Normally I wouldn’t remark on my romps through etymology, but “hlafweard” is a compound of hlaf, or loaf, and weard, which means guardian (see also Ward or Warden, etc). Meaning that when you call someone a lord you are calling him an esteemed keeper of the bread.
HEY THERE BREADBOX PETER WIMSEY. LOAF GUARD PALPATINE. BREAD CLIP VETINARI.
Lady also derives from hlaf, but in this case hlafdige or bread kneader. She makes the bread, he monitors it. Women have to do all the work as usual.
Now, the reason I was looking this up was that I wanted to develop a gender-neutral analogue to lord/lady; there are analogues already out there naturally, but the Shivadh must be different and anyway I didn’t like the ones I’d seen suggested online.
Given that the origins of Lord and Lady aren’t all that strongly gendered anyway (they’re about what the person does, not what their gender is), I decided that if a woman is a bread-kneader and a man is a bread-guarder, a nonbinary person should be A BREAD EATER, which would be Hlafetan.
Thus I present to you the gender-neutral analogue to Lord or Lady: Ledan.
“I swam on beyond the otter pool, under some sort of spell. It struck me that the animal’s particular magic does not stem so much from its rarity as its invisibility. It is through their puckish, Dionysian habit of veiling themselves from view that otters come to embody the river spirits themselves. Henry Williamson knew this when he wrote his great mythic poem of Tarka the Otter. In the best traditions of spirits, the otter reveals itself through signs.”
Have I lived enough? Have I loved enough? Have I considered Right Action enough, have I come to any conclusion? Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude? Have I endured loneliness with grace?
I say this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it. Actually, I probably think too much.
Then I step out into the garden, where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, is tending his children, the roses.
Consider this: every time you make a ‘hahahaha Welsh has no vowels’ joke, you personally owe every Welsh person £10. Most of us will accept this payment in cash, but a solid third of us are also able to receive online payments when the WiFi in the Mystical Otherworld is online, provided that you only attempt to send the payment at a very specific time whilst standing just inside the mouth of one of three designated caves.
Last summer my friend’s mom discovered hundreds of teeny tiny toad tadpoles in a puddle in her driveway. It was drying up, so she asked me about moving them to a nearby pond. I told her not to, because moving amphibians unnaturally between water bodies can spread disease.
So she filled up a watering can every morning and every evening and replenished the puddle, adding dechlorinator drops she uses for her fish tank to make sure the water was safe.
The tadpoles survived and grew up into little toads who eventually hopped out of the puddle.
I think about the tenderness and compassion of this a lot.
“It was odd. As a girl, Sophie would have shriveled with embarrassment at the way she was behaving. As an old woman, she did not mind what she did or said. She found that a great relief.”
Consider this: every time you make a ‘hahahaha Welsh has no vowels’ joke, you personally owe every Welsh person £10. Most of us will accept this payment in cash, but a solid third of us are also able to receive online payments when the WiFi in the Mystical Otherworld is online, provided that you only attempt to send the payment at a very specific time whilst standing just inside the mouth of one of three designated caves.
In the end, Peter has always loved Narnia more than he could ever love Aslan. It is a simple, undeniable truth of the High King’s soul, woven into the fabric of his very being with untearable thread.
This is not to say that he does not feel love for the Great Lion. He loves him dearly, remembers fondly the feeling of warmth and bravery the mere mention of Aslan had brought to him that very first day. He loves him for the gifts he has been given, and therein lies the truth. Peter’s love for Aslan inevitably returns to what Aslan has given to Peter. The High King is not ashamed of this. Every musing on the Lion returns to the gifts of a family, a kingdom, and nothing more.
His love for Aslan can never be as steadfast and endless as Lucy’s faith, as bright as blossoms in spring. It can never measure up to the gratitude and relief forever kindling in Edmund’s heart for a sacrifice made out of love. Peter doesn’t fault them for their love for Aslan, for their unwavering faith and trust. He has always held admiration for the way their hearts don’t seem to struggle with the task of loving both Narnia and Aslan. Even Susan’s quieter, more reserved love outshines his so easily, not unlike the sun under which she was crowned. Peter’s love for Aslan pales in comparison to what he sees whenever his siblings speak of the Lion, is quickly cast into shadow in the light of their devotion.
His heart has always refused to split his love as much as his siblings manage. It can only ever find two paths, intertwined and crossed over as they are. Peter loves his family, and he loves Narnia. He loves them fiercely, loves them with every beat of his heart, loves them to the point of pain. He loves them with blood and tears spilt upon eager soil, falls upon enemies, declares victory in the name of Narnia and her sovereigns. He loves them with his sword in his hand, his crown on his head and fire in his heart.
Peter has always loved Narnia more than the Lion, and he finds peace within this fact. He doesn’t linger upon doubts, doesn’t compare it to his siblings. He has a family and country to look after, people and borders to defend, a sword in need of wielding and an army waiting on his command. There is no use in fearing that which he cannot help.
Aslan must have known that Peter’s love could never extend beyond those in his care. He supposes Aslan has always seen the depths and limits of Peter’s heart and perhaps chose him for this very reason. After all, is it not what Aslan asked of him, standing upon a hill all those years ago? How can the Great Lion condemn someone so utterly devoted to what was entrusted to him? Aslan has given him a throne, a kingdom to love, people to care for. Who can fault Peter for taking those gifts, for holding onto them with bloodied hands and ragged breaths, for loving them with everything he can ever hope to give?
Narnia is loved deeply by her High King, loved with every breath she takes through his lungs, loved with every foe that falls to his might in defence of her. She holds on tight; blood-soaked, alive and humming with joy. Her High King offers a love greater than his soul to her and her people. She takes it eagerly and loves him viciously in return.
(written for @narnianetworkvoyage 16: favorite characters - peter pevensie)
