Posts Tagged 'baucis and philemon'

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rannadylin:

Oak and Linden

A tale and a
translation from Ovid’s Metamorphoses: the myth of Baucis and Philemon in the
persons of Hawke and Fenris, in their retirement.

Author’s Note: Tuesday, Jan. 26 is “In Any Universe” day for FenHawke Week 2, calling for crossovers and AUs. Discarding vague ideas of a Star Wars or Princess Bride crossover (not saying that I won’t come back to those ideas someday, though…) I decided to go with something from mythology. My favorite thing in Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Baucis and Philemon, one of the few (only?) with a happy ending. Fenris and Hawke need a happy ending, so I made it work for them! Also, it means Aged!Hawke and Aged!Fenris, surprisingly pleasing to write.

Also, I’ve been wanting to take a shot at podfic, since I used to record stories and, well, sort of discjockeying for (and edit/produce) a LOTRO podcast. I liked the sound of this as I read it out loud while proofreading, so I just went ahead and recorded it.

After the story itself, below the cut you’ll find my first draft (just replacing names from the original, really) and my rough translation of, as well as the Latin text of, the original story in the Metamorphoses, for the curious.


The years have
not been kind, but we have been kind to each other. Fame and infamy alike have
forgotten us in our old age, and we’re fine with that. It’s not much, this hut
of ours in the foothills of Sundermount, but I have Fenris and he has me and we
never really needed anything more than that.

But I know what
it is to be a refugee, and he knows what it is to be a fugitive, and so when
the strangers knock on our door, of course we welcome them in.

He’s an elf and
she appears human, an old woman and a bald man. Not so different from
ourselves, though Fenris has kept most of his hair while the years have faded
mine as white as his. I’m fairly sure those aren’t just walking sticks they
lean on; I know a mage’s staff when I see one, considering the number of mine
we’ve sold off over the years when the garden wasn’t all it could be. The sort
of magic this quiet life of ours needs rarely calls for a staff, after all.

“Void take a
night like this, hm?” I say with a nod to the downpour outside as I shake out
their sodden cloaks and hang them to dry at the hearth.

The bald elf
exchanges a glance with his companion. “Perhaps it shall.”

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Oak and Linden

A tale and a
translation from Ovid’s Metamorphoses: the myth of Baucis and Philemon in the
persons of Hawke and Fenris, in their retirement.

Author’s Note: Tuesday, Jan. 26 is “In Any Universe” day for FenHawke Week 2, calling for crossovers and AUs. Discarding vague ideas of a Star Wars or Princess Bride crossover (not saying that I won’t come back to those ideas someday, though…) I decided to go with something from mythology. My favorite thing in Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Baucis and Philemon, one of the few (only?) with a happy ending. Fenris and Hawke need a happy ending, so I made it work for them! Also, it means Aged!Hawke and Aged!Fenris, surprisingly pleasing to write.

Also, I’ve been wanting to take a shot at podfic, since I used to record stories and, well, sort of discjockeying for (and edit/produce) a LOTRO podcast. I liked the sound of this as I read it out loud while proofreading, so I just went ahead and recorded it.

After the story itself, below the cut you’ll find my first draft (just replacing names from the original, really) and my rough translation of, as well as the Latin text of, the original story in the Metamorphoses, for the curious.


The years have
not been kind, but we have been kind to each other. Fame and infamy alike have
forgotten us in our old age, and we’re fine with that. It’s not much, this hut
of ours in the foothills of Sundermount, but I have Fenris and he has me and we
never really needed anything more than that.

But I know what
it is to be a refugee, and he knows what it is to be a fugitive, and so when
the strangers knock on our door, of course we welcome them in.

He’s an elf and
she appears human, an old woman and a bald man. Not so different from
ourselves, though Fenris has kept most of his hair while the years have faded
mine as white as his. I’m fairly sure those aren’t just walking sticks they
lean on; I know a mage’s staff when I see one, considering the number of mine
we’ve sold off over the years when the garden wasn’t all it could be. The sort
of magic this quiet life of ours needs rarely calls for a staff, after all.

“Void take a
night like this, hm?” I say with a nod to the downpour outside as I shake out
their sodden cloaks and hang them to dry at the hearth.

The bald elf
exchanges a glance with his companion. “Perhaps it shall.”

There’s not much
room in this one-room hut for furniture, so Fenris hauls out two stools stored
under the bed and I spread an old blanket over them for comfort. “You’ve
traveled far?” he surmises as the strangers rest their weary limbs. Keeping
busy even as they answer, he picks up his sword in its sheath. It’s dull with
disuse – at our age, hunting down slavers and blood mages isn’t that healthy
– but handy for reaching the rafters, where a little of last season’s trade
with the butcher still remains, smoked by the hearth fire.

Fenris returns
the sword to its hooks on the wall and draws a knife to trim off a bit of the
bacon while the woman answers, “We’ve wandered long. Most of this day seemed
spent in seeking shelter, though. Every inn in Kirkwall has no vacancy signs out.”

“We resorted to
knocking on doors,” the bald elf adds, while I chop a carrot and a pair of
potatoes Fenris scrounged up in the garden this morning. An onion would do
wonders for the stew, but we used the last of them yesterday. That goose in the
yard always pulls them up too young, but the bird’s become like a pet and we
make do without onions when we must. Hopefully our guests won’t object. We’re
used to a thin broth ourselves; old age and contentment need little more.

Entertaining
guests calls for something special, so I spread the table with its Satinalia
coverlet, tugging the patched bits away from our company’s side. “Kirkwall’s
never been known for its…hospitality,” I comment, knowing that if knocking on
doors in town had done them any good, they’d not have ended up out here in the
foothills.

“The Veil is thin
here,” the elf answers, “and in such a place, the things people see may curtail
their trust.”

Fenris glances at
me. “There were certainly such sights, in our youth.”

“I don’t think it
got any better after we retired, Fenris.”

“Little enough we
may do about it now, Hawke.”

I sigh, reluctant
even this near the end of our lives to admit impotence. No matter how many of
people’s problems fell to us in the old days, I liked solving problems. Bringing hope. Right now the only problem I
can solve is how to be gracious hosts to two miserable travelers, shunned by
Kirkwall in the worst weather we’ve seen this month.

We have bread, at
least, even if there’s no butter. But I picked wild strawberries day before
last, and there’s cheese and boiled eggs, and maybe the wine’s a bit on the
sour side, far removed from the Agregio we shared when we first became friends,
but it will have to do. I grab jars from the pantry-shelf, dishing everything
out into our best dinnerware, simple clay though it is, and crowd the tiny
table with the bounty. It wobbles under the weight; the potsherd propping up
the one leg shorter than the others protests.

We gather the
stools around the table and begin. The travelers provide tales of the world in
exchange for our feast; I ask after Ferelden, though Fenris makes no mention of
Tevinter. They say little enough of their business in Kirkwall, but then
neither do we speak of the days I was its Champion. Kirkwall’s not our business
anymore, really.

The stew bubbles
as merrily as the conversation (that’s not saying a great deal, to be fair: the
woman shows a fair wit but the elf is dour, and Fenris and I are accustomed to
much silence after all our years together). Stretched four ways tonight, it’s
not quite enough to fill a belly, but when it’s gone there’s always dessert. We
have nuts aplenty from the trees out back, and Fenris prides himself on that
apple tree. Besides, he found a honeycomb not long ago, and anything tastes
like a celebration with honey on top.

It’s during
dessert that I notice something odd. I’m sure we should be nearly out of the
wine by now; the pitcher wasn’t even half full, and there’s no more when that’s
gone. Except that there is. Every time I peer into the pitcher it’s full. In
fact this time I think it’s fuller than when we started this meal. The wine’s
rising. It’s multiplying. Can wine do that? If it’s magic, it’s beyond my abilities. I could freeze it or boil
it but it’s still the same wine.

Fenris meets my
eyes over the table: he’s noticed too. As one we turn to our guests. “This is a
strange magic,” Fenris says.

“You have been
most generous hosts,” says the bald elf. “We would be remiss not to return the
favor.”

“Yes,” I say,
“but you can’t just do that. Can you?
Making more wine out of thin air? Where is it coming from? How does it work?
Can you teach me?”

The woman chuckles
with dry amusement. “Some things never change, I see.”

“Just what sort
of mages are you?” I press them.

She stands, as
does her companion. “Come with us,” he says, “and see.”

“The storm –” I
begin, but in two steps they’re at the back door, out in the garden, and I see
the rain’s stopped. Fenris arches one pale eyebrow: a question; an invitation.
I take his hand with a grin.

I bring my staff
to lean on and he takes his sword down again from the wall; it’s a decent
walking-stick now even though he seldom has cause to wield it against an enemy.
Thus propped, we make our way through the garden with slow steps. Our guests
have gone ahead, up the mountain path.

It’s a long walk
in the mud, joints aching, leaning on our weapons and on each other, but the
sky after the storm is a blue seldom seen and the air smells alive, electric.
Time slips by, beguiled by our plodding steps, till we stand near Sundermount’s
summit. The strangers raise their hands toward Kirkwall, far below.

“It begins here,”
says the bald elf. “The Veil is thin; all the easier to remove it here, and
return this part of the world to what it was before the great divide. Spirits
will walk with mortals; magic will return to all. No mage will suffer for their
gift when all bear it alike. No more will the People be cut off from their
heritage.”

As he speaks, the
heavens over Kirkwall shine. It is not the light of the sun or the moons far
away, but a light present in the atmosphere itself. It begins above the
Gallows, and it grows, like a quiet fire spreading to engulf the whole city.

“You’re talking
about giving everyone magic, all at once,” I realize. “There will be chaos.
When I came into my magic I nearly burnt down a barn. And some of those people
– they fear it, a great deal. What they may do…”

“We will not
leave them without a defense,” says the woman. “See, on the path below us, your
house, that small house to which you alone of Kirkwall welcomed us, even now it
becomes a temple of Mythal. Refuge will be granted there, to all who seek it,
and justice to those who bring their grievances before me. And since you two
have, I think, a better understanding of the burdens of magic than most,” she
chuckles, “you will administer that refuge and that justice.”

“At our age?” I
scoff.

“Believe me,
Hawke,” she smiles, with a glance that pierces to the secret places of my soul
where even Fenris does not go, “you have some good years in you yet.”

“And you have
earned a boon for your hospitality,” adds the bald elf. “What would you ask of
Mythal and the Dread Wolf?”

I turn to Fenris.
He reaches for my hands and in his eyes I see what he would ask; what he would
always ask. It is my wish also. I nod, and he speaks.

“Since we have
lived all our years in harmony,” he says, “let the same hour bring the death of
us both, that I may never see the tomb of my wife, nor I be buried by her.
Nothing could be worse, for either of us, than the thought of living without
one another.”

They nod, the
Dread Wolf and Mythal, gods to neither of us yet powers to be reckoned with
more than mere mages, and depart. Robes of state have replaced our threadbare
clothes; marble walls and mosaics have replaced our thatched hut. There’s work
to do, problems to solve, hope to
bring.

Mythal spoke
truly: we have good years ahead of us. But even if they are more interesting
than the former part of our retirement, they pass no less quickly. A day comes
when we stand on the temple steps and Fenris squeezes my hand. “Something’s
happening,” he says.

Something is:
He’s glowing. His lyrium lines have not come alive like this in years, but they
flow with magic once more. I reach for him, and the light spreads to my hands,
my arms, swirls around me in an echo of his lines. The magic grows to surround
us both as one, a maelstrom concealing us from the crowd of supplicants in the
temple courtyard.

In the maelstrom
is a door. We step through, hand in hand.


First draft (Tentatively titled Hawkis and Fenlemon)

In the hills of the Free
Marches there grows an oak tree adjacent to a linden tree, surrounded by a
small wall. I have seen the place myself, traveling through that region to
Arlathven. Among the other city-states there is a swamp that was once habitable
land, the city of Kirkwall. Now, it is a lake notorious for its water-fowl. The
elves living nearby, on Sundermount, tell a curious story of those two trees.

They say that once Mythal,
All-Mother, came in mortal appearance and with her came the Dread Wolf,
Fen’Harel, bearing his staff. They approached a thousand homes of Kirkwall
seeking a place to rest, but a thousand doors were slammed in their faces.

Nevertheless one home received
them. It was just a small hut in the foothills, covered with straw and reeds,
but it was a pious home whose inhabitants would never turn away a traveler in
need. The old woman, Hawkis, and her husband Fenlemon, just as old, were
married in that house in their youth; in that house they grew old together as
the world passed them by. The city had forgotten its Champion, but they sought
no return to status. They lived simply; by acknowledging their poverty and not
bearing it with resentment, they made it trivial; nor is it any use asking
about their servants: the two of them were the whole household, obeying their
own orders.

So when the gods of the People
bowed their heads to enter that humble home, old Fenlemon bade them rest their
weary limbs on a bench he set out for them, over which the attentive Hawkis
spread a roughly fashioned cloth. Calling on magic rusty with use, she stirred
yesterday’s fires back to life in the warm ashes of the humble hearth and put
the cauldron on to boil. While she trimmed the vegetables which Fenlemon had
collected in their well-watered garden, he raised a sword nearly bigger than
himself, but dull with the years, and from the black roof-beam he prodded down
a gamy, long-preserved ham. From this he trimmed a meager part and tamed the
tough meat in the boiling water.

While the cauldron bubbled,
they beguiled the intervening hours with conversation, shaking out cushions
woven from soft river grasses, spreading them on the couch built from
willow-wood. This they covered with blankets normally brought out only for
Satinalia and Summerday; yet even this festive cloth was old and inexpensive,
not that a couch made of willow-wood might take offense at such a coverlet. And
so the gods reclined at the table.

Old Hawkis set the table,
hitching up her robes and pushing up her sleeves with trembling hands, but one
table-leg was to short: a potsherd straightened out the slope, and she wiped
the surface clean with fresh green mint-leaves. Then a humble feast was laid
out: olives, green and black, gift of Sylaise, and autumn berries preserved in
the dregs of old wine, and chicory roots and lumps of cheese, and eggs baked lightly
in the warm ashes; everything served in earthenware bowls.

Following these things, a clay
jar was brought forth and new wine poured into wooden goblets, coated with
golden wax. After a while the hearth sent forth its hot feast, and the wine was
served again, then all was set aside to make room for dessert. There were nuts,
figs mixed with shriveled dates, plums, fragrant apples in wide-open baskets,
grapes fresh from purpled vines, and amidst it all a clear honeycomb. But the
crowning glory of this fair meal was their good faces smiling at their guests
and their goodwill, neither weak nor poor.

Meanwhile as often as they
emptied the wine jar, they saw it replenished of its own accord, the wine
rising up on its own again. Astonished by this magic, they were terrified, and
with hands raised in supplication, Hawkis and shy Fenlemon solemnly pronounced
prayers and begged pardon for their feast and lack of preparation.

There was a single goose, the
guardian of that tiny house, which its masters prepared to slaughter for their
godly guests; swift of wing, it wore them out (slow with age) and eluded them
for a long time, finally fleeing to the gods themselves for refuge. The
Creators forbade it to be killed, and said “We are gods, and this wicked city
will suffer a deserved punishment; it is granted to you to be exempt from this
misfortune. Come with us, leave your house behind and accompany us to the top
of the mountain!”

They both obeyed, struggling up
the long slope of Sundermount, Hawkis leaning on her staff, Fenlemon on his old
sword. They were an arrow’s flight away fro the top when they turned and saw
far below the waters of the Waking Sea rushing in, Kirkwall drowned in the
flood – only their own house remained – and while they stood amazed, mourning
the deaths of their neighbors, that old small house, really too small even for
its two masters, was turned into a temple. Columns replaced its forked beams,
the straw became yellow and the roof seemed gilded, and the doors seemed
engraved and the dirt floor covered with marble.

Then Mythal spoke kindly: “Tell
us, just old man, and wife worthy of a just husband, what favor you would ask
of us.”

Having spoken briefly with
Hawkis, Fenlemon revealed to the gods their joint decision: “We ask to be
priests and to guard your temple, and since we have lived all our years in
harmony, let the same hour bring the death of us both, that I may never see the
tomb of my wife, nor must I be buried by her.”

Their wish was granted
immediately: as long as life was given to them, they were the temple’s
guardians. Weakened by years and old age at last, when by chance they stood
before the sacred steps and were telling of the fate of Kirkwall, Hawkis
noticed Fenlemon putting forth leaves, and Fenlemon saw Hawkis sprouting
leaves. And over their matched faces, as the treetops now rose, they spoke to
each other in turn, while they still could, and together said, “Farewell, o
spouse,” while together their faces were concealed by the foliage.

Even to this day, a farmer of
the Free Marches can show you in that place the trees growing side by side from
a twin trunk. Indeed I have seen the garlands hanging down from the branches
and have hung a garland there myself, saying, “Let those who have been the care
ofthe gods be gods, and let those who have worshiped, be worshiped.”


My prose translation:

They all were amazed and didn’t consider such things proper
to say, and in front of them all Lelex, a man mature in mind and age, spoke
thus: “The power of heaven is immense and has no limit and, whatever the gods
wish, it is done. And that you may doubt less, there is in the Phrygian hills
an oak tree adjacent to a linden tree, surrounded by a small wall; I have seen
the place myself, for Pittheus sent me to the lands of Pelops, once ruled by
his own father. Not far from here there is a swamp, formerly habitable land,
now a lake notorious for its sea-birds and water-fowl; Jupiter came to this
place in mortal appearance and with his father came the grandson of Atlas,
Mercury, the staff-bearer with his wings taken off. They approached a thousand
homes seeking a place to rest, a thousand bars closed the homes. Nevertheless
one received them, indeed a small one, covered with straw and marsh reeds, yet
pious; the old woman Baucis and Philemon, similarly aged, were joined in that
house in their youthful years, in that house they grew old together and by
acknowledging their poverty and not bearing it with a resentful mind, they made
it trivial; nor does it matter in that place, whether you seek the masters or
the servants: the two of them are the whole household–the same both obey and
order.

“Therefore when the heaven-dwellers touched their small home
and entered their humble doorposts with bowed heads, the old man ordered them
to rest their limbs on a bench he set out for them; over which the attentive
Baucis threw a roughly fashioned cloth, and she moved aside the warm ashes in
the hearth and stirred up yesterday’s fires and fed them with leaves and bark
and brought them forth to flames with her old woman’s breath and brought down
from the rafters firewood split into many pieces and dry branches and reduced
them and moved them near to a small cauldron, and stripped of their leaves the
vegetables which her spouse had collected in their well-watered garden. He
lifted, with a two-pronged fork, a coarse pig’s back hanging from the black
roof-beam and trimmed from the long preserved back a small part and having cut
it off, tamed it with boiling waves.

Meanwhile they beguile the intervening hours with
conversation and they shake the cushions, made from soft river grasses, placed
on the couch with its frame and feet made of willow-wood. This they cover with
blankets, which they had not been accustomed to lay out except on holidays, but
even this cloth was cheap and old, not such that a bed made of willow-wood
should take offense at it; the gods reclined at the table. The old woman set
the table with her clothes gathered up, trembling, but the third foot of the
table was uneven: a potsherd made it equal; which after it was placed under the
foot, it raised the slope, and fresh green mint-leaves wiped the straightened
table clean. Here are placed two-colored olives of pure Minerva, and autumn
berries preserved in liquid wine dregs, and chicory roots and cheese (a lump of
congealed cheese) and eggs lightly turned in the warm ashes, everything served
in earthenware. After these things an engraved mixing-bowl (made of the same
kind of silver) was set down and goblets fashioned from beech-wood, coated with
golden wax where they were were hollow. There was a slight delay, and the
hearth sent forth its hot banquet, and their wine of not a long age was brought
back again, and then it was set aside to make room for the dessert course: here
there are nuts, here there are figs mixed with shriveled dates, and plums and
fragrant apples in wide-open baskets and grapes gathered from purple vines,
amidst it all there was a clear honeycomb. Over it all, their good faces
approached and their goodwill, neither weak nor poor.

“Meanwhile as often as it was drained, they saw the
mixing-bowl replenished of its own accord and the wine rising up on its own:
astonished by the novelty, they were terrified, and with hands raised in
supplication, Baucis and shy Philemon solemnly pronounced prayers and begged
pardon for their feast and lack of preparation.

There was a a single goose, the guardian of that tiny house,
which its masters prepared to slaughter for their godly guests; swift of wing,
it wore them out (slow with age) and escaped them for a long time and finally
seemed to flee for refuge to the gods themselves. The gods forbade it to be
killed, and said “We are gods, and your naughty neighborhood will suffer a
deserved punishment; it is granted to you to be exempt from this misfortune.
Just leave behind your house and accompany our steps and go with us to the
steep places of the mountain!” They both obeyed, and supported by walking sticks
they struggled to place their steps on the long slope. They were as far away
from the top, as an arrow could go in a single shot: they turned their eyes and
saw before themselves the rest of it drowned in flood-water–only their own
house remained–and while they were wondering at these things, while they were
mourning the deaths of their neighbors, that old small house, small even for
its two masters, was turned into a temple. Columns replaced its forked
supports, the straw became yellow and the roof seemed gilded, and the doors
seemed engraved and the dirt floor covered with marble.

“Then Saturn’s son (Jupiter) uttered with his kindly mouth:
‘Tell us, just old man, and wife worthy of a just husband, what you wish.’
Having spoken briefly with Baucis, Philemon revealed to the gods their joint
decision: ‘We ask to be priests and to guard your temple, and since we lived
our years in harmony, let the same hour carry the two of us away, that I may
never see the tomb of my wife, nor by buried by her.’ Their wish is followed by
its fulfilment: they were the temple’s defense, as long as life was given to
them. Weakened by years and old age, when they stood, by chance, before the
sacred steps and were telling about the fate of the place, Baucis noticed
Phelemon putting forth leaves, and Philemon her elder saw Baucis sprouting
leaves. And already, over their paired faces with the treetops rising, they
spoke to each other in turn, while it was permitted, and together said,
“Farewell, o spouse,” together the foliage covered their concealed faces. Even
to this day, a Bithynian farmer can show you in that place the trees growing
side by side from a twin trunk. Reliable old men told me these things (nor was
there any reason why they would wish to deceive me); indeed I have seen the
garlands hanging down over the branches and placing fresh garlands myself I
have said, ‘Let those who have been the care of the gods be gods, and, let
those who have worshiped, be worshiped.’”


Ovid, Metamorphoses VIII.616-724:

obstipuere omnes nec talia dicta
probarunt,

ante omnesque Lelex animo maturus et
aevo,

sic ait: ‘inmensa est finemque potentia
caeli

non habet, et quicquid superi voluere,
peractum est,

quoque minus dubites, tiliae contermina
quercus               620

collibus est Phrygiis modico circumdata
muro;

ipse locum vidi; nam me Pelopeia Pittheus

misit in arva suo quondam regnata
parenti.

haud procul hinc stagnum est, tellus
habitabilis olim,

nunc celebres mergis fulicisque
palustribus undae;               625

Iuppiter huc specie mortali cumque
parente

venit Atlantiades positis caducifer alis.

mille domos adiere locum requiemque
petentes,

mille domos clausere serae; tamen una
recepit,

parva quidem, stipulis et canna tecta
palustri,               630

sed pia Baucis anus parilique aetate
Philemon

illa sunt annis iuncti iuvenalibus, illa

consenuere casa paupertatemque fatendo

effecere levem nec iniqua mente ferendo;

nec refert, dominos illic famulosne
requiras:               635

tota domus duo sunt, idem parentque
iubentque.

ergo ubi caelicolae parvos tetigere
penates

summissoque humiles intrarunt vertice
postes,

membra senex posito iussit relevare
sedili;

cui superiniecit textum rude sedula
Baucis               640

inque foco tepidum cinerem dimovit et ignes

suscitat hesternos foliisque et cortice
sicco

nutrit et ad flammas anima producit anili

multifidasque faces ramaliaque arida
tecto

detulit et minuit parvoque admovit
aeno,               645

quodque suus coniunx riguo conlegerat
horto,

truncat holus foliis; furca levat ille
bicorni

sordida terga suis nigro pendentia tigno

servatoque diu resecat de tergore partem

exiguam sectamque domat ferventibus
undis.               650

interea medias fallunt sermonibus horas

concutiuntque torum de molli fluminis
ulva               655

inpositum lecto sponda pedibusque
salignis.

vestibus hunc velant, quas non nisi
tempore festo

sternere consuerant, sed et haec vilisque
vetusque

vestis erat, lecto non indignanda
saligno.

adcubuere dei. mensam succincta
tremensque                660

ponit anus, mensae sed erat pes tertius
inpar:

testa parem fecit; quae postquam subdita
clivum

sustulit, aequatam mentae tersere
virentes.

ponitur hic bicolor sincerae baca
Minervae

conditaque in liquida corna autumnalia
faece               665

intibaque et radix et lactis massa coacti

ovaque non acri leviter versata favilla,

omnia fictilibus. post haec caelatus
eodem

sistitur argento crater fabricataque fago

pocula, qua cava sunt, flaventibus inlita
ceris;               670

parva mora est, epulasque foci misere
calentes,

nec longae rursus referuntur vina
senectae

dantque locum mensis paulum seducta
secundis:

hic nux, hic mixta est rugosis carica
palmis

prunaque et in patulis redolentia mala
canistris               675

et de purpureis conlectae vitibus uvae,

candidus in medio favus est; super omnia
vultus

accessere boni nec iners pauperque
voluntas.

   
‘Interea totiens haustum cratera repleri

sponte sua per seque vident succrescere
vina:               680

attoniti novitate pavent manibusque
supinis

concipiunt Baucisque preces timidusque
Philemon

et veniam dapibus nullisque paratibus
orant.

unicus anser erat, minimae custodia
villae:

quem dis hospitibus domini mactare
parabant;               685

ille celer penna tardos aetate fatigat

eluditque diu tandemque est visus ad
ipsos

confugisse deos: superi vetuere necari

“di” que “sumus,
meritasque luet vicinia poenas

inpia” dixerunt; “vobis
inmunibus huius               690

esse mali dabitur; modo vestra relinquite
tecta

ac nostros comitate gradus et in ardua
montis

ite simul!” parent ambo baculisque
levati

nituntur longo vestigia ponere clivo.

tantum aberant summo, quantum semel ire
sagitta               695

missa potest: flexere oculos et mersa
palude

cetera prospiciunt, tantum sua tecta
manere,

dumque ea mirantur, dum deflent fata
suorum,

illa vetus dominis etiam casa parva
duobus

vertitur in templum: furcas subiere
columnae,               700

stramina flavescunt aurataque tecta
videntur

caelataeque fores adopertaque marmore
tellus.

talia tum placido Saturnius edidit ore:

“dicite, iuste senex et femina
coniuge iusto

digna, quid optetis.” cum Baucide
pauca locutus               705

iudicium superis aperit commune Philemon:

“esse sacerdotes delubraque vestra
tueri

poscimus, et quoniam concordes egimus
annos,

auferat hora duos eadem, nec coniugis
umquam

busta meae videam, neu sim tumulandus ab
illa.”               710

vota fides sequitur: templi tutela fuere,

donec vita data est; annis aevoque soluti

ante gradus sacros cum starent forte
locique

narrarent casus, frondere Philemona
Baucis,

Baucida conspexit senior frondere
Philemon.               715

iamque super geminos crescente cacumine
vultus

mutua, dum licuit, reddebant dicta
“vale” que

“o coniunx” dixere simul, simul
abdita texit

ora frutex: ostendit adhuc Thyneius illic

incola de gemino vicinos corpore
truncos.               720

haec mihi non vani (neque erat, cur
fallere vellent)

narravere senes; equidem pendentia vidi

serta super ramos ponensque recentia dixi

“cura deum di sint, et, qui coluere,
colantur.”’

This will be odd.

So I might actually be writing a Fenhawke version of the myth of Baucis and Philemon for tomorrow’s AU theme of Fenhawke Week. Based on my translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (it’s in Book 8). 

It may or may not end up being in verse form.

And this would not be the first time I’ve done a fandom rewrite of a Latin poem-story.


Blogger Gatherings!



Click the button for reports from the 2010 Spring Blogger Gathering, hosted by Linett of Nimrodel!

Berethron of Brandywine hosted the 2010 Summer Blogmoot.

The Winter Blogmoot was held on December 4, 9 p.m. EST at the home of Telwen of Silverlode.

Next up: The Spring Blogmoot of 2011 shall return to Nimrodel with Tuiliel (Whart, aka user-1027520) hosting! Linett is looking forward to another local moot!

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