The York Helmet from the 9th Century on display at the Yorkshire Museum
This type of helmet is one of the few surviving examples in Europe. It is thought to be made for a member of Eoforwic’s Anglian royal family. The mans name, Oshere, is inscribed above the intricately-cast nose guard. On the writing reads “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit and God; and to all we say amen Oshere”
The helmet was found carefully buried in a wood-lined pit in Coppergate and is thought to be buried by the man himself perhaps after he retired.
St Cuthbert’s Day! St Cuthbert’s Society, a college of Durham University established in 1888, is named after the saint and on or around each 20 March celebrates with a magnificent feast. “Cuth’s Day”.
*Saint Cuthbert (c. 634 – 20 March 687) was a saint of the early Northumbrian church in the Celtic tradition. He was a monk, bishop and hermit, associated with the monasteries of Melrose and Lindisfarne. After his death he became one of the most important medieval saints of Northern England, with a cult centred on his tomb at Durham Cathedral. Cuthbert is regarded as the patron saint of northern England.
I’m a 27 year old
Anglo-American (ethnic Anglo-Saxon for you continentals). I serve as a
huscarl to my Ealdorman, and spend my days perfecting my art and reading
superior Englisc literature (Beowulf, The Wanderer, Anglo-Saxon
I train with my seax every day, this superior weapon
can cut clean through mail because it is made of saxon steel, and it is
vastly superior to any weapon on earth. I earned my arm-ring two years
ago, and I have been getting better every day.
I speak Englisc fluently, both Northumbrian and West Saxon dialect, and
I write fluently as well. I know everything about Englisc history and
their honor culture, which I follow 100%
When I get my Englisc
visa, I am moving to Bernicia to serve a prestigious lord to learn more
about their magnificent culture. I hope I can become a royal huscarl or a
lord in my own right.
I own several mail shirts, which I wear
around town. I want to get used to wearing them before I move to
England, so I can fit in easier. I serve my Lord and Speak Englisc as
often as I can, but rarely does anyone manage to respond.
nobility of your forbears magnified you, O Edith, And
you, a king’s bride, magnify your forbears. Much
beauty and much wisdom were yours And
also probity together with sobriety. You
teach the stars, measuring, arithmetic, the art of the lyre, The
ways of learning and grammar. An
understanding of rhetoric allowed you to pour out speeches, And
moral rectitude informs your tongue – Godfrey
of Cambrai, prior of Winchester Cathedral (1082-1107)
Edith of Wessex was born c. 1025, the eldest daughter of Godwin, Earl of Wessex, and his wife Gytha. Her family was a formidable one: Godwin was one of the most powerful men in England, while Gytha was the sister-in-law of Cnut.
She was raised at Wilton Abbey, which she later had rebuilt as a sign of gratitude. There she learned Latin,
French, Danish, and some Irish as well as grammar, rhetoric,
arithmetic, weaving, embroidery, and astronomy. There is little else we know about her early life apart from her education, but she seems to have been especially close to her brother Tostig.
Edith’s father, Godwin, had a troubled relationship with King Edward the Confessor because Edward believed that Godwin was responsible for the death of his brother. Even so, Godwin was the most powerful man in England and Edward needed his support, and so married Edith at Godwin’s behest on 23 January 1045.
The relationship does not seem to have been a particularly romantic one. They were 20 or so years apart in age and he disliked her family, but all the same she had some influence and it was said that she always advised Edward wisely, and did a lot to improve his kingly image.
In 1051, Godwin and Edward’s relationship significantly deteriorated. Rather than risk arrest, Godwin fled the country with his sons. Edith was sent to a nunnery and all her lands confiscated, perhaps because he didn’t like her, thought they had little hope of conceiving together and wished to remarry, or simply wanted to get revenge on her father. The next year Godwin returned to England and civil war looked likely, but Edward lacked support and was forced to restore Godwin’s lands to him and reinstate Edith as Queen.
Though the two were still unable to have children (probably not because Edward had taken a vow of chastity, as is often said),
Edith’s influence as Queen grew, as is shown by the increase in the amount of charters she witnessed, and she joined the circle of Edward’s most trusted advisers.
In 1055, Edith’s brother, Tostig, became Earl of Northumbria but his rule was hugely unpopular and 10 years later the local Northumbrian population rebelled, killing Tostig’s officials and outlawing him, asking instead to be ruled by a member of the leading Mercian family. There is some evidence that many of the Northumbrian people viewed Edith as complicit in Tostig’s tyranny, and indeed it’s likely that she herself had one of Tostig’s political enemies assassinated. Finally, one of Edith’s other brothers, Harold was sent to deal with the matter. He agreed to the rebels demands, depriving Tostig of his earldom, and Tostig, who fled to Flanders, never forgave Harold, nor did Edith.
On 5 January 1066, Edward the Confessor died, leaving Edith’s brother as King Harold II. The main chronicle on Edward’s reign, commissioned by Edith herself, actually attempts to discredit Harold’s claim, showing the extent of the rift between the siblings. Some historians, such as James Campbell, even believe that Edith was in personal danger from Harold, who wanted to placate the still restless Northumbrians by treating Edith harshly.
Harold successfully fought off Norwegian invaders that year at the Battle of Stamford Bridge, in which Tostig died fighting on the side of the Norwegians. Edith’s reaction is not recorded, but it is easy to imagine that she must have been heartbroken. Harold’s next major battle, the Battle of Hastings, was fought against William, Duke of Normandy. Harold and 2 of Edith’s other brothers died that day, and William was proclaimed King.
sent men to Winchester to demand tribute from Queen Edith and she
willingly complied. As a result, William allowed her to keep all her estates and income. Following this, Edith lived a comfortable life and when she died on 18 December 1075, she was recorded as the richest woman in England. She was laid to rest next to her husband in Winchester Cathedral and given a funeral befitting a queen.
As with so many women in history, Edith is often overlooked, but we have much to thank her for. Because she commissioned the Vita Edwardi Regis, she is responsible for much of the information we have on this period, and art historian Carola Hicks even suggests that she commissioned the Bayeaux Tapestry. Regardless of whether this theory is true, Edith is a person worth remembering. She was strong, determined, and loving, though some of her more corrupt actions are utterly deplorable. Nonetheless, her influence and contribution to Edward the Confessor’s reign is not one that should be forgotten.
Hello! I was wondering if you could explain runestones a bit more! Or is there a good source to check them out? I've done some searching, and was also wondering if runestones were specific to the Norse or Celtic runes, or if there were other possibilities as well. I want to make my own, but have the runes be a bit more personal to me.
There are actually lots of different types of runes! Heres a list of a few you can look into, and this isn’t a complete list by any means, so keep that in mind. You can also make your own! :)
Anglo-Saxon (similar to Elder Futhark with an added 5 I think, if I remember correctly)
Northumbrian (Similar to Anglo-Saxon, plus 3 or 4)
Gothic (sorta based off Elder Futhark)
Some of the ones above are parent or child systems of each other, and then some have different “branches” off of them as well or different ways of reading them.
Theres also different scripts you could use as well, which can be used as a more “complete” alphabet in a way (I say that in quotes because the runes are complete, just write differently), replacing it with english if there is something you don’t want others reading:
There are more but my train of thought just ran off the cliff and crashed…
Anyway, as for info, you can check out this section of my blog! Has a bunch of goodies! :) Its at least a good place to start at least.
Again, this isn’t a complete list by any means, but it may get you started a bit. Have fun!
Hey! I haven't read a lot of Hinny fics. Are there any must-reads?
Of course it’s all very subjective
My favorite canon writer is Northumbrian. I would start with Grave days and Aurors and Schoolgirls and then just follow Harry and Ginny through the years. He’s created an amazing world. Special mention to Strangers at Drakeshaugh (Though read this last, as it’s much later in their lives)
Chapter One Ivar Ragnarsson X Reader
Hvitserk Ragnarsson X Reader
You’re a Northumbrian girl with ancestors that were vikings. You’d learnt Norse as you learnt English, but told to keep it a secret. Your parents loved the Norse side of your family from your father and taught you the gods they believed in. You didn’t believe in the Christian God and never lost your Viking Gods. Meaning that you had to pretend to not be that religious. But being un-religious made you the weird one of your town. People would stare at you in almost disbelief. They couldn’t understand how a ‘Christian’ child could be so sacrilegious. Well, you were supposed to be a Christian child but realistically it was just so your family weren’t ridiculed.
Northumbria on the whole was boring for a woman. You hated everyone in your town and your family weren’t around either so it was so boring. At the age of seventeen you didn’t really see any opportunities for yourself and you longed to be a Viking. To be a shield maiden was your ultimate goal, but you had to escape the more conservative land of England first. You also didn’t want to go with anyone because they’d stop you from going. But your plan didn’t really get into action because the Norsemen reached you first.
They burst into the church where you were at the back, laying down on one of the benches because you didn’t care for stories from the Bible. When you heard the Norsemen speaking, it was like a calling from Odin. He was willing you to speak with them. There were old men, a few Middle Aged ones and women. Then one young man who had blue eyes.
Einhard (c. 775 – March 14, 840 AD) was a Frankish scholar and courtier. Einhard was a dedicated servant of Charlemagne and his son Louis the Pious. He was accepted into the hugely wealthy court of Charlemagne around 791 or 792. Charlemagne actively sought to amass scholarly men around him and established a royal school led by the Northumbrian scholar Alcuin. Einhard evidently was a talented builder and construction manager, because Charlemagne put him in charge of the completion of several palace complexes including Aachen and Ingelheim. His main work is a biography of Charlemagne, the Vita Karoli Magni, “one of the most precious literary bequests of the early Middle Ages.” [x]
The next chapter! Mostly filler and fluff, it’s more Ivar just reflecting on what happened earlier in the day. As always, thank you to the amazing and wonderful and lovely @shesafreesoul for her help and input!! Hope you guys enjoy this! More action will be coming soon for these two, but in the meantime, have some sweetness.
Trigger warnings: mention of blood, death, and sex. Nothing really explicit though.
It had been many years since Ivar first
saw Northumbria, rolling onto the beach in a storm swell, more
drowned than really alive. He’d expected to die then and there, but
fate was a tricky thing, he mused, glancing over at his wife. They
were well into some Northumbrian river. He was a clever man, after
all, and still kept some spies in this southern land. Some of the men
from the great army of his youth had settled here. They told him
there was a new monastery up this river, full of gold and men too
weak to really guard it.
Kára seemed eager when he told her of
it. The gods bless that woman, she was a true Viking. He could see
the disappointment in her hazel eyes when he told her it wouldn’t be
much of a fight, since this was a home to men who refused to draw
weapons to defend their wealth. She was confused by the very idea,
and Ivar had spent a considerable amount of time trying to teach her
about the nailed man the Northumbrians worshiped.
But then, she knew the easy wealth
would make their crews happy, and he knew that was why she had agreed
to attack the monastery. That, and he had explained to her while
whispering in her ear, tasting the sea-spray on her skin, feeling her
press her willing flesh into his hungry teeth, that the Northumbrians
would surely send a force to avenge the slain priests.
Kára stood beside him now, watching
the first rays of the sun peek shyly over the horizon. The monastery
was right there, a mere stone’s throw from the bank of the river.
Excitement tingled through her, her blood crying out to spill blood.
Movement caught her eye, and she hissed as she gripped Ivar’s
shoulder. “Is that a….monk?” She struggled to find the word,
but he nodded. Ivar could barely suppress a moan at the predatory,
eager look on her face. “I am going to run the oars.” She told
him, then raised her voice before he could protest, “lock the
Ivar barely caught her shield as she
tossed it carelessly at him, already focused on her task. In two
quick strides, she reached the side of the ship to find the oars
already locked into their horizontal position. She jumped up onto the
first oar, screaming like a madwoman, and ran nimbly down the line of
them, each step quick and precise. One wrong move, and she would
plunge to the bottom of the river, weighed down by her armor, and die
there, never to enter Valhalla. But she was unafraid. Brynjar had
been an accomplished oar-runner, and he’d taught her well.
Ivar couldn’t take his eyes off her,
his wild woman, auburn hair streaming behind her. She seemed to fly,
suspended above the surface of the river by the oars, and he found
himself thinking that maybe a sight like this had inspired that
ridiculous Christian story about the man who walked on the sea.
Reaching the end of the line, Kára flung herself recklessly onto the
ship, still screaming, as she scrabbled halfway up the stem crowned
by the roaring dragon-head. Ivar threw his head back, his voice
joining hers in the wild song of a wolf before the hunt.
And then his wife was beside him,
panting, pointing toward the shrinking back of the monk. She threw
herself down beside him, kissing him hard as the nose of the ship
gently bumped against the shore. Ivar bit her bottom lip, licking the
small drop of blood he drew there, before pushing her roughly back.
Ivar positioned himself on his shield, and Kára and her massive
warrior Aki lifted him from the ship. His chariot followed, carried
by four men, and then his horse emerged from the river, shaking
himself like a dog. Quickly the horse was harnessed, and Kára leaped
up onto her mare without a saddle, ignoring the cold river-water
soaking her trousers.
Ivar watched as she brandished her
sword, bareback on her prancing bay mare, looking for all the world
like a Valkyrie about to call death forth out of the northern winds.
He slapped the reins across his horse’s rump, and together he and his
wild little woman led their small force to destroy the monastery with
fire and steel.
It was a day Ivar would remember
forever—the unbridled joy on Kára’s face as her sword bit deep
into flesh, the way the crimson of fresh blood contrasted so
beautifully with her pale skin. The cries of frightened Christians,
the whooping of the raiders when they found heaps of shining silver.
The smell of the monastery burning, the sight of their scrolls
catching alight as he touched them with his torch. The hollow clop of
his horse’s hooves in the empty, echoing hallway.
And of course, the way Kára threw down
her sword and shield at the sight of him, dragging him from his
chariot with demanding hands, pulling him into the tall green grass
beside the smoking shell of the monastery. The taste of blood and
Kára lingered on his lips even now, hours later, as he cradled her
in his arms in the belly of the longship.
The memory of their lovemaking stirred
him, the way she had screamed for him among the dead and dying, his
name ripped from her lips in a ragged screech. His heart soared,
knowing that had been the last sound men had heard today. Side by
side they had destroyed, and side by side they would conquer. He had
promised her blood, vengeance, and men. In return, he asked only for
her love and was surprised at with which she gave it to him.
He couldn’t stop himself from kissing
her as she slept, and she snuggled tighter against his chest with a
content sigh. “Kára,” he whispered in her hair.” She gave a
sleepy “mmm?” in answer, blinking slowly up at him. “I love
you.” He had never told her this before, although a part of him had
known it from the moment she burst into his hall, framed by sunlight
and wind. He’d been scared of it then, cursing himself for the power
she held over him, the weakness she brought him to. But he knew the
truth of it now. He realized, when she came to him amid the
slaughtered, painted with bright blood and tasting of life itself,
that she was his strength. His wild, wanton Valkyrie, screaming like
the northern winds themselves.
“I love you, too, Ivar,” she
answered softly, looking up to meet his blue eyes with her hazel
ones. “I always sort of have, you know.” This was not what he had
expected, and the simple honesty of her words steals his breath for a
moment. He closes his eyes and presses a gentle kiss to her temple,
breathing in the sweaty scent of her hair, savoring the lingering
salt-and-iron taste of blood on her skin. Once, Kára had thought he
would only bring her death. And he had, in a way. He’d taken her life
in his hands, and he held it there still. Instead of keeping it for
himself, he offered it back to her. She would die a thousand times,
only to have him give him her life back, holding it out to her in his
On this day in 871 the Battle of Marton takes place.
Æthelred of Wessex was forced (along with his brother Alfred) into retreat following their pyrrhic victory against an army of Danish invaders at the Battle of Ashdown . The King had retreated to Basing in Hampshire, where he was again forced to battle, but this time defeated by the Great Heathen Army under the command of Ivar the Boneless.
It was the last of eight battles known to be fought by Æthelred against the Danes that year, and the defeated King is reported to have died on 15 April 871. Whether he died in battle, or as a result of wounds suffered in battle, is unclear. The site of the battle is unknown. Suggestions include Marden in Wiltshire or Martin in Dorset. The more westerly locations tend to be favoured because King Ethelred was buried in Wimborne Minster in Dorset shortly afterwards.
On the death of his brother, Alfred, succeeded to the throne of Wessex and inherited the burden of its defence. This was in despite of the fact that Æthelred left two under-age sons, Æthelhelm and Æthelwold. This was in accordance with the agreement that Æthelred and Alfred had made earlier that year in an assembly at Swinbeorg. The brothers had agreed that whichever of them outlived the other would inherit the personal property of their father, King Æthelwulf.
Many of the Anglo-Saxon kings subsequently began to capitulate to the Viking demands, and handed over land to the invading Norse settlers. In 876, the Northumbrian monarch Healfdene gave up his lands to them, and in the next four years they gained further land in the kingdoms of Mercia and East Anglia as well. King Alfred continued his conflict with the invading forces, but was driven back into Somerset in the south-west of his kingdom in 878.
Here the fugitive King was forced to take refuge and, among the marches of Athelney, Alfred had his rendezvous with fate, or, more precisely, some cakes…
In the Departments of Mysteries are children who are not precisely children.
The world is not and has never been kind to squibs. Blamed for misfortune, charged with ill-luck, barred from the family and driven into a world about which they know even less then the magical they were born from.
They are made easy targets.
The children watch nothingness with blank silver eyes. Sit and eat the food pressed on them, drink the drinks they are given, and sink themselves into silvered baths when told.
They are always added to.
Where werewolves might be simply collected through those arrested simply under suspicion, Squibs could be convinced into service, asked for one thing in exchange for what they so often wanted: a place in the magical world. Some families willingly gave their children, glad to be rid of their stain, and passed their poor magicless offspring into the cruel hands of the Department of Mysteries.
The experiments they were subjected to varied. Werewolves were usually tested for resistance to things, time after time used to try to prove that they were not human even when the moon was not full.
Squibs were studied to try to explain why magic did not touch some who by all rights it should have. Some were dissected, some were simply poked and prodded. Some were vivisected and some… some were surplus to requirements.
(What happened to them was worst)
What, asked some members of the Department of Mysteries, happens if you feed them to Dementors - are they less satisfying for their lack of magic?
Excerpt from File 415:
Children 3 through 13 were exposed to Dementors today, in Room 25. In Room 24 an equal number of Dementors were presented with 5 werewolves, and in Room 23 an equal number of Dementors were presented with 5 magical prisoners, in various states of health.
In Room 22 triple the number of Dementors were presented with 3 Squib children, 5 werewolves and 5 magical prisoners.
Question: Do Dementors prefer magical prey over mundane?
Answer: All Subjects successfully Kissed. Dementors in Room 22 expressed no preference over prey.
What, asked some members of the Department of Mysteries, happens if you use their limbs to replace lost ones of our own? Can they channel magic?
Excerpt from File 129-2:
Child 129 (Alfred Burke) has had to have arm prosthetic refitted. Previous one destroyed with Fiendfyre during Experiment 217. Original arm still functioning perfectly well as wand arm replacement for Unspeakable I. Dyll.
What, asked some members of the Department of Mysteries, happens if you take a young enough mind, and fill it with memories not it’s own?
(That… That is this story.)
They could not precisely do it. Memory could not be so easily transferred back into a mind, it was a shape of the past, a series of moments fossilized in the amber of magic, anchored into place and reality by the focus of the mind that was present. But all the same, the Unspeakables, the Langues-du-plomb, the Mugon-sha, all those from all the Mysterious places, they wondered.
No one recorded who the first was, who drowned a Squib girl - not quite five years old - in a vat of memories that had yet to be sorted.
When she rose out of it, pulled by a disgusted intern, her eyes glowed silver rather than the brown and blue hazel they had been. Her face showed none of the pain-dulled boredom. Her face… it showed nothing at all.
“Celia?” Asked the intern who pulled her out.
Celia blinked. “Celia,” She said. “Celia Drummond, born 13th March 1956, in Bulstrode Place, to Cuthbert Bulstrode and Maledisant Bulstrode nee Selwyn-Gaunt, of the Northumbrian Selwyn-Gaunts. Drummond surname given to her on realisation of Squib status. Subject to Experiment 652. Result: Negative. Subject to Experiment 313. Result: Positive. Subject to -”
She continued on, blankly, into space, repeating words from a record seen by an archivist who put her memories into the vat only a week before, as the intern ran to tell the others.
Three more children were submitted to the vats, until the vats were emptied. Keywords were given to them, and the memories recalled, recited perfectly be it of a document, of an event, of an experiment.
Alfred Burke spoke without emotion of when his arm was removed, and when his prosthetic was burned.
Celia Drummond spoke without emotion of the experiments she was subjected to.
Attis Marchmond spoke without emotion of their sisters death, after being Kissed, when they had screamed at her removal on the day.
They exist, in all Mysteries now. Children which are not children, the eternal, living archives of the worst secrets of the Departments of Mysteries.
(This is also a notice to say that THIS BLOG IS NOT DEAD. I am presently - when not working on my other blogs - going through the fic recs sent in and sorting them into a coherent system so they are easier to navigate when the link for that goes up.)