Fata Padurii (“the Forest Girl”) is a demon that lures young men into the woods, where it kills them. She has two faces: when she first shows herself to a man, she is a young and very beautiful woman, tall, thin, with big, black eyes that shine into the starlight, curved eyebrows, ruddy cheeks and long, dark hair. After she mesmerizes the victim with her beauty, Fata Padurii turns into a hideous and scary monster, she kills the boy and eats his heart. She only appears at night and never leaves the woods, so she doesn’t attack human villages. This monster is a symbol for a maturity test which all young men have to face: discovering love. The deadly threat of the demon warns the lad that love can have a dangerous side, at the same time with the beautiful one. There is a masculine counterpart for her in the dacian mythology, who appears to young women. His name is Zburatorul (“the Flying Man”), but he is less dangerous and aggressive than Fata Padurii. The romanian folklore contains several superstitions related to this demon: you shouldn’t whistle or sing in the woods at night and you shouldn’t fall asleep near a burning fire, as these signs might attract the monster. Fata Padurii is the daughter of Muma Padurii (“the Mother of the Woods”) and Paduroiul. Her parents are enemies and she doesn’t love any of them either. She stole from her mother the spell which makes her beautiful, and from her father - the magic ivy that she uses to trap her victims. She eats her prey’s heart not only as a trophy, but because she needs it for the transformation spell to work and turn her into a young woman.
Of Flames and Flowers: An Elucien Pregnancy: Part One
Authors Note: This is the first time I have ever written an elucien fic, so bare with me, please.
Lucien had nightmares about his brothers and what they would do to his pregnant mate if they were alive. He was so, so glad that they were dead. Burned by Nesta’s flames for trying to force the mating bond between her and Eris. His sister-in-law was one of the very, very few to have two mates. Eris and Cassian. And he was glad to see his brother burn for what he tried to do to her and for what he had done to his lost love. But his nightmares..his brothers butchered Elain in them.
Her mate was having a nightmare. He was thrashing in the bed, drenched in sweat. She began humming, calming him with her magic.
He slowly stopped thrashing, but his breathing was heavy. She continued humming and moved a strand of hair out of his face.
He grabbed her wrist, reflex, and opened his eyes, the mechanical one whirled but his other one, the russet eye looked right into her eyes, pure panic in it, she soothed, “You are okay, Love. It was just a nightmare.”
He sat up, rubbing a hand on her distended stomach, and looked at her, “It was about you and Dacia and the baby. My father took you-” Dacia, the late Tamlin and Ianthe’s child. The two died in the war, leaving the babe an orphan. An orphan whom she raised and love as much as her unborn child.
A pain wrapped around her lower spine. She winced but ignored it. It was a false alarm, just like the other ones.
She leaned down and kissed him on the lips, quieting him, “Love, it was just a dream. I promise you, we are okay.” His breathing started to slow back to normal.
Dacia must have heard him thrashing, “Is Papa okay?”
She turned to look at her daughter. Her three year old self was a little beauty, her long golden locks were tangled and her green eyes were filled with worry as she bit on her sleeve.
Lucien sat up, “Come here.”
She winced again.
Dacia ran into the room and climbed on the bed, her loose nightgown bunching at her knees as she climbed up. Her skinned knee almost completely healed. She planted a kiss on Lucien’s forehead, “Feel better?”
He kissed her forehead, and looked into her eyes, “I do now.”
She tucked a hair behind Dacia’s ear, and said sternly, “You should be asleep, young lady.”
Dacia gave her a toothy grin, “I’m sorry, Mama. But he was sad.”
Lucien grinned wickedly at her, “Yeah, Mama. I was sad.”
She rolled her eyes as Dacia asked her, “Will you tuck me in?”
Donne mie che siete pigre, angosciate, impaurite,
sappiate che se volete diventare persone e non oggetti,
dovete fare subito una guerra dolorosa e gioiosa, non contro gli uomini,
ma contro voi stesse
che vi cavate gli occhi con le dita per non vedere le ingiustizie che vi fanno.
Una guerra grandiosa contro chi vi considera delle nemiche, delle rivali, degli oggetti altrui; contro chi vi ingiuria tutti i giorni senza neanche saperlo,
contro chi vi tradisce senza volerlo, contro l’idolo donna
che vi guarda seducente da una cornice di rose sfatte ogni mattina e vi fa mutilate e perse prima ancora di nascere, scintillanti di collane, ma prive di braccia, di gambe, di bocca, di cuore, possedendo per bagaglio solo un amore teso, lungo, abbacinato e doveroso
(il dovere di amare vi fa odiare l’amore, lo so) un amore senza scelte,
istintivo e brutale.
Da questo amore appiccicoso e celeste dobbiamo uscire donne mie, stringendoci fra noi per solidarietà di intenti, libere infine di essere noi intere, forti, sicure, donne senza paure.
Donne mie dalle dita che puzzano di aglio, donne mie dalle vene varicose, gli occhi feroci, le mani insolenti, la bocca timida, vi hanno insegnato ad essere cretine, povere, dipendenti, vi hanno insegnato a dire sempre di sì, con astuzia degradante, con candore massacrante, con vigore represso.
Vi hanno insegnato a lavorare, a ubbidire, a tacere, a figliare, con gioia e purezza senza acrimonia, per servire, aiutare, sostenere, consolare l’ uomo, sempre lui, nella sua smagliante illusione razzista.
Donne di marmo, di pece, di latte cagliato,
voi lavorate ogni giorno senza stipendio per i figli, il marito, i cugini, i nipoti, i fratelli , i nonni, i padroni tutti che vi vogliono belle e pure come oggetti sociali.
Se dite di no vi sembra di fare peccato, per questo dite sempre di sì,
con l’animo sciolto e la testa piena di fumo amaro, dite di sì e in cambio ricevete un bacio di buonanotte dal caro figlio del cuore su una guancia rugosa che sa di lardo e di acqua sporca.
Donne mie illudenti e illuse che frequentate le università liberali, imparate latino, greco, storia, matematica, filosofia;
nessuno però vi insegna ad essere orgogliose, sicure, feroci, impavide.
A che vi serve la storia se vi insegna che il soggetto unto e bisunto dall’olio di Dio è l’ uomo e la donna è l’ oggetto passivo di tutti i tempi?
A che vi serve il latino e il greco se poi piantate tutto in asso
per andare a servire quell’ unico marito adorato che ha bisogno di voi come una mamma?
The rock sculpture of Decebal/Decebalus is a 40-m high carving in rock, representing the face of Decebal/Decebalus, the last king of Dacia, who fought against the Roman emperors Domitian and Trajan to preserve the independence of his country, which corresponded to modern Romania.
The sculpture was made between 1994 and 2004, on a rocky outcrop on the river Danube, at the Iron Gates, which form the border between Romania and Serbia. It is located near the city of Orşova in Romania.
This is probably the strangest church of Romania: the St Nicholas Church in Densus. It’s one of the oldest churches in Romania and South East Europe, built in the 7th century. Some materials are from the fortress of Sarmizegetusa, the Dacian capital.
And oh, there’s a mural painting of Jesus wearing Romanian traditional clothes. Great, right?
Feyre stilled and looked at her sister. Elain’s eyes were full of tears but she said, “Give him to me. I’I may be able to do something.”
Alis leaned over and presented her nephew to Elain. He had a shock of red hair and his eyes were cloudy russet. Lucien leaned over Elain’s shoulder and brushed his thumb across his son’s hair and murmured, “Ash. His name is Ash.”
Elain smiled, “Yes. Ash Archeron.”
Elain was a grower of beautiful things and a healer of the rarest kind. Her own healing magic, she didn’t think it would be enough. But Elain’s, it could be.
Feyre watched as she leaned over her son, and two shimmering tears ran down her cheeks into Ash’s eyes. She blinked back surprise. She wasn’t sure why Elain’s quiet strength kept surprising her, but it did.
Ash blinked, the tears absorbing in his eyes. The milkiness faded away but the russet, it changed to a lively green, Elain’s healing magic manifest.
Elain smiled sadly, touching Ash’s face, examining his eyes,“He won’t be able to see through his eyes, not really. But through my healing magic, he will be able to see through vibrations in the earth. I’m not quite sure what his own magic will be, though.”
Lucien tucked back Elain’s hair, “So he can’t see as well as most people. Sight isn’t everything.”
Feyre thought back to when Lucien told her the story about Amarantha taking his eye. There was so much more to a person than how they see. Such as their heart and their mind. But he will be able to see. He will be a good and loyal and loving person, just like his parents.
He was so beautiful, his son. Vibrant green eyes and a shock of red hair, just like his. It felt like a cosmic joke. His eye taken away from the bitch Amarantha and now his son was blind. But there was more to life than what you could see. And he was going to make sure he got so do it.
Ir was Nesta, Nesta who said, “We are all a family. We accept and love each other despite our flaws, Ash is no exception.” He knew that she didn’t see him being blind as a flaw, but as how family were together, no matter what.
Lucien looked past Elain to see Dacia chew on her nightshirt, “C’mere.”
A grin cracked on Dacia’s face. Careful of her steps she ran to him, trying to not trip. He picked her up, motioning towards the babe, “This is Ash, your new brother.”
Dacia furrowed her eyebrows in thought, and poked Ash’s cheek, “I like him. He reminds me of a fox.”
Luicen grinned. This is what family was. Everyone loving each other and accepting each other. He couldn’t wait to see what kind of female Dacia would be and what kind of male Ash would be. He wouldn’t force orders on them. He would let them make their own choices, for better or for worse.
Una donna ignorante è preda della cultura che la assoggetta. Una immagine per me terribile e illuminate vista in televisione: un gruppo di donne vestite di nero, coperte dalla testa ai piedi, compresi gli occhi, quindi serrate nei loro burqa avanzano minacciose tenendo alti dei cartelli in cui si protestava contro una nuova proposta del governo che proponeva di impedire il matrimonio fra bambine e uomini adulti. Ecco cosa fa l'ignoranza. Per questo ai vari poteri piace che le donne restino ignoranti, è sempre stato così. Una donna che studia, legge, che approfondisce, diventa consapevole e vorrà prendere decisioni per conto proprio. La cultura aiuta a ragionare con la propria testa. Questa è per molti la grande colpa della cultura. E non parlo solo di donne, naturalmente. Non a caso i tiranni bruciano i libri.