#REALLY ancient Ireland

[rubysevens]

the more i think abt it the more i think the far right idea of ireland historically being this “pure” island separated from the world around it before its colonisation is just an inversion of british ideas abt ireland which cast it as this backwards place only connected to the world through british influence. and instead of rejecting that framework and investigating the ways in which ancient ireland did play a role in the broader world before colonisation, the irish far right decided that england was completely right about ireland, with the only difference being that they see this mythical isolation as the ideal to be returned to.

edit: i cant believe i have to make this clearer but this post is criticising the irish far right for their hateful and ahistorical beliefs. migration is not colonialism nor is it the cause of irelands problems. it is a morally neutral act.

#bro you are just accepting british paradigms #not to be like we live in a society but. #like do you know how involved ireland was in the transmission and reproduction of texts. do u know abt its tradition of pilgrimage #and the pilgramage sites in ireland that people visited from across the world #(i mean mostly europe and the middle east bc they were christian sites and thats where christians were. but still #but these connections predate christianity #did you know bronze age gold collars from ireland have been found throughout central europe. do you know how amber in ireland. like that in #most of ancient europe. comes from the area around ukraine #i cant emphasise enough how insane the state of the discourse is like. it seems like a lot of people really believe in this past which #never existed #sorry i watched some smarthistory videos abt ancient and medieval irish art and got mad #be quiet b

[fluentisonus]

reminds me a little of this sign I was struck by from the newgrange/knowth museum

#the idea of ancient people having a different concept of individuality as indicated by their interaction w remains is smth #my aunt is very interested in but wrt minoan burials so I thought it was really neat to see these ideas I'd been familiar with #wrt bronze age crete about neolithic burials in ireland #also really enjoyed the emphasis on *interacting* with remains bc you get a lot of stuff talking about 'interferance' w remains #that I think betrays a very specific cultural attitude towards death that doesn't apply in the same way these ancient cultures y'know #ANYWAYS rhis is far from my field of expertise so feel free to correct me I just thought it was interesting #thoughts

[chernabogs]

ERLKÖNIG

Inc: Malleus (/Reader later on), Reader/Prefect, Lilia, Silver, Sebek, Ace, Deuce, Grim, and a lot of fae who should not be in this dimension yet somehow are. Wc: Roughly 9k (Currently sitting at chapter 2/23). Warnings: Violence, reference to war, kidnapping, rituals that fae allegedly did in mythology (wild), psychological horror, body horror (not until much later), and the boys are fighting... a lot. Relies heavily on ancient Celtic and Welsh lore (Tam Lin, Thomas the Rhymer, and Oisin I owe u my life) Summary: Your first encounter with the fae was not in Twisted Wonderland, but rather on the coast of a village your grandmother once lived in—where stones bit into your bare feet and the water poured into your lungs as you were pulled to a world so different from your own. It was by cunning alone that you managed to escape, having since pushed those memories aside. But the fae do not forget—not even when you cross dimensions once more—and as Beltane looms, the time for collecting is near.

Chapter 1 (Prologue) below the cut. Check out the work up to chapter 2 here!

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill's side.

-  La Belle Dame sans Merci, Keats

19??, Dunhill, Ireland. October.

There is an unsettling truth behind the superstitions we hold. After all, why else do we face horseshoes upright, or close our blinds when the sun begins to set? We did not learn to play mute when we hear our names get called at night for no reason, nor did we discover on a whim that blackbirds circling are harbingers of ill outcomes.  

Your grandmother was a woman of superstition. Because she lived in Dunhill, Ireland, you very rarely had the opportunity to see her growing up. This didn’t mean that you weren’t occasionally shipped out to arrive at her doorstep for a few weeks at a time over the summer months.

Your memories of her appearance are mostly flashes of the few moments you saw her. Knotted joints on her body, silver hair hidden behind a headscarf she always wore, and the way her shoulders would stoop with each shuffling step she took. What you remember more vividly was the way she acted when the two of you went out. Her trembling hands—Parkinson’s, you think your parent may have mentioned—would always press an iron nail into yours to put in your pocket before you departed.

“They like to wait on the coastlines,” she had murmured when you asked why she gave this to you. “And they’ll like you the most.”

She would not offer any further information, nor would she let you out until the nail was securely tucked away. Despite how slowly she would move on your many walks along Benvoy Beach, you never once failed to miss the way her sharp gaze would always be fixated on the unruly seas beyond.

She dies when you’re ten years old. Her funeral is a vivid affair. Your grandmother’s humble home has been transformed into a centre of traffic within a matter of hours since her passing, barely giving your family a moment to breathe despite catching the red-eye flight earlier that day. People you have never seen before shaking your small hand and offering their condolences. The strong fragrance of unknown flowers and cheap perfume fills each room, suffocating out any last semblance of your grandmother that may have still lingered. It feels more like they’re spitting on her memory than honouring it. You know your grandmother—she is, was, a quiet woman, and not one for all this pomp and circumstance.

Perhaps this is why no one notices when you sneak out and down the rocky hills.

You slip on several rocks and scrape up your hands really good by the time your feet hit the familiar sandy beach below. With the way the sun is beginning to set, the waters seem to be a wine-red color, swirling in their chaotic fervour to reach the earth you stand on. You pause to take several breaths before kicking your shoes off and stepping forward into that hungry sea.

Your parent will be furious at you for dirtying up your formal garb, but this isn’t at the forefront of your mind right now as your eyes slide shut and you stretch your arms wide. You feel the wind rush along your body and the fragrance of salt overtake you as you spill your grief into the vast waters, letting it mix and swirl into that abyss for a moment of catharsis.

It’s when the wind carries the scent of something pungent that your eyes snap open again. The foulness is brief, and for a moment you write it off as simply a byproduct of the ocean, until it returns again stronger than before. It smothers the brine and has your head turning to look around for the source. You look over your left shoulder at the empty beach around you. The sun continues to set, and your gaze tracks the path of a gull flying overhead before you look over your shoulder once more.

This time, someone is waiting.  

There is an unsettling truth behind the superstitions we hold. The reason why we are scared of things that try to look like us, why we try so hard to ward them off, is because we know that anything that wants to be like a human certainly has no good intent in their heart. This is the case for the figure you see standing on the beach.

They’re wearing the same dark funeral garb you had seen the others in your grandmother’s home wearing. A wide-brimmed hat sits upon their head to conceal most of their features, although you can see scarlet hairs peeking out, and their hands appear to be clasped behind their back as they stand stoically ahead. Despite the winds that bite at your cheeks, not a single scrap of fabric on the figure’s body moves. It’s as though they’re cut from a painting and placed in real life.

You both observe each other in silence. You can feel your body locking up as your mind chants to you wrong, wrong, wrong, over and over again like a mantra. Your right hand drifts down to your pant pocket—you did not take a nail with you before you left the home.

They like to wait on the coastlines, and they’ll like you the most.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The figure smiles—black, sharp, and not quite human. 

Something in your gut tells you to run and you, even as a rebellious child, do as you’re told. Your body twists around to scramble towards the rocks as your feet slip in the wet sand. You completely discard grabbing your shoes in your haste to get away, fully accepting the agony that the stones ripping into your soles will bring as consequence.

You don’t get very far. Whatever is on the beach with you is far quicker than you will ever be. Within moments of you turning, its cold fingers dig into your shoulders. You scream—cry—as the figure leans down and the pungent aroma of rotting fish emanates with each breath it exhales. You thrash and twist in its grip until you face each other, and you lock eyes with her.  

She looks exactly as she did the last time you saw each other. Same knotted limbs, same silvery hairs, same stoop of her shoulders.

She stares down at you. The wind whips the loose strands of her hair around her face, and her eyes are the cloudy blue of the dead as something begins to claw in your mind. You watch as her thin and cracking lips form the syllables to your name—but it’s lost to the roar of an ever-cacophonous sea. The ground surges up around you, wrapping thorns—thorns? —around your legs. They bite into your skin, draw ruby gems from beneath your frigid flesh, and when you lift your head again, your grandmother merely continues to wear her blackened smile at the sight.

You cry out once more, but just like your name, your pleas are stolen away by the winds.

Everything lasts all but a few moments before the sea finally reaches what it has been clawing for. 

#twst fanfiction #twisted wonderland fanfiction #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #sebek zigvolt #malleus/reader #malleus x reader #twst x reader #enjoy the sneak preview of the first 5 chapters lmfao #fellas is it dumb to use media as a promotional material? :/ #anyway i just want to write about. fae doing things they shouldnt #and the fae in twst seem too bloody nice so im pulling on dimensions #in mythology they can dimension hop anyway so <3 not breaking any logic LMAOOO

[creature-wizard]

hey, i thought you might have some good insight on this: how much of the rhetoric about “don’t ever ever interact with/work with/talk about/think about the Fair Folk” stuff is new age fearmongering?

It's not a New Age thing, no. New Age (as in, the millennial spiritual movement that believes we're on the cusp of the Age of Aquarius) isn't, by and large, particularly concerned with fae.

A lot of this stuff that I've come across personally has been a reactionary thing against the perceived "fluffy" witches and whatever, basically making any and all beings that could possibly ever be classified as a fairy sound like a demon from a horror film, and basically acting like nobody ever worked with any of these beings, ever.

Now don't get me wrong, a lot of old folklore contains some really gnarly entities. There's no shortage of horrid beasties and dreadful entities that will look at a human and say, "is anybody gonna eat that?" and not wait for an answer. There was no shortage of beings that were thought to snatch people away and carry them off, never to be seen again.

The thing is, that's not the whole story.

Cunning Folk & Familiar Spirits by Emma Wilby talks about historical cases where it seems that early modern people really were working with beings we might call fairies. People have also been leaving out little treats for domestic spirits and working with all sorts of nature spirits in various capacities for ages.

In Ancient legends, Mystic Charms & Superstitions of Ireland, Jane Wilde recorded a number of beliefs from Ireland in particular, and we can see a pretty broad range in belief and lore. (I present this with the caveat that these are not actually ancient beliefs; they were contemporary with Wilde.)

Moreover, modern understandings of how fairies supposedly operate are pretty far removed from anything I've ever encountered in stories. Like this idea that if a fairy asks if they can have your name and you give it, then it literally becomes theirs is something I've never seen in anything before the 20th century. (The reason you want to give a fake name is so they can't stalk you down when you escape their clutches.) The idea that if you accept any fairy gift, then you're trapped under their power is also something I can't find. (Eating fairy food, on the other hand... it goes about as well as eating food from strange otherrealms tend to do!)

So like... idk, general principle of "if you hear somebody making some really edgy claims, do some research into it" applies here, I suppose.

Also, I find this whole idea that trying to work with the cute, sparkly, friendly kind of fairies will somehow invite the "make you disappear into the forest forever" variety like... kinda on the same level as claiming that pagans or Catholics or whoever are unknowingly worshiping Satan. Or that playing Pokemon will bring demons into your home. Like that's not how shit works; that's just conservative mindrot.

#answered #fairies #the fae #fae #faeries

[eagna-eilis]

Ach-To and Irish Archaeology

The sequels were my entry into Star Wars and I never would have gone to see The Force Awakens if I wasn't an archaeology nerd.

During the production of Episode VII, a decent number of people with an interest in our archaeological heritage here in Ireland were quite worried about the impact of filming on one of our only two UNESCO World Heritage Sites, the island known as Skellig Michael down off the coast of Kerry.

I went to the film to see if any potential damage was worth it, or if they'd do something unspeakably stupid with it in-universe. I wanted to see if it was respected.

And holy hell I was NOT disappointed. I think I walked out of TFA sniffling to myself about how beautiful the Skellig looked and how it seemed like its use as a location was not just respectful but heavily inspired by its real history.

See, Skellig Michael was a monastic hermitage established at a point when Christianity was so new that the man who ordered its founding sometime in the first century CE was himself ordained by the Apostle Paul. The fellah from the Bible who harassed all and sundry with his letters, THAT Apostle Paul. This is how old a Christian site the Skellig is. It predates St. Patrick by at the very least two hundred years.

The steps we watch Rey climb were originally cut NEARLY TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO. They have been reworked and repaired many many times since, of course. Still, the path the camera follows Daisy Ridley up is as much an ancient path built by the founders of a faith in real life as it is in the movies.

A hermitage was a place where monks went to live lives of solitude and asceticism so as better to achieve wisdom. The practice is common to many of the major world religions, including the myriad East Asian faiths which inspired the fictional Jedi.

It is said that the hermitage and monastery were originally built with the purpose of housing mystical texts belonging to the Essanes, one of the sects of Second Temple Judaism which influenced some of the doctrines of Christianity. They also, according to what I have read, characterised good and evil as 'light' and 'darkness' and were celibate.

As such, the use of the island in TFA and TLJ does not merely respect Skellig Michael's history, it honours it. It is framed as somewhere ancient and sacred, which it is. It is framed as a place where a mystic goes to live on his own surrounded by nature that is at once punishing and sublime, which of course it was. It shown to be a place established to protect texts written at the establishment of a faith, which it may well have been.

This level of genuine respect for my cultural heritage by Rian Johnson in particular is astonishing. I don't think anyone from outside the US ever really trusts Americans not to treat our built history like it's Disneyland. Much of the incorporation of the Skellig's real past into a fictional galactic history occurs in TLJ, which is why I'm giving Rian so much credit.

It's Luke's death scene which makes the honouring of Irish archaeological history most apparent though.

Johnson takes the archaeological iconography back a further three thousand years for his final tribute to my culture's beautiful historical temples. This time, he incorporates neolithic passage tomb imagery, specifically that of Newgrange, which is up the country from the Skellig.

I think if you understand what the image represents then it makes a deeply emotional scene even more resonant.

The scene I'm referring to is Luke's death.

As he looks to the horizon, to the suns, we view him from the interior of the First Jedi Temple. The sunset aligns with the passageway into the ancient sanctuary, illuminating it as he becomes one with the Force.

As for Newgrange, every year during the Winter Solstice it aligns with the sunrise. The coldest, darkest, wettest, most miserable time of the year on a North Atlantic island where it is often cold, wet, and miserable even in the summer. And the sun comes up even then, and on a cloudless morning a beam of sunlight travels down the corridor and illuminates the chamber inside the mound.

You guys can see this, right? The similarity of the images? The line of light on the floor?

Luke's death scene is beautiful but I think it's a thousand times more moving with this visual context. Luke's sequel arc isn't merely populated by a lore and iconography that honour the place where the end of his story was filmed, I think that incorporation of that history and mythology honours Luke.

We don't know for sure what the Neolithic people believed, religion-wise. We know next to nothing about their rituals. We know that there were ashes laid to rest at Newgrange. There is some speculation that the idea was that the sun coming into the place that kept those ashes brought the spirits of those deceased people over to the other side.

It's also almost impossible not to interpret the sunlight coming into Newgrange as an extraordinary expression of hope. If you know this climate, at this latitude, you know how horrible the winter is. We don't even have the benefit of crispy-snowwy sunlit days. It's grey and it's dark and it's often wet. And every single year the earth tilts back and the days get long again.

The cycle ends and begins again. Death and rebirth. And hope, like the sun, which though unseen will always return. And so we make it through the winter, and through the night.

As it transpired the worries about the impact of the Star Wars Sequels upon Skellig Michael were unfounded. There was no damage caused that visitors wouldn't have also caused. There also wasn't a large uptick in people wanting to visit because of its status as a SW location, in part I think because the sequels just aren't that beloved.

But they're beloved to me, in no small part because of the way they treated a built heritage very dear to my heart. I think they deserve respect for that at the least.

#star wars meta #ach-to #irish history #Irish Archaeology #first jedi temple #skellig michael #newgrange #luke skywalker #the last jedi #early christianity #neolithic #historical parallels in star wars #star wars and history #star wars and mythology #star wars and archaeology

[dvrcos]

Ive been bothering everyone I possibly can by dropping asks abt Aaron in their inbox soo it's ur turn now

Any Aaron hcs? Your opinion on skater boy Aaron?

And because I love Kevin too, any Kevin hcs? I feel like people tend to forget that Kevin likes photography too canonically besides exy and history

OMG I JUST SAW THIS THANK YOU FOR ASKING HEHEHEHE

Skater boy Aaron is real and true and canon (to me at least)

He is the poster boy for the early 2000s skater aesthetic

Part of the reason he continues skating in college is because he enjoys the heart attack it gives Kevin

Kevin doesn’t want him getting hurt and jeopardizing the team and his wellbeing

So Aaron makes sure he finds time to skate everyday

Aaron is a lover of pop culture and is just a fucking nerd dude

He loves Lord of the Rings and read Harry Potter as it came out (and also very actively hates JKR in the modern day)

Aaron Minyard is a chronic migraine girly

He’s a med student and athlete who gets very little sleep so his head constantly hurts

And yaknow what he’s a little bitch about it too

He is constantly complaining to Katelyn and using it as an excuse to be an asshole

(I love him so dearly)

I also think he is constantly cold and has terrible blood circulation

His hands and feet are always freezing

Years of drug use and constantly needing to take Advil for his headaches has just shot his cardiovascular system

So he’s constantly cold and doesn’t run a lot because his stamina is shit

He has a raging addiction to caffeine and his vice is RedBulls

His sleep schedule is absolutely wrecked from both Exy and school so he’s rarely ever without a RedBull in hand

I don’t think he cares a lot about his diet but he does try to keep it pretty nutrient packed bc he knows the benefits of it

But he also has a sweet tooth (not as strong as Andrew’s but still strong) and he favors baked goods like cake and banana bread and pastries

His vision is bad and it just keeps getting worse over the years but he doesn’t wear his glasses often

He usually resorts to contacts but has to switch to his glasses late at night or when his head is hurting extra bad

OKAY KEVIN FUCKING DAY

He loves tea

Like has an extensive tea collection and will spend the money to buy teas from around the world

He also has a mug collection (the Foxes start gifting him mugs every holiday when they find out about it)

His favorite mugs are his vintage Trojans mug, a “history is not boring” mug the Foxes gave him when he graduated, and a Hogwarts mug Aaron gave him

(they read the series together :P)

Kevin’s favorite areas of history to study are Ancient Rome and the history of Ireland

He’s fascinated by the Roman Empire and studying Ireland makes him feel more connected to his mother

I think he continues school on the side and eventually gets a doctorate degree and teaches a bit after he retires from Exy

He always tries to sign with teams in or near the cities the other OG Foxes are in because he doesn’t really know how to function without the familiarity of his people

Kevin works a lot on undoing his Raven dietary habits and since he’s surrounded by people who can’t cook he grows a love for frozen food as well as caffeine

I think he takes a few art classes and really enjoys it even though he doesn’t think he’s that great at it

He’s actually not bad at all and makes a lot of really cool pieces

Kevin exclusively wears 5 inch inseam shorts

Anything longer is blasphemous

He has basically zero sense of style and just kind of mimics what the others are wearing

Until Allison forces him to go to the mall with her and they spend hours building him a real wardrobe that is him

Most of his closest still consists of PSU and USC merch though

And truly would this even be me if I didn’t put kevaaron headcanons? No

Kevin is basically a human radiator, especially after practice

And that is a blessing directly from God in Aaron’s eyes

Kevin comes back from night practice and Aaron just clings to him, absorbing all of his heat as they fall asleep

Aaron is a chronic clothes stealer like he just has sticky fingers when it comes to Kevin’s wardrobe

They spend a lot of time together in the library

They’re both in quite intensive and workload heavy majors so they study together a lot

It happened more as an accident tbh like Aaron was heading to the library to study for a midterm

And basically all of PSU’s student body had the same idea so there was no open tables

But low and behold there was Kevin, alone at a table tucked in the back corner, typing away at his laptop

Aaron joins him without asking and it kinda just becomes their thing

Kevin joins Aaron at the library between regular and night practices

They spend most of their weekends there and bring each other caffeinated drinks and snacks

Eventually they’re not even studying half the time, they’re just talking and spending time with each other outside of Exy and the other Foxes curious glances and prying comments

Aaron takes a history class with Kevin but Kevin refuses to take any science class outside of his required credits

He’s not a science person so Aaron doesn’t take it personally

Kevin can never properly wrap his head around how strong Aaron actually is

It just doesn’t compute for him, like how can so much strength be packed into such a small body

But he is most definitely not complaining, especially not when that strength is so clearly but on display or used against him

Kevin is practically drooling anytime he watches Aaron body check a striker twice his size and send them sprawling onto the floor

They become each others partners/marks during practices and it is simultaneously the best and worst thing to ever happen

They’re just excessively flirting while tripping each other and fighting with their racquets

The other Foxes comment on their “weird and disturbing foreplay” every chance they get

#thank you anon for giving me the chance to rant #I love these little idiots #so I hope you enjoyed #the kevaaron demons are loud and I cannot control them #aftg #all for the game #aaron minyard #kevin day #aftg headcanon

[hazyange1s]

MC: Raegan DesRosiers

Basics

Full name: Raegan Caítríona DesRosiers

Nickname: Rae, Rae Rae, Reggie (don’t call her that she’ll hex you)

Gender: female

Species: witch

Date of birth: November 27, 1874

Nationality: French and Irish

Blood status: half blood

Wand: blackthorn, dragon heartstring, 11 3/4 in, rigid

Appearance

Hair color: dark ginger

Hair style: often worn pulled back in a loose braid or bun, though she starts wearing it down w/ her natural messy waves in sixth year

Eye color: amber

Skin tone: fair

Height: 5’5” (and some change)

Body type: curvy and toned from Quidditch/dueling

Clothing style: dark and warm colors (black, red, brown), likes heavy fabrics such as wool, velvet, and leather, prefers to dress casual in battle-ready clothes but also enjoys dressing up

Accessories:

likes to use her wand to keep her hair up

often wears dragon hide gloves

ring made of goblin metal (given to her in sixth year)

Other distinguishing features:

two old scars through her left eyebrow (no memory of getting them)

longer scar over the same eye (cut by a sword during the final repository battle)

LOTS of freckles

Personality

Traits: confident, hotheaded, proud, rebellious, domineering, persuasive, flirtatious

Likes: summer, history, flying, parties, freedom, traveling, independence

Dislikes: authority, swimming/the rain, silence, wet blankets, seafood

Hobbies: dueling, Quidditch, historical research, dancing, weapon-making

Fears: drowning, being forgotten/insignificant, losing control

MBTI: ESTP-T

Enneagram: 8w7 (873) sx/sp

Zodiac: Sagittarius sun, scorpio moon, leo rising

Temperament: choleric

Archetype: The Rebel

Similar characters: Aelin Galthynius, Ginny Weasley, Damon Salvatore, Bellamy Blake, Jude Duarte, Faith Lehane

Family/Friends

Father: Marcel DesRosiers

Muggle

French diplomat

Left when Raegan was eight

Massive preening asshole who despises magic

Mother: Kassady DesRosiers (Fallon)

Pureblood witch

Dragonologist

Killed when Raegan was 15 (a victim of Jack the Ripper)

Gryffindor alumnus

Sibling: Ronan Sharp (half-brother/twin in utero)

Parents are Kassady DesRosiers and Aesop Sharp

Two months older (born Sept. 21)

Hufflepuff

Pet: Soleil

Phoenix (found in the mountain cave)

Fiercely loyal; as all phoenixes are, known to show up at odd times (whether she’s in trouble or just to harass his mom)

Friends: Diana Blackwine (childhood best friend), Sebastian Sallow, Natsai Onai, Garreth Weasley, Ominis Gaunt, Leander Prewett, Imelda Reyes (frenemies)

Magic

Boggart: her father…until her guilt over the loss of Professor Fig leads him to be her new one

Patronus: tigress

Polyjuice: turns amber and tastes like honey mead

Amortentia: cinnamon, clove, smoke, and sandalwood

Special abilities:

Ancient magic

Dark Arts (wielded “when necessary” which is really just…whenever her instincts say)

Pyromancy - Raegan is an Igneus; a species of witch that is immune to and can conjure fire at will, the trait being passed through her mother’s bloodline

Backstory

Born in Avignon, France, Raegan had a turbulent childhood. While her mother was loving and kind, she often had to travel for her work - as did Raegan’s father, meaning she was often with only one parent for extended periods of time or had to be watched by one of her paternal aunts. When he was around, Marcel was not an affectionate man…in fact, he was often physically and verbally abusive to his wife right in front of Raegan and extended the treatment to her as she got older.

Eventually he discovered that Kassady had had an affair and conceived a son with another man. This coupled with his disdain for witchcraft led him to abandon his wife and daughter. So, the two moved back to Kassady’s hometown of Galway, Ireland.

However, times were tough. Her mother’s career as a dragonologist was no longer lucrative enough in the troubling times, and so they again relocated to London.

It was there that Kassady met a tragic, sudden end at the hands of an unidentified serial killer (who many suspected was actually a wizard). A newly orphaned Raegan, upon hearing the news, burned her house to the ground and wound up killing the officer who reported it accidentally.

The emotion was enough to unlock the ancient magic that had been hidden away inside of her, and just days after her mother’s funeral she received her Hogwarts letter. She now lives with her best friend (Diana)’s aunt in Scotland.

Academics

Best subject: DADA

Favorite subject: Flying and History of Magic

Favorite teacher: Hecat and Sharp

Worst subject: Herbology

Least favorite subject: Herbology and Divination

Least favorite teacher: Binns

Quidditch: Chaser (sixth year) and Quidditch Captain in seventh

As a student:

Rarely late, but she does miss (more than) a few classes in her fifth year

Detention record reads more like a rap sheet

Infamous but still respected; dedicated and intelligent

Future

Career: Auror

Though Raegan notoriously resists authority and despises the incompetence of the Ministry, she sees working for them as an opportunity to change things. Being in on the more secretive matters going on behind the scenes of the Wizarding World (and the chance to deal with them under the protection of their influence) doesn’t hurt, either.

They likely would have fired her on her first day for her insubordination, but they can’t deny the fact that she quickly becomes one of the best they have. Really, it’s a case of mutual loathing maintained through an advantageous truce.

Eventually, she does leave of her own accord, and takes up studying ancient history and magical weapon making.

Spouse: Sebastian Sallow (m. 1898)

(thanks @rypnami for motivating me by association to finally post this months old draft 🤠)

#hogwarts legacy #harry potter #hogwarts legacy screenshots #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy oc #oc #sebastian sallow #raegan desrosiers

[inky-duchess]

Hi, do you perhaps have any knowledge/resources on how a government would be overthrown and how, realistically, a better one could take over?

I have a couple of stories with this theme, all ranging 11th to 17th century with monarchs or nobles as the rulers. But I'm struggling with finding out how a small rebel group could become big enough to overthrow an entire government, and most importantly, actually change the country and stay in power while not becoming "bad" themselves (re French Revolution) especially and mainly because the stories are set in "medieval" times and I don't know what kind of government could even take over that is a better option than the previous one. I don't think democracy would be a viable option in the 1200s, for example.

Your work is always godsend, so I'd be incredibly grateful if you know something. Thank you for doing all this!!

It's not about how big a movement is, it's about the hits they make. If you really want to over throw any government, you need to hit the people, hit the military and hit the rescources. If you control the military and/or resources, you can oust the government via pressure/threats or even by force. If you control the people, anything is possible. It's all about the right connections, having charismatic leaders, building a foundation on an issue held by the majority (say high taxes, terrible leadership, a sunken economy, unpopular leaders) and promising to change said issue - and spreading that message through popular channels.

Forming a government from the ashes afterwards, it harder than the Revolution itself. Too easily dictators and military leaders can snap up power in the vaccum or as you mention, a revolutionary government can start to be just as bad as its predessor. Yet even after a successful Revolution, people and rebels tend to stick to what they know - for example, when Ireland first won it's independence, we considered a monarchy. However if the dream goal is something akin to a democracy, you needn't be wary. Democracies and Republics may not have been the done thing in the eras you want to write in, but that doesn't mean they are impossible. It may not be democracy as we recognise it to today but the Roman Empire and Ancient Athens were democracies - at least, a chosen few could vote and decide upon things.

#ask answered

[lunarubra]

Pairing: Cillian x OC (Jiyan Fabris)

Summary: Just more Jiyan shenanigans where she cannot avoid to include Cillian.

Warning: Mention of Death, Fluff, English not my First Language.

Words: 4471

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Part 4 - Whispers of the Waves

The thing about building furniture was that, when in the middle of it, it was really necessary to have a stable mind to understand where it all begins and where it all ends. Also because most of the time the plans never really work out.

Jiyan was good at planning; planning was at the core of her being. Wanted to start a study and translation from a Greek text dated to 300 B.C., you needed a plan. Or, you were living on a boat and wanted to organise a basic dinner, a plan there would be helpful.  Still needed to build a series of kitchen cabinets, shelves, and drawers because she still was living in the middle of a construction site, ta-dan, you needed a plan.

So she was quite disappointed when, after a whole morning and most of the afternoon of work, she did not consider that being just one person— even if a really crafty person—still would not solve the fact that the whole kitchen counter was a single piece of wood weighing too much to even consider moving it on her own. And apparently continuing to stare at it would not solve the problem either.

In this instance, she missed her brother. It would have been so easy to bully him into helping her. Sadly, he was on the other side of the continent.

It was a cloudy Sunday afternoon in Dublin, and for once, the weather was not completely depressing. It was one of those days that Jiyan started to classify as “yes, it is still cloudy and there is no sun, but it could be much worse.” Who knew, before the end of her contract maybe she would start to enjoy this characteristic weather of Ireland.

Still, she was in a dilemma and would love to find a solution. After months of cooking on a camping gas stove and a wood stove, having a final functional kitchen would be quite an achievement.

If it hadn't been Sunday, she would have just asked Sean from the garage shop downstairs. After a couple of months, they had reached quite an understanding; he wasn't a man of many words, but Jiyan started to appreciate his silences while he helped her move materials or simply checked in on how she was doing in that small studio with ongoing renovations. She also suspected he knew what happened that night at Connor’s; the pub was just around the corner from there, and Sean did not live far from his shop.

It was during the week that she met Cillian again, the same week that Sean one morning just showed up, telling her that a guy would come later to change all the locks on the door and giving her his mobile phone again, saying that if something happened and she needed help, she could always call; he and his wife were only 15 minutes away.

But still, it was Sunday, and she didn't have the courage to call him because the kitchen counter table was too heavy. So, she was back to where she started.

Seated there on the floor, staring at the wooden countertop, Jiyan began to reflect on the past few weeks. It was the first time in the last year that she could finally feel some of the weight on her chest dissipating.

She had started to appreciate working at the university again, something that had become somewhat performative for a while. She had finally connected with her colleagues, most of them professors or researchers, but from quite an international background. She particularly bonded with a very smart colleague in the department of Ancient Languages, an expert in Old Gaelic named Scott, who had lived in London for years before recently relocating back to Ireland.

However, most of her social time was spent in a rather Irish fashion, at the pub with Cillian, or even going out and exploring Dublin with him. They had gotten to know each other well, and it didn’t take long for them to become quite close and truly enjoy spending time together. After that evening at the pub, he had invited her to a small concert where his brother and some friends would play. Their performance was really captivating, and Jiyan realised how much she missed live music in her life.

After the show, they spent the night laughing and talking, getting her the chance to see Cillian with some of his old friends and learning about many of his most embarrassing memories from growing up and being in a band. She really cherished that evening, and even though feeling this kind of connection with someone scared the living daylights out of her, she found solace in it. 

He was reserved, but at the same time, he wasn’t afraid to show his emotions and share moments with her. She discovered that the best way to get to know him was to start talking about anything related to music or books or art. She still couldn't help but smile when she thought about one evening at the pub where they engaged in an intense argument about the comparison of darkness found in Russian and Irish novels. They were both such nerds.

Taking her phone out, without overthinking, she wrote him a message.

“As an actor, have you ever had a role where you learned telekinesis? If yes, I need your expertise.”

It didn’t take long to get an answer, “I am almost scared to ask, but why?”

“So you learned telekinesis for a role?” she replied back, but she never got an answer because a few seconds later he was calling her. She answered immediately and put him on speaker.

“So, should I know the nonsense you are going through on this lovely Sunday afternoon?” his voice echoed around Jiyan.

“Well, you know that my place is not really up to normal standards?”

"You mean that studio you always avoid mentioning, and the fact that you're living in a scam where your landlord is letting you stay rent-free only because you're renovating the studio for no money?"

“Well, come on, Sean is not scamming me. He even changed the locks!”

“Wow, he changed the 30-year-old lock, sorry then I take it all back.”

"Anyway," she dismissed, "I was almost finished building the kitchen structure, you know? Then I discovered that apparently, even if I am amazing, I still cannot put on my own a whole piece of countertop that weighs at least 30kg. So that’s why I am asking about telekinesis."

From the other side, she could just hear complete silence.

“I could bargain a lesson in telekinesis for a whole homemade Mediterranean dinner,” she tried again, and when she still got no reply,

"And a bottle of really good Italian wine," she finally added.

“I can be there in 30,” he finally said.

“I owe you one, really Cillian, thank you.”

“Yeah, no worries. I was almost tempted to stay silent for a little longer and see you sweat for another minute. Who knows what you would have offered.”

“At this point? To finally have an operative kitchen and not cook on a damn camping gas? The sky's the limit,” she joked back.

“Yeah yeah,” he laughed, “I'll see you soon,” and then closed the call.

Jiyan put away the phone and then looked around at the complete mess her studio was. Maybe she should at least try to make it presentable. Maybe.

"Can you pass me the 6mm wood drill bit, please?"

If someone had told Cillian that he would spend one of his sacred Sunday afternoons in a studio resembling a construction site, helping an ancient language researcher build a kitchen structure, he would have laughed hard and dismissed the idea as lunacy. Particularly because he had no idea what it meant to build something from scratch or how he could help with anything DIY. As an actor, he was good at faking anything, but apart from that, pretty useless when things got practical. However, to his astonishment, there had been various improvements since he arrived almost an hour ago, mostly without his input or help.

Upon his arrival, he found only a semblance of a structure that could resemble a kitchen. But after assisting Jiyan in putting up the countertop and then mostly staying out of her way, she worked her magic, and now there was an almost finished structure, with a still-disconnected kitchen sink, a worktop, drawers, and now a cooktop.

"You know I have no idea what you're asking for, right?" he answered.

She just sent him a pointed look and then turned around to fetch whatever drill bit she needed. See, he could help a lot just by staying out of her way.

"How do you know so much about DIY, anyway? Was it taught during your Aramaic lessons?" he asked, leaning against the nearby wall.

“Nah, that was more during Latin,” she joked back, before adding more seriously, “My father taught me, he's a maestro d’ascia, I wouldn't know how to translate it, but he's like a really good wood carpenter who can turn any piece of wood into a boat and fix anything. He is one of the really talented one in Venice.”

"So you worked a lot with your father?”

“Something like that. We lived on a sailboat until I was 10, and there was always stuff that would break,” she said. “If you're in the middle of a storm, you need to be quite inventive to repair any part of your boat. When I was a kid, it was the most interesting times at sea.”

“Wait, you lived on a boat?” he asked, sounding shocked.

“Mmmh-mhh,” she just nodded, focused on screwing the structure to the wall.

“You can't just nod to the fact that you lived on a boat.” he repeated.

“I was born on a boat too, if you think it’s important, just outside Venice,” she said, turning around and smiling at him.

“How?”

“Well, you see… my father met my mother, they really liked each other, and then when a man and a woman really like each other, a magic happens—”

“I meant why you were born on a boat, you little gremlin.”

She chuckled and then, turning back to whatever she was doing, she said, “Apparently just bad planning. My mum didn’t think she was in labour and waited too long. When they finally understood that I was coming, they tried to get to Venice as fast as possible, but the sea was low tide, so my father became my mum's OB and ta-dan, here I am.”

He just stared blankly at her back. “And then you just stayed and lived on a boat?”

“I grew up with two hippies as parents. They wanted to ‘live by the sea and be free,’” she said ironically. “So they thought we could sail around the Mediterranean Sea and the African coast, on a boat in the middle of nowhere. My mum could still work on the boat as a book translator, and my dad found odd jobs around. It kinda worked out until I was 10.”

“Then?”

“Then they finally decided to separate, thank god for small mercies,” she said with a dose of old exasperation. "They had my brother as an exit present. My mum got a job at the University in Trieste, and my father started to work as a skipper for rich people.”

“You don’t sound so happy about travelling around the world on a boat.”

She finished working and put away the drill and the screws, turning around to meet his eyes.

“It was… intense. It could be a lot, a lot of new beautiful places and people but also a lot of isolation and loneliness. I never had a friend until I finally moved to Trieste with my mum. I never spent time with other children my age. All my world was the sea, my mum, my dad... and a lot of imagination.”

“Still, ten minutes of your life sound much more exciting than 20 years of mine.”

“Not a lot happening in Cork?”

“Always a lot happening in Cork. I just wasn’t the most outgoing kid. I wasn’t comfortable with many people. The band helped a little and taught me how to adapt to different situations, but I spent a lot of time on my own reading and playing music. Even if I wasn’t good at staying on my own, so I would get into troubles.”

“Would love to hear about those troubles, Murphy,” she joked. “Wasn’t that different on the boat, you know? I didn’t even know what a movie or TV was until I moved to Trieste. My first 10 years were made of a lot of books, like really a lot, and listening to many music cassettes from my dad’s collection,” she said. “But still, you had other people. From what your brother told me, you were out at gigs and pubs all the time.”

“Well yeah… music really showed me what life could be. Playing live music was a rush I never felt before, like…”

“Good sex or drugs?”

He blushed at that but answered, “Well, yes, but don’t tell my granny I said that, it would kill her.”

She smiled at him. “Your secret is safe, you little druggie.”

“Oh come on, like you don’t know what you're talking about, you're the one who said that!”

“Sure, sure. If you say so,” she chuckled. “So now that I almost have a fully functional kitchen—”

“Amen to that,” he said flatly.

She just ignored him and went on, “Do you want to stay for dinner, or did I traumatise you too much with all this furniture building?”

“Well, I was promised a bottle of wine and a nice homemade meal if I recall correctly. Or did you just lie to use my brute force?” he asked, pausing for suspense, then added in a fake desolate tone, “I feel used, Jiyan.”

“If I needed brute force, I wouldn't have called you. You may be a good actor, but, you know…” she said, alluringly looking at his physique. “I don’t think strength is one of your best features. And now that I know your level of woodworking skills or any kind of DIY, I could have asked the first person on the street. You're a hazard, Murphy.”

Cillian opened his mouth in fake shock. “The disrespect! After all my sweat and tears on these wood boards.”

“Like when you didn’t know the difference between a screw and a drill bit?”

“They're both pointy things! They all look identical!” he said with exasperation.

“Or like when you were helping to put up the kitchen counter and you wanted to put it upside down?”

“Listen, if you don’t understand my artistic side, that’s not my fault. It just looked better,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

She giggled and looked back at him, causing his heart to skip a couple of beats. She really looked cute when she smiled like that and glanced at him, her eyes seeming brighter and deeper.

“If you say so, Murphy,” she said a few seconds later. “Anyway, Restaurant chez Jiyan can offer some homemade pasta with fresh Sicilian pesto, if you want to stay?” she asked, a little hesitantly.

“Like I could say no to that,” he answered with another smile. “I just can’t stay too late. Tomorrow I have an early morning because I'm going to drive to my parents' in Cork. On Wednesday is Paddy’s Day.”

“Oh, damn, I completely forgot about that. That’s why most of the people left campus this weekend? The library was almost empty yesterday.”

“Who goes to the library on a Saturday?” he asked, amused.

“Someone that has to submit a complete study of a translation and interpretation from 300 B.C. by the end of the month,” she stated flatly.

"Fair enough," he chuckled.

After that, they seamlessly transitioned into the rhythm of the kitchen, with him effortlessly following her instructions while they continued to joke and chat about everything under the sun. The atmosphere felt oddly domestic and comforting, as if sharing that small space she had meticulously crafted and preparing something together had created a bubble that disconnected them from the outside world, deepening their connection even further. It was reminiscent of those moments when they delved into discussions about books or music, where everything else seemed to fade into the background. In this limbo of comfort and familiarity, they found solace in each other's company, effortlessly flowing from one topic to the next, never running out of things to share, laugh about, or discover together.

He pondered what the next step might entail, sensing a mutual wariness about where their relationship was headed. Although she never divulged details about her past relationships, he could sense her fear of fully embracing this connection, knowing that vulnerability meant opening herself up to potential pain and heartache once again. At times, he caught glimpses of the pain and sadness hidden behind her eyes, like a veil draped over her soul. While he couldn't pinpoint the source of her anguish, he could feel its weight, a burden she carried with her.

As for himself, he felt a subtle shift in his perspective. He recognized that this connection with Jiyan was unlike any other, yet he couldn't shake off the nagging worry that taking it to the next level might somehow tarnish its purity. Past experiences had taught him that initial excitement often faded into routine and performance, leaving him feeling disconnected and unfulfilled. He refused to let history repeat itself with Jiyan, even if their bond felt refreshingly different in the present moment.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, they had two smoking plates of pasta in front of them, while Jiyan, unable to find a wine bottle opener, was attempting to open the wine with a screw and a screwdriver. Damn this woman, he thought, shaking his head.

After successfully opening the bottle and grinning like a kid on Christmas, she poured it into two mismatched mugs, handing him one. Apparently, the new functional kitchen still was not completely furnished and lacked essentials, like wine glasses.

“Proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he asked with a smirk, toasting to her mug.

“Well, I finally cooked a real meal in my new kitchen, built by me.”

“A lot of ‘me’ in that sentence, a little full of yourself, aren’t we?” he teased.

She answered by sticking out her tongue playfully. "Thank you, Cillian, for helping today. I could not have done it without you" she sing-songed, her tone light and teasing, before turning more earnest. "But in all seriousness... Thank you. Even if handling a drill isn't your forte, I could not have done it without you."

“I’m sure there’s a compliment somewhere in there,” he said, smiling. “So, Bob the builder, where are we gonna eat this amazing meal? On the floor?”

She smirked at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Follow me, Murphy,” she said, before heading to the nearby windows and opening them. Without hesitation, she jumped outside.

“What?!” he exclaimed, his worry spiking at the sight of her jumping out the window. But then, like a good magic trick, he saw her standing outside, motioning for him to pass the plates and cutlery.

Approaching the window cautiously, he noticed an old metal grate just below, the kind used for emergency exits, and next to it, a small metal ladder that had clearly seen better days.

“What are you doing?!” he asked, trying to suppress the worry he felt watching her standing on that grate with no fences. Just a few steps and she could fall down.

“Come on, I’ll take you to my fancy dining room. Pass me the plates and the stuff,” she said, her tone lighthearted. “Ah, don’t forget the wine!”

Cillian stared at her for a few seconds, then shook his head and followed her instructions. He immediately noticed how much more graceful she looked climbing outside the window. Even with her guidance, he felt like a clumsy oaf.

“Okay, now just let go and come onto the grate,” she instructed.

He looked doubtfully at her and then down at the aforementioned grate. The height was giving him a headache. Why couldn't they just have a table and chairs like everyone else, and why was he following this seemingly deranged woman around?

“Are you sure it's stable?”

“Yes, come on, I’m hungry!”

“Oh, my apologies if I don’t have a suicidal instinct!” he said, perhaps with too much energy.

At that, she clenched her jaw and stiffened her posture.

“We...we don’t need to go if it’s too much,” she said more quietly. “We can eat inside, on the floor?”

He shook his head again and finally trusted the grate, which, to be fair, didn’t move or shake.

“No, sorry if I raised my voice. Heights are not one of my strong suits. Let’s check out this rooftop of yours.”

She smiled at him hesitantly, putting her hand on his arm as if she wanted to say something, but then she turned around to climb the ladder, balancing the wine bottle in one hand. It took a couple of minutes to pass her everything, and finally, he climbed up too, being careful not to look down.

He had to admit, it was really nice, a little spartan and industrial maybe. The sky had cleared since his arrival, casting a warm glow over the late afternoon, and in the distance, the shimmering sea stretched out to meet the horizon. The rooftop, a patchwork of flat surfaces interconnected with neighboring buildings, offered a panoramic view. At one corner, a low wall marked the boundary where the rooftop sloped downward, and there sat Jiyan, gazing out at the expanse of the sea, a wine mug in hand.

“Okay, it’s nice,” he said, sitting in front of her, taking his plate, and having his first bite, which exploded with flavours in his mouth. “Wow, this is… wow.”

“Noşigyan,” she said with a smile.

“No-si?” he asked.

“Enjoy your meal, in Kurmanji.”

“Ah, then… Bain taitneamh as do bhéile.” he said in Irish.

“Bwin tat…?”

“Bain taitneamh as do bhéile,” he corrected softly.

“Bwin tat-nyuv oss duh vay-il-eh,” she tried again.

He chuckled. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Aramaic, much easier,” she stated, taking another big forkful of pasta. “A nice colleague of mine is an Old Gaelic tutor. He invited me to go out with him and his boyfriend for St. Patrick’s Day. What should I expect?”

“Lots of green, traditional music, and many pints of stouts.”

She laughed, taking another bite, “Not sure if I should go, to be honest. Also, there's Newroz on Saturday, and it could be too much excitement for one week.”

“What’s Nefroz?”

“Newroz”, she corrected softly, “It’s the Kurdish and Persian New Year celebration. We celebrate the arrival of spring and the new year. There's a small community of Kurds here in Dublin, and they got authorization from the municipality to light a bonfire. Which is kind of a big deal.”

“A bonfire?”

“Yes, it’s the central part of the celebration. It's to purify yourself for the new year and spring, to burn all the impurities that you accumulate during winter. But I'm not sure if I want to go.”

“Why not? It seems important to you.”

“It is. I love it. Also, because I would finally get to eat decent Kurdish food, and I miss my culture and Kurdish people, or just speaking Kurmanji again.”

“Then?”

At that, she put away her fork and hugged her knees, looking away at the sea. That veil of deep sadness that he sometimes sensed and saw in her eyes was present between them.

"Have you ever met someone, anyone, and within mere moments, realised they were your person? Not necessarily in a romantic sense, but as if a connection sparked instantly, seeing facets of yourself mirrored in them," she paused, taking a deep breath. "Recognizing yourself in them. Knowing, in just a brief encounter, that regardless of what unfolds or how paths may diverge, they'll remain a constant presence—a confidant with whom you can truly share yourself," she spoke softly, her gaze drifting elsewhere, as if lost in another realm.

You. He immediately thought, but didn’t voice it.

"Well, yeah, I suppose," he responded tentatively. "There's Niall, we've been inseparable since school, and then there's my brother—he'll always be my rock. Who's that person for you?"

"Samyah," she replied, her voice faltering slightly as she uttered the name. "She was my best friend, my person, and well... and now she's gone. It's been incredibly hard, it kinda broke me. And going to Newroz without her scares the shit out of me. Enjoying it without her feels like leaving her behind… and I am not ready to leave her behind."

"Then don't go alone. I'll come with you," he suggested, his hand resting gently on her arm as he locked eyes with her. "While I never had the chance to meet her, if she was your best friend, I can't imagine she'd want this from you. You're not leaving her behind; you're honouring her memory by celebrating for her too."

"Aren't you supposed to be in Cork?" she inquired.

"I can return by Saturday, and honestly, I'm curious to experience Nebroz. There isn’t too much excitement in a week for me, I am Irish, we are built different" he explained.

"Newroz," she corrected him with a gentle smile. "And yes, she'd probably scream at me for even considering skipping it."

"Exactly," he affirmed, his grip on her arm gentle but reassuring. 

"Spas."

"What?"

"Thanks," she said sincerely, resting her head on her knees while still hugging them tightly to her chest, her gaze fixed on him. Her long, dark hair fell in soft waves over one side of her face, lending her an aura of gentle vulnerability. Cillian couldn't help but think she looked more beautiful than ever, like he was unravelling the mysteries of a cherished book. Returning her smile, he continued to meet her gaze.

But their moment was interrupted by the ringing of his phone from his pocket, signalling his brother's call. Silencing the phone, he made a mental note to return the call later when he was home.

"Guess I should head out soon, even though I'm dreading that ladder down there," he said, breaking the serene atmosphere.

"One step at a time?" she offered, rising to her feet and extending her hand toward him.

"One step at a time," he agreed, taking her hand gently. In that simple gesture, he felt a silent pact forming, one that transcended the simple act of climbing down a ladder.

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Thank you so much for taking the time to read this chapter. Your feedback, in any form helps me to continue write this story; and comments makes me happy. See you at the next one :)

tagging who could be interested: @cillmequick, @raincoffeeandfandoms, @emotionalcadaver, @ayomurphys, @beaniegender, @natalie--rushman, @duckybird101, @audiblysmiling, @call-sign-shark

#shadows of the sea #jiyan fabris x cillian murphy #cillian murphy x oc #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy

[verecunda]

I don’t know if this was deliberate, but during that shot at the end, where they’re all hugging Clare, then Orla comes up and puts her wings around the whole group, it really put me in mind of the Children of Lir, the Irish myth about the four siblings who are turned into swans by their evil stepmother. Based on the illustrations of the many, many books of Celtic Mythology For The Kiddies I had, it seems like it is/was common to depict them with the sister sheltering her wee brothers with her wings.

And there was that running gag about folks thinking they were dressed up as swans, plus that wee nod to Irish mythology right at the start, with the guy on the radio asking what the ancient Celtic name for Hallowe’en was. So maybe, maybe...

Apart from anything else, the Children of Lir is a story about tragedy, about loss and grief. But it’s also about the passage of time, and political and religious change in Ireland. So whether intended or not, it’s a very apt parallel, and it choked me right up.

#Derry Girls #Derry Girls s3 #mythology #The Children of Lir

[oumaheroes]

ok ok I know you're probably busy and all and you just wrote something for an anon buuuuut im begging for some ireland and north bonding, i loved reading your england and north fic seeing england telling north no but north saying ireland would let him was hilarious tbh. need some irish bois being nice to eachother pls

All for you, Anon

------

Bog Bodies

On his haunches, North took a sip of water from his bottle with one hand and rummaged about his rucksack with the other. The findings were poor: some sandwiches at the bottom under his jacket, now partially squashed, a packet of crisps that had miraculously not popped after he’d sat on the bag forgetting that they were in there, and one lone chunk of Yellowman. Abysmal. He should have thought to pack more, he knew that this wasn’t going to be a short adventure. A Jammey Joey at least.

‘How long do you think they’ll be till they’re done?’ He asked his brother, glancing up at him and jerking his head towards the action they’d spent most of the day secretly watching. ‘Till they finish up here, like.’

Ireland shrugged lazily, ‘Until they’re done finding things, I expect. There’s a lot of peat to cover.’

‘Okay, how long till we’re done.’

‘Till it feels time to go.’

In comparison to North squatting on the floor like a grubby troll- he’d been standing for hours and he was tired- his older brother was leant against a wide, fat oak, his long arms crossed over his chest. He was looking at the happily buzzing archaeologists in the distance carefully, watching for their discoveries or any misbehaviour North couldn’t quite tell. The humans been there ever since the news of the headless corpse the day before, having swarmed the old bog as soon as they’d been alerted, and had been ferrying their equipment to and fro and generally making a big mess of the place ever since. Ireland and North had come to join them not long after, watching them map out the area and begin to excavate whilst the land owners waited on the sidelines.

North eyed Ireland’s own much fatter and well-stocked bag enviously, ‘They’ve already found the most important thing, though.’

Ireland snorted and grinned, ‘That’s subjective.’

‘Not really. Headless ancient corpse versus...?’

Ireland rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.

‘Could always be another in there, I suppose.’ North stood and shook out his feet.

‘Might well be. That sort of thing was common.’

‘They seem to be popping up all the time now.’

‘More in Denmark.’ Ireland ruffled his floppy hair off his forehead and recrossed his arms, ‘But different thing, obviously.’

A bog body was a bog body, as far as North could see. Tanned, leathery skin, well preserved nails and hair. Facial features which looked more lifelike than North would like if he were honest with himself, younger and closer to the modern day than could first be perceived considering the age of some of the finds. Many hundreds, sometimes thousands of years old. Where they came from and how they came to be in the bog in the first place was generally as unknown from one case to another, but the morbid curiosity about them was the same. Quick peeks into the past always held a draw.

This was different though, as Ireland had said. This was theirs. Or rather, the man they had found this time around chopped in half in the peat was Ireland’s.

More than even that, North realised. The discovery of this ancient person was more Patrick’s the person than anyone other than their close family would ever know. Someone he might once have known personally and things he might have owned, a culture he had once shared and understood and encompassed. His personal history as well as his people’s, depending on how old this particular find was.

‘You hoping they find something that you once dumped in there?’ North asked him, trying to sound nonchalant about the question.

Ireland let out a bark of laughter, ‘Not here. Might not look like much now but this place was special. Too special to piss about around.’

‘But you dumped stuff in other places, then.’

‘Not dumped.’ Ireland corrected, ‘I used to leave little wooden figures about here and there.’ He held up his hands about a foot apart, ‘Maybe this big. Added along to ceremonies people held or whenever I passed by alone.’

‘What for?’

‘What for is a question.’ Ireland frowned thoughtfully and glanced back out to the archaeologists. ‘Several reasons. Luck, offerings, promises. Can’t remember all of them. Copied what Mama used to do.’

Several branches of questions opened up at once. His brothers didn’t talk about their mother or childhood often- topics easily brushed off or for some reason hard to bring up in the first place- and North always felt uncomfortable poking at the former. Mama was a parent who was potentially his, but wasn’t, someone he felt that he should love and respect when she was as distant to him as a God was.

Sensing that this was an opportunity he shouldn’t waste, North carefully chose the avenue he felt would yield the most answers.

‘What were the idols of?’

‘People, Gods, us, animals.’ Ireland waved a hand, ‘I’ll make you one sometime. Been a while since I practiced. Or Alisdair can, his used to be half decent. Don’t ask Rhys though, his are shit.’

‘They might find one.’

‘Might do. Wood rots though.’

‘So does skin, and look what happened.’

A scurrying of men and women along their walkway and back to far afield cars made them both pause, something small and wrapped carried amongst them. The spiked edges of their talk floated back to their spot in the trees, high and excited. It was empty landscape, no human activity apart from the archaeology dig, but North could feel a thrum in the air, the last notes of what first called him and his brother to this place. Something he couldn’t name but which connected him to everything.

Stay, stay. Watch, and remember.

North wasn’t really too sure why he was here. This was his brother’s land after all, his brother’s ancient people and lost ways, not his, but still this was connected to him somehow. Or, it was better to say that it was something he was connected to, something that was apparently important for him to witness for his people’s benefit- the circle of time connecting him to his siblings’ past to fill him in on what he had missed.

There was so much of his brothers’ lives which came before him. North felt Croghan Hill at his back, heavy and looming in the summer sun. How many different peoples had that hill seen? How many of North’s own family, past his sibling’s mother and beyond? So many mortal lives caught in its shade, so many centuries before he’d even been thought of. What had any of this got to do with him, he who couldn’t understand the significance of what was being found.

‘This is for you too, you know.’ Ireland seemed to sense something of what North was thinking. He tilted his head to one side, his eyes still on the dig site and the treasures within, ‘All connects back to a point we’re both a part of.’

‘The bog bodies?’

‘Not just them, or any of what they find like this. What they represent.’ He turned to North, the usual jokey expression in his eyes replaced with something more serious, ‘It’s a culture that’s not here anymore but that is still a part of us, even if we can't see it. It matters the same to both of us.’

‘But it wasn’t mine is it.’ North dug his hands into his jean pockets, ‘I wasn’t alive to experience it. I don’t even know what any of that was for.’

Ireland looked at him, face unreadable, then looked away. ‘If you say so.’

North looked at him. ‘What?’

Ireland shrugged, ‘If you say so.’

‘What do you mean, if I say so?’

‘If you think this has nothing to do with you, then who am I to tell you any different.’

‘Wh- I don’t..’ North clicked his tongue, ‘What the fuck does that mean.’

‘What? You wanted me to tell you something different?’

‘No-‘

‘You want me to sit here and hold your hand and tell you there there babby, everything’ll be grand?’

‘No! Christ, fuck off, then.’

Ireland shrugged again, one armed and apathetic, and turned away. North felt his cheeks heat up.

‘It’s true, isn’t it? That out there’s for you, that’s your old people.’

‘Sure.’

‘Well then. Then, what’s it got to do with me?’

Ireland shook his head, his mouth downturned in disappointment or frustration. ‘Why are you asking me? You seem to have your own opinion.’

‘Why’d you have to be a cunt about it.’

Ireland snorted, ‘Being a cunt am I-‘

‘You are. You’re-‘

‘Rather that than a thick-headed child.’

‘-brushing me off, it was a valid fucking question.’

‘It wasn’t a question; you were simpering for something.’

North recoiled, ‘Simpering-!’

‘Aye, you were.’ Ireland’s cheeks were ruddy in the high way they did only when he got truly annoyed about something, ‘You wanted me to convince you that this does matter to you, give you a clean old line of evidence that you can take away and make yourself feel better with. I already did that enough and I ain’t arguing my point. You either take what I said and try to make sense of it, or you don’t. I’m not going to stand here and put up with you begging for validation.’

North clenched his jaw, his teeth aching with the pressure of not immediately shouting back.

‘People will take voiced doubt as truth.’ Ireland continued, stepping closer. He was still taller than North, still holding the upper ground, and North had for remind himself not to take the automatic instinct to step back, ‘Makes them question and think when they might not have done before. And you feeding into self-pity is pissing annoying. It’s pathetic; I don’t want to hear it.’

‘It was a question.’ North felt a shameful sting in his eyes. He pushed away the knowledge that his brother had hit on a truth he hadn’t him to voice, ‘I-‘

‘It wasn’t a question, don’t give me that. You wanted me to tell you why any of that-‘ a sharp wave of Ireland’s hand towards the humans on the bog, ‘-is for you.’

North swallowed, the core of it too cleanly said to deny, ‘Yes.’

Ireland shook his head, ‘Think for yourself, boy. Did you feel a need to come here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘If I hadn’t called you, if I hadn’t come, would you have anyway?’

North nodded. He would have, it wasn’t a feeling that could be ignored.

‘Then that’s your confirmation. That’s important for you and yours too, that’s it.’

‘But why.’

‘How the fuck should I know. I don’t have it all written down here in rules, now do I.’ Ireland moved back to his spot against the tree, standing there stiff, ‘You’re supposed to have a brain, you tell me.’

North shrugged helplessly, ‘Because my people are interested? Because it’s news. Because it’s an older culture of this island and people want to look for something recognisable that they’ve kept?’

Ireland’s expression didn’t change, ‘And what do you think is true?’

‘I dunno, all of them?’ North let out a breath, ‘A little bit of all of them for different people.’

As he said it, he felt that it was probably true. There wasn’t one good answer but the fact was that he was here to watch anyway. Ireland was right, that meant something, even if North didn’t know exactly what.

Ireland waited a while before speaking, as if he was waiting for North to say something more or question him again. When neither were forthcoming, he nodded and leant back more easily against the tree trunk, crossing his feet and the ankles to rest on his heels, ‘I’m not here because all in that there bog was a culture I was part of. I’m here to watch it dragged out of the dirt because it’s something that will mark the people today. Look for what’s the same and not what’s different, you’ll never get anywhere otherwise.’

The ancient hill and the shiny metal cars that now drove around it, small and modern under forgotten giants. The same could be said about them and the archaeologists: Ireland watching the return of something he’d lost, and North watching it unfold to learn what would become a part of him, as the humans picked it all from the peat. The old and new, two sides of the same coin used for any purpose humans chose.

North pressed his lips together, his throat feeling tight. ‘Yeah. I get it.’ He paused, ‘Thanks.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ireland shake his head with a small smile, ‘You called me a cunt.’

‘You are a cunt.’

‘Ouch.’ Ireland held a hand to his chest in mock injury, ‘That hurt my feelings.’

‘You don’t have any feelings.’

‘In that case, I won’t share what’s in my bag.’

North looked to it, then back to his brother. His stomach rumbled, ‘I was wrong.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re not a cunt.’

‘I know, I’m so lovely.’

‘What’s in the bag?’

Ireland toed it with his shoe and grinned, ‘Just cheese sandwiches.’

‘I take it back; you are a cunt.’

‘Your loss.’

--------

AN:

Bog Bodies are human remains found in old peat bogs. The make up of the soil- the lack of oxygen and the particular mineral make up- is wonderful for preserving organic material by tanning it to almost leather. The result is perfectly preserved people, down to the hair on their heads or the pores of their skin

This story is set in 2003 and the discovery of Old Croghan Man, noted in different sources to have been found in May or June near Croghan Hill which the man was named after. The hill is very old and part of ancient and surviving modern local mythology, but the area itself was also regarded as something very special, a portal from our world to another beyond

Bog bodies ended up where they did for a variety of reasons: murder, accident, or even sacrifice. The old Irish Kings, as is one theory suspected for Old Croghan Man, could be held responsible for bad weather, or a bad harvest, and sacrificed to appease the Gods in the bog

More sources, if you're interested:

Thanks for reading!

#aph ireland #hws ireland #aph northern ireland #hws northern ireland #hws british isles #heroes writes

[sixminutestoriesblog]

st. patrick's day

Saint Patrick's Day! Green beer, green clothes, parades and corned beef and cabbage for all! In America, we have a lot of traditions associated with St. Pat's Day and a pleasure in celebrating them whether we're Irish or not - heck, even whether we understand them or not.

So let's take a look at some of the ways we celebrate and what we get wrong - and right.

To start with the man himself, Saint Patrick wasn't Irish. Patrick grew up on the Britain side of things. This doesn't make him British however. At the time, the Isle of Britain was run, mostly, by the Romans and letters from Patrick that have survived see him not only writing them in Latin but signing them as Patricius. Whether he was Roman by birth is still a mystery to this day but his family is believed to have been part of the Roman aristocracy. At sixteen, he was kidnapped and ended up in slavery as a shepherd in Ireland before eventually escaping back to Britain. After receiving training however, he returned to Ireland as a missionary and the rest is - well, not history but certainly lore.

There's some speculation, in fact, that the Saint Patrick of myth was actually two men. Saint Patrick the escaped slave and a bishop sent by Pope Celestine in 431 named Palladius to support the 'Irish believing in Christ' that already lived there.

Did he, or they, at least drive out the snakes? Legend says that St. Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland and the island has been slither free since. The truth is - according to fossil records, Ireland never had any snakes to drive out. Ireland was under an ice sheet up until the last glacial period and after that it was safely surrounded by water. To save a little bit of the story, some historians believe 'driving out the snakes' was more of a metaphor for driving out the pagan religions of that time instead.

But we totally wear green to avoid getting pinched! Right? Actually - yes. Though the pinching is supposed to come from mischievous leprechauns, not your over-enthusiastic siblings. Apparently, leprechauns can't see you if you're wearing green and therefore, they can't pinch what they can't see. Given our decorations featuring the little people dressed all in green, you'd think that would make it hard for them to find each other but - not really. You see, traditionally - leprechauns wore red.

The pot of gold, sometimes at the end of the rainbow though - that's real(ish).

So is the leprechauns' strange blind spot with green why everything's green on St. Pat's Day? Not really. Green is associated with Ireland, the Emerald Isle, these days but for most of its history, Ireland, and St. Patrick's, color - was blue. Green recently came into prominence during Ireland's struggle with England. Green came to be associated with the Irish side of things and wearing green was a way to show which side of that you were on. The green beer/food though? That's entirely an American thing.

Speaking of green beer, the drinking is an American thing as well. Or, at least, the 'this is a traditional part of the holiday'. In Ireland, Saint Patrick's Day has long been a Catholic religious holiday - and it also happens to fall in the middle of Lent. Originally, the day had a lot more to do with going to church than to the local pub. Which isn't to say no one in Ireland celebrates the holiday with a drink. 'Drowning the shamrock' involved pouring whiskey over a shamrock in the bottom of a glass. The whiskey is then drunk and the soaked plant is thrown over your left shoulder to complete the tradition - and get you some extra luck.

Shamrocks being considered lucky is a part of the holiday. Called 'seamroy' by the ancient Celts, the shamrock was considered a sacred plant. St. Patrick was also supposed to have used the three leaves of the plant to explain the Trinity during his sermons. Like the clover, finding a four leaf shamrock is good luck and five leaves promises a future of vast wealth!

So, yes, a lot of our St. Pat's Day traditions aren't exactly... traditional. Don't discount them or their importance however. Many of the ways we celebrate St. Patrick's Day today are the direct results of Irish immigrants to America. The parades, the corned beef and cabbage, the celebration of Irish traditions - those were all created in the mid to late 1800s by Irish Americans that wanted to celebrate their heritage. So don't feel bad for indulging in a day of parties and eating your favorite food.

Just remember to cut a cross in your soda buns to 'let the devil out' before putting them in the oven to bake for the holiday.

#st. patricks day #saint patrick day #folklore #superstition #wearing the green #irish #irish history #st patrick #ireland

[bagelvangr]

modern day au where Eivor and Randvi are travelling back home for the holidays

they are from different cities but have the same connecting flight and end up seated next to each other on the plane

Randvi obviously has the window seat because she checked in early and Eivor has to awkwardly take the middle seat, this will not be explained further

just like right now, there is an arctic system affecting flights. their flight ends up delayed from the gate, and then it taxis/holds on the tarmac for like 4-5 hours because de-icing and general weather conditions are making it really difficult for ALL flights

they get to know each other on the plane. Eivor's phone lost charge like 2 hours into the forevertaxi and Randvi had been reading some old Norse archeology book so they start talking. Eivor talks about and shows Randvi her tattoos and talks about living in Norway/Iceland/Faroe Islands/England/Ireland/Archeological flavour of your choice.

They find out they have a lot of mutual contacts and plan to meet up when they land.

The travelling situation is a mess and they have to navigate the airport with hundreds of other stranded travelers trying to figure out what to do with their cancelled flights. Randvi is distraught bc it's her first year in a while going back home and her sister (Thora ofc) just had a baby. Eivor is distraught bc a mentor and father figure of hers passed away (Svend) and she's concerned she won't make the funeral.

They spend literal hours in endless lines getting confusing information from a severely understaffed and overwhelmed 3am airport staff. Everyone around them (and themselves) are tired, hungry, thirsty, looking for a way to their destination.

They split briefly at first, but eventually find each other again to navigate the mess. It just makes more sense to stay in line together. One can stay in line and watch bags while the other uses the restroom, tries to find out what is happening in another line, tries to find food/drink, charges their phone. This of course leads them to exchanging their contact info so they can keep each other informed.

At some point Randvi gets super cold bc it's negative double digits and her coat is in her checked-in luggage. So of course Eivor gives her her jacket and says "it's fine, I run hot. Anyways, I'm wearing a flannel so technically I have layers too" -- totally normal gay behaviour.

Eventually, after 16 hours, they are delirious and swaying on their feet, but they manage to get a standby flight to where they're headed. They get food and drinks together once the shops are finally open and then head to their gate. Eivor, clearly shaking and on the verge of sleep deprived delirium, offers to stay awake while Randvi catches up on some sleep while they wait. Eivor says she will sleep on the flight.

Their first standby flight is a miss; but they're automatically rolled over to the next flight. Since it's still some hours away, Eivor does get some sleep and they both rest for a while.

There's a mutual unspoken fear of being put on separate flights since they are on standby and itching to get going, but luckily they make it on the same flight.

Seats are super limited though and they end up sitting separated from each other. Not that it matters too much bc all they end up doing is sleeping lol

When they land, there's a bit of debacle about how to find their luggage, and they end up chatting a bit more. This is when Eivor learns that Randvi was actually pretty close with Sigurd and Styrbjorn's family in general (details to be filled in on exactly what this is lol), and Randvi learns that Eivor is very good friends with Tove, who she is also good friends with, sharing mutual interest in ancient art.

So they learn they're going to the same neighbourhood, so they take a rideshare together. They actually solidify their plans to meet up later when Randvi learns Eivor is getting another tattoo and Randvi is giving research materials to Tove for referencing.

Eivor takes a genuine interest in it and offers to help on any expeditions or research sessions or trips if Randvi would like. Randvi learns Eivor has a boat and has enjoyed their time so far, and so they start planning regular expeditions around the North Sea, experiencing its lands and gifts together and witnessing the beauty of the northern lights regularly on Eivor's boat. :)

And for the 7292649391638th time, these two bitches fall in-love AGAIN

#this delirium post brought to you by my 20th hour in the Denver airport #this may or may not be based on a true story happening literally right now #I think I'm hallucinating at this point #when was the last time I slept? like 48 hours ago? #I didn't even get to see the stupid demon horse #randivor #eivor x randvi #randvi x eivor #randvi #eivor varinsdottir #eivor varinsdóttir #eivor wolfkissed #ac valhalla #assassins creed valhalla #ac: valhalla #assassin's creed valhalla #I'm legit about to crumble into dust #this arctic cyclone is a great way to start the holidays #I'm going to vibrate into another DIMENSION

[fragiledewdrop]

Isn't it amazing how, when you are exposed to multiple languages, it changes the way you think about reality?

I don't even mean when you learn a language well and it starts merging with your native tongue. More like...

...there are so many words for "apple" in this world, but to me the apple's truest name will always be "alma", because my Hungarian grandmother used to make me say it over and over and was sad that I never got the pronunciation exactly right. She was my "nagymama".

The first time I fell in love, it was with a girl of Chinese heritage, which means that, deep in my soul, the sweetest way to say "I love you" is 我愛你, both in Cantonese and Mandarin.

I was around German speakers a lot as a child, and I thought it was very funny that "sorry" was "Entschuldigung", so that's what I think every time I bump into someone on the street. I had a seizure at a hospital once, and when I came to the nurse started asking questions to see if I was all there. She showed me a pen and asked me what it was, and my immediate answer was "Kugelschreiber". She was so confused, but it took me a while to remember the Italian word, because "Kugelschreiber" has always been much more satisfying to think and say than "penna".

My Polish friend says "kurva" every time she swears (which is quite often), and so I have started saying that too.

Although, since I began studying French, my instinctual swear word is a very classy "putain de merde". When I am really happy, I am "aux anges". How are you? "Ça va". There is a game of cards that can be called many things, but to me it's "bataille corse", because I used to play it a lot with a French coworker in Ireland.

When I was little, I played almost every day with a girl who came from Venezuela. We could understand each other just fine, but once she asked me to pass her the "pajaro" and I didn’ get what she was saying. Eventually I understood she meant our Barbie's little blue plastic bird, and not a sparrow, which is what the word sounded like to me. So when I see birds in the trees? "Pajaros en las ramas". I had another friend whose surname was a play on the Spanish word for sunrise, which she was very proud of, and one of my favourite verses by Garcia Lorca is about the "breaking cups of dawn". When I watch the sun rise, the first word that comes to mind is "madrugada".

As a teenager, I read "Poor Folk" by Dostoevsky and there was a letter in which the protagonist wrote to his lover and called her "golubchik". I still think that's the sweetest pet name- along with "honey" in English.

After coming back from Japan, my brother has started slipping idioms in his speech when he is distracted. I couldn't understand them at first, but I thought it endearing, and now "wait a moment" is "chotto matte". He is my "ototo", "little brother".

A Romanian lady helps take care of my grandfather. Ever since I have met her, known her, helped her pick out gifts for the kids that she can see so rarely, taught her recipes and learned recipes frome her, "thank you" to me has become "mulțumesc".

A person I don't know is "ξένος (xénos)", the Greek for "foreigner, stranger", but also "guest, host, friend".

There are many more. I am a mosaic of the voices of the people I have met, the people I have loved. My own language is beautiful and it's home, but even its ancient, melodious poetry is not enough to encompass the beauty and tragedy of this world. And if I dream in English, curse in French, think of my former Christian God with a Hebrew name and of holiness as the prayer in Arabic over my sick bed that fell from the lips of a Malian refugee who had become a family friend, maybe I can come closer to grasp it.

#languages #I have been thinking of this quite a lot #multilinguism

[somerabbitholes]

Hello! Could you recommend some fics from travel literature? My reach only extends to Dalrymple's In Xanadu as of yet. And I suspect a growing love for this genre. Also, would love to know your thoughts on this genre. 🌼🍁

Here you go! It's a mix of fiction and nonfiction, and anything containing travel qualifies even though it might not intentionally be travel writing

Non-fiction

The Old Ways by Robert Macfarlane: the authors follows ancient routes, hollows and pathways in Britain; is generally about the communal nature of walking.

Great Railway Bazaar by Paul Theroux: about journeys through Asia on railways. Theroux is among my favourite travel writers, also because he almost exclusively travels by and writes about trains. Do check out his The Old Patagonian Express

Nanologues by Vanessa Able (or alternatively, Never Mind the Bullocks): a travelogue of a woman who drove through India in a Tata Nano. It's really well done. And if you'd like the immersive experience, she also ran a blog while she was driving.

Round Ireland with a Fridge by Tony Hawks: it's exactly what it sounds like. The author loses a bet, and consequently carries a small fridge around Ireland. It's really really funny and warm and kind and great holiday reading

On Travel by Charles Dickens: this is a few essays about the places he visited, the process of travel, and at times quite like a travel diary

Fiction

Outline trilogy by Rachel Cusk: all three books follow a narrator through about a decade or so of her life; a bulk of the story happens when she's travelling, and her state of always passing through does interesting things to the narrative

On the Road by Jack Kerouac: I love Kerouac, and this is the first of his books that I read. It's his journey through and to the West Coast in the US. That said, it is a messy book and it does test your patience

Flights by Olga Tokarczuk: this is about travel, mobility, the body and experience. It's a whole bunch of short essays, notes, some stories, all of whom come together to be about travel and what movement means now

A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam: follows the narrator who is on a journey home after he's received some distressing news. His life sort of unspools while he's travelling, and through that, it is about the afterlife of the Sri Lankan civil war, memory and what it means for his relationships

I hope this helps!

#answered #books #book recs #travel books #reading

[sea-owl]

So continuation on my hunter x witch polin au. I just kinda wanted to world build a bit.

"Colin!"

Colin jumped at the sound of his name. He had only just stepped through the door after leaving the witch's home, and three of his siblings were waiting for him.

Anthony and Benedict were still in their gentleman's clothing. Daphne, who was also with them, had yet to change out of her hunting dress with the removable skirt.

"Are you alright Colin?"

Colin nodded. "Yes, I'm fine. I just had to rest for a bit after tha fight with the gorgon."

Colin knows he should have told his family, or at least Anthony, about their new neighbors. He knows he should have, but damn it, he was curious.

Magical creatures don't just blend themselves around humans like this, especially humans of high society. Not since before the dark ages when the last of the ancient kingdoms fell. A time when humans were not only fighting wars amongst them but with magical creatures too. After that, magical creatures mainly kept to themselves in isolated areas. From Colin's experience, witches prefer the natural world and would be more likely found on the edges of coasts or hidden by the trees of forests. They don't end up in Mayfair!

Colin was also curious about that mind witch. He's almost positive she has put some sort of spell on him because why won't he stop thinking about her? And why would she heal him? Yeah, witches typically aren't on the hunters' radars, but that more has to do with them keeping to themselves, not that they like one another. If it was any other witch she probably would have left in the street for fate to decide what happened to him. That baby witch with that shotgun seemed to agree with that sentiment.

"You know you don't look like you've been in a fight with a gorgon," Daphne will tell him later as she looks him over for injuries. "Which is peculiar since I know that that gorgon managed to cut you with her claws right here." Daphne pinched Colin's side which had no signs of being injured at all.

Colin had to admit that mind witch did good work.

"Daph!" Colin exclaimed when Daphne pinched him again.

Daphne sat across from Colin. "Colin, what really happened after we were seprated?"

Colin paused. He knows he should tell at least one of his siblings about their new neighbors but he found he wanted to keep the witches across the square his secret for the moment. Or at least until he can satisfy his curiosity.

Damn what spell did that mind witch put on him?

-

"Felicity, do you need anything while I'm out?" Penelope asked as she adjusted her cloak and hood.

"Where are you going?" Felicity asked. The young witch was practicing her potions work. Particularly measuring out her ingredients.

"Mama asked me to get a few ingredients today. I'll be in Cambridge for a little bit."

Felicity let out an excited noise. "A papaya! If you're going to Cambridge, can you see if Phillip has a papaya!"

A papaya? Penelope turned to look back at her sister. No one in their coven here in England or in Ireland has never used a papaya in their potions or spellwork before.

Maybe Felicity was trying something new? She did make friends with that witch from the Americas recently.

Penelope found herself nodding. "I can see if Phillip has a papaya."

Felicity grinned brightly. Excitement in her eyes. "Thank you!"

Penelope adjusted her hood and walked into the library. Pulling out an atlas, she turned the pages until she found one of England. From there, she pulls out a moonstone and malachite compass and sets it over Cambridge. Leaking her magic into the compass the witch pictures the university town. Whispering in a language forgotten by mortals, she whispered, "Allow me to voyage on the beams of light."

A tug on her magic and Penelope has found herself in Cambridge.

"Now where is my favorite vampire," Penelope said as she tuned into the thoughts around her.

We shall celebrate with drinks tonight!

Mr. Hawthorne would be a good candidate to approach . . .but how to get his attention? All her cares about are drink and women

If I crossbreed plant A and plant C then should produce a bigger crop and a sweeter fruit.

"There he is," Penelope said as she made her way into one of the University's churches. Walking inside she let her hood drop.

But combining plant B and plant D could make the fruit ripe faster if crossbred.

Penelope glanced to her left. Sitting if the rear pew was a brown haired vampire. She took a seat next to him.

A vampire and a witch walk into a church. Penelope giggled in thought, sending the message from her mind to Phillip's. Penelope giggled.

And the hunters lost their minds. Phillip replied in his mind.

Penelope giggled again.

Phillip looked over at Penelope. Another pickup Penny?

Penelope nodded. With the season starting soon, Mama wanted to stockpile on roses for beauty potions.

Phillip nodded. Getting up, Penelope readjusted her hood over her head. Phillip made sure the brim of his top hat was low enough so the shadow would protect his sensitive eyes along with his tinted spectacles.

The two made their way to Phillip's rented home, which also doubled as his greenhouse thanks to spells he traded with the Featherington coven.

Every available surface was covered in some sort of plant. Phillip organized each room by the conditions each plant needed to survive.

Penelope took a deep breath as they entered. It always smells so lovely in here. One would never guess a vampire owned all this.

Phillip rolled his eyes. "I'm not exactly a normal vampire."

"No, you're not Pip," Penelope agreed smiling at her friend. "At least not like the ones they tell in stories around here. Who would have thought if you traveled further south, you would find vampires similar to fruit bats. And that they can produce offspring with blood sucking vampires."

"No one from around here would," Phillip said as he popped a raspberry into his mouth to suck on. "So what are we getting today?"

Penelope pulled out a list. "Mama requested a dozen red roses, a dozen white roses, raspberries, strawberries, and Felicity wants a papaya if you have one."

Phillip paused his gathering of the order. "A papaya?"

Penelope nodded. "That's what she requested."

"For spellwork or potions?" Phillip asked.

"I'm not sure," Penelope said. "Felicity made a new friend in the Americas recently and they've been writing to one another. I don't know if she wants to use it as an ingredient though or if she wants to eat it."

Phillip shrugged his shoulders and the two made their way into the tropical room. A flash of humidity hit Penelope when the door opened. The fruit Phillip picked up reminded Penelope of a squash in shape, the color green with a some yellow. Phillip then picked up two other fruits. One of them was rounder, the coloring being red and green. The other was a very dark green

"Here's the papaya," Phillip said handing Penelope the squash shaped fruit. "Both the seeds and the meat inside the fruit are edible. And if Felicity is interested in more tropical ingredients mangos and avacods are also popular ingredients. Don't eat the seeds for these those."

"Thank you Pip," Penelope said, placing all the new ingredients in her bag. "Do any of the spells need to be updated while I'm here?"

"The cold snap room could use a little bit of attention."

Penelope nodded. "Of course."

The cold snap room was a special area of the greenhouse that was mainly used as rest area for plants that go dormant during the winter months. Or if a plant benefits having some time in a colder environment. Stepping into the room Penelope could tell what Phillip meant. The temperature was a little warmer than what it should be. She'll have to adjust it.

They both took a seat at a nearby table Phillip took notes at. Penelope worked her magic on the spell around her.

"How is your new home? You recently moved to London correct?" Phillip asked.

"It is a new experience," Penelope answered. Her thoughts wandered back to the hunter. There was something about him that reminded her of the fay she grew up with. Hidden meanings in his words, like a puzzle or a secret to learn. Penelope always did like learning what those hidden meanings were. "I actually met an interesting neighbor the other day. He was a hunter."

Phillip looked up, concern washing over his pale features. "A hunter."

"He lives across the square from us actually," Penelope continued.

Phillip shook his head. "Your mama is gonna have a fit."

"Oh most defiantly," Penelope agreed. "Felicity actually almost shot him with sunshine."

Phillip couldn't help the laugh that came out.

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