@maniculum And @joemerl, It Might Take Me A Bit To Make A List Of All Of The Sources For The Weird “canon”

In which I treat obscure characters like they have their own fandoms, No. 1

The Melora + Orlando ship should be called Valor. I can think of a few reasons why:

It’s a biblical reference, which seems in keeping with the story’s themes, considering that Melora has the Lance of Longinus. “A woman of valor who can find? She is to be valued above rubies” is quite fitting, given Melora’s association with a carbuncle (another red stone).

Both of their names contain “or”.

Melorlando is a bit of a mouthful. Valor, on the other hand, is easy to say and sounds adventurous.

Arthurian hot takes from before I joined the fandom

Funny story: the way I got into this fandom was a seventh-grade assignment to write an alliterative paragraph using the letter G. Something clicked (or snapped, however you want to look at it) and though I’d never given much thought to the Round Table before, I wrote a paragraph about Gawain, which spiraled into a chapter, which spiraled into an attempt at a novel, which spiraled into a neverending research wormhole and long term fixation. Older and at least a little wiser, I give you ten of my original takes on the characters and how they seem in retrospect.

Guinevere doesn’t really do anything. In my defense, my knowledge of her mostly came from watching the first half of an amateur production of Camelot, which is bound to give anyone the wrong idea.

Mordred is a socially awkward evil wizard. In my book, he made a number of cartoonish villain speeches, mostly to his long-suffering familiar, since no one else would listen. No, I have no idea why I thought he had magic… Is it awful that I kind of like him that way?

Arthur is perfect. Uh…

Gawain is perfect. Uh….

Lancelot is an absolute monster. My version of him was a mix of a guy who bullied me and the god Ares as depicted in D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. Needless to say, he did not have an affair with Guinevere, because she would never cheat on Arthur, because only morally pure characters are good, and she is secretly awesome, even though most people think she doesn’t do anything… Uh… Yeah. I was wrong.

Agravaine is mildly aggravating. Gareth and Gaheris are just sort of there and uninteresting. This opinion was derived entirely from their names.

Morgause is an evil witch but has great style. That sounds more like Morgan.

Morgan is a terrible name. I debated renaming her Marianne or Meredith. Yes, I have seen the error of my ways.

Galahad is a rustic himbo. That was the vibe I got from the name “Gallahad”.

The Lady of the Lake is awesome. I stand by this one and always will.

what do you love most about kay which you would love to see in a story, like what would you find would make a good depiction of sir kay into a great depiction of kay

In order for Kay to be adequately sharp-tongued he needs to be sharp-minded.

Far too many Kays in retellings are just mean or crass in the basest sense. Phobic, cussing, and frankly come off as a dumb bully with no depth. Even when medlit Kay borders on a bully, he’s never stupid. He needs to be clever enough to have a quick clap back, to invent a witty nickname on the spot, call out Gawain or Gareth or Lancelot on their hypocrisy when no one else will.

Unintelligent Kay holds no interest for me and it’s a lazy way to write him that’s become all too common (not on tumblr, thankfully). It started with The Sword in The Stone (1963) movie and it’s gotten worse from there.

Other than that, I want to see Kay resembling his Mabinogion characterization with the powers and stuff. He does have Otherworld powers in the Lavinia Collins books, but then, that requires reading the Lavinia Collins books but I don’t recommend whatsoever. There are many historical fiction examples from Henry Treece or Edward Frankland, but they don’t have magic. I want the magic!

Additionally I want Kay who is both Arthur’s foster brother and his seneschal, simultaneously. This is more common in books, retellings are pretty good about that. Movies are slacking! Only a handful where he gets to be both!!

Lastly I want his close relationship with Bedwyr restored. Again, there are a decent amount of retellings I could point to as examples that do a great job with that. But I want Gawain too! And Lancelot! And Guinevere! And Ragnelle! Even Gareth!! The dream team. Kay can’t just be this outsider with no friends, that’s not true to medlit at all. They love him! Arthur loves him!!!!! SHOW IT TO ME!!!

This type of Kay is definitely here on tumblr. Seems bloggers understand the assignment! I see this Kay frequently in art and stories passed around here and that’s great. I’ve also attempted to include this sort of Kay in my books. But I want even more of him! He is the character ever!!!

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.

An Early Documentation of the Safety Dance

Andromeda by Juan Antonio de Frías y Escalante

Since I posted this, another of my closest friends came out as aroace.

I’m quickly running out of allo people I know more than tangentially.

I‘ve been wondering about something. Last year, I found out that being asexual was a thing, not just a quirk of mine… then realized that five of my friends already privately or publicly identified as such. Consider that: asexuals are estimated to make up about 1% of the population yet account for about 40% of my friends. Is that just a weird coincidence, are ace people more likely to gravitate toward each other (due to their likely disinterest in certain topics of conversation or general vibes or goodness knows what), did the experts significantly underestimate how many asexuals there are, or some combination of the three? I suspect it’s the third but I’m not sure to what extent each thing is a factor. Any thoughts?

The Burne-Jones agenda: Gawain had an emo phase

It was supposed to be Mordred as he’s described in my writing. A friend and I couldn’t find any art which matched our headcanon of his appearance, so I decided to try to draw him myself, but my attempts to make him stop looking like me just made him look like an elven version of my mother. There are several characters who this sort of looks like it could be depicting, especially if you ignore the pointy ear (not quite sure where it came from), but I don’t think it quite fits anyone in particular.

Ah, well. At least it’s clear to everyone that it’s not Lancelot. I think Mordred would hate people mistaking him for Lancelot and kill anyone who did or vastly abuse (and maybe destroy) his borrowed reputation.

One I didn’t like at first but which really grew on me as I read more of his poems is Edwin Arlington Robinson’s characterization of Gawain. He appears in Tristram, Merlin, and Lancelot, always as a side character who’s only there for a fairly short time, so you have to fit his arc together from the fragments. At the start, everyone sees him as cheerful and careless—he’s called “gay Gawaine” in the old sense of the word more than once—but he’s more insightful than most of the others give him credit for, and, after his brothers are dead and he becomes unhinged in his quest for revenge, you realize that he was already unhinged and his cheerful flippancy was a coping mechanism/mask. He also has a delightful way with words. In Tristram, he tells Isolt of Brittany that he isn’t sure whether he’s hitting on her or not but it doesn’t matter because “Tristram, off his proper suavity, has fervor to slice whales, and I, from childhood, have always liked this life.” During his last conversation with Lancelot, Gawaine tells him, “A gloomy curiosity was our Modred, from his first intimation of existence. God made him as He made the crocodile, to prove He was omnipotent.”

Tell me about the best modern characterization of your favorite Orkney brother(s).

Pick and choose from whatever adaptations or retellings you know of, they don’t all have to appear in the same story. No wrong answers. :^)