You knew I was going to write it.
Apr. 20th, 2005 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7OK. Fanfic with footnotes.
Yes, I know. I shouldn't have picked up the books. But I was cleaning.
For any unfamiliar with my obsessions, The Combat of Cúchulainn and Ferdia is an eleventh- or twelfth-century tale usually interwoven into the medieval (7th-12th century) Irish epic the Tain bo Cuailgne, or Cattle-Raid of Cooley. Cúchulainn is the epic's supernatural hero, a warrior fated to die young and famous (by his own choice). During the Tain he single-handedly defends Ulster for a lengthy time period against the invading Armies of Ireland (under Queen Maeve of Connacht), and for a time faces that host's greatest champions in ritual single combat to the death, one per day, and defeats them all easily-- until Ferdiad.
So, first, a lengthy introduction by way of excerpts from Kinsella's far more concise translation: I thought it would be nicer than my clumsy summary of the situation. The last bit of clumsy summary you need before the excerpts below is to know that Cuchulain and Ferdiad were foster-brothers meeting in single combat during the Tain (Ferdiad was either threatened or bribed or both into facing Cuchulain), and after three days of fighting, Cuchulain slew Ferdiad, and in the excerpt below, is lamenting over his body. Names are spelled differently in different translations and I haven't standardized them in this post yet.
p. 197-205 (excerpts), The Tain, Oxford University Press.
1 Cúchulainn and Ferdia were both trained by the same teacher, a woman named Scáthach who was renowned for teaching the greatest champions. (Uathach was her daughter, also a teacher.)
2 Among the bribes and threats offered to induce Ferdia to fight Cúchulainn was Queen Medb (Maeve)'s daughter Finnabair (Findabair), who was likewise promised to a dozen other warriors for similar tasks.
3 The Hound: Cuchulainn's name means "Hound of Culain" after a boyhood incident in which he killed a dog and then served its master in its place in penance. The name stuck.
And then I wrote a vignette/ficlet. You knew I was gonna. Slash, violence implied; PG. Ferdia's POV, monologue.
My little Hound, you have fought for everything you have. Life has been, for you, a struggle to prove yourself. Some can become champions from a single deed, can make their reputations and rest upon them, but not you. Oh no, my fierce Hound. You fight and claw for every recognition you get. You are a scrapper, a fighter and a biter, and woe betide those who underestimate you. Woe has befallen many, as many underestimate you.
You are too small, Hound: too small, too dark, too soft-voiced, too easygoing. It is easy to think you are younger than you are, to think you are softer than you are, and dozens of men have been doomed by it. To be sure, you are beautiful, but you do not look like the single-handed defender of Ulster. You don't even look like your name. You are not a blacksmith's hound. You are a noble boy, a slender youth with an easy smile. Even in your war gear, in your battle-suit, with your fearsome weapons, you look like a fledgling warrior, a boy learning to play at swords.
Until the change comes upon you. When your rage comes to you then you are magnificent and terrifying, a divine horror. Some believe you are a different person, then, or think you some sort of demon.
But I recognize you then. That is the side of you I know best. I know the real man beneath the assumed name. In truth you are nobody's dog, little Hound; you took the name because you are earnest about doing the right thing, but it was not obeisance, it was not acquiescence. It was passion. I know what rules you and it is passion.
I know that it is just a trick of your features that makes people think you are easy-going. Your mild face is more of a mask than the hideous grimace that distorts your features when the rage comes on you. Between the slender shoulders beats a heart hotter than any others, and I know, as you know, as all who have studied you know, that it will burn out faster.
Ah! my Hound, my heart is broken in my chest from your passion. I am not strong enough to hold your rage. I have tried; I know I have matched you better than any other. But I am not strong enough. I have matched your rage, passion for passion, met heat with heat, love with love, steel with steel, flesh with flesh, blood with blood, and have in my folly pitched my fury against your fury. And ah, ah, I almost bested you, little Hound. I almost bested you.
But you are a fighter. You are a hound, but your own, and it is your pride that has outmatched me. Your pride comes from your earnest faith in doing the right thing. Mine could not match yours. What pride have I to face you here, but the pride instilled in me by the threats of a faithless woman? I was almost strong enough to kill you, but not strong enough not to be killed by you. It is not right that it should have come to this. It is not right that we should turn our anger against each other, that we should be matched so terminally. My heart is broken. My ribs will not hold it.
That is enough: I die by that. 1
1 That is enough: I die by that is a quote from Lady Gregory's translation; it is what Ferdiad says when Cuchulainn strikes the fatal blow.
As an aside, Word just gave me a heart attack by crashing when I was saving that story. "Oops!" said the error box. "Want me to recover what you'd been working on?"
"Er, uh, yes please!"
I'm still trying to figure out whether it lost any of my edits. If it sucks, I'm blaming Word. Although it seems to have actually recovered everything.
Curse you, Word for Mac 2004! You suck like Word, except that you don't actually suck! You confuse me so...
So, this is quite rough. Mostly I was trying to get to know the characters as other than legends. I think I'll continue this and hopefully write something more... narrative. And, yes, something with smut.
But I don't think I'll have the time to really get deeply into it. Still, I may pick at it from time to time. This is different from the Tolkien stuff because it's out of copyright, so if I get anything really good, I could incorporate it into my original stuff. (I already have a hero who has 'warp-spasms' stolen straight out of this, although I have altered it quite a bit to fit that universe's much-different theology.)
So let me know if you think it's at all cool; I may stick a filter on this but wouldn't want to screen out anybody who was actually interested. :)
Yes, I know. I shouldn't have picked up the books. But I was cleaning.
For any unfamiliar with my obsessions, The Combat of Cúchulainn and Ferdia is an eleventh- or twelfth-century tale usually interwoven into the medieval (7th-12th century) Irish epic the Tain bo Cuailgne, or Cattle-Raid of Cooley. Cúchulainn is the epic's supernatural hero, a warrior fated to die young and famous (by his own choice). During the Tain he single-handedly defends Ulster for a lengthy time period against the invading Armies of Ireland (under Queen Maeve of Connacht), and for a time faces that host's greatest champions in ritual single combat to the death, one per day, and defeats them all easily-- until Ferdiad.
So, first, a lengthy introduction by way of excerpts from Kinsella's far more concise translation: I thought it would be nicer than my clumsy summary of the situation. The last bit of clumsy summary you need before the excerpts below is to know that Cuchulain and Ferdiad were foster-brothers meeting in single combat during the Tain (Ferdiad was either threatened or bribed or both into facing Cuchulain), and after three days of fighting, Cuchulain slew Ferdiad, and in the excerpt below, is lamenting over his body. Names are spelled differently in different translations and I haven't standardized them in this post yet.
Ferdia, dead by their deceit
our last meeting I lament.
You are dead and I must live
to mourn my everlasting loss.
When we were away with Scáthach1
learning victory overseas
it seemed our friendship would remain
unbroken till the day of doom.
I loved the noble way you blushed
and loved your fine, perfect form.
I loved your blue clear eye,
your way of speech, your skilfulness.
Your like, crimson son of Daman,
never moved to the tearing fray,
never was seized with manly wrath
nor bore shield on his broad back.
Never till this very day,
Ferdia, did I ever find
your match for great deeds in battle
since I slew Aife's only son.
Medb's daughter Finnabair,
whatever beauty she may have,
she was an empty offering, 2
a string to hold the sand, Ferdia.
[...]
Ferdia of the hosts and the hard blows,
beloved golden brooch,
I mourn your conquering arm
and our fostering together.
You were a sight
to please a prince;
your gold-rimmed shield,
your slender sword
the ring of bright silver
on your fine hand,
your skill at chess,
your flushed, sweet cheek.
your curled yellow hair
like a lovely jewel,
the leaf-shaped belt
you wore at your waist.
You fell to the Hound, 3
and I mourn, little calf.
The shield didn't save you
that you brought to the fray.
Shameful our struggle,
the grief and uproar!
O fair, fine hero
who shattered armies
and crushed them under foot,
golden brooch, I mourn.
[charioteer cuts the fatal spear from Ferdiad's body and returns it to Cúchulainn]
Ill-met, Ferdia, like this
— you crimson and pale in my sight,
stretched in a bed of blood,
and I with my weapon unwiped.
When we were beyond the sea,
Scáthach and Uathach's pupils,
who thought of such pale lips
or a weapon-struggle between us?
[Cuchulainn describes a battle both fought against Greek warriors]
Sad and pitiful the day
that saw Ferdia's strength spent
and brought the downfall of a friend.
I poured him a drink of red blood!
If you had met your death then
fighting with Greek warriors
I wouldn't have outlasted you,
I would have died at your side.
Misery has befallen us,
two foster-sons of Scáthach.
— I, broken and blood red,
your chariot standing empty.
Misery has befallen us,
two foster-sons of Scáthach.
— I, broken and blood-raw,
and you lying stark dead.
Misery has befallen us,
two foster-sons of Scáthach.
— you dead and I alive.
Bravery is battle-madness!
p. 197-205 (excerpts), The Tain, Oxford University Press.
1 Cúchulainn and Ferdia were both trained by the same teacher, a woman named Scáthach who was renowned for teaching the greatest champions. (Uathach was her daughter, also a teacher.)
2 Among the bribes and threats offered to induce Ferdia to fight Cúchulainn was Queen Medb (Maeve)'s daughter Finnabair (Findabair), who was likewise promised to a dozen other warriors for similar tasks.
3 The Hound: Cuchulainn's name means "Hound of Culain" after a boyhood incident in which he killed a dog and then served its master in its place in penance. The name stuck.
And then I wrote a vignette/ficlet. You knew I was gonna. Slash, violence implied; PG. Ferdia's POV, monologue.
My little Hound, you have fought for everything you have. Life has been, for you, a struggle to prove yourself. Some can become champions from a single deed, can make their reputations and rest upon them, but not you. Oh no, my fierce Hound. You fight and claw for every recognition you get. You are a scrapper, a fighter and a biter, and woe betide those who underestimate you. Woe has befallen many, as many underestimate you.
You are too small, Hound: too small, too dark, too soft-voiced, too easygoing. It is easy to think you are younger than you are, to think you are softer than you are, and dozens of men have been doomed by it. To be sure, you are beautiful, but you do not look like the single-handed defender of Ulster. You don't even look like your name. You are not a blacksmith's hound. You are a noble boy, a slender youth with an easy smile. Even in your war gear, in your battle-suit, with your fearsome weapons, you look like a fledgling warrior, a boy learning to play at swords.
Until the change comes upon you. When your rage comes to you then you are magnificent and terrifying, a divine horror. Some believe you are a different person, then, or think you some sort of demon.
But I recognize you then. That is the side of you I know best. I know the real man beneath the assumed name. In truth you are nobody's dog, little Hound; you took the name because you are earnest about doing the right thing, but it was not obeisance, it was not acquiescence. It was passion. I know what rules you and it is passion.
I know that it is just a trick of your features that makes people think you are easy-going. Your mild face is more of a mask than the hideous grimace that distorts your features when the rage comes on you. Between the slender shoulders beats a heart hotter than any others, and I know, as you know, as all who have studied you know, that it will burn out faster.
Ah! my Hound, my heart is broken in my chest from your passion. I am not strong enough to hold your rage. I have tried; I know I have matched you better than any other. But I am not strong enough. I have matched your rage, passion for passion, met heat with heat, love with love, steel with steel, flesh with flesh, blood with blood, and have in my folly pitched my fury against your fury. And ah, ah, I almost bested you, little Hound. I almost bested you.
But you are a fighter. You are a hound, but your own, and it is your pride that has outmatched me. Your pride comes from your earnest faith in doing the right thing. Mine could not match yours. What pride have I to face you here, but the pride instilled in me by the threats of a faithless woman? I was almost strong enough to kill you, but not strong enough not to be killed by you. It is not right that it should have come to this. It is not right that we should turn our anger against each other, that we should be matched so terminally. My heart is broken. My ribs will not hold it.
That is enough: I die by that. 1
1 That is enough: I die by that is a quote from Lady Gregory's translation; it is what Ferdiad says when Cuchulainn strikes the fatal blow.
As an aside, Word just gave me a heart attack by crashing when I was saving that story. "Oops!" said the error box. "Want me to recover what you'd been working on?"
"Er, uh, yes please!"
I'm still trying to figure out whether it lost any of my edits. If it sucks, I'm blaming Word. Although it seems to have actually recovered everything.
Curse you, Word for Mac 2004! You suck like Word, except that you don't actually suck! You confuse me so...
So, this is quite rough. Mostly I was trying to get to know the characters as other than legends. I think I'll continue this and hopefully write something more... narrative. And, yes, something with smut.
But I don't think I'll have the time to really get deeply into it. Still, I may pick at it from time to time. This is different from the Tolkien stuff because it's out of copyright, so if I get anything really good, I could incorporate it into my original stuff. (I already have a hero who has 'warp-spasms' stolen straight out of this, although I have altered it quite a bit to fit that universe's much-different theology.)
So let me know if you think it's at all cool; I may stick a filter on this but wouldn't want to screen out anybody who was actually interested. :)
