#the six scillings

[needcake]

Shacha.

SHACHA.

I AM NOT OKAY.

Jesus fucking Christ this is not a fic, this is one of the best pieces of fiction I have ever read how very much dare you. I am very sorry for taking this long to sit down and read this, but I have just finished and it���s 1 a.m. and I want to TALK about it, so more under the cut:

First of all, I have to commend you on your research. Everything is so brilliantly detailed, there’s not a single line in this story that I bet haven’t cost you a few hours of reading, and it absolutely shows in how carefully you weaved this together.

I want to do this in parts so I don’t forget any details while everything is fresh on my mind:

1 - the wool

I feel the cornerstone of this story is the wool and the threads that bind the characters together. Ælfwin’s family trades in sheep and wool, Coenwulf wants in on that trade because his own sheep can’t quite compete, at base level everything revolves around the wool. The clothes that Ælfwin wear, the process of weaving, the dyeing, even the shearing and how the seasons and days are counted according to that trade. The entire manufacturing process is laid out across the story and it forms the base of the plot, while it is not the twist, it forms the foundations on everything that happens.

2 - the social hierarchy

Ælfwin’s relationship with Mared is of course the focus, but it was so rich seeing how every other relationship played out, how the entire household behaved even before Ælfwin entered the story. Coenwulf’s relationship with his sister, Æmma’s relationship with Monegund, their relationship with Sigilind, how later on the guests seeking shelter aren’t given names and the discomfort that that brings into a household so well-connected.

And the passage where they go to Ælfwood as well, to see Ælfwin as the lady of the property, so see her in action in all of her high social position, everything counterpointed by Mared’s own point of view as an enslaved woman who has a critical lens but is also in love with her. How she sees it and how Ælfwin herself acts upon it. Everything is so incredibly done, you really took the time to work on the foundations upwards, placing every brick of this story so carefully and beautifully in order to truly bring it to life.

Even the bandits that are shown off-screen! It’s all part of this incredibly fragile society in which one bad winter can really turn the fate of everyone involved.

3 - religion

This is possibly my favorite thing that you incorporated, and it’s such a beautiful, beautiful touch, if this story is a house then this is definitely the roof for me, the roof and the windows because it opens their small contained world into something so much bigger, into the philosophy of its time and the inevitable changes to the world around them. The juxtaposition between the Anglo-Saxon religion, Ælfwin’s religion, their old ways, and the British Christian faith, a remnant of the Roman colonization and contact with the continent, how it bridges all the themes you used and how it creates the most beautiful scenes for me, notably the fight scene when Ælfwin and Mared argue in front of the church, and the scene where they are in bed and they have that wonderful discussion if having sex with god constitutes a threesome XD

You bring this theme right from the start and you sprinkled it throughout, tightening the knots so that at the end we look back at the patterns weaved in this beautiful tapestry of yours and see the whole picture.

Now for some other comments:

When we are shown Ælfwin’s box of precious things, when she tells Mared her mother gifted it to her, the rich materials it is made of, and how later when they go to the shops and Ælfwin buys Mared the ivory cross carved with roses (and the entire dialogue of her arguing that it was made of walrus ivory instead of elephant is just so!!!!!), and how by saying that now Mared matches her box she makes Mared into a vessel for her beautiful things, her love and affection, her trust, her companionship. And also when she says that by gifting the cross to her she is allowing her to preserve her faith, how that speaks volumes of the high esteem she already holds for Mared even that early on in the story.

Another thing I wanted to point out was the food!! Your research was so detailed that you gave us the most incredible view into how things worked, how these people lived, the laws that governed them, what they did with their time and even what they ate! The wedding feast was incredible to read!! Their trip to the market and what they bought at the stalls, even the medicine that they used! This is something that immediately caught my eye and I have to praise you for being so diligent in your research because it’s one of the things that really capture my eye and make the story feel alive for me.

Before I leave you alone I have to talk about the ending. How you planted the seed of Ælfwin’s uncannyness very early on, this pale blonde woman riding into the estate without a veil on her silver horse, her manners a little rough at first, a little too straight-forward, being called a fae here and there, but being otherwise warmly welcomed by the people living in her new husband’s land. These comments are shown to be harmless at first, she is a competent manager of the household, a good wife, births a boy who is showered with presents, listens to the complaints of her people, argues in their favor.

But the moment things go south it comes back under a new light. Her “otherness” is no longer a quirk, but a problem, a curse, she’s bringing misfortune, it’s all her fault. And the moment Coenwulf stays away too long, the baby drains too much of her energy leaving her distracted, her people - her very people - turn against her.

When Mared went berserk on them she had my full support hahaha

What a wonderful, beautiful story of love and tragedy you created here, Shacha. I’m gonna make myself cry again, but please know that I have loved reading this with every fiber of my being.

Wealh [FrUk Loving You Through Time Event]

Title: Wealh

Summary: The sharp thegn Coenwulf has just wed an uncanny wife, everyone agrees, a strange, competent, but difficult woman. How vexing it is then, to be the foolish slave who loves her. [FrUK femslash, incidental Netherlands/f!England]

Time Period: Anglo-Saxon England in the early 7th century Rating: M Warnings: Slavery is mentioned from the outset, and master/slave dynamics. Rape is mentioned, but does not occur to major characters. Blood, violence, and discussions of religion.

Notes: This is currently 31,006 words, and I’m still not entirely happy with it. Scenes may be added in the future (if you want those, maybe wait a few days >>), but I’ve been working on this fic for about a fortnight straight and today is its day, so I hope you enjoy!

The names of the characters were changed to better fit their backgrounds for this fic, and to fit better with the seventh century time period.

Mared – fem!France Ælfwyn – fem!England Æmma – Belgium Monegund – Monaco Coenwulf – Netherlands Sigilind – Liechtenstein Leofwine – Luxembourg

Pronunciation-wise, the sc in Anglisc and scop is pronounced as sh (as in ship, shot, shut, shadow). Æ is pronounced ay (as in day, may, stay).

Keep reading

[widening-skies]

Bleu

À part le grand aconit, une scille, un lupin, une nigelle, la véronique petit-chêne, le lobélia, et le convolvulus qui triomphe de tous les bleus, le Créateur de toutes choses s’est montré un peu regardant quand il a distribué chez nous les fleurs bleues. On sait que je ne triche pas avec le bleu, mais je ne veux pas qu’il m’abuse. Le muscari n’est pas plus bleu que n’est bleue la prune de Monsieur… Le myosotis ? Il ne se gêne pas pour incliner, à mesure qu’il fleurit, vers le rose. L’iris ? Peuh… Son bleu ne se hausse guère qu’à un très joli mauve, et je ne parle pas de celui qu’on nomme « flamme », dont le violet liturgique et le profane parfum envahissent au printemps les montagnettes, autour de La Garde-Freinet. L’iris des jardins s’habitue docilement à tous les sols, se baigne les pieds dans les petits canaux de Bagatelle, se mêle à ses cousins les tigridias, embrasés et éphémères. Il a six pétales, trois langues nettes, étroites, et trois larges un peu chargées de jaune — le foie, sans doute — et il passe pour bleu, grâce à l’unanimité d’une foule de personnes qui n’entendent rien à la couleur bleue.

    Il y a des connaisseurs de bleu comme il y a des amateurs de crus. Quinze étés consécutifs à Saint-Tropez ne me furent pas seulement une cure d’azur, mais une étude aussi, qui ne se bornait pas à la contemplation du ciel provençal et négligeait parfois la Méditerranée. Je n’allais pas mendier le bleu aux clairs lits de sable fin où la vague se repose, sachant bien qu’à peine né de l’aurore, le bleu de la mer serait mordu cruellement par le vert insidieux qui éteint au ciel la dernière étoile, et que chaque point cardinal, quittant le bleu instable, choisit sa couleur céleste : l’Est est violacé, le Nord d’un rose glacial, l’Ouest rougeoyant et gris, le Sud. Au plus fort du jour provençal le zénith se coiffe de cendre. Ombres courtes réfugiées sous l’arbre et tapies au pied du mur, oiseaux muets, la chatte cueillant une à une les gouttes au bec de la fontaine, l’heure de midi nous chicanait à tous notre ration vitale de bleu et de sérénité.

   Nous attendions qu’une petite aile de poussière voletante aux coudes de la route, une frisure blanche à la lèvre du golfe marquassent la résurrection de tous les bleus. Une couleur de dur lapis, rendue à la mer, bondissait réverbérée sous la tonnelle, et chacun des gobelets de verre berçait un dé de glace soudain teinté de saphir.

   Au-dessus des Alpes encore dorées, une pelote orageuse, bleue comme un ramier, touchait les cimes. Dans peu d’heures, la pleine lune cheminerait parmi la neige d’étoiles, et jusqu’à l’aube les blancs lys des sables, qui se ferment pendant le jour, seraient bleus.

— Colette, Pour un herbier. 1948

[wristic]

Torch of Bellona (Part 2)

Pairings: Ivar X Reader

Word Count: 2900

Warnings: gratuitous amounts of friendship (none)

-Part 1- -Part 2- -Part 3- -Part 4- -Part 5- -Part 6-

Seeing most of your prediction come true, you still try to gauge the strange people that are the Northman. However it will take tact and cleverness to finally see one for yourself, hopefully it is not as disappointing as the news Alfred gives you.

Judith and Ecbert had been keeping Alfred from you all morning. That hollow bored feeling took you to wandering the grounds waiting for him to be done. Amidst the walking denizens the sight of Aethelwulf walking Magnus caught you. Feeling your blood rush you quickly ran toward, but not directly, to them. Hiding behind the wall you caught the end of the conversation, caught Aethelwulf pull a knife on the boys throat and toss him to the ground. Aethelwulf then walked away, leaving Magnus to fend for himself with nothing but the clothes on his back and a satchel to keep him warm.

“I’d head Northwest.” you announced after Aethelwulf was out of earshot. “Most of Kwenthrith’s supporters fled to the hills. Or so the rumors say. But who am I to truly know. Although the clans of the Highlands are far from short on warriors and rouges. Certainly if one was to unite them under one banner, that would be an army for the ages.”

Magnus wiped down the tears from his face, tossing the satchel around his arm. “This must be real funny to you.”

“On the contrary it breaks my heart. I would have thought it kinder to abandon you to some farm. I would have told you it was to humble and strengthen you for kinghood. Let you realize the truth long after you’ve gotten cozy.”

He shook his head. “Liar.” He bit. “You would have me killed.”

Buried deep down under a cynical layer of ice, that hurt. What you told him was the truth, and you understood that it was hard to trust someone who’s tricked you but, to assume you wanted to kill everyone and destroy everything, was it really so hard to believe you weren’t that cruel. You warned him the night before and believed he had every right to his stake on revenge. Couldn’t he give you some credit? The pain however came out in a bitter smile and a mischievous look in your eye. “Well then let’s thank God I am not the deciding vote. I say God and not Gods because clearly you have no connection to the latter anymore.”

The rest of the hours were spent with your ears burning and the title liar snapping in the back of your head.

You never got to properly play with Alfred so in the night you decided to torture him for information. Sneaking into his room, you knew he wasn’t sleeping but hopped onto the bed and started smacking him in the face anyway. After he grabbed both arms you asked. “Did you get to see the Northman’s son?”

He kicked you off the bed to get back before peering over the edge with a big smile. “No, but I got to speak with Ragnar.”

Saying the magic word you sat up with stars in your eyes. “You did?! Was he tall?!”

“He was huge!” Alfred raised his hand above his head for measurement. “He was twice my size!” On a less excited note, Alfred added, “He smelled really bad.”

“I can’t imagine he gets to bathe much as a prisoner.” you chuckled, scooting up closer. “What happened, what did he say?”

“Ecbert had my mother and I come in, they inquired about my father and…” Alfred ruffled his hair nervously with scratching. “Well you know how sentimental old people are, he uh… he hugged me.”

“He hugged you?”

“Yeah… because him and my father, my real father, were friends and I look like him I guess? It was awkward. I thought it was awkward anyway. But I think I played it off alright!”

You still scrunched your nose. “He hugged you… that’s not very… kill-everyone-in-sight-and-eat-their-children of him.”

Alfred laughed at you. “Disappointed?”

“It’s what my father kept promising me so yes I’m incredibly disappointed!” you jumped up with a pout.

“Tomorrow Ecbert is letting me see the cripple.” the pout disappeared like it had never been there. “But I don’t think he’s going to let you.” you gaped entirely offended, making Alfred smile sympathetically, “I think it’s suppose to be one of Ecbert’s lessons, properly gauging the enemy or what have you.”

You thought for a moment before waving off all concern, “I’ll think of a way, not to worry.” Magnus entered your mind the same way he’d been haunting you all day. Swallowing the old wound you thought of telling Alfred and then pompously asking for your scilling, but a better time to do so came to mind and you nodded away the information. “Alright.” you smacked his cheek one last time. “Goodnight nephew.”

He pinched you in the arm that hit him. “Don’t call me that!”

In the early morning you were wide awake, not bothering to make your hair like most mornings, you instead watched Alfred’s every move from the corners of the castle. When you saw the since dubbed forbidden room and Alfred get escorted into it, jealousy was tugging at you to get in there no matter what the cost. Looking at your surrounding you took special care in devising a plan.

What the guards ended up hearing was a massive crash near them. Running down the hall, they passed you hiding in a spare room and quickly you slipped out, sneaking into the room before they could come back. Alfred give a beleaguered “Really?” before you slid under the table.

“Shut up!” you smacked his knee. “Do this thing for me!” making yourself as small as possible you brushed up against the Northman’s legs to better hide from the door. The small contact with an actual Northman, no matter how crippled, dizzied you with excitement. Your cheeks heated thinking you’d never leave the smallest touch if only it could make you feel like this all the time. The faintest smell of dirt still clung to him despite having washed clothes. And iron. You weren’t sure where that smell came from, it reminded you of sitting next to a wolfhound that had recently come back from a successful hunt.

The door slammed open, the guards in a small panic. “Did anyone come in here?”

Alfred shook his head still setting up the pieces. “I did hear a crash though.”

“We’re aware of that, don’t let it bother you sir.” they paused, giving a weary eye to Ivar before closing the door like a cell. Alfred was at the ready to tease you.

“I wonder how much you owe Ecbert in property you’ve destroyed.”

Trying to crawl out from the table you smacked your head being too distracted in wanting to see Ivar up close. Once out you stood up as tall as any noble with your nose up at them both. “Well he knows I don’t like it when he keeps things from me. Really it’s all his fault his things end up broken.”

Your face may have burned at the failed attempt to make a good first impression but it wasn’t going to deter you from the plan. Out stretching a hand, Ivar looked between you, it, and Alfred. Trepidly he took it and you introduced yourself and your titles…  and your father’s titles, your mother’s titles, your sisters titles, titles you thought sounded cool, titles you made up entirely, titles that sounded ridiculous and hilarious, waiting for Ivar to either get annoyed or have an adverse reaction because he knew, he had to know what the words meant.

Unfortunately it only served to make him hold back a laugh and that could easily be attributed to your delivery and certainly wouldn’t be enough to convince Alfred, who was the one getting annoyed. He called for you to stop and you did.

“My father’s said so much about you and your people! How you’re all hairy, bloodstained, baby raping, woman eating barbarians who couldn’t think their way out of a wooden box.”

He stayed passively wide eyed, looking to Alfred for help from your crazy rambling. When he came back you were bent face level too him with highly suspicious eyes, which he annoyingly thought was funny. Alfred started, “Leave him alone he obviously-” nearly giving you away but you shushed him. Leaning back on your heels, a hand firmly gripped on the Northmens seat you let the game set and start, Ivar surprising you both with knowing how to play already.

“Oh! Did I tell you? Magnus has been banished.” Alfred glared at you, pausing before moving a piece.

“Yes I heard.”

“I think all together that makes… five gold scillings you owe me?” you watched Ivar’s face, waiting for a reaction at the sound of an inhuman level of low morals. “It would have been six but Aethelwulf only put the knife to his neck, a shame he didn’t have the nerve to slit the boy’s throat. Would have saved him and his father trouble down the road.”

No reaction arose, just the carved wooden pieces on the board.

“What trouble? What could Magnus possibly do?”

“Magnus might not be Ragnar’s son but he’s still Kwenthrith’s. There are those still loyal to her regime, others who hold a grudge against King Ecbert. If someone were to point him in the right direction…”

The white bishop tacked and Alfred snapped up. “You didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Are you trying to bring a war to Wessex?!”

You shrugged with a nonchalant hum. “Wessex isn’t my country, what do I care?”

Finally you got a scoff out of Ivar, the half laugh of a scoff that showed he heard what you said and thought it was funny. In your excitement you slammed a fist on the table with a great “HA!”, scattering the pieces and knocking the top-heavy ones over. “I knew it!”

In that instant you remembered the guards and slid under the table just as they burst in. Good ol’ Alfred was there to save you as usual.

“I got excited and kicked the table on accident. Sorry.”

The guards eyed them hard before nodding and leaving again. You poked out from the table like a troll under a bridge pointing an accusing finger, “You can speak the language!”

Ivar went to defend but the fact he felt the need to revealed him completely. He sighed into a deep chuckle. “So what if I do?” He looked to you, a look in his eyes so opposite from before. His body slouched in the chair and a wicked smirk started to play on him. The reveal seemed to knock down a mask. A lovely little song played in your head how you were the only one clever enough to recognize it, not Alfred, not Ecbert, you. “That changes nothing.” he challenged, entirely too confident.

You hunched over the table like a stalking cat. “Actually that changes everything… I get six gold scillings now.” Both you and Ivar looked to a miffed Alfred who was now six scillings in your debt and you both laughed.

“So it was all an act, to reveal me?” you weren’t expecting him to run a rough knuckle up your neck and you worried the heated blush that followed would crumble your grandiose attitude. For a moment you wondered if the Northman really raped woman or if they just seduced them with a silken voice and hooded eyes.

“Mostly, it was all true.” you stood to allow yourself some room to breath and straighten the delightful knot in your belly. “Magnus did get banished and I did tell him where to go should he want revenge, as should be his choice. Also a few of the titles.”

“Oh, a few?” He teased.

“You’re right… it’s my second eldest sister who’s the Diddler of Handmaidens.” he genuinely laughed again and you decided you loved that sound. For such a big guy it was so high pitched and giggly. It made you laugh too just to hear it. “Although you do have to be careful about revealing yourself as a liar. People take it so personally around here.” you warned, sliding half your body on the table and getting comfortable on the side between them, no chair in sight for you to grab.

Ivar chewed on your words while moving a piece after Alfred reset it. “Speaking from experience?”

“It’s an easy way to spice up one’s life. I don’t know what the big deal is. I mean, Alfred knows when I’m lying.”

“She gets this really pompous air about her-” he started as he moved a piece, looking straight to Ivar like you weren’t there anymore.

“No no, no I don’t-”

“Like,” he started making a terrible impression of you similar to the one you had after hitting your head on the table. “I know everything in the world so you shouldn’t question it ever because you’re stupid if you do-”

“No!” you turned to Ivar hoping to save some face, “That’s not how it is-”

“See! Did you see that, it was right there-”

You gestured to the board. “I have thirty-two small objects right in front of me I can chuck at your face, and let me tell you, you should have seen the procession that went into throwing that vase through the window.”

“Did it even make it through the window?” You were silent for a moment before looking down and shaking your head in shame. They both laughed at your antic.

“Well it’s not like I can be taught anything else outside of getting married and having children. The second half I’ve had to rely on Judith for. Although,” you turned your attention back to Ivar. “I heard your woman are allowed to do more than that. I heard they go to raids with you.” Ivar nodded with a simple hum, not taking his eyes off the board. “So do they actually fight or are they there to sew the armor?”

“Oh they fight and lead. Sometimes better than men. There is an Earldom made up entirely of Shieldmaidens.” It was such a small description but to hear it confirmed sent your mind wandering into the clouds seeing an army of women adorned in armor waving swords on high and shouting orders. Compared to before there was always doubt to bring you back but not this time. In your own world the best you could ever hope for was the off-chance you became Queen and another off-chance your King died. But not in Ivar’s. In the Northmen world you could be whatever you wanted, you were sure of it now. You could be like Judith and do whatever popped into your head except no one would shame you for it.

The sound of snickering brought you out to find both Alfred and Ivar seeing your dreamy gaze as silly. “What?”

“We are halfway through the game now and you have not said a word.” Ivar pointed. There was almost a bashfulness with his genuine smile, half hiding it behind his hand. You realized he was probably flattered by you being so entranced with the thought of his world. But you couldn’t let him now that.

You scoffed and waved. “I was just thinking of how ridiculous that sounded. Woman can’t fight.”

Alfred scoffed at your scoff. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

In retaliation you snatched a white pawn. Alfred grabbed at it but you chucked it across the room. “Oh~ sorry Alfred. He died. Got drunk and drowned in a river. Better figure a way to deal with it now.”

Scooting in his chair Alfred sighed back to his game. “You’re so spiteful.”

“Be glad it’s only spiteful.”

Ivar was chuckling, relaxed back with his firm arms crossed, the v of his shirt falling wider and making your mouth dry. You’d never seen a man past the neck before, and he was perfectly tantalizing to see. “So you two, brother and sister?”

With a big cat grin you were quick to answer. “Aunt and Nephew.”

Alfred groaned. “It’s more like cousins.”

“Except it’s not.”

Rolling his eyes Alfred explained. “She comes to visit about four times a year. In a way we grew up together.”

Ivar glanced in the direction of the guards. “You like to cause trouble together.” When he came back Alfred was glaring at you and moving a black piece to its original spot, you smiling at Ivar like you were oblivious. Certainly you weren’t.

“Now did I move a piece? Or is Alfred using my suspect nature to cheat?”

Ivar looked between the two and settled. “I think I will trust him over you.”

You shrugged, “Your rooks funeral then.” falling quiet and watched their game, your smile was hard to keep at bay knowing you hadn’t touched the pieces after stealing Alfred’s white pawn. While Ivar didn’t notice he did handled the crutch well.

A clear intensity was brewing as the numbers dwindled when the door burst open too fast for you to duck. The guard snapped. “Damn it I knew that was you!”

“I’m a princess you can’t talk to me like that-!”

“Get out before I tell King Ecbert to send you home already!” you giggled, prancing out of the room and past the big scary guards, listening down the hall as they announced they were taking Ivar to see his father.

[coopapiloire]

L’éranthe d’hiver

(Eranthis hyemalis) de la famille des renonculacées

Synonymes : helléborine d’hiver, hellébore d’hiver, aconit d’hiver…

Fleurissant entre la fin de l’hiver et le tout début du printemps, soit à la période des carnavals, l’éranthe présente des organes équivoques et cache bien son jeu. Ce qui pourrait passer pour des feuilles ou éventuellement le calice est en réalité un involucre nettement divisé qui entoure la fleur. Les véritables feuilles n’apparaîtront qu’une fois la floraison terminée. Comme chez la plupart des géophytes pré-vernales, ce feuillage est très éphémère et se dessèche dès le mois de mai. Les six parties jaune lumineux qui évoquent des pétales sont en fait des sépales pétaloïdes. Les véritables pétales (6 également), en forme de petits tubes nectarifères, sont à peine de la taille des étamines.

Etymologie

Le nom générique est la contraction des deux racines grecques er et anthos.

La première correspond au printemps et la seconde à la fleur. Donc en traduction littérale, l’éranthe est la fleur du printemps.

Le nom spécifique est issu de la racine latine hiems, également à l’origine de l’adjectif français hiemal qui qualifie tout ce qui se rapporte à l’hiver. Comme on le voit, même le nom de cette gracieuse plante bulbeuse est équivoque

Description

L’éranthe d’hiver est une plante vivace herbacée par sa souche souterraine tubérisée. De taille modeste puisqu’elle ne dépasse guère les 10 cm de hauteur, elle forme des tapis jaune éclatant en plein soleil ou sous le couvert léger des arbres et des arbustes à feuillage caduc. Son cycle très court lui permet de faire ses réserves et de boucler son cycle végétatif annuel avant l’apparition des feuilles des ligneux des strates supérieures. La fleur en forme de coupe ressemble à un bouton d’or. Elle est sensible aux variations de l’intensité lumineuse et se referme le soir. Comme chez toutes les renonculacées, les étamines jaunâtres sont très nombreuses. Les carpelles, au nombre de six en général, sont verts et séparés les uns des autres au centre de la coupe florale. Ils évoluent en autant de follicules qui s’ouvrent en mai – juin par une seule fente pour libérer de nombreuses petites graines brunâtres. Ces graines, souvent transportées par les fourmis, germent au printemps suivant de sorte qu’en situation favorable, l’hélleborine d’hiver se propage rapidement. Les sols argilo-calcaires et humifères lui conviennent parfaitement. On gagne à l’associer aux scilles printanières ou aux diverses espèces du genre Corydalis qui prendront le relais, une fois sa floraison relativement éphémère terminée

Le saviez-vous ?

L’éranthe d’hiver est une plante rare à l’état sauvage. On la rencontre parfois à proximité de très vieux édifices (châteaux, abbaye…) plus ou moins en ruine. Selon certaines légendes, elle aurait été introduite par les croisés comme par exemple autour du château du Landsberg sur le versant alsacien des Vosges. Dans ce cas, son statut serait donc plutôt celui d’une plante naturalisée.

Cultiver des plantes mellifères en ville et au jardin Paru en janvier 2016

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Jacques Piquée : L’éranthe d’hiver L’éranthe d’hiver (Eranthis hyemalis) de la famille des renonculacées Synonymes : helléborine d’hiver, hellébore d’hiver, aconit d’hiver...