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burningvelvet · 7 months ago

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a post in honor of lord byron's 200th death anniversary —

the greeks were very fond of byron, who when he died in 1824 was a military commander and notable influence in their war of independence. as one of the most (if not the most) famous members of the philhellenist movement, byron used his poetic platform to try to remind people of greece's reputation as the source of western traditions in art and culture. the greeks then honored byron by decorating his coffin with a laurel wreath (below). they also erected statues for him, like this one below in athens depicting him being crowned with a laurel wreath (a symbol of greatness, especially in poetry/music [which historically overlapped]) by a female personification of greece. to this day, some statues of byron are annually wreathed in tradition, and the names byron/vyron/vyronas are still used in greece for roads, towns, and people in his honor.

"’Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels,

By blood or ink; ’tis sweet to put an end

To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,

Particularly with a tiresome friend:

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend

Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot

We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,

Is first and passionate love — it stands alone,

Like Adam’s recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been pluck’d — all ’s known —

And life yields nothing further to recall

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven

Fire which Prometheus filch’d for us from heaven."

— excerpt from Lord Byron's Don Juan, Canto the First (writ 1818, pub. 1819).

"The mountains look on Marathon –

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;

For standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave."

— excerpt from Lord Byron's Don Juan, Canto the Third (writ 1819, pub 1821) — this stanza is part of a section often published on its own under the title "The Isles of Greece."

"Byron was at once a romantic dreamer, who wanted life to square up to his illusions, and a satirical realist, who saw what was before him with unusual clarity and found its contradictoriness amusing. The clash between the two Byrons is nowhere more noticeable than in his last writings, done on Cephalonia and at Missolonghi during the months before his death. There we see the Greece he dreams of, and the Greece which, in different ways, destroys him."

— excerpt from Peter Cochran's "Byron's Writings in Greece, 1823-4."

"Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;

The days of our youth are the days of our glory;

And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two and twenty

Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?

'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled.

Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!

What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!

Oh FAME! - if I e'er took delight in thy praises,

'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,

She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;

Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;

When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory."

— Lord Byron's "Stanzas Written on the Road Between Florence and Pisa" (November, 1821). What is illustrated here, and what I try to illustrate all throughout this assortment, is Byron's conflation of love and glory, and the idea that poetry and politics are both ways to deserve and achieve — not fame, but what fame seems to promise — love.

"But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my Soul, nor now,

Where Glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,

Glory and Greece around us see!

The Spartan borne upon his shield

Was not more free.

Awake (not Greece—she is awake!)

Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake

And then strike home!"

— excerpt from Lord Byron's "On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sxith Year" (1824).

"What are to me those honours and renown

Past or to come, a new-born people's cry

Albeit for such I could despise a crown

Of aught save Laurel, or for such could die;

I am the fool of passion, and a frown

Of thine to me is as an Adder's eye

To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down

Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high –

Such is this maddening fascination grown –

So strong thy Magic - or so weak am I."

— although the much more popular and published "On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sxith Year" is often believed to be Byron's last poem, the above is likely Byron's actual last poem. Like the former, it wasn't solely written for Greece, but for his page Lukas Chalandritsanos who he was in unrequited love (or lust) with. It is sometimes titled "Last Words on Greece" (named so by his friend and sometimes-editor Hobhouse).

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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 1 year ago

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Oh, Maja, thank you so much!!! I hope you'll like the next (and final) chapter as much as the others <3

Chapter 11

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

If you like this fic, please remember to reblog so that others may also see it!

Pairing: Melot x OFC (Tamsyn)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: A wedding! Historical inaccuracies, probably.

A/N: It's been a while, and I know there are still some people out there waiting on that magical night between Tamsyn and Melot.... This is not it just yet. You know me by now. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless 😘

You paced through your bedchamber – as you had been for a long time now – while Tristan and Aedan leaned against the wall near the door.

“The two of you, make yourself scarce,” Gerant commanded your friends as he stepped into your quarters. “You’re right to take full advantage of this space, my friend. Soon less than half of it will be yours.”

“Less than half?” you asked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively as Gerant spoke.

“I can promise you she will always take a bit more than half of everything,” Gerant said as he walked to the window and looked outside. “She will offer plenty in return.”

Finally, you sat down on your bed and scoffed at Gerant’s words. “Shouldn’t it be my uncle telling me this?” you asked. He was, after all, the closest thing you had to a father.

“Unfortunately, he finds himself rather thoroughly occupied with the preparations for the festivities,” Gerant replied. “I know the conversations you have been a part of, as I took part in them as well. There isn’t any more to tell you, really.”

“Well, I feel rather unprepared,” you snorted.

“Do you know what to do?” he asked plainly, his tone of voice bordering on indifference.

“Yes,” you answered. It was the truth, even though it felt like a gratuitous overstatement of your knowledge. The technical aspects of your wedding night were likely as clear to you as they were to anyone.

“Well, that’s all the preparation you need,” Gerant continued. “From my experience, she may require some guidance. Ladies aren’t always made privy to details of the… act.”

“What are they told, then?” you exclaimed incredulously. Why on earth would they not be made aware of what their own wedding night would entail? It sounded ridiculous!

“To look to their husbands for direction,” Gerant answered plainly, leaving you sitting on the edge of your bed, astounded, wondering if you should ask your friend the question that was on your mind.

“May I ask you something?” you said hesitantly, watching Gerant turn around as you did.

“Naturally,” he said. Of course, it was why he had been sent to your chambers in the first place.

“Were you ever told that the first time may be… painful for women?” you averted your eyes as you spoke, both embarrassed by your query as well as afraid of the answer.

“I wasn’t made aware of it beforehand, no,” Gerant answered truthfully – an answer you deemed surprising, as he clearly seemed to be less than comfortable with the question you had asked. Of course, it was understandable; his answer made an implication as to what had happened during his own wedding night, and a rather intimate implication at that. Despite Gerant’s words – or rather that which he had left unspoken – your determination did not waver; you were not prepared to hurt her.

“There must be another way,” you whispered quietly to yourself, but Gerant understood your words perfectly.

“It passes quickly,” he said rather indifferently. Then, he continued, seeming significantly more apprehensive to speak: “She assured me it wasn’t so bad.” From the expression on his face, you could see that he did not feel completely at ease, having shared these details.

Shortly after your conversation, Gerant left you alone once more, and your thoughts ran rampant in your head. Still determined not to cause your beloved any pain on your wedding night, you wracked your brain for a solution to the issue at hand. Perhaps she would be told something? Then again, she had already let slip that they were simply warned it might be painful, and nothing else. Was there really nothing to be done about that terrible prospect? It seemed an awful lot like one of those things that was just the way it was.

With every passing second, the knot in your stomach grew tighter, and your nerves soared to higher heights than they ever had before.

“It’s time,” Tristan suddenly said from the doorway of your chambers. You didn’t dare admit to your brother that you were shaking at the prospect of being married, so you simply nodded and followed him out of your room.

“Are you nervous?” Aedan then asked, and it was hopeless. You weren’t a terrible liar – in fact, your partaking in all manners of boyhood shenanigans had made you quite adept at it – but your eyes and voice betrayed you when you attempted to give Aedan a dishonest answer.

“Incredibly so,” you finally sighed, earning you laughter and jokes from your friends as they took you to the hall where you were to be wed.

---

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed you gawked at her breathtaking form as she approached you, guided by her friends as you had been by yours. She was absolutely beautiful, and you caught yourself holding your breath until she was standing next to you, a meek smile on her trembling lips.

It was virtually impossible to pay any attention to the words the priest spoke – the only thing you could see was her beautiful face, and the longing in her eyes.

His hands were shaking just as much as yours, you noticed when you placed your hands in his, and you were almost too nervous to look into his eyes. As you finally convinced yourself to meet his gaze, however, you were met with a most adoring look, and any doubts you thought you had, disappeared without a trace. Soon, your smile widened, and his features mimicked your own, his eyes bright like the day you had first kissed.

The words of the priest barely registered; all that existed was his handsome face, framed by his dark curls. Braids kept the unruly locks from falling into his eyes – they had been done more carefully than was usual for him, you noticed, and for a brief moment you wondered who had been the one to do them. As you were lost in your thoughts, you felt the texture of cloth against the skin of your hands as they were bound to Melot’s, but you did not look down. Somehow, you both managed to make it through the vows without stuttering, and everything else went without a hitch as well – in all honesty it made you a tad suspicious.

After the ceremony, you were guided into the Great Hall, where a feast was waiting for you. Now that you were married, Melot exercised far less restraint when displaying his affection for you was concerned – and you found it utterly impossible to berate him for it. Especially when some important men from cities far away came to greet you.

“Gentlemen.” Melot greeted the man with a smile that told you he was familiar with the party that stood before him. “May I introduce to you the lady Tamsyn, my lovely wife?”

Before you could so much as lower your head, one of the lords took your hand, bowing slightly and respectfully.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, and the others soon followed, greeting you before disappearing into the crowd again.

“Introduce her to us, as well, Mely,” Beryan sounded from behind you, her voice teasing as it so often was.

“My pleasure,” he countered as you both turned around. “Lady Tamsyn, this is Beryan, my most insufferable friend. Beryan, please meet my beautiful wife, Tamsyn.”

“You will get used to it,” Elowen assured you, “or he stops being ridiculous about it before you get a chance to. Either way, this will end.” She lovingly stroked Gerant’s shoulder, who shook his head, a crooked grin adorning his face.

“Don’t drink too much,” he said with a wink, instead of responding to his wife’s teasing, while eyeing the cup of mead Melot held in his hand. Beryan had joined Tristan again, who had been standing to the side throughout this conversation. They had spent their time at the feast talking under the watchful eye of Beryan’s mother and king Marke.

A questioning glance from you lured both of them towards you again. “What about the two of you?”

“As per the agreed upon conditions, your marriage marks the formal beginning of our courtship,” Beryan said in a mocking tone that was very reminiscent of the way her father spoke.

“We will likely be married in a few months, I believe to have understood that the preparations will begin immediately,” Tristan scoffed, his expression softening when he realized what he must have sounded like.

“Oh, how dreadful the prospect of having to marry me must be, Tristan,” Beryan mocked, and both of them laughed, with Melot joining in a little late, and you not joining them at all.

“Tamsyn, it’s alright. I would much rather take Beryan as my wife than anyone king Marke chooses for me. At least I know her well enough to be convinced that I can love her.” Tristan tentatively put an arm around Beryan’s middle, careful not to be seen.

“Besides,” Beryan continued, her voice soft and mischievous, “some unchaperoned time with him has made me positive that I will quite enjoy having him as my husband.” For a brief moment, your eyes went wide. Did she mean…? She couldn’t possibly! A barely discernible shake of her head dispelled your worst fear – that Beryan had risked absolutely everything by allowing Tristan to take her before he was allowed to do so. However, a subtle – yet rather vulgar – gesture confirmed that hands had been involved in locations they should not have been dwelling.

For the rest of your wedding, you danced with Melot, you drank with your friends, and you sang with everyone. Melot introduced you as his wife to everyone who would hear it, and by the end of it, your cheeks were so warm they might bring a cup of water to a boil. Then, just as you were really beginning to have fun, you were called away by Elowen.

“It’s time,” she whispered in your ear softly enough to not be overheard by others, and her words set off a storm of butterflies within you. Next to you, Melot didn’t seem quite unaffected by the imminent proceedings, either.

The procession that had led Elowen and Gerant to their quarters on their wedding had seemed all fun and games, but now that you were the centre of attention in the spectacle, you felt indescribable discomfort. The only thing for you to hold onto, was Melot’s hand, which you squeezed so tight you simply knew it had to be painful for him. The whole time, he caressed the back of your hand with his thumb, trying to reassure you that everything was going to be alright. It was, after all, a moment you had both been waiting for, though you would be ever so pleased to be free of the watchful eyes of your wedding guests.

Finally, after a walk that seemed to last for an eternity, you arrived at the door to Melot’s bedchamber. Which, you suddenly realized, was your bedchamber, now, too. In this moment, you could not be happier that your marriage wasn’t one of particular political importance, therefore the consummation of your union was of more or less negligible importance to the visitors. You were ushered through the door of the quarters – accompanied by a few lewd noises no doubt created by Melot’s friends, for which they would surely be reprimanded later – and left to your devices as the door was shut behind you.

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