Alan Lee’s Illustration Of The Enchantress In Merlin Dreams By Peter Dickinson

Arthurian characters I interpret as acespec:

Galahad, the Grail Heroine, and Bors: They generally have no apparent trouble or qualms with the eternal chastity thing (except Bors when he gets cursed, but he gets cursed).

Brangaine: In La Tavola Ritonda, she tells Gouvernail that she never wants to have sexual relationships, and in a text I haven't yet read or been able to identify, she apparently stops Kahedin from sleeping with her by using a magic pillow to make him fall asleep, a role which is Camille's in Kaherdin and Camille.

Dinadan: In LTR, they call him the Wise Man Who Does Not Love, and while he has a romantic interest in LTR, their relationship isn't sexual. To the best of my knowledge, he has no other romantic interest and no sexual relationship in all of medlit and pretty much always scorns both concepts. Usually aro, demiromantic in one text, and always ace.

Lucan: It's not anything he says or does, but unless you count the actions of Lucano the evil half-giant half-lion in LTR, he doesn't have any romantic and/or sexual relationships in any medlit I know of. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, but in my mind, he's on the aro and ace spectrums.

Happy Ace Week to all who celebrate!

Edit: I had somehow left out Dinadan, who I originally meant to include a picture of. I guess you could say he's implicit. Truly one of the aroace icons of all time. He ran so Jughead could also run.

From what I’ve seen, Kay/Gaheris sometimes seems to go along with Balan/Bedivere, which could point to whatever source material there may be or be a testament to the lack thereof.

I’ve seen a few writers on Ao3 shipping Kay with Gaheris, which strikes me as a little random, though I haven’t read much about Gaheris and could be missing something. What do you think the rationale/source material behind that ship is?

i have legit no idea anon ive seen it too and i do not understand my only guess is that they interacted in an adaptation ?? if anyone knows tell me im curious now

“The Elder Knight” by Dorothy L. Sayers

Note: the speaker is Galahad; the elder knight is Lancelot. This poem is one of my favorites. It’s unusual in that its version of Galahad is really, really spiteful, and the ending is unforgettable.   I.

I have met you foot to foot, I have fought you face to face,

I have held my own against you and lost no inch of place,

    And you shall never see

    How you have broken me.

You sheathed your sword in the dawn, and you smiled with careless eyes,

Saying "Merrily struck, my son, I think you may have your prize."

    Nor saw how each hard breath

    Was painfully snatched from death.

I held my head like a rock; I offered to joust again,

Though I shook, and my palsied hand could hardly cling to the rein;

    Did you curse my insolence

    And over-confidence?

You have ridden, lusty and fresh, to the morrow's tournament;

I am buffeted, beaten, sick at the heart and spent.—

    Yet, as God my speed be

    I will fight you again if need be.

               II.

A white cloud running under the moon

   And three stars over the poplar-trees,

Night deepens into her lambent noon;

   God holds the world between His knees;

Yesterday it was washed with the rain,

But now it is clean and clear again.

Your hands were strong to buffet me,

   But, when my plume was in the dust,

Most kind for comfort verily;

   Success rides blown with restless lust;

Herein is all the peace of heaven:

To know we have failed and are forgiven.

The brown, rain-scented garden beds

   Are waiting for the next year's roses;

The poplars wag mysterious heads,

   For the pleasant secret each discloses

To his neighbour, makes them nod, and nod—

So safe is the world on the knees of God.

             III.

I have the road before me; never again

   Will I be angry at the practised thrust

That flicked my fingers from the lordly rein

   To scratch and scrabble among the rolling dust.

I never will be angry — though your spear

   Bit through the pauldron, shattered the camail,

Before I crossed a steed, through many a year

   Battle on battle taught you how to fail.

Can you remember how the morning star

   Winked through the chapel window, when the day

Called you from vigil to delights of war

   With such loud jollity, you could not pray?

Pray now, Lord Lancelot; your hands are hard

   With the rough hilts; great power is in your eyes,

Great confidence; you are not newly scarred,

   And conquer gravely now without surprise.

Pray now, my master; you have still the joy

   Of work done perfectly; remember not

The dizzying bliss that smote you when, a boy,

   You faced some better man, Lord Lancelot.

Pray now — and look not on my radiant face,

   Breaking victorious from the bloody grips—

Too young to speak in quiet prayer or praise

   For the strong laughter bubbling to my lips.

Angry? because I scarce know how to stand,

   Gasping and reeling against the gates of death,

While, with the shaft yet whole within your hand,

   You smile at me with undisordered breath?

Not I — not I that have the dawn and dew,

   Wind, and the golden shore, and silver foam —

I that here pass and bid good-bye to you —

   For I ride forward — you are going home.

Truly I am your debtor for this hour

   Of rough and tumble — debtor for some good tricks

Of tourney-craft; — yet see how, flower on flower,

   The hedgerows blossom! How the perfumes mix

Of field and forest! — I must hasten on —

   The clover scent blows like a flag unfurled;

When you are dead, or aged and alone,

   I shall be foremost knight in all the world —

My world, not yours, beneath the morning's gold,

   My hazardous world, where skies and seas are blue;

Here is my hand. Maybe, when I am old,

   I shall remember you, and pray for you.

“Lancelot Bears Off Guenevere” by Henry Justice Ford

The knights as YouTube comments, No. 1

I can’t decide which knight is saying this, but it explains a lot.

( A comment on “i accidentally read the worst book of the year so far” by The Book Leo, beginning with a quote from the video)

Edit: Never mind. Knights kiss all the time in some texts. Most of the Arthurian texts I’ve read are weird and random (Gawain plays tennis, Galahad gets married, Guinevere’s mother’s ghost issues prophecies of doom…) and gave the impression that being turned into a murder-dog was more common than physical affection.

And now, for the most niche poll I’ve ever posted or even encountered on this website:

The Passing of Arthur by Sidney Harold Meteyard

WIP Amnesty - This Well-nightingaled Place

This is a fic for Tom Stoppard's The Invention of Love, so it isn't wholly about Oscar Wilde and A.E. Housman, it's more about Stoppard's heavily fictionalised, definitely surreal take on them.

Fog. Twilight. A boat, with two men sitting back to back, gazing statue-still in opposite directions.

The world awakens, the fog is lit by a greenish glow. Sounds of sloshing water, birdsong, faraway churchbells, maybe baa-ing sheep, whatever is necessary to give the impression of a nondescript but idyllic English dawn.

One of the men startles, then the other. They both stand up, the boat rocks, they both hurry to sit down.

A moment of silence as they consider their situation.

One of them moves carefully, and without fully straightening up, turns around, and sits back down, on the other bench. Then the other – they are now on opposite ends of the boat, staring at one another. WILDE is dressed in somewhat ostentatious velvets, HOUSMAN in a deliberately boring suit. They are of a similar, but indeterminate age.

WILDE Mr Housman?

HOUSMAN Yes, I believe so. Mr Wilde?

WILDE Delighted to make your acquaintance again. We’ve met before, but we may not quite have been ourselves, that is to say, not these selves, and not in this place.

HOUSMAN This place?

WILDE Just a moment.

He peers around. Shields his eyes with his hand, looks again.

The light is morning light, but it comes from no particular direction.

Sniffs the air.

Sage and fresh-cut grass.

Licks his finger and holds it up to feel the wind.

The breeze is fresh, and westerly.

Dips his hand in the water to feel the current, then as an afterthought, brings his hand to his mouth and takes a sip, then splashes the remainder on his neck.

The waters of Isis, but clearer than they ought to be.

HOUSMAN Where are we then?

WILDE I would say we are where all writers end up sometime after they’re dead.

HOUSMAN (sceptical) Elysium?

WILDE I’m afraid not. We are in the Public Domain.

HOUSMAN

Why do you reckon?

WILDE I’ve been here before, many times. Mostly miserable biographies, and even more miserable fictionalized biographies, but not exclusively. It is fortunate that my creation, Dorian Grey, stands in for me when the writer merely wants to make a point about beauty or decadence or carnal sin, and I am left in peace. I am only here when they want me in person. A clever young man made an exquisitely drawn comic book about my final days before moving on to woefully mischaracterize Hemingway. I’ve been here in a story about Bosie wearing a green carnation, fighting for my last lost book against a host of batlike tyrants who have stolen the very city of London. There was a radio play of sorts that gave me a government job, impressive magical powers, and a handsome young man in plate armour to grovel at my feet. EMPIRE STAR And of course there was the business with young Mr Stoppard, where unless I am mistaken we last met.

HOUSMAN We did.  It has been a long time.

WILDE It has been no time at all. HOUSMAN Maybe not for you – my sleep is deeper. I am not here unless they sing one of my poems, and even then, I only walk these hills as if in a dream. Most days I am only here to the extent the Shropshire Lad is myself, that is to say, hardly at all.

WILDE So we are in Shropshire?

HOUSMAN The Shropshire I wrote is not the Shropshire you may have been to.

WILDE I have been to your Shorpshire more times than I have been to the Shropshire outside your pages. I have no objection to this Shropshirish, Oxfordish, Arcadia-ish place. It is a little dull, maybe, a little too pastoral, but there are worse places to be.

HOUSMAN What- ah, Reading.

WILDE And Paris, and Naples, and Berneval-le-Grand, and every jewel-bright city one visits as an exile and not as a guest.

Silence.

WILDE Don’t be quite so glum, you are souring the English countryside for me, although I suppose that is the highest and truest aim of all your poetry. To hang murderers from every tree, bury suicides at every crossroads and fill the churchyards with dead heroes, which ultimately seem to be the only sort of hero you really care about. To hell with it, show me what’s in that basket!

Housman looks around, and finds a wicker basket underneath his seat. Brings it out, looks into it, slides the whole thing over to Wilde. He rummages through it.

WILDE Cheese sandwiches. Sponge cake. Strawberries. What are these supposed to be?

He holds up a red metal cylinder.

HOUSMAN (glad to have something to explain) This is an anachronism. A deliberate one at that. I’ve seen prototypes at the Patent Office, but they didn’t start manufacturing stay-tab drinking cans like this until the sixties. Nineteen-sixties, that is.

Wilde still looks nonplussed. Housman takes it from his hand.

HOUSEMAN Here, you push the tab, and you drink from there.

Hands it back. Wilde takes a careful sip from the can, considers it, then takes a longer pull.

WILDE Gin and lemonade, with some spice to it. Pimms, maybe. I suppose absinthe would be too much to ask for.

He picks up a piece of sponge cake, eats it. Housman has not yet touched the food.

HOUSMAN There remains the question of why we’re here.

WILDE Someone clearly thinks we have something of relevance to say to one another. Or at least that my fictionalized, much-distorted form has something to say to your fictionalized, much-distorted form.

HOUSMAN So you have noticed.

WILDE What.

HOUSMAN That you’re not quite yourself.

WILDE I feel like myself, but I cannot do myself justice. I am slower, my words less exact. We are diminished, flattened in the hands of an inferior author.

HOUSMAN A corrupted text?

WILDE Worse. An interpolation.

HOUSMAN We might escape the worst of the corruption by limiting ourselves to things we have said before – things we had the time and means to edit beforehand, whenever possible.

WILDE Agreed. Now, why do you suppose you are here with me?

HOUSMAN I cannot think of anything. Not that I mind this boat on this river in this early morning light…

WILDE But you would much prefer to share it with someone else, or, failing that, much rather spend it alone.

HOUSMAN Quite. I am a textual critic first and a poet only by chance. You are an aesthete first and a poet only by circumstance. We have very little common ground.

WILDE You are too polite to mention that I whole-heartedly believe in a Christ that you find at best slightly ridiculous. I am rude enough to remind you that you declare your devotion to a queen and country that I can no longer bring myself to even jest about.

HOUSMAN So it is going to be…

WILDE There’s nothing else.

HOUSMAN It’s not what I wanted to be remembered for. I do not deny it, but I do not want my life’s work overshadowed by one quirk of my temperament. You too deserve better than to have your name tied permanently to scandal.

WILDE I don’t. I gave my own name to scandal, so now people have something to call it, the poor unnameable thing.

*

And that is how far I got with this story - if you want to get a sense of how it would have continued, I suggest you read all of Housman's poems (there aren't very many, it's three slim volumes), read the Ballad of Reading Gaol and De Profundis, they say anything I could have wanted to say much better than I can say it.

I'm a big fan of Madoc ap Uther, although I haven't written much about him yet. Here are some of my thoughts on him, not all of which are characterization-related but hopefully will be helpful:

He's described as "protector of happiness" (in "Madawc Drut", Marged Haycock's translation), which I find really interesting, as well as "a citadel of prowess/through feat and jest". Protector of happiness could be referring to his humor entertaining people, to his martial prowess keeping them safe, or both. (The same goes for the title itself: "drut" could mean bravery or foolhardiness but could be related to "drúth", Old Irish for jester).

Either way, it sounds like a sort of a duty, like this is something he feels obligated to do, which is obvious if he's a warrior but says a lot about his personality if he feels obligated to make jokes and keep others happy. Maybe there are some citadel walls around his inner nature and emotions; that might be a stretch in terms of literary interpretation, but potentially interesting in terms of characterization.

He seems to be very well-liked and seen as a merry fellow, but he definitely has a serious side: "before {he} was slain / he pledged himself by his hand", which is rather cryptic and suggests a sense of duty as well as a dire circumstance.

He was the son of Uther but didn't become king, so he could be Arthur's older brother who was killed before Uther died or a younger brother who didn't succeed Uther because Arthur was the eldest son (which would suggest that Arthur was raised by his biological parents). He could also be a younger brother who was the heir but was killed before Uther died (if Arthur was raised by Ector/Cynyr), but he is Eliwlod's father, so he was old enough to have children at the time of his death, which makes the last option seem less likely.

Skene's translation of "Marwnad Madawg"/"Madawc Drut" is much longer and says that he was killed by "Erof", but Haycock claims that that's the result of multiple poetic fragments which were on the same page being mashed together and that that bit is actually part of a lost poem about King Erof, AKA Herod, being dragged down to Hell. I think her translation is generally considered more reliable (and seriously doubt that Madoc was killed by King Herod, though that would be interesting).

He might be referred to as "{t}ransgressing" and "a famous leader" in a poem along with other heroes like Bran, Arthur, and Alexander the Great, but Madawg/Madog/Madoc is not a rare name. There are at least two different Madawgs mentioned in the Black Book of Carmarthen (ap Maredudd and ap Gwyn) who definitely aren't him and one who might be him but might not. As it is, the only pretty-certain references to him are "Madawc Drut" and a brief mention in Arthur's dialogue with the eagle. This is just about all the information we have to go off of, so my fondness for him comes entirely from "Madawc Drut", which is, unsurprisingly, from The Book of Taliesin.

Do we have any Madoc ap Uther/Madawg ap Uther fans out there? I'm trying to combine him with the more "continental" legends bc I think it'd be interesting but I'm wondering if anyone's written him before or has some characterization thoughts?

To add a little clarity, Jenny Rowland in that book isn't actually saying the poem is bad; she finds it very interesting and is mostly analysing it from a detached perspective for the antiquarian traditions it records. There's some commentary on the poetic skill, both positive and negative, which is where the section I posted is from; it's mentioning there's slightly less metrical, technical skill vis a vis the rules and forms of medieval Welsh poetry than some other saga *englynion*, supporting her proposition this dialogue dates from after the form's heyday. I just screencapped a bit I thought was funny out of context because I have a mutual who likes Gwyn a lot and thought they might enjoy seeing him getting kinda bullied, ahah

Fair enough, I can agree with that, and I probably should have read into it further before reblogging. I suppose from my own reading I've become accustomed to vicious authorly attacks on Welsh anti-blorbos. Like this:

Wow, Laurence Main, tell us how you really feel with those sarcastic parentheses on "St" Illtyd! (For the record, I have met that author, and he is a delight to know, but he does not hold back about "Old Ill-Tide" or Gildas and also hates Taliesin with a burning passion).

Or this, from Adam Ardrey:

More sarcastic quotation marks and more hate for Gildas, who was not gentle in his own works and didn't mention King Arthur in any of his surviving writing and is still getting flamed for it around a millenium and a half later by people who are Maelgwyn fans, are trying to prove Arthur was real,* or both. I have written mediocre Gildas fanfiction at two in the morning with this as the fuel, because I think he probably gets too much hate, though having never met him, I can't judge any better than the people who claim he burned his praise of Arthur for petty reasons.

Anyway, this post went off the rails a lot, but all that is to say that literary scholarship can get incredibly opinionated, it's easy to fall into one viewpoint or become overly cynical about it in general, and I think I have mostly done the latter. Also, that Jenny Rowland book sounds rather interesting; I might have to check it out.

*For the record, I have no firm stance on the matter, since as far as I can tell it can't be proven or disproven. In my head, he both was and was not real. Schrödinger's King. Or warrior, rather.