Nobody:

Golden Age King Arthur accidentally gets sent back in time to the beginning of his reign. While making his way to Camelot hoping to find Merlin and figure out how to get back to his own time he runs into Agravaine making his own way to Camelot for the first time. Knowing he was a traitor working for Morgana in his own timeline, Arthur kills him and decides to take his place. No one had seen Agravaine since Ygraine's death, there were no portraits of him in the castle, and Arthur's premature greying hair has to be good for something other than Merlin calling him a silver fox. He can pass as his own uncle and be the caring advisor that young him deserved damn it!

“I know nothing about British or American imperialism in the Far East that does not fill me with regret and disgust, I am afraid I am not even supported by a glimmer of patriotism in this remaining war.”

- JRR Tolkien, Letters, p. 115

The Dawn Kingdom Falls

She smiled at the sky, raindrops falling on her face through the dying rays of dusk. They rolled across her skin, soaking the tattered and bloodstained clothes she wore, hitting the dusty ground beneath her feet.

The cloven crown in her hands bled red, cracked and filthy. It's weight against her fingers was one of the few sensations she could feel, hours of furious battle having rendered them numb.

Her smile twisted, salty raindrops mixing with the others on her lashes. Everything around her was silent and unmoving, the sound of her breathing was like bells in her ears.

The sun shone brightly through the clouds pouring down on her, attempting to wash away the pain and sorrow drowning the young princess. Somehow, through it all, she could feel the warmth.

They'd said she would fail, that her kingdom was doomed to fall at his feet. She challenged them, made clear her intention to fight to the last. What is death, the princess told them, oh so passionately, compared to a life in chains?

Now, only she did not become acquainted with the welcoming hands of death. Around her, all the men and women who followed her so valiantly were lying, broken and slaughtered.

Through the dust she could see him, the one who brought everything down. His eyes glinted, the sword at his side gleaming silver. The line of red dripping from it's edge left a river in his wake.

The young warrior princess knew how this ended. It happened to her father, her mother, her brother, now her. It stung she could not have died alongside her soldiers, rather than left until last. Even in death, separated from her people.

She stared determinedly at the sky, watching the light fade. The darker it became, the harder the rain fell. Soon, she was drenched, still clutching her shattered crown.

"I suppose it's true, what they say," he said calmly, raising the point of his blade, "some legends, they turn to gold; others, they turn to dust. Can you guess which one you shall be, Princess?"

His words dug deep, but in the gathering darkness, on a battlefield of destruction and death, the laughter of a girl rang out loud and clear.

With eyes of sparking blue, she looked him in the face, grinning and unafraid. "You are a fool, if you believe you will be dressed in gold in the words of history."

"I am the conqueror, the dragonheart, I am unstoppable! Your kingdom has crumbled, like all the others," he snarled, his thin face flushing red beneath the black helmet, "they will remember me for centuries!"

The princess laughed again, standing up from her place on the ground. "They will. But that gold will tarnish, it will fade and be forgotten. The legacy you have made for yourself is bloody and savage; when they tell the story of today, we will be the victors."

Now, he laughed. The sound used to make her smile, like no one else could. The prince she had loved died long ago, and this shell would not ruin her memories of that boy.

"Your kingdom is mine, your people are dead, and you are going to die in the dirt," he shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

She grit her teeth, letting the golden crown hit the ground. Dust rose from it, pooling around her ankles. "Like I said, death is kinder than a life in chains. You may have defeated my armies, but you never defeated our spirit. We have fallen with hearts full of love for this land, in defiance of all you stand for. One day, when our story is told, they will sing of our valour! They will know how we spat in your face! They will know how your downfall started at the doorstep of our kingdom."

The blade fell before she could blink, just as the last light of the sun sank below the horizon, and her land was plunged into darkness. But she died with a smile on her face, a smile for a secret only she knew.

The Prince of Night would fall, and the architect of his demise was hidden away, far over the mountains. Her hair, like raven's wings, and her eyes, like sapphires. She wore a crown of golden thorns, and someday her father would feel it's bite.

I don't care what official translations say, I chose to believe "Et tu, Brute?" translates to "What the FUCK, Brutus?"

1st of October: Mountain / A' chiad latha dhen Dàmhair: A' bheinn

English Translation:

Since the day the dragon came, it seemed to Thorin he saw the mountain clearer with every step he took away from it, with each mile he and his family led the people of Erebor west, their backs to the mountain, its form in his mind grew firmer.

They toiled in strange lands, selling their skills like simple trades-folk instead of the masters they were. How low we are fallen, the young prince would seethe, still proud despite their loss.

Thorin's people had not been long in connecting Thror's hoard to the dragon's attack; the first to do so turned their backs on him, choosing to join their kin in the Iron Hills than suffer the Wilds under a leader they did not trust. Those who kept faith and remained, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, Thorin vowed to protect.

Even before the disappearance of Thrain, a shift came in Durin's Folk. They began to seek guidance from their prince, following his lead and rallying behind the dream he described for them: a new home in the west, far from hardship and strife where they may rebuild all that was lost.

But always in his mind lay the same thought, the mountain, the mountain, the mountain. In his dreams he looked on it from afar. Watching. Waiting. He would bring his people home, redeem his family for their grandfather's sickness that brought them all to ruin.

The birth of his sister's sons came in a time of peace. The older they grew, an ever-increasing choir that sung with the drums from the deep followed him....the mountain, the mountain, the mountain, they cried.

Oh the lonely mountain...

Scottish Gaelic translation:

Bhon dearbh là a thàinig an nathair-sgiathach, chunnaic Thorin a’ bheinn nas soilleire le gach ceum a thog e air falbh, leis a h-uile mìle a stiùiridh e is a theaghlach an t-sluagh Erebor gu Iar, an dromannan ris a’ bheinn, dh’fhàs a cumadh cruaidh anns na inntinn.

Dh’obraich iad ann an dùthchannan neònaiche, a’ reic na sgilean aca mar gun robhar luchd-malairt farasta seach na maighstirean a bhathar. Cho ìosal a tha sinn air tuiteam, smaoinich am prionnsa òg le fuath geur, fhathast moiteil a dh’aindeoin an calltachd.

Cha tug e fada gus an cur an t-sluaigh a h-uile rud ri chèile: sabaid an nathair-sgiathach agus tasgaidh Thror. Tionndaidh na ciad feadhainn an aghaidh an Rìgh agus thagh iad a bhith a’ dol gu na luchd-dàimh aca anns na Cnuic Iarainn, an àite a bhith a’ fulang san dùthaich fhiadhaich fo cheannard nach robh earb annta ann. Ghealladh Thòrin gun dìon e na feadhainn nach deach, a bha a dh’fhantainn agus a chumail creideas leotha.

Eadhon ron thuras Thràin nach tàinig e air ais bho fhathast, thàinig atharrachadh air na muinntir Durin. Thoiseach iad a’ sireadh stiùireadh bhon phrionnsa, a bhith ga leantainn agus a’ tighinn ri chèile air cùlaibh an aislinge a bha e ag iarraidh dhaibh: dachaigh ùr san Iar, fada air falbh bho dhorradas agus strì far am faodar a h-uile rud a bha air caill a thogail a-rithist.

Ach an-còmhnaidh anns na inntinn bha an aon smaoin, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn. Anns na aislingean, choimhead e air fad às. A’ coimhead. A’ feitheamh. Thoireadh e an t-sluaigh aige dachaigh agus cuir ceart gach rud a rinn a sheanair a thoirt iad uile gu lom-sgrios.

Thàinig breith mhic a phiuthar ann an àm ciùin ach mar a dh’fhàs iad suas, dh’fhàs guth còisir anns na inntinn a bha a’ seinn leis na drumaichean às na h-uamhan. A’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, dh’èigh iad.

Ò a’ bheinn ònaranach...

Amon Rawya

(Tha mi fhathast ag ionnsachadh na Gàidhlig - bithibh snog XD)

The hilarious thing about Midsomer Murders is that if you described it to someone who didn’t watch it and mentioned the running joke of ‘the detective inspector hates it whenever his wife starts a new hobby’ you’d think he was a raging misogynist or it was an unhappy marriage played for laughs or whatever

But no no no, Barnaby absolutely adores his wife, it’s just that her hobbies always seem to result in dead bodies and it’s been eleven seasons and Barnaby is very very tired by this point

there's a method to my madness there's a secret to this town there's a reason why i'm still living here though i can't think of it right now

2nd of October: Light / An dàrna latha dhen Dàmhair: Solas

English Translation:

Thorin knew beauty, perfection, could recognise the mark of true craftsmanship with ease. Though still young in the years of Dwarves, he studied at the side of their greatest smiths, deep in the halls of Erebor before the dragon came, and learnt the true meaning of creation.

The forges of Men lacked skill and care; working on them brought him no satisfaction, only a pittance in his hand and scorn on the road. Reaching the Blue Mountains was a relief to his people and to Thorin but they did not relish to live on the charity of others.

Their prince would not forget the glory and honour they came from. They established halls of their own in the west and raised themselves out of ruin, enough that many among Thorin's folk lost all desire to seek for their lost homeland again.

For their sake, and the sake of his siblings, Thorin spoke little of it - choosing to look ahead rather than live looking back. It did not stop the dreams or the memories, nor quell his anger. Never again will we be beggars, turned from the door like animals.

Oft did Thorin go among their smiths, seeking the familiarity of a hammer in the hand and the heat of the fire on his face.

But eyes the light of the Arkenstone had seen could not easily forget its radiance, nor find equal in dull and dusty gems. In his dreams, it lay buried beneath the dragon's paws, forever in the dark within walls once strewn with firelight.

The Arkenstone. The heart of the mountain, they called it. He held its light closely, tightly, and allowed his hope to live on in its glow.

(Sorry this one is shorter, I'm working tonight and don't have a lot of time to translate it!)

Scottish Gaelic Translation:

Bha Thòrin eòlach air àlainneachd, snas. Dh’fhaodadh e ag aithneachadh comharra fhìor cheàirde gu furasta. Ged a bha e òg fhathast ann am beatha nan troichean, dh’ionnsaich e ri taobh na goibhnean as motha a bh’ aca, anns na h-uaimhean ìsle, aosmhoire Erebor mus tàinig an nathair-sgiathach, agus dh’ionnsaich e am fior ciall chruitheachd.

Bha na ceàrdaichean gun sgil is nàistinn. Cha tug e toileachadh dha a bhith ag obair orra idir. Cha d’fhuair e dad ach priobaid na làimh agus tàir bhuapa air an rathad. Nuair a ràinig iad na Beanntan Ghuirm, b’ e faochadh don t-sluaigh aige agus ris fhèin, ach cha robhar measail air a bhith a’ fuirich air carantas.

Cha dhìochuimhneach am prionnsa a’ ghlòir is onaraich a bh’ aca. Thog iad tallachan dhaibh fhèin anns an Iar agus thog iad fhèin a-mach à lom-sgrios. B’ e sin gu leòr dha tòrr dhen t-sluaigh Thòrin a bhith gan caill am miann a bhith a’ sireach an tìr-dhàimh aca a-rithist.

Air an son, agus air a phiuthar is a bhràthair, cha bhruidhinn Thòrin mu dheidhinn gu tric. Choimhead e air adhart seach a bhith beò a’ coimhead air ais. Cha do stad sin na h-aislingean, na chuimhneachain, no chuir mùch air a fhuath. Cha bhith sinn nar dìolachan-dèirce a-riamh a-rithist, feumach air taic mar gun robh beathaichean a bh’ annainn.

Chaidh Thòrin gu tric a-measg na goibhnean aca, a’ sireach cinnt dhen t-òrd na làimh is teas an teine air an t-aodann. Ach cha b’ urrainn sùilean a chunnaic solas an Arkenstone dhìochuimhneachadh an deàrrsaidh no lorg an aon rud ann an leugan luaireanta, ràsanaiche. Anns na aislingean bha i adhlaicte fon smàg an nathair-sgiathach, anns an dorchadas, ann an tallachan a bha air lìonadh aon uair le solas an teine, gu sìorraidh brath.

An Arkenstone. Cridhe na Beinn, chuir iad oirre. Ghlèidh e an solas faisg, gu daingean, agus leig a dhòchas a bhith beò anns a deàrrsadh.

(Duilich gu bheil am fear seo nas beaga, tha mi air a bhith ag obair a-nochd agus cha robh àm gu leòr agam airson eadar-theangachadh a dhèanamh! Bidh mearachdan ann a sheo agus bheir mi sùil a-màireach air haha)

i sent you omens and all kinds of signs, i taught you melodies, poems and rhymes

lord huron - the yawning grave