“Fairy with Posy”, from “The Cottingley Fairies” series, 1920,
The Cottingley Fairies appear in a series of five photographs taken by Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths, two young cousins who lived in Cottingley, near Bradford in England. In 1917, when the first two photographs were taken, Elsie was 16 years old and Frances was 10.
The pictures came to the attention of writer Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who used them to illustrate an article on fairies he had been commissioned to write for the Christmas 1920 edition of The Strand Magazine.
Vintage hand-coloured gelatin silver print, pencil letter 'D' to lower right corner, original stiff card mount, 19.5 x 14cm.
Assistant kindermädchen trainee Hildegard Ströbele sits at the wheel of a heavily damaged Pittsburgher Privateer sedan on a Buffalo, New York sidewalk until pictures can be taken proving she was the one-and-only driver of the vehicle, not Baby Gruenwald - whom many assumed to be the driver, just to be mean.
Photographs taken by “Cottingley Fairies” cousins Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths would later prove beyond a doubt that Baby Gruenwald was in fact in Cottingley, near Bradford in England, at the time of the accident.
Set in Yorkshire, Fairytale retells the story of the famous Cottingly Fairies, and of the two cousins who discovered them. Elsie and Frances were a big deal back in 1920: their photographs of fairies sparked the interest of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who had them published in The Strand Magazine, making them kinda famous. A very heartfelt and magical movie. Chance of seeing real fairies 10/10.
Strange Magic (2015)
Love sword-fighting fairy princesses? Look no further because Marianne’s your girl. Seriously, the coolest character I know. Anyway, she’s a badass who fights the Goblin King (see above, his name’s Bog) to save her sister Dawn, and there’s a lot of singing and love potions and beating up douchebags and just generally Marianne having to deal with all the shit that goes down in her kingdom.... It’s so awesome. Based off Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Magical Legend of The Leprechauns (1999)
It’s a Romeo-and-Juliet inspired film between a fairy princess and a leprechaun. If you can excuse the poor quality and the weird side-plot about their human neighbours, you’ll find that Mickey’s gang is hilarious, the love story kind of cute, and the soundtrack very faerie-esque. There’s one scene where they just make a bunch of Irish dancers and just... dance? And the Leprechaun boys go to the fairy ball disguised as Leprechauns? This fucking film, man.
Peter Pan (2003)
This boy is so fae it’s unreal. As well as having a beautiful scene in which Peter and Wendy watch the Faerie Prince and Princess dance, it’s also one of my favourite Peter Pan adaptations. Amazing visuals, soundtrack, cast, and its Tinkerbell is hilariously wonderful.
Submitted by cottingley: Am I getting this right - you’re asking for drabble ideas, yes? What about “Fight me” for Varlen and Hanin, but the twist is that Varlen wins? And that he doesn’t just win by chance, or by sheer luck, or because he happens to stumble at the exact right moment and then Hanin trips over him. I simply wonder which of them would freak out more - Hanin because he’s been bested, or Varlen because he gave his best and it actually worked?
Disregard this if I got things wrong. It’s my first ever ‘ask’ and I’m really dreadfully nervous.
Hey there! I’m sorry this took me so long to respond to - I just really loved your prompt and wanted time to gather my thoughts properly! And please don’t worry - you got nothing wrong at all! I really appreciate you messaging me with this idea! <3
Balance
Hanin Lavellan & Varlen Lavellan.
Approx. 2700 words, most under the cut.
“Guard up, Varlen.”
“… What?”
“Guard. Up.”
Around the training ground, the few recruits who had remained for the demonstration snorted, turning to one another with the half-cocked smirks of people who were in on a very specific joke. It was the kind of joke that didn’t have to be told. One that amused simply by existing.
That joke, unfortunately, was Varlen. And he knew it.
A familiar prickle of heat ran from the base of Varlen’s neck up to the tips of his ears, and even though he knew it was impossible, a part of him always felt like everyone could see it. That too visible shame, like a centrepiece unable to hide from the stares of party-goers. Placed there specifically to be stared at.
A low, frustrated sound pulled Varlen back to the moment. Forced him to acknowledge Hanin, standing across the training field, brown dirt coating his normally pristine armour. He had been out there all day, most likely. This was just an afterthought for him. Something to do to pass a few minutes until he retired for the evening. But for Varlen, it was so much more. He hated that.
Palms frustratingly clammy – why did it never get easier? - Varlen swallowed and adjusted his footing, mirroring Hanin’s. Feet wide, heels to the ground, knees bent. It was a strong stance, designed to deliver and withstand heavy blows. Creators knew Varlen would need it soon. The sword Hanin used was a training weapon, but it mimicked a greatsword in both size and shape. It simply lacked the edge, blunted purposefully, checked religiously to ensure there were no ‘accidents’ on the training field. Soldiers, if nothing else, were competitive. Some even bitter enough to remove a rival by dishonourable means.
In Varlen’s hands there were two smaller weapons, designed to replace his daggers. The weight was off, but that was to be expected. It would never be perfect, but he could assume Hanin was operating under a similar handicap. Meeting the other elf’s eye, Varlen nodded. The signal that he was ready. It was always a lie. He was never ready. Not for this. Not for humiliation, over and over again. Not for people who stayed behind to watch not as a show of support, but as a way to make themselves feel better about their own shortcomings.
Hanin nodded back and began to move, his feet scraping slightly as he moved across the loose dirt and pebbles. Their bouts always began in slow, wary circles. They moved like wolves stalking their prey, eyes focused, intent. At least, Hanin always struck Varlen as predatory in his approach to combat. He did not hang back and wait for a blow to land. Yet he also did not ruin his careful setup by rushing in too early, like an eager pup. No. If he saw an opening, he took it. Pounced. Ended the fight on his terms, as soon as the opportunity arose. It was frustratingly effective. So much so that Varlen had taken to leaving himself open intentionally just to give everyone what they wanted to see. That way they would leave him be for another few days. At least, until the next round of embarrassment was due.
But why? Why is he so much better than me?
The words played in Varlen’s head every time, and the answer was always the same. He was skilled. A soldier. Had been for years. It was his life, from dawn until dusk. He trained, he fought, he perfected. His form was infallible, his approach systematic, his reflexes sharp.
Already, the will to fight was seeping from Varlen like a half-held breath. Suddenly, his arms felt too heavy to move. Too weak to hold the training weapons. To block the inevitable blow when it landed. It was all so pointless. Every single time, without fail, he was forced to witness all the things he was not, and lose to them one by one.
… But what about the things I am?
The thought, as Varlen and Hanin continued their sizing up of one another, was a new one. It blindsided Varlen so quickly that he almost fumbled his footing. A pang of dread struck deep within Varlen’s chest as Hanin twitched slightly in his direction, but the moment passed in half a heartbeat, his recovery too fast for the warrior to properly take advantage of it. But the thought continued to plague him as he maintained his distance. It distracted him like a hand tugging on his sleeve, but not enough for him to let it show. Yes… what did he have that Hanin didn’t? There had to be something, surely. Something that was his and his alone.
Okay… I’m faster, Varlen thought, taking in the size of the warrior. The weight of his armour, the intention in every step he took. At least, faster than he probably is. What else…
Even as he thought, the muscle in Hanin’s thigh twitched. Just a little. Just enough. Without even thinking, Varlen dove to the side, tucking into a roll as Hanin lunged forward in a burst of speed. Varlen hit the ground, but was on his feet again in a matter of moments, distance regained, heart slamming in his chest. There was a deep cleave in the ground where Hanin’s training blade had carried through the swing. Recovering fast, Varlen couldn’t help but take a small measure of pride in the look of surprise on Hanin’s face. Surprise that his opponent had not stood his ground and parried.
Okay, I’m also unpredictable, Varlen continued, listing off the things he had at his disposal as he placed himself back in a defensive stance. It made sense, in a way, that this could help him. Hanin was so focused on technique and form – on action and reaction – that someone moving erratically threw him off-balance. Not enough for him to necessarily lose a fight, but enough for him to have to rely on different skills to win. Skills he was not as familiar with. Varlen could use that to his advantage. Use it to win.
The expression on Hanin’s face shifted slightly, brows rising, head cocking to the side. He looked almost… intrigued. Not amused, but definitely curious. It shouldn’t have made Varlen feel anything, yet he found himself readjusting his grip. Re-evaluating his position. Squaring his jaw, and losing that tell-tale flinch whenever Hanin would move. Smirk. Glower.
No… I can do this. Varlen thought, convincing himself as much as the world. I just have to do it my way.
It was true enough. He wasn’t Hanin, and as the duel progressed, the more he accepted that, the clearer his path became. Instead of trying to match Hanin blow-for-blow, Varlen focused more on outmanoeuvring him. Staying out of his reach. Ducking in, feigning blows, then dancing out of his way before he could readjust his footing. Of course, Hanin parried. He dodged, moved, countered, but never quite fast enough to match the speed of a rogue who had spent his whole life running away.
Funny, how a little bit of cowardice could prove so effective. That wouldn’t be a lesson Hanin taught any time soon.
A mild sense of frustration began to colour Hanin’s movements. It gave them that terse, impatient edge. His blows became choppier, seeking only to land rather than display a particular style of fighting for the watching recruits. It was a kind of combat Varlen knew well; that back-alley dog-fight, full of bared teeth and fast, angry breaths.
Hanin raised his blade, then swung it down to Varlen’s right. He turned, his foot dragging through the dirt in a half-pirouette as Varlen once again dodged the blow and danced past him, little more than a half-breath ahead. However, fatigue was beginning to drag on Varlen’s movements. He needed this to end.
So, blood pounding, he placed himself at a safe distance, and watched.
Hanin gritted his teeth, arms tense, grip tight. With a grunt, he hefted his blade and stepped forward for a powerful swing. But by doing so, he exposed his right side. The trade-off for delivering a crushing downwards blow.
Varlen lunged.
He moved like a striking snake, tucking himself down low, giving himself as much space as possible to avoid that falling blade. For a stomach-dropping second, Varlen thought he wasn’t going to make it. The shaft of the training blade was moving with such speed that it seemed impossible to avoid. But then, like a breath of snow sneaking through a closing door, he was in. Inside Hanin’s defences. The warrior’s eyes went wide with surprise, and as the tip of his greatsword met the ground, the tips of Varlen’s training taggers met exposed skin.
Gasping for air, both Varlen and Hanin froze in place. It seemed that they were both equally surprised by the tableau they had formed in the centre of the training ground. Even the recruits, who had spent most of the fight jeering or placing pointless bets, had fallen silent at the display.
Hanin swallowed, and Varlen felt the bobbing motion of his throat through his training dagger. It rolled against that carefully dulled edge, pressed so close that… that…
If it had been a real fight…
“… Well done, Varlen.”
Stiffening, Varlen felt his muscles loosen almost one-by-one, releasing him from his frozen position. He was so close to the warrior that he could feel the heat radiating off their skin, damp with sweat and coated with dust. Shakily, Varlen nodded and removed his blade from Hanin’s throat, but there was that feeling again. What was it? It tugged at something deep in his chest. It was as though he was being filled with a strange sense of satisfaction, but not necessarily satisfaction itself.
When Varlen stepped back far enough to meet Hanin’s gaze, he realised what it was.
Pride.
Not just his own, but a reflection of it on Hanin’s face. There was not much to give the warrior away; only that subtle tug at the corner of his mouth. It was quiet praise that did not extend beyond the two of them, standing alone in the makeshift arena. Yet, to Varlen, he might as well have shouted it from the top of Skyhold.
“All right,” Hanin suddenly said, louder this time. He turned, angling himself towards the watching recruits. “Recruits! What did you just see?”
Silence followed as brows furrowed in confusion, then thought. Varlen stood awkwardly, that brief moment of acceptance passing like a gust of wind as he was once again shifted out of the picture. Of course he was just a small part of a greater lesson. What better example.
“He was… fast?” one of the recruits offered hesitantly, his young face contorted in an almost painfully uncomfortable expression as he refused to meet Hanin’s eye. Good, Varlen mused, feeling a measure of sympathy for him. At least I’m not the only one.
“Yes, that much was obvious Tanner. What else?”
A woman stirred, leaning against the fence with the half-interest of someone who clearly believed they had better places to be. “Moved like a leaf, sir. Dancing around like that. Couldn’t pin him down even if you wanted to.”
Hanin sighed heavily, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yes, we already established the fact that Varlen was fast. What else?” He stressed the last two words, almost desperate in his frustration. However, that certainly did not encourage conversation. The recruits remained silent this time, no one finding the courage to speak. The tension bled into the air. It left even Varlen shifting awkwardly from foot to foot even though, for once, he was not the one being subjected to that flat stare. Finally, to everyone’s surprise, Hanin turned and fixed Varlen with a long, deliberate look. Varlen swallowed heavily.
Spoke too soon …
“Well?”
He blinked, taken aback by the… well, simplicity of it. “Wait, you’re asking me?”
“Of course. You are the one who did it, as far as I can tell.” Hanin smirked. “Unless you have another twin I don’t know about.”
Being acknowledged beyond the fight blindsided Varlen for a moment, but he quickly grounded himself. Of course Hanin would ask him. That made sense. No one else seemed able to work it out. But then again, Varlen wasn’t exactly sure what he did. He just did what felt natural. He just…
“I… fought my way,” Varlen began slowly. He wasn’t sure exactly how this was meant to go. How much he was meant to say. Hanin nodded, but clearly was not satisfied with such a simple response.
“And what way is that?”
“I just… reacted, I guess.” Varlen paused. Why was it so hard to explain? “Every other time we fought, I spent so much time thinking about getting stances right that I just… well, I didn’t really do anything else. I just distracted myself.” He looked up, meeting Hanin’s eye. “It’s what you always say, isn’t it? Defensive is good, but it won’t win you the fight. At some point…”
“… you will need to attack.” Hanin finished the sentence for him, nodding to himself as though pleased. After a slow, thoughtful breath in, he turned back to the recruits. “Did you all hear that?”
The recruits murmured in agreement, a bobbing line of nodding heads.
“Good. What Varlen did here was play to his strengths. Those strengths were different to my own, just as our weapons offer a different set of advantages and disadvantages. It all comes down to understanding your limitations, and those of your opponent. In this instance, Varlen read the fight well, and found a way to give himself an advantage.” Hanin paused, his gaze sweeping over the line of recruits gathered along the fence. “He was not just fast. He was cunning. He took risks, but balanced them with potential gain. Not every fight is won by raw strength alone. Understood?”
A chorus of yes sir’s followed, this time with more enthusiasm than before. Seemingly satisfied, Hanin stood straight, saluted, and dismissed them all in one fluid motion that Varlen found surprisingly impressive. He really was efficient.
As recruits scattered into the looming dusk, Varlen found himself smiling. There was a strange giddiness to it. A good fight, that is. Normally their sparring sessions resulted in such a thorough stomping that all Varlen felt afterwards was a crushing sense of uselessness. But this time? This time, he did well. Held his own. Creators, he actually won.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Varlen.”
Varlen stiffened, his gaze snapping across to Hanin. The warrior was in the process of unclasping his gauntlets in an off-handed way. His movements were so casual that he might as well already be drinking at the tavern.
“Who me? Don’t worry, I’m never comfortable! Ha-ha-ha… ahh…” The high, nervous laughter was an unwanted addition, yet it bubbled out of him anyway. Varlen cringed inwardly, but decided to give himself a pass for once. It was just the battle-rush talking. Yeah, that was it. His veins still felt like they were buzzing with it, like a low hum beneath his skin.
Hanin snorted, and for a second Varlen thought it might have been out of actual amusement. But then the warrior’s face hardened again and he stood tall, gauntlets hooked to his belt, training weapon hoisted easily over one shoulder. Stiffly, he turned to Varlen and held out his free hand. Varlen stared at it blankly, uncertain of what he wanted. Terrified that he would do the wrong thing. Should I shake his hand? Give him a high-five? I don’t—
“Your weapons, Varlen.”
My w…?
Oh.
Realisation washed over Varlen like the first rays of dawn. At the end of every one of their bouts, after Varlen had lost, he had been made to carry both his and Hanin’s training weapons back to the equipment room. Over time, it devolved into a kind of walk of shame. Soldiers would bark out words of encouragement as he passed, or offer to help carry them for him with a very specific kind of mock-concern. It all just made Varlen want to disappear into the dirt. It wasn’t tradition, per say. Not for anyone else, at least. Varlen just assumed it was Hanin’s special way of humiliating him even further.
But he never expected…
Warily, Varlen placed his training daggers into Hanin’s waiting palm. They were difficult to manage one-handed – Varlen knew that from experience. But Hanin just nodded, turned, and headed for the equipment tent. His footsteps kicked up the dust as he crossed the training area and sidled his way through the gate.
Varlen watched wordlessly until Hanin disappeared around one of Skyhold’s many buildings, still not quite believing what he had accomplished. Then, with a breathless laugh, he sat down heavily in the dirt, ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, and grinned.
