"My soul can be found within the pages of a book."

“I do believe the good Lord A has come to favor the Lady B.”

“I shouldn’t repeat what Lady C told me… but since we are among friends, I suppose discretion has already left the room.”

“Did you hear? Lord D was seen leaving her townhouse at seven in the morning.” “At seven? How terribly improper. One would think he had the decency to go before the estate would rise.”

“Do pass the lemon cakes. I find scandal much easier to digest with something sweet.”

“My dear, I assure you, the rumors are quite true. However, it remains to be seen how honest they will be.”

“Her Ladyship has been wearing a new set of diamonds.” “Diamonds? But last I heard her husband had fallen into terrible debt! How could he afford such a thing?” “One does wonder.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone I told you this.”

“Oh dear. Do not turn but I do believe the Lady of the house has just found out that her husband is not in Paris as he claimed.”

“The duke’s new butler is remarkably handsome. Remarkably charming, too. One does wonder what qualifications secured the position.” “Oh, I do believe we are all aware of the duke’s… inclinations.”

“Well, if everyone is going to behave scandalously, someone must have the good manners to gossip about it.”

*checks wiki*

This is not metaphorical. I mean actual, literal pieces of paper/plastic/metal/whatever explicitly erected to inform the public.

“How did you know this was the right trail?” I read the sign.

“Wow, how did you know what that flower is?” There’s a SIGN.

“How did you know we needed to use the side door?” THERE IS A SIGN POSTED ON THE FRONT DOOR.

Just…why are we having such different experiences of the world? People can read. I KNOW they can read. There’s nothing wrong with their vision.

Just. READ. THE. GOD. DAMN. SIGN.

This also applies to:

Syllabi

Carb starts your engine, protein keeps it going.

Cookie

Fruit (canned or fresh)

Chips

Piece of bread

Popcorn

Crackers

Easy protein add on:

Nuts

Spoonful of nut butter

Cheese

Roasted chickpea snacks

Glass of milk (dairy or non dairy)

The door banged open and Merlin woke with a start.

“Rats! Again!”

“Wha—”

“I always knew you were incompetent, Merlin, but this is just ridiculous. What’s the point of having magic if you can’t even sort out something as simple as a rodent infestation? Although, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since they do have more brains than you.”

“I don’t see you having any luck with catching them, either,” Merlin mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up.

Arthur glared at him.

Merlin had, in fact, caught and killed the rats in a matter of seconds, with one simple glance, each night they had appeared. For six nights in a row. It seemed someone was having them on.

It was then, after he’d blinked away the last of the bleariness, that he noticed the pillow Arthur was clutching to his chest.

“Why’ve you got that?” he asked, with a note of foreboding in his voice.

“If you think I’m sleeping in there with the rats, you can think again,” Arthur said.

“Frightened, are you?”

Arthur scoffed. “I don’t get frightened. It is critical for a king to have a decent night’s rest so that he is at his best for his people. Now, budge up, will you?”

Merlin rolled his eyes, but shuffled over all the same, moving his pillow so Arthur could plop his down.

It wasn’t like they had never shared a bedroll; camping overnight often called for it on the colder nights to keep all their fingers, toes, and other vulnerable bits functioning and intact. But this was Merlin’s bed. And there was hardly room enough for one man, let alone two, especially now that Merlin’s chest and arms had filled out to rival Arthur’s own.

He tried not to think about the way Arthur’s thigh pressed up alongside his, or the way his tunic rode down his chest, showing off the smattering of blond hair there. Merlin no longer knew what to do with his hands; his arms lay awkwardly, woodenly at his sides, all too aware that the slightest movement might brush their fingers together.

“There were no guest chambers available, I take it?” he joked.

“Shut up, Merlin.”

As Arthur settled in beside him, Merlin stared up at the ceiling; he felt, in that moment, that he would likely have a better night’s sleep in a room full of rats.

Bonus:

“You must think you’re pretty funny.”

“I do, actually,” Morgana agreed. “But if you’re accusing me of something, you’re going to need to be more specific.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “The rats?”

Morgana affected a look of total innocence, which, if Merlin hadn’t known her so well, would have been entirely convincing. “Rats? What are you talking about, Merlin?”

“Please. A rat in his chambers one night is a coincidence, two nights and I thought maybe Elyan and Gwaine were having a laugh, but seven nights? That’s got sorcery written all over it, and I know it wasn’t me.”

Morgana smirked. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“All it took was making Arthur’s chambers somewhat uninhabitable and off he ran to spend the night with you.” She grinned, which did nothing to dim the malevolence in her eyes, but rather accentuated it. “Do you deny it?”

“I—well—all we did was sleep!”

Morgana hummed. “That lie might have worked if you’d remembered your neck scarf,” she said, and turned away, smirk firmly in place.

Merlin’s mouth fell open, and he slapped a hand, rather too late, over the bruises Arthur had left there that morning.

“Gwen will be pleased,” Morgana called as she walked away. “The rats were her idea, you know.”

Audio: A recording of Leonard Nimoy reading it on Internet Archive.

Text: A PDF version.

Nemoy’s voice is PERFECT in this!

“See here: Arthur has holy light shining down on him. His features are sharp, the crown seems made for him…this moment depicts the fulfilment of destiny. But King Arthur was a man like any other.”

“But Professor,” a boy interrupts, hand half-raised in the universal position of douchebagery, “King Arthur was, quite literally, a character. Are you certain he’s the best example of medieval humanity?”

“He’s also a king,” a girl pipes up. “So he’s not a man like any other. We should be focusing on his subjects to find medieval humanity.”

Professor Smith smiles. He runs his hand through his black hair and steps out from behind the lecturing podium.

“Both excellent points,” he says. “King Arthur, real or not—“

Some confused muttering from the class—

“—is not an accurate representation of the average medieval peasant’s life. At the same time, it is important to consider why he may have been out of touch with his people, and in what ways. TH White implied that what made Arthur a better king was his mistreatment as a child by the name of Wart. He engaged in Arthur as a human being in a way Sir Thomas Mallory, perhaps, did not—at least by modern standards. Now.”

Professor Smith gestures to himself.

“I’m Irish.”