do you have any recommendations for fantasy romance books with a medieval setting?
The Fionavar Tapestry trilogy, by Guy Gavriel Kay is one of my favourite. I simply love it. It takes place in another world, but there are knights and kings and princes and princesses, seers and myths, and Old Religions and New Religions, and King Arthur and Lancelot and Guinevere and The Wild Hunt. It’s dark and exciting and beautiful. All of his books are fantasy inspired by very specific historical periods. I think A Song for Arbonne, which I remember being good, was inspired by French Medieval times, but I’m not sure.
There’s romance in both of these, but not only.
I can’t think of anything that would be more specifically romance and also fantasy that I have read. Maybe, The Lioness Quartet by Tamora Pierce?
you've never had a first date? not even with your boyfriend?
With him it was more like we were not a couple and then we were a couple. Two weeks in I was spending all my nights at his place, one month in we were basically living together, two months in we were definitely living together.
reading something so beautiful and perfect that it hits you right between the lungs, leaving a sharp ache in your chest, and you find yourself digging the heel of your hand against your heart and clutching at your skin trying to remember how to breathe.
“The story is always better than your ability to write it. My belief about this is that if you ever get to the point that you think you’ve done a story justice, you’re in the wrong business.”—Robin McKinley (via writingquotes)
You don't know me but I love you so much..:3 Your writing is superb! You have to trust in that.. Your artworks, your words, your taste in music, everything inspires me to be more in touch with the world. To be a better person. Won't you like to reach out to more people that way? Anyway, you are really cool. Trust me. :3 (Not a stalker, by the way)
Really!? that is so sweet of you. Thank you. I am very very flattered. Seriously, I feel like a mess most of the time, so yeah. I just, um. Yes. Thank you :)
(I’ve spent most of my life thinking - and probably being - I was super uncool, so I’m glad that somehow I have gained some coolness over the years)
What if I wrote a story about a girl who blogs too much and write fanfiction while listening to 90s female singer-songwriters songs, and the girl who lives in the house beside hers and she is on the lacrosse team at uni and she’s secretly in love with the first girl? Um?
It will take place in the Fall and will be on an old university campus full of gold and red leaves and ivy crawling over old stone walls.
Also, there’s a magic tree somewhere in there. And possibly a talking gargoyle.
is a dichotomy that I am constantly fascinated with.
It is probably what drives my art and writing the most. It is what I explored in my final art project for my graduation exhibition in university and it is what lies underneath almost every single thing I write, in one form or another.
Oh, those sisters! I don’t know much about them because they are always so fleeting.
They are twins with warm brown curly hair and rosy cheeks. Tall rabbit ears on their heads. Like all animal-girls, they weave in and out of things, fast and teasing. They are playful and laugh a lot. They have their own code, though, their own language, hundreds of things said with the simple movement of their heads, or hands, or the twitching of a nose.
Nobody can really understand an animal-girl, except another animal-girl. These sisters are not as nervous and skittish as other rabbit-girls are though. They are observing and see more than anyone thinks. I’ve caught the knowing looks once or twice: the looks carefree people keep secret because it’s far better to let everything thinks you’re a bit of an idiot. You can learn more this way.
They are nice girls, these sisters. And infinitely loyal to each other. I’ve never been able to really talk to them. I usually see them while I’m having a picnic on the grass with other people and they come running out of the woods, half-naked in thin white shifts, running barefoot and grabbing at some bread or fruits from the food laid out on the ground. Laughing at someone’s comment, kissing boys and girls briefly on the mouth, possibly stopping long enough to plan meetings with some of them for later, when the moon is high. But I’ve seen them one, sitting calmly at the kitchen table of The Boy in the Cottage by the Cliff. Just chatting away, a strange calmness and peacefulness in their limbs, though they can never stop the slight twitching of their ears.
Animal-girls are both wild and tamed. They belong to the In-Betweens. They are hard to grasp. The Rabbit Sisters are no exemption.
the teacher with the owl mask & her wife (with the crow mask)
They met in the ways that people meet sometimes: a bit by design, a lot by luck.
The Teacher was out on one of a rare walks outside the walls of the Library. She wore her customary 1920’s three-piece suit, all brown and striped and clean lines. Her short black hair cut straight right above her chin. There were ink stains on her fingers.
She saw her smoking cigarettes on the park bench by the West entrance. Her trousers’ legs rolled up beneath her knees, as were her shirt sleeves to her elbows. The red of her hair in the sunlight was blinding. She knew a surprising amount about 19th century poetry and all the lyrics to all of David Bowie’s songs.
The Teacher took her back to her room, in the fifth floor of the tower rising above the Library. She showed her the dissertations she was working on and, for the first tie in her life, babbled more than explained about Greek architecture and the inherent values of knowing how to brew a good cup of coffee.
They made love over the clean white sheets.
I go and visit them sometimes, if they’re not working down in the Library. You need a mask to go there. A mask to hide your features, because it should never matter what you look like, only the knowledge that you have and the one that you aspire to acquire or impart has any importance. I haven’t got a mask yet.
But I go to their room and lunge around the carpet in warm patches of sunlight, the light coming through the large windows bouncing merrily on the cold stone walls and illuminating all the books and tapestries and weird collections scattered around the room. Mostly I like that they always have a bowl of blackberries on the small table on the balcony. I lay on my back and look at the crystal-splintered lights on the ceiling as I eat them and squashed them and stain my fingers and face with the juices, listening to them discuss philosophy, literature, or if they should have strawberry scones for dinner.
I have, like, this cool superpower where I can stay in bed (or in/on any other place in a lying position) all day without my muscles protesting or minding at all. It’s quite a neat ability to be honest. I’ll save the world with it.
Have you ever had a moment, a point in your life, where you can feel yourself grow toward change, teetering toward it? It’s there, just on the edges of your days. You know you have to take the next step but you’re not sure when. Too fast, and you will hit it and fall on your face and it will fall to pieces. Too slow, and it will pass you by. So you wait, and wait and try to be attentive to the signs and hope you don’t fuck up. It could be just a small change. Or it could mean everything. And you’re so excited and so scared at the same time.