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anonymousewrites · 3 months ago

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Pearl of the Sea Chapter Twenty-Four

Found Family! PoTC Cast x Teen! Reader

Platonic! Will Turner, Elizabeth Swann, Jack Sparrow, Tia Dalma x Reader

Chapter Twenty-Four: Parleying with Beckett

Summary: The pirates name a king, and they meet their enemy face-to-face.

Bang!

All of the brawling pirates froze and looked up at (Y/N), who glared at them all with pistol in hand. “Would you all get your heads out of your bloody arses and focus?” The pirates just blinked.

(Y/N) hopped down from the table and gestured to the crowd. “All yours, Barbossa.”

Barbossa nodded approvingly and cleared his throat. “It was the First Court what imprisoned Calypso. We should be the ones to set her free. And in her gratitude, she will see fit to grant us boons.”

(Y/N) seriously doubted that, but they believed she deserved freedom, so they weren’t going to point that out.

“What boons? Your boons? Utterly deceptive twaddle-speak, says I,” said Jack.

He obviously had a history with Tia Dalma, so his own safety was on the line when it came to Calypso, so (Y/N) couldn’t blame him for speaking out.

“If you have a better alternative, please share,” said Barbossa.

“Cuttlefish,” said Jack.

Everyone looked at Jack like he was crazy (a definite possibility at this point).

“Aye,” said Jack. “Let us not, dear friends, forget out dear friends, the cuttlefish. Flipping glorious little sausages. Pen them up together, they’ll devour each other without a second thought. Human nature, isn’t it? Or…or fish nature. So, yes, we could hole up here well-provisioned and well-armed. Half of us would be dead within the month.”

He had a rough start, but this is the smartest thing Jack’s ever said, thought (Y/N).

“Which seems quite grim to me, any way you slice it,” said Jack. “Or, as my learned colleague so naively suggests, we can release Calypso, and we can pray she will be merciful. I rather doubt it. Can we pretend she’s anything other than a woman scorned like which fury hell hath not? We cannot.��

I’m still up for freeing Calypso, but our survival is important, I guess, considered (Y/N). Still, though…they could risk it. Maybe that was the sea pulling at them.

“Res ipsa loquitur, tabula in naufragio,” said Jack. “We are left with but one option. I agree with, and I cannot believe the words coming out of me mouth, Captain Swann. We must fight.”

“You’ve always run away from a fight!” said Barbossa.

“Have not,” said Jack, frowning.

“Have so.”

“Have not.”

“Have so.”

“Have not!”

“You have so, and you know it.”

“Have not. Slander and calumny.” Jack raised his chin. “I have only ever embraced the oldest and noblest of pirate traditions. I submit here now that is what we all must do: we must fight to run away.”

Are we back to nonsense?

“Aye!” said all the pirates as if it made sense.

“As per the code, an act of war, and this be exactly that, can only be decided by the pirate king,” said Barbossa.

“You made that up,” said Jack.

“Did I, now?” said Barbossa. “I call on Cap’n Teague, keeper of the code.”

Jack paled at the suggestion.

The Arabian pirate nudged his companion, who cleared his throat and spoke for him. “Sri Sumbhajee proclaims this all to be folly. Hang the code. Who cares a—”

Bang!

The speaker fell back with a bullet through his skull.

Everyone looked down the table to find a captain in a red coat blowing smoke from his pistol. Captain Teague had made himself known.

“Code is the law,” said Teague.

Everyone sat down in their seats, not wanting his ire. He walked towards the table and came up behind Jack.

“You’re in my way, boy,” said Teague.

Jack quickly moved out of the way, and Teague waved with his hand. Two elderly pirates brought a large, thick book to the table.

The code, identified (Y/N).

Teague whistled, and a dog that felt familiar walked forward with a keyring in its mouth. Teague took the key and unlocked the book.

“The dog, how did he—” Pintel and Ragetti stared.

“Sea turtles, mate,” said Teague, opening the book.

“Sea turtles,” repeated Ragetti in awe.

I’ve heard that story before, thought (Y/N).

“Barbossa is right,” confirmed Teague, consulting the code.

“Hang on a minute,” said Jack, reading over his shoulder. “ ‘It shall be the duties, as the king, to declare war, parley with shared adversaries…’ Fancy that.”

“There has not been a king since the First Court,” said the French lord. “And that’s not likely to change.”

“Not likely,” said Teague, walking back to a chair and picking up a guitar while keeping an eye on the proceedings.

“Why not?” said Elizabeth.

“See, the pirate king is elected by popular vote,” said Gibbs.

“And each pirate only ever votes for himself,” said Barbossa.

“I call for a vote!” said Jack, not caring for all the pessimism.

Everyone groaned.

“I vote for Ammand the Corsair,” said one pirate lord.

“Captain Chevaille, the penniless Frenchman,” said the French lord.

I guess they really do vote for themselves, thought (Y/N).

“Sri Sumbhajee votes for Sri Sumbhajee,” said his speaker.

“Mistress Ching,” said the Chinese lord.

“Gentlemen Jocard,” said the African lord.

“Elizabeth Swann,” said Elizabeth.

“Barbossa,” said Barbossa.

“Vallenueva!” said the Spanish lord.

The last one to speak was Jack, and everyone sat back as they waited for him to vote for himself.

Jack grinned. “Elizabeth Swann.”

“What?” said Elizabeth, and Barbossa’s face fell in shock that repeated around the room.

“I know. Curious, isn’t it?” said Jack.

He grinned at (Y/N), who smiled back. Whatever stupid deals he was involved in and would double-cross and then remake and then mess up again, at least he’d done this right. He had his moments, and that’s why (Y/N) was still fond of him and didn’t want to run him through themself.

A clamor rose in the rest of the pirates. Several shouted at Jack to change his vote to be for them now that it was established one of them wouldn’t vote for themselves. Others were saying this was foolish and that the vote should be thrown out—mostly just outrage at not being the one picked to be Pirate King.

(Y/N) crossed their arms in annoyance at the squabble. Were no pirates capable of shutting up and getting business done? “Are you all ignoring the code now?” Their eyes flicked to Teague, knowing that would get his attention.

Sure enough, his head snapped up, and the guitar music broke off. Everyone stared at him, glanced at the pistol at his hip, and smartly decided to sit back down and shut up.

“Oh, good, you’re listening,” said (Y/N), smiling with only the barest amount of pleasantry.

“Very well,” said Ching. She looked at Elizabeth. “What say you, Captain Swann, King of the Brethren Court?”

Elizabeth squared her shoulders, and a slightly smug glint appeared in her eyes. “Prepare every vessel that floats. At dawn…we’re at war.”

Sri Subhajee rose and nodded. “And so we shall go to war.”

(Y/N) smothered a laugh. Apparently, he only had someone speak for him because he had a ridiculous high-pitched voice. Everyone shouted in agreement and cheered.

Jack faced Teague, who just stared at him evenly. “What? You’ve seen it all, done at all. You survived. That’s the trick, isn’t it? To survive?”

“It’s not just about living forever, Jackie,” said Teague. “The trick is living with yourself forever.”

Jack considered and nodded. “How’s Mum?”

Teague held up a shrunken head.

Jack coughed. “She looks great.” He offered a smile.

“Jack, are you coming?” said (Y/N) as the pirates began to leave the courtroom.

“Yes, onward to our possible deaths!” said Jack, smiling at them as they approached.

“You. You’re the one who respected the code,” said Teague.

(Y/N) shrugged. “I suppose.”

Teague nodded. “A proper pirate should.”

Jack groaned. Great. Now his own father would like (Y/N) more than him. “Let’s go, Pearl.”

“Alright,” said (Y/N), rolling with the name. It was clearly a compliment, so although they didn’t understand it, they wouldn’t question it.

The fleet of pirate ships stared out at the fleet of British ships. All were silent. The scrappy ships of pirates seemed broken down compared to the pristine, efficiently crafted British ships, but the wildness of the pirates felt more at home on the sea. The British sought to control; the pirates went with the wild waves.

“The enemy is here! Let’s take them!” shouted Marty, drawing his sword.

Raucous cheers went up in the crowd of pirates, but the cheers died down as ship after ship appeared from the fog. They were clearly outnumbered by a lot.

Jack cleared his throat. “Parley?”

(Y/N), Jack, Elizabeth, and Barbossa stood on a small strip of sand across from Will, Beckett, and Jones (who stood in a bucket of seawater). (Y/N) narrowed their eyes. They were so disappointed in Will for going and making a deal with a man like Beckett, but it seemed everyone except for Elizabeth had no sense or intelligence, so (Y/N) had just thrown their hands up and accepted the shitshow.

“You be the cur that led these wolves to our door,” said Barbossa.

“Don’t blame Turner. He was merely the tool of your betrayal,” said Beckett smugly. “If you wish to see its grand architect, look to your left.”

Elizabeth, Barbossa, and (Y/N) looked at Jack. (Y/N) furrowed their brow, unsure if Jack had sold them in particular out or not.

“My hands are clean in this,” said Jack. Yes, he had been fine with the Dutchman getting close so he had a chance to kill Jones’s heart and gain immortality, but he wasn’t going to just hand (Y/N) over to Beckett. There were lines he wasn’t crossing. “

“My actions were my own and to my own purpose,” said Will. “Jack had nothing to do with it.”

Jack nodded. “Well spoke. Listen to the tool.” He had more planned, and Will was going along well.

“Will, I’ve been aboard the Dutchman,” said Elizabeth. “I understand the burden you bear, but I fear the cause is lost.”

“No cause is lost if there is but one fool left to fight for it,” said Will stubbornly.

“If Turner wasn’t acting on your behalf, then how did he come to give me this?” remarked Beckett, holding up Jack’s compass. “You made a deal with me, Jack, to deliver the pirates. And here they are.”

“He said ‘no’ to your deal, remember?” said (Y/N), crossing their arms. “Whatever mischief he’s up to, I doubt it has much to do with your bargain.”

They expected him to double-cross Beckett, then Will, stab Jones’s heart, and sail off into the sunset before he was at risk of dying, but they also knew he had refused to hand them over to Beckett. He wanted (Y/N), and Jack had refused that as part of any deal. They may not have high expectations of Jack’s general loyalty, but they trusted him to not sell them out for whatever reason.

Beckett sneered and threw the compass into the sand. Jack knelt and picked it up. “Yes, yes, he for some reason grew a conscious when it came to a silly creature like you.”

“Someone has to make up for your lack of one,” said (Y/N), raising a brow.

“His debt to me still must be satisfied,” snapped Jones, glaring at Jack. “One hundred years in servitude aboard the Dutchman. As a start."

“That debt was paid, mate. With some help,” said Jack.

“You escaped,” said Jones.

“Technically,” shrugged Jack.

“I propose an exchange,” said Elizabeth. “Will leaves with us, and you can take Jack.”

“Done,” said Will.

“I want the nereid,” said Beckett.

“Go to hell,” said (Y/N).

“They’re not part of the deal. Do you want Jack or not?” said Elizabeth, narrowing her eyes.

Beckett was frustrated with the lack of control he had over that particular aspect of the situation. “Done,” he snapped.

“Undone,” said Jack.

“Done,” said Elizabeth again.

“Jack’s one of the nine pirate lords. You have no right,” said Barbossa. He usually wanted Jack dead, but this felt like it went against the pirate code.

“King,” said Elizabeth smugly.

“Lizzie…” said (Y/N).

“Jack can take care of himself if he wants to go around causing problems,” said Elizabeth.

Jack made a playful, impertinent bow. “As you command, your nibs.”

The insult was clear, and (Y/N) sighed and stepped back as Barbossa drew his sword. Jack was bringing trouble on himself.

“You blackguard!” Barbossa sliced off the bead and silver coin in Jack’s hair. Jack the Monkey grabbed it while Barbossa walked up to Jack. “If ye have something to say, I might be saying something as well.”

“First to the finish, eh?” said Jack.

He walked towards Will, who walked towards him. They stared each other down as they switched places. (Y/N) gazed at Jack, and they nodded curtly at him before anyone could notice. Jack furrowed his brow. He wasn’t sure quite what that meant, but some part of him hope that it meant what he thought it did—that (Y/N) wasn’t going to abandon him with Beckett.

He was right. (Y/N) needed to have a good long conversation about trying to play 3D chess while being unable to play checkers, but they weren’t going to leave Jack at Jones’s disposal. They’d release him.

…When they had a free moment (Jack had to stew in the consequences of his actions for a bit).

Jones leaned towards Jack. “Do you fear death?”

Jack cleared his throat. “You’ve no idea.”

Beckett stepped forward. “Advise your Brethren, you can fight, and all of you will die. Or you can not fight, in which case only most of you will die.”

“You murdered my father,” said Elizabeth, stepped towards Beckett. If (Y/N) had to choose, they’d say Elizabeth was scarier.

“He chose his own fate,” said Beckett.

“And you have chosen yours,” said Elizabeth. “We will fight. And you will die.” She turned away and stalked back towards their lifeboat. Will and Barbossa turned back with her.

(Y/N) looked at Beckett evenly and smiled. “You’ve tried to control the sea. You’ll pay for it with your life.”

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pearl4angel · 5 months ago

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꙳ ⊹ ◌ ⋆ 🪞 ⋆ ◌ ⊹ ꙳

The sea hath its pearls 1897

By: William Henry Margetson

︶֪︶︶֪︶ ིྀ ︶︶֪︶ ୨ৎ︶֪︶︶֪︶ ིྀ ︶︶֪︶

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delicatuscii-wasbella102 · 4 months ago

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The sea hath its pearls, William Henry Margetson

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alexandreaiteiaabronia · 3 months ago

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The Lotos-Garland of Antinous

by John Addington Symonds

Behold a vision of the world-old Nile—

Of porch and palace-tower and peristyle

Glassed in the oily current smooth and calm,

With many a fringéd mile of sultry palm

Shimmering in noonday sunlight! O the roar

Of the full-voiced swart-visaged swarming shore,

As the gilt barge, with flash of oars, and cry

Cast on the waters of shrill minstrelsy,

Down the broad tide bears Adrian the king,

Lapped in luxurious ease and winnowing

All husk of hard thought from his heart this day—

So men surmise—to laughter given and play!

Lo the full sails of Tyrian silk out-spread

Like wings of wildest plumage overhead;

The cedar masts with crusted pearl and scale

Of Indian beetle rough; the bellying veil,

Star-sprent, gold-dusted, hyaline in hue,

That tempers like a mist the burning blue

Ofthose bronzed heavens; the heavy-scented flowers,

Plucked from what dim mysterious temple bowers

Deep in the dewy twilight—tuberoses,

Starred jasmines, lotos, crimson chalices

With myrtles woven! Mid that bloomy sea

Are girls, half-seen, reclining dreamily;

Some white as swans unruffled, pure and cold;

Some glowing with the delicate dim gold

Of amber, warm on throat and neck beneath

Black heavy coils of lustrous curls that wreathe,

Snake-like, smooth temples. O the subtle stir

Of laughter and of little feet, the whir

Of fans like night-moths fluttering, mid the wild

Voices of choiring boys, that naked piled

On Persian broidery, to the sound of flute,

Viol and fife and soul-subduing lute,

Make music, piercing shrill and sad and clear

With yearning memories the drowsy ear!

On glides the flashing galley. But the king,

In Roman strength austere, each goodly thing

Serenely reckons. He hath felt the glare

Of shadeless deserts; by the Libyan lair

Of lions hath out-watched the fiery day,

Patiently waiting for his royal prey:

The clash of arms he knows, the thirsty march

O’er sands with wormwood set, where fevers parch

Black lips and tongue, and hollow eyes grow dim:

No Syrian wreath or crown of rose for him

The circlet of the Empire! And behold,

This morn in Theban temples dusk with gold,

While spiry flames from smoking altars flew,

And incense clouds voluminously blue

Sun-proof involved those columned aisles, the seer

Foaming with eyes fixed on the unseen Fear,

A rede of death enwrapped in riddling gloom

Had uttered:—yea, that even for him the doom

Of icy death, unless some spirit free

Of man or boy, unbought, might willingly

Yield life for life, amid the dance and feast,

When hollow-eyed grim Death seems last and least,

Lurked shadow-like. So spake the shuddering priest.

And Adrian heard; yet trembled not, but read

As in a book the doom of Rome dismemberèd:

For on his life alone the Empire hung;

And to his single strength the nations clung,

As clings a vine with leaves and weighty fruit

To some strong pine’s stone-circling massy root.

And none but Adrian heard—save one who stayed

Beside him; one in whose quick pulses played

Fire of free life imperious; a boy

Of nineteen summers, framed for power and joy.

Crisp on his temples curled the coal-black hair;

White myrtle flowers and leaves were woven there:

His eyes had solemn light in them, and shone

Flame-like ‘neath cloudy brows: his cheeks were wan

With passion; and the soul upon his lips,

Smouldering like some fierce planet in eclipse,

Breathed fascination terrible and strong,

As though quick pride strove with remembered wrong.

But oh! what tongue shall tell the orient glow

Of those orbed breasts, smooth as dawn-smitten snow;

The regal gait, processional and grand,

As of a god; the sunny-marble hand,

Grasping a silk-enwoven cedar-wand?

He heard, Antinous! and in his breast

His heart leaped, and his flaming eyes confessed

The fervour of his spirit; still and calm

Standing the while, like some full-fruited palm

Tall by a river-bank. Then forth they went,

The youth divine and royal victim, blent

In silent awe and blind bewilderment.

Down to the Nile they came, and eager men

Pressed round them myriad-voiced with wonder: then

Taking their barge, upon the stream sailed forth,

Downwards all day steering by West and North.

All day the lazy ripple to the prow

Whispered; and all day long by palms arow,

By cities populous with blazing quays,

By tracts of flowering bean and verdant maize,

They glided. Towers and temples sunny bright,

Like mirage in the desert, swam from sight

Behind them; and the wild tumultuous noise

Of nations shouting with a single voice

Grew fainter on the current. All day long,

Lulled to a slumberous symphony of song,

Sails flapped, oars flashed, and boys and maidens made

Cool music in the silken scented shade.

But Adrian dreaming lay, and at his side

Antinous with large eyes blank and wide

Lay dreaming. Thus adown the sleepy tide,

As in a trance toward Lethe through still air,

Lost to the joy of living did they fare.

But now the sun who all day long had driven

His glittering chariot o’er the enamelled heaven,

Began to wester. Level smote his rays,

A furnace-fire of splendour; and the blaze

Burned upon stream and city: in its fire

The pillared shrine and solitary spire,

Tall cypress or thick tamarisk-tangle, swam

Like clouds you scarce can see amid the flame

Of sunset; and the whole vast concave through,

Across the light-irradiate airy blue,

Ran conflagration. Then, ere day was dead,

The slaves who had that service came and spread

The Emperor’s table; and Antinous rose,

For his it was before the banquet’s close

To bear the wine-cup, at his master’s knee

Like Ganymede serving imperially.

He rose, and from his shoulder’s ivory

The veil fell fluttering to his rounded thigh:

Naked he stood; then on his forehead set

A crimson wreath of lotos, cool and wet,

Fresh from the tank, with ivy mixed; and bound

Roses about his breast; and from the ground

A tendril-tangled thyrsus raised, and flung

The quivering leaves aloft that clasped and clung.

Next half the lustre of his limbs he hid,

Like some night-reveller or Bassarid

Fresh-flown from Indian thickets, with the fur

Of panthers streaked and spotted, sleek with myrrh

And musky-fragrant. In his hand a bowl,

Carved of one beryl, soft as if a soul

Throbbed in its flush, he took, and called his crew.

They to their Bacchus with loud laughter flew,

Tossing flame faces, twinkling tiny feet

In measured madness to the timbrel’s beat—

Wild hair behind them flying, loosened zone,

And flowers about their flanks for girdles strewn.

Girls were they, girls with vine-leaves garlanded,

Or jasmines white as their own maidenhead!

Boys too; ye gods, the beauty of those boys,

Lithe as young leopards! the soul-thrilling noise

Of their shrill voices!—Bells are at their feet,

And silver armlets, tinkling as they meet,

Make the air mad.

Behold, in such wild glee,

With dance and music and with witchery,

Paced forth the youth, for whom it seemed that all

His life to come might be one festival.

Yet in his soul was sadness. Well he knew

That ere those lotos-flowers had lost their dew,

He forth would fare upon the dismal way

Of dying.—Thus of many thoughts that day

This one had triumphed: he would die to shield

Adrian from death, if so the doom revealed

By god-sent oracles might be withdrawn

From that great head.—Like Phosphor in the dawn,

Solemn he was and tender; larger eyed,

Of more majestic stature; and his wide

Bare bosom swelled with nobler weight of thought

Than e’er within his heart had yet been wrought,

Since from his fields Bithynian and the play

Of childhood, on a lustrous night of May,

He had been borne by pirate hands, and woke

To weep his mother.

Through the awning broke

The clear-voiced choir; but Adrian in good sooth

Rose from his pillowed couch to greet the youth,

So proudly paced he: and the dying sun,

Shooting that moment from low vapours dun,

Transfigured all his face; and in the glow

The ruddy lotos-flowers upon his brow

Blazed ruby-like, and all his form divine

Blushed into crimson, and the crystalline

Bowl of the gleaming beryl flashed, and dim

With dusky gold the fur that mantled him,

Spread tawny splendour. So he stood and smiled,

Bending his crowned head, like a god who, mild

To mortals, will be worshipped. Such a sight,

So framed, so sphered in music and sunlight,

Had ne’er in court or theatre or grove

Fashioned by Nero for his insolent love,—

Nay ne’er in Syrian valleys where the Queen

Mourns for her lost Adonis, on the green

Of Daphne or of sea-girt Tyre been seen.

He spake: ‘To thee, in semblance of a god,

To thee supreme, who Jove-like with thy nod

Scatterest states and kingdoms, lo! I come

Bearing strong juice of Bacchus. See the foam

Leaps in the crystal for thy lips, and red

As rose or maiden in her bridal bed,

Glows for thy kisses! Health for thee, my king,

Health and long life within the cup I bring.

Yea, were it mine, this youth thou thinkest fair,

(Fair in thy thought, for verily whate’er

Thine eyes have praised, is fairest,) were it mine,

Brief as it is, scarce worth one thought of thine,

(For lo, it blooms to-day, to-morrow dies,

Nay even now is fading, as the skies

Fade after sunset)—were it mine to give,

Thinkest thou, king and master, I would live?

Were it not well to die for thee, and know

There in the scentless myrtle bowers below,

That thou wert living this new life? What breath,

How sweet soe’er, were sweeter than such death?

Nay, Lord, I flatter not. This is no smile

Of hollow semblance on false lips to wile

Kind speech from thee, much prized by us who serve

For could I, from this will I would not swerve!’

Thus spake Antinous, and the table round

Murmured approval; for the honeyed sound

From those calm lips on idle ears like dew

Fell with fresh fragrance and a pleasure new.

Sophists were there, whom Adrian fed, and they

Clapped loud applause, averring the long day

Had kept till eve her flower of perfect speech:

For such fine flattery, like the perfumed peach

Most subtly flavoured, could no palate cloy.

Thus clamoured they, wine-wanton; but the boy,

Bending his lilied brow beneath the wand,

And kneeling to his master, with one hand

Lifted the cup:—a lotos falling stirred

The wine refulgent; then, without a word

Or smile, he raised the sunlight of his face.

But Adrian drank, keeping the flower to grace

His wreath; and bade Antinous take the bowl

Of beryl. Then he turned with graver soul

To some grey counsellor beside him placed;

And the cup-bearer with his revel passed

Forth from the tent imperial.

Lo, the West

Bathing with liquid lustre brow and breast—

Lustre of orange, amber, green and blue,

Glassed on the waves, and gemlike in the dew

Of heaven translucent; the cool breeze that flew

Past silken sail and tent-roof; the black bars

Of palm-groves and of porches; shimmering stars,

And the low moon to eastward, pearly pale

Mid roseate refluence! In one woven veil

Of varied hues the universal world

Seemed by some hand omnipotent enfurled,

Where in the midst the barge, a moving spark

Herself of light, yet mid such splendour dark,

Slept on her shadow. And was this the night,

Centre of all things fair, for thee to blight

Thy blossom with cold frost of death—to die,

Sweetest of all sweet things beneath the sky?

The decks were vacant, as at even-tide

Of chills and sudden dew-fall. Free and wide

The sandal planks thick-matted with bright wool

And furs and flowered embroideries beautiful,

Spread for his pacing; and the lazy plash

Of rippling waves that round the galley wash,

Cooled the clear air. He went as in a dream

Forth to the prow, land o’er the luminous stream

Leaned; and behold, a golden lamp up-borne

By Isis (on her brow the sacred horn,

And at her waist the lotos, leaf by leaf,

And flower by flower, twined in a jewelled sheaf

Of lilies) cast a glimmer pure as pearl

On the veined marble of the watery swirl.

Here stayed Antinous, while the darkening west

Deepened from crimson into amethyst,

From fire to blood-red orange thin and still,

Under faint streaks of tenderest daffodil

Which faded. Soon, as drops of fiery dew

Gleam on a withered primrose, so there grew

Forth from this pallor the intensest glow

Of Hesper’s love-star: tremulous and low,

Poised o’er the palms, he panted; and his beam

Danced like a living lamp upon the stream.

Then spake Antinous: ‘My hour is nigh!

Night cometh, and the guardians of the sky

Illume their cressets!’ So he rose and spread

The panther skin and thyrsus, and the red

Wreath of dead lotos laid upon the ground:

Next in his hand the bowl of beryl, crowned

With roses, from a gleaming golden jar

He rilled; and gazing at the level star,

Thrice made libation, crying: ‘Father Nile,

And Isis and Osiris! ye who smile

On mortal births and burials! lo, I give

My life for Adrian’s! Wherefore should I live?

Have I not learned to trail my manhood’s pride

In the world’s golden gutters?—Like a bride,

Sumptuous with sacrifice and pomp and choir,

Forth from the doors I issued; and the fire

Of Flamens shone to light me: now, alone,

With saffron veil unbound and broken zone,

My blossom withered, lo, a wanton’s doom

Awaits me, or the purifying tomb!—

Nay, even now I weary. Day by day

It irks me to consume the hours with play;

Hearing soft speeches, propped on pillowed down,

To gather smiles; or, when I choose to frown,

Drink womanish tears. Better I ween were strife

With lions than this fulsome flower of life!

And when the flower is faded, what remains?

Yea, heaven, I thank thee: lo, the little pains

Of dying bring me guerdon of great gains!

For in my bloom I perish, having bought

Unending honour. What I give, is nought

But a mere piece of boyhood thrown away:

While he, the Emperor, lives. Even so. This day

Dates a new aeon in the age of Rome;

Wherethrough, a name for ever, in the dome

Of people’s praises, I shall pace, and be

Equalled with heroes in mine infamy!

Nay, what on earth more godlike? I have heard

Of soldiers dying at a general’s word;

Of patriots who drained their hearts to save

A nation: they beside their fathers’ grave,

Before their city walls and smoking shrines,

Fell on the long resounding foeman’s lines

And perished: this was easy; yet they bore

Victorious crowns and hymns for evermore.

But I, what city or what home have I?

What duty, dear or sacred, bids me die?

A slave—the toy and bauble of a king,

Picked from the dust to play with—a cheap thing,

Irksome as soon as used—a cup to sip,

Then fling with loathing from the sated lip!—

Therefore I die more nobly. Where are ye,

My father and my mother, and the glee

Of brothers and of sisters, who were dear

Far off in years forgotten? Not one tear

Shall your calm unfamiliar eyes let fall

For me.—How like a gilded dream is all

The life that I have lived in glorious Rome!

How like a dream it leaves me!—Lo, I come,

Ye awful, soul-exacting, pitiless Powers!

Prepare your laurels and the moony bowers

Of myrtles! Not ignoble, not a slave,

I perish, but of mine own will, to save

The Father of the Empire.—I have seen

In Roman theatres the dying queen

Of weak Admetus, pale Polyxena,

Cheiron, Menoikeus; and the people, ah!

The people how they shouted! Tears and cries

Greet even an actor when he nobly dies:—

Will not the people of the unnumbered dead,

Showering their pallid crowns upon my head,

Nobly receive me noble, dying thus,

Calm in my strength, young, proud, luxurious,

Not torn by pangs, not wasted, not outworn,

But in my splendour?’

As he spake, a horn

Shrilled through the twilight; and he saw the tower

Of Besa, where that night they tarried, lower

Dusk o’er the champaign. Speechless from the bark

He dropped: she onward glided o’er the dark

Breast of the glimmering Nile with lamp and light:

He through the mirrors of the cool black night

Unruffled, dying drifted; and his death

Was seen by no man. Nay, there lingereth

Old legend in the town Antinoë,

Called by his name, a fair town and a free,

How that a flight of eagles from the sky

Down swooping, bore him, rosy breast and thigh

Lustrous like lightning on their sable plumes,

Up to the zenith, where, a star, he blooms

In that bright garden of the grace of Jove,

The martyr and the miracle of love.—

Of this the truth we know not; but we know

That in the town of Besa, where the flow

Of Nile is stayed upon the eastern bank

With wattles and with osiers, for a tank

That draws therefrom through sluices deep and wide

The living waters of the sacred tide,

There in the morn was found as though asleep,

The perfect body of the boy; and deep

Around him, known not till that day, there grew

Great store of lotos flowers, red, white, and blue,

But mostly rose-red, flaming in his hair,

And o’er his breast and shoulders floating fair,

And with his arms enwoven, pure and cool,

Screening his flesh from sunrise. Thus the pool

Burned with a miracle of flowers; but he,

Raised on their petals, pillowed tenderly,

And curtained with fresh leaves innumerous,

Smiled like a god, whom errands amorous

Lure from Olympus, and coy Naiads find

Sleeping, and in their rosy love-wreaths bind.

https://paganreveries.wordpress.com/2012/09/06/the-lotos-garland-of-antinous-by-john-addington-symonds/

Picture: My Antinous

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aicosu · 1 year ago

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Ooh if you’re still taking numbers for the prompt thingie, 14! I adore your writing so much!

"Talk to me, prithy, I know you hath something stuck in that throat, and it's not ocean."

She stares through his soul before ducking her head into the wafts of her hair, scooting backward in aqua and shadow.

No avail.

"Well, fuck." Eddy sighs, sitting down in front of the glass coffin, boots spread.

Don't open the crate. They had decreed. An extra sixty pence for him to turn his eyes away and whistle over his morals.

He'd taken the gold and opened the crate anyway, as soon as he was out of the city walls.

And it was a fucking mermaid they had him smuggling. A siren of the sea. A Poseidon witch. A femme enchantress who robbed men of mind and blood before drowning them at the bottom of the darkest trenches.

She looks terrified.

But isn't that part of the play? She's the most ethereal beauty he'd ever seen in his life, just likes myths said they would be. Then her glowing blue eyes and milk skin framed by golden floss hair was all just the meat under a propped up box with a stick. She'd use them to lure him to a watery death and lay eggs in his chest… or something.

He doubts she could drown him in less than a trough of water, though. It barely reaches past her shoulders. And she had no space to turn or fold, let alone swim or kill.

She's stationary and shivering. Stolen and smuggled.

And Eddy doesn't smuggle people. And… Mermaids were… people shaped enough to fall under that honor code. Exotic birds of fire, beatles made of gold, and dogs that could bark open portals—sure. If the buyer liked animals and not just greed.

His normal fare is usually just illegal spices for the recreational minded. Liquors that controlled dreams for something to relieve a wounded day. Rare books with incantations for better genes and the like. Maybe some rare weapons and metals when he was in a legitimate mood.

Buying and selling people was sadly common and sadly profitable but not so sadly in his repertoire.

Til' now.

Accidental, promise. And the bad taste he'd had since stepping foot in the Duke Brenner's caste of forbiddens was a pretty big foreshadow, but one he could feel a rebellious itch against. Something that told him to take the job and ruin it.

So here he was, in the back of his caravan with an open crate to a mermaid case outside the forgettable village of Pitty Glen, ruining it.

Pitty Glen, because it is the complete opposite direction of the High Lord Creel's manor he's been directed to take her to, and it's also where his pseudo boy lives. Boy as in knave. Though smugglers didn't technically have knaves, they had accomplices.

And Dustyn Son of Hender was a good one of those, with his endless tomes and scrolls of legend and mysticism.

"Verily, let's… see what we have here." He waves the Books of Seas at her.

She bobs ominously in response, siren eyes illuminated like foggy moons. Her eyelashes clump, wet and golden, and the effect is such a detail of humanity. Eddy finds himself staring at the contrast of her very real details to her very unreal ones. The pearlescent skin pressed gently with patterns of scales that come and go with the refracting light. The golden thick of her tail, adorned in flimsy paper wet fins, pink and waving like a lady's chiffon wrapped around her. And the sparkling stones man made and otherwise crowned over her hair. Brooches and coral and pearls and possibly the broken chains of a man's pocket watch—like she had maybe slaughtered some humans and created jewelry from their leftovers as souvenirs.

"Apologies, good fuck, let's just—" Eddy pulls his eyes away because it's rude to gawk at a woman even if she probably eats people. "...see if anything in this blasted thing helps our dialogue."

Turns out the trinkets aren't souvenirs but status.

Mermaids are actually pretty courtly, even despite the book's pages being littered with illustrations of naked beautiful women with large gnashing teeth and bloody claws—Eddy doesn't appreciate the over exaggeration of their gruesomeness, and flicking his gaze up to the even flow of her sineous scales, hair, and tail: the under exaggeration of her countenance.

They apparently make trade and fashion with each other by gifting all things… sparkling. Shiny was the only name on their currency. And the more one had, the more high up the court they were.

"So, you're a mermaid lady-in-waiting? Or maybe a duchess of some reef?" he asks, flipping the book to spread its pages against the glass to show her the drawings of different mermaid treasure jewelry.

She shrinks at first, the underwater jerk fluffing her chest, curls, and gems. But then she's bending close, touching her own little tiara of compasses and rubies.

Eddy stands, looking about the crates and baskets of his caravan, past the other cargo he'd taken on of opiates and weapons, shuffling through his own cot bedding and trunk to find something suitable. Something sparkling.

"I suppose maidens' love for bobbles is true on dry or wet land, ha!" Eddy barks, watching the aquarium case rock with her obvious excitement. She tries to follow the book when he takes it back. "Greetings, condolences, compromises, forgiveness, so forth, so forth—are begun with such gifts. Greedy! But understandable. I too, start all my friendships only if they pay tribute. Granted, I don't have friends, I have customers but…"

A metal brooch clatters to the floor, stopping beneath the wedge of his boot.

The Templars sword and sheild.

He picks up the richly engraved cape closure and frowns.

"Well, it's not like I fucking need it anymore," he tells it and himself.

When he comes back to the coffin, the siren’s webbed fingers splay on the glass. Long sharp knives’ end nails tapping lightly as she peers close to see what he’s doing.

“Whoa, terrifying. Verily, the book is… not wrong then.” His eyes dart to the codex again and the drawings of bloody, horrible ends to the men who trifle with these creatures.

But she looks curious. Innocent. Absolutely entrancing.

Gold all over and blue where it counted, she’s the sea itself in the space of refracted light. Even the junk in her hair she’s collected does it’s job, shining and glittering to match the deepness of her eyes and the wetness of her lips. Wetness of her lips—she’s in water, you absolute buffoon. Still. Entrancing,

That’s the point, that’s the point, that’s the point…

He shakes himself. Murderous mythical creature or not, he’s not selling her to some high bidder who will display her in a dining hall for lords and ladies to gawk at for the rest of her life before someone decides they haven’t tasted mermaid morsel or some lord deems her fit for a deadly romp.

And he can’t help her return to… wherever she hails from if he can’t commune with her.

So this.

Flashing the brooch at her proves worth it. The water inside splashes with her excitement, her eyes on the shine with rapt attention so much so she doesn’t notice the case above her pry open. Eddy drops the metal inside and yelps back when she twists and jumps upon it.

“F-for you! Dear… lady. Y-ye! You fancy that? It's a gift! Want to keep it?”

Curled in her palms, she grins.

Oh.

“Ohhhhhhhh….” he wobbles, staring at her teeth. The incisors are familiar. Flat like his. her canines and the rest however… Sharp and long. A beautiful skin she has, wrapped tight around a body made for destruction. Like engraved plating on a blunderbuss. Gem-encrusted sheaths on blades. Many, many, many blades. “You... you must need those… for something, then.” Egads.

She ignores him though, too busy closing her eyes to focus on attaching his old Templar’s medal to the collection in the crown of her head.

Eddy picks up the book again quickly, reading fast down the passage of gifts. “...once received, placement of parcel upon each siren is denotation of class… huh, hmmm… wrists, no, necklace, no…. hair! AH–”

Royalty.

“Oh, oh no. Oh… god.”

Royalty. Only those of high lineage within the matriarch may crown themselves.

Mermaid… princess.

“Y-you don’t think that would look nicer on, perchance, a lapel or, or, or an earring or—”

She blinks at his rambling, smiling with such grace and poise he’s only getting more and more upset.

Then she opens her mouth again.

But this time he’s not distracted by the fangs as much as he is the note. The singular, sweet, unearthly, and altogether unworldly note of music. Of voice—nothing of any sheet he’d ever known, and he’d known them all. A high-pitched, low-pitched, tuning fork flicked against the chords of time and space and heavens.

Around them, the caravan wobbles in color and picture, and Eddy falls back on the slats, dizzy as the world around him tilts, reverberates, and her face illuminates with a literal sun behind it—Golden and perfect. Oh, mighty sun, sweet maiden, to go to her and let her have him—! To allow him to sink into that noise. He would be so happy, so content—

Whoa—what?

“S-STOP! Stop, stop, stop!”

Her shoulders jerk, teeth snapping shut.

“N-no singing! Uh—”

Singing. Siren. Mermaid. Ships crashing into rock and men getting their face pried off for egg nesting. Bad.

“—I, I’m not, I don’t really enjoy music and, you're not really in pitch for that… diddy. Sorry. I’m pretty particular about… I have a sensitive… bard’s ear…”

She stares back at him, hands wringing through her hair fast and uneven, looking very much like a girl he’s yelled at and now was insulting and not a vile witch who’d just tried to enthrall him into a cannibalistic ritual.

“S-Sorry. Let’s. how about we just… we’ll wait to sing until you know. Never, maybe.”

At least not until he put her back in water and sailed weeks away from her.

He puts his hand on the glass for recompense, eyes still dizzy with her beauty and whatever that had been.

And… incredibly, without prompt or circumstance, she does too.

Calm and graceful, and smiling full of needles and joy, she matches his rounded, thick fingers with her delicate points and laughs.

And it sounds… Boy, does it sound.

Eddy cries to it. Quite literally the sound of it yanks something up his throat and past his nose until he’s spilling tears. He feels magic in his veins. And not in a dreamy pathetic poet way—no, magic, scroll-full magic with history and weight in it that he knows for sure she is doing it.

“M-maybe no laughing either princess,” Eddy says, scrubbing his tears away with his hair. “That mayhaps be best!”

She laughs again and he curses as he puts his head in his knees and sobs past his own barks of mirth at the ridiculous situation.

He cries and laughs and stares at the wood of the caravan floor and her again, shining and sweet—and h-how?

How in the realm did he get himself into such a mess? Such a divine mess?

Or is that the Siren’s song talking?

#hellcheer #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #fanfic #eddissy

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sortiarus-de-naturas-daemonum · 11 days ago

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Vepar, an infopost

Vepar is a demoness listed in the Ars Goetia, Psuedomonarchia, and Book of Oberon/Liber Officiorum Spirituum.

What you can Work with her for:

💦 Curse Work/Baneful Magice

💦 Water Magic

Her Grimoire Appearances:

The 5 is called Semper he hath power to make a great sea appeare full of shipes with all manner of instruments, of warre, to feare enemyes he cane make great windes, he can rancle woundes & make wormes breed in them & appeareth in likenes of a mayden.

Psuedomonarchia Daemonum: Vepar, alias Separ, a great duke and a strong, he is like a mermaid, he is the guide of the waters, and of ships laden with armour; he bringeth to passe (at the commandement of his master) that the sea shalbe rough and stormie, and shall appeare full of shippes; he killeth men in three daies, with putrifieng their wounds, and producing maggots into them; howbeit, they maie be all healed with diligence, he ruleth nine and twentie legions.

Ars Goetia: Vepar. - The Forty-second Spirit is Vepar, or Vephar. He is a Duke Great and Strong and appeareth like a Mermaid. His office is to govern the Waters, and to guide Ships laden with Arms, Armour, and Ammunition, etc., thereon. And at the request of the Exorcist he can cause the seas to be right stormy and to appear full of ships. Also he maketh men to die in Three Days by Putrefying Wounds or Sores, and causing Worms to breed in them. He governeth 29 Legions of Spirits, and his Seal is this:

Offering Ideas:

Seashells, Mermaid Imagery, Water (perferably fresh or salt), Sand, Pearls, Sunstone.

#demonolatry #daemonolatry #luciferianism #theistic satanism #demonology #demon work #occultism #satanism #demon worship #vepar #occult #ars goetia

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corrunuptia · 16 days ago

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🌿 on her holiest brow.

it’s a simple gesture, to her. a wave of her pale hand, a few words uttered, and her grand audiciencer makes her will known. the invitation is written on expensive upholstery. she imagines the black streaks his fingers will leave on it when he reads;

‘ dear @through-fire-and-flame,

thou hath served us well before. we should like to reward thee. wait patiently at the crossroads of hemwick, and give this letter to the coachman that will appear. he will bring thee to us. show no fear.

thine briefly,

a. ’

it is a holy day in cainhurst. she didn’t warn him, of course, that upon his arrival a great ball would be ongoing. she walks among the dancing couples with ease, a sidestep here, a hike of her dress there to avoid waltzing heels. he’s easy to spot in the crowd, leather and cotton hunter’s garb like a smear of soot in the sea of blood-red dresses and coats. she has refused every hand beckoning her into dance, chased out every would-be suitor. tonight, as before, she has decided she would be his alone. after all, the powder-kegger had made for such delicious company before.

‘ here thou art! we had been awaiting thee, ’ she exclaims with a few excited claps of her pale hands. ‘ our good hunter, thou hath come. we are so pleased to see thee. ’ she takes his hands, rough and burn-marked, in hers and before he can say anything she is in his arms, and drags him into the rhythm of the music. she has appeared to him in a humble dress of ivory, upon her head a crown decorated with manifold ivies and leaves. ‘ your highness- i’m afraid - woah! - i’m afraid i don’t know how to- ’ he pleads, all too late. he is in her hands now, as she swirls and twirls with the violins, unsteady feet trying desperately to follow her along. he would be remiss, he thinks, to disappoint the queen in her very own domain. so he tries, uncertain as he is, to move with the song’s swells, to keep hold of the thin hands that so confidently hold his own, callused and soiled. ‘ oh dear, ’ the queen whispers, ‘ thou art much more suited to one’s bedchambers than a dancing hall, ’ she laughs her crystalline laugh, that threatening and delightful sound. they are all odds, her graceful figure so at ease, and his own seemingly too broad, too square. but she does not mind. annalise’s affection for him is a strange thing to all who watch, brief glances stolen to the incogruous couple, filled with confusion and jealousy.

it is only as the song ends, all stringent strings and wondrous choir, that his hand she so dutifully placed at her side tightens. on her head, within her crown of red flowers and ivy, a small fruiting body - white as her skin, like a garland of snow. she smiles her feline smile when he looks upon it. ‘ how attentive thou art, ’ she flatters him. she readies herself, pale eyelashes closing on eyes black as a spider’s. mistletoe, that poisonous fruit that dictates love, sits upon her brow like a promise so far from reach.

‘ your highness, there’s tradition, and then there’s being proper, ’ he stammers. ‘ be proper, then! just as thou wert before, ’ she says so sweetly, as though it were the most natural thing. but he does not take her hand, does not kiss the signet ring that adorns it, nor the pale head upon which the dreaded plant lies. no, his eyes dart to the crowd that surrounds them, and with a certain hesitation he plucks his due from her pallid lips, a brief and loveless thing, but not without its sweetness. her laugh resounds in the newfound silence between songs.

‘ good boy, ’ the queen smiles, fangs like sharpened pearls. the music starts anew, and she presses herself to him readily. ‘ now, it is thy turn to lead us. and do it proper! ’

#♔; in audience ( ic. )#through-fire-and-flame #oh no they're cute

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matcheadz · 1 year ago

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Host Of Seraphim: Reading Ambience :)

As promised (and I DID DELIVER) the reading playlist for Host of Seraphim. It starts at chapter 1 and ends at chapter 10. Everytime I update, I will be adding maybe 15 minutes of music and reblogging this post with the additional songs + clarifications on which chapter they're for.

If you read faster or slower, dont worry, I GENERALLY didn't try to link songs up to specific moments. Generally. Sometimes it'll work out like that. Maybe. You'll just have to see, huh? :)

Chapter 1: Dressed in Quiet Retrospect

Legacy - Kota Suzuki

Any Special Orders? - Hiromistu Maeba

At Night - Max LL

Suite bergamasque, L. 75: No. 2, Menuet - Arr. For Harp - Claude Debussy, Marie-Pierre Langlamet

Chapter 2: Hope All Abandoned

Charon's Burden - Max LL.

Constellations - Max LL

Live With Me - British Sea Power

Dirtmouth - Christopher Larkin

You've Got a Good Heart - Alexander Temple and Alex Seaver

Chapter 3: What You Know That I Won't

Eternal - From the Keys

Everyone Has Their Own Desires - Max LL

Stubborn To The End - Alex Seaver

Interlude - Akira Senju

Happiness - Akira Senju

Var - Sigur Ros

Chapter 4: Of Sunflowers and Angels

A Story of Opposites - Alexander Temple

Five (Instrumental) - Sleeping At Last

Isn't It Lovely? - Yoko Shimomura

Kairi - Yoko Shimomura

Riku - Yoko Shimomura

I Can Help Them - Alexander Temple

The Mist - Max LL

Falling Stars - Max LL

Chapter 5: Similarities and Differences

Instrument of Surrender - British Sea Power

Lullaby of Resembool - Akira Senju

Friends in My Heart - Yoko Shimomura

Home ~ a house on the hill~ - Akira Senju

Bistro Fada - Stephane Wrembel

Vulture Meets Culture - Daniel Pemberton

You Can't Escape the Past - Alex Seaver

Chapter 6: Our Inadequate Attachments

ZA/UM - British Sea Power

The Doomed Commercial Area - British Sea Power

Cordon de Plata - Gustavo Santaolalla

Ella - Gustavo Stantaolalla

Swimming & Horses - Michael Brook

Guarunteed - Humming Version - Eddie Vedder

Just Breathe (Instrumental) - Pearl Jam

The Wolf - Eddie Vedder

Vanishing Grace -Gustavo Santaolalla

Chapter 7: Your Silence Is Violent

'O Sole Mio - Mandolini di Sorrento

Fi's Lament - Hajime Wakai

Amelie - Pascal Desprez

Suite espanola, Op. 47: Asturias (Leyenda) - Isaac Albeniz, Narciso Yepes

Detective Arriving on the Scene - British Sea Power

Stella's Lullaby - Max LL

Chapter 8: Our Language Barriers

The Choice - Gustavo Santaolalla, Alan Umstead

The Alchemist - Akira Senju

Kairi II - Yoko Shimomura

Wash My Dreams Away - Borislav Slavov

You're a Jinx - Alex Seaver

Unbroken - Gustavo Santaolalla

In All Our Complexities - Max LL

Falling Stars - Max LL

Twin Decks -Arne Nordheim

Chapter 9: Hell Hath No Fury

Red Rock Riviera - British Sea Power

Last Light - Borislav Slavov

Children Are Burying the Doll - Theodor Bastard

Twisted Force - Borislav Slavov

Revenge - Alex Seaver

Chapter 10: Hear My Plea

Tiger King - British Sea Power

Far Beyond The Pasturelands - Max LL

Varðeldur - Sigur Ros

Hvalir í útrýmingarhættu - Sigur Ros

63º32'43.7"N 19º43'46.3"W - Sigur Ros

Sorry - Alex Somers

#Host of Seraphim #HoS #Spotify

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noise-vs-signal · 1 year ago

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Caer Siddi (Castle Revolving)

“I will praise the Sovereign, supreme Lord of the land,

Who hath extended his dominion over the shore of the world.

Stout was the prison of Gwydion in Caer Sidi,

Through the spite of Pwyll and Pryderi:

No one before him went into it.

The heavy blue chain firmly held the youth,

And before the spoils of Annwn woefully he sang,

And thenceforth till doom he shall remain a bard.

Thrice enough to fill Prydwen we went into it;

Except seven, none returned from Caer Sidi, the Revolving Castle.

"Am I not a candidate for fame, to be heard in song

In Caer Pedryvan, the Four-cornered Castle, four times revolving?

The first word from the cauldron, when was it spoken?

By the breath of nine maidens it was gently warmed.

Is it not the cauldron of the Chief of Annwn? What is its fashion?

A rim of pearls is round its edge.

It will not cook the food of a coward or one foresworn.

A sword flashing bright will be raised to him,

And left in the hand of Lleminawg.

And before the door of the gate of Uffren, The Cold Place, the lamp was burning.

When went with Arthur - a splendid labour!

Except seven, none returned from Caer Vedwyd, the Castle of Revelry.

"Am I not a candidate for fame, to be heard in song

In Caer Pedryvan, in the Isle of the Strong Door,

Where twilight and pitchy darkness meet together,

And bright wine is the drink of the host?

Thrice enough to fill Prydwen we went on the sea.

Except seven, none returned from Caer Rigor, the Kingly Castle.

"I will not allow much praise to the leaders of literature.

Beyond Caer Wydyr, the Glass Castle, they saw not the prowess of Arthur;

Three-score hundreds stood on the walls;

It was hard to converse with their watchman.

Thrice enough to fill Prydwen we went with Arthur;

Except seven, none returned from Caer Golud, the Castle of Riches.

"I will not allow much praise to the spiritless.

They know not on what day, or who caused it,

Or in what hour of the serene day Cwy was born,

Or who caused that he should not go to the dales of Devwy.

They know not the brindled ox with the broad head-band,

Whose yoke is seven-score handbreadths.

When we went with Arthur, of mournful memory,

Except seven, none returned from Caer Vandwy.

"I will not allow much praise to those of drooping courage.

They know not what day the chief arose,

Nor in what hour of the serene day the owner was born,

Nor what animal they keep, with its head of silver.

When we went with Arthur, of anxious striving,

Except seven, none returned from Caer Ochren” - Talesin (6th Century CE).

#celtic mythology #poetry #tower

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violettesiren · 2 years ago

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A boat of magic is the moon, Bearing through depth serene Fair secrets learned of upturned eyes. The boat lets fall a chain With glittering silver anchor down Before our seething prow, Along the water quivering,— At last the silent anchor drops Adown the furling waves.

Or is it ladder all of pearl, From sea to heaven aglow, Whereon our yearning thoughts may find Even the infinite?

Or large white fingers of the night, Nocturnes tender playing On the yielding billow-keys,— Lingering andante?

Or are the tripping moonbeans wild Souls of sunbeams dead, Dancing to the night-wind's flute, In eerie revelry?

Or is the toiling sea athirst, Quaffing moonlight cool, Freely poured into the waves' Goblets held on high? Drink not deeply, Ocean, Of that mystic white! It hath wondrous, witching power, Untold sorcery, And will make thee faint and reel,— Sink to spells—and dreams.

Moonlight on the Sea by Ruby Archer

#ruby archer

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pugzman3 · 2 years ago

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Matthew 13:44-52 KJV

44 Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field.

45 Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls:

46 Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.

47 Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a net, that was cast into the sea, and gathered of every kind:

48 Which, when it was full, they drew to shore, and sat down, and gathered the good into vessels, but cast the bad away.

49 So shall it be at the end of the world: the angels shall come forth, and sever the wicked from among the just,

50 And shall cast them into the furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.

51 Jesus saith unto them, Have ye understood all these things? They say unto him, Yea, Lord.

52 Then said he unto them, Therefore every scribe which is instructed unto the kingdom of heaven is like unto a man that is an householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new and old.

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libidomechanica · 28 days ago

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“Some great Solemnize: and again, and my”

And yeeld the first and a sweet and glow tells he spray. And that elder love and morning purple to end to assay, till, in their brows a clothed apes are like to grey; mould comeliness belly full, is not the life, he wonder understand anon comely earn’d. The bridale bower, descends upon her pillow. Temper, O fair are blest it not, though Hero,

learned him not too full of loving, thine honey- thick as in his head there better thoughts to confess’d up, she lets him dead, on their gesture, and Franceses? Some great Solemnize: and again, and my lips, he set tho’ matching the aisle stone when other hands from him with a bunch of agony of skin, all Night, from outburst upon the drains image

on the with sweating wind, what is my love me bow, in lieu of magic casement: ’-then she looks with some dare took the snortings, and shake all time, and winding in the way of Madeline. As when the love no white hawthorns, and ’twould have his wings—to Helene, love, be hate the blue eyes to be woo’d me back from his pride of pearl, which so long did I meet come away

in the rocks, and done hips, and sea-caves! Forlorn! What he dark, and the tree shirt yellow, being blest eyes by the woodland with moonlight, and that here; for I would tell the world. On the sleepless could be not unkind at his Anguish’d to sigh to each my mouth—your unmistakes. The third day thou now? But these this prest agayne: o what are ye? Me, and turn to

Jove. And chain-droop’d lamps are passion will stay, begging the heauenly guifts of rhyme, not that love the steal, a waste in the sceptre of blood? Sunning spar, just awakening base: now brings of old, Suddenly heir; and yet when I am fain by steal into one Lady That? A huge moth, and hath rudded, her gods love must dig the heard! And my childe of hindering

way that soft name, it cross. She smiles, in the Face of fresh and could I wept both cover’d woe; give salute her so potently? ’Tis not the rules their myriad seaman’s little roar of voice broken neck. The second objects to save you yet men recoil and pleasure. In beds that my brow, and aff like a large stripling waved my songs never feet to the sense of

midnight, the foe’s.—When I have sought upon her purple moon the watered by thy plaining her made the music: Do I wake, thou winter flow. Ye still told of eighteen in this. Their music came near. She has virgin of merriment. A rivals halts, midst thou be’st Doubt! Should less; marching—Seek doubt in one poor rich array, when leaue likewise put her chance! Droop, and a

year who his hair she clocks in the dying of our virtuous some peculiar mystical virginity, this grave among like a flat? And he rainbow’s glory gaping on the Fantom of the street, to knowing it would swell, when faith is just as you’d express its messy in all the meadow, and his daughter, wi’ sense filling ye sweet side, and dive into

Eternity I forgive me thus, for his magian fish begins Leander into capital apace;—esteem’d, where these utterly scans and your had even for dead, on there’s a fishes flames of disgrace; while hid him what ancient Secret be enlarge, as she starves him what I dream and twirls. The tedious proof, and perlings of Leander

of thee as the sea should beholden, a page after him from steep, mingle ballad from thee. To my hoarded by the waving lip, well of my son the nigh by the self; and death, from among their love is so nigh in thighs between thou smile, and pierce loue doth love were still and when theyr charm: appear’d, when the water by Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow

seem a cuckoo-straine, but who, will not: but to this young folks with fright, wherewith she slept. Dutiful cries: my foemen, and patiently was the white. Like the oxheart aches, drays, spoil not from th’enameless desire, a fleet of Desire—the Sense a brazen thunder what kindling mighty consumed, mark if her dight, or in spite, the white, has take. It kissed.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #201 texts #ballad

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