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viking-raider · 2 months

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Two Hearts - Cotton Candy Goodness

Summary-> It's a special Valentine's Day for you and Henry.

Pairing-> Henry Cavill/Reader

Word Count-> 1.4k

Warnings-> G: Fluff, Language, just two nerds in love

Inspiration-> V-Day!

Author’s Note-> It's stupid late!

-> Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS! -> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’ Ao3-> DRAGON_DWELLER

“Perfect!”

Henry smiled as he sprinkled a few more white rose petals amongst the red that dusted the grass of the backyard of the Dorking mini-mansion he shared with you and Kal.

“Kal, quit trying to eat them!” He scolded the Bear. “You have to leave some for the surprise.” He sighed, brushing a hand through his curls and looking at all the work he put in with the trail of red and white petals, outlined with twinkling LED tealights, that led from the open back doors of the house into a heart shape underneath the gazebo, where you usually relaxed during the cool or warm, English days to grill, practice lines or Henry keep his sword skills sharp.

However, the sound of an engine coming up the driveway startled Henry back into action, a nervous panic filling his stomach as he dashed back into the house. Hiding the leftover petals, he took a deep breath, settling himself, before greeting you in the foyer as you came through the door.

“Hey, babe.” He beamed, taking your purse and coat. “How was your spa appointment?” He asked, putting them away, antsy and hoping you didn't suspect anything.

“It was positively lovely!” You answered, toeing your shoes off. “The full body, exfoliating massage with hot stones was pure bliss, and we may need to invest in getting our own vitality pool.” You smiled up at him, your whole body still feeling tingly, limp noodle, in all the right ways and places.

“I'm glad I booked you the correct treatment, then.” Henry purred, hooking an arm around your waist to pull you into a sweet kiss. “But, I have one more surprise for you.” He confessed against your lips.

“Really?” You frowned up at him. “I haven't given you any of yours yet.” You commented, hugging your arms around his waist.

“What could you possibly give me that I don't already have and need?” He asked, blue eyes soft and soulful.

“Oh, there's many things to come in our future, Henry Cavill.” You giggled, pushing up on your toes to kiss his stubbly jaw, then broke free from him, scurrying away upstairs to your office, a sacred place Henry never tread unless you were there.

Making it the perfect hiding spot for anything you wanted to keep Henry's paws off of.

Plucking up a cute Valentine's day gift bag, you returned downstairs to find your boyfriend patiently waiting for you. “Happy Valentine's Day, Puppy.” You smiled, handing it over with a giddy excitement.

“Thank you, Dove.” He winked, crossing the foyer for the den, plopping down into his gaming chair and removing the red tissue paper. “Holy!” He gasped, eyes flaring as his blue orbs were greeted with the bag's contents. “Babe!” He snapped, pulling out the latest GeForce RTX graphics card. “I've been trying to get this for weeks, but it's been sold out!” He looked up at you, mouth hanging open.

“How?”

“I sold what was left of my soul.” You chuckled, grinning, having listened to Henry's laments every time he checked for the card to be in stock. “I had my dad watch the site virtually around the clock, with my bank info, and the instructions to buy it the moment it came into stock.” You bit your lip and looked so guilty. “I confess, the card has been in the house for like two weeks.”

“You've had the holy grail of graphics cards in the house for two weeks?” Henry whispered, stunned. “I've been sleeping in the same space as it.” He grunted, shaking his head, gently setting it on his computer desk. “I'm canceling your gifts.”

You laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. “No, you're not! There's one more.”

“I'll think about it.” He replied, narrowing his eyes as he dived a hand back into the bag, feeling around, until he caught the edge of an envelope. “What's this?” He frowned, opening the flap to discover a single swath of fabric.

“You know, how we started your family tree, and you wanted to know more about your Scottish side?” You reminded him. “To get; in touch with your Highlander side.” You quoted him.

“Yeah.” He nodded, rubbing his thumb over the soft stitching.

“Well, I've been fiddling around with it, and I found the Tartan for that side of your family tree.” You explained, pressing your lips together. “There's this company I found online that replicates it. I just had them do the pocket square, cause I wasn't sure how into it you'd be, for something more full blown, like a whole kilt or--”

Henry stood up and practically crushed you against his body, leaving just enough room to breathe. “Thank you.” He whispered into your hair, nuzzling your strands softly. “It means a lot more than the graphics card.”

You smiled and snuggled against him, inhaling his scent and warmth. “I'm glad.”

The two of you stayed in your embrace for a long moment, enjoying the quiet closeness. Until Henry spotted Kal charging in, petals in his mouth.

“Fuck.” He hissed under his breath.

“What's wrong?” You frowned, shifting in his arms.

“Nothing, nothing's wrong, my love.” He grinned, turning slightly so you didn't see Kal. “But, it is my turn to give you your last gift.” He cooed, removing a red blindfold he had tucked in his back pocket.

“Oh, I didn't know it was kinky Sunday.” You teased, allowing Henry to blindfold you.

Henry chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to the bridge of your nose, resting his hands on your shoulder and helping you turn around. Disoriented as you were, you trusted Henry to guide you wherever he was taking you. Back through the foyer and to the back patio, where the start of his rose petal trail began, thankfully still intact. Despite Kal's seeming intent to eat them like the strange goat that he was. He stepped around you, taking your hands to help you down the single step out of the house and navigate the patio furniture.

“Where are we going, Strider? Mordor?” You quipped, the scent and feeling of freshly mowed grass and the cool, fresh air greeting your nose, telling you where you were.

“It's closed this time of year, little Hobbit.” Henry chuckled back at you, bringing you to a stop under the gazebo and the center of the rose petal heart. “I thought we'd visit Rivendell instead.” He cooed, removing the blindfold.

Blinking a few times, you looked about you and admired the gazebo. Everything that normally adorned it cleared away, so it could be decorated with the rose petals and twinkling fairy lights. The four corner supports of the structure had photos of you and Henry throughout your relationship adorning them. To which Henry had made a sweet note on each.

“You went all out, while I was at the Spa.” You said, looking up at him, a wave of suspicious nerves hitting you.

“It was a double motive.” Henry smirked with boyish guilt.

“So, what was the other part of your motive?” You asked, a slight squeak in your voice.

Henry took your hands in his, massaging his thumbs over your knuckles, while trying to build the courage and words to speak what he was feeling. He took a deep breath, nervously kissing one of your hands, with a soft chuckle.

“I love you.” He blurted out, meeting your eyes. “I didn't think I could love anyone as much as I love you. When we're not together, even if it's a different room, I miss you, and I feel like I'm missing a part of myself. Then, when we are together,” He drew in a breath and sighed softly, the ghost of a fond smile on his lips. “I could care less about anything else.” He confessed to you, releasing one of your hands to access his front pocket, kneeling on one knee at the same time.

“Oh, cheese and crackers.” You sighed, eyes wide.

“Or maybe, Cavill and Cavill, if you say yes?” Henry replied, holding out one of the most beautiful rings you'd ever seen in your life. “To marry me?” He cocked a hopeful brow.

“Yeah.” You nodded, stunned, excitement building in you like carbonation. “Yes!” You giggled, bouncing on your toes. “God, Henry, YES!”

A beaming smile lit up Henry's face as he stood back up, taking a moment to get the ring on your finger, his hands shaking so bad. “Now, you can eat them, Kal!” He shouted towards the house, making you laugh, before he pulled you into a breathless kiss.

#henry cavill #henrycavill #viking-raider fics #Two Hearts #Two Hearts *fic*#Henry Cavill x You #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill/You #Henry x Cavill/Reader #Henry Cavill & You #Henry Cavill & Reader #Henry Cavill RPF #Valentine's Day Fic #Fluff #Cotton Candy Goodness #Nerds in love #Language

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seratlantisite · 9 months

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i can't get over how sad jor-el looks. all he left to kal in the universe was a shadow of his own consciousness in this programming and they can't even understand each other. this show is so fucking good

#my adventures with superman #jor el #how often do grizzled oden esque vikings get to look just this heartbroken and soft #in other incarnations jor el just tells him everything right off the bat and then congrats its settled #this language barrier is such a good narrative choice damn #its so heart breaking #says ser #but also takes away the omnipotence jor el tends to have and makes him so much more just a guy #and in a show where superman is a very humanized goober?? amazing

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yoselin-uyu · 5 months

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So i wanted to join too 🤼 ✨

Thanks for the Template and the challenge @Ohcerrie🕺

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tyrannuspitch · 23 days

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it also really frustrates me sometimes when i want to talk about One Specific Aspect of loki's whole deal but i can't find a more specific word for it than "power" or "hierarchy".

like, it *is* about space racism, but for the vast majority of his life he and most of the people around him didn't *know* that. and it *is* about class/rank... kind of...? but in a weird paradoxical way where he's still nominally a prince, and maybe he's arguably being treated like a servant but even if he is he's a pretty high-ranking servant, used for politics rather than manual labour... but also at the same time, as a jotun he's lowlier than anyone on asgard and the only one (that we know of) who might actually be better described as a slave than a servant, because if he was "stolen" then he is property... and none of it's really summarisable in any particular way because this has always just expressed itself as people being Weird About Loki in particular. like there is SO much secrecy and hypocrisy surrounding this power dynamic that odin has had to make loki into his own unique personal category of disempowered outsider. but also. maybe that's just what a combination of domestic and peer abuse looks like. but it's still hardly a typical relationship when your household and its power dynamics envelop the whole kingdom because your father is THE ALLFATHER. hhhhhhhhhh

#space viking tag #meta #ch: loki #th: abuse + empire #th: servant prince #i know it being hard to describe is what makes this a good story #because they're using the medium to make something unique and non-transposable. they're telling a story that can *only* be told this way #but also. it is frustrating sometimes. i need LANGUAGE. PLEASE!!!

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squirrelno2 · 8 months

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It's been years since the How to Train Your Dragon movie came out and yet I still experience extreme excitement and then extreme letdown when people reference Toothless only for him to be large and black instead of tiny, green, and capable of language

Anyway I invite everyone to consider that all toothless posts are ten times funnier when you replace movie Toothless with book Toothless thank you for your time

#the capable of language thing remains my biggest beef with the movies.#the whole POINT is that vikings saw a sentient species as animals and pets and that its a problem and what did the movies do?#rhey pulled the same shit!#anyway dont remember what prompted this but it was a really funny post until i saw movie toothless. let book toothless do wild shit #httyd books

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cycleknots · 1 year

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The flowers Bob chooses for each of the people in his mind are so sweet to me, as someone who has been so obsessed with flower language lately.

Tia is a pink carnation (both her plant form and the blooms that lead to her bottle). The most common meaning of them is literally “A mother’s eternal love”. It’s also a thank you flower and a flower for remembrance.

The path to Truman’s bottle is lined with black delilahs; Betrayal. His animate plant version seems to be a snapdragon: A flower relating to deception, but also presumption. A request to not assume things, because you never truly know how someone is feeling.

Helmut’s path is marigolds. They stand for grieving, mourning someone held so close to the heart. I wasn’t able to find any official standing on what his plant really is, but to me, the petals seem to be zinnia petals. (There is a type of zinnia called a cactus zinnia, so I thought it might be a play on words, but maybe that’s a stretch.) Zinnias are known for their endurance. They stand for everlasting affection, remembrance, and a sense of youth, even in old age. It’s a TRIBUTE flower.

These are emotions he refuses to talk about, but they’re so loudly shown through the plants he cares about so much. He cares SO much and I will never shut up about it.

#I'm back on my analysis shit #Also I still love the hc of him not knowing shit about flower language #I just like to think he does because then I get to decide these flowers mean stuff yk #bob zanotto #tia zanotto #truman zanotto #helmut fullbear #viking vines #psychonauts #psychonauts 2 #cycleknots #cycleknots rambles

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survivethejive · 1 year

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This newly found 2000 year old runestone with runes of the elder futhark was found at Hole, Ringerike, Norway. It was found inside a cremation pit, beneath a barrow, next to three other barrows. Accompanying bone fragments came from a male.

There are several inscriptions; besides runes, also a grid and indecipherable symbols. The most prominent runes spell out a name; 'idiberug' (The final rune could be a reversed 'n', but more likely a 'g'.). This could be Idibera, Idibergu or Idiberga. If it is a woman's name, maybe the wife of the deceased?

There are also three runes on the right side that spell the first runes of the fuþark; f, u and þ - like ABC.

This is a revolutionary find that sets back the date of the earliest runic usage in Scandinavia. Expect a lot more info on this in future

#runestone #runes #archaeology #norse runes #viking #germanic languages #paganism

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gumnut-logic · 3 months

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Óen (Part 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Thunderbirds Are Go and HTTYD crossover.

Here is the next little bit. There won't likely be a bit tomorrow as I'm working pretty much 12 hours so will likely come home and crash. But I will give writing another go on Friday, hopefully.

Many thanks to the wonderful @onereyofstarlight and @idontknowreallywhy for both the readthroughs and the cheerleading. You guys are so kind to me.

And thank you to Thunderfam for supporting this crazy venture. Thank you for all your comments and support. You guys are amazing to me.

Have a little Scotty and Johnny :D I hope you enjoy.

-o-o-o-

“He’s found us again.”

Flaith Scott O’Treasaigh stared at his brother. “You’re sure?”

“A definite report from the Wind. He was sighted just off the far southern isles. I hold some hope that the peoples there saw his true self and acted accordingly.”

They could only hope. A spear in that’s man’s belly would improve the world.

The thought was an uncouth one, and beneath his station and belief, but considering the curse Gaat had been on their souls, he was almost willing to damn his own if it would protect his family.

Scott ran his fingers through his short beard, resisting the urge to scratch as always. It was necessary to wear the beard in these northern climes. That or have his face freeze off in the air.

John had let his hair grow, well past his shoulders. Scott almost envied the warmth it gave his brother. But he could not grow his own hair that length. Too many bad memories.

Besides, there were other reasons to grow all that red hair. It hid the scars down the side of his brother’s face and Cóic’s scale. It didn’t pay to advertise, after all.

“Cóic’s response?”

“She’s calm. She has confidence in you.”

“And Eos?”

His brother’s lips twisted just a little. “Let’s just say I’m glad our flying gear is fire-proof.”

“Angry?”

“I wouldn’t advise letting her near Gaat should we ever encounter him. I don’t think he’d be fireproof enough.”

“She has reason.” Scott sighed. “We all have reason.”

But that was not the commitment.

“How much time do we have?”

“Some days, a week, perhaps. He is without dragon. He must have learnt from last time. But he does have several ships and an army of mercenaries.”

“We could stay and fight.”

“We are outnumbered and Cóic has no wish to expose our family to war.”

Scott cursed under his breath. There were advantages to having your own militia, but they had left that all behind when they fled their home, choosing the same reasons Cóic was choosing now. The hood wanted Cóic and all their dragons and Scott was unwilling to put innocent lives between the deadly cretin and the great dragon.

But Gaat could not have the Thunderbird. Not while Scott O’Treasaigh lived.

“Do we have a path?”

“Far to the east are the Viking lands. There are many fjords and islands that will help us hide. The distance is barely half that we have already travelled across the great sea, but there is talk of a vast land beyond the fjords that while harsh, may provide safety.”

Scott stared at his dear brother, the aquamarine of his right eye out-shining the dull blindness of his left. Cóic’s iridescent gold scale, embedded in the burn scars at his temple, almost glowing in the dull light as if to make up for all the harm its presence had caused.

“Let me think on it.”

John reached out and clasped Scott’s arm. No words were said, but then none were needed.

Both men startled at a loud thump on the door. It opened slowly and Virgil, followed by Alan, ushered the young Viking into the room.

At least timing might be opportune.

“Ah, Hiccup.” He limped towards the boy. “I’m glad to see you up and about.”

A big black nose pushed open the door wide. The young black fury stepped into the room; green eyes wary as he slunk up beside his rider.

“And Toothless. You are both welcome to our clochán.”

The Viking’s expression was curiosity itself. He dipped his head. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

There was no humility or fear and Scott received the impression that Hiccup was used to speaking with nobility.

Fair enough.

It was obvious this room was where the decisions were made. Despite their sometimes nomad existence, John made a point to remind Scott exactly who he was by decking the meeting hall with drapery from home.

But no matter if his brothers now thought him Flaithri, Scott would never consider himself king while hope remained and he made a point to ignore the ornate chair Virgil insisted they lug across the oceans vast. It was their father’s, not Scott’s and it sat at the head of the hall, ever empty.

Scott preferred the wooden chairs they made from whatever tree they could find locally. Even a cold rock would be better.

He gestured Hiccup over to a table at one side of the room. “Let us sit and share news.” And he didn’t need Virgil’s pointed glare and his leg to know that he needed to sit down before his brother called in Máthair Chriona and she decided to stew him alive for ignoring her advice.

He limped over and sat beside Hiccup.

And no, neither of his brothers left the room. Virgil sat with him and John stood behind as if he was some kind of protective sentinel.

The night fury made a point of sitting beside the young Viking, strategically placing his body directly between Scott and his rider.

Just as defensive as Óen. A glance at John and he found a frown on his brother’s face. And that would be a yes on the same level of defiance to Cóic. No doubt the matriarch had told him to step back but the fury had ignored her.

Interesting.

Hiccup was watching all of them and again, Scott was again struck with the impression that the boy knew nobility. Likely was nobility.

“Virgil says Toothless needs time to rest his wings before you return home. You are welcome to stay with us for that time. I would be interested to hear your tale, get to know a little of you and your people.”

Hiccup straightened. “And I would be very interested to get to know you as well. Your dragons…your night fury. Where did you find him?”

Scott let his shoulders relax. “Óen was my father’s.”

-o-o-o-

TBC

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #how to train your dragon #httyd #thunderbirds fanfiction #httyd fanfiction #scott tracy #john tracy #hiccup haddock #crossover #nuttyfic #I did soo much research for this #at least two different languages are here #not including English or Viking #I had to buy dinner because I took too long writing #bad parent and wife

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languages-with-ian · 1 year

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Could you talk about Gaelic? How many people are speak it today?

Indeed I can!

SCOTTISH GAELIC

"Gaelic" as a term can refer to any of the Goidelic branch of languages, which includes Irish, Scottish Gaelic, and Manx. HOWEVER, since today (November 30th) is Saint Andrew's Day, Scotland's national day, let's talk about Gàidhlig na h-Alba, or Scottish Gaelic! Latha Naomh Anndra sona dhuibh!

When referring to Scottish Gaelic, we pronounce the word "Gaelic" not as "gey-lick" but as "gal-lick", owing to its native pronunciation (which you can listen to here).

BEFORE THIS POST GETS TOO LONG, I urge the reader to consider learning this language! It's the source of my name after all ("Ian" is a form of "Iain" or "Eòin", both Gaelic forms of "John") and is the heritage language of as many as 40 million people worldwide. Even if you don't claim any Scottish ancestry, it's a beautiful and poetic language tied to an equally beautiful and poetic culture! Use it as a code language with your friends, read some classic Gaelic literature, or even pay a visit to Scotland and smugly read Gaelic road signs off to your friends/family/tour guide! (They'll love it, I promise.) I personally have been learning via Duolingo and other online resources for about 8 months now. And remember, "Is fheàrr Gàidhlig bhriste na Gàidhlig sa chiste" (better broken Gaelic than Gaelic in the coffin).

As of the 2011 Census, the total number of people within Scotland itself that can speak the language is about 57,000 people, or 1.1% of the population [1]. This is indeed a relatively small number, and according to the Endangered Languages Project the language is "Threatened", but the Scottish Government has produced Gaelic Language Plans about every five years since the passage of the Gaelic Language (Scotland) Act 2005. These plans ensure government commitment to the survival and growth of the language, and indeed the decline in speakers has slowed since 2000, and with luck these trends will reverse in the coming years.

In fact, on October 14 of this year, the Scottish Government released an updated language plan outlining the next five years of government initiatives for the language.

But what is this language?

WARNING: INCOMING HISTORY LESSON!

Scottish Gaelic is a Celtic language that was brought to the west coast of Scotland from Ireland by settlers (named "Scoti" by the Romans) sometime between 300 and 500 CE. These settlers soon established the Kingdom of Dál Riata (a name which means "Riata's territory"). This kingdom maintained close ties with Ulster (roughly modern Northern Ireland), and it was during this early period that Christianity began to take hold across Scotland, with such figures as Saint Columba founding monasteries and institutions of learning. What is today Scotland was fractured between four broad people groups at this point - the Gaels in the west, the Picts in the east, the Angles of Northumbria and Berenicia in the southeast, and the Britons of Strathclyde in the south.

With Christianity came the rapid spread of the Gaelic language into lands outside Gaelic control, especially into the Kingdom of the Picts. Eventually, in the 860s-870s, a certain group called the Vikings appeared. (You may have heard of them.) It was at this time that Scotland unified against a common threat, solidifying the bond between the (likely) Brittonic-speaking Picts and the Gaelic-speaking Scots. Over time, Pictish identity was completely lost (leaving behind difficult-to-decipher standing stones scattered across the countryside), and a unified Kingdom of Alba appeared. (Alba means Scotland - and it's not pronounced how you might think.) Between about 1000 and 1200, Gaelic reached its greatest geographic extent, being spoken across Scotland (the islands at this time were ruled by Vikings, which I'll cover in a later post; however, Gaelic was still spoken, at least in the Western Isles). Some people argue that it was never spoken south of Lothian, but place-name evidence from the Borders calls this into question somewhat (name prefixes such as "bal-" and "kil-" are telltale signs of Gaelic settlements).

Malcolm III (of Macbeth fame), also known as Malcolm Canmore ("ceann mòr", or "big head"), married an Anglo-Saxon princess named Margaret, who had no Gaelic. It was at this time, around 1070, that the first signs of a decline in the language began to appear. Margaret brought English-speaking monks to the Lowlands, in effect drawing a cultural border between Lowlands and Highlands.

By the mid-1300s, Scots, a sister language of English (NOT a dialect!), had become the language of the courts and of the parliament. England, in all its ambition, turned its eyes northward, necessitating an independence struggle (or two, or three...), although this resistance was carried out using Scots (then dubbed "Inglis"), not Gaelic (then "Scottis").

By the time the above image was current (c. 1400), Scottish Gaelic had almost completely split away from Irish, though the written languages were (and to a rough extent, still are) rather mutually intelligible.

Over time, Gaelic became further and further marginalized by Scots. Various government initiatives worked expressly against the language, incentivizing or otherwise encouraging Highlanders to speak the "educated tongue" of the Lowlands. In Scots, Gaelic was called "Erse" (roughly, "Irish"), in a popular effort to "de-Scottify" the language. James VI (and I)'s reign marked a significant downturn in the language's usage. The language was seen as backwards, rebellious, and Catholic (a big no-no in an officially Protestant nation). The language was looked down upon in schools (not to mention broader society) from the 1600s up through the early 1900s, and English became the language of upward mobility for Highlanders and Islanders.

Fuadaichean nan Gàidheal, the Highland Clearances, were a result of the failed Jacobite rebellions throughout the 1700s and the imposition of new systems of land management and ownership. Many Highland families emigrated to the far corners of the British Empire, particularly Canada, the United States, Australia, and New Zealand. Highland culture, for all intents and purposes defunct back home in Scotland, survived in these places into the modern era.

In Canada, Gaelic found much success, especially initially. At one point, Gaelic was the third-most commonly spoken language in Canada, though usage declined markedly between the 1800s and more recent revival efforts in the late 20th century. According to the 2011 Canadian Census, 7,195 people claim "Gaelic languages" as the language they use at home (though this term also includes Irish, Welsh, and Breton, the latter two of which are not Gaelic, but Brythonic). Scottish Gaelic is taught in schools (on an opt-in basis) from primary to university level in Nova Scotia, a province whose name means "New Scotland" in Latin. In Nova Scotia, especially on Cape Breton Island, Highland culture is still very much alive.

What goes on within Gaelic?

Gaelic and its other Celtic cousins are quite unique in the European context, as they place the verb first within sentence structure. It's also quite interesting as its nouns can still inflect for the dual number (at least vestigially), a feature lost in a great many other Indo-European languages (oh, did I mention it's an Indo-European language?). If you've ever seen any written Irish or Scottish Gaelic, you may have noticed they like to put "h" after the first letter of a lot of words. This is a linguistic phenomenon known as mutation, and in this case more specifically as lenition. It changes the pronunciation of the first consonant of the word. This phenomenon has been present in the language since the days of Old Irish (and perhaps even further back into the days of Proto-Celtic).

In terms of spelling and pronunciation, it's astonishingly regular... once you figure out all the rules. There are 11-ish vowel sounds (depending on dialect), and 30 (or so) consonant sounds, a step down from Old Irish's 46 distinct consonants.

To conclude:

If you're committed to learning the language, I would recommend finding fellow learners or even native speakers online, and if you're really, REALLY committed to learning the language, I would doubly recommend making the effort to find a tutor in-person or over Zoom or another video calling service if it's within your means (although this advice goes without saying for learning any language). An institution known as Sabhal Mòr Ostaig, based in the Isle of Skye in the Western Isles of Scotland, must be mentioned in any discussion about learning Gaelic, however. According to their website, they are the "only centre of Higher and Further Education in the world that provides its learning programmes entirely through the medium of Gaelic in an immersed, language-rich environment." (This post is not sponsored.) If you have the time, the money, and the willpower, perhaps give them a look! They work closely with projects such as Tobar an Dualchais and Soillse to preserve, maintain, and revitalize Gaelic language and culture for future generations.

Follow for more linguistics and share this post! If you have any questions, feel free to ask!

#scotland #scottish #gaelic #irish language #scottish gaelic #indo european #linguistics #language #history #culture #celtic #celts #vikings

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ancientorigins · 9 months

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Deciphering Viking code means delving into the fascinating realm of cryptic messages, ancient magic and rich Viking history to try and uncover secrets of the past.

#DNA #rune #runes #Vikings #messages #runic #writing #code #communication #language #inscription

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viking-raider · 3 months

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Salt in Our Wounds - Chapter I

Summary-> You and your family live in a tiny coastal town, on the French side of the English Channel, during the Second World War. Things aren't easy for the four of you, for obvious reasons, with France being under German Occupation. But things become ever more complicated, when you find a wounded man washed ashore and you feel obligated to help him.

Dragging your family and town into a dangerous situation.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 4.3k

Warnings-> PG: Blood, Language, Infidelity

Inspiration-> The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> I hope you enjoy! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

Climbing and cloudless, the sun beared down on the sapphire English Channel below. Its roaring waves lapped against the shore of one of France's many serene and far-reaching beaches, washing in bits of seaweed and sea life with its eddies and tides. A trio of gulls circled above one area of the shore, letting out their shrill call in agitated excitement, while making mock dives for the prize they had their beady eyes on.

You, out on an early morning, seaside walk, lifted your hand against the shining sun, to study the sea birds. Interested in what they were so adamant about, but also felt cautious, as you approached. Since times were not the best to find surprises on the beach. Especially not here, along the Channel. But you couldn't stop your curiosity, and edged ever closer to the birds and their would-be meal. The nearer you got, the more you felt a growing alarm, seeing the foamy, salt water tinged with something red.

You froze, horrified to see the water rushing by your bare feet. Realizing it was blood. Following the tentacles of blood a few meters up the beach, you found the shock of a lifetime.

Startling back with a yelp, you tripped over the wet hem of your skirt and tumbled backwards, falling hard and knocking some of the air out of your lungs. Eyes fixed on a limp hand gently floating in the water, the skin of the finger-pads wrinkled from long water exposure. But it was the man attached to the arm that alarmed you, his thickly bearded face turned to one side and rocking to the ebb and flow of the water he laid half submerged in, a wound somewhere on his person seeping out around him.

You were sure he had to be dead, why else would he wash ashore in the freezing Channel water. You had only been sitting in it for a few, short minutes and were already shivering, while he only stirred because of the current.

Poor man. You thought, your brow pinching with heartfelt sympathy for him and whoever his family was.

Finally getting to your feet, you twisted some of the water out of your skirt, frowning to see some of his blood had soaked into the rough fabric. But there was no help for that. You knew you'd have to return to the village and inform the authorities of him. So they could retrieve his body. Especially before the village kids found him. The evil little rascals. They enjoyed poking at anything dead that washed ashore. You'd seen them pestering a poor seal corpse just last week. But you also knew, you should actually make sure he was deceased, before running off to inform Director General Trottier about him. You just needed to find the courage to draw closer and touch him.

To hold a hand against his nose, in search of any breath.

“Perhaps I should just go get the authorities to do this?” You mumbled to yourself, wringing your hands anxiously. “They have the experience.” You tried to reason, looking over your shoulder towards the village. “But what if he is still alive.” You said, looking back at him. “And he dies, while I run back for help.”

“Christ, why did you have to wash up here?” You huffed, a rush of frustrated confidence flooding you.

You waded to him and bent, bringing your dripping hand up to his nose and held still for a long time. Wanting to make sure it was actually his breath against your palm, and not the wind. The longer you left your hand there, the more positive you became that this strange man was still, to some degree, alive.

That just left the conundrum of what to do with him.

You needed to get him out of the icy water, that was for sure. If he didn't die from his wound and blood loss, he would surely suffer from hypothermia. He only had on a thin, long sleeve and half-button down, collared shirt and pants of the same material, paired with suspenders, belt and boots.

“What were you up to?” You frowned at him, seeing he was bleeding from a wound to the right side, before hooking your arm under his shoulder and bracing it under his, then started pulling his heavy body further up dry land; as far as you could get him. “Mmph!” You grunted, laying him down in the sand, unable to carry him any further.

“Oh gosh.” You panted, flicking back several windblown wisps of hair out of your face. “You are a beast of a man.” You were about to try and move him a little bit more, when you heard your name being called, and felt your heart jolt into your throat. “Oh, Christ.” You fretted, hands beginning to shake, sure you were busted by one of the patrol officers.

You frantically looked around, but there was nowhere to hide the man, you were in the open and the beach was mostly flat and smooth. So, you did the one feeble thing you could think of, you rushed around and put yourself between them and him.

Though, you found it to be useless.

“What are you doing?” Your brother huffed, coming up to you, breathless, before finally spotting the unconscious man you were trying to shield. “Who the hell is this?” He barked, waving a hand behind you.

You started to lie to him, but saw the look in his eye and gave that up. “I found him in the water.” You blurted out, turning around to face him. “He's still alive. Barely. He's been wounded in the side by something. But I pulled him out of the water and I was going to get help.” You looked at your brother, eyes wild. “However, you showed up.”

Your brother looked at you, critically, obviously furious. “That's a bullet wound!” He hissed at you, grabbing the front of the man's shirt and rolling him onto his uninjured side, to get a closer look.

“He's been shot!” You gasped, leaning over to see. “We have to help him, Edmund.”

“Help him!” Edmund barked, lifting a brow at you. “Are you quite out of your mind! If the Patrol finds him with us, they'll finish killing him and likely throw us in an interment.”

“Edmund.” You whispered, gasping the back of his arm.

He stared at you for a long second, then growled down at the man. “Fine.” He huffed, begrudgingly. “I just don't know how you expect us to move him, without getting caught by the Patrol.” He said, looking back towards the village, it was a good two hundred yards away, plus the eighty or so yards from the edge of the beach, along the edge of the village and to where you lived with your elderly father.

“What about your truck?” You perked up, looking at him, your eyes bright with the idea. “We can carry him to the edge of the beach, hiding him. I'll stay nearby, to keep an eye on him, while you go get your truck and come back. Then, we'll put him in the back and cover him with some of your tarps. Perhaps, take a short drive to some place and go back home. To reduce suspicion.”

Edmund stared at you, his expression conveying how skeptical he was about your plan, before he shook his head and threw up his hands. “If we get caught, I'm going to be so angry with you!” He chided, grabbing the man beneath the arms, much like you had. “Grab his feet.” He huffed at you, jerking his head at the man's boots.

“Yes, right!” You nodded, flustered, rushing around and grabbing his ankles. “Oh gosh, even his legs are heavy.” You groaned, stumbling to keep up with Edmund's quick pace as he rushed down the beach, wanting to work quickly before anyone came along.

“How do we not know this man isn't one of them?” Edmund puffed, breath wheezing in his throat as the exertion became too much for him, but he pushed through it.

You frowned at your brother, then looked at the man, and studied his pale face. Something in your gut told you he wasn't a collaborator or one of the enemies inflicting war on so much of Europe and Humanity.

“We don't.” You murmured, biting the corner of your lip. “However, I just feel that he's not.”

“Oh, you feel it.” Edmund huffed, mocking you. “Well, let's go on a woman's intuition.”

“There's no need to be crass, Edmund.” You barked at him, irritated by his remark. “You have no more evidence that he is, than I do that he's not. But you can't tell me if he was one of them, they'd not have called the patrol to come out and look for him by now.”

Refraining from answering for a short time, to save his breath, while you moved him to the edge of the beach. Resting him beside some brush and rocks that were there, Edmund finally answered you, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“Aye, you're right. I don't think they would have left him.” He sighed, staring down at him, still troubled by the situation. “I'll be back. But if you see a patrol coming, don't try saving him. Just turn and walk away.” He told you, grasping your wrist and staring hard into your eyes. “Let them have him.”

“He's not worth your life.” He said, his eyes pleading with you.

“Go, get your truck.” You answered, softly.

Rolling his eyes, Edmund headed back towards home, walking at a quick pace, but not fast enough to hopefully draw any attention or suspicion. He turned the corner onto the street your family lived on. You and your father, Mael, lived in the cottage across the road from where your brother lived with his wife, Willa. He said a silent prayer, finding the street empty, minus a few vehicles, including his truck, that he used for his trade as a handyman.

“This is going to get us killed.” Edmund muttered to himself, pulling open the driver's door and sliding into the worn, black and leather bench seat, then pulled down the sun visor for the keys.

The truck roared to life and Edmund maneuvered it away from the curb, nervously drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I could have been a Private in the Army, fighting in Belgium or some place. Maybe even join the Rebellion, help liberate this country.” He rambled, gritting his teeth. “But no! I get stuck with a medical condition and a sister that wants to save some bloke that could be a Collaborator!”

You paced nervously, giving the man quick glances, then shooting a look towards the road, mentally urging your brother to hurry. It felt like every eye in the village was secretly watching you. You wouldn't be surprised if at least three pairs were watching from some high window. But you didn't dare look at any of the windows that lined the other side of the road from the beach. Knowing if you did happen to meet someone's nosy eye, it would only implicate them later on, if you and Edmund were caught.

“Thank Jesus.” You gasped, hearing the rumble of your brother's truck coming up the road, though it did little to dampen your anxiety.

Edmund pulled his truck to a stop and got out, never killing the engine as he moved to the back, dropping the tailgate. “Is he still alive?” He asked, coming over to you and glancing at the man.

“Yeah.” You nodded, biting your lip. “I can actually see his chest rise now.”

“Great.” Edmund sighed, carding a hand through his hair. “Looks like the fool is going to live.” He said, grabbing him under the arms again. “Let's get him in the truck. Rounds are going to start soon.”

You grabbed his feet and helped haul him over to the bed of the truck. It was a bit of a hassle, but the two of you finally managed to get your mystery man in and covered up with a couple of the cloth drop tarps Edmund used for work, making sure he was able to breathe. It was just as Edmund was securing the gate closed, that the hard tap of a boot heel echoed down the street towards the two of you, causing your stomach wrench and Edmund to grunt; catching sight of the Patrol Officer through the back window and windshield.

“It's just the kid.” He muttered to you, under his breath. “Go, get in the trunk.” He told you, taking a deep breath.

“Ed-”

“I said, go.” He hissed, the muscles of his jaw flexing.

Gulping and trying to act casual, you walked around to the passenger side, yanking open the heavy door, as the young Patrol Officer reached the truck's front bumper. You gave him a sweet smile and a nod of your head, then slipped into the cab and pulled the door shut. So he couldn't start a conversation with you. He stopped by the window of the driver's door, giving you a wide and overexcited smile, then turned his attention to Edmund.

“A good morning, yeah?” He greeted your brother, who had started for the driver's seat.

“Yeah.” Edmund replied, glancing up at the sky. “Looks like a very good morning, indeed.” He said, grabbing the door handle.

“Truck?” The officer motioned, a questioning look on his face.

“It's my truck.” Edmund answered, frowning at him, not quite understanding.

“What's—in?” He asked, trying hard to work through the language barrier.

“My trade tools.” Edmund told him, turning to face him, putting himself between the younger man and the truck. “I'm a carpenter.” He tried to explain, reaching into the back and pulled out his tool belt, holding it up for him to see.

“Ah.” The Officer nodded, smiling. “And, that?” He asked, pointing to the tarps.

“Nothing.” Edmund said, setting his belt down. “She...” He pointed over to you. “Found a dead seal out on the beach and pestered me into taking it away, before any of the village kids found it.” He hoped to convince him and prayed he wouldn't want to take a look. But, that worry soon passed, watching the kid blanch.

“Yeah, you go.” He gulped, taking a step back, as if he had gotten a whiff of the dead seal underneath the tarps.

“Well, have a good day.” Edmund smiled, giving him a small wave and yanked his door open.

“That took a moment.” You muttered as he slammed his door.

“He was asking questions, that's why.” He huffed back, glancing into the rear view and relaxing as he watched the kid continue on with his Patrol, not look back at you. “Luckily for us, he's squeamish.”

“How does someone that's squeamish get drafted?” You commented, shaking your head.

“Well, he's not really doing anything in the War, now is he?” Edmund snapped, glancing over at you, an offended glint in his eyes. “He's a damn Patrol Officer for a town his Country is occupying. He's not seeing any of the real action.”

“I'd laugh to think if they let his rifle have bullets in it.”

You snorted, bringing your hand to your mouth, in an attempt to cover it. “I'm sorry.” You said, when Edmund shot you a look. “But that boy does look like he'd injure himself with a pocketknife.” You explained, staring back at your brother, who held his angered expression for three seconds longer, then burst, filling the cab with his hearty laugh.

Edmund could never be angry with you, or not longer than a few minutes at least. The two of you were ten years apart, but were closer than pearls in an oyster. Edmund had been planned by your parents, well mostly by your mother, who thought a child would help your father snap out of his shell shock from his time in the First World War. But having a screaming child in the house had only seemed to exacerbate it. Until Edmund was four years old, when he started to show an interest in Mael's metals and memorabilia.

As for you, as Edmund always put it, seemed to have just shown up one day.

He didn't remember your mother being pregnant, only her going away for a few days and coming back home with you in her arms. He remembered her rushing about the house every time you made the slightest sound and telling him to make sure you didn't cry. Which, honestly, wasn't all that often. You had been a quiet and easy baby, compared to him. But he looked after you, showing you his favorite metals of your father's, and telling you how he had gotten them in the War.

When you were five and Edmund was fifteen, the two of you came home one day from school to find your father in one of his episodes and your mother gone. Edmund had sent you next door to stay with a neighbor, while he worked on calming your father down and found out your mother had been seeing someone and ran off with them. It took Edmund calling your father's doctor to finally calm him down, giving him a sedative. The physician had suggested moving somewhere else, that the city life was too much for Mael's nerves, somewhere quiet and abundant with sea air. That would do him a world of good.

That's how the three of you ended up in your quaint, coastal village on the French side of the English Channel. It had a population of just under five hundred. A real, everyone-knows-everyone community. They welcomed the three of you warmly. It's where Edmund had met and fell in love with Willa. It's where the four of you were now under the thumb of German occupation, and with a strange man in the bed of your brother's truck, just passing by the last building and into the rolling hills, that took you to the nearest town.

“All right, wise woman.” Edmund sighed, folding his arms against the steering wheel and leaning forward. “What's your grand plan on getting your Robinson Crusoe into the house?” He asked, cocking a brow at you and dying to hear it.

You had sat beside your brother for the last twenty minutes trying to figure out that very plot point. Part of you really wished whoever this man was, would do the two of you a favor and come back around to consciousness. Then, maybe, you could just say you found him injured on the side of the road and help him into the house. However, you knew if that happened, word would spread and the Director General would be knocking on your door, demanding to see him.

“I don't have one.” You finally admitted. “I shouldn't have gotten us into this mess, Edmund. Maybe, we should just turn him in?”

“Oh no!” He snapped at you, straightening up. “That one Patrol Officer already thinks he's a dead seal! If we go back into the village and confess, we'll be in deeper hot water than if we'd been up front.” He rambled, dragging both hands through his hair, in his agitation.

“Could we keep him in the truck til night fall?” You suggested, weakly.

“And if he wakes up by then?” He asked, blowing a hole through it.

You sighed softly, glancing down at your hands as they rested in your lap, but frowned seeing the brownish outline of dry blood on the light blue fabric. You were rubbing at it, when an idea finally popped into your head and looked over at Edmund.

“How heavy are all of your tarps rolled up together?” You asked him, lifting a brow, curiously.

“They can be pretty hefty.” He replied, rubbing the underside of his scruffy jaw.

“So, it would be almost believable, say we carry him into the house, wrapped in a few, under the pretense we're making a couple renovations to the house?” You inquired, your eyes steady on your brother's face. “It's not like we and the village don't know that Papa and I's cottage need them.”

“Badly.”

Edmund sat there, staring out the windshield, as he processed the likelihood of your little idea working. He drew his bottom lip in between his teeth, pressing his top lip down on it for a moment, before popping them forward, a slow wag of his head building into a nod.

“It might work.” He finally said, convincing himself of it. “I'll have to bring in a few of my tools and spend some time there every day, to make it look like I'm actually putting the work in.” He built on top of your plan. “Of course, I'm not leaving you and Pops with this guy, so I'll be coming over anyway.”

“We could use the old cellar room in the basement to hide him.” You chimed in. “In case, someone from the Patrol or anyone from the village comes over.”

“That's a good idea.” Edmund nodded, licking his lips. “I can build something, along that wall, for a hidden door into the cellar.” He said, already mapping out the plans in his head. “This could actually work, Peanut!” He grinned over at you.

“There's the confidence I love seeing in my Captain!” You beamed back, slapping him on the knee. “We should get going too. It looks like our beautiful morning is turning into a dark afternoon.” You said, peeking at the sky. “I'm worried it'll start raining on our friend back there.”

“Oh, he's our friend now?” Edmund teased you, pushing open his door. “We don't even know his name! But, by damned, he's our friend!”

You smirked at him, shaking your head. “I'm just trying to be positive, Eddie.”

“I know.” He replied, a gentle smile on his face, as he reached over to playfully pinch your cheek.

“Quit!” You laughed, slapping his hand away. “You brute!”

“We should do it here. Where no one can see us.” He suggested, heaving a sigh as he got out.

“That's a smart idea.” You nodded, following suit.

Edmund did a quick look around, before dropping the tailgate and hopping into the bed, beside your friend. You peeked over the side of the trunk, watching Edmund pull away the tarp from him, and let out a small breath of relief to see him still breathing. But frowned seeing the small pool of blood underneath him.

“I'll need new tarps after this.” Edmund commented, snarkily. “There's nothing I can say to explain blood stains on them. Short of sawing my arm off.”

“I'll compensate you for them.” You replied, pulling yourself up beside him.

“With what money, exactly?” He asked, cocking a brow at you.

“Hey, I get a decent enough salary working at Remi's store.” You cut back at him. “I've been helping you keep food on our tables.”

Edmund nodded, not about to discredit you on that. “True enough, Peanut.” He replied, then returned to the task at hand. “I'm going to turn him to his good side. I want you to support him and his head, while I situate the tarps to go underneath him.” He instructed you, carefully pushing his hands underneath the injured man.

You nodded, as Edmund grunted with effort to lift and roll him towards you. Grabbing onto the thigh of his pants and cradling his head in your palm, you watched Edmund spread and straighten out the tarps, draping one half of them over the side of the truck. You could feel his faint and warm breath on your forearm, coming in an irregular pattern, but it gave you an odd comfort to feel it, nonetheless.

“All right, that's all of them. Put him down on his back again.” Edmund pointed to the smoothed out tarps as he stood outside the truck now.

Biting your lip, you pushed up on your knees and leaned forward, trying to roll him onto his back as gently as possible. Unsure of how much he could feel. You didn't want to cause him any more pain than necessary as you situated him, catching a slight twitch of his brow as you let go of his trousers, only supporting his head.

“Sorry.” You mumbled to him, automatically, wincing.

“Come on, let's get him covered up, so we can go.” He rushed you, feeling antsy and the cool, damp air stir around him, indicating the imminent rain.

Tenderly letting go of his head and reaching out for the other half of the tarp, you carefully covered him up, tucking it in around him, mindful of the still seeping wound, while trying to make it not look so much like a body in a rug. Nodding at Edmund, you climbed back out of the truck and he rearranged some of his tools, hoping to add to the disguise.

“Here's to hopin'!” Edmund huffed, starting the truck and backing off the outlook, he'd pulled onto after putting several minutes between you and the village. “Or all three of us will be dead seals!”

You and Edmund laughed, having a light moment, before the village came into view and the sobering resolve of action came back over you.

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