again.”

            The firmness in your voice halted Guy’s next words. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, before closing it again and leaving the way he’d come.

Sir Guy’s good mood soured more and more with each passing day he returned from Nottingham. At first it was excusable; flippant comments were often made after a long day when one had not slept well the night before. But as the days dragged on into weeks, he was becoming unbearable. He did not speak to his servants, but rather shouted at them, causing them to flinch away from him which only provoked him further. At mealtimes, it was much the same. He snapped his fingers at the servants’ and was angered by their so-called incompetency, at the inadequate food, at the too warm wine. Despite it all, he held true to your command, and never aimed his anger at you.

            One evening proved to be the spark that provoked wildfire. Guy’s mood was so dour when he returned from Nottingham that you thought it best to avoid him as much as possible. Over the past few weeks, you had formed a fragile bond with the master of Locksley and did not want to compromise it.

            When one of the younger servants set Guy’s plate before him, his elbow toppled his goblet of wine. Guy was a blur of movement, on his feet with his fist raised to crack against the boy’s cheekbone. Without thought, you stepped forward and grasped his wrist, your thumb pressing hard against his thundering pulse. His gaze softened, only for a breath, before he yanked his wrist from your grasp and pushed away from the dinner table. You moved to clear away the ruined tablecloth when a deep voice murmured close to your ear. Guy was so close to you that you noticed that he smelled faintly of lavender.

            “Not you.”

             You turned and followed him up the stairs silently, awaiting his wrath as he shut the bedroom door behind them. You would have been ready if he’d shouted, but instead his voice was a quiet husk.

            “Do not embarrass me in front of the servants again.”

            “So, I should have let you hit that poor boy?” You shot back, your temper flaring for the first time in your employ, “He did not mean it.”

            “He was a fool! I should have taught him a lesson.”

            “He learned it the moment the cup fell. You do not need to use violence to earn half-hearted respect.”

            “Well, it certainly worked for you, didn’t it?”

            At this, you stalled, turning your head to look out of the open window. You crossed your arms over your chest, defensive, your hands clutching the sleeves of your dress.

            “I respect you because I care for you, not because I’m afraid of you.” The words came haltingly, your tongue tripping over itself. “I have come to care for you because I see you when you return from Nottingham, and I realise that the Sheriff works you like a dog. I care because I know a man who rode home from the Holy Land and cried the night he returned. I care because I recognise a man who has nowhere to put his anger, who has been beaten and scarred, who picks for any fight he might have a chance of winning. You may not treat us excellently, but that does not mean I cannot care for and respect you.”

            Guy openly stared at you, his silence deafening. His eyes wandered over your face, awe capturing his features in reverence.

            “You can tell all that?” His words were barely above a whisper.

            “Am I incorrect?”

            In the silence, you heard Guy’s throat click when he swallowed. You turned your head to see him staring to the middle-distance. His answer was hoarse when it came.

            “No.”

“Well, I am neither blind nor stupid, Sir Guy.”

            “I did not say—!” Only then did his temper flare, a frustrated sound leaving him before he could finish his sentence. “I did not say that. I only meant… that no one has put my circumstances into words as easily as you.”

            You could not deny yourself a small smile at this. Guy saw and matched it. A smile suited him well. His hair was tangled as ever, but his blue eyes were gentle, and his shoulders were relaxed. You could get used to this, you decided.

Spring made way to summer, to crickets playing fiddle in the fields of wild grass, to tall sunflowers shielding you from the sun when you took an evening stroll. Guy’s mood mellowed, the longer hours easing his temper. As the months melted away into March,  April, May, you found sprigs of wildflowers on your pillow more days than not. You would wear them in your hair, earning a satisfied smile from Guy when he thought you weren’t looking. He was pleasant enough at mealtimes, if a little begrudging to give compliments to the other servants and although they were wary of Guy’s changed disposition, your fellow servants were happy enough to accept it.

            The first time Guy asked for your company, you had been fearful that he had misjudged your affections. You made your way to his chambers after dinner, knocking gently before entering. Guy was removing his new leather doublet, his fingers deftly unhooking the multiple belts across his chest before shrugging the garment off. His black shirt underneath was only loosely tied, exposing more collarbone than you should have thought reasonable. The Sheriff’s return from the Holy Land had obviously lined his coffers well and he had commissioned Guy a new wardrobe. You liked this doublet; it suited him well, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. The leather long-coat you had so lovingly polished a month ago now hung abandoned in his wardrobe.

            “Good evening, Sir Guy.” You dipped into a curtsy, earning a soft tut from him.

            “Enough of that.” Guy waved his hand to dismiss your action before settling himself at one of two chairs before the low-burning hearth. “Guy is more than fine.”

            “If you wish.”

            “I do.” He motioned to the chair beside him. “And I also wish for you to join me.”

            You could not deny him nor help yourself and, so, took your place by his side. You fiddled with the fabric of your skirt before you found your voice.

            “Did you want us to make conversation, or for you to bask in a woman’s presence?”

            Guy’s eyebrows pinched, the tendon in his jaw flickering as he stopped himself from spitting out a retort. Instead, he turned his body towards you.

            “I wish for us to get to know one another better.”

            “And why is that?” You needled him, “I am merely your servant.”

            “Because I want to. Is that not enough?”

            It was more than enough.

That evening, the words began stiff and unsure of themselves. He asked of your family, your upbringing and was pleasantly surprised to learn that you had roots in York before your father’s move to London.

            “The Gisborne name is from Yorkshire,” he said wistfully, “On my father’s side.” Ghosts were flitting across his irises, his mouth pulling downward into a frown. You resisted the urge to place your hand on his forearm.

            “What about your mother?”

            That was the wrong question to ask, you quickly realised. The persistent crease returned to the space between his eyebrows, and his voice was sombre. “She died when I was sixteen.”

            “Guy, I—”

            “Do not say you’re sorry.” The hard had edge returned to Guy’s voice. “It was a long time ago.”

            Your words died, but one question still prickled in the back of your throat.

            “Did your mother have lavender fields?”

            Guy’s face went slack, the crease disappearing. His lips were parted in awe and reverent eyes roamed your face. “How did you know that?”

            You couldn’t stop the bashful smile that tugged at your lips, and you dropped your head to hide it. You could feel heat creep up your neck and blossom on your cheeks the longer he looked at you.

            “It was a guess.” The memory of Guy’s closeness returned to you, and you clasped your hands together to stop yourself from fidgeting with your skirt. “Tell me about your home in France.”

            Guy was happy to oblige and reached forward to put another log in the hearth before he started. He told you that he was from central France, the ‘Val de Loire’, where his mother’s garden had been filled with rows of lavender, bordered by manicured, verdant hedges. Different parts of the garden changed with the seasons, hellebores replaced the lavender in the winter to replenish the soil, and wisteria curled up the sides of his family’s châteaux in springtime. He recounted the summers he spent there, of the antics that he and his sister, Isabella, got up to in their youth.

            You raised your eyebrows at the mention of her; he had never mentioned that he had siblings.

            “Where’s Isabella now?” You asked quietly. The fire had burned low in the time Guy had been speaking. It was your turn to place a log to revive the embers.

            “I have not seen her in nearly twenty years,” he admitted, swallowing thickly before continuing, “I sold her to her husband for a fair price. It was either both of us die of hunger, or secure both our futures with one simple transaction. She hated it, detested the husband more so, but I was barely the beginnings of a man, and I did what I thought was best.”

            You remained quiet at this revelation. You felt for Isabella, for a young woman forced into a loveless marriage. You felt for Guy, a young man who did not have a better option available to him.

            “Do you regret it?” You asked, voice quiet in the space between you.

            “Yes,” Guy murmured, “But I would do it again if it meant she’d survive.”

            That was all you could ask for, to find that he showed remorse. He was redeemable.

            The conversation between you continued long after the sun had set, until the last log had been eaten by the flames and the embers glowed an unenthusiastic amber.

Summer nights belonged to you and Guy. He continued to ask for your company until he no longer had to. You went to him as eagerly as a butterfly to nectar. He would make you smile until your jaw ached, until your cheeks coloured, until laughter drew tears to your eyes.

            Smiles came easier to him, too. He lashed out at the other servants less and less, until he hardly did so at all. James drew you aside one afternoon, asking what you had done to change Guy’s attitude. You could not answer him, as you did not know. You could only simply say, “He’s changing.”

            The one constant was Nottingham. He would bid farewell to you in the mornings before he rode away, his smile morphing itself into something intensely private, a fondness that had not been there before.

             Every evening, Guy would return a little more worn. He would dismount unsteadily, leaning heavily against his horse for a moment. He would hand off the reins to the stableboy, entering the manor with a stiff gait, retreating to his chambers without a word.

             One evening, he returned late, and you found him sat on the end of his bed, elbows on his knees, head dropped between his shoulders. Silently, you laid a hand on his shoulder, urging him to shrug out of his doublet. He did so, body weary, fingers clumsily undoing the straps at his chest. His black cotton shirt was stuck to his sweaty back, betraying a day of overexertion by the Sheriff’s command.

             “Would you like me to pour you a bath?” Your voice felt loud in the quiet room.

             Guy shook his head, bedraggled curls obscuring his face. You contemplated pushing the matter for his sake, but you knew he was as stubborn as a donkey. Instead, you retrieved another from the wardrobe and handed it to him.

             “Change,” you said firmly, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

             Guy looked up at you, blue eyes pleading. His hands twitched, as if he were about to reach for you. You mouthed ‘I promise’ from the door and retreated. You collected a water-filled bucket, a half-used bar of lye soap and a cloth before returning upstairs. Guy had swapped shirts by the time you’d returned, leaving the old one discarded on his bed. He eyed the supplies you’d brought back but still did not speak.

             You settled yourself in one of the two chairs, the one you’d both silently agreed as yours, picking up his shirt on the way. You lathered the soap between your hands before dunking it. Guy watched you with barely concealed interest. He shifted, choosing to lay on his back with his head hanging off the end, and closed his eyes. You paid him little mind, focused on the task at hand.

             You had just hung the shirt out to dry when Guy, finally, moved to sit in the opposite chair. You picked up his doublet, the leather warm in your hands. You did not dunk it like the shirt as that would crumple and ruin the garment but dipped the cloth and began to clean it that way, concentrating your attention to the clasps and stitches to spy for anything amiss. Guy’s voice cut through your focus.

             “Someday, I won’t be under the thumb of any man.”

             You dismissed it as tired rambling. Guy often said overindulgent thing when he was tired, daydreaming of his return to France or of his settling down with a wife. This was no different, you thought. The two of you remained in companionable silence for the rest of the evening.

A week passed and Guy went to and returned from Nottingham as usual.

             Until he didn’t.

            The evening was pleasantly humid, promising rain in a day or two. You had finished washing linens, your arms tired from using the scrubbing board, and was awaiting the tell-tale gallop of Guy’s horse to announce his return. The sun continued its journey towards the horizon, but he did not show. The kitchen staff had prepared one of his favourites, wild duck pie with currants, to celebrate the nearing of summer’s end. They had been so proud of their creation and had purchased the perfect wine to pair it with. Their disappointment was easy to pinpoint when another hour passed without Sir Guy’s return.

            Night fell. You lit tapers in Guy’s bedchamber, and it took great effort not to stay and wait for him. No, you told yourself, it would not be right. It was different when Guy was there to invite you or if he were already at home, but you would not allow yourself to indulge, no matter how much you yearned for it.

            You returned to your room in the servants’ quarters, a place you were spending less and less time, and readied for bed. It was not late by any means, but you reasoned that an early night would do you good. You lit a taper before undressing, swapping your day clothes for an embroidered, cotton shift, the neckline and hem decorated with autumn leaves. It had been a gift from your mother before your departure to Nottinghamshire. It was these lonely evenings without Guy’s presence that you missed her most.

            You settled into bed. The room was quiet, your bed was warm, and it did not take long for you to slip into a fitful sleep.

A hand on your shoulder shook you from sleep. You were awake in an instant, pulled from instantly forgotten dreams, but your body was sluggish. Your name was being said as fervently as one would a prayer. You reached up to your shoulder, grasping the person’s wrist to let them know that you’d heard, when cold fingers clasped your own. The gesture shocked you into complete consciousness. You turned your head to see Guy, light eyes reflecting the low candlelight, his hair brushing your shoulder. Your heart was suddenly pounding. He moved back when you sat up, grimacing.

            “What’s wrong?” You asked in the semi-darkness.

            “Do you have a needle and thread?” Guy’s voice was low and thick with pain.

            “Yes. Are you hurt?”

            He stood and began to turn away. You grabbed his hand before he could, imploring him to answer with a look of concern.

            He sighed. “Come upstairs.”

            You didn’t need further convincing. You flung the covers back, forgetting your state of undress, and rifled around through your belongings. Guy withdrew, his gaze lingering on you before he left. With your sewing box and a cloth in hand, you went to the kitchen to pick up a bucket of water and a block of lye soap before moving to the stairs. Guy had just reached the top, leaning heavily against the banister. You followed.

             You pushed the door of his bedchamber open with your shoulder, leading him inside. The tapers you’d lit had burned low and the edges of the room were shrouded in semi-darkness.

            “Sit.” You commanded, waving a hand vaguely to suggest he sit in whichever chair he preferred. You readied the fire, arranging the kindling so that it would both catch fast and burn bright. When you held a candle to it, it did just that, flames eagerly licking up the logs. Only then did you turn to Guy, who had settled himself into your chair before the fire, eyes heavy-lidded.

            You took the time to look over him in the growing light of the fire. His hair was tangled, and a purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. His doublet was scuffed and, in some parts, torn. His finely stitched trousers had a wet gash at the thigh. Your eyes widened at this discovery. You returned your gaze to his face and realised he’d been watching you.

            “Who did this to do?” Your words were barely audible over the fire’s crackle.

            “The Sheriff,” Guy answered lowly. He watched your expression change from shock to anger, your lips curling back from your teeth. He held up a hand to placate you. “He’s dead.”

Your mouth dropped open. “What would drive you to kill him?”

            Guy’s jaw tightened. “He threatened Locksley. He threatened you.” You opened your mouth to argue that you were not worth being fought over, but he silenced you with another gesture. “He called you my little leper friend, the leech of Locksley sucking me dry.”

            The lewd allusion was not lost on you, making you grimace. You wrung your hands, fidgety with nervous energy. You were glad the Sheriff was dead; if not, you would have ridden to Nottingham yourself to drive a poker through his eye.

            “I don’t know how he came to know of my affection for you,” Guy continued, “But he kept trying to turn me against you. I could not, I cannot, and I will not.”

            Your breath caught in your chest. Guy lowered his gaze, the fire setting his pale eyes alight. You took two steps to him and took your face in his hands. Immediately, his hands came up to encircle your wrists, holding you to him. His face was cold despite the warmth of the fire.

            You leaned forward and pressed the gentlest of kisses between his brows. He melted, an exhale leaving him in a rush.

            “You have affection for me?” You asked, lips moving against his skin.

            “Yes,” he whispered, reverent, “Yes, yes. How could I not?”

            You could not answer him that. You felt immeasurably happy, more so than you had felt in a long time. You could only, in that moment, show it through your actions.

            “Let me tend to your leg and pour you a bath.”

            Guy nodded, pulling back so that he could roam his eyes over your face again, his lips pulling up into a smirk. There was no contempt in it as there once had been, only adoration.

            You helped him undress, taking his doublet from him and hanging it on the back of the other chair. He handed over his armguards before his scabbarded sword; he had never trusted it to you before, and you propped it against the bed gingerly. He stepped from his trousers, wincing when he put all his weight on his wounded leg. He slumped back into the chair in just his shirt and undergarments, and in any other situation you would have revelled in the intimacy of it.

            You picked up the soap, scrubbing your hands and dunking them into the pail of water. Satisfied that they were clean enough, you took up your sewing box. You knelt at Guy’s side, adjusting yourself so your shadow didn’t obscure your view of his leg. The stab wound had stopped bleeding, was now only oozing, yet it would not heal on its own without intervention. It was long and deep, made with obvious intent to hurt, or even maim. You exhaled heavily, rifling through your sewing box for a new needle and thread.

            “You’re lucky the Sheriff didn’t stab you somewhere more important.”

            Guy began to chuckle, but the sound was cut off by a grunt of pain as you sunk the needle into his skin. His hand flew to your shoulder, his thumb pressing harshly against your collarbone. You winced but didn’t move out of his grasp. Sharing a little pain with him was the least you could do. You worked quickly, your free hand grasping his thigh to limit his movement, fearful that his leg would jolt and tear the fragile skin even more.

            By the time you’d finished, his face was sheened with sweat, hand shaking where it had released your shoulder. You tied off the thread, your fingertips bloody, before flinging the needle into the fire. You remained knelt beside him, taking his hand from your shoulder, and interlacing your fingers with his.

            “Are you alright?” You whispered, reaching up to brush a dark curl from his face.

            “Better now,” He murmured, squeezing your hand in response, “Thank you.”

            You pressed kisses to his knuckles. You were insatiable, hungry for the warmth of his skin against your own. Only when a log popped from the heat of the fire did you snap from your desire.

            “Come,” You said, gently pulling him to his feet, “I’ll ready your bath.”

It took multiple trips to the kitchens to fill the wooden bathtub; by the time you had filled it to your satisfaction, your arms were aching. You had brought in the chair from Guy’s bedroom, upon which he sat as you filled the tub. You waved away his offerings to help, warning him against tearing his stitches. You found, also, that you wanted to do this for him.

            “It’s ready for you,” you said, turning your body away so that he could undress fully.

            Guy shucked off his shirt and undergarments, stepping into the bath. As he lowered himself into the water, a soft groan pushed past his lips. His eyelids slipped closed, mouth parting in sudden serenity. You watched his body unwind, shoulders dropping, hands unfurling from fists. He was, in that moment, tranquillity incarnate.

            He took a breath and sunk below the water. He remained there for several moments, air escaping his lips in a steady stream. You settled the chair beside the bathtub, sitting back just as Guy surfaced. He tugged a hand through his waterlogged curls, hissing with pain when his fingers tangled between the strands. You couldn’t help but snort, earning you a look of mocking contempt from him.

            “Is it my nakedness that makes you laugh?” Guy asked, his eyes alight with amusement.

            “No,” you replied, “It’s that your hair has been a tangled mess since the day I met you. I’ve always wondered why you never cropped it short.”

            “It used to be shorter,” Guy conceded, “It grew out while I was in the Holy Land, and I never found the time to cut it.”

            “I like it.” The words were loose before you could rein them in. In a quieter voice, you admitted, “It suits you.”

            Guy grinned, then, his teeth bright in the dim room. You returned it without thought; how could you deny him? You allowed yourself to indulge in an urge that had gnawing away at you the longer you’d stayed at Locksley.

            “Let me wash your hair.”

            His smile fell away and you feared that you had upset him. You gave up ground by averting your gaze. He surprised you, his voice the softest you’d ever heard it.

            “Please.”

            You swallowed, throat dry. You nodded and told him you’d return in a moment before fleeing to the servant’s quarters to grab a wide-toothed comb. The house was cool, raising goosebumps on your arms; you were happy to return to the warm steam of the bathroom.

            “You’ll have to come to the other end of the bath where I can reach you.” Guy was happy to oblige you, manoeuvring himself slowly so that the water didn’t slosh over the edge. He sat with his back to you, arms resting on the tub’s rim.

            You’d brought the lye soap in from the bedroom, and now you gathered suds in your hands. You took a steadying breath before you tangled your fingers in Guy’s wet hair. You lathered his scalp, alternating between scrubbing with your fingernails and massaging with your fingertips. His tense muscles relaxed under your hands, his head beginning to tip back in ecstasy.

            It pleased you immensely to see him to utterly at ease. There had been so many nights when his temper would spark as easily as dry kindling, when he would not speak a word to you, when he was so tired that he would fall asleep fully clothed. Now, his skin was hot against your hands, and he would occasionally reward you with a hum of satisfaction. You would not have it any other way.

            You dipped your hands into the water by Guy’s shoulder, cupping enough to tip over his head to wash the suds out. The action was welcoming repetitive and warmed your hands in the process; it was then that you wished you’d brought a shawl from downstairs.

            Once Guy’s hair had been rinsed, you began to tackle it with your comb. You worked from ends to root, taking care not to tug. After every lock that you untangled, you curled it around your finger before letting it fall into place. When he could, Guy watched your hands in his periphery. He was enthralled by your actions, his heart beating hard beneath his sternum. It had been so long since he’d felt loved by another that he had almost forgotten the sensation.

The longer the silence settled between you, questions began to rise up within you like the tide, slow yet inevitable. You allowed yourself to ask one.

            “What happened in the Holy Land?”

            Guy went still under your hands, and he resisted the urge to tug his head away. In all the months that he’d returned from the Holy Land, no one had asked him about his time there. He’d buried those memories in the sand alongside the woman he’d loved.

            “A lot of things.” The answer was begrudging and equally unsatisfactory.

            “Tell me, Guy. You returned from that place with too many ghosts in your eyes.”

            He took a shaking breath and clasped his hands together beneath the water. He suddenly looked impossibly small.

            “I destroyed her. I destroyed everything.”

            “Her?”

            “Her.”

            You pulled the comb through the final lock and set it aside, heart pounding. You waited for Guy to explain further, but he was staring into the shadows of the room, teeth chattering despite the warm water. The woman’s ghost had come to visit him, it seemed.

            “What was her name?” You spoke into the unsettled quiet.

            He seemed to choke, his tongue working against him. “Marian.”

            The puzzle, finally, slotted itself together. Knighton had been quiet for the past few months; you’d been too absorbed in Guy to see it.

            “Why did you kill her, Guy?”

            The harshness in your tone made him flinch as if you’d struck him.

            “I loved her and—”

            “And she did not?” The words were rose thorns. “Should I worry for my life, that you may run me through if I don’t love you?”

            “No,” Guy whispered, turning himself in the water to face you, “No, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

            “What makes me different to her? That I can give you affection you crave?” Your fingernails were carving red crescents into your palms.

            “You never plucked my heart like a harp. You never kissed me so that another man could escape from Nottingham. You never said you would marry me when your heart was with another. You have never betrayed me.” Guy had pushed himself to his feet, dripping water, body carved in shadow as he loomed over you.

            You were livid with him; you could not deny that you loved him. You could not deny that the thought of Marian using Guy for her own gain made your blood boil, made you glad she was dead that she could no longer hurt him. You and Guy were as good and as bad as each another.

            “You are different to her,” Guy murmured, his hands reaching up to cradling your face, “And I could not more thankful for it.”

            You pushed up on your toes and pressed your lips to his. A groan hummed at the back of his throat, his lips parting to chase your mouth with his own. Your hands came to rest on his hips, stuttering his breath before he found your lips again. He was a man parched, and you were ravenous.

            You pulled back, and his head followed without thought. You brought your fingers to his lips, now reddened and swollen, to bring him back to the present. His eyes were pools of ebony when he opened them.

            “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, voice rasping.

            “Yes.”

            His lopsided smile returned. He stepped from the bath and took your hand in his. The manor had not stirred the entire night, and that did not change now despite the soft laughter between you. The candles in Guy’s bedroom had almost gone out in the time he’d spent in the bath. Now, tiredness seeped into your bones, willing you to get into bed.

            Guy had dropped your hand to pull on a loose nightshirt, before pulling back the covers for you. His damp hair would dry at odd angles if he slept on it now, but you did not mind; you would fix it for him if he asked.

            You climbed into bed, the sheets finer than any you’d slept on before. Guy was behind you, his warm body pressing against your back. His arm hovered above you, indecision making him hesitate.

            “May I?” He asked, his voice so close to your ear that you had to suppress a shudder.

            “Please.”

            Guy’s arm curled around you, pulling you ever closer; you interlaced your fingers with his.

            You watched the candles burn themselves to smoke. As you drifted towards sleep, you remembered that you’d once told yourself you could get used to a life like this. If it were anything like this night, you’d be happy until the end of days.

[dominickeating-source]

Dominic Keating Interview (2002)

British actor Dominic Keating hails from a mid-sized city in the middle of England called Leicester (pronounced "Lester"). Although now on a hit U.S. TV show, he hasn't forgotten his roots and the city of his birth. "Well, you can take the boy out of Leicester ?! I go to Leicester quite a lot. My mum still lives there. She's actually coming out this Christmas for the first time. She's going to visit me in LA. I love living in Los Angeles, but I'll never say never anymore."

With ten weeks off during the show's hiatus, did he have a chance to visit his homeland? "I did, yes. I also went to Germany to do a convention. It was my first Star Trek convention abroad — huge amount of fans. There were around 6,000 people there. And, officially, they haven't seen the show there. I told them I was the captain!"

Premature captaincy aside, he's not doing too badly for a boy from the midlands with no formal acting training. Instead, his education was on the job. "Pretty much, yes. I didn't go to an 'official' drama school. I didn't get in, actually," he confesses.

But persistence pays off and, like most actors, he started out small and worked his way up. "I got my first job at the Man in the Moon pub theatre at the bottom of King's Road in Chelsea. I did a play there called 'The Best Years of Your Life,' which got quite a bit of notice. It's a very moving play about an apprentice soccer player for Chelsea who was struck down with spinal cancer. I played his brother, and got a bit of notice from that. I then got my first proper agent and kicked off from there. Went off to [the] Edinburgh [Festival] with Timothy Spall and did a play up there that got a lot of notice in the summer of the following year. From that I met the writer of a sitcom called Desmond's (Trix Worrell), who cast me in the show, which ran six years. Meteoric rise!"

Citing influences such as James Bond or the "Carry On?" movies — a franchise of innuendo-laced British comedies — Dominic also points to an actor whose legendary career spanned several decades: Rod Steiger. "I was in my sitting room watching him in one of those movies, I think it was 'No Way to Treat a Lady,' where he played something like eight characters and I definitely remember a moment, as a ten or eleven-year old, thinking 'I wonder if I could do that?'" Ironically, this particular influence later became a professional contact. "I got to work with Rod a few years ago on a film called 'The Hollywood Sign,'" Keating says. "It was a great honor to meet him. He wasn't that pleased, though, when I reminded him how long ago it was that he made that movie."

His one other big influence dovetails nicely into what he does now. "I did watch the first Star Trek series pretty religiously."

Entertainment wasn't all TV and movies for Keating. "My mum took me to the theatre at an early age. I think the first play I ever saw was an Alan Ayckbourn play, 'How the Other Half Loves.' I remember a man in the audience in front of us turned around and told me to be quiet because I was laughing so hard! Typical, eh?"

Without the conventional drama school life, Dominic faced something many actors fear: a regular job. His r?sum? is nothing if not a bit unconventional. There were the typical bartending and waiting jobs, most of which he claims to be fired from, but there were also other odd jobs that seem miles away from an actor's calling. "I've done a plethora of things. I worked in a knitting factory in Nottinghamshire; I've worked in a rubber molding factory in Colville, making rubber moldings for car doors. I did a lot of work for the Manpower Services. One of my favorite tasks was going along to the schools where the coal cog had been blocked up by some part of a metal chair that some kids had stuck down the coal chute. My mate and I used to show up in my first VW Bug and then bury ourselves down in this coal chute and unclog the offending article and get that cog working again! I also did a bit of painting and decorating, the usual thing."

When stateside success finally landed, in the form of his Enterprise role, what did Dominic do with his first paycheck? "Good question! I did take a photograph of the first check, actually. Because it was a double episode for the pilot, it was the largest check I'd ever been paid in one lump sum."

Showing good monetary sense, he claims to be fiscally responsible. "I'm pretty good with money. I don't know that I went out and bought anything, because I knew what I was going to do," he pauses. "I'm sitting in it now, my beautiful Hollywood home out here in the canyon looking out on a beautiful summer's day. I knew I wanted to buy this house, or a house like it. The first season I literally just socked it away and I didn't buy a new car. I drove my old '87 Bronco, and I only just got rid of that about a month ago. I put money away for a down payment on the house. Six months ago, my girlfriend and I moved in and we love it!"

Surely he celebrated when he got the part on Enterprise? "You know what I did? I was with John Billingsley (Phlox) — we were the first two cast — and we went out and had a coffee together and called a bunch of our friends on our cell phones while we were supping on our double-latte mochas, or whatever. I came home to the two rooms that I was renting in Beachwood Canyon and I put on a CD on my portable player and went out for a walk up around the canyon. I went to look at some of the houses that I could now afford to buy and noticed the nice cars that were driving past me, thinking, 'Ah, I could probably get one of those as well,'" he says. "I went for a long walk and let it all soak in. Then on the way back down the hill, I popped in at my friend's house — his mother was over from England — and he could tell by the cheesy grin on my face. He knew I had been in the auditioning process for this job and he went, 'You got it didn't you? You bloody got it!'

"I've taken a few people to dinner since then."

One of the great luxuries about being cast in a Star Trek show is there is a good chance you won't be cancelled after 13 episodes. But even so, the threat will always be there. "Well, one hopes not. As long as you keep your nose clean and don't piss anyone off too much!"

Even with a job like this, an actor's dream, there is still a certain amount of anxiety in taking the part. "I had a brief moment on the Bridge in the first couple of days when I was pressing button 502 over and over again. The thought crossed my mind, 'I'll never do Ibsen.' Then the first check arrived and I thought, 'Ibsen, Shmibsen!' There was some trepidation. You are signing yourself up for a long haul playing one character. But I was at a time in my life where I wanted the security that a job of this nature was going to offer me. I was very excited about the prospect of being able to afford actually having a family, an educated child."

Keating's character, Malcolm Reed, is also someone he is grateful for. "They've given me so much to do on this show — like "Shuttlepod One." To be honest, it's the best work I've ever done in front of a camera," he says proudly. "They've given me another episode like that in the second season, episode three — "Minefield" — myself and Scott [Bakula] in a two hander on the exterior of the ship and floating in space. It's a fantastic piece of writing that Brannon [Braga] came up with."

But there may be more in store for the Starfleet officer. "I talked briefly with Brannon about this, and I know that the one thing he appreciates about the way Malcolm Reed's developed is that he is truly at odds with his character and he is quite enigmatic. You cannot pigeonhole this character. You can, but he does have the ability to play at odds with himself and not have the audience say, 'That's not in character.' I think the one thing Brannon appreciates, and I certainly do, is that Malcolm Reed is very human. 'Shuttlepod One' allowed the audience to see that. I think he can take this character any which way. I would love to see them explore a very dark side to Reed, something in the way of a Laurence-Harvey-tortured-man. And if anyone can write that for this character, it's Brannon Braga."

Working on a show like Star Trek can be taxing if you are in every scene in every episode, but for most, that isn't really a problem. "It's such a great job and because it's an ensemble piece, we don't work every day. The days I have off, I so appreciate now. I've got a bit of money now so I can go for sushi or take my girlfriend someplace nice. I also love body boarding and I've just started taking up surfing. I just graduated to standing up on the wave. And I adore golf. And there it is — I get back and I've got four wonderful scenes with great actors and such camaraderie. It truly is a dream, dream job. I'll sorely miss it when it's over. And it'll come about too soon. Seven years seems quite a long time, but you know what, it'll fly by and it will be sad when it's over."

In the meantime, occasional brushes with celebrity are bound to happen. "It happened the other night for the first time. Two weekends ago, my neighbors took me and my girlfriend out with some friends of theirs. They rented a limo and we went to the opening of this rather swanky, new, swish restaurant here in LA, opened by this trendy chef called Fred. The limo pulled up and I didn't realize what a circus it was going to be when we got there. We took our steps on to the red carpet and as we were walking down the red carpet — and I've been to Star Trek events and UPN events before, where I understood there would be people there who would want to take pictures of me but I didn't expect this for a second — all these photographers started shouting out my name. I was absolutely bowled over! I've got Beck in front of me, Gwen Stefani two back from me and they're shouting, 'Over here, Dominic, over here!' It really took me by surprise. I can't say that I didn't like it, but it really did take me by surprise. I had a bit of the recognition thing back in England after doing [the sitcom] Desmond's for a few years. I don't want to say I'm used to being recognized, but I'm certainly not phased by it. I was prepared. That moment coming out of the limo was definitely like, 'Oh, I've arrived.'"

His future bright, Dominic Keating can wonder comfortably what it holds. "Who knows? Certainly for the foreseeable future, I can't see why I would want to move back to England full-time. I still have a flat there. Nothing would thrill me more than to come back to London during the hiatus and do a really good play. Or maybe live in London for a couple of years after the show finishes ? do some guest roles on other shows, maybe.

"I'm really happy with the way things have panned out. I'm still a young man, [I'll] still be fairly fresh when I come out the other end. I think I'm pretty versatile."

Source: startrek.com