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libidomechanica · 1 year ago

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Untitled (“All this wits pierced moments before”)

A curtal sonnet sequence

First Stanza

For it’s jet, jet black, brown, still, with redoubled might: for Lawfull Prince despise, and would cry when my good Angell guides the King, and heare without shore. Turns to those huge honey seeping nigher, glares at once vouchsafe to his distress, in publick Scorn. But, taking, the Shadows lengthen from a smooth as the mountain side. Love; to Head the still sing of soap and I find him. Shook the life, two green, two white goodnights. All this wits pierced moments before.

Second Stanza

Today the Court remove, with cakes and Crude. Evil-starr’d,—I was uncertain kind of prisoner. In the delicacy—stoops at once Dominion of your name, the torment you? Think not of us, as I grow stiff and science chills. Your eyes; nay, now I have known, since all my native truth to me, trust me, for us. Were he a Tyrants in the moonlight, alone in blood. Not die; but represent the Noble Youth remains of Rockport.

Third Stanza

That that thou art gone, not Kings are Negligent or Weak? The might say I have lived through clay afloat, whilst I singing an impossible song is to come at, is like a sin; when man, on many, multiple locks and all than nursed at ease and here and thought in our lesser man, and shames, horrible, hateful, monstrance that same place, and thy Mind. I, being chain it wears she never shone so young, and yet they o’er thee. Not a keener lash!

Fourth Stanza

The next for Interest sought in the certain path to future time, O passionate heat spread. Of a new-fall’n year, Whose who hast been, shallow-hearted! But how could we else, we promises and delights are Pretty, to dwell in the fire ants that elder loved you. I look on noble Stem; him of the hour with a dribbed shot, loue onely reading for posterity. That hour with every bar; but, at our entreaty stay! Of the drowned.

Fifth Stanza

None like a hawk, an’ it winna let a body be. And every hostile Humour, and heavy curtains drawn, but gaze like the lintwhite sheeted and sculk’d behind ye: yet, trust me, cousin, all these the coming the cossette, well through that taste! And tomb-stones wherein theyr heads too long, took himself a poorer prove the turn’d it in a trance, each a calendar of what Occasion gives, but Save me deep Atlantic ocean that’s in her fast.

Sixth Stanza

Man, arise like pretty spies, that gray old woman is at hand with redoubled as the Vapours rise. Woman in black. Catch, to spoil are made for the sheets. Tell ever be the Proclamation marks kissing, the planet floats an Europe than others? And haughty Pharoah’s double word that Tim’s year had experience, this little sweetens our passionate lover, when Kings oppression, or a simple pray’r, childless with roses, flowers.

Seventh Stanza

Nor is the dead unhappy word! Willows white lesions settle on his shield on the passively resisting that you are wring; ye that Psyche, both fairy, her fingertips, show, they heard me sigh behind a slowly- dying days, but merely therein, though it: came out the memoree. Yet, O my Prodigal of Ease? Agape, he observant for decades she floating careless of your epitaph to make him feel. Woman and for Food.

Eighth Stanza

Brightens above, I feel nothing loses in giving troubled hath his soul is parch’d with honors to his Throne. Shall commanded this without Title into bed and from her mouth as mine as requisite as they had his peculiar mouth as mine a little token, and we three poor heart, that he practice losing mine? At night, her virgins here with doolful pleasaunce now displayd, it floureth fresh, fragrant at any times did equals?

Ninth Stanza

She e’er should please, the tame flower heart. The gay roses proclaim, you so; let me, no vagrant a lover’s eyes. I had joined her in the eye. See their own, belonging the mount her. A sudden blow: the ground. While below the Prime renews: and some let Scorn secure your side, a teeming mist, then live with Bab-o lest thy sight. Scorpio, bad spider— die! Light blend in one, and owns the river have sung, puppet to a father’s Name is Will.

Tenth Stanza

To you I envy neither night of Love. The hearing the low sky raining, her Notes in fear Love bade my Maud by the Sword, but in their death from the creature newly-caged, commennd: the Prime renews: and always for you or I are made the blue skies of your love and deathful-grinning mouths of men are wrong: and even: saw’st thou to repay. Do equally east-wind strange thickens your Valentine, summers. From love, if love, they steps proclaim.

Eleventh Stanza

Their names are hush’d, and their own Posterity falls short, and a lighthouse a blue halo of flies had dared to him, was God ordain’d the King, at Gath an Exile with his hand—reflecting to grasp the hearts? And Titan from the Grey Monk’s side, and far, near and fading and dancing alone there will wee. Her eyes burnt his little niece, you shalt be, art, alone, but that Relief can Righteous, were constru’d Youth, Beauty, and in what Barbican.

Twelfth Stanza

Got into each, and thin. Maid who came with home; not for the annulus—a planet closed me quite alone she cried pass onward from hence beacons. The vale. For festivities or formal, fitted Israelite complaint, it dies upon the fear of sleep. Was this; for their names I picked and she, like slave, though in me writing, to score. Every wave enthrones; while each other, the charms. Eros harrows my hearts are pretty, to dwell in love.

Thirteenth Stanza

And under a large precedent was duty spoke, not even you, disparage such valid reason down by the bed. Sun-brown’d with a song that over-goes my blunt invention, seldom fail: but oh fie on’t! With flawless deep joy to heart, and all the pleasure fills with that: some to quite a dry Bob. Wonders has lately came, what kindle or rested day will of saddest work, we purpose of his yerely theatres benched fists.

Fourteenth Stanza

As I love has crept so long, long, that out and the spheres. At you, chopping the fluster of lost liberty that I kept mine one sigh this day, venus stood the questiond can wink; and now paralysis, that smile of hours and mirror cracked an empty teacup, arrived. Of the fresh and now my song. Fear me not, if I could followed then lemons, and louely hate. Cramming all their turns; and time could also the way the earth now list not grieve.

Fifteenth Stanza

The holy perfumes of the drowned. A human eye shall do: for oft, when she choose, infers a Right in our own folly, or our guides, meanewhile my heart or cover the country back? File O my America! The wisest scholler of the intently even a sprightly passe like a silent; but her simplesse to rebuked to me were too barbarous isles, and make their arms round the ditty, my faltering in praying.

Sixteenth Stanza

Those nonsense the madness, haunts of clear I shiver. And, if the might be filled with their lips. In green breckan, wi’ the shepheard can astert: Fayre fieldes and Creame, to make her griefs in these ambers, blood, and lose convention quite but thoughts lay with just enough for one. A girl who keeps slipping limbs I faint! His Kingly proceed to them; but, if unseiz’d, she glides unfelt into motley halves; pensive war. Come live with women: but we three years.

Seventeenth Stanza

If thou art blamed shall he see Hey, rose, flutters, and even: let me fly to his Throne would have given false to your promise; fruit nor boughs and sweet grace; and somebody, savage and the Goddess cry’d: o cruel, could round the garden wall and plain and it’s you are not back from the other’s shirt for ambition of a bullets from all here. Night, he told my hands in Erin’s yet green wood, see ye warp not. To superstition me t’approved.

Eighteenth Stanza

The place, and say it is built me a country and late Augment that Summer’s nightly passe like a razor he was ten colors just as read; it is only fix’d, the cossette, well that’s another fit she sins of white-hot. Here she stood in the nose of God, and your hands tremble? For Gods, and all around these succeed their May was passed in the stubble-plains where my passion, and afterwards be Sold: till time serves how much as feel them.

Nineteenth Stanza

The Monk sat down to Camelot: or when I would cancel—but she the maidens faithful Friendships holy band some one of two entities: myself to shoot laser beams straight through a door in my fate, hath not see’t? Before they were before how their own door, in your own at Keswick, and send their Maker in this day; all is well as when the city. If thou canst not my love, and cursed in that sat in the dewy hills and find no cure?

Twentieth Stanza

While you drive I never break through the Sword and bound in me write. Fire and haunted by his tree. The eagle home leave they will doth but approve the day so fair, and how should be in thy painfull flights appear! To which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted, their Humour, and fears his Brother, long enough. And safe enjoys the earth. Muses, the dead men go; and they do, are his guifts; his favour or a drop of raine once lost, I called Marriage.

Twenty-first Stanza

Into a Flood; and please; with a willowy hills and fields of baked weed gaily digging and drunk as flies whose kiss should sing, thinke that sober light, that which glibly glides unfelt into his Kindness by the Lord be gracious past; glanced: then vp I say, who am not of higher aims of a land that swears it not be thy delight. When God could Statues draw to mean Rebellion, and pregnant thoughts there made: though in those koi, still Dear to you.

Twenty-second Stanza

Say, and known; all they Curst Return. Before him sits the memory—odours, when he bit me in another fixed it, and Will’ will find, they steps above the soft passion speech is dumb, think and holt, cramming all mankind. Dead into dark, new boots. On either side, or seasons: sneakers and fling the intent to bear your Gowne, or other skill may time and botching, patching still made better fate, hath no misfortune author is, but my name.

Twenty-third Stanza

All brown whelp to crack; crack the Prostrate the Court a nymph doth such wit impart to itself, longs for then commennd: the Peoples Foes: yet as I make me unawares while ribbon, locket, valentine. This golden daffodil dies, and ridiculous, past midnight, I find the roots of the night, all rich spices thence thy kindred of her starv’d between you both are old, I should, that one was standing here at my place, one good, Christian woman.

Twenty-fourth Stanza

Virtue she finds too long, long, to score. And made my little white goodnights. A mere upbraiding green leave you are; likewise grew in sunlight, untamed, my own clean sheets rise and the pleasure lent, and hast command, giv’n by Wonders are shaken, ran itself alone, I marry the bed. Where are style, and we not see to it that I was, and make out silver sails all that he cross’d the Nations burning. For him he Suffer’d and body be.

Twenty-fifth Stanza

Half loath, and Lov’d, the bones are but my name. Just as she’d never noticed before in the sand; and over your own, my hope! Like a cliff swinging or affright the lily arms took both his Master heart which in sentiment, with me he foundations, it was unworthy of the innocent, who admires such kind of marriage. I wanna be your body’s right. Her round my bed, circling through the bells off San Salvador salute him feel.

Twenty-sixth Stanza

Who loves loneness compensated size: besides, know they are glazed with a box of Kleenex, that evening by herself, as I divine; whether to find ye there? My mouth is the Titmose silent. There was a Fool. Whilst I sing Euphelia frowned: I sung and queen for long-hair’d page in his odor. Thine eyes over and the task to manage well through the pock, the places wherein the first are their guardian God; and proves in an abyss.

Twenty-seventh Stanza

As those that loosely flew (her zone in blood. On a dewy morning seaward, and ball. The lake dry; it seems that an iron tyrannie; and Paradise. From the promise bring into your propinquity to find your prudence, dearest Lady, pray you go? See, the house come, let’s goe a Maying. And the shades o’ dawn are fled, in a’ its crimson glory that which is there to row; in the tumult of my hand serene in gray is tinct, the night.

Twenty-eighth Stanza

Something much nobler age; appraised the Peoples pleasures prove many thorns and you like your forefinger and the guardian God; and hast commenced the Lady glance, the shining draught wise, oppos’d the ghostes and body be. Lady of Shalott. In returning hills, and it posterity. The old man came down with intent to sound of dancing music out of beauty all the princes; o sceptred terror of whose base of his Fame.

Twenty-ninth Stanza

Of my mouth as mine a little church hath she of the glassy countenance—the Devil is down to Camelot; outside the Jews; for every word that blow by night, and dead, but turn’d a foe in hope to get Preferment of wit: restless, unfixt in Principles, with every shade of your electrical wires, a black Buick, driven by a blade of fresh Glories he displaies vertue of ladies of hell, the flowers. The heart of men?

Thirtieth Stanza

All mild ascend: sharp judging Adriel the brain was like a slice of mine: but, where she sluttish, be she left me dry, left me dry, left me the soft passionate heat spread. Sleep and dangerous constancy. His bed that hole in his Reign may make the Spring-time, fresh petals or no they are parents to forgive! In this hole your Cause; they who possess a lawful Government. Of his bow’d down by the day, and what Applause. I fix my sight.

Thirty-first Stanza

Fire woman looked close my eyes twinkle twixt men desires. She scorn of murmurs, or so, and with a short-legged young Messiah bless: some to quite undertake to pull up every love this miserable Knight, I find, I find no more cannot rouse come live with publick Officers of the Throne, all made, while over the scorn that earth on Billy’s breast, that every shade vnder that gives each other, then live with my head, his scull will in Chloe’s eyes?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #200 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years ago

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Prompt: For you, a little Merlin prompt to think about if you like it! Arthur is usually the big strong one of the 2, but when he collapses one day they find out it’s because of a heart defect he was born with and that if he continues at his current pace, it will kill him. I’d like to see how Arthur would deal with having to rest more often, stay in bed longer, etc. and obviously Merlin would be so doting uwu

Thanks for the prompt, babe!

Read on Ao3 Part 2: Rise

Pairings: Merthur can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2941

The first time Arthur collapses in the middle of the training ground Merlin’s heart leaps into his throat. He barely hears the roar of the other knights over the rush of blood in his ears as he scans the field, looking for something, anything, and rushing to Arthur’s side.

“Sire,” Leon is already calling, “sire, can you hear me?”

“Get Gaius,” Lancelot calls over his shoulder before rolling Arthur onto his back, “Arthur, Arthur, you need to breathe, can you—“

“Merlin?” Leon pulls Merlin down by the sleeve of his tunic, even as Merlin falls to his knees. “Merlin, what’s—“

“…lin,” Arthur mumbles, “Mer…lin…”

Gwaine makes some comment, he’s sure, but Merlin can’t hear anything other than his king. “I’m right here, Arthur, what’s—what happened, are you alright?”

Arthur blinks slowly, squinting a little in the harsh light. “…’course ‘m alright, Merlin, just…jus’ need to get up.”

“You’re slurring your words a little, sire,” Leon says softly, “we need to get you to Gaius.”

“Gaius…yes, Gaius, where is—“

“I sent one of the others after him,” Lancelot says, helping Merlin heave Arthur into an upright position, “he’ll be here soon.”

“We should get you in the shade,” Merlin says, noticing the way Arthur won’t stop squinting, “make the sun go away.”

“You want to just…wave your hand and vanish the sun?” Arthur’s head turns to smile drowsily at Merlin.

“Would if I could.”

“Can’t you?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Shh, you prat.”

“Between the two of you,” Lancelot mutters, “it’s a wonder you managed to keep it secret.”

He doesn’t even flinch at the weak punch Arthur gives his shoulder.

Percival comes over and helps, heaving Arthur to his feet and walking towards the shade, doing a marvelous job of making Arthur look like he’s the one doing the leading. Leon barks at the others to clean up, they’re finished for today, and Elyan sees them off. He hurries over as soon as they’re gone, pulling his glove off to feel Arthur’s forehead.

“You’re warm,” he mutters, “but you have been working awfully hard in the bright sun. Gaius will know more.”

“Where is he,” Gwaine growls, his eyes scanning the field, “he normally doesn’t take this long.”

“He’ll come,” Merlin says, his eyes still fixed on Arthur’s pale face, “he’ll come.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur protests despite the fact he hasn’t been able to move on his own, “just need a moment and I’ll be right back up.”

“You collapsed, Arthur.”

“And?”

“How much water have you drunk today?”

“Enough!”

“Well, clearly—“

“You don’t even know that’s why it happened, Merlin.”

“What about food?”

“What are you, my mother?”

“Well, someone has to make sure you look after yourself.”

The knights politely look the other way. Well, no. Leon turns to admire the tree leaves. “Still can’t believe they came in this early.”

“I expected the blooms to be gone by now,” Lancelot agrees.

The others just appreciate the show, at least until Gaius comes across the field.

“About time,” Merlin murmurs when Arthur finally looks like he’s going to start taking this seriously.

“What happened?”

“He collapsed,” Merlin says before Arthur can say anything, “in the middle of the field. I didn’t see anything.”

Gaius accepts Merlin’s information with a careful nod. He leans forward and starts looking over Arthur. Arthur puts up with the examination with the patience of a child who’s been promised a treat if they sit still.

Merlin watches anxiously, for any sign of magic, of poison, of anything that would explain why a man in his prime would collapse. Out of nowhere. He sees nothing. Gaius pulls away and nods to Percival.

“Come on, sire,” the knight says, helping Arthur to his feet, “let’s go.”

They retreat to Gaius’s rooms, only for Gaius to instruct all the knights to leave. Arthur protests first, to everyone’s surprise.

“They’re my knights,” Arthur defends, “if there is something wrong with me, they should know about it. That is their duty to Camelot and my duty to them.”

“…we can inform them of it at a later time,” Gaius says, fixing Arthur with a look, “this matter is of a…delicate situation.”

“I don’t care.”

Merlin glances back and forth between the two of them, unsure who to side with. Arthur, whose sense of duty keeps their circle close and whose trust in his men is enough to make Merlin’s head spin. Or Gaius, whose devotion to his patients and their privacy can overrule everyone in Camelot to keep them safe.

“A compromise,” Lancelot says, breaking the silence, “we will stand on the other side of the room, and then the king may decide whether or not he wishes to inform us.”

The knights follow Lancelot as Merlin makes to go with them. A hand snags his sleeve and he turns. Arthur isn’t even looking at him and yet the strength of his grip and the way his hand trembles is enough to freeze Merlin in his tracks.

As soon as Gaius begins to explain, Merlin clutches Arthur’s arm just as hard.

“…what do you mean it’ll kill me?”

Gaius bows his head. “There is not a well-known name for this type of condition, sire, not this specific one.”

“There’s something wrong with my heart?”

Arthur’s voice cracks on the last word.

“I am afraid so, sire,” Gaius says quietly. “Something you were born with. Worsened due to lack of acknowledgment and getting to be unavoidable.”

“So—“ Arthur swallows heavily—“so what do I do? How do I get better?”

“This…this is not something you cure, sire,” Gaius explains, “this is something you must live with.”

“You’re the greatest physician in all of Camelot,” Arthur says, his voice growing steadier, “you—you of all people could find a way to fix this.”

“This is beyond even my capabilities.”

“But you—you—“ Arthur’s gaze lands on Merlin and Merlin winces. “You.”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin says, even as it tears at his throat to say so, “I—I can’t. I don’t—there isn’t—I can’t.”

“Magic made me,” Arthur whispers, “magic—magic can fix this.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I can’t. I don’t know how. And I—I don’t think we can.”

Arthur looks back and forth between the two of them.

Arthur has always been full of fire. Burning, smoldering, fierce, and passionate. When he fought, it blazed high, ready to light the way or burn down his opponent. When he spoke, it sparked, little flicks of light jumping high into the air, pulling everyone into the blaze. Even when he woke, the fire hums, making him warm in a way that pulls Merlin closer, holds him firmly.

Merlin stares at Arthur and watches the fire go out.

The hand on his arm leaves. Arthur stares down at it like he doesn’t recognize it. It trembles. He closes it into a fist.

The trembling doesn’t go away until he takes a deep breath.

“What do I do,” he asks lowly, “to stay alive?”

Gaius breathes out and it’s only then that Merlin realizes he’s been holding his breath too.

“We adapt.”

It isn’t easy.

It isn’t easy waking Arthur up later, making sure he goes to bed earlier and eats properly-spaced meals throughout the day. Every time Arthur looks like he’s being held in a cage, glancing out the window with a wistfulness that makes Merlin’s soul ache. He piles Arthur’s plates high with his favorite foods, distracts him with inane arguments, and servant gossip. When Arthur’s slower to wake in the morning, he sits on the side of Arthur’s bed and strokes his head, letting Arthur nuzzle sleepily into his leg and hum.

“Come on,” he coaxes lightly, “let’s get you something to eat, hmm?”

“Fuzzy,” Arthur mumbles, “my head feels fuzzy.”

“Gaius said that was going to happen,” Merlin reminds, scratching his fingers lightly along Arthur’s scalp, “and it happened yesterday, remember? It went away as soon as you started breakfast.”

Arthur’s eyes close and he tucks his head more firmly against Merlin. His eyes squeeze shut tightly and Merlin can’t help the soft noise that escapes his throat.

“Tired…”

“I know you have to get up,” Merlin murmurs, “but it’s okay…you can take your time, no one’s going to come in here and tell you you have to go somewhere.”

Arthur’s head lolls to the side, looking up at him. “Your job, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. No one’s getting in here on my watch.”

“My Merlin…” Arthur hums lazily. “Mine…”

“Yours, you prat.”

Arthur does eventually rise and Merlin makes sure he eats. He sits him down at the desk and starts his chores, returning to see Arthur still staring out the window a few hours later.

“Training tomorrow,” he reminds cheerfully, “that’ll be nice.”

“Mm.”

It isn’t easy when Arthur’s not allowed to train with all of his knights. If Merlin thought spending the day with Arthur after he learned that the others go easy on him because he’s the prince was hard, this is…well.

Arthur grunts, swinging the practice staff at Leon who blocks it easily, pivoting and standing just out of the way. Arthur lunges after him and again, Leon twirls just out of range. Merlin watches as Leon’s brow furrows and his hands flex on the grip of the staff. They lock eyes for just a moment.

Leon, despite being one of the most loyal, longest-serving knights Camelot has ever known, is not one to take it easy on anyone, not without good cause. Merlin can count on one hand how many times he’s seen the knight do so. First was with Arthur when the prat was even more fat-headed. Second was when Merlin was forced to spar with them after he’d just recovered from a very nasty concussion. Third is now. Right now.

He can see the frustration in Arthur’s posture and the way he deliberately leaves himself open for an attack. Leon doesn’t take it. Arthur stops, panting hard, and says he’s done for the day. Leon accepts it with a gracious nod and Arthur walks back over to Merlin as Elyan takes his place.

Merlin hands Arthur a waterski without a word and stands there while Arthur tries to get his breath back. He places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin freezes, waiting until Arthur eases himself down to the steps. They sit and watch the rest of the training.

“We should do shield work next,” Arthur murmurs, “even though we don’t usually carry them.”

Merlin nods.

“Gwaine needs to make sure he doesn’t overstep his left.”

Merlin nods. “Lancelot’s been improving, he’s smoother now.”

Merlin nods.

“…we should go back inside.”

Merlin helps his king up and they go back inside.

It isn’t easy when Gwen and Morgana come into Arthur’s chambers and they talk. For hours. Gwen and Merlin go and do their chores, whispering back and forth about whatever idle thing they’re talking about now, knowing that there are two siblings in a room that cannot really ever leave it.

He’s felt it once, only once, when he walked back into the room after leaving them to talk to see Morgana standing with her back to Arthur, looking out the window, and Arthur still at the table, his fist trembling. Morgana had turned and swept past him with her cool gaze masked firmly in place. Arthur had pointedly ignored Merlin’s look and gotten back to writing something at his desk. Merlin had stood there, helpless in the cold room.

That was the only time, though. After that, he knew they took pains to make sure they parted on better notes. Perhaps one of them noticed the way Merlin’s hands twitched or how Gwen worried at the hem of her apron. They’d caught up with each other after that night, huddled in the darkness of one of the great halls that no one would look in, their arms curled around each other as they whispered about the Pendragons, freed from Uther yet still held by his legacy.

Merlin looks at Morgana when she takes him by the arm and pulls him into her chambers.

“Are you sure there’s nothing we can do?”

Merlin shakes his head. He hasn’t stopped looking, not really, but he is starting to gain hope that this won’t be as bad as they think.

Morgana sits down. “Well…at least some good will come of this. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so willing to…talk.”

“…talk?”

“Arthur has always been one for bold, brash, dive-in-with-a-sword politics,” Morgana says, “he’s never really been one to appreciate the intricacies of trying to get things done.”

She fixes Merlin with a look. “You know that.”

Merlin does.

This is good work. It’s work that needs to be done. Morgana’s good at it. Arthur will become good at it. They need to talk, not just about politics, but about each other. It isn’t easy but it must be done.

So they adapt.

Merlin worries.

Arthur is not one to take hardships of any kind lying down, ever. And yet Merlin hasn’t heard him once complain about this, not in any significant way. No dragging his feet, no staying stubbornly until he collapses again, no pointlessly insisting he can do something he can’t.

Which means that something’s coming.

It happens in the smallest of ways.

They’re in Arthur’s chambers in the late afternoon, the sun shining in the window as Arthur squints at his work. Merlin folds the last sheet and sets it aside. The scratchings of Arthur’s quill stop.

There’s a sharp snap.

The quill falls broken down onto the floor, a section of its shaft worn to breaking from heavy use. Arthur stares at it like a corpse.

The sound of his chair scraping back makes Merlin wince as Arthur throws himself up.

“Useless—“

“Arthur!”

Merlin barely manages to stumble forward enough before Arthur’s striding out of his reach. He slams his hands against the wall. His head bows. A guttural roar builds up in his throat. Merlin winces. He can see Arthur’s muscles tense and refuse to relax. Can see the way his hands twitch for a sword. His legs for a fight. His body for anything.

And he can’t move anymore or he might collapse.

“Useless,” Arthur growls again, “useless.”

“Arthur—“

“No, Merlin!” Arthur whirls around, fire in his gaze, “what good am I like this? I can’t train! I can’t fight! My own knights won’t even—I can’t—all I can do is talk! How am I supposed to defend my people?”

“You have knights to fight for you, Arthur, you can—“

“And what kind of a ruler would I be,” Arthur snarls, spittle flying from his lips, “if I sat on my arse in a castle while men died for me? What kind of a coward—“

“You’re not a coward!”

“Aren’t I? I’ve been sitting here—“ he waves a disgusted hand at his desk—“talking to people about things I would do while knowing damn well I won’t!”

“But that doesn’t make you useless, Arthur!”

“Doesn’t it?” Arthur slams his hand against the wall again. “I can’t fight anymore! I can’t patrol anymore! What can I do? I’m just—I’m—I’m—“

Merlin rushes forward as Arthur collapses, catching him and pulling him close. “You have to breathe,” he gentles, “come on…”

“Can’t—even—shout—“

“Shh, shh,” Merlin says, “come on, you can yell at me all you want after you’ve breathed, come on…”

Arthur breathes, but before he’s got his breath all the way back he turns his head. “…not mad at you.”

“…I know.”

There’s a few moments of silence as their breaths ring in the chamber.

“…for all my life,” Arthur murmurs finally, “I’ve been known as a fighter. That’s…that’s all I was going to be known as. Even as a king. And now…now…”

Merlin can feel the roll of Arthur’s throat as he swallows.

“Now I don’t know what I am.”

“You’re a king,” Merlin says softly, “not because of your prowess with a sword, but because of your heart.”

Arthur makes a noise of protest.

“No, no, you listen to me. You make choices based on what you think is right. No amount of skill with a sword can make you think differently.” Merlin’s fingers find their way unconsciously into Arthur’s hair. “You’re a good man because you care, not because of your fighting skill.”

Merlin closes his eyes.

“You…you chose to do so many things, Arthur, because you knew your people. You knew your kingdom. Not because you knew your way around a sword. People don’t follow you because you fight well, they follow you because you rule well.”

He presses his cheek to the top of Arthur’s head.

“And if they stop following you because you can’t fight like you used to, then they weren’t truly loyal followers of yours to begin with.”

It isn’t easy. It probably won’t ever be easy. But as Arthur turns his face into the crook of Merlin’s neck and breathes easier than he has in a while, Merlin starts to believe it may be alright.

#merlin #bbc merlin #merthur #merthur fic #arthur pendragon #fic #dragonbabbles

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] Also on AO3

Chapter 16: Sasha

There’s a long silence after the door shuts behind Jon Prime. Sasha stares at Martin Prime for a long moment, several possible things to say next running through her head. How did we actually die wars with how much of that really happened and a slight humorous side trip into I don’t think I’ll ever wear this shirt again, because of course she’s wearing her favorite shirt today, as well as what words did Jon say in that memory and if he was in the other fourteen why did you talk like it was an unknown subject.

What actually comes out of her mouth at last is, “Wickie?”

Martin Prime sighs heavily. “It’s…an old name for a lighthouse keeper. Comes from trimming the wicks to keep the light burning.”

“M-my—” Martin rubs his temples hard, almost like he’s trying to manually turn the wheels in his brain. “Dad used to call…us that. I’d forgotten…” He looks up at Martin Prime, and Sasha is a little taken aback at the anguish in his eyes. “Is—was it a coincidence or—?”

“No. The Keeper is…he’s part of the Lonely, and maybe a little of the Spiral. The loneliness of distance. Not just being separated from someone you care about, but the specific loneliness that comes when you know exactly where they are but can’t get to them, either because there’s a physical barrier or because you just…can’t. The fear that if you reach out to them, they won’t reach back.” Martin Prime closes his eyes for a brief moment. “So the Keeper just…knows those sorts of nicknames. A name given to you by someone you miss…or someone who misses you. Someone you can’t reach, anyway. In this case, though…he knew it because he is the one who gave it.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “Wait, seriously? Does that mean you’re—”

“He made a deal to keep me—us—safe,” Martin Prime interrupts. “It’s why he left in the first place. I can tell you the story some other time, but…maybe not today?”

“No,” Martin agrees in a very small voice. “Not today.”

Tim drapes his arm around Martin’s shoulders and nods. Sasha is more inclined to press, but she swallows down on the urge. Curiosity is all well and good, but she shouldn’t sate it at the expense of her friends, so if they say no to a topic, she’s going to respect that. For now, anyway. Time to pick one of the other avenues of discussion.

She wants to ask about the pictures, get more details about what came before those moments, but something tells her that’s a discussion that needs to happen with the Jons in the room. Also, that’s going to hurt Tim, probably, so she starts running through her other options, looking for the least volatile one.

Tim beats her to it, which is probably a good thing. “So that was the first time…your Jon found out about all that? You didn’t, like, give him a taste last night?”

“No. That…I knew he’d need it. Like I said, he hasn’t had a statement since he got back. Sitting in on your—our, I guess—statements from last night…all that did was take the edge off of things. I knew what I went through was big enough that it’ll keep him going for a bit.”

“Right, but why not at least lay the groundwork? Warn him that it was going to be…bad?”

Martin Prime hesitates, turning in the direction of the door briefly before saying in a low voice, “He can’t always…the hungrier he gets for a statement, the harder it is for him to control himself. The last few months before the world ended? I found out, sort of by accident, that he’d been going out and…pouncing random people for their statements. One of them complained to the Institute and I had to stage an intervention. He’s doing better about it, but I didn’t want to risk tempting him. He’d never forgive himself.”

“For falling off the wagon?” Sasha cocks her head.

Martin Prime turns to look at her, and really, it’s a little unnerving now that she knows he’s blind. It explains why he always looks like he’s looking through her, but it’s still creepy. “It’s a lot more painful when he takes a statement by force. Even if I was going to offer it to him anyway, if he…pounced on it like that, it’d be more intense. He hates it enough when it’s strangers, but if it’s—someone he knows…” He trails off.

“Will that happen to our Jon?” Martin asks. His voice shakes a little when he asks. Sasha wonders how much of that is residual from hearing Martin Prime’s statement and how much of it is actually about Jon.

Martin Prime doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “Probably not so quickly, anyway. Gertrude Robinson…I don’t know if she just never got as bad or if she just could control it better. You can ask Jon later.”

“He won’t pass out if we do, will he?” Tim glances towards the door. Sasha suppresses a smile at the obvious concern on his face. Honestly, Tim fusses just as much as Martin does at times. He’s the consummate big brother, while Martin is something of a mother hen.

“No. What just happened was…he pushed too hard, against the wrong subject. He can’t Know what’s going on inside the Eye. Really, trying to Know anything about any of the entities directly is beyond him, and he knows that.” Martin Prime’s voice sharpens into censure for a moment before he visibly forces himself to relax. “Usually he’s pretty good at knowing his limits.”

“So why did he do that?” Tim asks. “If he knew it would hurt him, why would he push? He’s not that…masochistic usually. That’s your job.”

“Hey,” Martin mumbles, but without any real heat behind it.

“He’s not wrong,” Sasha points out. She’s watched Martin push himself, break himself into smaller and smaller pieces, trying to be what everyone needs him to be, always putting everyone else first.

“I think part of it is that it was something he genuinely wanted to know the answer to,” Martin Prime says. “We’ve never known for sure how much the Beholding can see on its own and how much it needs its…agents to give it. It for sure can watch us at the Institute, but in a very real way, the Institute is part of the Beholding, or vice versa. Honestly, it’s not something we think about much. But knowing Jon, once he had the question in his mind, he had to see if he could find out the answer to it, despite knowing it was a dangerous idea. Part of it might have been that he was so tired, too. The longer he goes without a statement, the worse his decision-making skills get.”

“Oh, brilliant. They’re so amazing most of the time,” Tim drawls. “God knows Jon never makes poor life choices.”

Martin Prime actually laughs. “I mean, not like we can throw stones here.”

Tim laughs, too, and Martin manages a smile. Sasha wants to ask if Martin Prime considers her one of Tim’s “poor life choices” or if he even knows they slept together, but just in case he doesn’t, she doesn’t want to drag that out into the open just now. Again, she’s fond of unearthing others’ secrets, but very close-mouthed about her own; it’s probably unfair, but there you are. Lest Tim bring it up, she starts looking for the next thread to pull on.

“That was Jon, right?” she asks at last. “In the…last gallery you were talking about. Those pictures. They were all of Jon?”

That fast, Martin Prime’s smile disappears. “Yeah. Most of them haven’t happened…obviously. And one of them for sure won’t now.”

“The third one,” Sasha guesses. “That was—when Jane Prentiss attacked you all?”

Martin Prime nods. “It was the middle of the day. Jon’s the one that accidentally went through the wall—there was a spider he was trying to take out—”

“The Web toying with him?” Martin asks. He sounds a little calmer than before, but still shaken.

“Honestly, I’ve never been altogether sure about that. It might’ve actually just been a spider, but…the balance of probability is on it being the Web, yes. Anyway, Jon accidentally broke the wall, the worms got in—our Sasha and I ended up having to drag him into that storage room, but he’d already been bitten a few times, he couldn’t walk. Our Tim was at lunch at the time, he came back and—Sasha went out to save him, they got separated, and Tim wound up in the walls. He came through the wall in that storage room and convinced Jon and me to come out with him. We got separated in the tunnels, just like you all did, but Tim and Jon found the trap door and I, well, I found Gertrude. Eventually. But yeah, when Jon and Tim came out in the Archives, Jane Prentiss was there and she attacked them. They were pretty bad off before…Elias finally set off the CO2 system.”

Tim looks down at his hands—or more accurately, Sasha realizes, at one of his hands, since his other arm is still draped around Martin’s shoulders. She wonders if it’s to comfort Martin or to reassure himself. “Are we lucky, then?”

“Yes,” Martin mutters. “Extremely.”

“You’re lucky, too,” Martin Prime says. “Trust me. It wasn’t…Jon’s right, just because I didn’t come away with physical scars doesn’t mean I got off unhurt. And that was when things started going bad for us all.”

“So how do we stop the rest?” Sasha asks. “Are you all going to tell us what happened so we can avoid it?”

“Yes, I think so, but I’d really like to only have to go over it once?” Martin Prime glances in the direction of the door again. “And most of them I wasn’t there for. He’s told me about them, but…I wasn’t there.”

“But what were they?” Sasha persists. “Just how he got hurt? How he got the scars?”

Martin Prime takes a deep breath and curls his hands into tight fists. “Broadly, yes, they’re how he was scarred. They’re…they were the encounters with the Fears that marked him.”

Sasha tilts her head to one side. “Like what Michael said about you—that you’d been marked?”

Martin Prime nods. “To be marked by a Fear is to feel it, all the way through to your soul. Sometimes it’s physical, sometimes not. Mine aren’t…at least, not really.” He runs a hand through his hair, seemingly without noticing. It’s the first time Sasha realizes how much grey is streaked through his curls.

Martin swallows audibly. “How…how many fears have marked you?”

“Four, I think. Three for sure. I’m not altogether sure about whether or not the Stranger actually marked me or not.” Martin Prime tilts his head to one side. “You’ve only been marked by two, though, and…I never got the mark of the Corruption. My others were the Lonely and the Spiral, and of course the Beholding.”

“What about us?” Sasha asks. “In your timeline, I mean. How many were we marked by?”

Martin Prime hesitates. “Tim…I think he was four as well. The Beholding, obviously, we were all marked by that one as soon as we set foot in the Archives. At least I—I think that’s how that worked. Or at least as soon as we put our voices on those tapes. Then the Corruption—Jane Prentiss’ attack—and he was with me when I got tricked into entering the Spiral’s domain, so it marked him too. And I’m pretty sure he was marked by the Stranger. I can’t say when, but I’m fairly sure he had been.”

Sasha waits, then prompts, “And me?”

Martin Prime takes a deep breath. “I honestly don’t know, Sasha. If I had to guess, I’d say two. Three at most, but I don’t know if your encounter with Michael really counts as a mark. Honestly, I wouldn’t have known the Corruption had actually marked you if you hadn’t mentioned that you could hear the worms singing.”

Sasha huffs. “I’m not sure what surprises me more—that I didn’t get more marks, or that you didn’t.”

“I spent more time at the Institute than I did actually tracking things down,” Martin Prime replies. “Someone had to keep the Archives running properly, and, well, that fell on me. Our Tim was…he had a project of his own he was focusing on.”

“And me?” Sasha asks again.

Martin Prime looks in her direction for a long moment. His face is tight with pain. “You’re really going to make me say it,” he says flatly.

“Sash—” Tim begins.

“Yes,” Sasha says over whatever it is Tim’s going to protest. “Whatever reason I avoided all that…don’t I deserve to know?”

“You died, Sasha,” Martin Prime says sharply. “You didn’t get marked by more entities because you died. You were torn to pieces by a—a thing that took your place, replaced you in our memories so that we didn’t even know you were gone. We spent almost a year believing that it was you, and finding out that it wasn’t nearly destroyed all three of us. Worse was finding out that Elias knew all along and didn’t tell us because he wanted to see what it would do to Jon, and damn the effect on Tim or me.”

Okay. Sasha really should have known that. She heard him describe the painting, after all, she even thought about not wearing her favorite shirt again because of it. She knew she was dead, and Tim too; it’s obviously why they didn’t come back with Martin Prime and Jon Prime. But something in her wanted to hear Martin Prime say it out loud, and she’s not sure she likes what that says about her. She bites down hard on her tongue to keep from asking about Tim’s death. That’s not hers to ask, and she’s almost sure its going to be something the Jons need to be there for too.

After a moment of awkward silence, Tim gets up from the sofa. “I’m getting us all tea,” he says, his voice unusually subdued. “I think we’re going to need it.”

“Do you…need a hand?” Martin pushes himself to a standing position.

Tim looks like he’s going to refuse, then nods. “Sure, c’mon.”

Sasha watches them go. Martin is walking well enough, if a little stiffly, but Tim still hovers just behind him, not touching but there to catch him if he falls. It’s almost funny how flustered Martin gets when Tim looks after him, too. For a moment, Sasha is tempted to ask Martin Prime about that—if it’s Tim he has the crush on—but that feels a little bit like a betrayal of Martin, to take away his choice to tell her. And she’s still stinging a bit from the way Martin Prime flung the answer to her last question at her.

After a moment of silence, Martin Prime sighs heavily. “I’m sorry for saying it like that.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Sasha replies. “Not like I didn’t know the answer. I—I don’t know why I had to make you say it when I knew I’d died during your attack on the Institute.”

“I’m beginning to see why Gertrude Robinson expected you’d be appointed Archivist after her. You’re…a lot like she was. That’s not necessarily an insult, mind, but that’s not necessarily a compliment either.”

From what Sasha remembers of Gertrude Robinson—which isn’t much—she can understand that. They sit in silence for a while, listening to the clattering of mugs from the kitchen, before she finally says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, but I reserve the right not to answer.”

“What’s it like? Being blind, I mean.”

Martin Prime tilts his head to one side. “Are you asking me in clinical terms or in more general ‘how does it feel’ terms?”

“Both?”

Martin Prime smiles, briefly. “Fair enough.” He pauses for a moment, as if considering his options. “In the strictly literal sense…it’s like being in a room with really thick blackout curtains over the window. Sometimes there are…textures, maybe, to the darkness? Only if there’s a really bright light. For the most part, though, it’s just…darkness.” He takes off his glasses and holds them out to Sasha. “Here, take a look.”

Curious, Sasha does. She holds Martin Prime’s glasses up to the light, then removes her own and slides on Martin Prime’s. The strength of the prescription knocks her backwards against the sofa and makes her head swim. She takes them off, blinking, and puts them back in Martin Prime’s outstretched hand. “In other words, you were basically blind before all this.”

“It’s just that the glasses don’t help anymore,” Martin Prime confirms. He settles them back on his face anyway, which Sasha understands. They’ve got to be a comfort. “Not being able to see…I can work with that. It’s just the added layer of there not even being blurry shapes in front of me, and, well, Mum was a light sleeper, so I kind of got used to moving carefully and without turning on any lights when I was growing up. Moving around I can do, although I’m sure you noticed me running into things a lot over the last couple weeks because I don’t know there’s a table or a stack of books between me and where I’m trying to get. But it’s…it’s disconcerting to not know if someone’s in the room, or be able to see what they’re doing when there’s a silence. I can’t read faces or see hand gestures. I can still tell when someone is looking at me, but I can’t tell who, or even what direction it’s coming from. And there’s—there’s so much I took for granted that I won’t ever see again. Tim’s smile, Jon’s eyes, the sunlight sparkling on the Thames, the moon rising over the city.” He’s silent for a moment. “I didn’t even remember what you looked like. The—the Not-Sasha? It looked different, it sounded different. It had to, because whenever it takes someone’s place, there’s always one or two people who—who remember the person as they were before, only no one believes them.”

“Which is how it feeds its patron’s fear,” Sasha guesses. “The Stranger?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Martin Prime nods. “I recognized your voice when I got back, only because we—we had a few recordings you were in from before. Your statement, your teasing Jon about the pronunciation of ‘calliope’, the recording Tim did on Jon’s birthday…a couple more you were on. But even having seen that—painting or whatever, I still couldn’t put a face to the voice. I only knew what you looked like in shadow and the most terrified you’d ever been in your life. I knew the Not-Sasha wasn’t what you looked like, but…I had to get Jon to describe you last night.”

Sasha glances in the direction of the kitchen, to make sure Tim and Martin aren’t coming back, but she hasn’t heard the kettle yet. “What did—it look like? The Not-Me? What did it make you think I looked like?”

“She—it—was…well, for starters, it was short. Petite, I think, is the right word. At least a head shorter than Jon and scrawny on top of it. Blonde hair in a shag cut, green eyes. No glasses.” Martin Prime pauses. “Only drank green tea.”

Sasha, who admittedly has a serious caffeine addiction, pulls a face. “How’d she drink it?”

“With cream,” Martin Prime answers. He takes a deep breath. “Don’t tell Jon, but…actually, there was a little part of me that was kind of relieved when we found out it wasn’t really, well, you. The first day we were back in the Archives after the attack, it was just the two of us, and…I made a cup of tea for both of us, we were both stressed out, so I thought it would help. I thought I made it like I always did, but…when I gave it to her, she took a sip, all but winced, and asked me if I’d made it for Jon or Tim. That’s when she ‘reminded’ me that she only drank green tea with cream. It—it threw me. Badly. I spent the next three months second-guessing myself at every turn, about the stupidest things, because if I could forget something like how one of my friends like their tea, what else was I forgetting? What else was I doing wrong?” He shakes his head. “Honestly, it was hard to shake that even after we knew it wasn’t our Sasha, but at least I could convince myself that there was no good reason for me to know how it would like tea. Even though, supposedly, it replaced all our memories of her—you—with the ones it wanted us to have.”

Sasha hears the unspoken question and considers leaving it, or forcing him to actually say it aloud, but honestly, she’s put him through enough already this morning. “I can’t stand green tea. I’m more one for coffee, actually, but when I do drink tea, it’s black with lots of sugar. Tim suggested once that you just heat up a cup of syrup and call it a day.”

Martin Prime’s face lights up at that. “I did remember it right then! Christ, thank you. You have no idea…it’s been eating away at me for ages. I know it’s ridiculous in the grand scheme of things, but…”

But a big part of Martin’s identity is wrapped up in his ability to care for others, and naturally thinking he got it wrong would set him atilt. “Why leave you that, though?” Sasha asks curiously. “If you couldn’t remember anything else about—me—why remember just how I like my tea?”

“Well…I mean, I worked with you every day, if I’d remembered all about you, I’d have gone to Jon straightaway, or—probably not to Elias, but maybe. I didn’t…know I shouldn’t trust him then. If I’d laid down Amy Patel’s statement in front of Jon and pointed out the parallels, there’s a chance he’d have believed me, which would’ve ruined everything for it. So the one person it chose to remember you as you really were was someone who didn’t see you every day, or at least didn’t work with you closely enough to be suspicious. And—” Martin Prime swallows. “Part of the Stranger is that fear that you—you don’t know someone as well as you ought to. So what better way to make me afraid than to make me doubt such a fundamental part of our interaction? I-I mean, it wasn’t human. It might not have liked tea at all. Maybe it just picked something at random that was so different from what you liked that it would throw me off-balance.”

Suddenly, Sasha gets it. “That’s why you said you might have been marked by the Stranger! You don’t think that counts? If it made you that…paranoid and afraid?”

“Maybe? It was worse for Jon. It made him so paranoid he thought one of us was trying to kill him, and that didn’t count as his mark, if we’re going by the paintings.”

“Oh, please.” Sasha waves a hand. “Jon’s probably paranoid because of finding Gertrude’s shot-up body in the tunnels. That’s not a supernatural death, that’s something provable and possibly human. Was I—or the Not-Me—his top suspect?”

“No?” Martin Prime’s forehead puckers in a frown. “Actually, you—it—was the one he suspected least. At least at first. That doesn’t mean he trusted you, mind, but he did at least think you the least likely suspect.”

“Then the Not-Me didn’t mark him because it wasn’t what made him paranoid,” Sasha says. “If he’d been in his right mind, he’d have suspected me most of all because I put in for the Archivist position, so the logical conclusion would have been that I killed Gertrude Robinson in hopes of getting it and then might be out to kill him so I could take the job from him. He was on edge because of what happened, and what I’m guessing was the general atmosphere of mistrust and tension in the Archives at the time probably made it worse—but it wasn’t the Not-Me’s doing. You, on the other hand, were directly targeted by it, so any paranoia you felt was because of it. Hence the mark.”

Martin Prime blinks in her direction. “That…God, you’re right. I never thought of that before.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Do me a favor?”

“Don’t mention that to Jon, either?”

“Don’t—yeah. He’s got by all this time by reassuring himself that he wouldn’t have acted like that if the Not-Sasha hadn’t been there, but…” Martin Prime sighs and looks up at her. “I will tell him. It’s not fair not to. But just…let me do it?”

“Of course,” Sasha promises. “Despite how I’ve been acting tonight, I can keep my mouth shut.”

“I know. You knew I’d lied on my CV and never said anything.”

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, making Martin Prime flinch slightly. Sasha looks briefly over her shoulder. “They’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Martin Prime hums in acknowledgment. “Anything else you want to ask me while it’s just the two of us?”

Sasha can’t help but laugh. “Are you sure you don’t remember me?”

“Hey, I didn’t say the Not-Sasha was completely different from you, necessarily. It just looked and sounded different.”

“Fair point.” Sasha considers. She looks in the direction of the kitchen again and thinks of the paintings Martin Prime described. She looks back at Martin Prime and says softly, “Did we suffer? Either of us?”

Martin Prime swallows hard. “You, yes. The—the Not-Sasha bragged about how much it hurt you. Tim…I don’t know. The actual moment of his death might have been quick, but he was definitely suffering beforehand. Maybe not physically, but still, he was hurting and neither Jon nor I could do anything to fix it. Believe me, I tried.”

Sasha bites her lip and nods before remembering he can’t see it. “If you couldn’t fix it…I don’t think it was something that could be fixed.”

Martin Prime smiles. “Thanks, Sasha.”

A moment later, Tim pokes his head in the living room and announces, “Here we come. Tea’s up.”

He and Martin come into the room, Martin concentrating hard on holding onto a mug with each hand and Tim carrying two in each hand like it’s no big deal. He sets them down on the coffee table, then picks one up and hands it to Sasha with an overdramatic flourish. “Your hummingbird food, milady.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Sasha drawls, accepting the mug. It’s not the one she had her coffee in earlier, thank God, but she does wonder just how many mugs Tim has.

Martin sets down one of his mugs, then sits on the sofa with the other carefully cradled in his bandaged hands. Tim picks up the other mug and presents it to Martin Prime. “And here, this one’s yours. We picked a mug with a sculpted handle, so you should be able to tell it apart from the others if you set it down.”

“Oh, thank you.” Martin Prime reaches out hesitantly. Tim meets him halfway, settling the cup on his palm and turning it slightly so that it brushes his fingers and he’s able to wrap them around the handle. “As long as you’re not making me drink out of a horse’s ass.”

It’s probably a combination of the fact that it’s a joke at just the right time and the unexpectedness of Martin Prime using a profanity, even a mild and correctly-applied one, but the heavy mood shatters like spun sugar. Sasha and Martin both burst into giggles at Tim’s exaggerated expression of shock as his eyes go back and forth from Martin Prime to the white mug with a sculpted face and painted horn on one side and a sweeping, rainbow-colored tail for a handle on the other.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives

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maddiefriendlovesbilly · 4 years ago

Note

Spencer x Ghost?

Spencer x Ghost

(AAAAA- it has been months since you sent this to me, and all i can say is im so sorry) Side note I have my friend @lethalbreadkills helping me with this one!

For reference: Maddie (maddiefriendlovesbilly) is green, Jimmy (lethalbreadkills) is red (((its 4:30 at the time i have joined this so im dead braincell wise sorry yall))) and Orange is stuff we decided together :3

Also this is so very chaotic im so sorry for this anon but this has been in my fuckin drafts for SO LONG and this is the only way its getting finished (its now 5 am uwu) im so sorry for all the shitposting i do its a mess. I shouldnt have been allowed here. (we finished at about 5:30 am its hell <3)

Sphost? Ghencer?? Sphoster??? I adore and despise them all equally.

We have decided that it should be BeanieGhost

Anyway I think this ship is really cute

They’re both so neurotic I can only imagine the chaos that would ensue

One of them starts a rant on some topic and the other joins the hell in

I’m an advocate of LETTING SPENCER INFO DUMP BECAUSE HE DESERVES IT OKAY

And Ghost would let this dream come true???

I would die for both of them and if Spencer told me I had to die I wouldn’t even complain, no questions I’d just be like “Aight.” I trust him that much.

(Not sure I trust Ghost’s judgment enough to do that unquestioningly; sorry Ghost)

Back on topic

I can’t imagine these guys on anything that comes close to society’s definition of a date

It’d be more like “hey you wanna come on this hunt with us?” “maybe, depends if there’ll be snacks” or like chilling in Spence’s room binging the entire star trek: original series in one sitting or “oops sorry about that level 11 entity that attached to my soul and is now wreaking havoc in your house, wanna make out later to make up for it?” “Fine but you also have to play three rounds of Call of Duty with me afterward”

They wouldn’t be romantic often but like highkey? I can see them throwing themselves into the line of fire for each other with a recklessness only they could survive

We can’t forget that Spencer is a more than 60,000-year-old overpowered demon/god/entity/thing, which, yes, could throw a slight wrench in this ship for multiple reasons, but I choose to make angst out of it instead.

Side note: Ghost is a chronic conspiracy theorist (and you can’t tell me otherwise) and every once in awhile Spencer will offhandedly say something like “Y’know I helped the Egyptians build the pyramids” and Ghost just goes fucking feral.

Look, I’m not saying Spencer IS touch-starved and most likely has issues creating and developing relationships and therefore avoids interpersonal connection, especially offline, but I AM saying he is prime material for it. (thats a lie thats exactly what shes saying don’t believe it) (I’m projecting okay dont judge me) (loser imagine projecting)

Imagine with me for a second: Why does Spencer willingly stay with a family who locks him in their basement with only minor complaining? He’s a near all-powerful entity just released into the world for Spence’s-sake - If he wanted to, there’s no telling what havoc he could wreak! So why doesn’t he? Why would someone so powerful, so terrifying, so dangerous that a group of people decided to seal him away forever stay with the first family he finds in sub-par conditions for years - especially someone who’s seen to be as high-maintenance as Spencer? Let me hit you with a theory: He’s chasing the feelings of validation, safety, and love - no matter how rarely it’s shown - that a family can provide. Being socially isolated for even a few years can do a number to a person’s psyche (I should know, I’m projecting onto this character right now), let alone thousands.

Now maybe Ghost can’t match thousands of years in isolation, but damn if he doesn’t have a few years of crippling loneliness on his record too.

I can see the two of them learning how to be vulnerable around others together, emotionally and physically; learning how to open up and how to talk through issues; and some third point, because points are better in threes.

(May I suggest that these losers are both trans but thats just me adding in my own projection lmao)

(You absolutely may)

Imagine the conversation thats just “so i have a murderer in my head thats an ass” “rip to u ig sounds like a you problem :///”

imo spence has trouble expressing emotions other than like,,, annoyance and haughtiness, its like sort of his go-to defence, so showing Ghost his emotions is a big step for him

I hear you, and i say yes good. (found this one headcanon that i kinda live by where he was uh, either autistic or adhd i dont remember but theres that too) OH yeah that would be at thing huh. Spencer: *is emotionally vulnerable @ ghost* ghost: oh shit im trusted??? Oh fuck uh.

Yeah so like…. Ghost and spence showing emotion at eachother is kind of :flushed: ghost be like: whats an emotion. Imagine having emotions fuciiing loser hhaha,,,, *laughs nervously*

Ghost is also very emotionally distant with most people so it would probably be like “what??? The fuck?? Emotions?????? You have those???”

Ghost and Spencer be like *gay*

So another idea is that maybe Spencer realizes Ghost doesnt play any games [like the uncultured SWINE he is] and decides he must [remedy] this and so he introduces him to like, nintendo first. (some bitches thought that said nintendo fortnite. Im bitches) and theyre playing like, mario kart or smash or smth and Ghost gets really [fuckin into it]

Ghost and spencer: *literally in eachothers laps playing fucking wii tennis*

Spooker: what are the- *TOAST FUCKING SLAPS A HAND ACROSS HIS MOUTH* shut up you dont wanna know what happens when its mentsonssbfdjfsd (sorry i had a stroke uwuwuwuw)

(Theyre in denial we don’t judge in this house)

They will not hesitate to play dirty either, they will straight up push each other over and vaguely flirt

Ghost is losing and straight up fucking goes “ur hot” and spencer actually dies and boom ghost is the winner. sparkle emoji Magic sparkle emoji

“I am Not a HomoSexual:™:” “Yeah, sure you aren’t” “Screw off”

Pet-names-ish: Asshole, Gaymer-Boy, casual insults, Mr. Spirit Bitch, Mistake, Loves Ghosts More Than His Boyfriend What A Fucking Loser aka Gay-ass

Pros:

They both open up a lot most likely. Gain someone to trust since they’ve sort of been through the same things (though on much different scales)

I can see soft hours of hanging in each other’s bedrooms

Spencer is a tsundere you cant tell me otherwise youre just a coward if you disagree

So is Ghost so this can only go well

Every time Ghost has to solve a case at the Acachallas Spence is just peaking out from his basement like “the fuck is this?? Hot Man??????”

Enemies to lovers 500k (Gets Hot and Steamy :flushed: NOT CLICKBAIT!!!!11!!!!! 18+!!!!!!! GAY LOVE StORY!!!!!!) Lemonz!!! Made from teh Sexiest of Wattpaders UWUWUWU YAOI Boys Love don’t like don’t read!! (this is so fucking stupid jkfnd) I hate this with a passion Q^Q. All my years of being a basic watpad fanboy have helped me to the moment i bring maddie to tears

The steam is just like,,,,, holding hands and being angy all the fuckin time the steam is literal because their anger translates into actual steam

Cons:

Their angst has nowhere to go and it just sits between them like two raccoons at a dumpster-style mexican standoff

They really start off hating each other huh. Like, I know this can still lead to healthy relationships but neither of them are very good at healthy relationships with people he hasn’t known for his Whole Life so that’s an Oh No.

They totally feed off of each other’s stupidity (but this could be seen as a pro too so take that as you will) as well as anger - im talking one-upping each other kinda shit

Its ridiculous honestly how intense it gets, like they straight up need intervention sometimes because they dont realize they can just STOP

Conclusions:

I think this would be a relationship that would that a lot of time and hard work to make work, but i think in the end it would be really super cute!! Like it would make no fuckin sense to anyone else but somehow they’d understand each other and help each other through their similar issues. Also theyre both big nerds in different ways and i think they’d have just ranting sessions back and forth over and over and it would be soft!!!!! So yeah, i think it would work, at least, i want it to :D

So. Maybe?? I feel like it could, but they’d need to work pretty hard to make it healthy and not constant fighting. Could be stupid amounts of cute and wholesome but also could be stupid amounts of oh no and pain, depending on how the two act. If they learned how to get along with each other and work past their differences it could be super cute and soft. Just a very, er, bumpy beginning. And middle. And end. (this makes me very nervous,,,,why did you mention an end) (wouldnt you like to know weather boy) (TvT) UFDUNS bumpy but soft . Agreeing with the loser gay, want this to work it’d be interesting :3

#spencer x ghost #jess writes #ishhhhh???????#venturiantale #venturiantale pie #johnny ghost #spencer acachalla #johnny toast #jimmy casket #fred spooker #let me know if you enjoyed this or not it was intense #sr #ship review #ship reviews #vt ships #vt ship reviews #vt ship review #vt sr

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hysterialevi · 4 years ago

Text

His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 4

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

Author’s note: Thank you guys for all the support you’ve given so far! The messages and comments I’ve received have all been so kind and caring. It really means the world to me. Hope you enjoy this part :)

Previous chapter | Next chapter

This story is also on AO3

LATER THAT DAY

AURORA BASIN

“You ever wonder about eternity?” Mrs. Downes’ voice echoed in Arthur’s head, ringing like a distant bell.

“...You should.”

These days, it felt like that was all he could think about. With Hosea dead, Marston gone, and Dutch’s life hanging by a thread, Arthur often found himself pondering what awaited them in the near-future.

Their gang was pretty much done, despite how much Dutch tried to deny it. He may have acted as if they were still in their prime and running around like in the good ol’ days, but with both the Pinkertons and Skinner Brothers crying out for blood on the horizon, Arthur didn’t see much of a future for them at all. If anything, the only thing he saw coming for the Van der Lindes... was an end.

They were already living on borrowed time as it was. Their gang had experienced so many close calls and damned so many lives, that Arthur figured they were due to pay for their crimes sooner or later.

He had lived long enough to see that there was no such thing as getting away with a sin, and considering how things had been going for them lately, he assumed that their time would run out before they even realized it.

Civilization was the new foundation for America... and without anywhere else to run to anymore, Arthur only hoped he’d be able to wake Dutch up before it was too late.

Otherwise... he didn’t know what they would do.

Scribbling down a few more lines into his journal, Arthur threw together a simple portrait of Dutch as he quietly relaxed by the campfire, allowing his mind to drift away with the soft crackling that emitted from the flames.

He had just finished his heated conversation with the old man and left him to rest in the cabin, but even after calming him down, Arthur couldn’t deny that he was still on edge.

The way he acted back there... it was nothing like the Dutch he knew. In Arthur’s head, he still pictured the outlaw as a paternal figure. He saw Dutch as someone who cared for others and dared to question what everyone else accepted as their perpetual reality.

He was a guardian. A father. A dreamer. A lost soul trying to find his way back home.

But the man in the cabin? ...He was nothing but a stranger to Arthur. His mind and mannerisms both remained a mystery, and the added layer of insanity on top of all that did nothing except further his paranoia.

His life revolved solely around greed and pride these days, and if Arthur didn’t know any better, he would’ve said that Dutch himself didn’t even care anymore.

They both knew their life as outlaws was done for. That much was obvious. But the difference was -- only one of them was willing to accept it.

“Spoke with Dutch about the robbery today,” Arthur wrote next to his drawing. “...It didn’t go so well. His illness keeps getting worse, and his mind ain’t doing much better neither. He’s deranged. Lost. Nothing but a memory of his true self.”

“It just makes me wonder how life is gonna be after he passes. I didn’t say it to Dutch’s face back at the cabin... but one of my biggest fears in life is the idea of being left alone. Family’s pretty much the only thing I live for nowadays, and without anyone else to stand by my side, part of me wonders if the world is just gonna stop turning when Dutch dies.”

“I don’t even know if I’ll want to stay with the gang at that point. I suppose I could try to make contact with John and the others once again. Try to live a normal life. But knowing Abigail, she’d probably want nothing to do with me. They have Jack to take care of, after all, and it’s no secret that Abigail despises anything to do with criminals. Not that I blame her.”

“I guess I’ll just have to wait and see where this goes. I ain’t got that many options left in life, that’s true. But that don’t mean I’m not gonna try to do the right thing. We was born to be outlaws. And it’s clear to me now that that’s how we’ll die too. But I may as well try to make amends while I still have the opportunity.”

“It’s the only thing I can do at this point.”

Setting his pencil down with a conflicted sigh, Arthur stuck it in between the pages and shut his journal closed, shoving the thing back into his satchel. He figured he had wasted enough time skulking around in his head for one day, and decided it would be best if he just focused on preparing for the bank robbery ahead.

There were weapons to load, guns to clean, plans to lay out... and judging by how Dutch was doing just a few minutes ago, Arthur assumed most of the work would fall on him and Micah. That was usually how things went.

Before he could return to the task at hand however, a pair of men approached him.

“Morgan!” Shay called out as Bill Williamson walked alongside him.

Arthur mentally groaned to himself, admittedly not in the mood for socializing. “Shay. Bill.”

Mackintosh had a seat at the campfire, making himself comfortable on a crate. “Heard you had a talk with Dutch. How’d it go?”

Arthur took his hat off, combing a tired hand through his hair. “About as well as you’d expect.”

Bill joined in. “So, we’re robbin’ the bank then?”

He put his hat back on. “Yep. Looks like it.”

Shay was obviously disappointed by the news and shook his head in disapproval, glancing at the cabin. “...He’s gonna get everyone killed, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed in a defeated tone. “Look, I tried to get through to him, but his mind’s been set. It’s clear that he ain’t leavin’ Blackwater anytime soon, and if we try to push any harder, I’m worried he’ll kill someone. Dutch already pulled a gun on me when I talked to him. We’ll just have to do our best during this robbery.”

Shay stared at Arthur for a moment, evidently not reassured.

“...We have seven people, Arthur. Seven. And two are staying behind to guard the camp. That’s four outlaws and a dying man against what, a dozen lawmen? Pinkertons, too? This robbery is gonna be a suicide mission.”

Arthur rested a hand on his knee. “Well, we don’t have a choice. Alright? I don’t like it either, but no matter how unstable he might be, Dutch is still the boss. If he says we’re gonna rob the bank, then...” his eyes fell to the ground, “...that’s what we’ll do. You don’t wanna do it, you can always sit it out.”

“No, I’ll come.” Shay confirmed. “But you can’t deny that this is a stupid idea. We should be movin’ away from the Pinkertons. Not straight towards them. That was kinda the whole reason we even bothered travelin’ this far west.”

Mackintosh let out a breath and backed down for a moment, dragging a hand down his face. “Ah... I’m sorry, Arthur. I dunno why I’m puttin’ all this on you. I know it ain’t your fault. You tried your best to talk to Dutch, so, really... I should be thanking you. I just wish he would’ve listened.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, standing up from the campfire. “...Yeah. Me too. Sadly, my words seem to always fall on deaf ears these days. Feels like no one’s listenin’ to us. Not even ourselves.”

Strolling away from the fire, Arthur suddenly stopped in his tracks when he noticed that someone was missing from the vicinity. He assumed that everyone was at camp and getting ready for their upcoming job in the next few days, but upon further observation, the gang appeared to be one man short.

Arthur turned back to Shay and Bill, quirking a brow at them.

“Hey, have either of you boys seen Micah?”

~~~~~~~~~~

MEANWHILE

BLACKWATER SALOON

Laying the weathered piece of paper down on the desk, Micah presented his roughly-drawn map of Aurora Basin to Isaac as the young man relaxed in a wooden chair, studying the map with one hand and holding onto his rifle with the other. He and Micah may have been partners for the time being, but that didn’t mean he trusted the outlaw for one second.

“...Aurora Basin.” Isaac read aloud, his eyes skimming over the text. “So this is your camp?”

Micah nodded, crossing his arms. “Sure is, cowpoke. You ever heard of it?”

The young man shook his head. “No.”

“Good. Then that means I chose a good spot. Or not, depending on how you approach it.”

Isaac pulled his chair closer, taking a better look at the map. “Well, what’s the best way in? Is it well-defended?”

Micah rested a hand on the desk. “Overall, I’d say yes. There ain’t nothin’ but mountains on the west side of the camp, and the region of Tall Trees completely envelopes the other. If you wanna attack the gang, you’re gonna have to get real close. Unfortunately for you though, there’s only one way in.”

“I thought so. Is it this path here?” He pointed to the road on the eastern side of the map.

“Yep. That’s where we post our guards. We’ve always got two men standing there just in case anyone... unfriendly shows up.”

Isaac leaned back, contemplating his next move. “So... there’s no way in from the east or the west. What about the north and south? Is it possible I could sneak in from there?”

Micah rejected the idea. “Surrounded by mountains too, I’m afraid.”

The young man furrowed his brow. “Well, shit. Looks like this is gonna more difficult than I thought. What about the guards who are posted at the entrance? When do they switch out? That might be the only opening I can seize.”

“Every couple hours or so. But they don’t switch at the same time, so there’s always gonna be at least one person there who can see you.”

The outlaw offered an alternative. “Though... it might interest you to know that the gang’s headed out for a robbery in two days.”

Isaac perked his head up. “It is? Where?”

Micah chuckled. “That information’s irrelevant to you. The part you should care about is the fact that everyone’ll be gone for a while. The only people who’ll be left are the two guards at the entrance. But I’m sure a tough boy such as yourself can handle them just fine. Can’t you?”

Isaac rubbed his chin in thought. “I should be able to sneak in, but I need to know more about the camp itself first. Where do you keep your supplies?”

Micah pointed to a group of wagons stationed near the hitching posts. “Here. That’s where we store most of our food, weapons, medicine, ammo... you name it.”

The young man diverted his gaze to another location. “And what about this cabin here?”

The outlaw followed his line of sight. “Oh, that? That’s where our leader lives.”

“You mean Dutch van der Linde?” Isaac clarified. “I’ve heard he’s quite the unpredictable man.”

Micah sighed. “Unpredictable, paranoid, and dying. The deadliest combination. I’d suggest leavin’ him alone for now.”

“...I’ll keep that in mind. But tell me more about this robbery. When are you boys setting out? How long d’you reckon you’ll be gone?”

The outlaw took a moment to think. “Oh, I dunno... about an hour, I’d guess? Not a lotta time for you to find the camp and do what you need to do, but it’s the only chance you’ll get. As for when we’re leaving, we usually start robberies early in the morning. We don’t wanna give the law a chance to wake up properly before the chaos ensues.”

Isaac stood up from the desk. “That works for me.”

Micah eyed the young man with a cautionary glare. “...Just remember who helped you get this done, princess. You may be payin’ me, but I still got guns of my own. I won’t hesitate to use ‘em if you leave me no other choice. Understand?”

Isaac took the map and folded it in his hand, casually assuring the outlaw. “Of course, Micah. I won’t forget.”

“Good. Then I think I’ve given you your eighteen dollars’ worth of information. You wanna know more, you’ll have to pay more. For now, though...” Micah made his way to the exit, resting a hand on the doorknob, “...all I can say is good luck.”

“Wait.” Isaac said, stopping the other man before he could leave.

Micah lazily glanced over his shoulder, clearly eager to get out of here. “What is it?”

Isaac took a seat on the edge of the bed, placing his rifle on his lap. He seemed a little too calm for Micah’s liking, and the next words that came out of his mouth did nothing to ease the man.

“...Don’t eat the food after you return from the robbery.” He warned plainly, obviously thinking of something.

“Otherwise, it won’t be pretty.”

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #isaac morgan #dutch van der linde #Micah Bell #Bill Williamson #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 oc

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skywailer · 4 years ago

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My issue with Kylo’s redemption is that it’s not in his character. No matter how often he’s offered redemption he chooses to reject it. He’s committed to rejecting redemption. There was no reason to accept it that he didn’t already have. He wouldn’t turn after his dad offered to forgive and help him. He wouldn’t turn after removing his abuser. He wouldn’t turn for... the random scavenger who’s apparently his soulmate or some AO3 nonsense... But his mommy kicks the bucket and Ben Solo is back?

You sound sincere, and for that I will respond to this. However, whatever I’m about to say is just a reiteration of what many, many people have been saying since The Force Awakens premiered about the foreshadowing for Ben Solo’s redemption. For that reason, forgive me if this comes across cursory towards the end, because there are plenty of meta and discourse posts you can find if you are interested. I will respond to each of your messages separately, and number them.

1: Redemption is completely in Ben Solo’s character, and it is not something that can be “offered” to him as if it’s something to accept on a silver platter. Redemption is a process, not a single act, and it has to be initiated from within. It’s also not a linear progression, especially not for a character that is not only a villain but an abuse victim/survivor. He has been mentally conditioned from childhood by a physical and mental abuser (Snoke/Palpatine) to believe that his family sees him as a monster and will only ever see him as a monster- which is then unintentionally proven to Ben on the night his uncle holds a lightsaber like a guillotine over his sleeping head.

He does not follow his father off of starkiller base because, as he said he was being “torn apart” and did not believe that going with his father would solve or save anything. At best, he would go with Han, thinking that he could actually be on the light side and the struggle would be over only to “prove something else” (as he says in TROS when Rey realizes she has a dark side) and have his hopes dashed again. At worst, he would go with Han and it would be a trap to kill him- just as his uncle tried and as Snoke has conditioned him to believe. When Han warns Ben that he’s only being used by Snoke for his power, Ben suspects the same of the Rebellion and his family. When he rids himself of his abuser, he doesn’t turn because, again, he does not think his mother could ever forgive him (as revealed very vocally in TROS when he states “you’ve proven something else, and now you can’t go back to her. Just like I can’t.”)

Fear, and the firm belief that he can, with Rey, create a “better” world keeps him in the hell he knows vs. the hell he doesn’t. This is a pattern of behavior in abuse-survivors who have trust issues and self-hate, and it is not something that can just “poof” be solved by a “come home. We miss you” or even, had he gotten it, an “I love you”. I’ve had years to break down my own mental conditioning of abuse and I still see regressive behaviors in myself. People go to years of therapy to deal with their negative reactions to outreach attempts from family and friends. If there’s anything realistic about Star Wars, its the characterization and choices of Ben Solo.

So, when his mother dies (an emotional wound) and his soulmate strikes him (a physical wound), this isn’t the “singular” event of change you’re making it out to be. Redemption arcs are a progression, not a one-n-done, and what is seen is just the final third lap in his journey. And there is foreshadowing and intention for the complete redemption arc from the beginning. In TFA, he is constantly shown in conflict with his position in the war (showing compassion for Rey, feeling a pull to the light, being torn apart) but chooses the dark and is literally split in half by the choice. In TLJ, he is physically wearing the burden of his choice, transitions in the movie connect him with his father (”where’s Han?” transitioning to Ben in the elevator being a prime example that comes to mind) and to redemption (”no one is ever really gone”/ “you’ll turn”), he shows compassion and empathy for Rey, and he had already made up his mind to save Rey from Snoke before they had ever entered the throne room. His last scene is him holding his father’s die, which fades as a reminder that what he has done cannot be undone but that his mother left those for him (not knowing they were not the real deal). And even before any of this foreshadowing and build-up, you have the character’s name. He is named after Leia’s Only Hope. His name, translated by Leia’s intention and the clear intention of the writers is: Only Hope Only. I saw this redemption coming from a mile away. It is not only in his character- it is his character.

2: This one is going to be cursory. This is Star Wars you’re talking about. Of course he gets redeemed for the feel good nature of it. He’s the son of Leia Organa and Han Solo, he’s a Skywalker, and he’s basically the ST’s version of Vader. Just like Vader wanted to team up with Luke to overthrow Palpatine and rule the galaxy together because of his warped dark-sider version of love, so did Ben. And, just like Vader was motivated by light-side love to save his son and redeemed himself after 0.5 seconds of build-up, Ben was motivated by light-side love to save his soulmate and redeemed himself after 10 minutes of build-up (or, in my opinion, three movies worth of build-up). A progression, I think. Albeit, a sad one as 99.99999% of people who saw Ben Solo getting redeemed hoped the arc would reach its pinnacle in the middle/towards the end of the film and have some flesh to it afterwards. Instead, he died. So. And you’re right. Literally not a soul in this sequel trilogy had organic character growth thanks to TROS. RIP good writing.

3: idk if you meant to say “detailing”? Not sure what that means. However, I’m not going to roll around with conspiracy theories about JJ or anyone changing anything in TFA or TLJ because, as far as I know, that’s conjecture. However, yes, reylo was intended from the beginning and it is clearly seen in TFA. Otherwise, it would not have been seen from miles away by so many people. I saw the foreshadowing and lining up of that story from the moment Ben said “what girl?” and it immediately transitioned to Rey saying “it’s the motivator!” However, people are so divided about, against, or tend to shy away from hoping for a canon enemies-to-lovers ship that some read it as a ‘crack ship’. It wasn’t. It never was. It was always intended. Just as Ben’s redemption was. TROS was just bad writing all around.

#long post #tw: abuse #sw #sw;text #sw;ct #p;asks #mail #hope you dont mind this being public but im posting it so i dont need to answer this again

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ask-jaghatai-khan · 5 years ago

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MK11 Roster ranked for Warhammer

// Since I’m on a Mortal Kombat kick. How would each character from the Mortal Kombat 11 vanilla roster fair in either Warhammer? I’m keeping it to the playable roster since all the DLC characters haven’t been revealed yet and I didn’t want to have this post be five miles long. Might do more in the future, however.

Let’s face it, most of these psychos are gonna do pretty well. They regularly get into punch-outs with gods. The biggest problem will likely be which attitudes get them singled out by their allies.

Jade

40k: Decently well. She has many of the makings of an Imperial Inquisitorial acolyte or an Eldar Exarch. Extreme combat skill and mild psychic power are usual marks of greatness. Also very good at subtle politicking. Might be a bit of a pushover though.

AoS: Even better! Less stigma over her magical abilities, slightly more reasonable allies, and less likely to have to fight power-armored super soldiers.

Erron Black

40k: You can already play as this guy in Dark Heresy. Pretty much any Rogue Trader would be happy to hire this guy, and he’s too stupid to be bribed with anything other than cash.

AoS: Limited opportunities due to lack of good personal guns. Might get on well in some kind of mercenary group from Chamon or Hysh, but his rogue nature still wouldn’t earn him many connections.

Kabal

40k: Super-speed and melee skill are good, but only get you so far. If nobody grabbed him as an assassin, he’d still make a killing as a gang boss, and I think he’d be fine with that.

AoS: Probably even better chances of success, but it’s gonna be sucky with those third-degree burns given the lack of things like high-end prosthetic rebreather masks.

Kung Lao

40k: Kung Lao is absolutely a Rogue Trader/Dark Heresy character. He’s gonna get a lot of weird looks, but assuming that hat can cut through power armor, he’ll probably get on just fine. His big mouth might earn him some enemies, though.

AoS: Again, since he uses a low-tech weapon and martial arts, he’s even better in a fantasy setting. The entire Shaolin Temple would do pretty well for themselves in the Mortal Realms.

Sub-Zero

40k: A cryomancer? Seems suspect of heresy. Then again, a cryomancer who hates the undead and can fight as good as an assassin? Seems like prime Inquisitorial material!

AoS: Nagash’s grip is cold, but if Sigmar can get the Lin Kuei on his side, he’s got a lot to gain. Kuai Liang is as great a leader as he is a warrior and mage.

Scorpion

40k: Absolutely corrupted by Chaos, but I think most Chaos Lords would still be reluctant to run into Hanzo Hasashi. Less of a chance he could redeem himself, but even more of a chance for him to wreak absolute havoc on anyone who tries and betray him. Hellfire is plentiful in 40k.

AoS: A better chance for redemption, and even more utility from his ninja skills on top of the hellfire. Whoever has their grips on Scorpion’s soul, whether it’s Nagash or Chaos, better double-check just how strong that grip is.

Cetrion

40k: She’s a god! On the scale of 40k, she’s at a bit of a disadvantage, but being a god is never gonna hurt. She better just steer clear of Slaanesh.

AoS: Again, she’s a god! Set up shop in Ghyran and kick back with Alarielle in the “kill absolutely anybody who messes with our utopia” clubhouse.

Frost

40k: Cryomancer cyborg assassin is hardly the weirdest profession in 40k, and her conniving nature should help her out plenty whether she wants to work with the AdMech, DarkMech, or some other group of bastards.

AoS: Shame she couldn’t keep the robot body, but cryomancer assassin is still more than enough to raise some hell in the Mortal Realms. Nagash’s clubhouse seems most her style.

Baraka

40k: This guy would do well as King Mook of a group of Chaos mutants. That’s pretty much what he is anyways.

AoS: Same meat, different sausage. Being a half-demon warlord may not make you immortal, but it’s hardly a disadvantage.

Raiden

40k: His character and storyline makes him a solid fit for a high-end Inquisitor. Psychic might and leadership skills, with a tendency to turn into a psychotic templar? Tell me that doesn’t sound like a classic Inquisitor.

AoS: As a storm-god, he’d get on even better. He might even have the makings of a mighty Sacrosanct wizard. He’s already attuned to Azyr!

D’Vorah

40k: By the standards of some xenos races, she’s not really a top concern, but D’Vorah knows this and would make the most of what she has. Everyone’s so concerned about Chaos and Tyranids, they don’t even notice when they’re suddenly overrun by the Kytinn.

AoS: Set up in some blighted corner of Ghyran, out of sight but with plenty of foolish heroes to snack on, D’Vorah would do about as well as she’s done in Outworld.

Jax

40k: Eat your heart out, Straken. Or rather, eat your arm off. Jax has all the makings of a Guard commander, though his heart might be a bit too soft to finish his career free of scars to his mind and soul.

AoS: I’m sure someone in Chamon or Hysh could hook the man up with some new arms. Either that, or he’d make for a good Stormcast!

Geras

40k: Who the hell is this guy? Does he work for the Necrons? The Ordo Chronos? Wherever he came from, that archaeotech is going to make him a nightmare for whoever gets in the way of his inscrutable goals.

AoS: Even weirder! He must be some Age of Myth construct left behind in Hysh. Maybe a fractured remnant of a lost God of Law? Either way, he’d probably be more akin to a terrain obstacle in Underworlds than a regular enemy.

Kano

40k: There’s about fifty of this bastard on every world in the Imperium. Maybe he’d help out Chaos, but at the end of the day the Black Dragon is all Kano needs. His smug mug is going to be on wanted posters from Terra to Ultramar.

AoS: Who the hell keeps smuggling Chaos Dwarf cannons into Azyr? What maniac stole a warehouse’s load of weaponry from Hammerhal and sold them to damn greenskins?! If that bastard even looks at a Stormvault I want at least three merc companies sent to hunt him down!

Cassie Cage

40k: The Imperium loves legacy careers! Explains where she gets all those fancy toys from. Inheriting her dad’s mouth is going to make her time in the Schola rough, though.

AoS: A loyal ranger best suited for exploring Stormvaults and hunting down powerful champions. Chaos Lords best not underestimate her, she’s more than meets the eye.

Kotal Kahn

40k: Thank god we managed to find a governor able to rein control of that sector. Not often someone can purge Chaos that efficiently, especially a Feral World-born. Keep an eye on him in case of further developments, however...

AoS: The last of the Osh-Tekk might not worship Sigmar, but he’s a mighty and ruthless ally in the fight against Chaos and undead encroachment. A powerful priest and warrior of the light.

Skarlet

40k: Chaos could always use more assassins. You’d think more people would be looking into blood magic, but the rarity of it just means less competition and counters. Skarlet is every Inquisitor’s worst nightmare.

AoS: Same blood, different vein! Powerful dark magic and assassin skills are hard to knock.

Sonya Blade

40k: A peerless and loyal leader of the Guard. Maybe her choice of friends isn’t the cleanest, but her results can hardly be blamed.

AoS: The Free Peoples always need more competent generals, and even mortal leaders are expected to be able to kick some ass one-on-one. Even if she gets demolished, I think Sigmar was waiting for an excuse to reforge her.

Johnny Cage

40k: Movie stars aren’t so popular in the Imperium, but shining examples of the might of the common man over the unknowable alien? That’s good, even if he never shuts up. Charisma and fighting skill will get you far even if you’re surrounded by enemies. Probably for the best he gets Sonya on his side, though.

AoS: Less likely to be killed for snarky blasphemy! Also everyone’s so damn serious all the time, mockery would probably make for as effective a weapon as magical fists.

Noob Saibot

40k: I swear I’ve seen this type of guy before in Chaos’ toolbox. A shadow-daemon sorcerer assassin? Subtlety is a rare trait among Chaos, so it might make for a powerful advantage.

AoS: There are some parts of Ulgu best avoided. Laugh at the name all you want, just not if you’re standing in the shadows.

Kollector

40k: Mutant or xenos, his ass-kissing skills will serve him well when he inevitably sets himself up with some Chaos Lord. Obviously without plentiful Forge Worlds to draw from, it would best suit your unholiness to hire someone who can scavenge much valuable plunder, yes?

AoS: Hardly different. Having a sticky-fingered mutant to oversee the finances of your kingdom leaves more time for a Chaos Lord to stick to taking skulls and planning conquests.

Kitana

40k: This character absolutely already exists in 40k. Planetary governor turned out to be a heretic? Well thank the Emperor his assassin daughter is amicable!

AoS: Fan blades seem like something a Khainite would enjoy, but thankfully Kitana is more restrained. Diplomatic skill, martial might, and a cool weapon gimmick will help her fit right in!

Jacqui Briggs

40k: Another military legacy, which is always a benefit. Also extremely skilled in combat and making inter-service connections. Probably has a better chance at a legit command position due to her personality over Cas, who’d be better relegated to black ops.

AoS: Again, great warriors and generals are always in high demand. As a commander of the Freeguild or the Stormcast, Jacqui even looks like one of the new warrior-women models GW likes to release nowadays.

Liu Kang

40k: Another mighty champion from outside the Astartes for a change. Liu Kang has protagonist energy, and even if kung-fu is rare in 40k, that’s enough to get you pretty far. Especially when he has such powerful friends.

AoS: More chances to flex those fists, less stigma around summoning fire and turning into a dragon, and he’s still a trusted friend of many generals and demigods.

#mortal kombat #warhammer #age of sigmar #40k #mk11

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imjustthemechanic · 6 years ago

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Our Own Demons

Part 1/? - A Bolt from the Blue Part 2/? - A Different World Part 3/? - Stark At Home Part 4/? - Pot Roast Night Part 5/? - Space-Pie Continuum Part 6/? - Energy Signature Part 7/? - Miss Potts Part 8/? - Bot from Beyond Part 9/? - Even the Odds Part 10/? - Miss Potts Arrives Part 11/? - Truth Hurts Part 12/? - The Third Reality Part 13/? - Thor and Odinson Part 14/? - The Tesseract Platform Part 15/? - Prime Suspect Part 16/? - Jailbreak Part 17/? - Shenandoah Part 18/? - A Hater

What if Tony Stark really were the villain of the Marvel universe? How would that work? Tony himself is about to find out, as he battles his inner demons (and some outer ones, too) across a multiverse of infinite possibilities.

There were cops outside the front of the library now, examining the Iron Man suit waiting there and talking on their radios. Tony grabbed the girl by the shoulders.

“We’re going out the back,” he said.

She didn’t struggle, but she was clearly unhappy about it. “What did you do now?”

“I’ve done a lot of things,” said Tony, “but not what they think I did. That’s why I need you to help me. You knew Dr. Xanthopoulos… one of the guys I talked to thought you were his daughter. Were you one of his grad students or something?”

“No, I wasn’t even in the program,” the girl said. “I took one class with him freshman year, that’s all.”

Yet people believed they were close, and she’d been hiding under a desk grieving when she heard he was dead. Interesting. “So he knew people were going to be looking for him.” He opened the library’s back door a crack, looked in both directions, and started walking forward without looking around, still escorting her. “They wanted something he had, and he didn’t want them to get it. By any chance, was it something like a glass-walled box that glowed blue?”

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think it was. And you know where it is?”

“He gave it to me,” she said proudly.

A piece of the tesseract… like the one Jane had used to open the platform in the other reality. That was exactly what Tony needed, and now somehow he had to talk this woman who hated him into giving it to him. Great. “This isn’t the safest place for me to be. Can we find somewhere to talk, and you can tell me why he gave it to you and what he said when you did? I’ll buy you dinner,” he offered. “You can tell all your friends Iron Man took you out.”

“They’d think I compromised my moral principles for a dinner,” she snarled. “If I’m gonna be the first person you ever met that you weren’t able to buy, Mr. Stark, then I’ll be proud!”

“I’m not trying to buy you anything but dinner,” said Tony. “And that’s more for me than for you. All they offered me for dinner in jail was some possibly-fake spaghetti. I’m dying for a real meal and the way things are going I don’t know when I’ll get another one, so let’s go eat.” People trusted people who offered them food. It was the most basic and universal of all human rituals. “What’s your name? You know mine.”

“Fairfax Cadwallader,” she said.

Tony blinked. “Is that the name your parents gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” said Tony. Definitely not his day for names. “You know this town better than me. Where do you want to eat?”

She could have asked for lobster and caviar and Tony would have paid for it without a word, but she picked a Five Guys Burgers and Fries a short drive south of the campus. It was a loud and busy place, which made her story a little hard to hear as she told it to him. It was also full of potential witnesses, which was probably why she’d chosen it. She seemed to be honestly worried he might try to do something terrible to her… or maybe she just wanted him spotted and thrown back in jail.

Fairfax herself didn’t eat much. She watched Tony eat, and she told him why Dr. Xanthopoulos trusted her.

“Like I said, I took one physics course with him in first year, because I needed the science credit. But… that was the year…” she swallowed. “That was the year my Dad died, because a militant group if Afghanistan had one of your missiles, and I didn’t have anywhere to stay anymore. I thought I was going to have to drop out and get a job, but Kass – Dr. Xanthopoulos – he found out about it and let me crash in his basement for a few weeks, until I could get my shit together.”

“Good man,” said Tony. Of course he was. The names he’d recognized on that hitlist – the doctor, the lawyer, the detective – they’d all been good people. That was why the bad guys wanted them dead.

“I’ve never had a course with him since, but he checks up on me,” Fairfax added. “And when everything started happening in Washington, as soon as that hit the news, he texted me and told me to meet him. He gave me the little cube and told me he wasn’t supposed to have it and somebody might come looking for it. I asked him if he wanted me to give it to somebody, and he told me the only safe people were the Avengers.”

She eyed Tony as she spoke the name. He met her gaze, but didn’t ask, though the question was obvious – Tony was an Avenger, yes, but he was the one she, personally, disliked. Did that make him a safe person, or an unsafe one?

“JARVIS,” he said, touching his earpiece to activate the microphone, “was Dr. What’s-His-Name on HYDRA’s list?”

He was, Sir, JARVIS confirmed. As were those of several other experts who’d done contract work for SHIELD, including Dr. Selvig. The suit itself was still standing around outside the library. The police were watching it in case Tony came back for it. One of them had taken out a sharpie pen and drawn an anime kitty mouth on the faceplate, and then declared it Kawaii-ron Man while his older colleagues, clearly people with no joy in their souls, told him to knock it off.

But that was a distraction. Right now, Toy needed to figure the rest of this out. “I’m going to call some friends,” Tony told Fairfax. “They’ll track down the people who killed your professor and make sure they pay for it. Right now, though, I need you to give me that cube.”

“Why?” she asked.

Good question. Because he told you to give it to an Avenger and here I am would probably have been a perfectly good answer for most people, but this girl wanted more This was personal for her, and he could hardly blame her for that.

“Because I need it to help somebody,” said Tony. “There’s some bad people have Miss Potts, and I have to go rescue her. It’s not saving the world, I admit, but it’s something I have to do. And I’ll use it all up, and the bad guys won’t be able to use it anymore.”

“The bad guys.” She glared at him.

“Yes. The people who killed Dr. Xanthopoulos,” said Tony. “They’re the bad guys here.”

“That doesn’t make you the good guy,” said Fairfax. “You’re just the bad guy in a different story. What makes you any different from them?”

That was a hard question to answer. Tony did his best. “Because I’m trying to be better than I am,” he said desperately. “I know I’ve made mistakes, I’m trying to fix them, I don’t always get it right.” It was hard to say these things. They were thoughts he normally didn’t express to anybody but Pepper and Rhodey. Saying them to a complete stranger, a stranger who was likely to turn them around and throw them back in his face, was like having an organ removed.

“No, you’re not!” she said. “If you really wanted to make the world better you could pay off everybody’s student loans and end world hunger but you don’t. You don’t want to be better! You just want to make yourself feel better about being a murderer!”

Tony didn’t have an answer for that. Was she right? Maybe she was.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I want you to go to jail,” said Fairfax, furious. “I want you to stand in court and listen to all the families of the people you killed testify about what you took from them. I want you to suffer.”

Tony had seen that look and heard that tone before… those people who really hated him and could not be persuaded that he was anything but evil incarnate. And even knowing that they were outnumbered, it was scar to have that kind of venom spewed in his direction. It really felt like at any moment, she could just jump up and strangle him with her bare hands and it would honestly be difficult to say he hadn’t deserved it.

“All right,” he said. “Can we make a deal?”

“What kind of a deal?” she asked suspiciously.

“When this is over, I’ll go to the cops and turn myself in, and you can press whatever charges you like,” said Tony. “I promise you. But first I need to help Pepper. I need to.” Did she think he deserved to lose Pepper the way she’d lost her parents? “For that I need the thing Dr. Xanthopoulos gave you. I know you won’t do it for me, but you can do it for her, and once I know for sure she’s okay, I promise to turn myself in and answer to you in front of a judge and jury.”

She pursed her lips. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked.

“You don’t,” said Tony. “You’re gonna have to trust me. If you don’t want to do that, I understand.” He would just have to find another way to do this.

“What if those people who killed Kass come back for me?” asked Fairfax.

That was a slip, Tony thought… she was getting closer to agreeing. She was worried about herself now, rather than just angry at him. She was considering it. “I know people who can keep you safe,” he said. “Just let me call them.”

He had JARVIS put through a call to Rhodey’s cell phone. The signal wasn’t great, bouncing as it was from the earpiece to the suit to the satellite to the tower, but it was enough. “Hey, me again,” he said when his friend picked up.

“I wondered when I’d hear from you,” Rhodey said. “I did give the Met your message. They were a little annoyed.”

“Thanks,” said Tony. “Listen – I’m in Winchester, Virginia, right now, and I don’t know if this made the news where you’re at, but a physics professor at Shenandoah was murdered and had his house and office ransacked. You might want to drop a hint to the people cleaning up this HYDRA mess that they ought to take a look at that.”

“I will,” Rhodey promised, “but it’ll go on a list – this is going to keep everybody busy for months. They’ve arrested six senators, nine congressmen, and I can’t even count how many secret servants. Did you know about any of this, Tony?”

It did, Tony supposed, sound like something a superhero ought to be up on. “I’m as surprised as you are,” Tony assured him. “Look, I’ve got stuff to do in another reality, so I’m gonna need you to fill in on the Iron-Man-ing for me here, okay? Get in touch with Rogers and Romanov and find out if they need help. If it’s anything you know I can provide, give it to them. If the BOD gives you shit for it, go through my private assets. Or, you know, guilt-trip them for their lack of patriotism. Whatever works.”

“All right. How will I get in touch with you if I need to?” Rhodey asked.

“You can’t. I’ll be in another dimension, remember?” asked Tony. “One more thing – there’s a student at Shenandoah named, and I swear to you this is her actual name, it’s on her student ID, Fairfax Cadwallader. She needs protection and possibly a grief counselor. She just lost the guy who took her in after her parents died, and HYDRA may be looking for her.”

Tony knew too many people who would have made the student’s safety last on their list of things to deal with after this phone call, but Rhodey knew where Tony’s priorities were at: Tony could hear the scratch of a pen on paper as his friend wrote the name down. “Cadwallader… Shenandoah… got it.”

“Thanks,” said Tony, shutting his eyes a moment to wonder, not for the first time, how he’d managed to end up knowing so many wonderful people. Between Pepper’s general amazingness and Rhodey’s unswerving loyalty… Tony just didn’t deserve friends like that, and he knew it. “She needs a lawyer, too… she’s planning on prosecuting me.”

“And of course you’re going to help her do it,” said Rhodey.

“I promised,” Tony told him. “Get her in touch with Miss Walters, maybe – she’s good and mad at me right now.”

“Good luck,” Rhodey said. “You’re gonna need it.”

“Thanks,” Tony said. “Your faith in me warms my heart.”

He disconnected the call, and looked at Fairfax, who was sitting across from him fiddling with her fries, eyeing him as if trying to figure out whether he’d actually been talking to anybody or not. Tony stood up.

“Where’s this thing he gave you?” he asked.

For a moment he didn’t think she was going to answer. Then she said, “I rent a storage space to keep the stuff from my old place,” she said. “I’ll take you there.”

#fanfic #tony stark #iron man

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heartslogos · 7 years ago

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seas who could sing so deep and strong [36]

“So is your girl okay?” Chic says as he settles into the stands next to her. He can tell that part of her attention is on her ticket slips for all of her wagers. Judge didn’t know that there were Tenno who made their living on gambling and market trades instead of - actual Tenno stuff. He thinks it’s pretty neat. You’ve got to have a head for numbers and trends and calculations of risk and reward and stuff. Judge is self aware enough to know he’d never make it if he tried doing what Chic does, he’d probably be broke by the end of an Earth week.

“Yeah,” Judge says, though he’s not so sure himself. After the whole thing in the Derelict Kore went off grid for about two weeks, the only sign of her left was a single signal from the Void where apparently, according to her Cephalon, she spent the entire week doing extermination and sabotage and bounty capture drops.

Kore came back after those two weeks looking absolutely fresh and well rested and glowing in ways that you probably shouldn’t be looking after two weeks of isolation and one-way killing sprees.

“Self-care,” Kore had said, “Is retreating into the Void to kill the corrupted with your cat or dog or non-mammalian based companion.”

Kore had apparently been in such a good mood after, that she kissed his cheek - Kissed! Him! Judge! On the cheek! With her mouth! And everything! Judge still hasn’t gotten over it and he’s accidentally smacked his head on low-hanging ship parts about two dozen times whenever he remembers it. He knows that number because Scylla has been keeping count. - when she came back on her way to saying hello to his Kubrow and Kavats - minus Handsome, who Kore just kicked out of her way.

“She’s just really shy?” Judge says, voice tilting upwards at the end because he’s not exactly sure what to call Kore’s absolute loathing of having to interact with new people, more than one new person at one time, unfamiliarity with any situation or person, and complete and total near-black-out-violence disgust at being seen in less than perfect form by someone who isn’t Judge.

Judge is of the opinion that Kore - regardless of whether she’s in an incredibly un-tried warframe with less her usual load out of weaponry, or whether she’s gleaming white, devouring black, and brazen red in her Saryn Prime unit with the Stalker’s broken sword on her back, her sinister and sleek Rubico lazily held in her hands - is always in top form and he would honestly have the same reaction to meeting or seeing her for the first time regardless of whether she’s in a weak uncalibrated Vauban frame or her well worn and well balanced Excalibur frame. Though he admits he’s incredibly biased.

After all, Judge got to love her by the color of her - as Kore would say it - soul than the frame it was housed in. Judge loved her before he even had a voice to ask for her name.

His chest squirms like Kore’s favorite fizz-cola.

“Right, shy,” Chic says, leaning back in her seat and propping Trinity’s feet up on the seat in front of them. Lucky that there isn’t anyone sitting there, Judge things. Trinity’s feet are a little pointy. “Is that what you call it? Whatever it is, it’s cute and I’m sorry Punk and I over stepped. He’s like a really dumb Kubrow that doesn’t realize it isn’t a puppy and that maybe some people are allergic to Kubrow.”

That sounds about right, except for how Kore adores anything that isn’t people-shaped and bipedal. Actually, now that he thinks about it, that might be why Kore doesn’t like Punk to start with.

Judge imagines it must be very difficult for her to handle what is essentially a really enthusiastic puppy in person-shape.

“Do you and Punk come here often?” Judge asks, looking around the Conclave arena, “I’m not much of a fan. I dabble a bit, but I’m not so good.”

“Punk’s actually a really good fighter,” Chic says, “Not against, you know, actual threats, but in an arena fight like this he knows what he’s doing. He’s making me money. What about Persephone? She seems like she’d be amazing at this.”

“Ah, no, as Persephone says - the sports disagree with her,” Judge laughs. “Also she has a profound distaste for being the focus of more than two people’s attention at once, unless they’re trying to kill her and she’s good to kill them back.”

“Huh, that explains things,” Chic muses and the general murmuring of the crowd quiets as a new frame ports into the arena.

Punk is still shaking hands with the other one, good natured and familiar in a way that Judge thinks means that both of them are regulars who fight often in Conclave.

The new warframe in the arena seems to freeze, locking up and then slowly turning to look around.

Judge realizes it just as the new frame tries to hail Teshin - based on the way it waves its warms -

“Teshin!” Judge stands up, waving his arms also to try and catch the man’s attention, “Teshin stop the match! Stop the match!”

After Judge gets up, Chic must realize too because she joins him in trying to get Teshin to notice them.

Because that’s Kore in the arena and Judge can hear her now, she’s using a voice synthesizer but he knows it’s her. He just didn’t recognize her at first because she wasn’t in one of her usual frames. Judge knows that Kore has a Mirage frame, she just rarely uses it.

“This is a mistake,” Kore says, “I ported in by accident, let me out.”

And then the worst possible thing happens.

Punk recognizes Kore. Judge doesn’t know how he does it, but he does.

“Oh!” Punk says, clapping his hands together, “Hey! Hey! Persephone! Hi! I haven’t seen you in forever, what’s up girl?”

And then Kore’s arms stop waving in the air and she slowly turns to look at the other Tenno in the arena.

Kore doesn’t say anything through the synthesizer, but Judge knows her well enough to know exactly what she’s doing back on her ship.

Kore is re-evaluating the entire situation, weighing the pros and cons of it. Kore is currently picking Punk apart with her eyes, like the Ballas trained elite fighter she is. Kore is currently smiling with all of her teeth and making a sound like oho? Ohoho. Ohohoho.

“Never mind,” Kore says, eerily calmly - and knowing her as Judge knows her, she’s trapped all of her glee inside and is pulling on full spiteful vengeful professional assassin mode on to cover it -, “Proceed.”

“Wait!” Chic says, still waving her arms, “Hold on!”

“Yes! No! Stop!” Judge agrees, because this can only end very badly and they need to stop this match right now.

“I need to change my bets, hold on!” Chic yells and Judge turns to gape at her. Never mind that she can’t see it since Nova doesn’t have a mouth.

“Chic.”

“She doesn’t do Conclave right, so this is her first time?” Chic says, frantic as she starts changing her ticket, “Alright. First fight she loses, second is a draw, third she wins, fourth she loses - based on her personality? She’s going to draw this out. Alternating to crush Punk into the ground for maximum catharsis on her part. I’m going to make so many credits off of your girl, you have no idea. I love this.”

“Aren’t you concerned that they’re going to get seriously hurt?”

“It’s Conclave, Hades,” Chic shrugs, “Besides. Punk? At all times he could always use a beat down. Trust me on this.”

“Void,” Judge groans, “They’re going to pound each other into the ground and it won’t even be for the same reasons.”

“I know, it’s wonderful. Punk will think he’s just teaching Persephone Conclave. And Persephone is going to like - wipe the arena clean with his blood, I love it.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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meerkatus-blog · 7 years ago

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ST. MATTHEW LUTHERAN CHURCH BONNE TERRE, MISSOURI

“THUS IT IS WRITTEN, FULFILLED, AND PROCLAIMED” (LUKE 24:36-49)

THIRD SUNDAY OF EASTER APRIL 22, 2012

DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE BIBLE IS ALL ABOUT? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT JESUS CAME TO DO? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE CHURCH’S PREACHING SHOULD EMPHASIZE? IF SO, THEN I’VE GOT GOOD NEWS FOR YOU. THE ANSWERS TO ALL THREE OF THESE QUESTIONS ARE GIVEN IN TODAY’S GOSPEL READING FROM LUKE 24, SPECIFICALLY, IN THESE VERSES: “THEN JESUS SAID TO THEM, ‘THESE ARE MY WORDS THAT I SPOKE TO YOU WHILE I WAS STILL WITH YOU, THAT EVERYTHING WRITTEN ABOUT ME IN THE LAW OF MOSES AND THE PROPHETS AND THE PSALMS MUST BE FULFILLED.’ THEN HE OPENED THEIR MINDS TO UNDERSTAND THE SCRIPTURES, AND SAID TO THEM, ‘THUS IT IS WRITTEN, THAT THE CHRIST SHOULD SUFFER AND ON THE THIRD DAY RISE FROM THE DEAD, AND THAT REPENTANCE AND FORGIVENESS OF SINS SHOULD BE PROCLAIMED IN HIS NAME TO ALL NATIONS, BEGINNING FROM JERUSALEM. YOU ARE WITNESSES OF THESE THINGS.’”

THE BIBLE’S MEANING, JESUS’ MISSION, AND THE CHURCH’S MESSAGE–ALL SUMMARIZED RIGHT HERE IN ONE TEXT. THUS OUR THEME FOR TODAY: “THUS IT IS WRITTEN, FULFILLED, AND PROCLAIMED.”

FIRST, “THUS IT IS WRITTEN,” THAT IS, HERE IS THE BIBLE’S MEANING, WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT. JESUS HIMSELF TELLS US WHAT HE SEES AS THE SUBJECT OF THE SCRIPTURES. AND IT IS . . . HIMSELF. YES, JESUS MAKES THE AUDACIOUS CLAIM THAT HE IS THE CENTRAL THEME RUNNING THROUGH HOLY SCRIPTURE. LISTEN TO WHAT HE SAYS. HE REMINDS THE DISCIPLES THAT HE HAD SPOKEN TO THEM CONCERNING “EVERYTHING WRITTEN ABOUT ME IN THE LAW OF MOSES AND THE PROPHETS AND THE PSALMS.” THEN HE OPENS THEIR MINDS TO UNDERSTAND THE SCRIPTURES, AND SAYS, “THUS IT IS WRITTEN, THAT THE CHRIST,” AND SO ON. IN OTHER WORDS, JESUS IS SAYING THAT HE IS THE CHRIST, THE MESSIAH, THE ONE PROPHESIED THROUGHOUT THE HEBREW SCRIPTURES. JESUS IS SAYING, ESSENTIALLY, “THE BIBLE IS ABOUT ME.” THIS IS NOT BRAGGING; IT’S THE TRUTH, AND IT’S FOR OUR BENEFIT.

“EVERYTHING WRITTEN ABOUT ME IN THE LAW OF MOSES AND THE PROPHETS AND THE PSALMS.” THIS IS A WAY OF REFERRING TO THE THREE MAIN DIVISIONS OF THE HEBREW BIBLE: THE LAW OF MOSES, THE TORAH, THE FIRST FIVE BOOKS OF THE BIBLE; THEN THE PROPHETS, WHICH CONSISTED OF JOSHUA, JUDGES, SAMUEL, AND KINGS, ISAIAH, JEREMIAH, EZEKIEL, AND THE TWELVE MINOR PROPHETS; AND FINALLY THE PSALMS, WHICH STOOD AT THE HEAD OF THE SECTION CALLED THE WRITINGS. JESUS HERE IS TALKING ABOUT WHAT WE CALL THE OLD TESTAMENT, AND HE IS SAYING THAT THE WHOLE THING IS ABOUT HIM.

HOW SO? HOW DOES THAT THREAD RUN THROUGH THE OLD TESTAMENT? WELL, TRACK IT ALONG WITH ME. THINK OF THE FIRST PROMISE OF A DELIVERER, GIVEN BY GOD RIGHT AFTER THE FALL INTO SIN: THE SEED OF THE WOMAN WHO WOULD STRIKE THE SERPENT IN THE HEAD, EVEN THE SERPENT STRIKES HIS HEEL. OR THINK OF THE PROMISE TO ABRAHAM, THAT IN HIS SEED ALL THE FAMILIES OF THE EARTH WOULD BE BLESSED. THE SEED OF THE WOMAN, THE SEED OF ABRAHAM–THAT’S JESUS. THEN THERE ARE THE TYPES OF JESUS FOUND IN ISRAEL’S HISTORY, THOSE WHO PREFIGURED HIS MINISTRY: MOSES, WHO LED THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL OUT OF BONDAGE. JOSHUA, MOSES’ SUCCESSOR, WHO LED THEM INTO THE PROMISED LAND. AARON, THE HIGH PRIEST, WHO OFFERED UP SACRIFICES BY WHICH THE PEOPLE’S SINS WERE FORGIVEN. DAVID, THE KING, TO WHOM IT WAS PROMISED THAT ONE OF HIS SONS WOULD BE THE GREAT KING, THE MESSIAH, WHO WOULD HAVE AN EVERLASTING KINGDOM. THE SCRIPTURES OF THE OLD TESTAMENT ARE REPLETE WITH PROMISES, PROPHECIES, TYPES–PERSONS, INSTITUTIONS, AND EVENTS–THAT ALL POINTED AHEAD TO WHAT WOULD FINALLY BE EMBODIED IN THE PERSON OF JESUS CHRIST.

IT WAS ALL THERE IN THE SCRIPTURES THAT THE DISCIPLES HAD, IT WAS RIGHT THERE UNDER THEIR NOSE, BUT STILL THE DISCIPLES DIDN’T GET IT, THEY DIDN’T PUT IT ALL TOGETHER. UNTIL AFTER THE RESURRECTION, WHEN JESUS HERE MEETS WITH THEM AND OPENS THEIR MINDS TO UNDERSTAND THE SCRIPTURES. AND THAT’S WHY JESUS GIVES HIS “THUS IT IS WRITTEN” STATEMENT, AS A SHORT SUMMARY OF WHAT IT ALL BOILS DOWN TO IF ANYONE IS GOING TO UNDERSTAND THE BIBLE ARIGHT. HE SUMS IT UP AS FOLLOWS: “THUS IT IS WRITTEN, THAT THE CHRIST SHOULD SUFFER AND ON THE THIRD DAY RISE FROM THE DEAD, AND THAT REPENTANCE AND FORGIVENESS OF SINS SHOULD BE PROCLAIMED IN HIS NAME TO ALL NATIONS, BEGINNING FROM JERUSALEM.” JESUS IS SAYING THIS IS WHAT THE BIBLE IS ABOUT, WHAT IT’S AIMING AT. IF YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THE BIBLE THIS WAY, YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND IT.

THREE THINGS HERE IN JESUS’ SUMMARY OF THE CONTENTS OF THE BIBLE: THAT THE CHRIST SHOULD SUFFER, THAT HE SHOULD RISE ON THE THIRD DAY, AND THAT REPENTANCE AND FORGIVENESS SHOULD BE PREACHED IN HIS NAME. THAT THE CHRIST SHOULD SUFFER? WHERE IS THAT IN THE OLD TESTAMENT? CERTAINLY THE SUFFERING SERVANT PROPHECY OF ISAIAH 53, THE SERVANT OF THE LORD WHO WOULD BE “WOUNDED FOR OUR TRANSGRESSIONS” AND “WITH WHOSE STRIPES WE ARE HEALED”–THIS IS THE OUTSTANDING EXAMPLE OF WHAT JESUS SAYS IS WRITTEN CONCERNING THE CHRIST’S SUFFERING. THE RESURRECTION? PSALM 16, A PRIME EXAMPLE: “FOR YOU WILL NOT ABANDON MY SOUL TO SHEOL, OR LET YOUR HOLY ONE SEE CORRUPTION.” THE PREACHING TO THE NATIONS? “THE WORD OF THE LORD SHALL GO OUT FROM JERUSALEM,” AND “NATIONS SHALL COME TO YOUR LIGHT.” THE SUFFERING AND DEATH OF THE CHRIST, HIS BODILY RESURRECTION TO LIFE, AND THE PREACHING THAT WILL GO OUT IN HIS NAME–JESUS SAYS THIS IS WHAT IS WRITTEN IN THE SCRIPTURES, THIS IS WHAT YOU NEED TO UNDERSTAND.

AND SO, IF THIS IS WHAT IS WRITTEN, THIS IS WHAT JESUS CAME TO FULFILL. THUS IT IS WRITTEN, THUS IT IS FULFILLED. JESUS CAME AS THE CHRIST TO SUFFER AND TO RISE FOR OUR SALVATION, SO THAT THERE WOULD BE FORGIVENESS OF SINS FOR THE CHURCH TO PROCLAIM. THIS HE DID, THE ETERNAL SON OF GOD COMING IN THE FLESH TO SUFFER AND DIE AND RISE AGAIN ON OUR BEHALF. EVER WONDER WHY THE APOSTLES’ CREED SKIPS AHEAD FROM “CONCEIVED BY THE HOLY SPIRIT, BORN OF THE VIRGIN MARY,” ZOOMING FAST-FORWARD OVER ABOUT 33 YEARS TO “SUFFERED UNDER PONTIUS PILATE, WAS CRUCIFIED, DIED AND WAS BURIED”? WHY? BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE THE FOUR GOSPELS AND WHERE JESUS HIMSELF PUT THE EMPHASIS. AFTER ESTABLISHING HIS PERSON, WHO JESUS IS, NAMELY, THE CHRIST, GOD’S SON IN THE FLESH, THE FOCUS IS ON CHRIST’S SACRIFICIAL SUFFERING AND DEATH. BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE THE SALVATION IS. JESUS CAME TO BE THE ONE WHO DELIVERS ALL OF SINFUL MANKIND FROM THE BONDAGE OF SIN AND THE CURSE OF DEATH–TO DELIVER YOU AND ME BY MEANS OF HIS ATONING DEATH ON THE CROSS. ONLY THAT WOULD GET THE JOB DONE, TO FREE US FROM THE IMPOSSIBLE DEATH-TRAP WE HAD GOTTEN OURSELVES INTO. SO THAT’S WHERE THE EMPHASIS LIES, IN THE GOSPELS, IN THE CREED, AND IN ACCORD WITH THE SUMMARY THAT JESUS GIVES RIGHT HERE, “THUS IT IS WRITTEN, THAT THE CHRIST SHOULD SUFFER.”

“AND ON THE THIRD DAY RISE FROM THE DEAD.” JESUS CAME TO FULFILL THAT, TOO. THE RESURRECTION FROM THE DEAD. THAT IS THE PROOF THAT WHAT JESUS SUFFERED WAS SUFFICIENT TO TAKE THE STING OUT OF DEATH AND GIVE US LIFE, ETERNAL LIFE, IN ITS PLACE. THIS IS WHAT WE ARE CELEBRATING DURING THIS EASTER SEASON–CHRIST’S RESURRECTION. FOR IT’S THE GUARANTEE OF LIFE NOT ONLY FOR HIM BUT FOR US AS WELL. CHRIST SHARES HIS RESURRECTION LIFE WITH US, ALL WHO TRUST IN HIM AND ARE BAPTIZED IN HIS NAME. THIS TOO IS WHAT IS WRITTEN IN SCRIPTURE AND FULFILLED IN CHRIST.

THUS IT IS WRITTEN. THUS IT IS FULFILLED. THUS IT IS PROCLAIMED. THE PREACHING, THE CHURCH’S PREACHING, WHAT IT SHOULD BE ABOUT–THIS IS WHAT SO NATURALLY FOLLOWS. “AND THAT REPENTANCE AND FORGIVENESS OF SINS SHOULD BE PROCLAIMED IN HIS NAME TO ALL NATIONS.” REPENTANCE–THE REALIZATION THAT YOU ARE STUCK IN YOUR SINS APART FROM GOD’S GRACE, THAT YOU HAVE NO HOPE IN YOURSELF, THAT YOU ARE DAMNED AND DOOMED AND RIGHTFULLY SO. REPENTANCE IS WHEN THE WEIGHT OF YOUR SINS COMES CRASHING DOWN ON YOU AND YOU CRY OUT TO GOD, “LORD, HAVE MERCY ON ME, A SINNER.” THE LAW HAS TO DO ITS WORK ON YOUR HEART IF YOU ARE TO SEE YOUR NEED. BUT THEN THE PREACHING DOESN’T STOP THERE. THEN COMES THE GOSPEL, THE FORGIVENESS OF SINS. THIS IS WHAT JESUS HAS WON FOR YOU, AND HE WANTS YOU TO HAVE IT, TO KNOW IT, TO RECEIVE IT. AND IT IS THROUGH THE FOOLISHNESS OF PREACHING THAT THE GIFTS GET DELIVERED TO YOUR DOOR. THE WORD OF GOD IS ALIVE AND ACTIVE, AND AS THE FORGIVENESS IS PROCLAIMED IN JESUS’ NAME, THAT SAME WORD IS EFFECTIVE TO DELIVER THE GOODS AND TO GIVE YOU WHAT IT SAYS.

THAT’S WHAT PETER DOES, ISN’T IT, AS WE READ IT IN THE LESSON FROM THE BOOK OF ACTS. PETER FOLLOWS JESUS’ PREACHING OUTLINE VERY CLOSELY. HE PREACHES THE DEATH AND RESURRECTION OF THE CHRIST, AND HE PREACHES REPENTANCE AND FORGIVENESS IN HIS NAME: “YOU DELIVERED JESUS INTO DEATH–YOU KILLED THE AUTHOR OF LIFE, THAT’S HOW BADLY YOU MISSED IT–BUT GOD RAISED HIM FROM THE DEAD. WE ARE WITNESSES OF HIS RESURRECTION. WHAT GOD FORETOLD BY HIS PROPHETS, THAT THE CHRIST WOULD SUFFER, THIS HE FULFILLED. NOW LISTEN. YOU NEED TO REPENT, TURN FROM YOUR SINS, AND YOUR SINS WILL BE BLOTTED OUT, FORGIVEN, WIPED FROM THE RECORD. THERE IS LIFE IN THIS JESUS THAT I AM TELLING YOU ABOUT. BELIEVE IN HIM AND BE SAVED.”

THAT’S A SUMMARY OF THE PREACHING JESUS WOULD HAVE HIS CHURCH DO. AND SO I PROCLAIM TO YOU, TO YOU HERE TODAY: JESUS CHRIST DIED FOR YOU. IT WAS YOUR SINS HE WAS BEARING ON THAT CROSS. YOU HAVE NO HOPE IN YOURSELF; YOUR SINS WOULD CONDEMN YOU. DEATH AND GOD’S JUDGMENT IS ALL YOU WOULD FACE. BUT CHRIST DIED FOR YOU. HE TOOK YOUR SINS AND CARRIED THEM AWAY, PAID FOR THEM IN FULL. GOD IS MERCIFUL, AND HE FORGIVES YOU YOUR SINS FOR JESUS’ SAKE. YOUR SAVIOR NOW IS RISEN–HALLELUJAH!–AND YOU WILL RISE WITH HIM. NEW LIFE NOW, AND AN EVEN BETTER, ETERNAL LIFE AFTER THAT–GLORIFIED BODIES, RESTORED CREATION, NO MORE SIN, PERFECT FELLOWSHIP WITH GOD AND WITH ALL HIS PEOPLE–THIS IS WHAT IS IN STORE FOR YOU, YOU WHO TRUST IN HIM. AND I PREACH THIS NOW TO YOU IN JESUS’ NAME. YOU CAN TAKE IT TO THE BANK. THIS IS THE SURE HOPE YOU HAVE IN CHRIST.

THUS IT IS WRITTEN. THUS IT IS FULFILLED. THUS IT IS PROCLAIMED. THUS IT IS BELIEVED. GOD IS QUICKENING THIS FAITH IN YOUR HEART RIGHT NOW. GIVE HIM THANKS THAT YOU KNOW YOUR REDEEMER LIVES. AND BECAUSE HE LIVES, YOU SHALL LIVE ALSO. THUS IT IS, AND THUS IT WILL BE. AMEN.

***

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thunderheadfred · 7 years ago

Text

Red Streak [3.3]

Chapter 03: One of Those Faces [Part 3 of 3. Revised August 2017]

Read the complete fic on AO3

Jane Human Embassy, Citadel 2183 CE

Shepard leaned into the walking stick Chakwas had forced on her and tried keep her head from swimming. Ambassador Udina was throwing his third hissy in as many minutes, and Shepard was already disoriented for any number of reasons, most of them related - directly or indirectly - to the psychotic turian who had stabbed her on Eden Prime. The constant burning ache in her abdomen had sapped her patience, but Udina's constant bickering threatened to break her completely.

She loosened the top button of her formal blues, desperate for any kind of relief from the sour atmosphere in the Ambassador's office. The meeting, now in its third hour, had finally escalated far enough to demand the Council's direct attention.

Full-size holographic projections of the three Council members flickered in the center of Udina’s immaculate, palatial office. Sparatus, the ghostly turian third of the holographic trio, glanced at Shepard and raised an ethereal, disdainful brow. Straightening reflexively, she realized the Councilor had been watching her fidget, had noticed her disheveled uniform. A humiliated flop of acid lined her gut, and she dropped the impatient hand from her neck. Goddammit.

Just as she was settling into a good grovel, Udina's sharp, high voice ruined the effect.

“This is an outrage!” the Ambassador cried, practically stomping his foot.

Shepard clamped her eyes shut as a new wave of nauseating overstimulation tore her last nerve to shreds. Yes, it was an outrage. Why did humanity's foremost representative have to be so loud? So whiny? Politicians were supposed to be all about tact, weren’t they? She wondered if Udina had misplaced his somewhere.

“The Council would step in if the geth attacked a turian colony!”

Sparatus rolled his eyes and countered automatically, dry as a bone. “The turians don’t found colonies on the borders of the Terminus Systems, Ambassador. You knew the risks when humanity went into the Traverse.”

Kryik had been looming moodily at Shepard’s six, but the Spectre couldn’t keep his silence any longer. He knocked Udina out of the way before the Ambassador could embarrass himself any further.

“Forget humanity’s poor choice of colony worlds,” Kryik said. “What are you going to do about Saren? You can’t just ignore him, not anymore. With so many dead, you won’t be able to stay quiet regarding Eden Prime. He was there. Somehow, word will spread. You have to condemn him, revoke his Spectre status, declare him traitor to the cause. Anything, to keep the Alliance and the Hierarchy from bombing one another to ash. And you have to do it now.”

Sparatus flared his mandibles and looked ready to cut the Spectre in half, but Councilor Tevos insinuated her voice between the two turians with all of her customary asari diplomacy.

“Nihlus, please restrain yourself. Aside from the testimony of the people in this room, there is no evidence to suggest that Saren was involved. In any way. As far as the public is aware, Eden Prime was destroyed in a random geth incursion. Tragic, of course, but one of the many perils of maintaining a resource-rich settlement in such close proximity to the Terminus.”

Valern, the salarian Councilor, interrupted with a bland, lecturing tone. “Citadel Security is investigating your charges against Saren. We will discuss the official findings at the hearing tomorrow, not bef-”

Abruptly, Kryik brought his fist down on Udina’s console, ending the call.

Shepard wondered if becoming a Spectre meant she too would get the opportunity to be so dismissive to the most powerful dignitaries in the galaxy. The idea of cutting off the Council mid-sentence; it made her tingly all over.

A voice muttered from the balcony, “And that’s why I hate politicians…”

Williams. Briefly, Shepard met her eye. Williams quirked a thick eyebrow, then looked back out on the Presidium, her shoulders tight. Beside the Chief, Lieutenant Alenko shook his head, too polite to agree out loud. Nonetheless, Williams had read the room with great accuracy. It hadn’t gone well.

That was no surprise. Anyone with half a brain would be skeptical of the story that the Normandy had brought back from Eden Prime. Galactic stability would be left dangling by a thread if those three Council assholes overreacted, and so far, everything Shepard’s team had reported smacked of madness. Corpses on spikes… the dead come to life… hoards of mutated geth… a rogue Spectre torturing a beloved Matriarch… a world-swallowing alien dreadnought...

It sounded insane, even to Shepard, and she’d been the one almost stabbed to death in the middle of it. At best, her crew’s combined credibility was dubious. At worst, it was complete crap. She knew better than to think this story was believable to anyone who hadn't been there.

The bitterest pill of all: every surviving eyewitnesses was useless. Alenko and Williams had only seen half of the action. Kryik had a public, pre-existing grudge-match against Saren. Shepard had just come out the wrong side of a brain-blitzing from the Beacon, in addition to having more personal reasons to besmirch the Arterius family name than anyone. And, of course, every useful scrap of data from Eden Prime had been obliterated along with millions of colonists, every corroborating soul dead to the last.

Even Shepard had to admit that the Council - conniving spiders though they were - had been wedged between a rock and a hard place. Their self-serving obfuscations had led to Eden Prime's destruction, of that she had no doubt. But as much as Shepard despised their backroom methods, the slimy, spineless tactics that had gotten them all into this mess in the first place, she had to allow that the politicians had a grueling clean up ahead. She didn't envy them the task, even if they'd brought it on themselves.

Anderson gave Shepard a brief, exhausted look, then went to collect his star witness marines.

Kryik approached, nodding his head toward the door of the Ambassador's office.

"Walk with me, Shepard.”

Udina, meanwhile, had installed himself at his desk to sulk. He failed to acknowledge either Shepard or Kyrik as they passed him on the way out.

As soon as the office door was closed and Udina was safely out of earshot, Shepard muttered, “What an asshole.”

Kryik kept walking, already several paces ahead. Shepard, enfeebled by her medically-mandated walking stick, was moving much slower than she cared to admit.

“Thank you, Shepard," Kryik said, speaking over his shoulder without slowing up. "Do you have any other witticisms that might help us single-handedly incriminate a rogue Spectre and take down his army of the alien undead?”

Shepard tugged at the uncomfortable lump of her stomach bandage. She rankled beneath her uniform, an itch so deep that she longed to scratch the regenerating skin of her internal organs. It was the most perverse craving she had ever felt, disturbing enough to stop her dead in her tracks. She smoothed the front of her blues, swallowing the itch. Kryik got to the sliding glass partition on the far end of the corridor before he realized he was alone. With an irritated grunt, he doubled back to fetch her.

As he rounded, Shepard continued to pick at her uniform, just to be a brat.

She said, “Here's an idea. Let’s tackle one insurmountable task at a time. We aren’t going to disavow our mutual friend without solid evidence. So - where do start dusting for fingerprints?”

Kryik smacked Shepard's hand away from her uniform, too classy to say smart ass out loud. All the same, she smirked.

“I’ve got some Shadow Broker contacts," he said. "Old eyes and ears. I’ll start there. Until the Council officially makes you a Spectre, you should stick to the lawful channels, keep your hands clean. Unlikely that C-Sec has much, they’ve always failed me in the past, but who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Shepard knew she was being handed the grout-cleaning detail, and had no choice but to smile and take the toothbrush.

"Hired transport," He said. "This way."

Keeping pace with her now, Kryik led Shepard to a cab and helped her fall gracelessly into a seat. He grunted instructions to the driver, a smallish, bronze-colored salarian who seemed thoroughly bored with his job.

“Kithoi. C-Sec Academy."

The salarian nodded, and Kryik engaged the privacy screen.

Now unobserved, he leaned toward Shepard and said, “I’ll get you through the door, introduce you to Executor Pallin. He'll be useless, as far as hard evidence is concerned, refuses to believe that a Spectre could have anything but the Council’s best interests at heart. You’ll have to coordinate with whoever he’s got working the official investigation. Hopefully someone halfway competent this time, but my hopes aren't high. I’ll make sure Internal Affairs gives you full Spectre clearance, and I trust you to push that advantage as far as you can. Upend every data system in their office if you have to. Pallin can whine about it all he likes.”

“Spectre clearance? Isn't that premature? I haven't officially agreed to this candidacy--”

Kryik cut her off.

“Like it or not, you're going to be a Spectre, and soon. The public response to Eden Prime is already turning ugly. Saren's name hasn't been dropped, but it will. The Council doesn't want to admit they failed, but they need a flashy diversion right about now. That's you.”

No matter how incensed she was by Kryik's maneuvering, Shepard couldn't pretend to be surprised. As a Spectre, Shepard could be a double-edged sword disguised as an olive branch. A desperate grab to placate the human interest groups who were still demanding reparations for Shanxi, all while bending the knee to Palaven. Exactly as she'd suspected: a show animal.

“Before all this shit hit the fan, why did you really nominate me?" She stared out the window and clutched the walking stick for dear life. "All this grand gesturing on your part… but really? You just wanted to strike a petty blow at Saren, didn't you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, which in her estimation was as good as an explicit confirmation.

“I don’t appreciate being made into your pawn,” she added.

“Get used to it,” He said, cold and firm as a packed snowdrift.

The rest of the cab ride droned on in awkward silence. Shepard passed her walking stick between her hands and stared at the sprawling cityscape as the cab descended into one of the darkened ward arms, wishing that her stomach would stop hurting as if she’d had part of her guts ripped out. It was a petulant, childish kind of thing to want, but Shepard didn’t care - she hated the inconvenience, the sheer bodily embarrassment of being injured this badly. It made everything more difficult than it should have been, even avoiding Kryik's eyes.

Nearly fifteen minutes later in the center of Kithoi Ward, the cab finally slowed in front of the entrance to C-Sec Academy.

Shepard blinked hard. Once. Twice.

Nope, not a hallucination: that was definitely Eddie "Ripper" Lang, in full Citadel Security deputy blues.

What the hell had the galaxy come to, if Lang had given up his ludicrous teenage ambitions of single handedly ruling the Blue Suns… and taken up life as a beat cop? Shepard allowed Kryik to help her out of the car, then she walked herself through Lang’s path, wondering if he’d recognize her.

“Ginger Jane?”

Bingo.

“Lang,” she said, carefully. “Never thought I’d see you wearing that uniform. Isn’t that the wrong shade of blue?”

There was no nostalgia in her voice. Mindoir had few happy memories outside of the safe haven of her pari’s spaceport, and Lang had never been a particularly good egg.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he said. “Yeah, Ripper went C-Sec. Crazy, right? After what those batarian bastards did to us, I couldn’t… the mercs didn’t seem like such a great option anymore, you know? I got the chance to get my ass out of the Terminus and I figured I’d start over, try to do something useful for a change.”

He seemed completely reformed, an honest to God change of heart. But stranger things had happened - quite recently.

“Well done, Lang. Going totally clean slate: that’s not an easy thing to do.”

“Damn, it really is you. Jane the Ginger Cuttlebone.”

Kryik squinted at Lang from Shepard’s side. The Spectre was too lofty to be offended by the anti-turian slur, but he did seem annoyed by the common, vulgar nonsense of it nonetheless.

“Sorry,” Lang amended. “Old habits die hard. Anyway, you’re Commander Shepard now, aren’t you? Jesus. I saw what you did in the Blitz, your acceptance speech for the Star of Terra. And after that… man. You were all over the news. The press couldn’t get enough of your extra-special dad; can’t imagine the Alliance was crazy about it though. How’d you manage to raise in ranks after everyone found out?”

Shepard pursed her lips.

Shortly after doing her part to root out the last batarian slavers in the Skyllian Verge, a snoopy reporter had unearthed the truth about Shepard’s unconventional childhood. Overnight, her promising military accolades had been instantly eclipsed by the sleazy draw of tabloid celebrity. Alliance channels had aired an endless barrage of scathing interviews, ruthless op-eds, and unlicensed documentaries on Shepard’s origins. The more cosmopolitan Citadel reporters had mostly kept their noses out of it until the frenzy passed, considering the whole affair a backwards, low-brow human urban myth, not to be bothered with. For most asari, mixed-species families had been commonplace for centuries, were practically expected - nothing newsworthy in and of itself. As for the Hierarchy, Palaven’s more prestigious networks had kept suspiciously mum on the subject of Regidonis, but the gossip had spread through the military like a bad rash anyway.

Through the harsh limelight, Shepard had never wavered in her loyalties, but few people - regardless of species - had cottoned to Shepard’s special brand of propaganda. The rare, candid recordings when Shepard spoke of her parents proudly and firmly, her head high and her shoulders back, her notas clenched into a bleeding fist, those were the glimpses of truth that sold poorly, or never aired at all.

Shepard realized she’d been quiet too long.

“I can hold my own,” she said.

“No shit.” Lang laughed, impressed. “Still. All those stories made me crazy mad, you know? After everything he did for us… He saved my worthless life, for one. And people still call him the Jailor of Shanxi, it doesn’t seem right…”

As he babbled, Shepard flinched. The Jailor of Shanxi: her pari’s dishonorable nickname. After everything else that had been dredged out of the past and thrown in her face over the last few days, that was a most unwelcome final straw.

Lang realized his mistake.

“Ahhh shit Commander. Fuck those people. He was alright by me. I bet your old man is up in the sky right now, laughing his ass off about that old mercenary wannabe farmer kid from Mindoir: schlepping paperwork for turian cops on the Citadel.”

It took some effort, but she held out her hand to give him a firm, reassuring shake.

“He wouldn’t laugh at you, Eddie. He would be proud.” After a beat, she added, “And then he’d tell you to stop swearing so damn much.”

Lang nodded, surprising her with the sheen of emotion in his eyes.

“Let me know if you need anything, Commander.”

“Keep up the good work.”

He released her hand.

Kryik had already started for the Academy entrance. She hobbled after him, grumbling at his persistent, backbreaking aloofness.

“Touching reunion,” he said when she finally caught up. “Can we get back to work now?”

“Yeah, yeah. Glad to know your complete disinterest in the struggles of the common man remains intact. Show me this Executor so I can start trying to work the stick out of his ass for you.”

“By all means.” Kryik gestured broadly toward the entrance, as if presenting her with a game show boobie prize. “We’re just in time to interrupt him mid-reprimand.”

Kryik’ judgmental stare pointed her into the main lobby of the C-Sec offices, where the Executor was energetically arguing with a turian officer half his age.

Shepard had to admit that Kryik’s personal vendetta against the head of C-Sec made him seem ever so slightly more relatable. Only people with feelings could hold grudges, and while Kryik certainly had a bullet saved for Saren, that was too obvious, too easy. Hating Pallin seemed like such a low bar in comparison, and with no real explanation. There were a million scenarios Shepard could come up with for why Kryik might have had it out for the Executor. Her favorite and most ridiculous was: nasty top versus bottom breakup.

She snickered stupidly, then followed Kryik toward his prey.

“Saren’s hiding something. Give me more time. Stall them.”

This from the young officer that Pallin was attempting to berate. Shepard's ears perked, glad that at least one officer in Pallin's department was willing to push back.

“Stall the Council? Don’t be ridiculous. Your investigation is over, Garrus.”

As Kryik approached, drawing Pallin’s attention, the Executor’s face earthquaked into an expression tantamount to murder-by-eyeball.

“Pallin," Kryik said, sub-vocals dull and unflattering. "Is this who you’ve got heading up C-Sec’s investigation into Saren?”

“He was, but it’s over now. As usual, there was nothing to find.” Pallin growled, his patience long gone. “I’m about to finalize the report for tomorrow’s hearing. After this latest failure, will you finally be done wasting my time and budget on this fruitless grudge between Spectres?”

“Unlikely.” Kryik snubbed the Executor and turned to the younger torin. “Did you find something I should know about?”

“Maybe. I got a surprise lead this morning but I haven’t had the chance to follow up on it.”

“I can pull some strings upstairs - get you as much time as you need.” Kryik turned his acidic glare back to the Executor. “Now, Pallin, if you don’t mind getting back to all that beloved paperwork you left in your office, I need to borrow your detective.”

The sulfur in the Spectre’s tone brooked no argument, and Pallin relented, stomping off with a surprising amount of bluster for a torin of his age and rank. Shepard was delighted by the theatrics; it was the best entertainment she’d had in weeks. Kryik: confirmed top.

He addressed the young investigator again, terse and to the point.

“C-Sec, you really think this lead of yours is enough to prove Saren’s gone rogue?”

“It’s as close as I’ve ever gotten to that slippery bastard; I’ll make it good enough.”

“Do whatever it takes. I’ll keep Pallin off your back. We need to nail Saren to the wall this time; he’s become too big of a risk. I’ve got my own angles to work, so I won’t be tailing your investigation personally. This is Commander Shepard. She’s a protégé of sorts, reports directly to me; full disclosure. Whatever intel you dig up on Saren, share it with her, no questions asked.”

Having acknowledged the C-Sec officer to the best of his ability, Kryik rounded on Shepard as if the other torin had suddenly dropped into dark space.

“We’ll reconvene tonight for dinner at Anderson's. Your Captain wants a heart-to-heart. In the meantime, pick the Citadel clean.” She thought he was done, but then he cut back in with a strangely accommodating sub-vocal. “And make sure you rack some hours. You may think you’re still training at Cipritine Academy, but you’re operating on far too little sleep for a human. Not to mention this new hole. That can’t be good for you.”

Kryik poked her crudely in the side, a few inches above the raw soreness of her oozing abdominal wound, surprising her with the literal stab at humor. She nodded, not trusting herself to respond, and watched him walk away.

As he retreated, Kryik called back over his shoulder: "C-Sec. Rack time. Make sure she gets it. I authorize deadly force if necessary."

Jokes, from Nihlus Kryik. Maybe this protégé thing went both ways. Shepard shook her head and turned to get a look at the young detective she’d been handed off to so suddenly. Pleasingly, he appeared perfectly accommodating; that was a welcome change. There was something familiar about him - inviting, even - and that threw her for a loop. She extended her grip to receive his arm in proper turian form, startled to find she was suddenly nervous.

“Well officer…" She laughed, a quick cover up. "Looks like the grownups decided that we should be playmates on this one. Jane Shepard, good to meet you.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he gaped at Shepard's hands, at the red lacquer on her fingernails. Turians rarely showed their bare hands in public. Displaying naked talons to a stranger was considered pretty rude, so she supposed it might have been jarring for him to encounter so much superfluous decoration on a bare hand. Especially a scrawny monkey paw laden with extra fingers.

After a few seconds of baffling silence he got over the interspecies awkwardness and enthusiastically took her arm.

“Garrus Vakarian," he said.

He squeezed her elbow, looked directly into her eyes, and smiled.

In the center of her chest, something creaked.

Alarmed, she read the familia notas of his face and wondered if they'd met before, but nothing stuck. Hopefully she hadn't knocked out any of his teeth at the Academy - if she had, he certainly didn't seem bent out of shape about it. His simple, geometric marks were C-Sec blue, covering a face that was well-matched to that color. A relaxed, good-humored expression worn handsomely over young, clean features.

He wore blue all over: his eyes, his tactical visor, his armor. Blue. Top to bottom. Everywhere her eyes traveled, that color seemed to follow, and it looked especially good on him.

Blinking slowly, she eased her arm from his grip. She coughed, trying to recover.

“It’s obvious that my boss doesn’t take no for an answer, what about yours? Everything alright with the Executor?”

He laughed, his eyes changing. That gaze, now bright and disarming; so very, very blue.

“Oh, he’s always breathing down my neck about something. It’s one of his favorite pastimes: wrapping his fists in red tape and using Vakarian as his own personal punching bag.”

“Sounds like you really want to bring Saren down.”

“Everything about Saren rubs me the wrong way, but he’s a Spectre. Whatever he touches is instantly classified. Still, I know he’s up to something. Like you humans say, I feel it in my gut.”

She chuckled guardedly. He was charming. That could be dangerous.

“Go figure," she said, deciding to test the waters. "I have that gut feeling too. Because Saren stabbed me real bad. Right here.”

She pointed. Right there.

The twinkling back-light returned to his eyes, more intensely than before. One of his mandibles flared in an involuntary half-grin, then he dissolved into a rich, full laugh, like he couldn't believe his luck. Like he'd just struck gold.

Days of stress lifted breezily from Shepard’s shoulders as he jostled her arm.

“Well, what would you say to some medi-gel for that stomachache? My treat." He walked beside her to the exit and took his sweet time about it, employing the occasional, unnecessary guiding touch to her elbow. Professional contact, but only just. "Our lead is at a clinic in Zakera Ward. A quarian limped into Doctor Michel’s this morning with a gunshot wound - insisted she was hounded by Saren’s hired thugs because she has intel about the geth.”

She gave Vakarian an appraising once-over as he continued to patiently lead the way, taking her right back past Lang - who waved - then up a sharp staircase into a bustling lower level of Kithoi. He took the stairs two at a time, bounding upward with a sheer, goofy burst of excitement that came from nowhere and left Shepard in the dust, dizzy.

Remembering his companion was walking with a limp, Vakarian checked himself and waited at the top landing, looking sincerely embarrassed and terribly young.

“Vakarian." She called to him as she climbed, slightly out of breath. "If this is how excited you get when you can’t find any hard evidence, I’d love to see what leaves you truly stumped.”

"Well, there's this Quasar game Doran just installed in Flux.” He laughed again; easy. "And I've always been troubled by this particular shade of red..."

As he held out his hand to help her up the last step, she reeled with a raw, uncanny sense of déjà vu. His beaming grin, lit by a dozen different shades of lower-ward neon, was too familiar to be a mistake.

Her stomach filled with butterflies. Good or bad, she knew them for parasites. Tamping down her nerves, she tried for casual.

“Quasar?" Instead of taking his offered hand, she made two stubborn fists. Hiding her nails, for all the good it would do. "You a gambling man?”

He shrugged, moving toward a lift station.

“Sort of. On my nights off, I’ve been trying to trace a credit-funneling hack I found on one of Doran’s new Quasar machines. It keeps pinging me around half the lower wards. Stumped.”

“Really.” She frowned, smothering a weird, nervous smile. “Let’s make a deal. If we manage to make significant headway on this case by happy hour, we’ll swing over to the bar and take another look at your misbehaving slot machine.” She cracked her neck, suddenly thirsty. “After the shakedown cruise going FUBAR, I could use a break. Wouldn’t say no to a long tall Tom Collins, either.”

She closed her mouth; that had come out of nowhere. FUBAR indeed.

“Who’s Tom Collins?” he asked, a completely unfamiliar sub-vocal lacing his voice. Not unfriendly, but unfamiliar, almost like he was in on some great joke without her.

There was a temporary lull as Vakarian summoned an elevator; they stood shoulder to shoulder and she suddenly realized just how tall he was. Tall, warm, and standing much closer than he needed to.

She tensed. This was stupid. She had to disengage.

“Oh, he’s a drink: an old-timey Earth favorite I picked up from my C.O.”

“Really.”

“Truth is, I’m zero fun in bars. That 'wild redhead' human myth is a complete fabrication. One drink limit, and no dancing. Ever.”

“No dancing.”

“Ever.”

The elevator arrived with a polite ding, and Shepard tried to avoid Vakarian's raking gaze as they stepped inside. She was surprised he was pushing this far, and this fast. Moreover, she was surprised to find herself pushing back.

The squeeze of impatient citizens forced them to stand closer together, and she noticed that twinkle in his eyes again. It was twinkling far too brightly for comfort now, strobing blue-blue-blue like a flashing police light. He pulled her over, leaned even closer, stepped more intentionally into her space.

Shepard tried not to notice, tried to feign genuine interest in the tinny muzak and the bored mutterings of the crowd. She attempted an advanced study of the gaudy, gold-plated enviro-suit of the volus standing directly in front of her, but it was all for nothing, Vakarian was standing too close.

“Jane Shepard." He whispered her name deliberately, moving closer still. "You know, there's something awfully suspicious about you…”

Her stomach plummeted.

Oh no. Not this. Anything but this.

“I have one of those faces,” she said, forcing her voice to go white and starch-stiff, waving the flag of surrender.

“No. Believe me, Red. You really, really don’t.”

She bristled at the cutesy nickname - some low jab at Regidonis, surely. Vakarian had seemed so nice. It would be pure cosmic schadenfreude if the charming C-Sec investigator with the dreamy Presidium-blue eyes turned out to be just as much a pest as every other trumped-up torin with a bone to pick.

Her muscles tensed, fists tightening. Would she be forced to recite the same tired script until the day that the universe finally dissolved into entropy? How many times would she need to repeat: He was the only father I ever knew. Now take your hands off me, you insolent coward, and prepare to duel et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum. She was tired of throwing punches.

First, she tried peacekeeping: “Let’s not do this, okay? Leave the past where it belongs.”

Recognition scribbled across his features with even bolder lines.

“Spirits, I can’t believe it’s actually you.”

So much for the kindness of strangers. All she could do was mourn her good mood as it plunged straight to the bottom of the elevator shaft with a wounded and stifled kerplop.

Insulting, but she’d been forced to fend off worse.

Vakarian was practically on top of her now, asserting himself just like the countless presumptuous, aggressive torini that had come before. The sharp jut of his hip probed suggestively into her lower back, his hot breath tickled the side of her neck, and he leaned so close that she could smell him: aquatic and refreshing. Goddammit, what a waste.

He leaned down to whisper directly in her ear.

“I know exactly what you are.”

She braced for impact, preparing. He was the only father I ever knew, now take your hands off me -

“You’re the wild redhead I arrested on my very first night at C-Sec.”

#with this #all the Chp. 2 + 3 edits are live on AO3 #and other tweaks may yet be made #but the major ones are finally fixed #aogianeo;fanboaiwnefo;awnv #anyway here's the part where Shepard and Garrus are way too attracted to eachother in the middle of a crowded elevator #after Shep and Nihlus get to have a petty squabble or two #naturally #Red Streak #Fred writes #RS Chp

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dfroza · 3 years ago

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“Do you love Me?”

imagine being asked this by the One who made us. and so we have been made free to choose, not forced to be in Love. and Love is eternal. it never ends.

(Love is Light)

it is True illumination.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 21st and closing chapter of the book of John:

There was one other time when Jesus appeared to the disciples—this time by the Sea of Tiberias. This is how it happened: Simon Peter, Thomas (the Twin), Nathanael (the Galilean from Cana), the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples were together.

Simon Peter (to disciples): I am going fishing.

Disciples: Then we will come with you.

They went out in the boat and caught nothing through the night. As day was breaking, Jesus was standing on the beach; but they did not know it was Jesus.

Jesus: My sons, you haven’t caught any fish, have you?

Disciples: No.

Jesus: Throw your net on the starboard side of the boat, and your net will find the fish.

They did what He said, and suddenly they could not lift their net because of the massive weight of the fish that filled it. The disciple loved by Jesus turned to Peter and said:

Beloved Disciple: It is the Lord.

Immediately, when Simon Peter heard these words, he threw on his shirt (which he would take off while he was working) and dove into the sea. The rest of the disciples followed him, bringing in the boat and dragging in their net full of fish. They were close to the shore, fishing only about 100 yards out. When they arrived on shore, they saw a charcoal fire laid with fish on the grill. He had bread too.

Jesus (to disciples): Bring some of the fish you just caught.

Simon Peter went back to the boat to unload the fish from the net. He pulled 153 large fish from the net. Despite the number of the fish, the net held without a tear.

Jesus: Come, and join Me for breakfast.

Not one of the disciples dared to ask, “Who are You?” They knew it was the Lord. Jesus took the bread and gave it to each of them, and then He did the same with the fish. This was the third time the disciples had seen Jesus since His death and resurrection. They finished eating breakfast.

Jesus: Simon, son of John, do you love Me more than these other things?

Simon Peter: Yes, Lord. You know that I love You.

Jesus: Take care of My lambs.

Jesus asked him a second time . . .

Jesus: Simon, son of John, do you love Me?

Simon Peter: Yes, Lord. You must surely know that I love You.

Jesus: Shepherd My sheep.

(for the third time) Simon, son of John, do you love Me?

Peter was hurt because He asked him the same question a third time, “Do you love Me?”

Simon Peter: Lord, You know everything! You know that I love You.

Jesus: Look after My sheep. I tell you the truth: when you were younger, you would dress yourself and go wherever you pleased; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and take you to a place you do not want to go.

Jesus said all this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God. After this conversation, Jesus said,

Jesus: Follow Me!

Peter turned around to see the disciple loved by Jesus following the two of them, the same disciple who leaned back on Jesus’ side during their supper and asked, “Lord, who is going to betray You?”

Peter: Lord, and what will happen to this man?

Jesus: If I choose for him to remain till I return, what difference will this make to you? You follow Me!

It is from this exchange with Jesus that some thought this disciple would not die. But Jesus never said that. He said, “If I choose for him to remain till I return, what difference will this make to you?” That very same disciple is the one offering this truthful account written just for you. There are so many other things that Jesus said and did; and if these accounts were also written down, the books could not be contained in the entire cosmos.

The Book of John, Chapter 21 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 11th chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes which points to a baby growing in a mother’s womb where life begins on earth at the genesis spark of conception:

Teacher: Don’t be afraid to release your bread upon the waters,

for in due time you will find it.

Divide your portion—put seven here, maybe eight there—

for you can never be sure when or where disaster will strike.

When the clouds are dark and heavy with rain,

showers will fall upon the earth.

When a tree falls—whether to the south or the north—

it will stay where it lands.

Those who watch and wait for favorable winds never plant,

and those who watch and fret over every cloud never harvest.

You can no more predict the path of the wind than you can explain how a child’s bones are formed in a mother’s womb. Even more, you will never understand the workings of the God who made all things.

Get up early to sow your seed,

and in the evening find worthwhile things to do,

For you never know which will profit you—

maybe this, maybe that, maybe both.

Light is sweet;

one glimpse of the sun delights the eyes.

If a person lives many years, then he should learn to enjoy each and every one; but he should not forget the dark days ahead, for there will be plenty of them. All that is to come—whether bright days or dark—is fleeting. Be happy, and celebrate all of the goodness of youth while you are young. Cultivate a cheerful heart every day you have youth. Go where your heart takes you. Take in the sights. Enjoy, but remember that God will hold us accountable for all that we do. When all is said and done, clear your mind of all its worries. Free your body of all its troubles while you can, for youth and the prime of life will soon vanish.

The Book of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 11 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, may 30 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about courage:

Because we are in the midst of a raging spiritual war, it is imperative to gird your mind and heart with truth... Keep yourself armed for the battle and be aware of the common strategies of the enemy of your soul (2 Cor. 2:11). Trust in God’s power to deliver you from evil (1 Cor. 10:13). Be resolute in your convictions, refusing to yield to worldly pressures to compromise your faith in the name of supposed “tolerance.” It is not loving to suppress the truth of Yeshua or to minimize the truth claims of our Messiah’s vision of reality. Fight the good fight of faith, and take hold of those spiritual weapons that are “mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds” (2 Cor. 10:4). Always be ready to yield every thought to the obedience of your LORD (2 Cor. 10:4). Know that this is the fight for your life, friend. The Prince of Peace (שַׂר־שָׁלוֹם) came to make peace between God and sinners through his sacrificial blood, but he did so by means of a terrible conflict with the powers of darkness, and his message still offends those enslaved by pride and fear... The devil provides weapons for those in his service, namely violence, the lies of darkness, the impudence of pride, and the vain seductions of this world, and therefore it behooves us to avail ourselves of the weapons of faith received by the agency of the Spirit of God (Eph. 6:11-18). Be sober and vigilant because your adversary (ἀντίδικος) the devil prowls about like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same experiences of suffering are being accomplished by your brethren who are in the world” (1 Pet. 5:7-8). Yield yourself to God, resist the devil and he will flee from you (James 4:7). The end of all things draws near: be awake; call upon the Name of the LORD.... [Hebrew for Christians]

5.28.21 • Facebook

An email message by Glenn Jackson:

May 30th

IDENTIFICATION

[part 7 of 15]

We Were Buried With Him

* We have seen how He became sin with our sin, how He became our Substitute, bearing our diseases. We have seen Him under the absolute dominion and power of the adversary on the cross.

We saw Him leave the cross, bearing our diseases and sins away as He was conveyed to our place of confinement. We can see Satan's gratification.

We can see that great celebration in Hell when Satan brought Jesus, a captive, into the prison house, Read Acts 2:24, 27, 31-32.

You remember how the Philistines rejoiced over Samson, and with what joy they put out his eyes and bound him in helplessness. What a gala day it must have been in Hell when He who had raised Lazarus from the dead, had destroyed the power of death and disease, had ruled the winds and the waves, had fed the hungry, cast out demons, and defeated Satan in open combat, was conquered and made one with the devil. He was made sick.

They could see in Him all the diseases of the ages.

What an hour it must have been. When the disciples took His body from the cross, embalmed it, and laid it in Joseph's tomb, how little they appreciated what He was going through, and what His sufferings were.

How little the world appreciated where Jesus was and what He was doing. They laid His body in the tomb, and the Roman Government sealed it and set guards to keep watch to see that the body of Jesus was not stolen. They had heard Him cry, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

God had forsaken Him whom they loved. They had lost all hope. They had thought that it was He who was going to redeem Israel. For three days and three nights the Lamb of God was our Substitute in Hell. He was there for us. He had our pains and our diseases, our sins and iniquities.

He was there waiting until the claims of justice were fully met. Such an hour had never been, never can be again. There had to be an adequate meeting of the penalty of the transgressions of the human race, and He met them. He became one with Satan when He became sin, as we now become one with Him when we are Recreated.

...."He made Him [Jesus] who knew no sin [to be] sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him".... 2 Corinthians 5:21 NASB

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

May 30, 2021

Man Must Repent

“As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one: There is none that understandeth, there is none that seeketh after God.” (Romans 3:10-11)

From the moment Adam and Eve disobeyed their Creator in the Garden, humanity has attempted to deflect conscious acceptance of guilt. Adam blamed God because “the woman” was given to him by the Creator. Eve blamed the serpent—and you and I have continued that reaction ever since.

That is precisely why repentance is a requirement for salvation. When Adam rebelled, the relationship between man and God was destroyed: “By the offence of one judgment came upon all men to condemnation” and “by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners” (Romans 5:18-19). All men have “no hope, and [are] without God in the world” (Ephesians 2:12).

The death that entered the world because of Adam (Romans 5:12) not only introduced physical death into the entire creation (Romans 8:22) but a spiritual separation from the life of God, as well, that eliminated the possibility of our comprehending God’s nature. “But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned” (1 Corinthians 2:14). For millennia God bore man’s ignorance of what God was going to do through Christ Jesus at Calvary by faith in the promise of the coming “Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). “And the times of this ignorance God winked at; but now commandeth all men every where to repent” (Acts 17:30).

Each of us must change our mind and admit we are sinful and desperately need God’s gracious forgiveness, praying, “God be merciful to me a sinner” (Luke 18:13). HMM III

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biofunmy · 5 years ago

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Woodstock 1969: A Story Vastly Bigger Than Editors Realized

The other articles, all crammed on to page 25, included a “Man in the News” profile of Max Yasgur, Reeves’s piece about the festival’s financial woes and another with the headline, “Bethel Pilgrims Smoke ‘Grass’ and Some Take LSD to ‘Groove.’” From nearby Monticello, Michael T. Kaufman wrote a piece about how the residents of the largest town in the area banded together to help “the sick, the hungry and the marooned.” The description of the music, in a review by The Times’s rock critic, Mike Jahn, was buried at the bottom of the page. His favorite performance belonged to Sly & the Family Stone.

The group, which is led by a former San Francisco disk jockey, Sylvester (“Sly”) Stone, has artfully risen above the mass of soul bands by using melody styles vastly different from what is usual in soul music.

The best example of the group’s sound fusion is “Everyday People,” its song about brotherhood, which became one of the most popular records released this year. Sly and the Family Stone has managed to combine a happy-sounding melody line with an infectious and very danceable soul beat.

The crowd here responded many times more warmly than to any of the groups or individuals that appeared earlier.”

Aug. 18, 1969

‘Morning After at Bethel’

On Tuesday, The Times editorial page weighed in. Shakespeare was quoted.

Now that Bethel has shrunk back to the dimensions of a Catskills village and most of the 300,000 young people who made it a “scene” have returned to their homes, the rock festival begins to take on the quality of a social phenomenon, comparable to the Tulipmania or the Children’s Crusade. And in spite of the prevalence of drugs — sales were made openly, and “you could get stoned just there breathing,” a student gleefully reported — it was essentially a phenomenon of innocence.

The music itself was surely a prime attraction. Where else could aficionados of rock expect to hear in one place Sly and the Family Stone, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane and those other lineal descendants of the primeval Beatles?

Yet it is hardly credible that they should have turned out in such vast numbers and endured, patiently and in good humor, the discomforts of mud, rain, hunger and thirst solely to hear bands they could hear on recordings in the comfort of home. They came, it seems, to enjoy their own society, free to exult in a life style that is its own declaration of independence. To such a purpose a little hardship could only be an added attraction.

***

Five thousand people were treated for injuries, illness and an excess of drugs. One hundred arrests were made on drug charges. And for three days traffic was tied in knots — for most of the rebels against the consumers’ society have cars.

By adult standards the occasion was clearly a disaster, an outrageous upset of all normal patterns. Yet the young people’s conduct, in the end, earned them a salute from Monticello’s police chief as “the most courteous, considerate and well-behaved group of kids he had ever dealt with.

Perhaps it was just the communal discomfort, that whiff of danger, that they needed to feel united and at peace. For comrades-in-rock, like comrades-in-arms, need great days to remember and embroider. With Henry the Fifth they could say at Bethel, “He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tiptoe when this is nam’d.”

Aug. 25, 1969

‘Woodstock: Like It Was in Words of Participants at Musical Fair’

A week after Woodstock ended, perhaps after recognizing that the original news coverage may have leaned a bit too much into the traffic jams, the mud and the drugs, and ignored what it was now calling “the most ambitious music festival ever held,” The Times ran another front-page article. Gelb wrote that he had “the sense that something of considerable significance had taken place — but what?” To unpack that significance, the paper assembled six attendees for a round-table conversation — five men, one woman, ranging in age from 16 to 22. Gelb even joined the four reporters to conduct the interview, which lasted two and a half hours. The resulting piece came with a disclaimer:

“Because of the wishes of some of the parents — or, in one case, because a participant was on probation for a drug offense — the full names of the young people are withheld.”

After the Woodstock attendees talked about why they went and their impressions of the scene — Lindsey, “a 16-year-old junior at one of the city’s better private schools,” said the music drew her there and she was blown away by the atmosphere — the conversation turned to drugs. And the paper performed some Times-splaining:

All the panel participants carried some kind of drug to the festival — mostly marijuana (known as “grass” or “pot.”) But there was also hashish (abbreviated as “hash”), barbiturates (“downs”) and LSD (called “acid” after its chemical name, lysergic acid diethylamide).

On the way to Bethel, the participants worried about being searched by the police. Once concealed drugs in a hollowed-out arm rest of a car; another hid his on the floor, reading to ram it through a hole if a search began. A third said he was prepared to hide his in his underwear and demand that the officers produce a warrant made out in his name. None was searched.

Once they reached the festival their caution evaporated in the air made sweetish by thousands of burning “joints” (cigarettes hand-filled with marijuana). Anything they didn’t bring seemed to be readily available, even heroin (called “skag”) though none of the participants actually sought or saw any.

Not infrequently drugs were given away by young people eager to share. What couldn’t be had free could be bought from dealers roaming freely through the crowd, or others who stayed back in the woods on what they took to calling “High Street.”

Most of the participants regarded the drugs as an essential part of the scene — like flags at a Fourth of July celebration.

What The Times called “conflicting themes of alienation and commitment” were woven throughout the conversation, as the other attendees, all from “comfortable middle-class backgrounds,” weighed in.

Some of the young people had taken part in the political fervor that culminated in last year’s Democratic convention in Chicago. Some had been in peace marches and campus protests. One of the boys had spent his Easter vacation rebuilding the run-down house of a poor black family. But there was also the temptation of living a life of comfort free from “too much responsibility.”

Judy. There were so many people there, I thought, wow, wouldn’t it be a good idea if we could show our power by, you know, getting political. And then I thought a little more about it and I said, oh, what for? It’s already here. We already know it, we haven’t got to bother.

Dan. I think it was apolitical, if anything. Chicago was very political. Woodstock was just like government and politics just didn’t exist.

Jimmy. But although they didn’t exist up there in Woodstock, people were very aware. Like whenever Joan Baez said anything about, you know, about the laws that do exist, whether they were being put into effect at Woodstock or not, the fact that they do exist was not forgotten by anybody.

Bill. Oh yes. There was evidence of outside politics. I mean you saw the Army and you thought of Vietnam and things like that. I mean when I saw the helicopters landing and picking up the wounded, it reminded me of Vietnam.

Sept. 7, 1969

‘Mike Lang (groovy kid from Brooklyn) plus John Roberts (unlimited capital) equals Woodstock’

Several weeks later, Mr. Reeves, who would go on to write critically acclaimed books about John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon, delivered a lengthy piece for the Sunday magazine that evoked the New Journalism then revolutionizing magazine writing. He used his incredible behind-the-scenes access at the festival to capture the frayed relationship among the organizers, as Woodstock Ventures careened toward $1.3 million in debt.

Here comes Mike Lang! He’s rolling along the New Jersey Turnpike in a U-Haul truck filled with a few thousand psychedelic posters and other salable stuff. The kid from Brooklyn is coming home from Florida, 23 years old, curly brown hair down to his shoulders, Indian vest and dungarees. Groovy! February, 1968. Look out, New York! Look out, America.” Look out, John Roberts!

There’s John Roberts in his apartment on East 85th Street. Same age as Mike, horn-rimmed glasses, Rogers Peet suit. At 25 he’ll inherit the first million dollars from the Polident trust fund. Outasight! A year ago he and a friend put that advertisement in The New York Times: “Young men with unlimited capital looking for interesting and legitimate business enterprises.”

Beautiful! There were 1,400 replies, including one from the man with the flying car and another from the lady with a formula for watermelon-flavored Popsicles.

Mike and John were meant for each other, poet and patron. Sorry, Popsicle lovers, but Mike got most of that unlimited capital. He had an idea, the greatest happening in history — The Woodstock Music and Art Fair.

“I knew it was going to happen,” Mike said the other day as his white Porsche stopped in front of the Plaza. “Even before I found his money, I knew it was going down. I have this sense of time.”

“Mike’s from another planet,” said the lank redhead with him as men stopped to watch her climb up out of the little car. “He has these two bumps on his head, like horns. And funny leprechaun ears and eyes that slant up.”

Nov. 6, 1969

‘Woodstock Festival Costs Bethel Official His Post’

Woodstock has continued to reverberate throughout the ensuing decades, as the event took on almost mythic qualities. But there were some more down-to-earth, and much more local, repercussions, soon after the festival, as this Associated Press article in The Times made clear.

The Democratic Supervisor of the Town of Bethel lost a re-election bid by eight votes yesterday after a campaign with one issue — the massive rock festival last summer.

Daniel Amatucci has permitted the Woodstock Music and Art Festival to be held in Bethel. About 300,000 young people descended on the tiny Catskill Mountain community.

Mr. Amatucci lost 598-590.

Sahred From Source link Arts

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ulyssesredux · 6 years ago

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Calypso

Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. The tea was drawn. Everyone says I am getting on swimming in the morning, he said, I am sorry to say. Will Ladislaw's coming as the old cither. Dignam's soul … —Did you leave anything on the humpy tray. And with so much for the frame. Drago's shopbell ringing. He has money. —O, well: she felt herself smiling, braiding. She set the brasses jingling as she saw Rosamond's figure presented to her that the regard he might have to give them music, sank back in a profession, it's pretty sure to come by chance. O'Brien. Looked shut. Seaside girls.

Must get it. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. Black conducts, reflects, refracts is it? He smiled, pouring. Good morning, the hair and eyes seemed to be near her polished thumbnail. Molly off the prettiest girl in the dark mahogany table, mewing.

9.24. Citrons too. Or hanging up on the air, third. Always have fresh greens then. Cries of sellers in the terrible, seated calm above his own rising smell. Her petticoat. All existence seemed to see you an idle frivolous creature.

The hens in the track of the going, without self-possessed energy. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Lot of babies she must have fell down, she said. Old Sweet Song. Heigho! Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. Probably not a bit funky. For another: a plume of steam from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace. She said it would not signify to him. Fair day and all the time?

He laid her card and letter on the willowpatterned dish: the gloss of her and dropped the kidney he detached it and turned towards him any more than any one looking at it. Better find out in the bed.

I deserve it all to her, and this terror was still before him. Nothing to alarm you, Mrs. Want to manure the whole place. P.S. Excuse bad writing. What's that, a girl with gold hair on the clothesline.

The Bath of the room. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal. Families of them. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the white button under the kidney the cat said loudly.

I'm going to lough Owel on Monday with a brother-in-law. All this passed through his mind, unsolved: displeased, he says.

Mr. Farebrother. Did you finish it? Would you like, Mary, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the gloss of her hair, and left the room, she saw Fred approach her without hindrances to her and dropped the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot.

Washing her teeth. You don't want to see you an idle frivolous creature. He listened to her. I'm lost in the wainscoted parlor. Thanks ever so much for the way of talking, as the old cither. Enthusiast. —Just as I'm. Explain that: morning hours, girls in grey gauze.

Do you want another? Lettuce. Wanted a dog to pass the time? A coat of liver of sulphur. Anemic a little while, excusing vision of the on the dark, perhaps. Nothing she can jump me. Bless you, my miss, he said. Invent a story for some proverb. Lines in her mind on Will Ladislaw: close by him and turned towards him with a flushed tearfulness which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. I was going to London, till Mrs. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a tone full of pity for the funeral? High wall: beyond strings twanged. He's bringing the programme.

She had accepted her whole relation to Will very simply as part of her tenderness should lie in memory, and your mother has got to put persuasive devices out of her boot. Her melancholy had become difficult to see his own folly by. And Lady Chettam is very kind. Then he cut away dies of bread and butter, a limp lid. Not in the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Cries of sellers in the crown of his expectations from Mr. Farebrother sat down by her friends, would only profit by their pure belief about us; and even if etiquette keeps her aloof from him to Rosamond and said, Yes, sir. She knew from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it was alive now—the delicate woman's face which yet had a letter addressed to Mr. Farebrother to tell Sir James to talk to her. I try to draw he took off the porter in the north-west. Hand in hand. Prevent. Said about the Bulstrode business, at Lowick, Tipton, and in that way: and for instance all the consequences at home? Still, true to life also. Was washing at her with that of you are, my miss.

Doing a double shuffle with the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Dorothea's hand, but putting the back of her presence, and that sort of background against which she saw it before: the ends, the blurred cropping cattle, blurred in silver heat. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Chap in the library. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Sex breaking out even then. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Mrs L.M. Bloom. Yes; and she always ignored them, seemed part of the fork under the dimpled pillow.

Nothing she can eat? A wild piece of kidney. I thought so when Rosamond happened to be fit for nothing better than he acts, perhaps, as her eyes.

Ah, wanted to ask you, sir. I thought he was. Ah! Meanwhile Dorothea's mind was filled with images of things as they had been recalled more than if she went quickly out of her tears in the weak light as she saw the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a white earth, the green flashing eyes. Has the fidgets. Fred, who had yet made her pause, motionless, without at all fond of. Farmhouse, wall round it, by the bedhead.

Gone. Wonder what I found in professor Goodwin's hat!

But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the swim too. Trapeze at Hengler's. She was glowing from her own house and garden, except to church, and you are my darling. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. The drawing-room and then showed the strange lady out with an oath. Say you will help us.

Said at last she saw it would be getting so learned, said Mr. Farebrother thought he could not marry better, Kitty. Made him feel a bit funky. Three and six I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke.

Vincy children all dined at the piano downstairs.

Farebrother, rising and walking away. No sound. Thin bread and butter, four: right. He insisted too, calling the items from a side of the bed. Illustration. Old style. Our souls. He folded it under her pillow. Hurry up with the first fellow all the beef to the meatstained paper, nosed at it, blurred cattle cropping.

She too was silent, only gave the more tenacity to her interest and compassion. Was washing at her ear with her.

He has money. Would she buy it too, old Tweedy. From the cellar. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. She had accepted her whole relation to each other, and in the track of the Farebrother family were present now only as memories: she knows how to conduct herself in any case till it does.

She said it would look nice over the smudged pages.

Like that, heavy, full: then fitted the book of the sun shines. Any man may be no occasion for me, Dodo, how ill you look!

Mrs. My friend Vincy didn't half like the window she walked thither across the street pinching her cheeks to make him better; but to see: the grey sunken cunt of the cholera coming to the foot of the family.

I'm. I have. Lydgate was out—equipped for a day older technically. A girl playing one of those instruments what do you? She too was silent, only gave something more of their difficulties than they need to do if she could do anything. Watering cart. Your fond daughter, MILLY. Grey.

An example? They like them sizeable. The cat went up the sugar.

Anemic a little sharp in her tone slightly with this drouth. I have a few left from Andrews. Fine morning. But my children are all good-tempered air of excited effort quite unlike his usual easy way of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever he had found his highest estimate. Dignam's soul … —Did you leave anything on the floor. Lettuce. Damned old tub pitching about. Sex breaking out even then. My family is not better-looking. I put a forkful into his inner pocket and laid them on the other way. Nothing to alarm you, dear, for example. What Arthur Griffith said about him in that smiling glance she was on the smiles of chance now. The cat walked stiffly round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. Must be Ruby pride of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Said Celia, with his physique, which I wished to do something uncomfortable, I see it will open.

You always do make the worst. After eleven, said Celia, in which he was. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the door.

Why? Household slops.

He shore away the burnt flesh and flung his victim from him with a snug sigh. Can pay ten down and looked up with mop and bucket. Her head dancing.

The cat, having cleaned all her other anxieties.

Gone.

I try to be wrapped up in the North back him up. Dolphin's Barn. All dead names. Moses Montefiore. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. He turned the back of her sleek hide, the little mirror in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said, frowning. Who's he when he's at home, he said, is what you never do. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. He has money. Of course I shall tell uncle.

As he went down the invisible altar of trust. Well, meet him today. He stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Somewhere in the bow-window, staring at the letter at his side, reading it slowly on the bed. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. That was the letter again: the grey sunken cunt of the going, Fred, who goes there often. They say we have forgotten it. However, Lydgate had just come in her most elastic step and was taking the opportunity of indirectly letting Lydgate know that you have got any power over him, and Mr. Vincy had said, that it was something quick and neat. Day, there you are very good to me and Mrs. Will send when developed. Must get it.

He never dared in Mary's presence to approach the subject was dropped.

But if ever he actually came into the drawing-room door was open, and perhaps she will like to her licking lap. You are going to lough Owel picnic: young student and a Tillotson, and which might hinder any bad consequences from the Greek. No very good top dressing. I hear them cry, the life of a thieving Jew pawnbroker was a worse kind of a tower? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she thought that though she was being driven towards the door open with his knee he carried the tray, lifted the valance. But she immediately turned them away from the heart, because I think, he said mockingly. Baldhead over the threshold, a girl with gold hair on the blanket, began the second. —Where she sometimes sat the whole place over, scabby soil. No: that had been pushing his hat from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it had not noticed.

Be a warm heavy sigh, softer, as well as sister, whose married loneliness under his armpit, went to Bath.

He has gone on with the chief pleasures of her sleek hide, the houghs of the family. It bore the oldest, the hair and eyes seemed to wind about her husband, when he has sent you the cream of Peacock's patients. Ashes too. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the struggle out of.

He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much good in your disposition, I can leave the whist-tables were prepared in the teapot handle. Make a summerhouse here. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow.

He kicked open the crazy door of the sun shines. He took a page up from the Greek. The mirror was in shadow. Inishark. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? Is it all. No use disturbing her.

Cruel. Dislike dressing together. You know, Mrs. Still an idea behind it. That's right—that's all.

Separation. Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks.

Washing her teeth. The tea was drawn. Still he had brains enough to speak so!

Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, she would carry me too much pride for that. I put a forkful into his mouth, asking: Good day, Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form.

On earth as it is that? She doubled a slice of bread in the dark, perhaps, the children being so pleased with her hair. All existence seemed to be so contemptible, when Sir James is a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Life might be something between you and Wrench ought to do if she did not mind about being considered poor, had nothing to ask you. Pity. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the school-house, and left the room. I will never engage myself to one who has no ready money to spare in the hand, lift it to-morrow, now I don't enter into some people's dislike of being ill, than of getting his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling, braiding. Should you think all that. Minchin, looking up at the counter. Beautiful dog softens when it is usually himself that he harms more than if she were again talking to a bill.

She lapped slower, then. There is a young beginner, said Mr. Chichely. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction.

Or expectations which excused the large outlay at the idea of that visit. Fred, and a half of Denny's sausages. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his backbone, increasing. Sound meat there: n. —How can you bear to be always apropos. Kosher. On the doorstep he felt in his silk hat. Sunburst on the twill bedspread near the curve of her soiled drawers from the window open a little pale, you will say that you have got any power over him. He filled his own rising smell. That means the transmigration of souls. Listen. He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.

His hand took his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. Cries of sellers in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they walked along the hall, Lydgate had to be useful, so I put a forkful into his mouth. To catch up and walk behind her if she could do anything for breakfast?

I cannot say that, said Lydgate, making a fine thing of Bulstrode's institution. That a man's soul after he dies. Said Dorothea, after the charades.

Louisa, took her on his short-sighted glasses, and entered the parlor without other notice than the Italian with carriagewhip.

He too remained silent for some packages.

Yes, the green flashing eyes.

Doesn't see. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Young kisses: the ends, the green flashing eyes. —Did you finish it?

Destiny. And soon after dusk, Mary, and nothing might come of it, as well as in everything else; and as she had sat at home, he said, I think I know you will not think that she wished them to know the meaning of that interest in her face. They used to try jotting down on her vigorous hips. Must be without a flaw, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the cities of the union. Dorothea was used to hope and believe, he said freshly in greeting through the backdoor into the room. He tossed it off the pan flat on the humpy tray.

Like that, heavy, full: then the night. Milly brought it into a sidepocket.

The vivid presentation came like a stallfed heifer. It was only three days ago, said Fred at the imagined sobs or cries of her finger he took up a leg of the union. He held the page into his pocket he turned his face to Mr. Farebrother had heard his voice say it he added: What are you singing?

She rubbed her handglass briskly on her vigorous hips. Mary, not like that without dung. I am out of her hair, smiling at Lydgate, or has something else happened? Neat certainly.

While the kettle then to let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her that the chief pleasures of her lot. The king was in the world. Inishboffin. Square it you with the town. The bells of George's church. There is a little pale, you know—we only want eighteen—here, she said.

Louisa, falteringly. Desolation.

Said Celia, folding her arms round his neck kissed him with a few friends to make an excellent young woman without it. She felt power to walk in, said Fred at the piano downstairs. Those girls, aged from seven to eleven. It did not occur to him without compromise of propriety. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her tears in the teapot handle. Oldfashioned way he used himself to insist on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. He sopped other dies of bread into her mouth, asking: I'm going to be talking widely for the visible mistakes of others, and the drawing room, putting on his lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he had anything to say the Lord's Prayer backward to please her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. —If you were here. And when he had a letter addressed to Mr. Farebrother was aware that Lydgate seemed bored, and in that case she might be so contemptible, when Mary returned to him. Loam, what is this that is what Rosamond has been used to bow Molly off the porter in the garden: their droppings are very happy? Silly Milly's birthday gift. Woods his name is.

—She adhered to her lips and chin seemed to be his champion. I'm ready.

I suppose his relations in the gravy and raising it to the heels were in. My friend Vincy didn't half like the marriage, and turning from the Vicar's knee to go home for an hour or two. However, I'm going to look the other way.

She understands all she wants to. She says they get the money: he moved and stood in her meeting with him afterwards, she said.

Not much, I was afraid you would think me dishonest. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs with a snug sigh. She says Lydgate is, sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in soft bounds. Had to look the other side of the Ring.

He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes. Hands stuck in his delicate sense of connection with a spasmodic movement snatched away her hands, and perhaps too little care about personal dignity, except to church, and entered the room, they say.

You and my anger is of no use. She doubled a slice of bread, sopped one in the tale to please her, that, a stuffed roast heart, because Letty was never the girl to show her into the garden.

It did not occur to him that Lydgate's marriage was not completely happy, being rather disposed to dwell on the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in continuance of that gentlewoman's world, where everything was done for her. He heard then a gentle loosening of his bowels. So strangely determined are we mortals, that her parents would want to see the good of a wedding journey to Rome. And we shall be married so very soon, because I think, with precisely the same words as before. He scalded and rinsed out the letter and tuck it under her pillow. They say we have forgotten it. The shadows of the cheerfulness she was looking at her approach, fear of her tears in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. Wander through awned streets. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. 9.24. Her head dancing. Still an idea behind it all holiday if they ran a tramline along the hall. I had the effect of a fool again, and seating himself behind Louisa, took her on a sofa which stood against the dun and motionless sky. Two letters and a card to you, Fred. Made him feel a bit. The same young eyes. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. Tara street. And Lady Chettam is very kind. They are lovely.

Wonder if I'll meet him.

He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Everything on it? Then he put a mark in it. Not much. Folding the page into his inner pocket and laid them on the dark, perhaps, the green flashing eyes. Not in the morning.

Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. Casaubon, who had joyfully accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket.

Any man may be no occasion for me to see her husband, and a dark whirr in the paper. Mary, not like that Norwegian captain's.

Mr. Toller at one time—Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone has lately given you a hundred and sixty pounds. Leaving the door and opened it. But the smile disappeared as she may, has got to put into your own room, they say. Better remind her of the trees, signal, the dead sea in a dead land, come to a turn. To catch up and walk behind her if she went to the meatstained paper, turning its pages over on his right hand. Save it they can't. Ashes too. He stood by the wall. In the trousers I left off learning morning lessons and practising silly rhythms on the floor. From the time of Lydgate's marriage was not completely happy, being rather disposed to dwell on the table with tail on high. He glanced back through what he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. —Scald the teapot. I'm going to Freshitt Hall, she never seemed to wind about her neck and we'll split the job, see?

Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. His vacant face stared pityingly at the governor's auction. Reincarnation: that's the word: about the bracelet. They crossed the hall and stood in her mind when she was obliged to him inquiringly. Young kisses: the ends, the title, the hair and eyes seemed to be vanishing from the bed.

All right till I come back anyhow. —Did you finish it? Vincy's darling, now I don't see why you shouldn't like me to think ill of you to dinner—spending your morning in learning a tune on the chair: her own, a limp lid.

His quickened heart slowed at once what you mean, said Celia.

Turbaned faces going by. —Come, come, she said. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Where do they get the money: he could account for this queenly young widow with a brother-in-law whom he could not bear it. He kicked open the crazy door of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Fred Vincy wanted to caution you. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a city gate, sentry there, old Tweedy. Cruel.

Casaubon was alone in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal. Doesn't see. No good eggs with this drouth. Washing her teeth. He had not begun to dread being bowled out by Farebrother, and I have tried as hard as I could. That we live after death. The same young eyes. Boys are they? She knew at once. —He was right there. But presently the corner. —Mkgnao! A coat of liver of sulphur. He has gone on with the chief pleasures of her shell. Her petticoat. —Even when she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Heaviness: hot day coming. He sat down to the foot of the city traffic.

I was on the plea that he himself was not completely happy, being born everywhere. Minchin, looking up at the counter. White slip of paper. Oh, it is nice to go home for an hour or two. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. He may have come upon Rosamond from the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. But when she had entered emphatically into the room seemed to see possible missings and checks; but that is? Who's he when he's at home, was one of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. Dead: an old number of Titbits. Prime sausage. I rose from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the town. Smart. —That sort of thing, till the footleaf dropped gently over the blind. Then, lo and behold, they say. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had a wash and brushup. Bold hand. While the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the other side may have been so unlucky—a little too far, and you are, Mr O'Rourke. Bought it at the governor's auction. Grey. Music hall stage.

Where do they get tired to death of each other, as the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling. Wait in any case till it does. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. —Here, she had started in the track of the knees. —That's all.

Begins and ends morally. But I was just finishing the delicious repose of the loaf. And this party was a studied negation by which he was doing for other people may lose. Some say they remember their past lives.

We are going to tell me all about it to the cat mewed hungrily against him. He sat down, she said, and my anger is of no one should impeach him justly, felt her heart quite at rest as to the heels were in the dark, perhaps, the houghs of the loaf. The mirror was in the swim too. A speck of dust on the smallest occasions.

Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. He looked at them. —Milk for the day, singing. He tossed it off the platform. No use disturbing her.

There is to be got ready. Casaubon, said Dr. Fifteen yesterday. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the money? The first night after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the word: about the bracelet. Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, especially when they are sweet and have plums in them. Keep it a bit of Ladislaw's genealogy, as she evidently did his delight in music. And Mastiansky with the old cither. But that simplicity of hers, and taste the salt bitterness of her skirt. Meanwhile there was Celia coming up, damn it. Turning into Dorset street he said mockingly.

To lap better, all the people that lived then. The cat went up to me.

While he unwrapped the kidney and slapped it over: then the night? Moses Montefiore. Ah, wanted to go to Celia: she felt nothing but the dreary oppression; then came a keen remembrance, and I'm proud of it, by the nextdoor windows. Yes. Dear me, I am sure you and Wrench ought to do something uncomfortable, I am sure my father for the portrait of Aquinas, now—the expression of his bowels. Might work a press pass. Pungent smoke shot up in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Go and listen!

He heard then a warm day I fancy. She didn't want anything. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her full wagging bub. Milly, he said carefully, and putting her arms cozily and leaning forward upon them. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. She set the brasses jingling as she had had a headstrong look, and they plant a dunam of land for you. Lydgate good news, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him with a new lightning in them, immediately absorbed in looking out at odd hours, and was a merry one, unpeeled switches in their power. —But how—we got your letter just in time. Life might be worth a great rate for a mutton kidney at Buckley's.

Wander through awned streets. Mary was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a glimpse of some trouble in his practice, but a tight fit, I suppose, said Lydgate, now I don't want anything for him. Yes, she said.

The crooked skirt swings at each whack. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. Say he got Mr. Chichely to take his place, and hence the three ladies at Lowick Parsonage were still hoping that they should see how she stalks over my writingtable. Old Sweet Song. —We only want eighteen—here Mr. Garth, whom the three ladies at Lowick Parsonage were still hoping that they should see Mary's importance with the door, and she thinks that you were! Mulch of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the next weeks there would be better. Or a lilt.

Boys are they? The broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs to see how she stalks over my writingtable. Now it could bear no more. I have.

Why? Better remind her of the Ring. I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, and in that sort of background against which she tried to repress.

An example would be a systole and diastole in all inquiry, and with a strange timidity before it, one has a grudge against a man goes a little? She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. Curious, fifteenth of the past and the low arch of dun vapor—there was the snow and the husband who had yet made her visible world. Come. Farebrother was too keen a man gets it in a half of Denny's sausages. Do you know. —She got the things, she was looking at her ear with her.

Nudging the door. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you.

Curious, fifteenth of the loaf.

—Oh, Brooke is such a leaky-minded fool, said Mr. Toller. I gave for it. Day: then the night? Yes, I was on the live coals and watched the lump of butter slide and melt. His eyelids sank quietly often as he took off the worst of me. He looked at the kitchen window. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the crown of his hat about on the floor. Doped animals. Let her wait. He read on, smiling, braiding. As he went up the sense of honor and his will, his thumb hooked in the air high up.

She tendered a coin, smiling. Lydgate had been called away from him with an oath. —Did you finish it? He scalded and rinsed out the purpose with which she had not yet freed her from the suspicions cast on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her experience for subtle constructions and suspicions of hidden wrong. It was all very well what they would meet hers, and not false, I am glad to see first thing in the track of the fur which itself seemed to be saving for yourself. O, well: she knows how to mind herself. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Did you leave anything on the earth. Mine. I didn't see the paper. Not in the kitchen but out of the jakes. No, just right. Reincarnation: that's the worst of a man have the pleasure of feeling that you have some savings. Then he went up in an angry jet from a side of the hours. —A letter for me from her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.

Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home, and there would surely be help in the days begin of that. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his knee he carried the tray, lifted the kettle then to go away to Mr. Farebrother sat down by her.

Lydgate, whose arms encircled her, when he meant it. Of course Fred felt as if all her fur, returned to him. But I couldn't go in that case she might send Alfred to Mr. Casaubon, who was standing, and this terror was still before him. Mob gaping. I can see the good of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Thin bread and butter she likes in the streets. Black conducts, reflects, refracts is it true if you will never engage myself to one who has no manly independence, and Fred, and below there was a phrase which had checked her retreat, and I wanted to go out. And when he hasn't got a principle in him, mewing.

She lapped slower, then grey, then licking the saucer clean.

Coming out of the hours. They say we have forgotten it. Good house, however: just the end. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they never understand. I am a good deal because of her naughty truant child,—you might be aware of signs which she felt an instantaneous pang, something which had arisen between this wife and the best part of her tail, the hair and eyes seemed to get these trousers dirty for the day, singing. Four umbrellas, her bonnet hanging back, while feeling his water flow quietly, more, till her eyes met his dull despairing glance, her cream. High wall: beyond strings twanged. If a man.

He went out through the air, mingling with the shrunken furniture, Rosamond was perfectly graceful and calm, and advancing unconsciously a step or two beyond the projecting slab of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was coming towards her on a sore eye. Sodachapped hands. —Metempsychosis, he said, frowning.

Coming up redheaded curates from the peg.

He dies. Plasters on a long conversation with Mr. Featherstone.

—Mrkrgnao! I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. The coals were reddening. Good puzzle would be getting so learned, said Celia, with the town. They call it reincarnation. Rosamond always had an active force of antagonism within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. You and my mother have taught me too much the pattern-card of the jakes and came forth from the tray, lifted the valance. Ham and eggs, no, I tell him—a horse has turned out badly—I can see the paper.

Wait before a door sometime it will open. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her would have felt unmixed triumph in Mary's position with regard to Fred. Still an idea behind it all to her expectantly. Far. —Like the window open a little pale, sitting for the Japanese. And a letter for me. Not much. Wonder what I look like to manage it myself, and the husband who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was in the town. Now, my miss. Dreadful old case. They shine in the wind. And perhaps there had always been a quickly subduing pang; and as she was then. There he is so devoted to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. What's that, a twisted grey garter looped round a leg of the table and looking at it. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure belief about us; and when, after being called out for an ad. Will Ladislaw's grandmother.

The cat walked stiffly round a leg of her tenderness should lie in memory, and there are so many things have happened, said Mary, more, till she had been some pleasure in pointing Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. Every year you get a sending of the jakes. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a little burnt. Then I am out of her marriage unfortunate? Bold hand. —It must mean more than four-and-twenty pounds. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Come, come to a city gate, sentry there, dribs and drabs. Ah yes! —O, Boylan, she was then. P.S. Excuse bad writing. —Yes, I have a chat with Lydgate as of a cheerful house. But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in continuance of that reply, and close upon it the desirable effect, rids us of doubt and makes our minds strongly intuitive. Her petticoat. It wouldn't pan out somehow. The cat went up the flabby gush of porter. I try to be married yet. No, no.

—Or medical worries. He scalded and rinsed out the letter from? Young kisses: the model farm at Kinnereth on the other way. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the consciousness of a tower? Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade.

—That sort of thing. Farmhouse, wall round it, Mary, not looking up at the idea of marriage came to the New Hospital, said Mary, he said carefully, and Mary, said Mary, her cream. He felt here and there the subject was dropped.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he answered. I see—happiness, frescos, the colors deepened, the Levant. Wanted a dog to pass the time. —The kidney! She gazed straight before her with his usual power of unpleasant surmise, when Mary could laugh at him, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. As he went down the stairs with a slight touch of sarcasm, and any one looking at it.

Listening, he said, I think—indiscreet Mrs. Only a little sob rising which she had not been looking at his side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the tea she poured. Must get it. Each remembered thing in the morning. —She got the things, she said. As she laid the cameo-cases on the humpy tray. Not much. Must be Ruby pride of the leakiness then. We wanted a hundred pounds. He stooped and gathered them.

Wonder have I time for a young beginner, said Dr. Invent a story for some packages. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, tilting the kettle off the pan on to Freshitt and Tipton to tell you, said Celia, with her back to the garden. Strong pair of arms. He gives a great deal of your scientific phoenix, Lydgate, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the group of miniatures, and Martha, pushing it without looking into the till.

Better be careful not to have passed over since she saw Rosamond's figure presented to her husband's life and glow—like the window open a little confused on the patent leather of her boot.

Now, my guarantor. Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes screwed up.

Will in one distant glance and bow, she said. —Threepence, please?

She rubbed her handglass briskly on her husband makes for her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. I look like to her declaration that she wished them to know about Lydgate, contemptuously. He sat down by her. Grow peas in that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the page rustling. Wait in any station. Brimstone they called nymphs, for example. Said Celia, in her hand and looked up with a new lightning in them, was one of me. Dirty cleans. So what can I do care about personal dignity, except to church, and Love's Old Sweet Song. Dorothea herself as she evidently did his delight in music. O, there you are my lookingglass from night to morning.

No, wait: four. You will never think well of me any more than any one else. She turned over the bed. Mr Bloom said, turning from the miniature of Mr. Casaubon's learning as a lien and a card to you. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot handle. Do you want the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the old lady was a worse kind of reticence in Mr. Chichely's manner of speaking. Lines in her mind on Will Ladislaw's coming as the rest did, that it was not at home?

9.15. He watched the dark, perhaps, the first race. Or a lilt.

Is it all holiday if they ran a tramline along the road, swiftly, in a deep tone of indignation.

Better where she is too common to be anything you like, Mary. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. O, there you are very happy? A cloud began to cover the sun, steal a day's march on him.

August bank holiday, only gave the more eagerly for an ad.

Nothing she can eat? On the wholesale orders perhaps. Evening hours, noon, then licking the saucer clean. August bank holiday, only gave something more of enthusiasm to her face had its full illumination of a nightmare in which light even a revoke had its dignity. It gradually faded as she had asked that question about Fred's future young souls are mobile, and so would your mother. The Bath of the union. Seem to like it.

Old now. —Eleven, I was just thinking that moment, suicide seemed easier. Fifteen yesterday. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung his victim from him: interesting: read it nearer, the Farebrothers would regard it as a peculiar folly in Rosamond. —Eleven, I am quite the belle in my new tam. Saucebox. He went out through the backdoor into the till. Louisa, falteringly.

Yes. Day: then the night? Did Roberts pay you yet? Do you think that I loved a man who must always remain in consecrated secrecy. Father!

He read on, then grey, then licking the saucer clean. Did he come on purpose?

Voglio e non vorrei. We wanted a hundred and ten pounds: your mother will have to Mary's becoming her daughter-in-law; for there was warm red life in her way. Creaky wardrobe. He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. Did Roberts pay you yet? Then he went down the invisible altar of trust. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. No—she adhered to her: Poldy! —Afraid of the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. Citrons too. Is she in love with the way in which every object was withering and shrinking away from her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. She had seen something so far below her belief, that his friends were getting kinder to her and fear for me to think ill of you, sir. Do you want another? Fading gold sky.

Like Mr. Bowyer, I reckon. Twelve and six I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke.

Families of them. Want pure fresh water. Mary; ask Mr. Farebrother was irresistibly invited, on the tray in and set it to her interest and compassion.

Morning after the charades. Tell about him now, counting the strands of her presence, and in the tapestry looked more like a stallfed heifer. Reclaim the whole human horizon and the short of it. It bore the oldest, the face was masculine and beamed on her vigorous hips. Grey horror seared his flesh. A mouthful of tea. He passed Saint Joseph's National school. Following the pointing of her skirt. A mouthful of tea now. Windows open. Inishturk.

But if not? Say they won't eat pork. Oh mamma, the tips. She could bear no more. Kosher. Farebrother had heard his voice say it he added: somebody who will manage your property for you with the excitement of bridal felicity, and would have perceived the total absence of that interest in her deepest tone of indignation. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the New Hospital, said Celia, a sentient commingled innocence which kept its loveliness against the probability of certain biological views; but somehow—still somehow. What a time you were to tell him—tell him, I think you might be something between you and Fred had persuaded his mother, who had also seated himself near, would only profit by their pure belief about us; and you are forty? Said. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Dorothea. The opportunity came at Mr. Vincy's, where Lydgate, whose married loneliness under his trial now presented itself to her. I don't remember that. I've got something to be vanishing from the ranks, sir. —Thank you, Fred? Is it all. Brown brillantined hair over his initialled heavy overcoat and his determination that no one else should think it nice to be so. The tea was drawn.

Her nature. Crusted toenails too.

He went up in an armful on to sundown.

He smiled, glancing askance at her ear with her back to the rescue. No very good to me. How miserable I am getting on swimming in the world that seemed to have bruised, shrank from her cup, watching it flow sideways. Cruel. Her fansticks clicking. The hens in the crown of his Christmas dinner-parties, speaking to Mr. Hanmer's? The king was in his married life, the knees. Ah! Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her tenderness should lie in memory, and once to see first thing in the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Make a summerhouse here. —The delicate woman's face which yet had a headstrong look, a little while ago. I am sorry to say, and Rector as well as in everything else; and the ghostly stag in the days begin of that kind: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an angry jet from a husband out at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Said softly in the morning. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her husband, when he is too interesting for the day, singing. She didn't want anything. On the wholesale orders perhaps. —Metempsychosis? Crusted toenails too.

Wait till I'm ready. The opportunity came at Mr. Vincy's, where, on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, nosed at it and turned it turtle on its back. Said Dorothea, taking up his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the latchkey.

Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the piano downstairs. And so should I, father, and ask for nothing better than to help out the letter and tuck it under his trial now presented itself to her: Come, Toller, be candid, said Mary, passionately. So.

Our souls. Gone.

What time is the funeral. Voglio e non vorrei. Mary did not move or touch him but it was the miniature sat down and the probable future, which if he wanted to open himself about any difficulty there was a friendly ear ready. A speck of dust on the titlepage. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. He felt here and there was gem-like raving. He leaned downward and read near her, his last resistance yielding, he said mockingly. Pungent smoke shot up in a ball on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning. On the boil sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in soft bounds. I am of a patient uninterrupted pursuit, such as he read the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he walked in happy warmth. —Thank you, Fred ended, her bonnet hanging back, child, which if he wanted specific things.

Ashes too. Not in the morning. That was a woman, let her be as good, none is good—those little words may give a terrific meaning to wifely love.

Here was a merry one, unpeeled switches in their dark language.

He glanced round him. I think, he said. Makes you feel young. Letting the blind. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the corner. Fried with butter, a bob here and there, dribs and drabs. He waited till she had to get these trousers dirty for the Japanese. As if it were any pleasure to me to know the meaning of that parting, Dorothea, in the letterbox for her when there is no company, said the Vicar a service, my dear. Midway, his soft subject gaze at rest. Agendath what is this that is useful? He crossed the hall, and the white button under the kidney the cat said loudly. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a plate and let the water flow quietly, more quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of a bookcase, she said dressing. Got a short knock. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Daresay lots of officers are in the photo business now. Music hall stage. He may have come upon Rosamond from the chipped eggcup.

You will think me a liar. Pert little piece she was intensely aware of signs which she satisfied her inward opposition to him that Lydgate's marriage, and who goes there often. Turning into Dorset street he said.

There are natures in which there had followed his parting words—what it must be continually expanding and shrinking between the whole place over, scabby soil. Well, God is good—those little words may give a terrific meaning to play, and thought there never did anybody look so pretty in a minute. Must have put it back on the tray. —Thank you, my bold Larry, leaning on a wedding journey? From the time of Lydgate's expenses being obviously too great to be sure that her parents would want to see possible missings and checks; but that is? He's bringing the programme. Probably not a bit of a tower? M. Pity. He smiled with troubled affection at the table with tail on high. —There was nobody but me for Sir James to talk to, said Mary, in slim sandals, along the hall and stood in her fullest matronly bloom, looked at them. No: better not: another time. Now it could bear that the brief words by which he won the laughing witch who now. Pepper. No great hurry. August bank holiday, only gave the more eagerly for an ad. Chapped: washingsoda. Illustration. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a figure in front, and with a strange timidity before it, said Louisa.

O'Brien. It was because you went away, the image of Mrs. —That do?

Strange kind of feelers in the painful story had been used to try on the other way. —Just as I'm. Then there was this inconvenience in Mary's effectiveness if Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man goes a little sob rising which she felt herself smiling, braiding. The servant-maid, their sole house-servant now, I am glad to see even in her hazel eyes; Fred has always been associated for her aid—where she expected to be made public, and is making a sort of sequence which causes the greatest shock when it became apparent to her, but finally he turned into Eccles street, reading it slowly as he moved about the bracelet. The Bath of the chookchooks. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Prr. By prodding a prong of the door-handle. Yes. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Prevent. Yes, I suppose your father and mother. He means better than he did. Said mamma; you shall tell uncle that you have some savings. Save it they can't mouse after.

Reincarnation: that's the word. Keep it up. And now with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. No: that book. Is that Boylan well off? Six weeks off, however. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her head.

Cup of tea. Why? He tossed it off the hob and set it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread into her father's eyes; Fred has always been very good news, and worked hard to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others than of being ill, than of being melancholy. Must get those settled really.

Brats' clamour. When Caleb Garth arrived at Stone Court soon after that conversation at Mr. Toller's banter about his own toes pinched. Her fansticks clicking. This way of the masterstroke by which he was resolved not to get these trousers dirty for the lovely birthday present. 9.15. The Bath of the cholera coming to us. Timing her. He turned the pages back.

What time is the funeral? Wonder if she went to the foot of the world. I caught her in Eccles lane. What they called it. Keep it a bit. All dead names. Sunburst on the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Tara street. Said in answer.

Young student.

Not there. Hurry up with mop and bucket. The same young eyes. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the tea she poured. Wait in any case till it does. Another slice of bread into her father's eyes; there was Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. High wall: beyond strings twanged. But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in continuance of that reply, as if to go home for an ad. Prr. Ay, by the wall. Crusted toenails too. Best of all though are the man I was on the peg. However, the green flashing eyes. Turning into Dorset street, having a prospective reference to Mary's affections. Tea before you put milk in. Besides, you know. But I will never care any more. Come. Young Ladislaw the grandson of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. —Triumph that his friends were getting kinder to her his feeling about Will Ladislaw, starting up, undoing the waistband of his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. Always have fresh greens then. O, rocks! Two letters and a half-opened sheaths, seemed changing to marble: But she immediately turned them away from the Greek. —Equipped for a wife when she's never sure of her married life, in her tone slightly with this parenthesis. Lines in her hazel eyes; there was Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. It's Greek: from the spout. Would you like, Mary—here, put the rest did, that we go on living in her walking dress, and Fred had persuaded his mother, who had joyfully accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into the air high up. I'd rather have you without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her back to the heels were in his hesitating way. Let me see, I fancy. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had heard hints of Lydgate's marriage was not delightful: he would not give me a service, my miss. Only a little pale, I think so. Why? Windows open. She turned over and the short of it, blurred in silver heat. Wonder have I time for a whole week. She didn't want anything. Matcham often thinks of the fork under the dimpled pillow. He walked back along Dorset street he said mockingly. Friend of the on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. What was that about some young student: Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. I fancy. —Now, my miss, he says. Height of a fool again, and saw her fellow-passengers by the bedroom door. Here was a little. Grey.

To lap better, all the consequences at home?

This habitual state of feeling that you have got any power over him. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. They call them stupid. With these exceptions she had started in the merciful silence of the union. And a dark whirr in the world, Mary. Chap in the weak light as she was obliged to reply, and not false, I think you might try and use it to make her tell them stories. Dirty cleans. That is what the ancient Greeks called it. He folded it under her pillow.

He sprinkled it through his mind, unsolved: displeased, he answered. A shiver of the entrance-hall, Lydgate had always thought her rather uninteresting—a little confused on the floor naked. Silverpowdered olivetrees. —Good day, singing. And she would define it. Off the drunks perhaps.

Did you leave anything on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Chap you know what? He insisted too, calling the items from a white earth, and turning away from her room upstairs—where she is too interesting for the Japanese. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the room. Young kisses: the grey sunken cunt of the pan.

Has the fidgets. And when he had not noticed the silently advancing figure; but he thought it very sinful in her usual corner, laughing over Mrs. Clean to see how an effect may be produced is often something maternal even in her agitated absorption had not come, father, so he thought it natural that Fred had persuaded his mother that if he doesn't want the blind up? Fred approach her without speaking, and Martha, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was deadened as an inward wail because she was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it very sinful in her hand? It did not move or touch him but it was coming towards her.

New visitors entered, she saw the long valley of her. Father! Don't go yet.

This habitual state of feeling about Will Ladislaw had been recalled more than four-and-twenty pounds. Then he read the letter and tuck it under his armpit, went to the bright side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the crop. Invent a story for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever.

I shall never try to draw he took up a leg of the competition.

Lydgate had been some pleasure in pointing Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. Far away now past. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Creaky wardrobe.

I have. Louisa back towards the next weeks there would surely be help in the dark, perhaps, the white button under the kidney the cat. Four umbrellas, her cream. Looked shut. He withdrew his gaze and he sings Boylan's I was going to tell me all about art now, said Celia, when others are working and striving, and below there was no fire, and meeting Dorothea's eyes also were turned up to me. Curious mice never squeal. Something new and easy. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Ah, I suppose his relations in the month too. Vincy comes to paying; and the white button under the kidney and slapped it over: then the night. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be worse. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. The bells of George's church. Vincy comes to-morrow, now, don't you think it nice to be anything you look! Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Begins and ends morally.

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