#the midland throne

[so-many-ocs]

hey

my book came out two weeks (and one day) ago. isn't that neat?

THE MIDLAND THRONE is a queer gothic-ish fantasy-ish novel about the worst people you know fucking around in a building together and eventually resorting to murder. how cool does that sound? you can get it here.

[so-many-ocs-ocs]

🪦 who you gonna call! [THE MIDLAND THRONE - ghost hunters AU! happy halloween]

[nabaath-areng]

mutual orbit

[broncoburro]

I'm curious about the nobility in Vestur! What-all are the different kinds of noble titles? Since the Gift is hereditary, how are illegitimate children treated? Since relics get passed down, do nobles in the same line usually conduct the same kinds of meur?

What-all are the different kinds of noble titles?

A midland illustration from the 1500s, meant to demonstrate for children that nobility is in service of the commoner. It depicts a fantastical act in which the lord conducts blue meur to forms a river, signifying ownership over the land. The viscount then nourishes the earth with green meur, so the commoner may grow food for all.

While Vestur is ahead of much the world in the realms of standard of living and technology, the social order is antiquated compared to other contemporary nations. Vestur still functions on something of a feudal system. There are only three ranks in the noble hierarchy, with little socialmobility except through marriage.

The Tri-Kingdom is an alliance of three sovereign kingdoms, each of which are headed by a Monarch: an Archduke/Archduchess, or High King/Queen if occupying the High Throne. Vestur’s Monarchs are absolute rulers, with ultimate executive, judicial, and legislative power. Of course, in the modern day such authority is wielded with a cautious hand, and a monarch will often defer to the expertise of various councils rather than rule by his own intuition alone. The High King may override the word of an archduke or archduchess in especially perilous situations, or regarding matters of the meur economy, but they are (theoretically...) considered equal on all other matters and in full control of their respective kingdoms. The son or daughter of a Monarch are referred to as Duke/Duchess, or Prince/Princess.

A Lord or Lady of the Land holds authority over a specific territory, or lordship. Lords oversee the appointment of viscounts within their province, collect taxes, and whatever other administrative tasks their land might need. They are ultimately beholden to their kingdom's Monarch, but are given the freedom to define local laws and run their own courts (so long as the offense doesn't involve another lordship or kingdom). The son or daughter of a lord/lady are referred to as Master or Mistress.

Both monarchs and lords pass their title by blood, following primogeniture-esque laws of succession. Eldest son is the preferred heir, of course, but in absence of any suitable men, a seat of power will turn to the brothers of the current monarch/lord. Technically, a daughter can claim right to succession if her family has no sons, though this is a politically risky move and she may face consequence for it should she "steal" power from a more popular relative in doing so.

The final noble title is the only one not to follow this system of succession:

Viscounts/Viscountesses are an appointed title, and culturally thought to be one you “earn.” In reality, if your mother or father holds a viscount title, it's extremely likely you will be granted one as well. Appointments are given based on a meur-related service the viscount can provide to his/her lordship. One viscount may provide green meur based soil enrichment to a specific town. Another may own the local quern, powered by a blue meur water wheel. viscountry is largely seen as the reward for fulfilling your pledge. To compare with the real world, if taking your pledge is like receiving your university degree, viscountry means you’ve established a career with that degree.

There are untitled nobles as well, but that’s... an embarrassing role to occupy socially, and one assumed to be caused by being too lazy or inept to be appointed a viscount title. In reality, there are many reasons someone might be untitled: They might not own gloves - the visual mark of nobility, and without which performing meur in public is illegal (and a grievous, heretical insult to The Architect, according to men of faith). They might be from a fallen family and unable to afford a relic. And some may, for personal reasons, choose not to use their gift at all.

Since the Gift is hereditary, how are illegitimate children treated?

Prince Lucas chose specifically to read law under and clerk for Mr. Beiric, who challenged the Crown on the eligibility of bastards to VRMA. Beiric was born to a common mother, but sired by a noble father. Though too old to attend VRMA after his landmark win, he received an honorary conductor’s pendant. (Black, signifying he is not allowed to conduct at all.)

“Half-common bastards” (as the lovely people of Vestur call them) are considered nobility, but this is a twenty year old development. The scientific “realization” that The Gift doesn’t get diluted or lessened by having only one noble parent is less than a century old. It took the courts some time to catch up.

But... the outlook of a bastard attending the Vestur Royal Military Academy isn’t great. While the school has loaner gloves, unless the noble parent or some benevolent benefactor is willing to give a pair of priceless unicorn hide gloves to the illegitimate child, they could never be able to conduct meur legally post-graduation. Most noble families guard their gloves jealously, and few would deign to waste them on a “mistake.”

Do nobles in the same line usually conduct the same kinds of meur?

It depends on the family whether or not they tend towards one kind of conduction. Some have a generational reputation to uphold, or possess a famed historic relic.

Among old white conductor families, the pressure is immense. White meur is famously the hardest pledge to take, requiring an aptitude exam and an extra two years of education after graduation from VRMA. Those who fail the aptitude exam must shamefully pick a second option. (Drawn by @lsdoiphin!)

Tradition aside, relics are expensive, even for nobility; some families conduct one color for financial reasons rather than upholding a legacy. If dad’s old hand-me-down blue relic is all you can ever hope to afford... you're going to take a blue pledge and become a blue conductor.

But no one is forced to take a specific pledge, legally speaking. Everyone is free to choose their own pledge/conduction specialty at the end of their education... so long as they can live with the consequence.

[writtenbyjeanofarc]

#!! - 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑴𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵 — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ; ᴄᴏʀᴏɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴅᴀʏ

(Cross-posted from my AO3)

CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: smut.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Griffith X You (fem! Reader)

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘:

Having been spoiled by your father as an only child after your mother’s death, there existed you, a young, yet rebellious maiden known amongst Midland as Princess Scarlet. Being the subject of envy by commoners who wanted nothing more than to overthrow the kingdom, you were rather…..indifferent. As a princess, you exercised pride in your achievements, deeming you fit for the role of succeeding your father on the throne.

Even after your father’s death caused by poisoning, your dream to have your own kingdom never faltered in the slightest. In fact, ruling over Midland with an iron fist has been made easy and simple considering your royal blood.

Subsequently, your ambitious demeanor and philosophy attracted none other than the military genius who led a group of mercenaries known as the Band of The Hawk. Sir Griffith; a man who never fell short of what were to be defined as a noble, if it were not for his common blood.

To put it simply, Griffith never planned on building his empire overnight. Instead, he harbored ulterior motives where he would rather…..bend you, the Queen, to his liking before taking over Midland.

….And the consequences of YOU having a fragile ego never ceased to reveal itself.

𝖈𝖜: none as of now.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊:

No smut for the first chapter!

To minors: this space isn’t for you. Berserk is a warning in itself. Go away. Do not interact.

Anyways, I’m back with a new fic and it’s basically my own version while still keeping the canon verse of Berserk clear.

In this verse, expect certain things:

— Princess Charlotte does NOT exist.

— YOU are the Princess/Queen of Midland.

— The story will mainly focus on Griffith, not Guts.

Before commenting, I would like to caution you for potential rape/non-con elements (it’s Griffith we’re talking about here) to be depicted in later chapters of the story.

What I write is pure fantasy, and is mostly just me projecting on my original character (in this case, Queen Scarlet) who has a rather peculiar relationship with Griffith.

Anyways, grab some popcorn, and chill a little while we watch our original character slowly get taken advantage of by the devil himself.

The Kingdom of Midland. Such is a name given to the central region of the Physical World where nobles dominate and savages eliminate. One had the luxury of resting within the comfort of their own home while dining with only the finest cuisine made known to man. The other had to hustle and kill for the sake of money and survival…....while for potential evildoers and traitors, the sake of achieving their dream.

It was your coronation day after all, one of the most awaited events in all of Midland’s history. Following your father’s death caused by an incident of poisoning, the nobles immediately turn to you as a successor to the throne. You were a bit nervous, so to speak, but ready to accept your new role and give your speech as the newly appointed ruler of Midland.

It was already sunset, the halls decorated with red roses, bushes, and your favorite type of flower, the Amaryllis. You just loved the sight of red the way you liked your tea. Red, so to speak, was your favorite color. It just looks and feels powerful, like the way sunlight pierces its way through your eyes. You liked shoving your presence down people’s throats, to make them remember your name as you rejoiced in your own superiority as the new Queen.

Red was the visual embodiment of your dream—to rule and render yourself capable of building your own empire. Because of that, the King, your very own father, feared for your safety. And boy, was that prediction true.

Not only was your safety compromised, but prior to meeting the White Hawk who was addressed as Sir Griffith, things went downhill after that encounter as a sudden number of royal guards dropped dead. Not only were you disgusted by the smell of blood that filled the hallways the week before your coronation, but the five words whispered to your ear was what sent chills across your spine. Those five words made you shiver in questionable fear despite you taking it as just an empty threat.

“You belong to me, Princess.”

And then came the surge of mysterious events such as your father’s death.

Supposedly, you were expected to be excited for such an event like the coronation ceremony as you longed all your life to become Queen, but something about the whole situation didn’t feel right. You were at a loss for words, being unable to understand why your father was poisoned in an instant and how planning the ceremony felt rushed.

You shivered at the thought of meeting the Band of the Hawk once more, immediately suspecting that one of them killed your father.

“Our beloved guests, our crowning guests, respected parents of the nobles, and that of the civilians. Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon.” announced the event speaker of the ceremony. “Once again, we have gathered here to witness the coronation ceremony of the Royal Family to be headed by Queen Scarlet and the rest of the officials appointed to serve her Majesty. Kindly rise for the ceremony proper.”

A huge audience of youngsters stood to give thanks towards your family for a job well done in leadership, singing songs of praise as time passed by. You were, of course, getting quite the goosebumps knowing your time is up as a princess. However, you can’t help but falter, thinking of your father’s untimely demise just about two weeks ago.

You were lost in thought, unable to pay attention to the songs sung in honor of you. Something was very wrong. You sweat and panted hard, not because you didn’t know what to say or do given the situation, but because you didn’t want to actually meet up with Griffith and the rest of his comrades due to some suspicions about the leader’s motives.

“Before we start, may I request everyone to observe silence as the ceremony begins to maintain its solemnity. Reserve your ‘hoorays’ for the latter part of the coronation. Thank you very much for your full cooperation.”

The rest of the coronation ceremony followed. You were nervous, biting your nails as you slowly prepared your speech in front of thousands. You knew Griffith would be watching

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Alas, it was your turn to give out a speech that serves as a public declaration of your aims, intentions, and actions to be taken to further improve the economic and sociocultural growth of Midland.

Standing up, you could feel the eyes of crowds searching you from head to toe, but none of them ever gave you the impression that someone was truly watching you.

At the exterior of the venue, there sneaked a young man with white, flowing hair and a pair of blue eyes. It was him. Griffith. He didn’t make his own presence clear before you, he covered his tracks very well. But, little did he know, you could peek at his silhouette from afar. Knowing he made his way past the guards with extreme caution showed his prowess in strategy and disarming opponents with great ease.

Yes, he just wanted to hear your speech. After all, knowing how someone would open up about a fraction of their lives would be crucial in undergoing one’s plan to achieving their dreams, yes?

This was your moment. You let out a deep breath and spoke clearly as you cleared your throat.

“Greetings, my beloved fellowmen. It’s been a pleasure having to meet with you all to this very moment.” you greeted the audience with a friendly, approachable tone. “Throughout this memorable day, I was able to discern all your prayers dedicated to me and my family, especially in honor of my father’s passing. As an inherent successor to the throne, I have maintained a significant awareness through the years that my people, spread far and wide throughout every continent and ocean in the world, were united to support me in the task to which I have now been dedicated with such solemnity.”

The muffled voice of your speech was rendered audible to Griffith from the outskirts of the palace. He was perhaps….fascinated by your rather….pushy attitude on things. It didn’t take long before he palmed the area between his hips, hiding such an unsightly appearance as he began to fantasize about you under his control. He wanted nothing more than to dissect you in every detail possible, to know your deepest fears and motives of having to rule such a flawed kingdom. But little did you know, was that he wanted this kingdom all to himself.

“The ceremonies you have seen today are ancient, but some of their origins are hidden in the mists of the past. Their spirit and meaning still rise from the flames of finiteness. Perhaps, they still shine more brightly than we’ve expected them to do so. I have pledged allegiance with all my heart that I shall lead this kingdom, uplifting it further to claiming a thousand more victories than you would ever anticipate. Throughout all my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust.”

Griffith’s eyes narrowed as he hid behind the doors alongside the two guards who were apparently slain before they could even fight back.

He wanted you.

And there was nothing more satisfying than breaking one of the strongest, most powerful women who once took an interest in the art of swordsmanship. But he would rather not challenge you to a duel; not because he underestimated your capabilities, but because he saw such barbaric acts to be unbefitting of a lady with high status.

An hour later, trumpets played as the Grim Reapers of the Battlefield were to be promoted as bodyguards, yes, bodyguards, of your kingdom. The King trusted you to this group of mercenaries who promised nothing short of protecting your integrity and wellbeing as the princess. But one thing’s for sure, it’s that their leader was bound to be missing.

You stepped down from the stage to observe your audience for any problems which may arise from the White Hawk’s absence.

“Wait, where’s Griffith? But he was just here about minutes ago!” Rickert exclaimed. “He can’t just be wandering out in the open like this! Griffith! Hang in there! We’re on our way!”

“Cut the crap.” Guts said, alerting his fellow comrades. “There must be a way to proceed with the ceremony without Griffith being of any concern.”

“But Guts-”

Recognizing and appreciating your bodyguards (or perhaps, some new friends) wasn’t all that bad. Perhaps you were intimidated by some of the mercenaries, but they played an integral part of your big day.

It was only one moment within that band that spooked you, it was the White Hawk revealing himself—it was Griffith. By that moment when Griffith claimed you to be his, you began to not take those words lightly and managed to develop a slight sense of fear. What did he exactly mean by that?

You brushed off your thoughts on the matter and shook hands with nearly all the members, with Griffith being an exception (obviously). Rumor has it that he’s still hiding where the sun doesn’t shine, covering his tracks in order to reveal himself before you in the very end.

And God forbid what kind of plans he had for you that night.

[bthump]

why do you think the murder of the little boy by guts when he was asked by griffits to kill his father is not adressed in the manga ?

Hm, I'm not sure what you mean actually because I feel like it was addressed in the manga.

It sent Guts into a self-loathing spiral, making him seek out Griffith and making him extra sensitive to Griffith's speech about dreams, leading to him leaving the Band of the Hawk.

Griffith gets his iconic reaction to hearing the news as well of course. And later on, when Griffith goes to Charlotte's room after Guts leaves, Charlotte cries about her dead family members including him.

It also means Griffith gets the throne of Midland when he marries Charlotte, as opposed to Adonis eventually inheriting when he comes of age, so it had a long-term impact on the plot.

Based on you describing it as murder I get the impression you feel Guts should have faced some greater or more direct repercussions for it?

But like, it was an accident so it's not like a huge villain moment for Guts or anything, and he felt pretty bad about it. And it's arguably the inciting incident that causes the whole tragedy of the Eclipse so there's a pretty major repercussion there, indirectly.

I don't feel anything more direct is really necessary myself, and might just come across as heavy handed to me.

Thanks for the ask!

[scotianostra]

On September 25th 1586 Mary Queen of Scots was moved to her final prison at Fotheringhay Castle.

Mary became Queen at six days old and, briefly, Queen of France at sixteen. As Henry VII’s great-granddaughter she had a strong claim to the English throne too; a stronger claim, depending on your point of view, than that of her cousin, Elizabeth, whose rule of England began in 1558. Forced to abdicate the Scottish throne in favour of her infant son, James, and subsequently flee the country, Mary sought refuge in England in 1568.

She was just twenty-five years old and was to spend the next nineteen years, as a captive guest of the English queen, in a succession of castles and manor houses in the north and midlands of England, most notably at the now largely invisible Sheffield Castle. Though treated as befitted her status, she was nonetheless a prisoner. She spent much time on embroidery and riding.

The problem with Mary was nothing to do with any feud between England and Scotland, nor on a personal level was it really a difference in religious dogma between Catholic Mary and Protestant Elizabeth: it was a simple matter of power. Many Catholics – including the king of England’s No 1 Enemy at the time, Spain – regarded Elizabeth as a bastard who should not be sitting on England’s throne at all. And Mary, with her claim to the title, became the focus of every Catholic plot – of which there were several – against Elizabeth.

Eventually, she was proven to have been involved in the Babington Plot, a plan to assassinate Elizabeth and replace her with Mary. The Queen of Scots was transferred to Fotheringhay in September 1586. Fotheringhay had held distinguished prisoners before, including during the reign of Elizabeth’s half-sister and predecessor, Mary, and in the distant past after the battles of Dunbar and Agincourt.

Mary was brought to Fotheringhay from Chartley in Staffordshire to stand trial for treason.The castle was set in a marshy landscape, where access was difficult, especially during the winter months.It was felt by the authorities that the unfortunate Scottish queen would be more secure at Fotheringhay, and the location would discourage any rash attempt to free her by force.

Mary was tried at the castle on 14th and 15th October 1587 in a show trial and predictably found guilty on 25th October - a foregone conclusion.

I shall take up the story again in a few weeks

[whencyclopedia]

Edward the Elder

Edward the Elder (r. 899-924) was the son of Alfred the Great (r. 871-899) and the King of the Anglo-Saxons in the early 10th century. He is known for his military victories over the Vikings of East Anglia and the East Midlands and for consolidating his dynasty's control over southern England.

In 865, about a decade before Edward was born, the Great Heathen Army invaded England, destroying the royal dynasties of several English kingdoms, including East Anglia, Mercia and Northumbria and establishing Viking rule across these territories. It fell upon Edward's father, King Alfred of Wessex, to lead the English resistance. He defeated the Vikings at the Battle of Edington in 878 and agreed to a peace treaty with their leader, Guthrum (d. 890), who retreated east to rule over much of the territory conquered by the great army, commonly referred to as 'The Danelaw'. Alfred would spend the next two decades fortifying Wessex, reforming the army and promoting learning and literacy amongst his subjects. He also brought Mercia under his overlordship, after which he took the title 'King of the Anglo-Saxons', denoting his rule over both the Mercians and the West Saxons.

Edward succeeded his father in 899. Most of what we know of his reign comes from a collection of land charters and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which presents him as a relentless and successful warrior-king. His epithet, 'the Elder', was not used during his life but was later used to distinguish him from his great-grandson, Edward the Martyr, King of England (r. 975-978). Though well-regarded as a ruler by medieval chroniclers and modern historians, Edward often remains in the shadow of his more illustrious father. However, there has been more interest in Edward recently due to the TV series The Last Kingdom, in which he is portrayed by Timothy Innes. Yet, the show depicts Edward as a king struggling to step out of his father's shadow, with many of his achievements being accredited to the show's protagonist, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.

Early Life

Edward was born c. 874-877. His parents, Alfred and Ealhswith (d. 902), a Mercian noblewoman, were married in 868. In addition to Edward, the couple had four more children: Aethelflaed (d. 918), who married the Ealdorman of Mercia and later ruled Mercia herself; Aethelgifu, who became the Abbess of Shaftesbury; Aelfthryth (d. 929) who married the Count of Flanders and another son, Aethelweard (d. 920). The earliest mention of Edward in contemporary sources comes from Bishop Asser – a Welsh priest and scholar at Alfred's court – in his work the Life of King Alfred. Asser recounts that Edward spent his youth at the king's court, studying religious and secular texts and was taught to show "humbleness, affability, and gentleness towards all." Edward was also trained in warfare, and while still in his teens, led the West Saxon army to victory over the Vikings at the Battle of Farnham in 893. Around the same time, he appears to have become a regular member of the king's council and married a woman named Ecgwynn, of whom we know little about, although the couple had a son, Aethelstan (d. 939), and a daughter, Edith.

Great Viking Army in England, 865-878 CE

Hel-hama (CC BY-SA)

In the final years of his father's reign, Edward was granted the title 'rex' (king), suggesting he had been appointed co-king alongside his father or, more likely, was given his own kingdom in Kent to provide him with experience ruling before he succeeded his father. Primogeniture (father-to-son succession) had not firmly been established in Wessex; succession was still elective to a certain degree, with the crown passing to the aetheling (prince), favoured by the nobility. Edward's main rival for the throne was his cousin Aethelwold (d. 902), the son of Alfred's brother, King Aethelred of Wessex (r. 865-871). As much of the West Saxon nobility owed their position to Alfred, they were naturally inclined to support Edward's succession, but his experience in warfare and royal administration went a long way to secure their support.

Continue reading...

[chorus-the-mutate]

This will probably never happen but I think it would be nice to see Guts and Casca's story culminating in them becoming the king and queen of Midland. Mainly because I think Guts' arc has always been about finding purpose and community in the world around him. And to see him prove himself worthy of an entire kingdom's trust and to find purpose in protecting these people in turn feels like the perfect end to his arc.

For Casca, becoming queen alongside Guts would not only be a nice new beginning for their relationship, it would be a great payoff for her character as well. Her arc has always been about her relationship with womanhood and how that effects her ability to gain agency for herself in a hostile world, her ability to protect herself and her relationship with power. If Casca became the Queen of Midland alongside Guts it would not only give her the permanent leadership position she deserves, it would also show that Guts and their people love and trust her enough to reign them all in when needed.

As for the Moonlight Boy, I like to believe that he would be saved from Griffith's grasp by his parents. And only then would he be able to gain the throne Griffith destroyed his family's lives for. Even if it there is a risk that the Moonlight Boy's relationship with the throne would be tinged with the trauma of being a mostly powerless vessel of Griffith, I think there's hope that he could find purpose as the next king.

It would also be a thematically fitting case of irony that Guts, Casca and the Moonlight Boy, three of Griffith's biggest living victims, would be the ones to reclaim their agency and their senses of purpose by stealing everything Griffith dreamed for. And with how Guts has come to learn the importance of community, how companionship and love tether him to his humanity, he would be a better king than Griffith could ever be.

[thecourtsofaenna]

⊱ 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 ⊰ The world of Aenna is based on Sarah J. Maas and two of her book series, "A Court of Thorns and Roses" and "Throne of Glass." A new world filled with fantasy and mystery is reborn. Choose where you hail from, whether the snowy Winter Court, the colorful Day Court, or the history-filled Midlands. There are eight courts to choose from, and more map areas will eventually be unlocked as mysteries are uncovered. (This server is a WIP; things are subject to change.) ⊱ 𝐖𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐎𝐔! ⊰ My staff team is small, and I am looking for people to assist me in worldbuilding and discord-building. There are many things to be worked on, and I am truly thankful for every small amount of help given! If you're interested in joining our team, I can provide more specifics on what needs to be done. If anyone is interested, please let me know and share this post!

[blackboar]

What exactly was William Hastings killed for? He did not receive a public trial, did he really cooperate with the Woodville family? Was he killed at the banquet or a week later?

Oh it was a coup and murder. He still likely received a hasty and rigged trial before.

I'm not very interested and versed in the debate concerning the exact timing of his execution; however, the why is very clear.

Richard decided to usurp the throne and depose his nephews. He had supporters: Lord Howard, the northern Peerage and gentry and more amazingly the only other duke besides himself: Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. Henry Stafford's support despite his seeming lack of relationship with Gloucester and his marriage link to the Woodville allowed the effect of surprise needed to capture Edward V and become the most powerful faction. The Woodville were a spent force by June 1483: Anthony Woodville and Richard Grey were in jail, Thomas was in exile, Edward Woodville failed to attract the royal fleet's support and the queen was secluded in Westminster Abbey.

Hence why the accusation from Richard that Hastings was plotting with the queen was a bit ludicrous: What is there to plot with? They're all in exile or in jail. They can't raise levies in the short term or do a strike attack. Hastings had serious squabbles with both the queen and Dorset, and there was no reason for him to support them over Gloucester, with whom he had a cordial relationship. I get people who say that he was afraid of either Gloucester's rise or Buckingham gaining importance but this isn't enough for him to do a speedy 180° turn back to a family he hurt and with whom he has some serious land feud.

The most probable conclusion was that he was killed because Gloucester wanted to overthrow his liege's heirs. Hastings couldn't accept that alongside the probable civil war it would trigger, which would destroy Edward IV's legacy. There is the theory that Hastings was plotting to block Gloucester's usurpation but I don't believe it considering he was utterly caught by surprise at the Council.

But why kill him by surprise and so quickly?

Richard knows Hastings' role in the Edwardian regime. He is the figurehead of the Household and most non-Woodville-related supporters. He is also a big source of manpower that was instrumental in Edward IV's triumph in 1471. From his lands and his personal retinue in the Midlands, Michael Hicks calculated he could raise thousands of men (I do not have his book with me so from my recollection it's either 3,000 or 8,000 men). Hastings is the king's friend, well-connected, popular and with a good military record and great control as Chamberlain over the Royal Household. In other words: he is a key player and a dangerous one on top of that.

But his fatal flaw is that he wields institutional power more than feudal power. He's powerful because he's the king's friend, his chamberlain and well-connected to his household and various official of the council. His son doesn't have the same connections. That's why Hastings disappearing is so attractive to Richard: he does not have an heir with enough might to avenge him as Edward IV did for his father.

Hence why I don't think that Richard even asked whether he would be open to Edward V's deposition. He couldn't afford a no and lost the effect of surprise. So he just went for it, struck before Hastings realized his intentions and executed him before his friends and servants could react.

Afterward he made his peace with Hastings' son by not attaining the father and seizing his lands. Edward Hastings was simply too young and not connected and experienced enough to pose a genuine threat to Richard.

So to sum up: I don't think he was cooperating with the Woodvilles and he was clearly killed because he could become an opponent to the usurpation that would happen soon after his death.

Thanks for the question!

[so-many-ocs]

It was the night of Princess Estelle’s sixteenth birthday and, coincidentally, the beginning of the end of her life.

hey so ummmmm you can read the first chapter of my upcoming lgbtq+ young adult fantasy novel for free, right now!!! the full thing comes out november 20th of THIS YEAR (wowza) and you can find more info (summary, content warnings, etc.) here! thanks!

[so-many-ocs-ocs]

they’re not pretending

[ricardian-werewolf]

Ruleth England Under a Hogge

Chapter 3: Thus Saith the Lord

Summary:

Richard is forced at knife-point to come to terms with what his reign has meant for his only surviving child. Ensconced in the safety of engagement, Cecily finally gets associated with Ravka, its people, and the king's mysterious ailment that has come to her through unofficial channels only.

Notes:

TWS: Discussion of Eugenics, Fascism, murder, domestic violence, serious mental illness.

Tagging: @lordbettany @dreadbirate @rovinglemon

Waterloo Station.

Richard could only watch in wide-eyed horror as his daughter’s train pulled from the station without him.

Blood - from such a small cut! - spilled from his chest in rivulets. The armor had shattered the blade’s tip, yes, but the wound had still been made. His facade of indomitable strength had collapsed. Yet, only slightly. He had to make this a rallying cry, a declaration of war against Cecily and her household-to-be. Rubbing his forehead, Richard stepped into the shade of an alcove as his blackshirts swarmed to protect their king. Ripping open his shirt, he grimaced. The armor that his daughter had so assumed was merely an undershirt. The blade she wielded had been rusted by years of Flanders soil and so cracked when plunged into his flesh. Richard examined the wound a moment more then buttoned his shirt and tightened his tie. At once, breaking through the crowd, James Tyrell - a rat faced man with wicked eyes, came to his side. “Should we stop the train, your Grace? Have Cecily hauled back to London and tried as a pariah ought?”

If Tyrell had been expecting a yes , he was shortly and sorely mistaken. Richard gave him a dark look and then, backhanded Tyrell across the cheek. The silver of the signet ring on his pinky slashing a cut into the soft flesh. Before the man could think to cry out, Richard leaned yet closer and grabbed Tyrell’s collar.

“She will be allowed the decency to escape. Let her survive in a court where she knows not the language or customs. Soon, the errors of her sins will have her kneeling at my feet. With luck, I’ll have the foresight to cleave her head from her shoulders.” Chewing on a hangnail, Richard adjusted the lapels of his cape and strode across the station to his waiting car. He’d stood here just a few years ago, welcoming the young princes from their safe-havens. Then, he’d murdered them himself and the throne was his.

Settled in his seat, only then did Richard realize that Jeeves had fled. Seemingly operating on other orders, the long-suffering valet had rid himself of Richard’s pins, protection, and all honor. Sniffing, Richard lit himself a cigarette and watched the city-scape of London roll by. He had an upcoming dinner with the German ambassador to worry about. France’s attempts at Fascism had been so poorly accepted with the February 6th coup d’etat that Richard’s hopes of seeing a 4th Republic France bearing the Fasces was dashed. He had put money and hopes into L’Émeute des vétérans succeeding. But with this counter-revolt fought back by the anti-fascist parasites popping up all over France, fear began to coil in his gut. Maybe he would have the East End torched again. Another round-up of the new immigrants. Go about breaking down doors and hauling out dissenters. The camps in the midlands needed more…

Labor . Opening his briefcase handed to him that morning by his private secretary, Richard skimmed through telegrams, missives and more pieces of statecraft. However, his hand paused when he settled on a simple cream folder of manila titled simply:

Gnadentod.

England had a long history of Eugenics worming its way into the lexicon of the society, bolstered by Social Darwinisim, empirical superiority and blatant racism. Yet, this was more insidious, beneath the surface. And Richard had been the one to ignite it. Not to save his own wretched, twisted soul, but for Cecily’s. If the government and the state came for others, maybe they would overlook her. Maybe the deaths of thousands of other feeble-minded children and adults who weren’t adding much to the gene pool - more so polluting it - would save Cecily from the surgeon’s scalpel and reaper’s scythe. 

He could live with it. Perhaps he would even go and witness some of the roundups. Make speeches. Every word spoke to rile a hungry crowd of animals who wanted these people dead. Dissenters would be crushed. He could do that. All of it was just actions. Death took and took, distinguishing not the sinner or the saint. But as long as Cecily breathed, he was content. He would look the other way when mothers screamed at him to return their children. Let them take that grief unto their shoulders, a burden that would no doubt crush them like fine glass.

“Where to, your Grace?” His driver asked.

Richard grimaced. He could go after Cecily, break her into pieces no bigger than his thumbnail and feed her bones to his pigs, or he could stay. Staying behind meant continuing to drag England kicking and screaming into the era that it deserved. Losing Cecily meant that she could be easily corrupted by the Eastern influences of Communism. Yet, she was already far too mired in that mindset. He hadn’t been blind to her childhood training sessions in the East end, nor had he raised a brow at her reading The Daily Worker and The Communist Manifesto . What had come to a head was the General Strike of 1926, which Richard had brought out the police to crush. The army had given support, and veterans once more tore one another to pieces with bullet and bayonet. Cecily had been 26 at that point, and he’d spotted her amongst the strikers. A misplaced bullet to the spine would have cut her down. The shot misfired. The shooter was killed publicly outside of Saint Paul’s, and Cecily had been packed off to Middleham for the rest of the year. The public had howled hopelessly for their beloved Princess’s return, what with Edward’s death still so fresh-

Richard flinched . He’d not meant to kill his son. But the urge to, the sight of him so drunk and so stupid , had guided his hand. He regretted it, but not in the way a normal father might. He regretted killing such a fine piece on the chessboard of power. Edward had been set up to wed with one of Heinrich Himmler’s daughters, and that alcoholism had developed as a result. Something simply had to be done. Richard had taken the blade and the action. It would have been perfect only had Cecily not been there to see it. The shock of it, thank god, blotted out the incident to mere hazy fragments. Combined with the affects of her constant morphine usage to wipe out the memories of the trenches, she was in no place to remember much of anything . She’d been packed off to bed and in the morning taken up to Oxford as a surprise. There, she’d been stuck in Saint Hilda’s College and given the option to Read History.

She’d sprung at the chance. Richard had doubted that Cecily would survive her first term. She’d come out with first class honors in modern history. He’d hoped she would have failed her first year examinations. Yet, somehow… she’d not. Perhaps it was just stubbornness or anger or… His gaze turned to the window, which beyond lay the empty platform that’d borne the train to Os Alta via Berlin. Some part of him, that old fear, rose its ugly head. There was another reason for her survival. Something that had carried her through the years of pain, of misery. Nursed her wounds when everyone else had turned their back. Lehzen hadn’t been brought in until her breakage in 1929. This wasn’t some sort of childish affection, nursed between two young people. Love. True, affectionate feeling between two people who’d never met, yet written letters of a sort for years . The letter Nikolai had written to Cecily as an official opening couldn’t have been her first. Somehow, they must’ve figured out how to write while ignoring the censors. Richard gritted his teeth so hard that he heard the golden crowns of his back molars crack . Shaking his head, he pressed a hand to his brow and sighed. His driver waited with wide, expectant eyes. He still hadn’t given an order on where they were to go yet. Grumbling, he spoke:

“The Senate House.”

“Right away, your Grace.”

The car leaped at once into motion. The procession of armored cars, Rolls Royces and a motorcade all followed swiftly after their king. It was, he noted, uncannily close to how a hunting procession closed in on the prey. His fingers fiddled wordlessly with the wedding band. As the car moved silently through the streets of the City, he thought hopelessly of a woman with striking ginger hair and blazing green eyes that could arrest even the fairest of souls. However, within that love and longing, burned a hatred and a hunger to see her again. She’d once held a knife to his throat when the darkness had begun to whisper sweet words in his ears, and he’d laughed her off.

Now, he wanted her like some sort of starving animal. He’d exiled her to the furthest reaches of the empire, a place not even where his best spies could reach. She’d gone too, with his own lady mother. Good riddance to both of them, he’d cried to the air at the time. But now? 11 years had passed since he’d killed the princes. Cecily probably didn’t remember her mother nor her Grandmother. He hoped she didn’t. Desperately. How he hoped with all his heart that Anne Neville had met a painful ending on some foreign shore. How he hungered for their confirmations of death.

His fingers rubbed over the wedding band again, and he tugged it off. Holding it in his palm, he regarded the inscription. Loyaulte Me Lie. Richard rolled down the window as they were roaring over the Tower bridge, and tossed the tiny ring with its emerald jewels into the roaring swell of the Thames. Let some mudlarker find it. He would not let the past bind him to his sins. 

He settled back in his seat and uncorked a hip flask of malmsey wine which he sipped. The honeyed sweetness settled easily on his tongue and he sighed. Such was the life of a king.

Death followed him, sinking its claws into his shoulders and twisting his spine. Leaning back, Richard closed his eyes.

Not even sleep would bring him the peace of the virtuous.

Arriving in Ravka by train was an experience Cecily wasn’t used to. 

Her father’s diesel monstrosity pulled in at the central station inside Os Alta’s modern expansion sometime after the 10th morning bell. Cecily found herself being swept through crowds of passengers and tourists by two well-dressed army soldiers. Her trunks and bags weren’t torn apart for illicit items, instead gently inspected by two purple clad fellows that she knew were Grisha who were able to meld materials and chemicals. Refugees from the expanses of Ravka dealing with some sort of blight crowded the cow-pens, snarling at the customs officials about what the king was doing to address these issues. Cecily struggled to not clap her hands over her ears as the noise reached a deafening pitch.

“Your papers were pre-cleared, Moya Tsarevna, ” One of the soldiers murmured as he lifted a velvet cord and passed her off to his partner, who brought Cecily through a wooden side door. Quiet murmurs followed in her footsteps as the general Ravkans cast words over their new queen’s attire and hesitancy. Cecily turned to look back at them, noting the gold-work and architecture of a station built on the blind hopes of the Sun Summoner tearing down the Fold. The waiting refugees noted her in more detail, seeing the stag emblems on her coat and the armband at her arm. Some crossed themselves and murmured the royal prayer of Ravka, while others made signs of warding. 

She was a pariah and a Queen in one moment. How the tables turned. 

“W-what’s he like?” Cecily asked as she was nudged into a motor-car. The taller of the two soldiers, wearing a uniform more ornate than the other, asked;

“Who?”

“His Majesty, The Tsar.”

“Ah.” The man’s eyes glittered. “Eccentric. But, I sense you’ll be a good match.”

Cecily’s stomach twisted into knots as the car lurched forward in a cloud of blue smoke and roared through the streets. Cars hadn’t come fully to Ravka yet, and as such many peasants and nobles alike preferred horse and carriages as transport and conveyance. 

“The capital is set to get trams by the new year. See, Moya Tsarevna .” 

“Really?” Cecily breathed, craning her head. Her hat, affixed with a simple peacock feather and tilted brim, was clamped tight in her hand. She didn’t want it to blow off, and muss up her hair. She leaned out of the car and noted the cobbled streets that were being laid with tram-track. Her eyes widened in joy and delight at the blatant communist hammer and sickle draped from an apartment building and she looked out again for any signs of fascism. 

She finally remembered the officer’s name at last - Dominik Vertov, and turned to him, asking innocently: “Has fascism made its way to Ravka?”

“Not before you, your highness.” 

Cecily’s lips thinned and her hand slipped to the silver boar pin on her lapel. Of course. She wasn’t here just for marriage or to escape. Fascism had to spread to the people in order for this to work. But Nikolai must’ve had to know of her dissidence…

Unless he too harbored ideas of fascism? That thought made her shudder with barely contained fear. Returning her gaze to the window, Cecily watched walls of white stone rise up around them. They clattered through a former portcullis, over a stone bridge of the same dazzling white, and entered a whole different world. Where the outer ring of the city was similar to many of the villages her train had passed through, this was a city of well-paved streets, gardens and parks. Fountains gushing clean water marked central squares and she could see the signs and advertisements of department stores in the corner of her eye. No telephone poles reached skywards, nor telegraph lines, and she saw many homes with quiet mews behind their houses to store cars and buggies. 

“The palace gates are just ahead.” 

“Is this a Vauban construction?” Cecily craned her head up to regard the walls of this older city, noting the structure and almost star-like shape of the outer wall. Dominik’s gaze slid to the driver, who blinked in welcome surprise. 

“Yes, Moya Tsarevna. It was constructed sometime in the late 17th century, before Vauban died.” 

“He came this far east? Remarkable.” Cecily adjusted her cape’s collar. At her side, Lehzen squeezed her hand forcefully. Cecily smoothed over a yelp of pain and shot her governess a dark glare. She had been behind Cecily since they’d stepped off the train. She had no idea where her two friends from Berlin had gone. “I thought you were supposed to stay in London.” She murmured softly. Lehzen’s eyes glittered as she leaned forward and tapped Cecily’s chin with a clawed finger. Forget the dragon of a nursery story - Lehzen was a Goliath creature that would drag Cecily-Anne kicking and screaming into this Fascist idealization of a wedding. What was worst of all, however, awaited her in her trunks.

Staring down at the black uniform, Cecily bit back nausea. At her side, the two people she’d made the stop in Berlin to collect regarded the uniform with varying levels of disgust and horror. The man at her left lit a cigarette and tugged it from his lips. The woman to her right knelt before the trunk and fidgeted with the birch-wood edging. 

“Did… you pack this?” 

“No.” Cecily shook her head. “I didn’t ask for this. It’s…” She sighed and pinched her nose-bridge, causing her glasses to fall to the floor with a clatter . The man bent down to pick them up and Cecily smiled.

“Thank you, Gereon.” She murmured, wishing for the ability to speak German with no one able to understand them. Yet, Lehzen did, and her maids that she’d brought for Cecily did too. Gereon gave her a half smile, and returned to smoking his cigarette. At Cecily’s side, the woman - Charlotte - lifted the uniform from the trunk between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Well.” She examined the jacket and the skirt, noting the collar points on the jacket. Disgust marred her face. If any of them had their way, this would be kindling in the fireplace. Cecily longed to throw it there, but she knew exactly what would happen if Lehzen found out. Her back hurt enough already. More wounds would only worsen the mess that this was.

She examined herself in the mirror as Charlotte held up the offensive uniform. She’d worn the armband before, and hated it. Yet, this… this was different. The symbol wasn’t the flash. It wasn’t blue on white.

It was black on a white circle.

There was no lightning bolt, no reassurance of the monstrous that she wore was familiar. Fear curdled her tongue. Looking at Gereon, she whipped off her glasses and pressed her palms to her stinging eyes. She wavered on her feet for a moment, then almost pitched sideways.

Charlotte’s hand to her arm caught her. Cecily fell against the taller woman, sobbing. “I-I-” She breathed. “I can’t do this.” She wept. “I can’t meet him wearing that ! He’ll think I'm a monster, already corrupted.” Hysteria crept into her voice and she pressed her streaming eyes against Charlotte’s shoulder blade. 

“Or not.” Gereon reminded. “He has been writing to you since you were children.” He lifted her face and wiped her streaming eyes with a tissue. “I’m certain that he knows deep down, instinctively, that you wear a monster’s pelt because not out of following orders or some other benign, innate excuse to uphold the status quo.” He paused to give the armband a dirty, rage-filled look. 

“But because you, until now, have been offered no other choice .”

“No other choice?” She breathed.

“You were twenty-one when your father took the throne, yes?”

“Yes.” Cecily hiccuped as Charlotte fed her sips of tea from a crystal glass. “It was a few months after you and I met.” She turned her head to let Charlotte wipe her eyes more clearly, and stared at herself in the mirror. 

“Why does the flash not invoke the same response?”

“I believe you know why.” Charlotte murmured. Cecily nodded mutely. Of course she knew why . The fact it had been the symbol of English Fascism after the white rose was derided by her father wasn’t lost on her. She’d grown used to the symbol slowly. Like being boiled alive in a cooking pot as if she was some sort of amphibious creature. Too hot, and the panic would set in. A slow boil, and she would be dead before she could even scream. 

It had taken her mother, her grandmother, and her siblings. She was the last surviving woman in her family, the last child of her father’s lineage. 

And by that record, if she died, the female Plantagenet line died with her. So, she once more tempered the rage that roared within her to become banked coals, and steered herself to be dressed. The uniform was laid at the foot of her bed and she watched out of the corner of her eye as Gereon and Charlotte beat a hasty retreat. Lehzen and her ladies came in from the dressing room mere moments later.

“Now then.” Lehzen clapped her hands together. “Let’s get this over with.”

Loyalty binds me . Cecily thought numbly as she cast her gaze to the massive gold double-headed Eagle of Ravka that stood over the fireplace. She examined its claws, which held three arrows in one claw and the Tsar’s mace in the other. She wondered if the arrows being tied with the three ribbons of the Grisha orders meant anything. 

I am the monster. The monster is me .

I have brought Ravka’s darkness upon us.

Cecily did not open her eyes as Lehzen and her maids dressed her. She felt her hair being lifted from the nape of her neck to be crimped and waved. The sharp stink of aerosol spray hit her nose and she winced. A smack to her face stilled her. Her eyes popped open. Between the gaggle of liveried servants and Lehzen’s sharp face, Cecily caught sight of a ginger-haired woman pacing the expanse of her sitting room.

“W-who’s that?” She coughed.

Lehzen froze dead. Her face turned the color of spoiled milk, and she looked at the head maid in wide-eyed fear. Speaking rapidly in German, she hastened to the other maids. “Who let her in?”

“I did.” A voice rang out, distinctly masculine.

Cecily’s eyes, which she’d squeezed shut again, popped open. Standing in the doorway to her sitting room was none other than Nikolai Lantsov. He wore a simple black linen shirt and a richly embroidered waistcoat that hugged his waist nicely. His legs were clad in black velvet breeches embroidered with fire-lilies that flowed up the sides. He didn’t wear any stockings, allowing his calves to show off nicely in the summer warmth, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows. Standing where he was with his hands pushing the doors of her room open, anyone would have swooned dead away.

Cecily merely grimaced.

She allowed Lehzen to button up the blasted coat and to stick her feet into a pair of jackboots. She couldn’t look him in the eye as the maid tightened the armband around her arm. Yet, she saw the way Nikolai’s jaw locked and his eyes smoldered with rage.

“Please, leave.” Cecily ordered the maids and Lehzen, who gave her a dark glare. However, amazingly, she assented . Cecily watched Lehzen reach for her sewing kit and sweep the maids out. As soon as the pocket doors had snapped shut, Cecily tugged the armband off, and kicked off the jackboots. 

Gereon’s words swam in her mind. 

Until now, You have been offered no other choice.

Looking him finally in the eye, Cecily calculated the mental load that seeing his betrothed wearing the uniform of the national socialists would cause. Nikolai’s eyes narrowed as he watched her throw the armband across the room, and his face cracked just enough for a smile.

“I had a suspicion that the portrait of you with your father wasn’t all you.” He murmured. Cecily’s eyes widened in welcome, if somewhat shocked surprise. He suspected beyond mere imagery? She was going to faint if he continued down this line of flattery that would have her no doubt throwing the engagement ring at his feet. 

“Who is that with you?” She asked as she cleared her throat to distract him from the rising blush on her cheeks. She leaned slightly to catch sight of the ginger-haired woman, wondering briefly if it was the Tailor Genya Safin or someone of the palace servants. Her gaze however, did not deceive her with created lies. As Nikolai stepped aside, Cecily found herself face to face with an almost mirror image of herself, yet with ginger hair instead of inky black, and emerald eyes instead of blue. Her face was set the same as Cecily’s, with the same small lips and fragile features, though the woman’s eyes burned with the same fire of small-sized righteousness.

“Cecily?” The woman whispered. “Cecily-Anne?” She came forward with the hesitant steps of one unsure of herself, and fell still at Cecily’s wide-eyed glance. Some part of her burned with angry tears, for it recognized the woman ‘ere her. That recognition was wrong , of someone she had not seen since her 5th nameday, a woman and name cursed never to be spoken or seen of again. She briefly remembered the sight of images of the woman before her being put to the torch, and her father’s tears over such a crime. But, then came the rewritings of love ballads containing her name, and even whole histories. “Anne Neville.” Cecily breathed wordlessly. “Mama.” The word slid from her lips without any attempts to check herself, and she startled at the sound. She’d not once cried for her mother since she had been five. Now… she was faced with the sight of her, clad in this monstrosity of cloth.

“My sweet, darling girl.” Anne reached up to touch Cecily’s face and Cecily jerked back, frightened. What was this all meaning? Had Nikolai captured her mother as a bargaining chip to ensure her marriage, had she hurt her? Had he gotten her grandmother as well? Had he tortured them? Hurt them in any way?

“Y-you monster!” She screamed, light crackling across her flesh like a whip-crack. She lurched forward, intent on doing anything, something to the Tsar. Maybe ripping his eyes out? Yes . Tear those pretty eyes from his skull and run him through with your knife . The monstrous voice within her chorused, baying for blood. The light within her surged and she rushed Nikolai, her hands locking around his throat, when the light within her exploded out in a blinding flash , and suddenly all went black. Looking down into his face, her fingers so close to the pupils she could see them dilate, her eyes widened as his eyes bloomed black , and his teeth sharpened to become jagged shadows.

What in the hell am I getting myself into? She thought hopelessly as the light exploded out of her a second time, and sent her flying through the air. She hit the ceiling with a sickening crunch , and fell back to the floor. Inky darkness swooped in on her, cradling her form with tender fingers, and she gave in easily. The pain of it all was simply too much to handle.

Distantly, she was conscious of two things - the first being that her mother was alive, and the second being that Nikolai was not all he seemed.

End of Chapter 3. 

[jedimaesteryoda]

Griffith is Satan: Berserk and Paradise Lost

Griffith, the antagonist of the series appears like a Christ-like figure to humankind as the Hawk of Light to guide humanity on a path to salvation. Look closer, and he is actually Satan from Paradise Lost: a complex and subtle character who cuts across a grand majestic figure. 

Mule refers to him as “a morning star” and it is said when Griffith faces Ganeshka “He who bears light exists in the deepest shadow,” both referring to Lucifer’s names translated to as “morning star” and “light bearer.”

“And with might wings, outspread

Dove-like sat brooding in the vast abyss”

Satan is described as physically beautiful, and often the most beautiful of God’s Angels, while Griffith is noted for his angelic beauty, and his demon form given to him in the Abyss has a pair of wings.

Both their falls can be attributed to suffering the same fatal flaw: the sin of pride with Satan aspiring to God's throne and Griffith aspiring to the Midland throne.

“Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host

Of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring

To set himself in glory above his peers

He trusted to have equalled the Most High”

“To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

In adamantine chains and penal fire

. . .

but his doom

Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought

Both of lost happiness and lasting pain

Torments him”

Lucifer lost God's favor and him and his legions were cast from Heaven into hell where he was bound by chains and tormented. Griffith likewise lost the King of Midland’s favor, and was sent to the dungeons below ground to be chained and tormented with his army also driven out of Midland. That is not to say that Griffith later finds himself in literal Hell with his followers.

"Satan from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf

Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd

This night the human pair, how he designes

In them at once to ruin all mankind."

. . .

"The fall of others from like state of bliss;

By violence, no, for that shall be withstood,

But by deceit and lies; this let him know,"

Griffith later escapes the Abyss as Satan does, and returns to Earth. He comes to corrupt humanity, uniting them behind his banner using deceit and lies. Satan gets humanity kicked out of Eden into the wilderness, endangered by the wild beasts. Griffith destroys humanity’s paradise by breaking the boundary between the Astral and Physical Planes, throwing humanity into the “wilderness” with the threat of many dangerous magical beings. In contrast to Satan, he creates his own version of Paradise through Falconia, but it requires submission to his rule, or he basically gatekeeps his own Eden. 

Satan took possession of a serpent while Griffith took possession of the body of Gasca and Guts’s son when he came to Eden to corrupt mankind, and like Satan, Griffith targeted the woman, Casca, in the Abyss and does so again.

(Pictured: Pandemonium by John Martin and Falconia)

“Anon out of the earth a fabric huge

Rose like an exhalation, with the sound

Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet—

Built like a temple, where pilasters round

Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid

With golden architrave; nor did there want

Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven;

The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon

Nor great Alcairo such magnificence

Equalled in all their glories”

Falconia, Griffith’s capital, rising from the ground brings to mind the capital of Hell and demons in Paradise Lost: Pandaemonium, the same name as the domed structure where apostles reside. It also shares elements like a temple-like structure with Doric pillars and embossed sculptures and pilasters that “doesn’t appear to be made by man at all.”

“Over the dark Abyss, whose boiling Gulf

Tamely endur'd a Bridge of wondrous length

From Hell continu'd reaching th' utmost Orbe

Of this frail World; by which the Spirits perverse

With easie intercourse pass to and fro

To tempt or punish mortals”

But of course, there is something else. Satan with Sin and Death built a bridge connecting hell and earth, allowing demons to come to earth to tempt mortals and bring them to hell. Griffith by having the World Tree bridge the Astral and Physical realms, allowing monsters and spirits to come to the world.

Humanity seems doomed, however not all is lost. Satan tempts Adam and Eve who like the only survivors of the Eclipse are a man and woman: Guts and Casca. 

"This was that caution giv'n thee; be advis'd.

God made thee perfet, not immutable;

And good he made thee, but to persevere

He left it in thy power, ordaind thy will

By nature free, not over-rul'd by Fate

Inextricable, or strict necessity;

Our voluntarie service he requires,

Not our necessitated, such with him

Finds no acceptance, nor can find, for how

Can hearts, not free, be tri'd whether they serve

Willing or no, who will but what they must

By Destinie, and can no other choose?"

"Because we freely love, as in our will

To love or not; in this we stand or fall:

And Som are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n,

And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell; O fall

From what high state of bliss into what woe!"

This is practically what Flora says.

One of the themes of Paradise Lost is also a major theme of Berserk: predestination vs free will with Milton being against the idea of predestination. As emphasized by Gedfring telling Guts he has a choice of what to make his fury whether it be "the breath that keeps you alive or the hellfire that consumes you within," at the end of the day, people still have free will, and it is in love that we stand or fall. Guts's love for Casca and his relationships end up being what save him in the end.

[une-sanz-pluis]

The argument that the prince was attempting to achieve his aims by some form of coercion receives support from Walsingham’s description of the manner of his entry into London. There is, however, no indication of the precise composition of his band of supporters. Was it in any sense an army? It has sometimes been assumed that the prince was raising troops in the Midlands during June, and that his letter contains a positive admission that he was doing so. An examination of the text shows that this assumption is unwarranted. The prince claimed that he had been given permission to assemble a certain number of men; that he considered his allocation to be inadequate; and that he withdrew to Coventry to discuss ways of increasing his contingent. He did not, however, say that he actually levied the forces allegedly assigned to him. There are grounds for disbelieving at least some of his statements, but it does not thereby follow that the prince assembled an army either before or after his arrival in the midlands. It also seems significant that although Walsingham takes pains to describe the imposing nature of the prince’s entourage, he seems equally careful to avoid giving the impression that it was in any way military in character. His observation that it was a gathering ‘qualis non antea visa fuerat hiis diebus [such as had not been seen before in those days]’ cannot have been intended to suggest that it was the largest army seen in England in living memory. It is far more likely that he was inferring that no-one could remember seeing anyone enter London with a greater personal following. It seems best to conclude that while there may have been forces somewhere in England in June which owed allegiance to the prince, they did not play any direct role in the political crisis of that month. This conclusion obviously has some bearing upon the question of what the prince hoped to achieve by his show of strength. For instance, it militates against the claim that he entered London with the specific intention of forcing his father to abdicate. If he had been determined to make the king surrender the throne, he must have been aware, since the frustrations of the parliament of 1411, that he could not hope to achieve his aim without resorting to armed force. It is not likely that the prince would have attempted a military coup unless he believed that it was certain to succeed, and it therefore seems reasonable to assume that if this had been his intention, he would have come to London with an army so substantial that no chronicler who described it could have left his readers in any doubt as to its nature.

Peter McNiven, "Prince Henry and the English Political Crisis of 1412", History, vol. 65, no. 213 (1980)