How many centuries deep is your wound?

Charles Walpole, the immortal embodiment of London; & Arthur Kirkland, the immortal embodiment of England.

[brittunculii]

I drink to our ruined house To all this wickedness, To you, our loneliness together, I raise my glass— To those dead-cold eyes, The lie that has betrayed us This course, brutal world, and the fact That god has not saved us.

A reflective depiction of the Nation of England & City of London as immortal embodiments.

Heavily influenced by history, culture, media & literature.

Selective / 21+

Eternally haunting Saltarii.

┊ England ┊ London ┊ Wales┊ Guidelines ┊ Timeline ┊

[brittunculii]

The Royal Air Force Aerobatic Team, known as 'The Red Arrows' and four Typhoon Jets take part in the flypast over Buckingham Palace after the Trooping the Colour parade in London on June 13, 2026.

[imjustanauthor]

Despite the blood and the glinting shards of mirror protruding from his knuckles, Charlie's hand didn't hurt - or, rather, in the moment, with the shock, and the adrenaline, and all the thoughts and the feelings coursing through his head, the pain didn't register for him. Arthur's emergence into the bathroom didn't seem to register either, nor did his touch, as the instructions desperately put forth seemed to do nothing but roll over the fractured man and dissipate, like whispers in a hurricane.

Some of the shattered mirror still remained in its frame, cracks running across it and warping the picture it reflected back as Charlie continued to stare at his own, distorted image. His breathing was heavy, his body still stiff with tension. A thousand thoughts seemed to simultaneously shout within his mind, chief among them the unrelenting idea that the whole situation - the mirror, and his earlier outburst, and his inability to remain calm - had revealed him to be the ruined, pathetic, shadow of his former self that he knew himself to be, and that Arthur now knew it too. Soon, the whole country would know it, when he got up in court and inevitably found himself losing control there too, because what kind of man did this? What kind of man couldn't keep his composure to such a degree that he struck out at inanimate objects and spat words at those closest to him? A failure, that was what.

Charlie didn't think as he raised his fist again. His arm pulled back, shaking off Arthur's touch that, under any other circumstance, should have been the comforting element he needed to snap himself out of the volatile trance he found himself in. Where exactly he was aiming as he swung forwards again, he didn't know - certainly not at the mirror, so the wall most likely, as it was the next nearest target. In the end, it didn't matter, as Arthur manoeuvred himself directly into the path of his fist, intercepting the blow and, while not negating the effects of it entirely, saving Charlie from doing greater damage to himself.

Arthur's flesh was soft, and the impact with it was undoubtedly less traumatic than the alternative - that being, Charlie colliding his knuckles, already damaged and with nasty slivers of glass sticking out from them, into the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom wall. As his fist met the other man's face, the impact immediately registering and Charlie's expression contorting into one of absolute horror and regret, said glass broke further, some shards embedding in Arthur’s cheek, others grinding deeper into his own knuckles. Now, he felt the pain. It shot through him like lightning through his veins, amplified by the visceral shame he felt for what he'd done - guilt given form and teeth, setting every nerve alight, as though his body itself wanted to punish him for what he's done.

"Fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry." The apology came out of reflex. There wasn't yet any serious weight behind it, but that would come soon enough. Once the shock of the moment wore off, and the seriousness of what he'd done began to weigh him down like a ball and chain, there would be a thousand apologies - none of them, in Charlie's mind, enough to repent for his actions.

"Are you okay?"

Wide eyed, he raised a hand as if to touch Arthur's face, before hissing in pain and looking down at his knuckles. Blood streamed down Charlie's arm, running down the inside of his shirt sleeve and leaving a stained trail in its wake. Without thought, he went to pull out one of the shards of glass that, thankfully, still just about stuck out above the skin, then immediately made a pained noise and drew his hand back, shrapnel still left embedded in the wound and blood now slow swelling out of a cut on the finger that had come in contact with it.

Looking back at the other man, the sharp cuts to his upper cheekbone and the skin that would undoubtedly soon bloom into a deep, violent bruise, reality began to skin in. What had he done? He could have blinded him! Arthur was never going to forgive him for this, was he? And why should he? Even with a stranger, this would have been unforgivable, but with a lover? Charlie had well and truly fucked everything up. He'd ruined everything, and he didn't even have a good excuse to explain why.

"I'm sorry. Let me help you. Where's your first aid kid? I'm sorry."

There was, at least, one silver lining - that being, the horror of what he'd done had snapped Charlie out of his prior mood. Now, instead, words laced with concern tumbled out of his mouth without pause, all signs of anger gone and any nervousness remaining attributed to the bloody mess before them instead of the court case he was about to face.

[brittunculii]

Charlie’s aim may have been erratic, but Arthur’s positioning was precise.

The blow struck him full in the face, his head instantly slamming back into the very tiles that would have shattered Charlie’s hand—but it could have been worse, if not for the sheer volume of blood that served as a grim lubricant, lessening the force of the otherwise brutal collision. It was the glass embedded in Charlie’s knuckles, tearing into Arthur’s face, that made him hiss. He felt the sharpest of them drive deep into the tissue below his cheekbone, lodging there under the impact, his own blood soon mingling with the deep crimson smear left by his lover to trail down his face.

Yet it took but an instant for Arthur to reclaim his balance, as slowly he raised his hand to his cheek and felt the wet heat of the wound against his fingers. He then pulled the glass free without delicacy, in a single, unhesitating motion that gave little regard to the pain it brought. A further gush of red followed, which he wiped away absently with the heel of his palm.

He held Charlie's panic stricken gaze without apology or reproach. Calm viridian against the violent red. Unwavering, like ivy holding fast to crumbling stone. If not for the gore, it might have appeared as though he hadn’t felt a thing, because he seemed far more concerned about what he himself was witnessing: the sheer collapse of Charlie’s rage into something defencelessly raw, horrified and exposed. In some way, Arthur felt relieved. He had been unable to empathise with Charlie’s frustration, nor calm the fury it gave rise to, but this—this open wound of shame—Arthur understood perfectly well. 

The deluge of apologies instantly pulled at Arthur’s heartstrings, piercing him somewhere just as heavily guilt-ridden. All he had wanted was to provide safety and stability, but instead the evening had deteriorated into a shouting match, blood everywhere, and both of them injured. He was the one who ought to be apologising, but Arthur was never very good at that. Anyway, that wasn’t what mattered right now. What mattered was tending to the aftermath. “Don’t,” he said, all the sharpness in his voice having left him. There was reassurance in this tender tone that stemmed from having dealt with far worse situations than this. “Don’t apologise. I’m fine. It’s all right. Do you hear me? Everything will be all right, just let me tend to you.”

He reached to take the injured hand in both of his own, his gentle grip very still against Charlie's involuntary trembling. Without releasing him, Arthur took the towel from the rail and folded it carefully around his knuckles, loosely, so that it covered the wounds without disturbing the glass still embedded within. Clearly, Arthur took far greater care with Charlie than he did with his own person. As the fabric met Charlie’s hand, it was not his blood that stained it. Some persistent drops spilt from Arthur’s face onto the makeshift compress, darkening the white cotton in a spreading stain that he did not remark upon, his focus fixed entirely on the hand he cradled.

“The first aid box is in the kitchen. Let’s get you sorted properly there.” Though his expression did not change, beneath the immediate act Arthur internally began to count down the hours before his rapid healing would come into play, and the necessity of concealment he would have to uphold. This remained quiet for moment however, lingering in the background of his thoughts like thunder beyond a distant horizon. He rapidly yanked another towel and spread it across the floor, unwilling to risk Charlie slipping or cutting his feet on the scattered glass. God, what a mess. 

“It’s all right,” he repeated. “This is nothing we can’t patch up.”

[illustratus]

The Crescent Moon by Montague Dawson

[thoughtkick]

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people.”

— Carl Jung

[brittunculii]

@admiraltyspride || cont. from here.

Some thirty ships or thereabouts. Arthur turned the estimate over in his mind as he drank from a bottle of rum he’d successfully coaxed from Victory’s obliging purser, not entirely without impatience, though few better than he understood the value of a stirring patriotic oration to the families of men soon to sail into the unknown. The bulk of the Franco-Spanish fleet remained at anchor in Cádiz, intact, and this fact sat ill with Britain. It had done so from the moment Collingwood’s dispatch was laid upon his desk, for Bonaparte was not a man to suffer such a force to languish in idleness for long.  Arthur had no intention of being anywhere else while the means of securing the channel against future designs lay apparent before him. Britain was growing weary of this war; worn thin by this accursed and interminable business; and if he could not yet bring the whole wretched farce to its conclusion, he might at least see his finest men strategically placed so as to ensure that France would never again presume to menace him with the threat of invasion. That was why Arthur was present aboard the flagship of the man he regarded the ablest among them, his presence a tacit declaration that here, upon this venture, the fate of all else would be decided. Leaning idly against the mizzenmast, his countenance concealed beneath the lowered brim of his hat, Arthur worked the rind from an orange with his penknife in slow, even strips, listening as Nelson addressed the crowd from across the quarterdeck. Having come aboard as a gentleman rather than an officer—in rich dark wool yet void of lace or epaulette—the crew had little by which to account for the attention they found themselves paying him. Vice-Admiral Nelson, however, required no such accounting. A faint smile stirred on Arthur’s lips. Modesty was not among his natural virtues (though propriety required he conduct himself as though it were). He wanted men to feel what Nelson made them feel; needed them to believe that England was worth whatever was demanded of them. Nelson could make men accept that their sacrifice was not merely a matter of duty but devotion, and unlike most individuals who possessed that gift, he was entirely sincere in the employ of it. That was what made him outstanding. Only once the brief speech had concluded, and the crew turned to their duties, did Arthur approach the other before he could descend to his cabin. “You may have lost your arm, my friend, but you have not lost your touch for moving the nation by words as well as deeds.” He offered a slice of his orange without the least formality between them. “It shall serve us well in the weeks to come.”

[04k96]

[quietwingsinthesky]

the Relationship Ambiguity Zone™️ is a beautiful place to be. safe place to put your characters. put all characters into Relationship Ambiguity Zone. is that guy your mentor or your dad? Ambiguous!!! are you friends or enemies? Ambiguous!!! is it romantic? is it platonic? is it sexual? Ambiguous!!!!!!! never categorize anything ever in the Relationship Ambiguity Zone. just make them fucking weird about each other.

[threeamserif]

instagram | photos are my own, reblogs fine, do not repost/reuse

[brittunculii]

Character Associations.

Repost & fill in the words you most associate with your character.

Animal: Lion

Colour: Crimson Red

Month: April

Songs: : Land of Hope and Glory

Number: +44

Day or Night: Early Evening

Plant: Roses (thorns and all)

Smell: Petrichor & Sage

Season: Spring

Food: Cream scones

Astrological Sign: Taurus

Element: Earth

Drink: Tea or Rum

Tagged by: @admiraltyspride. Tagging: @inionnarequiem (Vic) / @imjustanauthor (Charlie) / @sorte-de-vida.

[brittunculii]

🔮Have you ever considered (or looked for) ways to end your immortality?

Questions for Immortals/Ancients

Yes, I’ve looked. One does not endure the slow collapse of empires and tedious exhibitions of human folly without, on occasion, longing for the quiet release of oblivion. Believe me, immortality is not a gift; it is a curse. Death alone gives meaning to life. In its absence, experiences lose their significance, victories curdle into irrelevance, and time stretches into something stagnant, blunted, and obscene.

It is fair to say that no stone has been left unturned. Over the centuries, my investigations and experiments have been carried out with relentless precision and a detachment some might deem cruel. All the while, I kept a ledger: a meticulous catalogue of methods, conditions, variables, and outcomes. A compendium of failure.

From the earliest crude applications of medicinal theory—draughts of hemlock and wolfsbane, corrosive compounds of mercury and arsenic, emetics and purgatives administered until collapse, trepanation employed as execution—to the more modern and precise techniques of induced apoptosis, terminal radiation exposure, and catastrophic organ liquefaction. I have commissioned, devised, and endured every conceivable method intended to unravel the body’s fabric beyond endurance. Yet none have succeeded. The flesh reconstitutes, the mind reforms, and the natural laws that govern others simply do not apply to me.

So long as the city endures, so too do I. That is the rule, and just as one might expect from London, it bends for nothing. The scars that mar me are not self-inflicted, but rather echoes of devastation wrought upon the city by others—traumas that linger in the collective memory, raw, ugly, and unfading.

Of course, I have also considered disrupting the very foundations that anchor me to this place. If the city’s integrity is the tether; to sever it might sever me. Yet, that is a line I cannot cross, even after all this time, for England’s sake.

You may ask, then, why I went to such lengths in the first place. I did it because I felt it necessary to know if an end exists, regardless of whether or not it is attainable. It was not so much death I sought more than mastery over my own fate. Denied that, one finds oneself imprisoned; and while eternity daunts me not, the absence of choice does.

The ledger remains tucked away in my private archives. A record of my failures, certainly, but also a reminder that action, however fruitless, is still an assertion of will.

[requiem-on-water]

Galloping horses in the mist by Sofie

[brittunculii]

@sparklytimebun The Mother Road.

Phoenix in early May remained in that merciful interval before the desert heat turned truly oppressive, though it was already strong enough for Arthur to shed his cotton blazer the moment he stepped from the plane. No matter how much time he had spent in the warmer corners of the world, he would never quite get used to this kind of heat; it settled over the skin like a second garment and made the air itself seem to ripple at the edges.

A few days along Route 66 with Amelia. Arthur had been promising her this for a while, had finally found the time to see it through, and was now rather looking forward to it. It’d been some time since the two of them had spent any hours together free of state business, and the US west suited them for precisely that reason—territory encountered only after he lost her, land he had never governed or fought over. There were ghosts enough on the eastern seaboard without seeking them out.

Things had grown strained of late in certain quarters; certain words thrown about that could not so easily be unsaid, and Arthur was not so sentimental as to pretend the timing was entirely coincidental. The relationship between their countries was too old and too valuable to be left at the mercy of current tensions, so this trip with Amelia was as much a deliberate measure as it was a treat.

He’d arranged to meet her at a vintage car firm near the airport to hire a vehicle. They shared an appreciation for a good classic car, and the understanding was that they would choose one together, which made it something of a surprise, upon his approach, to find that the matter had been settled. Amelia was already there, leaning casually against a glistening coral 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible, sundressed and sunglassed, her smile bright and utterly self-satisfied as she waved him over with the keys in hand.

Arthur crossed the forecourt without breaking stride, set his holdall down, and regarded the scene for a long moment with an expression of frank disapproval. It was a beautifully preserved car, he could not deny that, but beauty and dignity were not the same thing, and it was very, very pink. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he remarked. “For crying out loud, Amelia, it’s the colour of a bleeding birthday cake. Surely you don’t expect me to drive this thing halfway across the sodding desert?”

[funeral]

Carl Jung, Psychological Types

[angelkarafilli]

The New London Bridge-1910

Postcard

[brittunculii]

Arthur was home by eight that morning. He’d slept badly on the plane, and the tedious drive from Heathrow drew out the end of a long, slow month. The post had piled up in his absence, and he’d worked through most of it by ten. He then spent two hours on the phone with Charles, going over what had been happening domestically while he was away. It was the weekend, at least, and since meeting Charlie, Arthur had started to take those seriously. He ate something, changed out of his travel clothes, and occupied himself around the house as he awaited his ill-advised mortal lover’s arrival.

Five weeks was a long time to be separated, though this was hardly a thought Arthur ever expected to be indulging. He was rarely in the habit of missing people; centuries of practice saw to that, but Charlie had somehow dismantled this with very little effort. A month away from him felt different from the solitude Arthur had previously resigned himself to—less empty, and more filled with wanting.

The video calls had hardly helped matters. Charlie appeared on a screen every night, entirely sincere in the belief that putting himself on display would make up for the distance. Stripped, flushed, and doing exactly as he was told, holding off until Arthur said otherwise, working himself to the edge and back again while Arthur sat three thousand miles away, tormented by the fact that he could not touch him. And then, in the final weeks, he had taken to keeping his shirt on despite Arthur’s demands, which Arthur read as deliberate provocation. Charlie knew how Arthur liked to watch the marks slowly fade from his skin, knew exactly what the sight of his body did to him, and seemed to have taken some satisfaction in the withholding of it.

He hadn’t slept around while he was gone. He didn’t do that anymore. It took some adjustment at first; Arthur wasn’t, historically, a man who’d ever had particular cause to exercise that sort of restraint, but he found that he could not put up with any more guilt over Charlie. Ashamedly, he used drugs to get through the worst of the trip instead—the constant travel, negotiations, and the performance of being exactly where and what everyone needed him to be all the damned time. He wasn’t in a bad state, but a certain fatigue had settled behind the eyes and would not lift, sleep doing nothing to ease it. There was no reason to mention this to Charlie however; his immortal constitution meant that it could easily pass for jet lag. It was what it was—a month's worth of uncomfortable pinning on top of an already demanding trip, but he was home now, Charlie was almost here, and Arthur fully intended to make up for the lost time.

Eventually Charlie let himself inside with Churchie at his heels, and Arthur came through from the kitchen to meet them. The dog scuttered toward him immediately, beside himself at the sight of his master. He tended to Churchill first, then to Charlie. It was barely ten minutes into their reunion before the other said he had something to show him and reached for the buttons of his shirt, which gave Arthur brief pause. Not unwillingly—only an observation that even by his standards, this was fast. An amused grin pulled at his lips as he watched the garment slide to the floor, his slightly red-rimmed eyes moving over him hungrily, and then widening as sudden recognition hit.

Arthur’s own words, written in his own hand, in that distinctive malachite green, set directly over Charlie’s heart.

So long mine heart lay in a lonely mist till thou cam’st changed, and in thy changing found; thine love, offered blind, knowing not what bliss thou didst bestow on this drear soul, made kind. ⸺ A. Kirkland.

His grin fell; the colour draining from his face. Arthur had written this poem four weeks earlier in a lonely hotel room long after midnight, in the aftermath of heroin leaving his system. That familiar melancholic state of yearning, where his feelings pushed closer to the surface than usual, and the only honest outlet available to him was his pen. He had wanted Charlie to have it. It seemed, at the time, the closest thing to the truth he could give him, but he had not expected this. He did not expect to see those words now, branded on Charlie’s skin like some mark of ownership.

"You’re having me on, aren’t you?" Arthur said, the words close to pleading as he reached for him, pressing his thumb hard into the writing on his chest as though it might scrub away under pressure. Arthur had left his mark on people before, in ways they did not choose and could not refuse, dressed in finer language than it was. Right now, despite Charlie having done it out of his own volition, this felt no different. Arthur could not prevent the guilt from flooding over him. God—what had he done? He’d utterly mislead this man.

He watched the skin redden beneath his own persistence, but his poetry remained fixed there. A promise of forever etched across Charlie’s heart, when Arthur was in no position to offer anything of the sort. “This is permanent,” he sputtered, dumbfounded. “Charlie, what were you thinking!?”

[medievalistsnet]

Secret Letter Detailing Late Medieval Britain Fully Decoded

A secret medieval letter detailing late medieval England and Scotland has been decoded by a team of historians.

Read here