look, I know I've talked about this essay (?) before but like,
If you ever needed a good demonstration of the quote "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic", have I got an exercise for you.
Somebody made a small article explaining the basics of atomic theory but it's written in Anglish. Anglish is basically a made-up version of English where they remove any elements (words, prefixes, etc) that were originally borrowed from romance languages like french and latin, as well as greek and other foreign loanwords, keeping only those of germanic origin.
What happens is an english which is for the most part intelligible, but since a lot everyday english, and especially the scientific vocabulary, has has heavy latin and greek influence, they have to make up new words from the existing germanic-english vocabulary. For me it kind of reads super viking-ey.
Anyway when you read this article on atomic theory, in Anglish called Uncleftish Beholding, you get this text which kind of reads like a fantasy novel. Like in my mind it feels like it recontextualizes advanced scientific concepts to explain it to a viking audience from ancient times.
Even though you're familiar with the scientific ideas, because it bypasses the normal language we use for these concepts, you get a chance to examine these ideas as if you were a visitor from another civilization - and guess what, it does feel like it's about magic. It has a mythical quality to it, like it feels like a book about magic written during viking times. For me this has the same vibe as reading deep magic lore from a Robert Jordan book.
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We're almost to the first stretch goal for the illuminated Heliand children's book! If you're a fan of medieval illuminated manuscripts, exquisite children's books, Old English poetry, Anglish, or the book arts tradition in general, please give it a share!
Would be incredibly interesting to see the queer lexicon translated into Anglish. Like 99% of it come from derivations of Latin or Greek affixes, even the word gay comes from Old French, same for sex and gender. How you would begin the process is a wonder.
The only starting point I can think of would be using Bæddel.
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How little Osgar thought of her! Or perhaps it was his men who thought thus.
The ferdmen who had dragged her off and away had taken from her her knife, had bound her hands together behind her with rope which bit into her flesh, and had left her to kneel beside her father's bier.
Did they think her an agraithing? Did they think she stood with her men on the heathfield to no end of her own? When had rope ever been enough to hold a dry from flight?
Never had it been enough.
Cynefrith may be hungry, but fire was ever hungrier, and always near to hand in summer.
Yea, she could do that.
So Osgar and his ilk wished to see the House of Lindingham downed in fire and smoke? She could give him that. If she could not rightly bury her father, she could make his deathfire the brightest ever seen. He might forgive her that, when again they met beyond death's gates.
But nay, she could not.
Fire was unwieldy, and just as happy to listen her as trap her here in an atstall of troth unknown.
Unknown, yea.
Some men were Osgar's, but which? What of those who were not? What of Sunngifu? And what of the wounded, who could not flee? She was the frea now, all of these ferdmen lived in the shadow of her care. Could she give leave for her anger to blind her to that?
Nay.
But what else could she do?
Her father may yet have his knife, but what lay beneath that hackle of his she knew not, and did not wish to see.
"Father, I'm sorry," she said. "Your daughter does not know how to fight this beadu."
But her father, for the first time, had no answer for her.
As she thought, swey fell and swy rose beyond the woughs of the tield.
What time was it?
Gone midnight, if not later, it must be.
And yet, here she was still, nothing done. Nothing even fanded.
Mayhap she was nothing but an agraithing!
As she upbraided herself, from behind her came the swey of ripping, and she wended to see the blade of a knife fall through the wough.
A youth shoved his way into the tield. She knew him, to look at, another dry who had fought – and healed – aside her.
"My lady," he said, "you must leave here. I have a saddled horse for you not too far."
Cynefrith had not thought anyone would come for her and as he knelt to free her from the rope she said, "You have my thanks, but what of Sunngifu?"
Time was short and Cynefrith well knew she ought to run as he'd said. But she could not abide it, she could not abide losing even one more thing. Life was a wilder full of loss, she knew this. But not yet. Not right now.
"We, your friends, will see to her. But this is not a heathfield you want to choose."
"I know."
Only a lackwit would stride into a fight from a bearing of such weakness as she now had, but it was not over. That she could swear to.
He helped her to stand, much though her body misliked it after kneeling for stounds.
She was tweenle of how much to say, but a frea is nothing without their folk about them.
"If any should wish to follow me," she said, "I will make my way to the side of Lord Mærsige." He, Lord Mærsige, Frea of Mildecumb, was her father's oldest friend. He would help her, he was bound to, if no others would.
The young dry bowed and held the door he had made open for her.
It was fitting, she thought, that the night sky was dim and dark, lit only by a smattering of stars. At the loss of a man like Lord Wulfric, even the moon would hide her anlet, and shed her tears alone.
Someday, Cynefrith would do the same. Someday, but not yet.
The young man sent her towards the horse and she went, gladdened that she was still outfitted for gouth and looked nearly like any other ferdman chosen for the wicken of warding.
Nearly.
A shame, that her hair was too fair by half, and that no one else had any business ahorse at this stound.
She heard a shout rise behind her and put her heels to her horse.
"Ha! Away!"
It reared up on its hind legs and leapt forward, hooves falling like thunder.
The atstall stood between her at home, even if its arms were open to welcome her, which she knew they were not. Pleeful though it may be, but she could do naught but run over the heathfield and hope to bygo them in the bearing of Mildecumb.
But Osgar was a high harwickner, a name he had earned for himself. He was fleet of both thought and deed. He was on her almost at once, sending his men like hounds to snap at her heels as soon as they could put spur to horse.
There was nothing about her, nowhere to hide nor anything to slow her foes which did not also slow her.
It was not wise, this headlong dash over wrecked ground soaked with blood and strewn with the yet ungathered dead, but with Osgar and his men not far behind her, Cynefrith could think only that she must make the barrows. In the barrows, she could lose them, she hoped.
But as she went that way, in the first, fairest light of coming dawn, she saw the merry twinkle of what could only be a witting fire.
Who was it, that besaw that fire? Lost ferdmen of one side or the other? Some wanderers unlucky in their timing?
To, or away? To, or away?
Her horse was flagging, and she tired near unto death.
Cynefrith kept her path true and watched as tields and men drew nearer. They were awake, most likely down to the din her flight had brought along behind her. They wore clothing of neither the Weared Shires nor Hyllworth Rich, but of far off, southern Carulitta.
Carulittans? Here? Why? She knew not, but she did know that markle, that roaring, golden haired wilder with fangs and claws bared. It was the markle which belonged to the king's own house.
As she came near, an arrow flew by her, singing its deadly song as it went before burying itself in the dirt afore her foes, making their horses stamp and shy.
She stopped as well, her horse breathing hard and lathered all over.
A man, mayhap a little older than she was, fetched up beside her, bow drawn.
A handful of others followed, all weapons at the ready.
"It is with many thanks that I leave myself in your care," she said. "I am Frea Cynefrith of Lindingham Shire, and these men lordswike to my house."
"Have you a token of this?" one of the bowman's fellows asked, her speech hued in the ellandish shades of Carulitta.
"Nay, naught but my word and the bite marks of rope about my wrists."
"All is well," the bowman said, speech frithful. "As an upright man, I would not forsake one who begs my help."
"It is no business of yours," said one of Osgar's men, "you, who are not of our land."
"And are you of our land? My father's land, my land?" Cynefrith scolded. "Do your deeds match your words? I wonder."
He flushed, in wrath or shame she knew not.
"It is not my business," the comeling said, "but that you have thrown your worthmind to your hounds, and I abide neither liars nor swikers. Get you gone from here."
"My lady," Osgar said as he rode up, one hand wrapped and clutched to his chest, "there is no need for such childishness. Come back and we will speak more on it."
"We will speak more of it when I call a freasmeet and not before," Cynefrith said coldly. "I am a freeborn woman grown and no lawful haftling of yours. I now take my leave of you, by whatever means I must take it."
Osgar's mouth was tight and his eyes glinted like a sword sharpened to kill, but he bowed stiffly in his saddle and wended his horse with a quick pull of its lead ropes. He said nothing, and neither did his men as they followed after him.
"Are you hale, my lady?" the bowman asked as he lowered his bow.
"Sore of heart but hale of flesh," she said. Then, "By what name might I call you?"
"How uncouth of me! I am Estienne di Solcastilla, of Carulitta." He held out a hand to help her down, which she took. "If I may dare to ask, what has happened here? I came as errandrake to King Lanzo and found all akimbo as I reached Hyllworth Rich. King Lanzo had shut tight his doors and would not see me, so I thought, until I met his heer on the road back and they ran us off with barely our lives to our names."
"Lordswike of Lindingham Shire worked alongside King Lanzo to overthrow my father, who fell but two days gone on the heathfield of their making."
"I am sorry! And here I natter on needlessly, when I, too, know of loss. Come, sit beside me at my atstall."
The woman who had spoken earlier took the horse's lead from her hand and Cynefrith did not fight her.
"Thank you again. These last few days have worn heavy on me."
