это все диссертация, это не интересно"Bedwyr was quite different, a quiet boy of Arthur's own age, gentle and dreamy as a poet, and a natural follower. He and Arthur were like two sides of the same apple. Bedwyr trailed, doglike in devotion, after the other boy; he made no attempt to hide his love for Arthur, but there was nothing soft about him, for all his gentle ways and poet's eyes. He was a plain boy, with his nose flattened in some fight, and badly set, and the scar of some nursery burn on his cheek. But he had character and kindness, and Arthur loved him. As the son of Ban, a petty king, Bedwyr was the superior even of Cei, and as far as any of the boys knew, right out of Arthur's star. But this never occurred to either Bedwyr or Arthur; the one offered devotion, the other accepted it."
(c) Mary Stewart, Hollow Hills

Нет, я понимаю, что тут не это имелось в виду, и вообще нормально все, но не могу, не могу я уже такие пассажи нормально читать! Можно даже предположить, что отсюда растут уши Ланселота, влюбленного в Артура. Я теперь тоже думаю, что он был влюблен в Артура... А старушка Мэри-то была слешер в душе, то-то нормальных теток у нее маловато, зато труевых харизматичных мужиков - завались просто. Теперь болезный мозг мой цепляется за каждую двусмысленную фразу и поступок...

Невтемный апдейт:

А вот отсюда растут уши моего ника:
Ralf began to speak again, but at that moment something, a shadow, swept silently across the lamplight. The boys hardly glanced up; it was only the white owl, sailing silently in through the open window to its perch in the beams. But its shadow went across my skin like a hand of ice, and I shivered. Arthur looked up quickly. "What is it, Myrddin? It's only the owl. You look as if you'd seen a ghost."
"It was nothing," I said. "I don't know."
I did not know, either, then, but I know now. We had been speaking Latin, as we usually did, but the word he had used for the shadow across the light was the Celtic one, guenhwyvar.

Я уже это упоминала, но все же.

@темы: лытдыбрище страслоужаслое, истории маленького дурдома