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werewolf-transgenderism · 27 days

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re your post about it--i'm curious about your thoughts on the global middle ages! i did my bachelors in medieval studies and whenever somebody asks, i talk about how the medieval period refers to a specific historical arc in a specific geographical range where a specific group of cultures were mingling. we don't talk about "medieval australia" in the same way we don't talk about "third intermediate period british isles" or "edo period caribbean," right? my thinking is that that's because the various cultural moments that led us to denote that date range as a specific period didn't happen in every culture, everywhere. the history of other geopolitical regions is periodized in ways that reflect historians' ideas of those regions' own major cultural shifts and such.

now i absolutely have not been keeping up with current discussions in the field, and if it's a whole thing totally feel free to tell me to just google it. but if you do have thoughts about it that you want to share, or literature to point me towards, i'd love to hear!

I think it kind of is A Whole Thing right now, alas, but! I do think the original idea of the global middle ages is important — it helps to gain a broader understanding of the premodern past. while “medieval” or “middle ages” has been used to almost exclusively refer to western europe c. 500-1500, we KNOW that there was trade and travel happening between europe, the SWANA region, and east asia, and that trade/travel certainly influenced culture/literature/etc. if we don’t also look to these regions we’re missing out on vital info about how the medieval world worked in direct contact with the western european regions we typically associate with the middle ages. in addition, thinking globally can also invite collaboration across disciplinary boundaries that are set apart for the reasons you mention — I’m thinking, for instance, of the interesting and important work that scholars like tarren andrews, suzanne conklin akbari, adam miyashiro, brenna duperon, etc., have been doing in collaboration between indigenous studies and medieval studies. nahir otaño-gracia has also been doing some interesting work on caribbean medievalisms and we know from late medieval/early modern documents that medieval understandings of race and monstrosity went hand in hand with the colonial projects of western europe.

one of the issues that’s been going around with global middle ages though is 1) it’s still not really “global” (for the reasons above, the research has mostly been focused on SWANA/east asia) and 2) it often tends to end up in the “I am giving my class one non-western european text (or maybe even just mandeville or marco polo or a crusade chronicle) in our survey class and patting myself on the back for my global syllabus” area OR the “this field is so incredibly not diverse and perhaps some of these people should think about why and how they’re engaging with these regions/cultures” issue re: extractive reading/research practices that don’t engage with the cultures whose history/practices/literature they’re using (tarren andrews’ work does a really good job of laying this out)

I personally would love if there were more collaboration happening across fields to make conversations about the premodern world across geopolitical and historical boundaries because I think it’s really interesting, and I think that how we set up periodization in history/literature creates artificial boundaries that can foreclose on understanding the diverse and interconnected nature of the medieval world. also the post I made was brought on by a public history book I’m reading about medieval women where I was thinking about how much I’d love to know about women in the medieval world outside of just western europe but it’s so much harder to find public history casual reading type stuff about those topics (and like. I can and do read academic books all the fucking time but I would love for some more public-facing stuff that’s a less intensive read)

#like I took a grad seminar on old french in the medieval world that was really interesting because we went all the way to east asia #but my undergrad survey courses? mostly england with a dash of scandinavia and france #anyway hope that makes sense it’s late at night and my brain is mostly done for the day

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sabraeal · 7 months

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The Vagrant's Season, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Written for @onedivinemisfit for her birthday! This is part of Annie's Shapeshifter AU; a prequel to this piece, filling in the weeks from when Obi arrived in The Valley to the start of mating season. There are a half dozen version of the song I adapt for Shirayuki in this, but I referred to two specific ones to cobble together this one: Marianne Lihannah's and Pernille Anker's. There is also one line from this folk song in the last scene!

“You’re a shy little one, aren’t you?” The vixen doesn’t stoop or sing-song, not like how the menfolk would when they saw him like this, just a shadow and a snout hidden amongst their shrubbery. A good thing too; if she shrilled the way the goodwives would, calling him a sweet pup and lille vennen and gutten min, he’d have skittered away faster than mice in a pantry.

Instead her voice is soft, riding the same rise and lull as her song, and her hands never pause in their picking. A practiced motion— reach, pinch, twist; reach, pinch, twist— that never falters, even when she slants him her curious glance. “I mean you no harm. There’s more than enough for the both of us here, if we only take for the needing.”

Ah, now that stings him, just a little. He’d seen her sorting out her tubers and berries that first time, plucking the bounty he’d meant to have all to himself until spring, and well— he’d scampered off, sure, half-scared of even a wilder’s shadow, but he’d come back too. Gave himself two good hands to pillage with and glutted himself on what she’d left behind, sure he’d find some other hole to weather out the last of winter.

Even with no stars yet in the sky he knew the footfalls that would take him toward Yuris, toward Tanbar, toward any place but that little glade and the vixen whose scent lingered on every leaf. And yet honey and bitter greens never quite left his nose, turning his paws in circles, spiraling him back to this very clearing, over and over. Spirit-blind he may be, but let it never be said Obi couldn't take a hint from one, when it was given.

“It’s warmer here in the sun.” Her tone is conversational rather than cajoling, and Obi’s tempted to take the invitation. Spread out his shorter legs, cramped from where he’s been camped in the bushes, waiting for her to finish her picking and sorting. Maybe even see if she might feed him from her hands, the way the young girls did at the village outskirts, too young to know the difference between a fox and a pup. “I know fur so fine as yours must keep you warm even in the snows, but it’s quite nice to have the light on you.”

She breathes in, misting the air with her exhale. “You can almost believe it’s spring.”

It will come soon enough; he smells it on the air even now, the promise of plenty enough to make his belly tremble. A few more weeks and he could eat his fill, strengthen up for whatever journey still laid ahead. Nice as it might be to survive on the outskirts of the Valley, growing fat on their game and forage, that sour scent in the north will mosey its way down here sometime this summer. Unpleasant as that dog smells, he’ll be needing to deal with the Keeper, trade with the other wilder in his pack. Maybe even mate, if he could find a vixen to stand him.

This vixen sits back on her heels, sigh as sweet as her scent wafting up from her lips. “Well, that’s that then. Guess we won’t meet today, little one.”

Toes curl beneath her, and with the sort of limber grace village girls lacked but wilder women possessed in spades, she bounces up to her feet, basket teetering on her hip like a smile does on her lips. “Maybe next time, then. Be a pity for neighbors not to get along with each other.”

When he steps out of the brush, it’s on two legs, one hand scratching at the nape of his neck.

“Get along,” he mutters, shoving a berry into his mouth. It breaks sour over his tongue. “See how long that lasts.”

There’s no convenient cave to make his camp, no abandoned lean-to left by a less wary vagrant passing through to warmer climes, but Obi does find a hollow not far from the vixen’s glade. An old yew, wider than two of him together could wrap around, beginning to rot from the inside. The sort of thing the volva would have clucked their collective tongues over, proclaiming that its spirit was sick and frail, a terrible portents for the future of their community.

But for him it’s only a tight squeeze on two legs and a cozy hideaway on four. Keeps him dry at least, and warm when the winds blow, though even as he drifts asleep, he hears the wood creaking like their voices, stay too long as a little one and you’ll be wild in truth.

It becomes habit to watch the vixen about her business; mostly small, letting his dark fur hide him among the shadows even as she tries to call him out from cover, her sweet smile more tempting than even the berries she offers. As it warms he sheds that skin more often, letting his legs stretch until he smells herbs on the wind and hears the first strains of her honeyed songs.

It’s inevitable that at some point, he forgets.

The dawn breaks warm that morning; the first tease of true spring before the spirits unfurl their sleeping tendrils and wake in truth. At least, so the volva say; Obi’s never seen a lick of them as long as he’s lived. Blind, they called him, but if it’s the price he pays to walk comfortably among the townsfolk each winter, he’ll pay it gladly.

There’s a tree at the edge of the vixen’s glade, an old birch so piebald it’s half shadow itself, its spiny little leaves coming in strong with the first hint of winter’s breaking. They don’t grow like this near the menfolk— there it’s straight little stands of bone-white trunks, but here, it’s a gnarled, knotted mess of a grandmother, so thick and bent from reaching out toward the light the glade promises that a body could get lost trying to find their way through its branches.

He sprawls his across one so thick it could be its own tree, legs dangling as wild as tangled ivy. Dappled in the sun’s light, it’s a cozy enough spot to let his blood warm up to the promise of the day. His head tips back, eyes fluttering closed, and ah, if he lets his mind drift enough, he can fool himself into thinking the volva are shuffling after him still, looking for that lazy boy, more scent than sense—

“The kit is placed in her cradle, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing.” Breath tumbles out of him in a snort, rousing him in shorter order than the vixen’s song, so close each word comes as a caress instead of a whisper on the wind. “Her mother cares for her, trouble, trouble, trouble.”

Already he reaches for his smaller body, eager to put fur over flesh and scamper into cover, but—

“Sleep now, sleep now” —copper flickers over bush tops, like a bullfinch buzzing over the brush— “in the arms of the mother tree, keep watch, o spirits, and hold this kit safe.”

For as many times as he has seen her, it’s always been with a little one’s eyes, limited to the muted grays and dunny browns they can create. Enough to get the idea of most wilders on whom he’s let his gaze linger, but this vixen— her hair alone is red and gold together, an autumn forest ablaze and yet tame beneath her hands. And when she lets her eyes skim over the brushline, looking for him…

Green. The same as the leaves that flutter between them, hiding him from sight. He hunkers down, belly to branch, and bides his time.

The vixen lingers longer as the weather warms, shedding her heavy cloak before she settles in to work, spreading it beneath her knees. There’s more for her to do now; with the snow near half melted, more greens unfurl between her visits, and the thin stopgap of winter berries turning into a bounty of sweet spring fruit. She sorts them as she works, each kind going into their own cloth before she rolls them up and tucks them into her basket, humming with satisfaction.

Most days he keeps her company as a little one; it delights her to coax him out step by step, creeping closer and closer to sharing sunlight. But more and more often, he lingers, watching her with wilder eyes as she goes about her business. Wonders, sometimes, if her pelt is just as bright as her hair when she trots about in her smaller form, if the gold would shine the way it does in the morning sun.

When she settles herself today— I shall give to my sister my seven gold rings, all under the linden so green— it’s with two baskets, one set in front and the other just behind. No difference between them that Obi can see, no reason one berry goes in one and not the either, just one plump little fruit, one after the other. Each one leaves juice smeared across her fingertips, so ripe his mouth salivates just thinking of how they’ll taste on his tongue, of how they’ll burst beneath his teeth.

“You know,” she calls out, her mouth hooked in the wryest of her smiles. “It’s polite to announce yourself if you’re going to linger in a vixen's territory. Especially a dog like yourself.”

Obi blinks between his branches, glancing from left to right, but there’s no dog for her to be talking to, not unless—

He glances down, right to where she stands, staring square at him through the branches. “You might introduce yourself at least. Now that I know you haven’t gone wild.”

His arms fold and his chin tilts, the way that makes most dogs shy from his company, let alone the wiser vixens. “I’m not the sort a vixen like you would want to know.”

Her jaw sets, even as that smiles pulls sweeter. “I think that’s up to me, isn’t it?”

Obi has to admit, she has a point there.

“This is my territory you’ve been lingering in, after all.” Her shrug is a soft bounce of her shoulders, but her scent presses heavily around him. Her territory. Unmated female she may be, but he is an unmated male, living on her sufferance. “I should know who I have the pleasure of sharing my patch with.”

“No point,” he sniffs, tilting his chin higher. “I’m just passing through.”

“For three weeks?” Her mouth twitches, not from fear. “I think that’s a little more than passing through.”

Ah, he hadn’t realized she’d be counting. “Just until there’s forage elsewhere.”

By the cock of her hip, he knows his excuse is as thin as tissue, ready to be torn under her able paws. “A name might be nice. I can’t just call you vagrant this whole time.”

“I have lots of names.” One for each year he’s wintered over among the menfolk. But they’ve always slipped off him like his fur does his skin, never sticking the whole season. Eirik had been the one he gave Goody, a smile on his lips, but she shook her head the way the menfolk always do, as if they already knew it doesn’t fit. “Which one do you want?”

The smile he gives her is all teeth, but she doesn’t flinch like she’s supposed to. No, she just furrows that brow at him, concerned. “The one you want to give me.”

His shoulder burns even beneath his hand. “I already said I wouldn’t be around long.”

“Fine, Vagrant it is then,” the vixen sighs, tucking her plants against her waist, tying them to the space under her belt. “I hope you have a nice day, Vagrant.”

It’s not until she’s gone that he realizes she left one of her baskets behind, but when he goes to call out—

Well, it seems he never got a name either.

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #shapeshifter au #the vagrant's season #my fic #ans #the two songs referenced in this are Gjendine's Lullaby (Gjendines bådnlåt) and Ye Ride So Carefully (I Riden Så)#Gjendines is a famous Norwegian milkmaid who ended up teaching her songs to Edvard Grieg #who eventually collected them into Opus 66. the last movement of which is this lullaby #if you play civ 6 you might recognize it 🤣#Ye Ride So Carefully is an older folk song- the one i link is not in modern Swedish but a much older version #i had to steer a lot of my folk song usage MUCH older since otherwise i ran into lots of like #singing about the village. and the sheep. and the barn! lots of fish too #which just wasn't gonna work for the little forest-bound foxes #if you decide to listen to the whole thing it's actually considered a song that may have predated Christianity in Scandinavia #and then was later changed to include Christian symbolism along with the old norse ones #there is a LOT that i could go into here about the meaning of the song BUT it doesn't actually have much to do with the story #SO JUST ENJOY INSTEAD 🤣

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