am still reading the beautiful collection of Irish “fairy tales” from Stephenson and while there is so much rich, intricate, fascinating detail, today I am enamored w/ how often these reportedly hard-hearted kings and warriors call each other “my love” and “dear heart” and “my pulse” even as they brawl and go to war or feud or kill each other in cold blood. & how thin the line is between love and enmity: a rude word at a feast can result in a war; a simple pact can keep Fionn and his father’s killer at peace for years. that enmity is just another kind of intimacy: even after Goll kills Fionn’s father & later murders thousands of his court, even after Fionn is damned to hell, “it was Goll (…) who assaulted hell (…) and brought Fionn out with him.” the man who you spent your childhood in hiding from, whole stole your birthright only to return it when asked, is the one who knows you best of all your loyal followers. & no matter the power and fame you gain, he can still get under your skin, can still hurt you as no one else can. & yet he’s still the only one who can save you. what the fuck, man.