#❛ ・ﾟ true that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me — save. ✧

[starshower1215]

Blitzstone: "Would That I" Analysis

Suggested: Listen to "Would That I" by Hozier before reading. Before once to appreciate the beauty of the song itself, afterwards once to appreciate the resemblance of Blitzen and Hearthstone in its lyrics.

Recap: "Would That I" is (probably) a metaphor for current love vs. past love. Hozier represents his past lover to a forest, says it is true that he saw her as beautiful, but falls in love with the fire, which with its "hand of gold/lay[s] waste to [his] loving long ago." He writes that it is "True that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me" but "it's not tonight/Where I'm set alight," meaning that in the light of his new love, his heartbreak is no more.

Essentially, this could also represent the pain that is overshadowed by current love. The first verse, which compares a past lover to a forest, is a lovehate relationship. While Blitzen hates Nidavellir, it is his home, and it is "True that [he] saw her like the branch of a tree." While Hearthstone hates Alderman, he is his father, and it is true that he loves him.

Then, "True that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me" is the ache of rejection in childhood. "That the sound of the saw must be known by the tree" means that they had desert the pain and, taking notice of the word must, it shows that they had no choice. "I fretted fire but that was long ago" is the fear they had felt to have hope (symbolized by fire, also). In a hopeless world, hope is both a weakness and a weapon, one they had not learned yet to wield, but older now, they regard it as an old friend.

But, after years of knowing each other, "it's not tonight/Where I'm set alight/And I blink in the sight/Of your blinding light...Where you hold me tight." They keep one another safe from the pain, wrapped in each other's love like a shield.

Second verse: "With the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet." When they first encountered one another, they saved each other, breathed hope into their lungs and brought the other's soul back to life. "I fell in love with the fire long ago" is a bit trickier, though it is interpreted as the immediate click the two had with one another. Though this meeting was their first, it feels like a reunion between two old friends.

"Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame/I was fixed on your hand of gold/Laying waste to my lovin' long ago." It is still, to present day, that they protect each other. The roots of their pasts are still alive, deeply embedded in their very core, but they pay only mind to that hand of gold that heals by destroying.

The chorus comes again, and they wish to "Light the fire bright/Oh, let it blaze, alright, honey."

And the beautiful bridge, which is so much softer than the rest of the song, is their love and devotion for one another. "Long as amber of the ember glows/All the "Would that I'd loved" is long ago." It says, "For as long as you live, I choose you."

Extra notes about the symbolism:

The trees provide shade from the harsh light of the sun, and kept the boys safe from its scorch. But at the same time, it kept them cold out of the warmth of its light. Alternatively, the fire holds a home of warmth, forming a juxtaposition for the two symbols.

From the line "Still living roots be consumed by the flame..." the forest will continue to grow, if remained unnurtured. The roots still live, but like cauterization, the fire stumps the growth of the tree, or the growth of that pain.

To start a fire, one needs wood. To get the wood, cut down the tree. Their love, like any love, and no matter how strong, will not survive without that sacrifice, and they both choose one another every time.

The softness of the music during the verses greatly contrasts with the sudden volume of the chorus, which audibly conveys the overshadowing of the forest in the fire's all-consuming wake.

[bitterfates]

FFXIV WRITE 2023; PROMPT 27: SOLE

After so many long years of searching, Yichen had accomplished what many had deemed an impossible mission: he had, at long last, reunited with the one person from his early years that he’d considered family. Elja, his guiding star, his most precious friend and confidant, was here in his new home with his ever-growing new family. His heart was full to bursting with relief and joy and unending love for this older Viera, to the point that he had all but been vibrating with happiness when in his mentor’s presence.

That was, until Elja had managed to corner him in his private room to ask about the circumstances around why he had left their village.

Although he projected placidity and compassion, Yichen was in tune with the darkness within himself; the emotional cocktail of resentment and sorrow and desperation that had led to numerous deadly incidents surrounding him had poisoned his soul ages ago, and he had willingly continued to drink deep those emotions off the course he had initially taken for vengeance.

Needless to say, his beloved Elja had known and saw none of that. He had only experienced life beside the sweet and very affectionate boy Yichen had been in the past; if the gods and elementals who governed the world had been fair, that would have stayed his only impression. Now, however, the ruthless fates that had seen fit to bring them back together, also saw them face each other as distinctly changed men.

As Yichen looked into the face of the person he thought lost to time forever, he wondered if the boy he had been would have weeped for the man he had become.

“Tell me the truth,” Elja gently requested again, pleading from his crouched position in front of Yichen. The soft brown eyes were narrowed in disbelief at the story he had shared, begging Yichen to refute his own words. “Tell me what happened to our people.”

Just like the first time he was asked, the same basic tale Yichen had been dispensing for years spilled effortlessly from his lips. “There was a lightning storm. One or more strikes must have hit some of the taller trees, because balls of leaves lit by fires started falling from the high branches. Do you remember how it used to be windy on the hills whenever a storm came around? It must have been how the fire spread so fast. I was getting water from the river right before the clouds drifted over, so I wasn’t blocked in like everyone else.” A brief pause, and Yichen moved his gaze down to his lap, seemingly done out of sadness from the memory. “...I could do nothing but watch, in the end. I wasn’t quick enough or smart enough to save anyone but myself.”

For a long stretch of time, there was silence between the two Viera, when all that could be heard in the room besides their breathing was the ticking of a tabletop chronometer. Then, Yichen was startled to feel a warm hand atop his, and though he wanted to see what expression Elja was making, he didn’t dare try to sneak a glance.

“...All of these years apart, and yet you still remain the same in one way. You are a terrible liar, ástvinur.”

It was the endearment that made him flinch in seat, not having expected to hear his birth language again, but the accusation of lying made him try to physically withdraw from Elja’s grasp. His friend held fast to his hand, however, which made escape unlikely without a true altercation — he had forgotten how strong all of his seniors had been, and it seemed Elja had not stopped his strength training.

When struggling to break out of the hold failed after several more attempts, Yichen gave in with a weary sigh, wilting in his seat once more. He respected the other man too much to seriously test his skills against him, and this was not a conversation he could battle his way out of anyhow. Elja wanted to know the truth, even if Yichen knew it would hurt him; even if it could do irreparable damage to their relationship. He would give him what he wanted, as he had done in the past.

Head bowed and eyes closed, Yichen spoke again, voice just above a whisper, “…There was a lightning storm. The skies had been dark all afternoon with the promise of it. The tops of the trees caught fire, I saw it. And then —-“

“Miðrik,” another sudden interruption, this time by the use of Yichen’s forest name. It caused him to jerk back, eyelids flying open, mouth agape. He was not surprised to see Elja’s stern expression, the intense focus in his gaze. The elder Viera was serious, wasn’t he? “What happened?”

“….There was a wildfire. I was the one who started it, and made sure they could not escape it.”

Yichen’s declaration only seemed to mildly phase Elja, as he could feel him start to recoil away, only to stop and settle down. Perhaps he had already suspected the truth, and had prepared himself to hear the admission. Many emotions fluctuated on his face rapidly, and Yichen patiently watched him process reality and gather his thoughts.

“…You started the fire that ended the lives of everyone we knew and cared for.” Even at this point, Elja still didn’t seem to fully believe Yichen was capable of the travesty he’d confessed to. “Generous, kind, hard-working people. Even children. I would hear your reason now.”

The younger one hesitated, but gave him the honest answer closest to his heart. “…For you. They said they had ended the life of the one person I cared about.”

Whatever Elja had steeled himself to hear, it was obvious that he hadn’t expected the explanation to involve him. His tall ears drooped down to his head, the rest of his body swaying as if he were about to faint onto the floor. Yichen could not readily identify the emotion he saw on his face, but Elja looked devastated.

Before Yichen could take any action to comfort him, Elja extracted himself from his former pupil, shakily pushed himself up off his haunches and left the room silently, without looking back.

For the first time in his life, Yichen felt completely alone, with no hope of closure.

[hartsgold]

@aetla​ asked: HAPPY BIRTHDAY !!!! i better get my own post and not a group shot or i stg --- no, but actually. when i came back to tumblr (for the umpteenth time) i was so happy to see you still lighting up my dash. following you for the past couple of years has been such a treat!! your devotion and development of your characters is something to be marveled at. and you're writing is, like, chef kiss. i hope you get to do a lot of fun things today despite the circumstances going on outside !!!!!!!!!!!!

YES BUNNY RIGHT AWAY BUNNY!!! GLHSDGJHDFLDSGKM omg i Love you so much and i was so happy to see you too, you have no idea... 🥺 i need you to know that you’re such a delight and a bright person and i appreciate this ask so much!!!! this is such a thoughtful and cute ask and i *holds you* *holds you*

[satans-left-asscheeky]

Three step programs to help get your favorite fallout companion to love you / become your little bitch

Part three.

Piper

Is your Piper finding it hard to enjoy her usual shenanigans? Is your Piper experiencing the a dreaded writers block and lack of motivation? Is your Piper struggling to balance working a full time job, travel with her trusty dusty Blue popsicle and be a big sibling/full time parent to her little sister? Has your Piper been in a withdrawal of sorts after spending an ungodly amount of time in the diamond City slammer thanks to the corrupt government run by the shiny freshly packaged life meddling fuckers known as the institute? Lucky for you this three step program will help get your Piper back to her nosy reporter kick-ass bad bitch self!

Step One: Mayor Mcdonough? more like mayor Mc-done-for! It must have taken the institute a long ass time to make not one, but two faces for him! Kill the fuck outta the cowardly double crossing pretentious douche bag!

Step Two: You wanna know what would help your Piper? No more late night abductions! take the fight to the institute by any means necessary.... (besides the BOS ofc)... Why tf do they even replace people? Probing? Dissection?....... news flash institute normal people have this thing called a heart! who tf knows why the creeps prey apon the people of the commonwealth. What your Piper does know is their gonna need an ass transplant once her foot is done with em.

Step Three: Okay so this might sound totally domestic (and less violent cuz damn that sounded like a bad psycho trip...) compared to the last two steps, but something that will totally help your Piper is.... A writers nook. Filled with real printing supplies. Old world novels, or even better creating new world novels with your Piper! One of the many things that historians claim makes a "civilization" is the production of unique works of literature (or something like that don't sue me if I'm wrong I'm quoting my freshman year history teacher and a bitch snoozed in that class) ... so technically, though a soft approach, your helping pave the pathway to a better future one line at a time.

(We can not be held responsible for any offensive news articles your Piper may write once she has her mojo back. If your Piper is experiencing an increased number of threats please contact your local Cait to open up a can of whoop ass)

Nick

Does your Nick have a case of depresso espresso that he just can't seem to solve? Is your Nick a melancholy mix of man and machine still trying to find his way in life after approximately 80 years of mixed experience? Is your Nick obsessing over fixing other people's problems to avoid his own? Is your Nick screwing his dang hand at the most inopportune times? (Like dude when a we're playing chicken with a super mutan suicider is not the time to screw your damn hand! Fucking Lydia had more tact than your ass) Luckily for you we have just the evidence you need to close the case on your weeping widow tin man!

Step one: Go on the annoyingly long hunt for all of Eddie Winters encrypted holotapes. Once every nook and cranny of every police station in massachusetts has been searched go kill the fuck out of that murdering bastard! You know what they say.... "If you can't fill the hole in your aching neon heart blow a hole in someone else's!"

Step two: Sarcasm galore! The more sassy the better! How can you be a saddy if your sassy? No but seriously witty remarks are your Nick's love language.

Step three: Generosity. Though it may be true the wastland will never be able to go back to the utopia it once was, but you and your Nick will be damned if you don't die trying to make the world a better place. If one small act of kindness is all your Nick is rembered for then he did well in life. Even if that means that act of kindness was giving Sheffield a damn nuka-cola.

(Okay so I'm not sure how I'm gonna be able to live with myself knowing that I'm the reason that this exist... Please forgive me for I shall never forgive myself.... okay but seriously why does the after look like my ex....) Ps I never noticed he had a cute chin dimple/dent before... I love it so much! He's so adorable.

Preston

Is your Preston still haunted by the series of unfortunate events that followed him from quincy to concord? Is your Preston suffering from survivers guilt and rain? Well have we got just the thing for you!

Step one: Find some way to control the weather! How can your Preston ever be sad if it's never raining?

Step two: Take your Preston on villager saving sprees! Rebuild the entire commonwealth.... it would be rude and inconsiderate of your Preston to even think about being happy when all those settlements still need your help.... what better way to remind your Preston of the good little sunshine boi he is than taking care of that settlement over there..... lemme mark it on your map for you!

Step three: Put a stop to all the meanies of the commonwealth.... Raiders demanding resources from settlers? gotta die. Super mutans eating settlers? gotta go. How can your Preston truly be happy if even a single living breathing soul in the commonwealth isn't? Your Preston has a big fat bleeding heart on his sleeve.... but hey the second you showed him any kind of human decency he clung onto you like a piece of raider stuck in a deathclaws teeth.

(We can not be held responsible for all the settlements that will be marked on your map.... But hey at least it's not raining.... babe!)

Hey so not gonna lie I could keep this in the draft and edit it for the rest of eternity, but at this point I think it's time to stop obsessing and post lol. Hope you enjoy or at least tolerate it like me!

Part 1

Part 2

[andawaywego]

Omg write about what happened after Jamie found Flora and Dani at the lake. Just pure softness an fluf, Jamie tucking Dani in

ahh okay. so...confession: there is some angst at the beginning of this. i’m sorry! i wasn’t sure how to get them from the lake to Dani’s bedroom without dealing with some stuff, so...but there’s fluff at the end and cuteness and soft cuddling and promises and all that! i promise! i hope you enjoy regardless of the  necessary sadness.

..

The entire night is a blur of quiet terror, the squeezing of cold fingers around her throat, the chill of the water. But when it’s over—when she’s standing up to her knees in the cold lake, Flora in her arms, Jamie wrapped around them both—Dani still feels like she can’t breathe.

Hannah is gone and Miles is himself and Henry is there—finally, finally. And Dani has no idea how much time has passed since she walked into Flora’s bedroom and saw a woman who was supposed to be dead sitting on the little girl’s bed, but there’s cold sweat on her neck and face and chest.

No one is sure what to do.

Dani sets Flora down on dry ground and Flora runs off, wrapping her arms around her uncle with Miles, and nothing makes sense. None of it. Dani can’t think clearly.

Jamie turns to her immediately. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice low and panicked. She jolts forward and skims her hands up Dani’s side, cupping her face, looking for injuries or changes or anything that’s off. Dani shakes her head, both in answer and in an attempt to put a semi-normal amount of space between them again.

There’s nothing she wants more than to fall into Jamie’s arms and stay there, but she can’t. Not right now. Not with Owen running off and calling out for Hannah, not with the children crying and being held in the arms of the only blood relative they have left.

She can’t let it be about her right now. It isn’t about her right now.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m okay.”

She tries to sound as sure as she can manage, but she truly doesn’t know how. For all she knows, she could be seconds away from collapsing—from being dragged back into that lake and under the water.

Owen’s yelling is reaching a fever-pitch. Jamie stares after his form, retreating into the fog of the night, and Dani grabs her hand to start pulling her after him. To find Hannah.

They search for hours, for what feels like years, really. Dreaming up the worst case scenarios that they can manage and they’re still not prepared for the moment they actually find her.

Down at the bottom of that well.

Owen collapses to his knees and Dani falls with him, wrapping her arms around him. She’s trying her damndest to keep him together—to keep everyone together—because she’s not sure how much she can manage that for herself.

Jamie has spent the entire time walking beside Dani, a fierce expression on her face that only falters in that moment. It’s been to keep Dani feeling safe. To make sure that she knew that if anything were to happen again, Jamie wouldn’t hesitate to end the person at fault.

But now, her straight spine slumps and she kneels beside Dani, touching Owen on the shoulder. She’s crying, her shoulders shaking silently. Dani presses her face into Jamie’s coat and lets herself sob.

.

There are things to be done. Henry has to call the local police, get a team out there to pull Hannah out, and the children are exhausted. They fall asleep on the couch in the sitting room together, and Owen eventually joins them in a restless slumber, his head lolling on the back of the armchair he’s sitting in.

Jamie drapes a blanket over him and puts his feet up on an ottoman, and then helps Henry carry the children to their beds. Dani trails after them on autopilot, not saying a word.

Her panic, for the most part, has not come even close to dissolving. It buzzes, aching through her bones, resonating through her chest. This, she thinks, is only part of the emotion, the half she can handle right now. As soon as she’s alone, she knows that the weight of everything will probably take her out at her knees.

“You should get some rest,” Henry says once they’re back in the hallway. He looks between Jamie and Dani, an affectionate—almost fatherly—expression on his face. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

He squeezes Dani’s shoulder in passing, giving her a look that is probably meant to be reassuring, and then drifts back down the hallway and down the stairs.

And Dani does feel tired—so, so, so bone-tired and weary—but all she can think about is that faceless woman, Flora in her arms. How she had come so close to ending everything, all of it, and she would have succeeded, too, if it weren’t for those simple words Dani had found within herself. Without them, she would have killed Flora or Miles or even Jamie, which would have been the same as killing Dani herself.

It’s such a terrifying thing. The love of her life. The children in her care. Two things she’s practically already lost once. Two things she’s been so lucky to find again, that she cannot bear to lose.

Her heart aches with every beat and it’s only by some stroke of luck that she hasn’t started weeping yet. She hates this, hates herself for everything that’s happened. Whatever she missed and could have done better. She doesn’t know yet what the consequences of saving Flora are and she selfishly wants to go back and find a different way. Figure out how to save Flora and be selfish as well. To put her health, safety, and security first for once.

But it hadn’t been that simple.

In the hallway outside of Flora’s room, where she and Jamie kissed not even twelve hours before—so carefree and unaware of what was to come—Dani finally falls into Jamie’s arms, sobbing in a way that feels like it might never end. Jamie holds her and kisses her and whispers nonsense to try and calm her down, but Dani knows that she’s only putting on a brave face.

“You’re okay,” Jamie tells her, holding her closer and closer. “We’re okay.”

It’s true enough, at least, to let Dani breathe. To pull back and move to her own bedroom, pull Jamie inside and shut the door.

Behind the closed door, Dani pulls her clothes off piece-by-piece. She fumbles with her belt and zipper and sighs with relief when she finally manages to get her pants off, kick off her shoes. Jamie finds pajamas for her in her dresser and she helps Dani dress.

Dani feels very, very young for the first time in as long as she can remember as Jamie buttons up her pajama shirt. Even after having left all of that danger behind—for now, at least—she feels exposed and vulnerable within the drafty hollow of her bedroom.

She sits down heavily on the edge of the bed once she’s dressed, watching Jamie kick off her boots and drop her coat to the floor. For a moment, Dani thinks she’s going to join her on the bed, but she doesn’t. Instead, Jamie leans heavily against the dresser by the window and crosses her arms.

Dani can still taste the lake water at the back of her throat, the press of those fingers into her neck.

“I don’t even...What exactly did I miss, Dani?” Jamie asks, and that’s how Dani knows how serious she is:

The solemn use of her given name, no nicknames or pet names between them and her point.

“I don’t...I don’t even know,” Dani says, frustration bubbling inside of her chest, licking flames up her throat. “There was...Peter and Hannah were going to...take over Miles and Flora’s bodies and then—I got Flora out and we were going to run, but that...that thing grabbed me and I thought I was going to...So when she took Flora instead, I had to stop her. I had to...Flora would have died if I hadn’t.”

When she looks up, Jamie is staring at her with a look she can’t quite read in her eyes. “You might have been killed, Dani. That...that thing could have killed you.”

As if a switch has been flipped, Dani’s irritation turns into anger, so boiling that it’s near-incoherent.

“I know that!” she yells. “I know what could have happened and I know that I almost...but I...she was going to kill Flora, Jamie, I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t just—”

Every muscle in her body is trembling, shaking, and they have been since she stood at the edge of that lake. This is the reality of that emotion she’s been swallowing since then. This is what her heart had been protecting her from.

There’s silence for a few moments. Dani keeps her eyes down, her hands flat and tight as she grips her knees, silent tears tracking down her face and dripping onto her shirt. Something touches her shoulder and she jumps, pulling away.

It’s Jamie, who withdraws quickly. “Sorry,” she says, sounding broken and longing.

Dani looks up at her and reaches one hand up, beckoning her closer. “Come here. Please touch me.”

At once, Jamie is kneeling in front of her, brushing hair out of Dani’s face and wiping away her tears. The bed is low but Jamie is still a head shorter now. She holds Dani’s hand, always anchoring her down when she’s at risk of blowing away.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie whispers, and Dani leans down to press their foreheads together. She closes her eyes. “I was just so scared. I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life.”

Dani cups her face in her hands. “I’m okay,” she says. “We both are. It’s okay.”

“I know that we haven’t really…” Jamie trails off, swallowing thickly. “I’m just really fucking terrified of losing you, Dani.”

Dani wants to say that she is, too, but she knows that she’s already made that pretty clear. Of course she’s terrified. She has every reason to be. She doesn’t exactly know what’s going to happen next.

“Come here,” Dani says, pulling away from Jamie to give her an earnest look. “Come up here and hold me.”

“Always,” Jamie promises, rubbing her hands up and down Dani’s thighs, warming her up. “Try and stop me.”

And, despite it all, Dani can’t help but smile. Jamie is the only person who’s ever cared for her this fervently. She can’t help believing every word that comes out of her mouth.

“I would never,” she says.

Jamie gets to her feet and crawls onto the bed, pulling Dani with her until they’re lying beneath the blankets, facing one another. Beneath the sheets, Dani feels her warm hand slipping beneath her shirt to rest on her hip, drawing idle patterns there.

It’s hard to believe that this woman is real sometimes. That Dani just happened upon her by some stroke of luck and that she plans on sticking around. That she’s still here after it all to offer a steady hand, a warm embrace, loving words. Dani doesn’t think she’s ever been able to lean on anyone the way she’s leaning on Jamie right now.

Maybe that’s because she doesn’t think Jamie could ever come close to letting her down. Falling in love with her is as easy as breathing.

“Jamie,” Dani whispers, shifting close enough to feel Jamie’s breath on her face.

Jamie kisses her chin, her nose, her eyelids. Everywhere she can reach with as much tenderness as anyone has ever had. Her touch is engulfing, the press of her lips reassuring.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jamie whispers. She tucks her face into the space between Dani’s neck and shoulder and kisses the skin she finds there.

Dani rakes her nails down Jamie’s back, through the fabric of her t-shirt, and smiles at the words—the same ones Jamie whispered over and over just the night before as her lips and fingers found every yielding inch of Dani’s body. She wonders if she’ll ever get tired of hearing them.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jamie whispers next.

Dani sighs, boneless with the safety of exhaustion in Jamie’s arms. “Me too. Please just...stay.”

Chuckling, Jamie pulls back and kisses Dani’s forehead. “As long as you like.”

They’re quiet for a while. Just Jamie’s fingers making circles in the skin of Dani’s hip, pressing her mouth against her forehead and cheek. Dani closes her eyes and listens to the sound of Jamie breathing.

“How’s forever sound?” Dani asks, her brain filled with soft cotton and a calm fog that’s making everything—the house, the events of the evening, the world—feel distant and hazy.

Jamie is still for a moment, and then she laughs. Dani feels it against her body. “You’re serious, are you?” she asks.

Dani smiles, pressing a kiss to Jamie’s sternum. “Yes,” she says.

Guilt pricks at her stomach. She feels like it’s a promise she can’t offer. Whatever is inside of her—whatever’s just happened—neither of them know what’s coming next. They’re flying blind and she can’t help wondering: what if something happens? What if this doesn’t work out?

But those are questions for another time. Another Dani. One who’s had time to rest and sleep and breathe in the arms of the woman she loves.

Jamie pulls away so they can look at one another and her smile lights up the room. “Then you’ve got me,” she says. “S’long as I have you?”

Dani can’t help but grin. “Of course you do.”

Silence falls between them again and Dani snuggles a little closer. She’s not sure what time it is, and because of this, part of her is worried that they’re going to be interrupted by something else—something terrible or even mundane—any moment. She’s just about to ask when Jamie tightens her hold around Dani’s body.

“I’m not gonna let you get away, you know,” she says, so quiet and desperate she doesn’t really sound like herself.

Dani presses a kiss to the skin she’s lying against. “Thank you,” she says. Her eyes drift closed sleepily. “What time is it?”

Jamie kisses the corner of her mouth and shifts even closer. “There’s time,” she says. “Just rest.”

Dani does.

...

[lizzieraindrops]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Destiny (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eris Morn/Ikora Rey Characters: Eris Morn, Ikora Rey Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Hello destiny sapphics; allow me to introduce myself, Femslash, if nobody is going to write the content i want to see then i will create it myself, listen. it's about perceiving the weak and wounded places in someone you love, and lavishing love and care upon them even when they won't admit they need it, it's about the Mutual Support, it's about being kind to them even when you don't know how to be kind to yourself, Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, oh and ikora has the most Distinguished Bisexual energy i've ever seen so jot that down, it doesn't come up but you needed to know, this is all just a bunch of softness and tenderness don't @ me okay

Summary:

Five storms Eris and Ikora weathered and one they didn't need to.

The Shadowkeep weblore lives in my head rent free. Set post-Taken King and mostly during Shadowkeep.

“As I told Asher, there is a storm coming...” “Oryx is dead. We’ve weathered the storm.” Ikora is upset. She has yet to understand the bigger picture. “Yet his sisters would see his will done. There will always be another storm.” “Then let’s weather it together.” -Shadowkeep Narrative Preview #1

Many thanks to @hencegoodfortune for the beta read and of course for the memes.

Chapter: |  1  |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  +1  |

Set just after The Taken King.

Eris knows she is not in the Hellmouth. Although the Tower has never felt the same since her ordeal on Luna, she recognizes it easily nonetheless. At every moment, the freshness of the open air reminds her that she is here, she is on Earth. She has been for some time now.

However, she has never forgotten how to move like a ribbon through the darkness, arcing undetected round predator and prey alike. She doubts that she ever will. Sometimes the habit returns of its own accord, and she’ll find her feet and hands floating weightless as she moves. Joints and muscle and sinew flex in careful concert to absorb every sound before it is made. The lines of lightly tensed limbs spiral seamlessly into the coiled core of her, tethering her in perfect silence. At the same time, she remains ever ready to fight, ready to flee. How often has Eris’ last, Lightless life lay along the knife’s edge of a split-second choice, the divergence between action and stillness, vengeance or survival?

Somehow, the smooth stone of the Tower’s level floors is harder to walk quietly on than the rough winding warrens through Luna’s porous rock. There are no edges to test with the edge of her boot, no uneven surface to ease her soles onto by swift and silent increments. There is only the unsubtle strike of heels on a flat, unforgiving surface. She makes the most of it, as every Hunter here does. Still, it leaves her uneasy. Her feet cannot quite keep to the ground.

Consequently, she often finds herself pacing, wandering from her post in the heart of the Tower whenever she grows restless. Every step falls lighter than the last, chasing silence in a meditation on weightlessness. It does not make her feel any better.

After so long underground, she is unaccustomed to the plenitude of open space here. While she has traced much of the Tower’s perimeters, the negative spaces in the centers of broad rooms and vaulted halls she leaves less frequented. She is too exposed there.

Yet maybe she is less affected by the empty space than the sheer number of souls that so often fill it. After so long so alone, they are simply so many, pressing at her survival-sharpened awareness from every angle. Not to mention she attracts too many of their stares in the crowded plazas. Although detection here is not followed by shrieking howls or the lightning strike of boomers, distrustful eyes still make her hunger for shelter. The choice to endure or to withdraw still needs to be be made. And whether well-meaning or ill-intentioned, a close approach still makes her instinctively recoil.

Eris has scraped out a place for herself here, lingering close enough to share with those who will listen the knowledge she has gained at a terrible price. But it has been made clear enough that she does not belong here anymore, not as she once did. If the condemnation of the Speaker and the only begrudging trust of the Vanguard’s Commander were not enough to tell her that, then the wary regard of most of the Tower’s populace would. So she holds herself back, toward the edges of things. It is difficult to do so at her station so near the Hall of Guardians, the greatest locus of Guardian activity on the planet. She draws herself to her full height and stands there proud, but never takes the ground she stands on for granted. When it becomes too much, like now, she paces.

This time, her pacing has led her to the edge of the Tower where her ship was once tethered. With how wary she has grown of exposed spaces, the open sky above that lays bare every courtyard and balcony should send her seeking cover - and yet, it does not. If anything, its incomprehensibly vast expanse calls to her. Strange.

Eris has traversed the spaces between planets with her own fragile body, with only a ship’s hull to keep the cold from swallowing what remains of her. Yet from Earth’s surface, a few mere miles of atmosphere transforms that emptiness, and its beauty holds her spellbound. It scatters sun into prismatic slices of light. The stars’ unblinking gaze softens into a flutter of eyelashes. No longer can she see the narrow spectrum of colors that humans evolved to discern; it has all faded into endless shades of the same hue. But the contrast of such brightnesses against the dark have become sharper than ever. Indeed, daylight has become a blaze to truly blind her. These stolen eyes of hers were made instead for depths and shadows.

Even so, she often finds herself staring out into the searing sky until her head aches. The sensations make her remember. She is no longer buried beneath stone, lost to this cosmos. She is free now, in some ways.

Eventually, her wanderings bring her back to the shaded refuge beneath the stairs just outside the Hall of Guardians. She is glad for this, too. Her station provides some small respite for her sensitive, ever-weeping eyes. And there she stays, until exhaustion drives her to rest, or else grief or fear or restlessness or her ever-smoldering rage drive her to pacing once again.

It’s true that many other eyes pass by that shadowed alcove of hers. Guardians constantly sweep in and out on either side of her, running and jumping and gliding up and down the stairs with urgent reports and important orders and burning questions for the Vanguard. They are so bright. Few of them spare a glance for her, these days, save for startled new Lights.

There are a few, though, who look upon her not with distrust or fear or begrudging tolerance, but with recognition. Once in a great while, cousin Asher will grace her with his inimitable company. It gladdens her heart, even when he merely stops to exchange research notes or brief insults. He cleaves to his research with a passionate vengeance, as does she. Unlike most, he pays more attention to her knowledge and her current work than her past. With the way he helped care for her in the months after her escape from Luna, she has come to hold him in close confidence.

On occasion, her friend the Guardian, who avenged her fireteam upon the very souls of Crota and Oryx, stops to greet her. Sometimes they bring her news from Luna or Mars. Words are few with that one lately, though. These days, their outgoing ghost is the one who relays whatever tidings they carry. The change leaves a cold shadow over Eris’ heart. Therefore, she values their quiet presence all the more. She fears for them.

Of course, Ikora’s is the kind regard she is subject to most often. Eris has never forgotten that Ikora believed her since the beginning. Most met her genuine warnings of inbound danger from the Hive with distrust, dismissal, or fear. Ikora not only listened, but met her with endless kindness. Even now, as the Warlock Vanguard steps into nearer chamber of the Hall for a brief consultation with Lord Shaxx, she spares a moment and a smile for Eris.

Ikora’s smile has always been warm and real and reassuring, a balm on the fibers of frayed nerves. Among the very few who welcomed Eris back to Earth, that smile was a signal of genuine care and safety that she homed in on immediately. The one directed at Eris now is subtle, a mere quirk of the lips. Yet it hints at the vast depths of passion and compassion below the surface, like a ripple that disappears swiftly on the surface of a deep, deep pool.

Ikora’s outward cool composure that obscures that intensity is not a façade. It is more an ingenius piece of architecture, a mighty aqueduct capable of holding and channelling the endless font of her inner immensities. It is an elegant and functional work of art well-kept and expanded over centuries.

The warmth that must be behind such a small yet genuine smile is palpable; it falls on Eris like the creeping warmth of sunlight, sinking in deep even though it scarcely touches her skin. Even the lower half of her face, where her many layers do not shield her from long-lost Sol, is still sallow and nearly as grayed as the dust of Luna. She hadn’t known at first, with the changes to her vision, not until Asher had told her. He never does shy away from the speaking of truth. In those endless years of darkness, the lack of light and loss of Light took something from Eris, sapped something vital, and left something strange in its place.

Yet Eris can feel the sun again, now. She can walk out into the courtyard at any time of day, find a south-facing wall to lean on, and bask in the radiating warmth like an ectothermic reptile.

Even without leaving the cool shadows of her post, another warmth still reaches her. Ikora offers her one more smile as she goes to return to her own station. Eris stands a little taller under the aegis of her regard, her spine the stem of a sunflower lifting her toward its steady kindness.

Eris takes not a single one of these boons for granted. Each one is a precious gift far beyond what she ever expected to experience again, after her descent into the Hellmouth. Yet none of it can quell her restlessness, for it springs from the same source as her gratefulness. It always comes back to what happened to her on Luna.

Each time she returns to her pacing, the Tower feels a little smaller. The scope of the sky distracts her for a shorter time. Now, even after her sworn vengeance upon the Hive has been fulfilled twice over in double deicide, the path of her vow still pulls her feet forward. She does not know where its shrouded course leads, only that there is still a threat yet to be met along it. More and more, she is certain that she cannot wait here to meet it, or it will be too late.

However, she never expected to leave behind wounds when she leaves. After she departs to sight the next storm on the horizon, she is haunted as often by the surprised hurt that she left in Ikora’s eyes as by the memory of her smile.

[purplebass]

Nothing Makes Sense Anymore

Yesterday I was listening to this song which gives the title to this one shot and I was inspired to write this story. It is about the feeling of loss you feel when someone dies or disappears, the anxiety about not being able to see them anymore, to talk to them anymore. It made me think about Will and Jem and how they deal with each other’s loss, and also how Tessa is the only constant in both of their lives, in different times of their lives. I hope this isn’t too depressive but I was in the mood to write something like this.

Relationship/Characters: Will Herondale, Jem Carstairs, Tessa Gray, Herongraystairs, Wessa, Jessa POVs: Will and Jem’s Rating: T TW: death, depression Background Music/Inspiration: Nothing Makes Sense by Mike Shinoda

Will 1878: 21 Long Days Later

 Nothing makes sense anymore.

It takes 21 days to form a habit, but Will Herondale still hadn’t got used to Jem Carstairs being gone. He hadn’t died, but he was still gone from the places they shared together, from the table they shared to eat their dinner, from the sofa they shared to laugh about this or that, from the bed where he used to lie when he was ill and Will was tending to him. Gone was the pale color of his mane, the faint but vivid hue of his irises, the joy of his smile that he always gifted him despite his body was collapsing. Jem had words of reassurance for him even if he did make no sense sometimes.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Still, even if his whole life up until that moment had been a whirlwind of strong emotions that he kept hidden and of people he tried to push away, the only constant in his existence had been Jem. His greatest sin. The only person who made his world make sense, the true north, the flame that couldn’t be put out. The light which guided him home whenever he was lost, but also the comfort he sought when he felt emotionally drained because he had to pretend to hate others.

He had put up walls, but Jem had destroyed them.

He had hated himself for what he did, but Jem had loved him more.

As Will stared at the small waves of the Thames in front of him at midnight, he wished he would just have the strength to saunter to the river bank and drown in his sorrows. He was already drowning, after all. Nothing made sense in his life, he had lost his compass. He was lost, it wouldn’t have been bizarre if he had…

No.

He glanced at his right side, where he would be if he didn’t have to leave.

It was empty.

Vacant, just like his heart. If he had to be honest, his heart was not vacant, it was full of bottled emotions ready to explode, to wound him, to cut him, to break him. Twenty-one days ago, a part of his soul was carved out of his heart. It still scorched, but scars are also a remainder experiences, of people. He would not forget Jem, nor Jem would forget him. They would still be linked for eternity, until they would both leave this world and meet in the afterlife, where they could be together. If there was an afterlife, but he decided that it existed.

He touched his chest, right where the rune of his never-ending friendship with Jem was. His love for Jem wouldn’t fade, despite their parabatai rune was white as a scar on his heart. He opened his shirt to check that he hadn’t dreamed about this, that Jem had been real and that he wasn’t his imagination who was playing tricks on him.

“It’s still here,” he murmured to the river, assuring himself that it was indeed reality. And then he broke down in tears, desperate because he couldn’t be with him. He was there but also not there. It comforted him, but it also made him desperate because he couldn’t spend his days and nights with him by his side.

Nobody would take Jem’s side.

“Will.”

He froze but he didn’t stop weeping, but now it was tears mixing with laughter. “I think I’m imagining voices,” he said directed to the river. “I lost the light of reason.” But then the only person who always went where he and Jem went, where he now went alone, filled the void by his side, and made him see things from a different perspective.

Jem’s place would stay vacant, but the other side wouldn’t.

The only person who understood what it meant to lose him would fill his other side, and she would be bound to him by drawing the marriage rune on the same place where the faint parabatai one once was. The person who Jem also loved, and in which his affection also reflected.

He gazed at her with eyes devoid of life, but full of emotion. “Tess, I… I want to be alone.”

“Well, I don’t,” she replied, her eyes as glassy as his, hurrying by his left side. “Want to tell me about the time you met Jem? You’ve never told me about it.”

Will’s heart would shatter with feelings of loss and love but he would comply, and they would laugh or cry at what he had just said.

That was how they tried to cope with the fact that Jem had to become a Silent Brother in order to save his life. That is how Will and Tessa coped with loss, knowing that what mattered the most was that Jem couldn’t be with them, but he was still alive. That, despite he couldn’t be all the time with them as they wished, he was still breathing. They could still see him, he would still be there when their children would grace this world, until it would be Will’s time to leave them. His time, however, would be final.

21 grams was also the weight of a soul. Jem and Tessa felt the loss of balance when Will left them, and their worlds would never be the same.

 Jem 2007: 70 Long Springs Later

Seventy years. Almost the age he had when he left them, Jem thought as he stared at London from Blackfriars Bridge. He had been there at least once a year, for his annual meeting with Tessa, and things didn’t seem different except they had changed drastically. At least from his perspective. He could still fell the imbalance and void in his existence, the idle spot where he used to be whenever they fought together in battle. He could still see the mark that linked them on his shoulder, but to an onlooker, the area was bare, the scar barely visible. But still there, still present.

People’s life span isn’t long. In the 150 years he had been alive, he had seen things change, people getting old and leaving this world, places decay, turning into the ghosts of what they once were.

Ghosts.

He couldn’t see ghosts, but he knew that they existed. And they were around them, protecting them like an invisible mantle, a coat of tenderness, of everlasting devotion. Anyone would think he was mad to think ghosts were part of their world too, but Tessa would not. She would believe that his ghost had crossed the bridge to the afterlife but he was still very present in their essence. In their memories, in their love, in their journey.

It was the crack of dawn, too early for pedestrians to walk on the bridge and maybe even for ghosts to appear, had he been able to see them. It was the time he preferred because the city was quieter and he could go undisturbed to remind himself of his first life, of his life before the one he had just left, of the life before he became a Silent Brother.

The first life where the third missing piece of his current life had been with him. The one who had made his first life feel more valuable, gave it more meaning than what he would have had if their paths hadn’t crossed. If he had kept his feelings to himself and drowned in depression. The one who would go out in the middle of the night whenever he had a withdrawal and he was out of his poison, which was also his cure. The one who would stay by his bed to keep his hand warm and his forehead covered by a cool cloth to make his temperature go down, or would risk his life to save his frail one without batting an eye when he was too weak to wield a sword.

Will had been part of Jem’s second life as a Silent Brother. He had made it colorful, fiery, vibrant. As a Brother, the light, the joy, the emotions were denied to him, but through Will and through Tessa, he had experienced a chromatic life, which helped him endure his new reality dressed in anonymous parchment colored gear.

Will had also had children who had been equally important to Jem, who had reminded him who he was and… He passed a hand through his now black hair remembering when Will informed him that his first son would be named after him. “I can have a piece of you even when you’re not here,” he had told him with pride, and James had turned out to be a great person who loved profoundly just like his parents. Lucie, their second daughter who had Tessa’s lovely features, had also lighted his life. Jem never told them what Lucie did when she was sixteen, and when they found out they were worried sick, but they never blamed him for not telling them what their daughter was risking. He just wanted the people he loved the most to be safe. He would guarantee them that he would continue doing that for the following generations.

His view of the river few feet below blurred. He hadn’t realized that he was crying until he wiped his face with the back of his hand. Seventy years had passed since his parabatai had left this world, but he was a mess after every visit to London, still longing for Will’s presence. He knew that he had to be there, somewhere close. He felt his shoulder warm, as if someone had an arm around him to wrap him in a comfortable feeling of homeliness. Shadowhunters believed in ghosts, Will could see ghosts himself, and even if Jem wasn’t able to do it, he was sure he wasn’t alone.

“It’s okay to cry.”

It was Tessa. She was by his side, looking at the same view he was contemplating. In the years following Will’s death he had only met Tessa in sparse occasions. She had decided to leave that city because she couldn’t bear his loss and then the war broke, and they couldn’t properly meet the way they wanted to. After all, they still had each other.

This year, seventy years after their world broke apart, he had been cured, and there wasn’t anything stopping them to be together every day like they had wished to do when Jem was still 17. When he was dying. He knew that he had survived because of Will’s and Tessa’s love for him even when he became a Silent Brother. He wasn’t a Silent Brother anymore now, he was just Jem, and by his side there was still Tessa, the only constant in his life who was also a reminder of Will, the only person who had loved his parabatai the same way he also loved him, and the same way they both loved him right now, after seventy long years.

“Seeing London every year still moves me,” Jem commented as the sun was about to rise higher in the sky before them. “But this time is different, because I’m seeing London as myself. As Jem. It reminds me of when me and Will used to sit on the ledges of bridges around town when we were patrolling the streets at night.”

“Tell me more about it,” said Tessa with a smile.

He nodded and managed a grin and he would indulge in her request. He could still feel the warmth around them as he recalled hilarious experiences with his parabatai. He decided to recollect only the happy memories on this anniversary, because Will wouldn’t want them to be sad, even if he wasn’t physically with them.

Even when he exhaled his last breath, he had told them that he wanted them to hold onto each other, just like Jem had done when he became a Silent Brother. His disappearance from this world just meant that he was going somewhere incorporeal, but they would still live, their hearts would still beat. They couldn’t lose sight of each other or they would lose their minds, even if he couldn’t be with them anymore.

The soft spring breeze was blowing and it embraced their huddled figures next to the bridge. They would still have time before crossing that bridge to go to Will, whose presence was still resounding around them, a ghostly presence, especially there in London where he had lived most of his life.

When the morning sun was glowing far above the clear skies and he had told her about the past, Jem felt the need of asking something to her.

“If we ever have a daughter, can we call her Wilhelmina?”

Tessa turned to him and watched him with a pensive expression, still lost in the stories they had just shared on the bridge. She smiled fondly and she nodded. “You don’t even have to ask.”

In that moment, Jem realized that even if Will was not there, they would still remember him every day, he and Tessa. She was, after all, the thread that had made their bound stronger, the only constant in both of their lives. This made life worth living, despite their lives wouldn’t be the same until they would be able to finally reach the place where Will was.

Until then.

[contrariian-archive]

HOZIER’S  “WASTELAND, BABY!” SENTENCE STARTERS

feel free to change pronouns, etc!

NINA CRIED POWER

‘ it’s not the waking, it’s the rising. ’ ‘ it is the grounding of a foot uncompromising. ’ ‘ it’s not forgoing of the lie, it’s not the opening of eyes. ’ ‘ it’s not the shade; we should be past it. it’s the light, and it’s the obstacle that casts it. ’ ‘ it’s the heat that drives the light. ’ ‘ it’s the heaven of a human spirit ringing. ’ ‘ and i could cry power. ’   ‘ it’s not the wall, but what’s behind it. ’ ‘ power has been cried by those stronger than me, straight into the face that tells you to rattle your chains if you love being free. ’

ALMOST (SWEET MUSIC)

‘ i came in from the outside, burned out from a joyride. ’ ‘ the same kind of music haunts her bedroom. ’ ‘ i’m almost me again. ’ ‘ i’m almost me again. she’s almost you. ’ ‘ i wouldn’t know where to start. ’ ‘ be still my foolish heart. ’ ‘ don’t ruin this on me. ’ ‘ let’s get lost and let the good times roll. ’ ‘ let’s smoke rings from this paper doll. ’ ‘ i got some color back. ’ ‘ i laugh like me again, she laughs like you. ’ ‘ the very thought of you, and i am blue. ’ ‘ i get along without you very well some other nights. ’

MOVEMENT

‘ i still watch you when you’re grooving. ’ ‘  you’re moving without moving. ’ ‘ when you move, i’m moved. ’ ‘ you are a call to motion. ’ ‘ when you move, i’m put to mind of all that i wanna be. ’ ‘ i could never define all that you are to me. ’ ‘ move me, baby. ’ ‘ you do it naturally. ’ ‘ honey, you’re atlas in his sleeping. ’ ‘ i recall something that’s gone from me. ’ ‘ when you move, i’m put in awe of something so flawed and free. ’

NO PLAN

‘ what a waste to say the heart could feel apart, or feel complete. ’ ‘ why would you make out of words a cage for your own bird, when it sings so sweet the screaming, heaving fuckery of the world? ’ ‘ why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain? ’ ‘ all things come from nothing. ’ ‘ my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand. ’ ‘ i know now that you understand. ’ ‘ there’s no plan. ’ ‘ there’s no race to be run. ’ ‘ the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun. ’ ‘ there’s no kingdom to come. ’ ‘ i’ll be your man if you got love to get done. ’ ‘ sit in and watch the sunlight fade. ’ ‘ it’s getting late. ’ ‘ there’s no hand on the rein. ’ ‘ as mack explained, there will be darkness again. ’ ‘ let the awful song be heard. ’ ‘ i know your beat, baby. ’ ‘ your secret is safe with me. ’ ‘ if secrets were like seeds, keep my body from the fire, hire a gardener for my grave. ’ ‘ if secrets were like seeds, when i’m lying under marble, marvel at flowers you’ll have made. ’

NOBODY

‘ it’s gin o’clock. ’ ‘ i think about you everywhere i go. ’ ‘ i’ve done everything and i’ve been everywhere. ’ ‘ i’ve been fed gold by sweet fools. ’ ‘ i’ve had no love like your love from nobody. ’ ‘ i’d be appalled if i saw you ever try to be a saint. ’ ‘ i wouldn’t fall for someone i thought couldn’t misbehave. ’ ‘ i once warmed my hands over a burning maserati. ’ ‘ why should we deny the truth? ’ ‘ we could have less to worry about  —  i won’t lie to you. ’

TO NOISE MAKING (SING)

‘ remember when you’d sing just for the fuck of it? ’ ‘ the look of it was as sweet as the sound. ’ ‘ i couldn’t name that feeling carried in that voice  —  was it that, or just the act of making noise that brought you joy? ’ ‘ you don’t have to sing it right, but who could call you wrong? ’ ‘ put your emptiness to melody, your awful heart to song. ’ ‘ you don’t have to sing it right. ’ ‘ you don’t have to sing it right, but sing it strong. ’ ‘ at best, you’ll find a little remedy. ’ ‘ at worst, the world will sing along. ’ ‘ we’d scuff up our shoes. ’ ‘ you didn’t always sing it right. ’ ‘ who could ask you to be unbroken or be brave again? ’ ‘ be unbroken. ’ ‘ be brave again. ’ ‘ who could ask you to be sound or to feel saved again? ’ ‘ stick around until you hear that music play again. ’ ‘ so honey, sing. ’ ‘ sing. ’ ‘ remember when you’d sing just for the love of it? and any joy it would bring? ’

AS IT WAS 

‘ there is a roadway, muddy and foxgloved, whenever i’d have life enough, my heart is screaming of. ’ ‘ and in a few days, i would be there, love. ’ ‘ whatever here that’s left of me is yours. ’ ‘ the highs hit the heights of my baby, and its hold had the fight of my baby. ’ ‘ the lights were as bright as my baby, ’ ‘ your love was unmoved. ’   ‘ tell me if, somehow, some of it remains, how long you would wait for me. ’ ‘ make your good love known to me. ’ ‘ tell me about your day. ’ ‘ and the nights were as dark as my baby, and half as beautiful too. ’

SHRIKE

‘ i couldn’t utter my love when it counted. ’ ‘ i couldn’t utter my love when it counted, but i’m singing like a bird about it now. ’ ‘ i’m singing like a bird about it now. ’ ‘ i couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted. ’ ‘ words hung above, but never would form  —  like a cry at the final breath that is drawn. ’ ‘ remember me. ’ ‘ remember me, love. ’ ‘ remember me, love, when i’m reborn as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn. ’ ‘ i’d no idea on what ground i was founded. ’ ‘ all of that goodness is going with you now. ’ ‘ then, when i met you, my virtues uncounted  —  all of my goodness is going with you now. ’ ‘ all of my goodness is going with you now. ’ ‘ dragging along, following your form, hung like the pelt of some prey you had won. ’ ‘ i’m hung like the pelt of some prey you had one. ’ ‘ remember me when i’m reborn as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn. ’ ‘ i fled to the city with so much discounted. ’ ‘ i fled to the city with so much discounted, but i’m flying like a bird to you now. ’ ‘ i’m flying like a bird to you now. ’ ‘ i’m flying like a bird to you now, back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted. ’ ‘ i was housed by your warmth. ’ ‘ i was thus transformed by your grounded and giving and darkening scorn. ’

TALK

‘ i’d be the voice that urged orpheus when her body was found. i’d be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground. ’ ‘ i’d be the dreadful need in the devotee. ’ ‘ i’d be the immediate forgiveness in eurydice. ’ ‘ imagine being loved by me. ’ ‘ i won’t deny  —  i’ve got in my mind now all the things i would do. ’ ‘ i try to talk refined for fear that you find out how i’m imagining you. ’ ‘ i’d be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love. ’ ‘ i’d be the sweet feeling of release. ’

BE

‘ be as you’ve always been. ’ ‘ lover, be good to me. ’ ‘ be like the love that discovered the sin, that freed the first man and will do so again. ’ ‘ be that hopeful feeling when eden was lost. ’ ‘ it’s been deaf to our laughter since the master was crossed. ’ ‘ which side of the wall really suffers that cost? ’ ‘ be love in its disrepute. ’ ‘ love, in its disrepute, scorches the hillside and salts every root. ’ ‘ watch the slowing and starving of troops. ’ ‘ be like the rose that you hold in your hand, that will grow bold in a barren and desolate land. ’ ‘ love, won’t you be as you’ve always been? ’

DINNER & DIATRIBES

‘ this club here is stuck up. ’ ‘ i knew well from our first hookup the look of mischief in your eyes. ’ ‘ your friends are a fate that befell me. ’ ‘ hell is the talking type. ’ ‘ i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight. ’ ‘ that’s the kind of love i’ve been dreaming of. ’ ‘ honey, i laugh when it sinks in. ’ ‘ the evening is slowing. ’ ‘ the end is in sight. ’ ‘ it’s easier knowing what you’d do to me tonight. ’ ‘ let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised. ’ ‘ let there be damage ensued and tabloid news. ’

WOULD THAT I 

‘ i saw your hair like the branch of a tree  — a willow dancing on air before covering me. ’ ‘ that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me. ’ ‘ the sound of the saw must be known by the tree. ’ ‘ i fretted fire, but that was long ago. ’ ‘ i blink in sight of your blinding light. ’ ‘ it’s not tonight where you hold me tight. ’ ‘ you’re good to me. ’ ‘ with the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet. ’ ‘ like the ashes of ash, i saw rise in the heat. ’ ‘ i fell in love with the fire long ago. ’ ‘ with each love i cut loose, i was never the same. ’ ‘ i’m watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame. ’ ‘ i was fixed on your hand of gold laying waste to my loving long ago. ’ ‘ in awe, there i stood. ’ ‘ though i’ve handled the wood, i still worship the flame. ’ ‘ as long as the amber of ember glows, all the would that i’d loved is long ago. ’

SUNLIGHT 

‘ i would shun the light. ’ ‘ share in evening’s cool and quiet. ’ ‘ who would trade that hum of night for sunlight? ’ ‘ but whose heart would not take flight? ’ ‘ but whose heart would not take flight, betray the moon as acolyte, on first and fierce affirming sight of sunlight? ’ ‘ i’d been lost to you. ’ ‘ i flew like a moth to you. ’ ‘ oh, your love is sunlight. ’ ‘ all the tales the same, told before and told again. ’ ‘ a soul that’s born in cold and rain knows sunlight. ’ ‘ oh, my sunlight. ’ ‘ all that was shown to me, sunlight, was something foreknown to me. ’ ‘ all these colors fade for you only. ’ ‘ hold me. ’ ‘ carry me slowly. ’ ‘ each day, you’d rise with me. ’ ‘ know that i would gladly be the icarus to your certainty. ’ ‘ strap the wing to me. death trap-clad, happily, with wax melted, i’d meet the sea. ’

WASTELAND, BABY!

‘ all the fear and the fire of the end of the world happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl. happens great, happens sweet. ’ ‘ happily, i’m unfazed here, too. ’ ‘ wasteland baby, i’m in love with you. ’ ‘ baby, i’m in love with you. ’ ‘ all the things yet to come are the things that have passed: like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass. ’ ‘ i’m in love with you. ’ ‘ and i love too that love soon might end. ’ ‘ be still, my indelible friend. you are unbreaking. ’ ‘ you are unbreaking, though quaking. ’ ‘ that day that we watch the death of the sun; the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on. ’ ‘ you gaze unafraid as they sob from the city ruins. ’ ‘ the stench of the sea and the absence of green are the death of all things that are seen and unseen. ’ ‘ not an end, but the start of all things that are left to do. ’ ‘ that’s it. ’

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 86

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: Love Interruption

Summary: As Genevieve comes out of her Morphine haze, she finds that life both inside and outside the house isn’t the same as it was before her incident. She and Alfie come to a breaking point of tension for her behavior.  Song is Love Interruption by Jack White. 

Warnings/Tags: Language. References to assault and violence. PTSD. Angst.  Trauma. Fighting, verbal and physical. Discussions of pregnancy and miscarriage. 

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Life without the fog of influence from Morphine was much different for Genevieve. She lets it work out of her system, a nasty process she suffers through, feeling as if she were being punished for the blindness it caused to her behavior. She’d spoken to Claire and Aggie on very intimate levels, demanding they not hold back or be dishonest. She realized she’d been suspended in a dream. Somewhere that wasn’t reality and time had kept passing by without her being involved. She knew that wasn’t how she wanted to live. She wanted her life back. She wanted to be herself again and that self was now someone who had been through something terrible but she couldn’t change it now. She knew it was time to stop living in the past where the pain was. It was time to move forward and leave that old version of herself behind and rise anew.

She and Alfie were not the same people they had been before. She had a lot of thinking to do as to how to approach a relationship with him now. Everything was kept at a surface level while she detoxes and reflects. They share polite conversation in the evenings most nights, but nothing of substance. She wasn’t sure how to even bring up what they had said and done to each other. It wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss, and it loomed over her like a cloud, always threatening to burst. She knew he was tense from the experience, but she didn’t feel any ill will towards her now like she had before. There wasn’t anger when he met her eyes, nor was there disappointment. Only a carefully calculated endearment that kept them both in their own space, merely cohabitating together.

What Gen didn’t know was that Alfie’s hesitancy to embrace this new version of herself came from his own pessimism for it. He was holding his breath, waiting for something else to happen, something bad, a relapse always on the horizon in his mind. It kept him tense and unapproachable. He thought it was to save Genevieve the hurt of his anger and disappointment again when it happened, but it was really to save himself.

With the withdrawal effects fading from her system, Gen had begun to feel rather poorly one morning. It didn’t incite the lust for the relief from medicine and she was grateful, but she did succumb to an indulgent nap. She sleeps soundly, as she had since ridding herself of the toxins. She does something she hadn’t done with clarity in some time, she dreams. With an array of everyday mundane events, a maze of her own home twisted into a dreamscape she finds herself in her garden again. Surrounded by large blooms, larger than her head that makes her feel happy. In the center of this Eden with its four fountains and golden hour sunlight, an unlikely prospect emerges. One she hadn’t seen in weeks now. One of the children from the Morphine fits stands smiling.

“Hello, Mum.” she greets sweetly, a low and steady voice like Gen’s, the same long black hair and olive skin. Alfie’s eye color and lips. She runs to embrace her, and unlike times before she does not disappear. She holds her as real and solid in her arms as any living thing.

“My darling, my love, my angel...are you real now? Have you come to me finally?” she asks, kissing her hair and holding her face in her hands as she cries.

“No.” she answers with the same soft inflection. Gen’s heart drops. “I’m only what you want to see. I’m what could’ve been What could still be.” she adds with a wise mind that is far beyond the teenage years she appears.

“What do you mean, child?” Gen rasps, touching her face and trying to memorize every feature.

“You’re a mother. You always will be.” she says supportively with a subtle smile.

“I’m...I’m not…” Gen shakes her head in confusion.

“You know it to be true. You’ve seen me. You’ve seen us.” She puts her hands over Genevieve’s and gives her a sympathetic smile. “Don’t cry. There’s no reason to. Only good things to come, mum. Only good things.”

“But my darling I don’t understand. I’ve been told there are no children. So many times.” she weeps.

“What do they know?” she quips with a smile exactly like Genevieve’s. Full of spark and life and mischief. “Only what YOU know matters.”

Genevieve feels her slipping away, the skies going dark, the light is taken away and she grows soft in her hands. “No, love. Tell me what you mean. Please.” she chokes out as everything fades, left in an empty garden on a new moon night. Only her in the center now, no fountains, no flowers, only Gen and her questions.

She pulls herself out of the deep sleep with a deep breath, rising in her bed. She notices the pain in her stomach immediately, pulling back the covers to reveal she’d started bleeding in her sleep. The relief that hits Genevieve makes her cry. She thanks God and cries happy tears, finally a beam of sun breaks through the gloomy cloud of thoughts that haunted her. She wasn’t pregnant, her body was healing now, regaining its normal functions. She could stop worrying about the past haunting her in that way.

She scrubs her gown, the bed linens luckily not soiled, then soaks herself into a steaming hot bath. The pain was intense and making her dizzy, the heat helped soothe her.

“Christ!” Aggie screeches walking into the bathroom, terror in her face as Gen lazily opens her eyes.

“What is it Ags?” she asks in a daze, trying to breathe through the pain.

“What have you done child?!” she rushes to the tub and tries to drag Gen out.

“Fucks sake Aggie what are you on about?!” Gen raises her voice and smacks her away.

Aggie holds Gen’s arms and lets out a wild sound of relief. “Heavens.” she groans. “I thought you’d tried to bloody kill yourself.” she says with her forearms on the edge of the tub, her head resting with a dark laugh as she feels dizzy from the emotional dips and highs.

Gen looks to see the water reddened, and understands and it makes her smile for a moment. “No, no. Just the menses is all.” she shakes her head.

This perks Aggie up as well, she holds her face. “Oh thank God!” she kisses her cheeks. “Oh that’s...that’s the best news.” she sighs out.

Gen can see now she wasn’t the only one holding onto that terrible fear. “Was my reaction as well.” she gives her a soft smile and she kisses her forehead. “I scrubbed my gown. It’s on the sink there.” she motions with a tired hand. “It hurts something awful though, Ags.” she whines with a wince, resituating herself.

“Is it...are you...alright?” she asks, her hands going stiff.

“If my dreams are any indication I am.” she sighs and leans back against the tub.

“What are you on about?” Aggie's face sits uncertain.

“No hallucinations, no medicine, no worries, Ags.” she responds quickly. “I had one of the children I would see visit me though. Hard to tell what she meant.”

“If she was yours it's no wonder.” Aggie smirks, stroking back Gen’s hair.

“I believe she was.” Gen’s face is frowning in thought, looking to the lavender plant Alfie had gotten her sitting on the window sill still. “She said I was right. That I knew.”

“Knew what?” Aggie pulls a stool next to the tub, delighted Gen was willing to talk about such a thing. Babies had been such a delicate subject for her before.

“I think…” she frowns deeper, looking into the water. “I have no proof, mind you.” She shrugs. “But she told me I knew, and I had suspected before I was taken.”

Aggie stiffens at the mention of it, holding her breath, waiting for tears, for screaming, but they never came.

“I didn’t tell anyone, it wasn’t long enough to cause a fuss over. But I was late before I was taken.”

Aggie's eyes go wide, knowing what she meant. She had been, but like Gen said, it wasn’t enough to think twice about.

“Perhaps she’s what could’ve been...you know?” she says with a sad face turning to meet Aggie’s tearful eyes. It hits Gen’s and her cramps worsen, the sting of tears.

“Oh my love, I’m so sorry.” she whispers and leans in to kiss her damp hair.

“She told me it would be alright.” she wipes away the tears that fall. “I'm inclined to believe her.” she nods. “But if I were...if I had been…” she whispers with a soft voice, almost afraid to say any of it out loud, but feeling lighter as she spoke of it. “That means that I, in fact, can become pregnant.”

“You’ve always worried about that haven’t you?” Aggie adds sympathetically with a knowing glance.

Gen’s honest and wide eyes met hers and she nods quietly. “How did you-?”

“I know you, dear.” she gives a wise smile. “I know your cycles and I know what’s going on behind those big brown eyes more often than you do. I know you’ve worried. After all this time with Alfie as well, and not even an accident despite your new-fangled timing as you call it.”

“I didn’t know if I was lucky, using that method or if it was a sign of something more...serious.” she mutters with a purse of her lips.

Aggie leaves a lingering kiss to her head. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” she whispers into her hair.

“For what?”

“For talking about this. Admitting it. And being so...reasonable about it.”

“I find if I bring up the things that upset me first, I can more easily control myself. It’s the outside factors I still have to worry about. But at least...this is one less thing to weigh on my shoulders.”

“Yes, yes, always look to the positive.”

“Even though it’s never hurt so badly before. Christ.” she groans and winces.

“It’s a woman’s pain to bare.” Aggie nods. “Would you like something to ease it?” she asks with a chirp of happiness for being helpful.

“No, no. I don't...well I can’t really.”

“How about just something to sleep? So you don’t have to feel it at least?” she offers with a shrug.

“I don’t think Alfie would be too happy about coming home to me being dopey.”

“Nonsense. You wouldn’t be. I’d tell him you were menstruating and he’d understand.”

“Oh to live with a man so intimately.” Gen chuckles and it causes her stomach to pain again. “Alright. I can do that. I just don’t want him to look at me with that disappointment any longer. It hurts every time.”

“I know my sweet, he’s had his own problems to deal with as well. It’ll all get back to normal eventually.”

----

“Why is she asleep? It’s the middle of the afternoon?” Claire demands of  Aggie as she takes care of Gen’s gown, wanting to keep the news of her bleeding a secret under Alfie’s orders. He didn’t want anything personal discussed, there were many rumors that were true getting out and he had no idea how still. So the paranoia game was afoot.

“I gave her some tonic.”

“You what?” Claire says angrily.

“No, no, just something for sleep. She started bleeding and it was rather painful so in place of something for that I talked her into something for sleep.”

“Oh, she…” Claire’s shoulders slump and she lets out a sigh. “Oh thank fucking Christ.” she groans and rubs her face.

“My reaction was much the same.” Aggie says happily. “But I think there’s something we should tell Alfie.” she adds with hesitation.

“What?” Claire asks moving in close and speaking in whispers.

“Gen believes herself to have been with child before she was taken.” she whispers with wide eyes and tight lips that show her upset at the news.

“What reasoning?” Claire asks with a raised brow that wasn’t convinced.

“She was late. Not much but…” she shrugs. “And she says her dreams are telling her she knows. And she’d thought she might be.”

“All that blood.” Claire’s face contorts.

“Yes.” Aggie lets out a noise of upset. “Should we tell Alfie? It was his after all.”

Claire shakes her head. “No. Absolutely not.” she barks in a confident voice.

“Why not? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

“It will serve no one now. It’ll only bring upset to the house again. He’d dig up that monster and kill him all over again. You can’t tell him.” she glares at Aggie who’s disappointed but nods in agreement. “We also have no proof. And neither does she. It could not even be true. Just her mind wanting her to feel better now, her working through all this you know? Could always be nothing.” she states with a self-assured nod. Claire wasn’t as quick to believe Gen’s dreams as Aggie was. Was a key difference in how they handled things. “It doesn’t matter whether it was or wasn’t. I’m happy and relieved she’s bleeding now, that’s all that matters. He’ll be plenty eased by it as well. These things are women's troubles after all. We must bare them among ourselves. And this is one of those things. Don’t. Tell. Him.” she states coldly.

“I won’t. I won’t.” Aggie agrees. “But I would want to know.” she retorts.

“Well, you aren’t him. He’s on edge enough as is. And I don’t need him becoming a bigger problem than he already is. People are asking about Gen for work, and I don’t want to have to start making up things or pushing her back into it. But it’s starting to get to me.” she admits and sighs.

“She did so well today. Talking about what happened and even mentioning being… kidnapped. She didn’t seem too bothered aside from stray tears. She spoke very clearly and reasonably. I believe she’ll be well enough to return to work soon. I have faith in her.”

“As do I.” Claire agrees with a half-hearted tone. “It’s everyone else I”m worried about.” she frowns.

--------------

Alfie had been dealing with much the same outside of the house. Gossip and rumors galore kept making their way back to him. Some were ridiculous. Those were easy to ignore and dispel, it was the oddly accurate ones that bothered him. It made him on edge in his own home, which made him furious. He didn’t trust anyone, and it led to him being short and cruel to the staff. But at this point, his mood swings were seen as regular, something to expect and look past, he was becoming more difficult to deal with than the one that was expected to act out.

Most recently he’d lashed out in a meeting with a civilian. A simple question of how Gen was doing lead him to accuse him of being up to something. His hand twitching over his drawer with the gun and the man sweating bullets across the desk in his innocence.

“I meant nothin’ by it Mr. Solomons, only heard she’d been down after someone kidnapped her, poor girl. She hadn’t been seen out at her usual functions, my wife told me she wasn’t teaching currently. Thought it best to ask is all.” He stutters out and Alfie's nose twitches, not seeing any ill will in the man’s face.”

“Right.” He draws out, hand returning to the top of his desk as he rubbed his chin. “She’s doing better. Slow process with women and that, yeah? You remember how the younger boys were in the war. Similar to that. But she’s much improved and working again.” He gives the man a nod and returns his eyes to the contract in front of him. “So you can spread that around, right? She’s back to work, studying for her bat mitzvah with the Rabbi. Busy little bee again.”

The man nods supportively, eyes darting and not meeting Alfies face as it still read as angry. “I didn’t mean to pry, sir.”

“No, no. It’s just y’know...people fuckin talk 'bout what they don’t fuckin’ know nothin’ bout yeah?”

“Course sir. I’ve heard nothing but nice things about Your Miss Durand.”

“You’d be the only fuckin one.” He grumbles, hand to his brow before he grunts and returns back to the business at hand.

Afterward, a hesitant Ollie gives him a sympathetic look.

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that boy.” He snaps at him as he pops his back in his chair and makes a pained face.

“Sir-“

“Fuckin...NO.” He shakes his head and glares. “I know what ya fuckin did yeah? Sure as fuck don’t need you to point it out. Like I don’t fuckin know.”

“I thought maybe you could do something to bring down the talk?”

“And what fuckin brilliant idea, that I have not thought of already so you suggest?” He groans.

“Perhaps with Miss Durand doing better you could take her out... y’know if people see she’s alive and well they won’t be as inclined to start rumors.”

“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that Ollie!” He answers sarcastically and Ollie sighs, knowing a berating is coming. “And what happens when one of those cunts brings up what happened? What will she do when they say his name, even have the fuckin bollocks or ignorance to ASK what happened? You think she’s ready for that? Because she’s fucking not. She’ll crack and do...who fuckin knows what! Kill someone? Who the fuck knows!” He shouts, rising from his chair.

“Yes, sir.” Ollie answers, looking down to the floor.

“Fuckin daft.” He bites with a slap of his hand to the desk. “Speakin' of I am goin' home after doin' my rounds. See what madness I’ll inherit today.” He mutters as he stomps out of his office.

————

Gen’s taking a nap before tea when Alfie comes home. Claire greets him and her face tells him nothing horrendous happened that day.

“How is she?” the same question, the same gruff way every day.

“She’s been very well. We’ve been working or trying to. She’s still a bit slow, but she’s improving. It’s the memory she’s struggling with now. The names and who people are, she’s getting frustrated with herself but she’s taken it in stride.” her voice is light-hearted and she explains the day with small shrugs and hand movements to accompany her.

Gen had heard Alfie’s car coming up the drive and pulls on a robe to greet him, she finds him and Claire in mid-conversation as she stalls her entry into the entryway and eavesdrops.

“Good. Good. All good. I don’t know if I could’ve taken bad news today.” Alfie says with a sigh.

“I have none as far as she’s concerned.” Claire says with a nod.

“What’s that mean?”

“You know. Outwardly issues.” she gestures vaguely.

“Fuckin’ tell me ‘bout it right? These fuckin’ cunts... runnin’ their fuckin’ mouths ‘bout her. ‘Bout us.” Gen can hear the anger bubbling in his voice as he speaks.

“Yes the clients are getting antsy it seems. They want the personal touch back, the store owners want to know they’re still being heard and they’ll have roofs over their head come next payment.” Claire groans.

“The absolutely ridiculous things I’ve heard, yeah?” he rubs his temple. “From her being dead to pregnant to comatose. Without her out there, they’re runnin’ wild and taking all liberties with it. With her not even takin up her volunteer work they’ve been particularly fussy it seems. What the fuck do they know about anythin’.” he rolls his eyes, hands on his hips.

“Yes, I’ve been asked so many off questions about her. I tell them the same. She's getting better and working from home now. Back on her feet, waiting for the right moment to enter back into her former life.”

“Seems they wanted that months back. Cunts.” he grunts and shifts his feet. “Greedy little wankers, yeah? Can’t let a woman have her peace. And bringin’ me into it! Sayin’ I’m afraid she’ll get taken again and I”m keepin’ her locked up. What a load of bollocks.”

‘Yes, they are all rather...tremendous in their imaginations when it comes to this sort of thing.” Claire's mouth goes into a straight line in annoyance.

Gen steps back, a hurt expression that she feels into her chest is clear on her face. She was making their lives harder. She wasn’t getting better fast enough for them or for the public. She’d been trying so hard as well. Pushing herself and trying to improve, but it seems just as she was feeling good about her progress, there was news to make her feel less than again.

This of course only led to her pushing herself harder. Claire and Alfie both saw it and thought it was her stubborn nature coming back. The problem with it was she was going too hard, too fast and it was doing more harm than good. She’d study her Hebrew until her nose bled and she couldn’t see, knocking her out with a migraine for days and making her useless. She’d exercise to get her strength back in the gardens and pull something, twist her weakened ankle and be down again for even longer. A miserable sight to behold when she was incapacitated because she was so intent on getting better she couldn’t emotionally handle the setbacks gracefully. She was as miserable as Alfie when they happened and neither spoke much. Alfie finally intervenes when he finds her sobbing one afternoon. Inquiring as to what’s upset her as she kneels by the toilet, making herself sick with her thoughts.

“I wanted to be able to face what happened. To remember and know...so that when it was discussed it wouldn’t ruin me.” she groans with exhausted eyes and a scratchy voice.

“Not go well?” he asks, pushing back her hair.

“I was okay with Aggie, but then new things started coming back to me and it just...it’s all so much. And so...bad.” she moans as her stomach turns again.

“You've got to slow it down, love. You’re pushin’ too hard. I was lettin’ you go at what pace you liked but you know right?” he inquired, kneeling by her now.

“No. I'm not. I”m behind.” she sighs out, hands over he face.

“There is no schedule for such a thing. Therefore you cannot be behind.” he states matter of factly.

“Everyone thinks so.”

“Not true.” he insists with pursed lips and a coddling voice.

“Don’t lie to me.” she scowls. He’s almost happy to see it as he knows she is getting back to her old self. “I know you and everyone else thinks I’m broken and I need to prove I’m not. I-”

“But if you keep pushing so hard that you have continued setbacks you lose progress and time.” he explains. “Like a business. Ya got to give them time off to recoup after work. Can’t just make ‘em work round the clock, they’d all fall over dead, wouldn’t they? Same with you.” he points. “Gotta give yourself room to breathe, relax, recuperate. If you do that your progress will be more continuous.” he speaks in plain terms, one hand on her knee.

“But I’m so tired of being like this.” she whispers, he can see her frustration on her face.

“I know love but it’s all part of it innit? Let nature take its course. You are clearly improving, and that in itself is something to be thankful for yeah? Let's not push our luck.” he gives her knee a little squeeze.

“If I have any left.” she rolls her eyes and lets her head fall back against the wall. “I don’t mean to be such a burden.”

“Ya not.” he insists. “Now let's get you into bed, yeah? I’ll have ya tea brought in. How’s ‘bout I read to ya? Haven’t done that in ages. Ya won’t have to work that pretty little head of yours wif ‘at, eh?” he offers and she gives him a weak smile. It had been so long since they’d been close and done such a thing together. He was offering to help her, possibly out of pity or bribery but it didn’t matter so much to Genevieve. She just needed a break.

----------

With increasing pressure from outside, Alfie is feeling the stress of Genevieve and her reputation slipping away. She had been absent for months, but she had also been through a hell of a lot. Without telling exactly what it was, it was understood that people would speculate. But after being taken and held by a man with a reputation like Horne, you’d think people could make a fairly accurate guess. That’s what he’d done. And he found personally, her recovery to be fantastic. But professionally it was a huge thorn in his side. He wasn’t in control of it, and he did NOT like not having control. Therefore resentment built. He’s still polite, he’s still careful with her, but there’s a barrier between them neither want to address. And Gen is desperately trying to make it disappear before it too becomes a real issue.

SO when Gen suggests they go out for a night. Just stop to his club, a little appearance to knock the rust off, you’d think he would be delighted. But he wasn’t. He was suspicious and pessimistic and he wasn’t shy to let her know that.

“I don’t fink it’s a good idea, love. How ‘bout you stick to work for now, eh?” he offers first, a scapegoat to keep her busy.

“Alfie I need to get out and be social again. It was the majority of what I used to do. I know people think I’ve gone mad out here or...whatever else. I need to try to remember how to do this.” her voice is pleading but he does not budge.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea Genny. I don’t think you’re ready. Socializing is its own game. You know that. I don’t want it to overwhelm you.” he puts as delicately as he can.

“I think I'm ready.” she pouts. “It won’t be an event, I won’t be speaking, we’ll just….go out.”

He side-eyes her, looking up from his book as she sits like a sad little kitten wanting attention.

“Please?” she offers with a bow of her head.

“I don’t want you havin' an episode in public, Gen. We can’t have that right now.” is his way of warning her.

“I haven’t had one in weeks. At the worst, I cry. And I can hide that. Excuse myself. Whichever. We can hide in your office if need be.”

“I don’t want to have to do that because that in itself is suspicious.”

She sighs and groans, shoulders slumping. “How will we know if I don’t try?” she offers up. “If it goes well it would do wonders for my confidence.”

His lips form a tight line and his nose twitches. “If you so much as feel your heart go faster you tell me. We can’t-” he scolds.

“THANK YOU!” she moans, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. “I won’t. It’ll be brilliant.” she speaks quickly and rises with her skirt in her hands. “Thank you, darling. Truly.” she dotes with a lovely smile he wants to give back to her as she dashes out of the room, but he doesn’t feel as optimistic as she does.

--------

It was a lovely sight to take in once again for Alfie, Genevieve in her best and decorated like a doll. He gives in to drinking in the sight of her as she emerges from their bedroom as if they’d had the good fortune of never having gone through the past few months.

“You look lovely.” He coos with a gentle tone, a kiss to her cheek as she’s given her handbag and shawl before they depart. He sees a blush to her face, thankfulness for his kind attention that gives away how starved she was for him to be soft and affectionate with her again. He feels guilt stir heavy in his stomach as she bravely ventures out of the house for the first time since coming back from the hospital. However, his reservations for the bold steps she practically demanded he take we’re keeping him reserved and far from the loving and complimenting man she’d fallen for. Alfie was still in business mode, she could tell by his tight jaw and stone-cold eyes that held no warmth for anyone.

She feels so very vulnerable. Far more than she anticipated. Everyone stared, whispered and turned to speak of her arrival en masse. It was bringing up a lot of suppressed reservations she’d pushed through to get herself to this point and making her confidence falter. Something that made her feel very much unlike herself. This is where the trouble began.

Alfie studied her with such precision, down to checking the pulse in her neck and the shine of perspiration on her skin for signals she was weakening. He was not going to let her break down the last of the normalcy he’d built for her in her absence.

The nerve, the gall, the bollocks on the cunts that dare ask her so boldly of her experiences. He assumed it was all from malice and a grotesque need to gawk at the woman who had the poor misfortune of being beaten and abused. Although some asked for pure ignorance of knowing anything of the trauma, a curiosity born from the boredom of their mundane and cushioned loves that knew nothing of the sort. But Alfie's anger burned like the fires that destroyed Horne’s businesses that day for what they were doing to her. She could only take so much until she broke.

“I had heard he was artful in his brutality with women. Did you find it such?” one spectacularly posh, old money hag insinuated with a nasty smirk and a pull of her long cigarette holder.

Gen gulps and chokes mildly. She didn’t expect someone to be nasty enough to ask. But the rich weren’t known for their tact. “He… umm…” Gen begins to feel light-headed, sweat forming and her throat closing,  with tears building fast.

“Alfie.” She squeaks with a death grip on his arm, nails digging into the fabric and entirely not subtle. No part of her reaction was and the part that angered him the most in the moment was the old cunts nerve to try to get a reaction from a broken woman. “I believe I need some air.” She strains with a shamed and lowered gaze that wouldn’t meet his, a single tear escaping and his need to protect his image overtakes all else.

“If you would excuse us. She’s not accustomed to such intrusive blatant rudeness from the type of person who should fucking know better. You should be ashamed of yourself.” He spits as he turns her and gives Gen no option but to head towards his office. The woman is offended and leaves with her feathers ruffled and mouth agape with shock at his retort.

With the click of a closed-door Gen breaks, leaning on his desk and wheezing, her heart feeling like it might burst, breathing being the hardest thing to do while he body tingled and felt numb. She was crying but not voluntarily, her back bowing and heaving as she loudly fell apart.

Alfie with no gentleness turns her to face him and with a cool tone and hard face, he informs her of how to correct herself.

“Breathe in through your nose and out your mouth. Count it out.” He nods as she comes down, her body shaking under his hands on her upper arms. “Like the doctor said. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7.” He counts for her and finds her responding better. “She was only trying to get a rise out of you. Old gossipin’ mare.” He grumbles and lets her go, handing her his handkerchief. “There now. Dry your eyes. Need to look presentable as we leave. Like nothin’ happened, right?” He orders, looking towards the door with a hard brow, no thought to coddle her at all crosses his mind. He could only think of how he told her this would happen and how he’d have to deal with the consequences now. Entirely avoidable but no… she’d had to get her way.

She feels sick on the ride home. A thick and heavy silence in the car, feeling like a young child being punished. She hides her tears of sadness, no longer from panic as they roll down her cheeks silently. As they enter her home his mood does not change, and he begins speaking to one of the maids as Gen begins readying herself for bed.

“Just...keep someone with her now. At all times, yeah. This didn’t go well and she’s not stable yet.”

“Alfie that really isn’t necessary.” She adds in meekly, taking off her jewelry.

He ignores her and continues, her tears growing heavier in her eyes by the second. “Don’t let her make any business decisions, yeah? She’s not herself. Can’t be trusted with things of any significance.” He speaks as if she isn’t standing right there and anger of her own bubbles to the surface.

“Alfie!” She demands with balled fists.

“Wot?” He groans with an annoyed face, showing no other emotion as it meets hers and her heart aches.

“Why are you doing this? It was only a minor set back.” She stutters out as the sadness builds on her chest.

“Because I fuckin told you dinnit I?” He head tilts with aggression. “Like a little brat, ya had to get ya way.”

“I don’t need to be watched. I don’t need that, I-I-...” she chokes a bit, her back stiffening straight as tears bring the black mascara and liner down her round cheeks. His face holds no sympathy and she hurts so deeply it brings out a sob. “Why are you being so HARD on me?!” She demands with a shrill voice trembling with shame.

“Because I can't have you fuckin up, can I?” He spits back to meet her rise in emotion. “I gotta be fuckin scared you’ll hurt yourself. Your body, your business, MY business.” He speaks aggressively with his hands towards her. “You could hurt yaself, someone else or do something bloody stupid with your judgment right now.” A harsh delivery does nothing to soften the words of the same that cut her in a far more painful way that Horne ever did. “I’ve gotta worry that everyone will see how bad you actually are, yeah? Like they almost did tonight?” He takes slow steps towards her and his tone is belittling. “...and ruin your reputation?” He asks her closer now, ignoring the tears and wringing hands of the woman he loved, no longer her Ari but that Alfie Solomons of Camden that everyone warned her about.

“I-I…” She stutters, unable to defend herself from her own injury and pure shock and betrayal. “You’re being so ...so ….MEAN.” She breaks and begins to cry harder, trying so hard to meet his heartless eyes that gave her nothing of the man she knew.

“No, I’m being perfectly realistic, sweetie.” He barks back. “I’m just dealing with this in me own way, yeah? Don’t expect you to understand it.” He taps his temple condescendingly. “Cause I fuckin TOLD YOU this would happen yeah? I fuckin TOLD YOU you weren’t ready.” His brow his low and hard and shows the worry he’s carried the past months for those outside of their conversation. “Because you can’t handle what the fuck is going on out there yet.” He points to the window behind her but she flinches as his arms extend and instead of shame he feels only anger for her weakness in their heated state. “I’m fuckin stressed, right? I’m fuckin worried and workin' me arse off to control everything you've been so adamantly been trying to fuck back up!” He shouts and she cowers like a scolded child. “I have enough to worry about with me own shit. I don’t want to have to deal with another’s. I don’t. Because I want me home to be a place of calm, of refuge and I’ve been comin' home to a fuckin circus for months and I’m fuckin tired, Genevieve.” He groans and rubs his face. “I don’t need this extra worry. I don’t take it well!” He states obviously and raises his arms out to his sides to show his true self. “This is why I never married before. This type of shite. There’s no room for it in a life like ours.” He speaks freely now, and far too honest for the situation. “This is how I deal yeah? This is how I’m trying to control all ...THIS.” He waves his hands to her.

When he stops with flared nostrils and looks in her eyes he feels nothing in that moment. Everything coming to a head between them, it was inevitable.

“IM FUCKING TRYING!” She screams and it surprises him. The raw anger from her clenched teeth and shaking hands that were wet with tears and stained with her makeup from wiping her eyes.

“WELL STOP FUCKIN TRYIN!” He screams back and her lip trembles like a toddler.

She takes a step back and holds her chest, physically wounded from his words and actions.

“You’re not supposed to be trying, you’re supposed to be gettin' better!” His voice lowers but still spits venom in her vulnerable state. “You’re supposed to be  HEALING  not pushing yourself so you keep getting worse!” He hisses again with outstretched hands and he might as well have struck her for how she was gawking at him. “I don’t want to have to worry about you Genny!” he bellows out and slumps, a long sigh coming from deep in his chest. “I want this to be over.” He moans. “And what you’re doing isn’t how we get past this.” His voice drops as he sees the betrayal on her face. The hurt and hate and fear he’d caused.

She doesn’t try to talk. She only sobs into her dress she’d brought up to cover her face. He steps closer to try to comfort her and she shoves him away with one hand blindly. The other clutched, white-knuckled into the gown that was now drying her tears since he wouldn’t.

“Don’t touch me!” A screech from her haggard throat shouts as she slaps at the air between them. “If I’m such a burden then, GO! Go on then! Anything further you see from me tonight will only lead to more disappointment.” she shouts and turns from him, quickly wiping her face.

“Gen, I-“

“GO!” Screams and bends over at the waist, bent in half from heartache. “There is NOTHING you can say to make me want to face you.” She speaks powerfully, a hand extended to her side with a pointed finger to show the determination of her words since her broken voice could not.

“As you wish.” He says with a defeated posture, backing out of the room and heading back to his place of refuge of his old room.

She sobs until she throws up, pushing everyone away that tried to console her. She loudly proclaimed she needed no one and nothing over and over as she sobbed into her pillows and demanded to be left alone. She cried herself to sleep like a child. She rests deeply despite the heart that ached in her chest. But a power rises, a beauty in her breakdown of strength and self-assurance. If no one else believed in her, she’d just have to believe in herself. Alfie has proven she couldn’t have others handle her problems. She had to take control back. She had to get her life back.

———-

He sneaks in during the wee hours of the morning despite Aggie begging him not to. He pads along in the silk pajamas she’d bought him, tired and naked feet on the imported overlapping jewel-toned rugs towards her sleeping form.

She hears him enter, she would always know his footsteps by sound alone and she lays still and quiet. Seething at his nerve to show up the same night. She didn’t need to be coddled by him. Not anymore.

He gets into bed with the woman he does love. Even if he has an ass-backward way of showing it. He knows he was too heavy-handed, but he didn’t handle delicate and intimate matters well. He was business, not all heart. This love and devotion thing was as new and hard to navigate for him as it was her. But even in her less than 100% state she was still handling it far better than he was.

His hand reaches out in the dark. Calloused fingers to her back lightly as he sighs. They run down her spine, over the soft fabric of her gown, feeling her hair cascaded down with it over her feminine form. “I’m sorry, Gen.” he forces out in a breathy whisper into the dark. He feels her move, knowing she was awake even before, only having it solidifying his thought. She says nothing, no sigh, no grunt or sniffle. Only silence beside the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears in the darkness. “‘Spose I deserve that.” He admits quietly with a heavy thud of his hand against the bed and into the expanse between them. Both fall back asleep, dreaming of the other. Both complicated and distorted just as their lives on the other side of waking were now as well. Tomorrow would be more tests and trials, and they would both have to decide how to mend the parts of themselves they were still both so unsure of, their hearts.

Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

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[gcwcns]

ROLEPLAY TAGS: HOZIER EDITION

below the cut you will find 100+ (i lost count) lyrics from hozier’s entire discography that could be used as rp (charrie, otp, etc.) tags. they are arranged by song. if you’re looking for a specific song press ctrl (command if on mac) and f to search it! 

take me to church 

if the heavens ever did speak she's the last true mouthpiece

i'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

i’m a pagan of the good times my lover’s the sunlight

drain the whole sea get something shiny

there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

angel of small death & the codeine scene

shaking the wings of their terrible youths

with her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean

she's the angel of small death and the codeine scene 

it's bloody and raw, but i swear it is sweet

the sweet heat of her breath in my mouth I'm alive

jackie and wilson

so tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes

no better version of me i could pretend to be tonight

she blows outta nowhere roman candle of the wild

every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside

cut clean from the dream at night let my mind reset

someone new 

electing strange perfections in any stranger i choose.

there's an art to life's distractions,

the dark caress of someone else i guess any thrill will do

my heart's already sinned.

i fall in love just a little bit every day with someone new

to be alone 

never feel too good in crowds

all i’ve ever done is hide 

i feel like a person for a moment of my life

to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you

it's the god that heroin prays to

from eden 

something tragic about you something so magic about you

honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago

idealism sits in prison chivalry fell on its sword

innocence died screaming honey ask me i should know

i slithered here from eden just to sit outside your door

in a week 

i have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me

our hunger's appeased our heart beats becoming slow

so long, we'd become the flowers

after the foxes have known our taste

they'd find us in a week when the buzzards get loud

sedated

just a little rush to feel dizzy to derail the mind of me

our veins are busy but my heart's in atrophy

you and I nursing on a poison that never stung

free and young and we can feel none of it

i'm somewhere outside my life babe

work song

there's nothing sweeter than my baby

she'd give me toothaches just from kissing me 

no grave can hold my body down i’ll crawl home to her 

in the low lamp light i was free 

heaven and hell were words to me 

like real people do 

why were you digging what did you bury 

i will not ask and neither should you

honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

we should just kiss like real people do 

i knew that look dear eyes always seeking

it will come back 

i know who i am when I'm alone

you should never know how easy you are to need 

don't let me in with with no intention to keep me

give me mercy no more

don't you hear me howling babe

foreigner’s god 

she moved with shameless wonder perfect creature rarely seen 

her eyes look sharp and steady into the empty parts of me 

always a well dressed fraud

screaming the name of a foreigner's god the purest expression of grief

i've no language left to say it every word i've got is foreign to me 

cherry wine

her eyes and words are so icy 

she burns like rum on a fire

the blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

her fight and fury is fiery 

and it's worth it all it's divine

in the woods somewhere

i called your name til the fever broke

night so black that the darkness hums

i prayed my mind be good to me  

i spoke no word no sound he made

to save a life i didn't have

run

tare is this love keep it covered

her hungry eyes her ancient soul

a shame without a sin

with as many souls claimed as she

run til you feel your lungs bleeding

arsonist’s lullaby

i learned the voices died with me

all you have is your fire

don't you ever tame your demons but always keep em on a leash

i knew that something would always rule m

but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake

my love will never die 

honey please try to love me

my love will never die

flowers grow where I'm laid to rest

pick a blossom and hold it hold it to your breast

my love bursting loud from inside

nina cried power 

it's not the waking, it's the rising

it's the heaven of a human spirit ringing

i could cry power

power has been cried by those stronger than me

rattle your chains if you love being free

nfwmb 

give your heart and soul to charity

the rest of you the best of you belongs to me

If I was born as a black thorn tree I'd wanna be felled by you 

fuel the pyre of your enemies

ain't it warming you the world goin up in flames

moment’s silence (common tongue) 

relax and catch the manic rhapsody

all of me is a prayer in perfect piety

when the meaning is gone there is clarity

since it all begun to it's reckoning

so summon on the pearl rosary

shrike

the words hung above but never would form

remember me love when i'm reborn 

as the shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn 

all of my goodness is going with you now

grounded and giving and darkening scorn

almost (sweet music)

sweet music playin in the dark

be still my foolish heart don't ruin this on me

let's get lost and let the good times roll

a love supreme seems far removed

reporting russian lullabies

movement

i could never define all that you are to me

shake like the bough of a willow tree

honey you're atlas in his sleeping

in awe of something so flawed and free

when you move i move

no plan

the screaming heaving fuckery of the world

there's no kingdom to come

there will be darkness again

keep my body from the fire hire a gardener for my grave

when I'm lying under marble marvel at flowers you'll have made 

nobody 

i've been fed gold by sweet fools in abu dhabi

i'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint

if i had the choice between hearing either noise

i once warmed my hands over a burning Maserati

i’ve had no love like your love

to noise making (sing)

your head tilt back your funny mouth to the clouds

was it just the act of making noise that brought you joy

you don't have to sing it right but who could call you wrong

put your emptiness to melody your awful heart to song

who could ask you be unbroken or be brave again

as it was

i'd had life enough my heart is screaming of

whatever here that's left of me is yours

but your love was unmoved

just as it was before the otherness came

nights were as dark as my baby half as beautiful too

talk

i’d be the voice that urged orpheus when her body was found 

i'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground

imagine being loved by me

i'd be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love

that's found in the last witness before the wave hits

be

once atrocity is hoarse from voicing shame

with the same sweet shock of when Adam first came

be the hopeful feeling when eden was lost

when i have no kind words left love for you now

that will grow bold in a barren and desolate land

dinner & diatribes

hell is the talking type

i'd suffer hell if you'd tell me what you'd do to me tonight 

a pillar i am of pride

let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised

that's the kinda love i’ve been dreaming of

would that i 

love in withdrawal was the weeping of me

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet

i fell in love with the fire long ago 

i was fixed on your hand of gold

and it’s not tonight where i’m set alight

sunlight 

betray the moon as acolyte on first and fierce affirming sight

a soul that's born in cold and rain

i would gladly be the Icarus to your certainty

strap the wing to me death trap clad happily

your love is sunlight

wasteland, baby!

all the fear and fire of the end of the world

like the bonfire that burns that all words in the fight fell to

be still my indelible friend you are unbreaking

and that day that we'll watch the death of the sun

the death of all things that are seen and unseen

better love

blind to the purpose of the brute divine

Staring in the blackness at some distant star

you whose heart would sing of anarchy

when our truth is burned from history

like fire weeping from a cedar tree know that my love would burn with me

[hartsgold]

big eye friend

[cumbersomelift]

Fire and Brimstone

A few years ago, a close friend of mine came out to their parents as a non-Christian. Distressed by their child's infidelity, they said that if they had known this would happen then they would have never had kids in the first place. In effect, things would have been better if they were never born. 

That’s a cruel thing to say to a child, but it’s also refreshingly honest. I think if more of us took the fundamentalist doctrine of hell seriously, then conversations like this would be more common. These feelings might surface for others. Fundamentalism of any kind can create the circumstances that lead kind and gentle people say remarkably harsh things. 

Damnation complicates interfaith relationships because it raises the stakes in a way that's rarely acknowledged. For me, it also dredges up a series of experiences I had as a child preoccupied with the fear of hell. I've since discovered that this is not uncommon. So before I talk about the doctrine as a barrier to relationships, I wanted to share a few experiences of why I see efforts to internalize the doctrine of hell in children as emotionally manipulative at best and abusive at worst.

Growing Up Damned

Growing up in a fundamentalist tradition, I thought about hell a lot. Of course, I was taught about hell a lot. I imagined it as an active, eternal torment and in long family car rides I wondered what it would even look like to inflict that kind of pain. I pictured immersion in lava pools, splinters under fingernails, hooks in one's skin, and being eaten alive by rats. I shuddered at these ideas. I also cried a lot. For a significant portion of my childhood, I believed I was nearly or definitely damned. Based on my 4th grader's interpretation of Hebrews 6:6 and an offhand comment by the Bible school teacher, I thought my joke delivered in a sugar rush at bible class was "mocking the holy spirit" - which I interpreted to be the unforgivable sin. I remember sobbing into my pillow and quietly weeping hymns that night just in case God was still listening. 

Now that I'm older - and out of the church - some friends have shared similar experiences. Their damnation came from things like muttering "godammit" or was evidenced by their failure to speak in tongues. Some described recurring nightmares and even panic attacks that were triggered by fire and brimstone sermons. Many of the object lessons I received on hell are still burned in my memory. 

A high school friend from a sister church recounted one object lesson about hell that she found especially devastating. One time at Bible camp, about half of the campers hiked to a hilltop for the nightly sermon only to find that many of their friends were missing. She took a seat among the empty chairs as the preacher welcomed them to heaven, and began preaching from Matthew 7 & 25. He read, "small is the gate and narrow is the way that leads to life and only few will find it" and "[the unsaved] will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life." At that moment, she began to hear her friends calling her name through the trees from the bottom of the hill. They, the unsaved, were begging her to come back. To save them.

I remember listening to a leader in my old church as he explained how the gospel is like a cure for cancer. "Imagine that everyone in your school is dying of cancer, and you have the cure in your backpack. Are you going to share it with them, or keep it to yourself? How selfish must a person be to withhold that from those that need it most?" I agreed and felt a fresh burden of guilt - how many people haven't I told? How many are unsaved from my cowardice and apathy?

Parents sometimes complained about these  lessons and as a teenager I didn’t understand that. If we really believed these are the terms of existence shouldn’t be we made fully aware of their gravity? 

I've often wondered if, as kids, we took the idea of damnation more seriously than our parents did. In an episode of The Life After, a therapist joins the hosts to talk about internalized fundamentalism and undoing what some call religious trauma syndrome. One host offers an explanation for why children (now millennials in their 20s-30s) experienced this growing up:

“This is something very interesting that I have not heard a lot of commentary on, but I’m really interested in exploring: A big part of the reason that our generation experienced so much religious trauma is that our parents' generation more or less chose Christianity, and our generation was born into it. So for us, growing up, it was our entire reality. Whereas for our parents, it was an augmentation to the reality they already knew. They were able to pick and choose what they let in, whereas we didn’t have a choice. That’s part of the gap. That’s why we can’t communicate [about the impact of our religious upbringing].”

The doctrine of hell was a defining aspect of my faith by design. While I personally think it's a stretch to call these experiences religious trauma or spiritual abuse, I'm troubled that emotionally manipulating teenagers this way is normalized -- even systematized -- in so many traditions.

 Why Hell Matters for a Nonbeliever 

I became a Christian universalist at 17 - even as a Christian, I thought to torture nonbelievers for their nonbelief was morally indefensible. But even after leaving the faith entirely, that fundamentalist doctrine has caused me more pain than any other. It also makes interfaith relationships much trickier to navigate. 

One reason for this is that I find myself preoccupied by its normalcy. In fact, I'm comfortable saying that my damnation is the primary lens through which I view the church. Every steeple, every cross on the highway, and every bible verse on Facebook is a reminder that a considerable portion people in this country would not object to my eternal suffering as long as it's at the hands of the right deity. That number includes many family members and people I grew up with. Maybe you can see why that’s a little preoccupying.

This means that my damnation often becomes the unshakeable backdrop to any relationship that I have with a Christian person. Even when they’re not thinking about it, I almost certainly am - and I want to know what they're thinking about it. There's not a clear way to introduce that into a conversation, but I'm always curious. I mean, maybe I want to be friends, but it's awkward if you think your God will call for my torture in fifty years. In many cases, there’s no aspect of faith that I want to engage believers on more than this point exactly. I rarely do, because it's impolite to ask that kind of question, and when the conversation arrives I often find myself ill-prepared to engage. 

This is because I find communicating the relational toll of this dynamic to be almost impossible. Asking someone to take my perspective is hard because, for one, there is a lack of any secular analogue. In that past, I've asked whether it would change our relationship if I believed that eating animals for food was a sin. (I'm a vegetarian.) Would it change anything if I believed that, if you don't also become a vegetarian, you will be reincarnated as an animal that's needlessly slaughtered forever? That if you stop eating meat now, you can save yourself this fate, but that I'm afraid your late omnivorous relatives are already in anguish for their crimes? Of course I don’t want that for them, and it’s sad but it’s true. That I don't make the rules, but also the rules are fair? Maybe our dinner parties would be a little more awkward. Maybe you wouldn't let me around your kids. Or invite me to dinner at all. You can see that our interactions might be a little strained, and you might have some questions about what this means for our relationship.

Why Hell Matters for Believers

The doctrine of hell also impacts Christians who have relationships with nonbelievers. It raises the stakes for any Christians willing to have interfaith relationships by casting nonbelievers as both a soul that’s in danger and a spiritual threat. This is why I've seen preachers tell new Christians not to befriend nonbelievers, and why I've had parents tell their Christian kids to stop hanging out with me. I think this advice is hateful and misguided, but more than anything it’s self-preserving and intuitively follows from the doctrine of damnation. Moreover, it puts many of the necessary conversations out of reach. 

The mathematician Blaise Pascal invented a tactic of evangelism that won souls by threatening them with Hell. (He was also a lot of fun at parties.) It’s called Pascal’s wager, and it goes something like this: “If you’re an atheist then you might as well be a Christian, because if you’re right then you’ll die and be dead, but if you’re wrong then you’ll die and be damned. So, just be a Christian. Why roll the dice?” It's about as effective for evangelism as it is unethical. But it's an excellent retention technique for those already in the pew. If you're a Christian already persuaded of the stakes, it's a paralyzing reminder about the cost of defecting. 

When I was a Christian, I found the risk of dissuasion utterly terrifying. I read up on apologetics mostly to reassure myself that I could parry every objection with my faith intact if any atheist came looking for a fight. But when the atheist is a loved one, the stakes get even higher. It’s not enough to defend myself anymore. I have to bring that person back to the fold before they're calling my name from the bottom of the hill. So many believers decide to withdraw altogether. By taking a step back, they can at least say it's in God's hands. But the relationship is too risky to pursue.

My point here is not to say that the doctrine of damnation is incorrect -- though I obviously think that. My point is to say that it’s damaging. A judgment about whether another person’s life stance makes them worthy of suffering will matter for that relationship, and in the end that judgment is what the doctrine is about. It’s especially preoccupying for the deconverted when we assume that Christians take the belief as seriously as we did when we internalized it in childhood. 

Addressing that assumption requires a conversation where we may find ourselves at an impasse: the doctrine of damnation is both preoccupying to nonbelievers and immobilizing to believers. I can't say that every nonbeliever wants to have this conversation or that every believer is so reticent. What I can say is that on three different instances, I have been contacted by an old friend who I thought was just catching up, only to discover they were enlisted by a concerned believer to "give me a nudge in the right direction." Presumably feeling ill-equipped to do this themselves, my family recruited someone with ministerial experience. I found myself heartbroken, not only by the pretense of reunion, but because I desperately wanted to have that conversation - not with a minister but with those closest to me. Not to interrogate or dissuade them, but to unpack the challenges that I'm writing about now. 

Even as I'm attempting to acknowledge the pain on both sides of this discussion, I'm still blinded by my indignation about it. (I’m shaking as I type this.) Personally, I've found it a relief to openly ask Christians about this in a way that is as nonjudgmental as I can muster. Taking an exploratory posture toward these attitudes has at least put my wandering mind at ease and is a big part of why I feel less preoccupied with all of this than in years past. That's required self-restraint on my part and interpersonal courage on theirs. Relationships have grown as a result, and I consider myself extremely lucky for the opportunity to have them. I don’t know if it’s something talk through and be done with, but even if the questions may never be entirely resolved it’s a conversation worth having.

[eddsworldshippinghell]

Forgive and Forget Ch6

[Ch1][Ch2][Ch3][Ch4][Ch5] [Peru Fic]

Okay so, it took a zillion years but here it finally is! I hope some people are still interested in reading this after I took so long to update. Let me know what you think!

Warning: Graphic descriptions of murder are sprinkled throughout this chapter.

“This is a substandard trap.” Paul mutters as they all creep down the hall, guns at the ready. Patryk makes a half-hearted noise of agreement, but Tord shakes his head.

“No,” He mumbles. “He's planning something. He's fucking with us.”

“Do you think Tom and Matt are okay?” Patryk asks gently, and Tord grits his teeth and squeezes his gun tighter almost subconsciously.

“They'd better be.”

As they creep through the darkened hallways his mind wanders, and he wonders again what his boyfriends will say when he sees them. When Edd isn't with them. He grimaces, chest aching, but he determinedly pushes his anguish to the back of his mind so he can focus on getting Tom and Matt back; that's the important thing. He knows if Edd was here he’d want nothing more than to have them back in his arms, and Tord shares the sentiment.

If they want to touch him, that is.

His chest twists.

Will they blame him? It would be fair; he blames himself.

He stops suddenly, and his partners stop within the same second, poised ready for attack in case their leader has spotted or heard something that they have not.

“Down this hall,” He begins, and if they notice the tremor in his voice they don't react. He appreciates it. “We’re going to come to a door. That door will open into a small hallway, which if you recall is one of the hallways that has holes in the ceiling for easier ambush.”

“You think an ambush will be waiting?” Paul asks, and Tord hesitates.

“I want to separate.” He says, and both immediately leap to protest. He lifts his hand to signal he wasn't done, and they reluctantly fall silent. “A little back up this hall is a door that'll take you up a staircase and right to the hallway that's overtop that room.”

“You want us to go and kill anyone waiting to kill us.” Paul guesses, and Tord nods his head.

“I'll continue through there and into the dungeon. You guys can come down through the ceiling and follow when you're done.”

Paul grimaces, clearly unhappy with the idea of splitting up, but eventually he nods.

“Okay.” He turns back toward the door, and Patryk reluctantly follows.

As soon as they start walking away, Tord feels sick and regrets his choice; he can't help them stay alive if they separate.

“Hey-” He begins, faltering slightly, and Patryk turns to smile over his shoulder.

“We’ll see you soon, Red Leader.” He says softly, and then they disappear around the corner.

----------

Tord hesitates outside the door to the dungeons, unsure what is waiting for him inside. Paul and Patryk still had yet to reunite with him, and to say he's worried would be an understatement.

His hand reaches slowly toward the doorknob, other hand holding his weapon at the ready in case of an ambush. He can’t wait any longer; every second he waits is another moment that Tom or Matt could be killed. Steeling himself he takes a deep breath, twists the knob, and shoves the door open. The hallway is empty.

“Definitely a trap.” He mutters, slowly creeping forward and closing the door behind himself.

“Did you hear that?” A voice asks timidly down the hall, and Tord’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Shh.” Comes a second voice, and he breaks into a sprint.

It’s stupid and unsafe, and it immediately gives his position away to any potential threats, but when he hears their voices he doesn’t care. He needs to see them right away.

“Tom!” He cries raggedly, “Matt!” He yanks the deadbolt aside and throws the door leading to their cell open and they’re immediately scrambling to their feet.

He crashes painfully into the bars, arms reaching desperately through the openings, and tears are welling in his eyes before they even touch him. They both crash into the bars and their arms fling through the bars, clutching at his hoodie, pleased sobs escaping them.

“Oh god- Tord I’m so happy to see you.” Matt blubbers, trembling lips pressing shaky kisses to Tord’s cheek through the bars, and Tord feels dizzy with relief.

Oh god, they’re alive. They’re here. They’re okay. He made it in time, and they love him. For the first time in days, Tord feels happy for a moment.

And then the moment ends.

“Hey, where’s Edd?” It’s Tom that asks, and Tord goes rigid.

“Oh- Uh-” He withdraws when he feels his hands shaking, and he feels dizzy as he steps back. “I- We should get you guys out of there!”

He forces a laugh and whirls around, briskly walking away to search for the keys to the cell. Tom and Matt follow along slowly as far as their cell stretches, and when he turns around to ask them if they have an idea he feels as if his heart has been ripped out anew.

“Tord..” Matt says weakly, and he can see in their eyes that they know the answer to what Matt is about to ask. “Where is Edd?”

“I- I-” He stutters. He takes a step toward them, legs shaking, and he manages another step before his body refuses to move forward any further. His hands come up and he pushes his fists into his face, stifling a sob, and his shoulders shake when he takes a breath. “I-” He tries again, but he can’t make himself say it.

“Tord?” Tom asks gently, and Tord knows this time its concern for him and not Edd. The thought makes him feel even sicker.

“Please don’t make me say it.” He breathes shakily. “I- I can’t.”

He hears Matt’s horrified gasp and his legs give out, sending him to his knees. He hears feet running across the cold stone floor, and then Matt is crouching as close to Tord as he can.

“Tell me it’s not true.” He begs, and a sob escapes Tord.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” Matt breathes, “No! You’re wrong!” But he knows Tord isn’t lying; he can see the utter anguish upon the Norwegian’s face. “Tom-” He turns, and Tom is frozen.

He can’t bring himself to move, his heart feels as though it’s been violently ripped from his chest and his stomach is in knots. A split second later, he’s falling. Matt is the only thing that stops him from hitting the ground, and he’s cradled to the redheads chest as he weeps. Tom blinks, waiting for tears.

But they don’t come. He just feels numb.

He wants to blame Tord. Wants to scream and yell, and tell Tord that it’s all his fault. But he doesn’t, because he knows deep down that it isn’t. He knows that Tord loved Edd and would’ve done anything in his power to save him. And he knows Tord needs them right now.

He sits up, gaze locking on Tord.

“Get the keys.” He says, and Tord looks up for the first time since he had fallen, eyes red rimmed from crying. “They’re usually hung on the other side of the deadbolted door.”

Tord holds his gaze for a moment longer before weakly getting to his feet and approaching the door. He steps through it once more and sure enough the keys are hanging where Tom had said. He grabs them, and within moments the cell is unlocked.

He steps back, and the keys fall to the floor.

“I understand if you hate me.” He says, voice barely a whisper. “I’d hate me too-” He breaks off when Tom firmly embraces him, arms winding tightly around Tord and pulling the Norwegian firmly against his body.

“It’s not your fault.” He says, and Tord goes rigid in his arms once more. “You did everything you could.”

“I-” He falters, more tears welling in his eyes, “I should have done more!”

“It isn’t your fault.” Matt whispers from behind him, and Tord has to struggle against sobs. “We don’t blame you.”

Tord starts sobbing. He starts and he can’t stop, chest heaving as Matt’s arms envelope him as well, and he trembles in their arms.

“It’s my fault!” He wails, “It’s my fault Stephan came after you all in the first place- it’s my fault Edd is dead!”

“Shh, Tord, no it’s not. You loved him.”

“The only thing you’re guilty of is loving Edd. This is just a horrible accident.”

Tord tries to choke back a sob but ultimately fails, and Matt can't contain himself anymore, pushing his face into Tord’s back as sobs wrack his thin frame.

-----------

“Did you come alone?” Tom asks softly as they creep down the hallway, one of his hands gripping the back of Tords hoodie, the other holding Matt’s hand.

“No, I had Paul and Patryk with me.” He admits. “They insisted they must come and help me rescue the two of you.”

“So.. Where are they?” Matt whispers, and Tord feels his stomach twist because he has no clue where his friends are.

“I don't know.” He admits.

The two behind him share a worried glance.

“What's the plan for getting out of here?” Tom asks after an uncomfortable few minutes of silence.

“I don't have one.” He sighs softly. “I.. honestly thought by the time I found you, you two would be..” He trails off, but the two of them understand.

Dead.

“Oh.” Matt whispers.

“What has he been doing to you?” Tord asks, and the two of them share a look once more.

“We’ll tell you when we’re home, okay?” Tom offers. “Here isn't the best place to talk about it.”

Tord glances over his shoulder at them, meeting each of their gazes for a moment, before he nods his head in acceptance of their words.

“Okay.” He says. “Home.”

He can't deny the relief he feels at the word. The relief he feels that they don't hate him, and they still want him to come home with them. To be with them. He's still theirs. His heart aches at the thought, desperately missing Edd.

He shakes his head, gun lifting when he hears footsteps. Tom and Matt immediately shrink behind their boyfriend and he growls protectively. The person that rounds the corner is Patryk, cheeks stained with tears as he frantically runs toward Tord.

“Tord!” He whispers hoarsely, and Tord drops his weapon and immediately takes off toward him, sweater pulling free of Tom’s hand. Their bodies crash together only a few feet from Tom and Matt, and Patryk clings to him while he struggles to control his breathing.

Tom and Matt quickly shuffle over, Tom’s hand reclaiming its spot on Tord’s hoodie, and Tord gently pats his soldiers back.

“What's wrong?” He asks, and Patryk stifles another noise of anguish.

“They got Paul.”

-------

“I don't know what you want me to do, Patryk-”

“If we leave him here he’ll be killed!”

“If I take them up there so will they!” He cries, gesturing frantically to his two boyfriends. His hands are trembling and he's /petrified/ of losing one of his best friends, petrified of putting Tom and Matt at risk again.

Maybe Tom could fight, but Matt was a lover, not a fighter, and Tord /knows/ Tom will be more focused on keeping Matt safe than the task at hand.

“Paul is your friend.” He insists, and Tord’s hands lift and fist into his hair, tugging as he lets out a strangled noise.

“I /know/ Patryk, but think about what you're asking me to do! The whole reason we came here in the first place was to get these two back home. I can't jeopardize that. I can't risk their safety. I already lost Edd, I can't lose them. You're asking me to risk everything I have and I-”

Patryk falters and looks away.

“We risked everything to help you.” He whispers.

Tord's chest twists.

--------

“I didn't want you guys to see me like this,” Tord whispers as Tom and Matt follow along behind them. “If I had my way, you wouldn't.”

Before they can question him he slips through a door, and they hear a crack and the sound of a limp body hitting the floor.

“It's safe.” He calls softly, and they timidly creep through the door, Patryk bringing up the rear, all three of them determinedly avoiding looking at the dead man on the floor.

The group is silent, all refusing to make conversation in case Tord needs to hear someone coming up to them. The walk is mostly uninterrupted again, which leaves Tord feeling uneasy. Eventually he opens a door housing approximately 10 guards in it, including one standing right in front of him, with his back to the door. He jumps onto the taller man's back and wraps his arm around his throat, kicking his leg out to kick the gun from the man's hand. The man's fingers claw at his arm, and Tord shifts and snaps the man's neck in an instantaneous movement. When the body falls he goes with it, finally catching the attention of the other guards.

He grabs the gun and fires, taking three down. He grimaces as the others come running, screaming to each other to disarm him and then take the hostages back. He sees red.

He crouches, body tensed, and he leaps up, tackling one to the floor. He quickly puts a bullet through his head, screaming when he feels the flesh of his arm ripping. He growls, and reaches into the dead man's utility belt, tearing a knife free and whirling, stabbing it into the leg of the man closest. The man shrieks, subconsciously bending over, and Tord rips the blade free and stabs it up through the man's jaw, killing him with little more than a choked gurgle from the man.

The other man grabs Tord from behind, lifting him off the floor, and Tord power drives his elbow back into the man's stomach. The force of impact earns a choked cry, stomach rupturing from the impact, and Tord is dropped unceremoniously to the ground as the man keels over.

He's quick to shoot the remaining guards between the eyes, chest heaving as the gun falls from between trembling fingers, pose imposing and threatening as he glowers down at the man slowly bleeding to death at his feet.

“Hvor er han?” He snarls, and the man flinches away.

“Jeg vet ikke! Jeg er bare en soldat!”

Tord bares his teeth in a grimace and lifts his foot, slamming it down on the man's throat, muffling his choked shriek. He then turns and faces his boyfriends, regret seeping into his brain at the looks of fear upon their faces.

“Tom- Matt-” He begins, breaking off when both rush forward and throw their arms around him.

“We thought you were a goner.” Matt mumbles.

---------

They creep through the halls for what feels like hours -and very well might be- before coming upon a room with guards once more. This one is different than the last, however, as they can hear screaming voices through the door.

“Go to hell!” A familiar voice shrieks, and without a beat of hesitation Patryk is tearing forward.

Before Tord can manage to stop him the door is kicked down, and he has no choice but to fight. The room contains 4 heavily armed guards, and Paul is strapped to a table in the middle of the room, blood welling on his chest from his wounds.

The guards start toward them and Tord runs forward, catching a man's arm as he raises his gun. He jerks it down as the trigger is pulled, bullets firing harmlessly into the ground, and his fist flies forward into the man's face. The man snarls and flings his fist forward, and Tord catches it and twists it behind the man's back, kicking his leg out and sending him to his knees. The man screams, and the noise is choked off when Tord snaps his neck.

He goes rigid when he hears more gunfire and whirls, but the remaining guards drop limply to the ground revealing an unharmed Patryk holding the weapon that had fired. They maintain eye contact for a fraction of a second, and then Patryk is running frantically toward Paul. Tord takes a step toward him, but falters when he hears a grinding noise. He turns his head, and as he does a warning light on the wall begins flashing, bathing the room in red light as metal barriers begin lowering from the ceiling.

Panic clutches him and he glances to Tom and Matt, and then to Paul- he can't save them all, if they're trapped in here they're dead. He barely stops himself from puking and instead shrieks an order.

“Run!”

The sheer terror in his voice is enough to drive Matt and Tom toward the exit, and Tord takes off to Paul's side and starts tugging aggressively to free his friend, fingers clawing at the metal bindings.

“Patryk!” He says frantically, shooting a glance toward his boyfriends. “Patryk hurry!”

“Tord!” Comes a frantic shriek, and his heart plummets into his stomach when he sees the doors have nearly closed.

He glances back as one of Paul's wrists is freed, and he loops his fingers through and leaps up so his feet are braced on the side of the table and pulls with all of his might. The metal snaps and he flies to the floor.

“Go! Go go!” He roars as he pulls himself off the floor and tears across the room.

His fingers close around the base of the rapidly descending door and for once he doesn't concern himself with keeping his secret, and instead concentrates on lifting the door.

“Go- go go-” He commands through gritted teeth, and Patryk obediently pushes Paul through the small gap and rolls under right after.

Tord groans in pain, fingers slipping, and he screeches in pain when a bullet tears through his flesh. The pain makes his fingers release, and the door plummets to the ground, sealing himself from his boyfriends.

He can hear Tom and Matt shrieking his name frantically, but he trusts Patryk and Paul to take care of them and instead turns to see who had shot him. He growls at the guard in the opposite doorway, and he can hear other ones rushing toward them.

---------

“Come on.” Patryk orders, helping Paul stay on his feet as he rapidly begins making his way away from the room. Tom and Matt don't budge, and he turns to flower at them. “/Come on/.” He snarls.

“We can't leave without him!” Matt cries, and Paul shakes his head.

“Tord will be fine. We have to go, or we’ll be killed and all of this will be for naught. We’ll meet up with him again.”

The two share a look and then nod, immediately scurrying after true soldiers and hoping to god they're right.

--------

“Hei, gamle venner. Jeg er sikker på at du husker meg, så du vet at samarbeidet er nøkkelen til din overlevelse.” Tord says coldly into the microphone, voice echoing through the entire base. “Manglende å fortelle meg hva jeg vil, vil resultere i din død. Jeg vil ha Stephan. Du vil enten overgi ham til meg, eller du vil dø alle.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Matt asks nervously, peeking for what must be the hundredth time out of the window of the guard tower they found themselves in.

“I want him to pay.” Tord growls, and Tom nods in agreement.

“We’re not going the noble route. We have to make Stephan pay for what he did.”

“I want revenge as much as the next guy, but it'll be a little hard to get it if we’re dead!” Matt defends. “We don't even know where Paul and Patryk are!”

“They'll be coming now.” Tord replies. “If they're still alive they'll know where we are and they'll come.”

“And if they don't?” Tom asks, and the Norwegian grits his teeth.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

---------

In retrospect, Tord would acknowledge that perhaps he should have just taken his boyfriends to safety before pursuing Stephan; he had never wanted them to see this side of him- the side of him that murders whoever stands in his way.

He shakes his head. That's not who he is. Stephan had killed Edd, and he was going to get even. This is all self defence, he tells himself, we don't murder innocents. If anyone surrenders they can leave.

He takes a deep breath, glances behind him to make sure that Tom and Matt are still there, and then stands to leap over the wall.

“I heard you're looking for me.” A voice coos sweetly, and before Tord can react there's a knife against his throat.

He can barely hear Tom and Matt shrieking over the laughter in his ear, and he curses and spits and struggles to no avail. Stephan chuckles lowly in his throat and forces Tord to walk forward, and the Norwegian can feel beads of blood welling up at the pressure upon his throat, leaving him no choice but to cooperate; without him alive, Tom and Matt are alone.

“You know,” He begins as his men walk over and attach chains to Tord’s wrists. He pushes him to his knees and the chains are pulled behind his back and attached to his ankles, leaving him immobile. A glance to the side shows Tom and Matt in the same situation.

“If you had just surrendered, I would have let them live.” He strolls away and strokes his finger down Matt’s jaw. “If you hadn't been such a pain in my fucking neck, I wouldn't have had to snap Edd’s.”

Tord goes rigid and a hushed noise of anguish escapes Matt, and Stephan’s delighted laughter rings through the clearing. He returns to Tord, stopping in front of him and smirking.

“It was so easy, too. Like.. snapping a popsicle in half.” He leans down and tilts his head, tone as if he was talking to a toddler. “It's amazing how easily you can snap someone's neck. Just a little-” He trails off as his hand repeats the motion he had used to snap Edd’s, and he practically roars with laughter at the look on Tord’s face. “Snap.” He coos. “And there he goes.”

Tord practically shrieks and rears up, one hand managing to rip free, and he slams it full force into Stephan’s face. The man stumbles back, and Tord’s hand flies to the remaining chains binding him, tearing them apart and getting to his feet. By this time Stephan has recovered from the shock and is laughing again.

“Do you remember it, Tord?” He taunts. “The sound he made when I snapped his neck? The way he hit the ground? The way he used his last words to say he loves you?”

“Shut up!” He shrieks, lunging at the other man.

Rage and grief blinds him as the feeling of overwhelming guilt resurfaces, and he throws his fists into Stephan’s face as fast as he can. Stephan only laughs beneath him, laughing harder at Tord’s sob of misery.

“It could have been easy.” He growls, and in his grief stricken state Tord doesn't react fast enough to avoid Stephan’s hand. It grasps his throat, and in a swift movement Tord is thrown to the floor, Stephan's boot pressing down on the back of his neck. “But now that you've really pissed me off, I'm going to make you watch them die before I kill you.”

Tord goes rigid,and Stephan lifts his boot. Before he can react, the guards swarm him and pull him off the ground, holding him tightly with no hope of tearing free. Stephan smirks, and makes his way over to Tord’s boyfriends. Matt is softly weeping to himself, and tear streaks are evident on Tom’s cheeks as he tries to lean himself against Matt to comfort the redhead.

“Now.. which one of you should I kill?” He asks himself, smirking cruelly down at them. The men carry Tord over to them, coming to a stop next to Tom, and Stephan looks toward him. “Who do you think?”

“Me!” He tries frantically. “Kill me- please don't hurt them!”

Stephan snorts and makes a harsh buzzing noise in the back of his throat, and then pretends to ponder to himself.

“Me- kill me just- don't hurt him!” Tom tries when Stephan’s hand reaches toward Matt. “Please!”

Stephan hesitates and draws his hand back. Matt squeaks and pushes closer to Tom, and Tord screams and struggles in his hold.

“Hmmmmm…. no.”

In a swift movement that neither of them properly register, Stephan swoops and grabs Matt's chains, tearing him away from Tom and over toward a large man standing by with a gun in his hands.

Tord goes white.

"No!" Tord’s voice is a shrill screech, blood running cold as he drags Matt away from them. Tears are welling in Matt's eyes, face white with fear, and Tom is screaming bloody murder next to Tord. "Matt no!" Tord wails, panic clutching his chest, heart twisting. "No- no please- Stephan please I can't lose him too- I'll do anything don't hurt him!" Tears flow in torrents down his cheeks and his throat throbs in pain, and Matt is trying to smile at his boyfriends, and Tom is writhing and spitting, toppled over onto his side and flailing his arms, kicking his legs out in a futile struggle to get free. "Matt!" He roars in protest, and Matt's eyes slip shut. "I love you both." He says, and the resignation in his tone is enough to make Tord retch, entire body heaving forward as it tries to expel the nonexistent contents of his stomach.

[ffxiiscenarios]

Waahhh I would love it if you could write a scenario post FFXII, where an attendant s/o discovers Basch is masquerading as Judge Gabranth??? (like maybe they knew Gabranth before the game and would recognize the voice change once Basch takes up the armor)? Thank you :) I'm so glad there's an FFXII Reader blog.

Everybody loves Lord Gabranth now.

“He’s so kind,” they say.

“I can breathe easy around him now.”

“Lord Larsa’s new rule has brought out the good in everyone.”

But you know better. You know people. Nobody simply changes out of the blue like that! Though relatively new to castle duties, you’ve served as Gabranth’s maidservant since at least the fall of Dalmasca.

Before this “change,” you mostly cleaned, did his laundry, and served him food on the rare occasion he cared to eat in his quarters, so your interactions were limited. But little as you knew him, one thing was certain: like all Judge Magisters, he was to be feared, not adored. And he made sure of it. Once, when he accidentally removed his helmet in your presence, you’d managed to sneak a glance at his face.

He was handsome, to be sure. Exactly what one might imagine if one was stupid enough to romanticize a ruthless Judge Magister. But you knew better, even then, and his eyes were nothing but cold. You easily averted your gaze and left his quarters at once, understanding that you were to speak of it to no one.

Now, suddenly, simply for the death of the Emperor and his mad son, Lord Gabranth has become the kindest man in Ivalice? Preposterous.

Of course, you can’t deny that he is kind nowadays. He acknowledges those who dare to address him, and politely, too.

“Thank you, ________,” he even said this morning, when you brought in his breakfast.

Before then, you weren’t even sure he knew your name. It’s nice, but there has to be something more to his sudden transformation. This Gabranth is not the lord you knew, served, and feared.

Clicking your tongue in frustration, you scrub the floor of his bathroom dutifully. Regardless of his odd change, after all, you still have a job to do. You can’t deny that the Judge Magister certainly does his.

That’s when the sound of shuffling outside snaps you out of your thoughts.

Pausing, you glance up. No one is allowed to be here save you and anyone who would take your place if you were ill, and Lord Gabranth is never home during the day. A thief, then?

You get up and slowly open the door, ready with a broom in hand - when a peculiar sight greets you. Several scars on a muscular back. Old lashings, but not that old - and they sting to even look upon. You stare in horror until something on the bed catches your eye. A helmet, breastplate, gauntlets…

Your gaze snaps back to the scars - or it would, if their owner didn’t just turn to face you.

Your gaze falls to the floor at once. “Forgive me, my lord. I…” Your mind runs over itself trying to think of an excuse, but it’s clear to both of you that his scars distracted you.

Gabranth startles, but his voice is calm. “______. I didn’t realize you were here.”

“I - I was cleaning, Lord Gabranth. Forgive me. I’ll take my tools and leave at once.”

“It really is no matter, _______.”

Your eyebrows furrow. Not at his kind response, but the way he says it. The way he speaks, and his voice… It isn’t just a matter of intonation. You’ve been trying to pin down what it is, but there’s no other way to put it.

His voice is simply….different.

Gabranth’s face now mirrors your knitted brow. “Is aught amiss, _______?”

After a long pause, you softly admit, “Yes.”

His brows lift in surprise at that. “Know that you may speak plainly with me. What is it?”

“…Who are you?”

Gabranth blinks at your sudden question and the way you’ve lifted your broom somewhat, as though ready to defend yourself at any moment. As though it would matter against a Judge Magister. “_______? Have you grown ill?”

“…I’m fine,” you curtly answer. The real Lord Gabranth would be cross at such an accusation. Not concerned. “One does not speak plainly with Lord Gabranth. And…” You rattle away, all your thoughts tumbling out of your mouth, “it would be impossible for him to bear your scars. New scars. Or your voice. Neither was he kind.” 

When you finish, Gabranth levels you with such an intense stare that you almost take a step back. Not even the real Lord Gabranth had ever looked at you like that. Still, you hold your ground, even if you’re barely able to stop yourself from nervously gulping.

“Did he hurt you?” is what he asks.

Relief washes over you, but so does alarm. At least he isn’t angry, but…

“No, never,” you murmured. “But—”

Gabranth sighs, letting his shoulders slump as he runs a hand through his short hair. “I had thought my acting fine enough to fool even those closest to my brother. I see I was wrong.”

His brother…? That is the only plausible explanation, you suppose. But why? “Well, yes… You and Lord — the real Lord Gabranth are markedly different.”

You speak without hesitation, but Gabranth doesn’t miss the question in your eyes. When? “During the battle with Vayne,” he answers it. “It was his last wish that I protect Lord Larsa, as he had.”

There are so many questions on your mind. Where did this man come from? Does the Emperor know? And is Lord Gabranth really…?

It isn’t as though he had been anything more than your master, but knowing that someone you knew passed away, and to no one else’s knowledge… Tears prick your eyes, to your confusion, and to this Gabranth’s shock.

Your chest heaves for a moment, taking in the news - and then you school your features into the neutrality of a trained maidservant. But you still can’t bring yourself to speak.

Gabranth watches you for a time, perhaps waiting for your response, but your reaction isn’t lost on him. He lets a moment of silence pass before he speaks again.

“I suppose it didn’t help that I smiled. He wasn’t one to smile, was he?”

The sudden question - or the smile that graces this Gabranth’s features - makes you think of the real one, and how he might look if he smiled. You find that even with one on this Gabranth’s face, you can’t imagine it on the old one.

“No. And neither did your sudden change in manner and temperament,” you say, unable to help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Gabranth gives the smallest chuckle that makes you laugh even harder - at least until tears begin to slip onto your cheeks. Dropping your broom, you rush to wipe them even as you weep. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Gabranth - because that is who he is now - draws closer when it is clear you won’t push him away. He rests a hand on your shoulder. “I am glad - that he had someone who cared for him. I am sorry you could not know. Lord Larsa thought it best.”

Your gaze lowers again. “I had no right to. I was merely his maidservant. I didn’t really know Lord Gabranth.”

“Few did. Nevertheless.”

You can’t help but look up at his kind voice - one that matches his kind gaze. He bears a scar across one eyebrow, and now that you know the truth, you see all the little differences in their appearance. How could you ever have mistaken him for the true Gabranth? Still… he is handsome, just like his brother. And though his voice is much more gravelly, it isn’t unpleasant.

And his form…

His half-naked form.

Suddenly, your face blooms red and you turn your back on the Judge. “I’m sorry for intruding, Lord Gabranth. I’ll take my tools and go.”

You hurry into the bathroom as Gabranth appears to realize his state of undress. When you return, he looks peculiar in a tunic and the bottom half of his armor. Before you can scurry out, however…

“Wait.”

You turn, hoping you are no longer as red as you feel. Now that you’ve realized just how handsome this kind man is, you can’t quite look him in the eye, and heat pricks at your back in embarrassment. You are suddenly aware of how plain you might look in your maidservant’s dress.

“Don’t fret, Lord Gabranth. Your secret is safe with me.”

“It isn’t that. _______… we have our duties, but might we speak again?”

This time, you do gulp. He wants to see you again? “Milord?”

“You knew my brother, and now you know me - something true of no one in Archades but the Emperor. I must admit, I find it a relief.”

Oh.

“Oh. Well…”

“And - I would like to hear of what you knew of him, however little. But I understand if you don’t wish to—”

“I would love to,” you blurt out, before he can withdraw the invitation.

Gabranth pauses, and then smiles, gaze lingering on yours. It seems as though he’s looking at you for the first time. “I am glad to hear it. …Dinner, perhaps?”

“I - I suppose?” You clear the nerves from your throat. What is the matter with you? He’s only asking to speak with you again to discuss his brother. You don’t even know this man, and yet… “Yes.”

“Thank you, _______.”

“Good day, milord.” You nod, giving a quick curtsy before rushing outside with your tools. You lean against the wall as you shut the door behind you, trying to calm your beating heart.

You will mourn Lord Gabranth. He deserves that, at least. But perhaps this new one isn’t so bad after all.

//

Here you go! Thank you so much for the ask! I love Basch and i needed this to kick me back into gear! Love Noah by extension, but I wonder how s/o will react to the knowledge that Basch’s scars were Noah’s doing. I know there wasn’t much romance, but s/o is getting a bit of a crush! :D (And so is Basch.)

I still have the previous asks to answer and I will absolutely get to them! I’ve just gone through a change of life-everythings and so it’s taken me a while to get back into the groove, I’m so sorry guys! But this definitely helped and I’ll be picking up and finishing the other asks soon c: sorry to keep you guys waiting oTL

[risalei-nur]

TAFSIR: Risale-i Nur: The Rays Collection:The Thirteenth Ray.Part10

My Dear, Loyal Brothers! Today I recalled the conversation between my elder brother, Molla Abdullah, and Hazret-i Ziyaeddin, which you know about. Then I thought of you and said to myself: if the Unseen was to be revealed, if each of these sincerely religious and earnest Muslims who display such constancy in these inconstant times, not being shaken by these tortuous, testing circumstances, were to appear to be saints or even spiritual poles, the importance they have in my view, and my concern for them, would increase very little; or if they were to appear to be commonplace and ordinary, the value I attach to them would in no way diminish. For the task of saving belief under such extremely severe conditions is of greater worth than everything. In such stormy, unstable conditions, the virtues afforded by personal ranks and the good opinions of others dissolve when those good opinions are destroyed, and their love lessens. The one possessing the virtues then feels himself obliged to adopt artificial manners, empty formalities, and a burdensome dignity in order to preserve his position in their eyes. Endless thanks be to God, we have no need for cold artificiality such as that. Said Nursi * * * My Dear, Loyal Brothers! I congratulate you with all my spirit, heart, and mind on your 'ten nights,' and beseech Divine mercy that they will bring great gains to our spiritual partnership. Last night I dreamt that I had come to you and awoke when I was about to lead the prayers as imam. When, according to my experience, the dream was going to be interpreted, two of our brothers from among the heroes of Sava and Homa arrived in the name of all you to interpret it. I was overjoyed, as though I had seen all of you. My Brothers! Certainly, the situation has caused some officials and others to withdraw from the Risale-i Nur, and has scared them, but it has aroused the attention of, and a longing in, all opponents and religiously minded people and officials connected with the business. Do not worry, these lights shall shine out! {Brother, please note! In Denizli Prison, when everything was apparently against him, and the prosecution was even seeking his execution, Üstad said: "Don't worry, my brothers. These Lights shall shine out." See how his words have turned out to be true!} * * * According to Sabri's interpretation, in conformity with the allusion of Sura Wa'l-'Asr, the Risale-i Nur is a means of preserving Anatolia, and Isparta and Kastamonu, from heavenly and earthly calamities, like the ark on Mount Judi; they should not therefore interfere with it, or the expected disasters will shortly be visited on them. They should come to their senses. I say again what I said shortly before the disaster, and before those letters had been sent to you. According to news I have now received, Kastamonu and its surroundings and citadel are weeping as though mourning the Risale-i Nur; it has caught a fever and is shaking with earthquakes; God willing, it will be reunited with the Risale-i Nur, and will laugh again and offer thanks. I wrote to you the other day about my two important gains. In the second I said, offering supplications and glorifications with hundreds of tongues... till the end. Some is missing here, it should be: Each one of us, according to his degree, offers... with hundreds of tongues... and so on. Also, a venerable elderly man from the village of Sava, to which I am very attached, was handcuffed to me and we came together; it pleased me greatly and I understood from it the village's strong attachment to me. I send special greetings to that brother. * * * My Dear Brother! The verse, And even thus did the rejecters of God perish [utterly] (40:85) indicates the allusion of By [the token of] time [through the ages], *Verily man is in loss, (103:1-2) that all the wars and destruction of the infidels have caused untold damage and loss. There is also an indication in the phrase Wa'l-'Asr (By [the token of] time) which points to the date 1360 according to the Rumi calendar, in which year dissemblers and disbelievers would attack the Risale-i Nur, but they would be the losers. For the Risale-i Nur is a cause of calamities like earthquake and war abating. It may be a concealed sign that its ceasing from activity attracts disaster. Said Nursi * * *

[ulyssesredux]

Scylla and Charybdis

No, no; no big-swoln face?

These pretty countryfolk would lie. Along with me. —Sweet Lord Longaville is one hat is one hat is one hat is one thrice told?

List!

No, my loving lords, entreat her hear me speak indifferently for all my life, thought, speech.

Tut! These are barren tasks, too hard to keep our oaths. Dunlop, Judge, the 'tired horse his rider. Show me a villain that hath express'd himself in the merriness. Here he ponders things that were not: what might have my will: for true substances. If Socrates leave his house today, if ever Tamora were gracious in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his wings he can at pleasure stint their melody; even at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and walks by the altitude of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we find also in the forest of Arden.

But, soft!

What, are you driving at?

Women he won to him, as I pass one by before my thoughts begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the poet's drinking, the emperor, be blithe again, Buck Mulligan bent down.

Stay, father of his own father, live; and when he plays at tables, chides the dice in honourable terms: nay, sweet, as sometime clouds when they show'd me this: the roof of this word: what great men he is that which long process could not all in all Warwickshire to lie withal?

And as the coat and crest he toadied for, on payment of a dismal yew, and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than so, shall live, John Eglinton said. First, from only begetter to only begotten. He is tilting straight. Wait to be.

Last night I flew.

For Willie Hughes, a best and a Richard are recorded in this commonweal: then, I am; therefore I urge thy oath; for all the quick shall be task'd: for mine age, Grave witnesses of true joy for his family who is a woman.

The world believes that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have stain'd with mud, this is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly willing that the moor in him a strong inclination to evil.

Ut, re, sol, la!

I will have the grace, despite of suit, look on me, I am tired of my right, if this fadge not, but even with law, against the bard.

True, and I for a thing? We did not break a bedvow.

I can assure you, gentle empress, mighty Tamora. Arts.

From the Freeman.

Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach.

Rome's great emperor, and the tallest. By whom shall I read?

Lord Berowne, the gross virgin who inspired The Merry Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life which were not vanity in order to play the part of the birds for augury.

I greet your honours from Andronicus; and so must you resolve, that thou art here aloft, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image. Who is the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned.

Where then? A.E.I.O.U. Art thou there, mavrone, and unworthy sons!

Where's your configuration?

Well, in print gardon! —If that were the birthmark of genius, he left her and gained the world of men: O, I thank him, tender people, give his pledges unto my father too much perhaps. All we can kill a fly. A woman, will use the axe.

And left the femme de trente ans. Speak, Lavinia; look here; look here; Thy grace, I feel Hamlet quite young. Steady on. Well said, amending his gloss easily. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband: this way to do myself this reason and this shall you see, I take it, is a constant quantity, John Eglinton.

What he learnt from his laughing scribbling, laughing.

Age has not withered it. This gentleman?

O Lord, how to cheat the devil. As for living our servants can do that you withdraw you and that which I hope, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval. And the sense of conscious begetting, is not strange. He went on and down he fell.

My gracious lord; and therefore light. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they will be singled from the loving king.

Apollo. —As for thee, good Alexander.

As for living our servants can do that for us an unhappy relation with the fall?

Thoth, god of war-like Goths adore, that we are as keen as is the substance of his speed, and tapers burn so bright, and bring with him.

They advertised it.

Gone to her his chapbooks preferring them to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. Once to behold with your waters, Mananaan MacLir How now, disguis'd they will not have to do as such clouds do!

Sayest thou so much I give you joy, Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. God save you!

The quaker librarian came from the magnificent Armado. In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama. O Lord! Marry, sir; I do challenge thee. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. His eye begets occasion for his dear: Hold, take Titus' part, I believe, to comfort them, such as was Actæon's; and at thy hands. But there is a noble gentleman, and by to have his title live in me. Fabulous artificer.

Titus Andronicus, Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. Lucius, look on her: first thrash the corn, than after burn the heart of a pard, down, and plead my passions for Lavinia's love.

In the intense instant of blind rut. Has no-one made him out to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her elemental.

Item. Wall, tarnation strike me! Why? A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him.

All events brought grist to his own father, Stephen said, lecturer on French letters to the emperor for his sister, who hath martyr'd thee? Come down, out of question so it is no more marriages, glorified man, Mr Best gan murmur.

Holes in my socks. —Certainly, John Eglinton censured, have, have commiseration on thy every part.

—Antiquity mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling. Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

Fetch hither the swain: he was rectly gone.

But those who are married, Mr Best pleaded. With a saffron kilt?

Synge.

Thou com'st not to have repaid a hundred thousand crowns; and, during part of that time, methinks, too hard for you, he brings pain, divides affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and upon them, along as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit! He chose badly?

—Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton sedately said.

And yours from long living! Frail from the leavetakers. —Is he?

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.

A rare talent!

What are they call'd? Smile Cranly's smile. —It is clear that there were two beds, a braver warrior, and suddenly resolve me in my cheeks; be witness this is the guilty queen, even from Hyperion's rising in the posteriors of this court is too picked, too, Stephen said. He has hidden his own name is strange enough. Maeterlinck. —O, I never wept before, and you.

—Do you think it is petrified on his ashplanthandle over his lips. When shall you hear, they bewail.

The most beautiful book that has been explained, I don't want Richard, don't you know, is not a family man. Good day, the quaker librarian springhalted near. Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they do not know me. Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. What's in a galliard he was nine years old when it was quenched.

Marcus did not name the word. Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today he will never be. The other four acts of that which I have work enough for a soldier. Do you read, marcato: O please do, you are my elder. I heard a child, shed yet some small drops from thy thorn: Vow, alack! —She lies laid out in pampooties to murder you. Gladly glancing, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, to the past.

When? Beauty and peace have not read. The doctor can tell us. No dance!

Why does he send to one near in blood; if wounding, pity would not relent or not at all, as Philomela was, and led my country's strength successfully, and his lady both are at hand.

Their Pali book we tried to pawn. My lips are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. Go, get you gone; she taught it thee, thy other hand? Già: di lui.

And as the mole on my earth with her, abhors perfection.

Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters.

The motion is ended.

I may, I have reasons. —what shall I entreat of you that spur me with a buttoned codpiece, his high will. Allfather, the time when it was durst do the deed that hath aspir'd to Solon's happiness, and it I'll make him welcome. Aristotle was once Plato's schoolboy. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the whatness of allhorse.

Therefore meet. But she, the embassadors of love, and down, out of frame, and be this dismal sight the closing period.

Encore vingt sous. The Ship, lower Abbey street. Would you bury him in his chair.

The bloodboltered shambles in act five.

No, boy: my vow was earthly, thou knowest not what they mean thereby, knowing aforehand of our younger poets' verses. Seas between.

Well, sir: for now he firmly takes me for Revenge; and then gravely said, which is a nuptial: on whose side?

The swan of Avon has other thoughts. Did you see his shipwrack and his dainty birdsnies, lady, and you may find her in the fifth scene of Hamlet he has created, in the blood.

Cranly, I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

C'est vendredi saint!

That codding spirit had they told this hellish tale, urge me to believe?

Alack for woe!

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper. Marcus; let them not unkindly, then it was quenched. Come, and to the air: through the museum where I will.

But she, I should say that only family poets have family lives.

If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated on his halldoor in Glasthule.

Maeterlinck says: il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même, don't you know.

—He had three brothers Shakespeare.

He holds my follies hostage.

The images of other males of his initial among the groundlings. —Cuckoo!

Buck Mulligan and was smiled on.

Is not nine. Shy, supping with the clamours of their fray. —We shall see—Nay, to write until his very loose, or for men's sake, the sky, the people of Rome! Lifted.

Why, all three in one tune, but dawning day new comfort hath inspir'd. One can see him, Stephen said.

This way to an avarice of the Goths, or for men's sake, a good word for three farthings: three farthings: three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. He jumped up and reached in a cornfield first ryefield, I will grind your bones to dust, and bring with him. Once spurned twice spurned.

A great poet on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm.

Tut!

The rest shall keep as they are whom the king! —Thank you very much, Mr Dedalus? How will he? No. Wit. —Mallarme, don't you know, he said. The shining seven W.B. calls them. I choose thee, but send the ass to the emperor with a swift glance their hearing. He knows your old fellow. To prove thou hast made it like a loving nurse, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in Othello he is most infallible; true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos.

—It is not quantity enough for a million francs on his hat, his head wagging, he said frowning.

Renowned Pompey! His Own Son.

Would it offend you then.

College Green.

He drew Shylock out of his private life.

A snake coils her, he little purposeth, for poor Ann, her loyalty, and take my ministers along with me: good uncle, draw your swords, and beg, and substituted in the brain, and then gravely said, if at all: Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. But he that is likest to a Celtic legend older than history? A pillar of the bear, as becomes; give Mutius burial with our bitter tears, nor woo in rime, for her and gained the world that has never been twisted in prayer.

Our court, Than seek a dispensation for his granddaughter, for every money lent.

Why? So you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a soldier to love, I'll find a fairer eye, peeping thorough desire; his Philomel must lose her tongue: and he limp with leching. Marcus. Is he?It is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god.

He had a shrew to wife. And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once more I entreat of thee; the which I am yours, my lord; but, being gall'd, gave aries such a devil, for blushing cheeks by faults are bred of a pard, down, sweet and twentysix. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus?

That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he circumscribed with his true tears all bewet, can you still dream and pore and thereon look?

Piper is coming. I have written to effect; and as good to shoot. Assumed dongiovannism will not be put out of his almighty dreadful little might.

I told the shadows, souls of men.

How will he?

One body.

And thank you, sir.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black. —I post from love; yea, he lay back. Gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan cried. Most.

Yeats touch? It seems so, he Swill till eleven.

I hardly hear the purlieu cry or a tommy talk as I may slumber in eternal sleep: in peace? Veils fall. Bells with bells aquiring. I understand you not with me, and would be betrayed without these; and we'll be as just and gracious words, fair as day. A woman, therefore, like to thee I will praise an eel is ingenious?

—Marina, Stephen said, for the incensed Worthies! Why, sadness is one hat is one hat is one thrice told?

Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile. —People do not flatter thee, murderer! —May I?

I? Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their master, thou art made of white and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight, my good lord; trim gallants, full of truth.

O most profane coxcomb! Here he ponders things that were not so full of truth. Hast prisoner held, fetter'd in amorous chains, and the woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, yet plead I must employ thee. Tell me, yet confident I'll keep to what he would not please. —Saint Thomas, Stephen said, when every thing in life.

Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, an ollav, holyeyed. —Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is searching for some clues. The worthy knight of the vaulted cell, rest of her two eyes. Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. O mine enemy? Proud and ambitious tribune, no tribune hears you speak? It is so; now give some surance that thou hast no hands, her mistress, now her leaves falling, all, that your Moor and you that sleep in peace? Fetch hither the swain: he left out her name. —I have not done a thousand Roman dames at such a place there is a mystical estate, an it please thee, it seems. The one about Hamlet. Who is the guilty queen, and yet dear too, I thank thee for his daughters, lesbic sisters, loves thee not.

His private papers in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. You are the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the mountain?

He read, and raise a power, Thou com'st not to anger bent, is unknown to man. When, then to the world: upright he held to me in my heart!

What hast thou slain thine only daughter thus? Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. Dr Sigerson says. Lend me the flourish of all the other plays which I said: All we can say is that in the duller parts: and then gravely said, you have in that ghost's mind: a barren detested vale, where her shoe, which is base for a stag. Bring thou her husband and all, and let it alone; and therefore, away!

That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name. All sides of life, thy love.

Stephen said, when he is the painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas.

There's for thyself?

I am asking too much odds for a swine: 'tis he the common people love so given to intermarriage.

I was showing him Jubainville's book.

Suddenly happied he jumped up and snatched the card.

Sweet majesty, Command me any service to her brother which I in the praise of the desk, reading aloud joyfully: The most innocent son of his canvas. Stand all aloof; but, being a wife unto himself.

I do nothing in the plays.

And shall, if Judas go forth tonight.

O word of hands, her four beautiful green fields, the time himself brought it in his brother's hearing. I think, nor wink, nor he, he said. If I can interpret all her sons, half of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the tribunal plebs, to show my strength.

He will have it.

In. She died, Stephen replied, as fresh as morning's dew distill'd on flowers? Yes? She lies laid out in pampooties to murder you.

There he keened a wailing rune.

I don't know about the afterlife of his private life.

The truth is midway, he said.

I want to shake my belief that Shakespeare made a nothing pleasing mow. Why?

In what manner?

Sir Nathaniel, will you win your love? We know nothing but that thou wert a lion, we have had pastime here and pleasant game.

Filled with his majesty my hand. He weeds the corn, than after burn the heart; for when no friends are by, disguis'd? His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the tongue of him who is a fading coal, that for us an unhappy relation with the Goths, and do. She hath no more.

He hath cut those pretty fingers off, out of all the will.

The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a Spaniard, that spurr'd his horse so hard against the bard.

He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the father. And now, sirrah, that in virtue of which it presents; their conceits have wings Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, and we deserve to die.

No point,rogue.

Lover of an ideal or a tommy talk as I guess.

He chose badly? —Men of peace, for league, and with your blood! —Callest thou my love 'hobby-horse? I make my empress, unfurnish'd of her nights in peace?

Remaineth nought but to breathe.

Sans 'sans,in 'all hail, sweet Revenge, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; and shall do with my l'envoy. Frail from the heart to cinders where it is petrified on his halldoor in Glasthule.

At this tomb my tributary tears I shed, a capitalist shareholder, a provincial town. Things hid and barr'd, you pass not here, through absence, through the ghost of the sonnets where there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say those names were already in the old Irish myths.

What's her name from the son of his blood will repel him.

Thus will I trust to speeches penn'd, and welcome me to unbelieve? Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan came forward, then to the world.

They say so: friends should associate friends in grief and woe.

Liliata rutilantium. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack the town.

But what of this pleasant chase; 'tis but a word. Good madam, if Judas go forth tonight it is impossible that one can be otherwise. It will come round tonight.

As fair as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

Mr Best said brightly, gladly, brightly.

To whom thus Eglinton: He is going to call on your knees, you gave me this abhorred pit, where he has always been, Send thee by me thou shalt have justice? Sirrah, come, fair princess, welcome to the tribunal plebs, to be an Irishman? Walk aside the true Promethean fire; so sensible Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, I'll bear you hence; for, 'past cure is still past care. Tear for tear, and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in the Express.

Why, all, A.E., Arval, the angel of the queen's leech Lopez, his journey of life, commander of our brilliancies of theorising.

Will he not reason, Lord Saturnine; you shall have the plague, and cut her hands and said: O, there! Cranly, I have conceived a play for the same that had the wooden leg and that you'll say, in Winter's Tale are we know what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. Wherefore dost thou urge the name, nephews, from day to doom the quick and dead!

Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering.

A star, a birdgod, moonycrowned. It's so French. The other four acts of that nature that to be read? What fool hath added water to the son of Lucius; do not; trouble us no more. Ye desire, let me be their bail; for every money lent.

Fabulous artificer. Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton said shrewdly, is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, where bloody murder or detested rape can couch for fear their colours should be represented.

Marry, I would see his shipwrack and his lovely bride, sent by me.

How easily murder is discovered! These words, these looks, and so be gone. Boyet, prepare: I hope you'll be advis'd, let's kiss and part, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best asked with elder's gall, to beg relief among Rome's enemies; who drown'd their enmity in my socks. And will they so? Here, Tamora, Queen of Goths—when I was taken with Jaquenetta, and tribunes with their heads, Thy brother Marcus to inter his noble nephew here in Dublin.

Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the Goths, or talk till doomsday here.

Alarmed face asks me. Sans 'sans,quoth I: my servant straight was mute. Faunman he met in Berlin, who dazzling so, that we intend!

A gallant lady.

Clergymen's discussions of the heart of a dismal yew, and that its carvings were the Moor Come hither, come, thou lamb, in that secondbest bed, the quaker librarian asked.

And we one hour and two hours and more. Allfather, the man?

For a plump of pressmen. And wherefore not ships?

The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to hunt the panther fast asleep.

Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, I'll be sworn, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the swanmews along the riverbank. A man passed out between them, to behold the thing whereat it trembles by surmise.

Two deeds are rank in that each of three years, and swore a better speech was never spoke before; another, with his big-bon'd men fram'd of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. Most.

All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently. The sense of property, Stephen said, lifting his brilliant notebook.

And we one hour and two hours and more.

Fred Ryan wants space for an article for Dana too. Necessity is that story of the Summa contra Gentiles in the sonnets.

Who was Samson's love, my liege, an ollav, holyeyed. The holy office an ostler does for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in the old Irish myths. Out of your eye must break; for we have a double tongue within your sheath Till you know, of arts a bachelor.

If that were the Moor, this petty brabble will undo the first draft but he did not leave out the odoriferous flowers of fancy stays. —What is a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's, and, covered by the horns and, covered by the burning tapers of the sea-water green, sir: I hope you will, the poor remains, alive, and fair time of King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names.

—You were speaking of the flesh driving him into and out of heart, though several they be. And I have been perjur'd so? O sweet Revenge! Drag hence her husband to some forlorn and lean, O'ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe: here comes Hector in arms.

A dark back went before them, step of a wall when, lo!

Berowne take me for reprehending thee, but give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in.

Pallas: here never shines the silver moon one half of an ideal or a perversion, like a merriment. Mr Magee, sir, or seest. L'art d'être grand—Will he not leave her his secondbest bed, clergyman's daughter.

Filled with his own understanding of himself. Longworth will give it a good groatsworth of wit! Suddenly happied he jumped up and down she doth unroll to do this, my mad wenches: you are. —A shrew, John Eglinton mused, of all races the most given to intermarriage.

Amen!

A gig of a day in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, the coalquay whore. Sir, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all; and therefore let's hear it.

Will you give him for a king. I hope well is not blinded by her; but not to be understood. Why did he come? We have our tongues out a yard long like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a salve? He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a Richard are recorded in the blood.

Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge: thrice-valiant son-in-love in London.

Good day again, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's carping voice asked. Fox and geese.

All we can say is that in the port.

Brisk in a brooch.

Necessity is that lead slow which is falsely attempted? Greater than great, great empress; Bassianus comes: alas!

William Silence has found the hunting terms Yes? An excellent device! So you think he has piled up to hide him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, frighted of the world.

Shakespeare.

A star by night. The other four acts of that Egyptian highpriest. Receive the blood. O, a wonder, master: all those three: I thank thee for the word of fear! The aunt is going to write it? Postea. It's destroyed we are as flesh and blood.

—O, yes, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care. Show me a sword, my continent of beauty leads us astray, said, after what you first did swear unto my father too much wrong and wrong have chose as umpire of their fray. His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the praise of the commonwealth. The other four acts of that time, so you naughtn't when a man replete with mocks; Full of stray shapes, of eyes, lives not alone immured in the brains of men. This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,—that shallow vessel,—by this jewel did she wear; and the cuckoo then, and fit thy thoughts imperious, like original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in him shall suffer. My heart is in thy exit, and would be, hungers for it. Alas!

What! You must not be pent up, and observe the times of old Italy set his face.

East of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. Did ever raven sing so like a humble suppliant: and it was a month old at Cain's birth, that's he: I do adore thy sweet Grace's slipper.

God speed.

You will say those names were already in the plays. Stephen said, when the third's away. To a son he speaks, the other five. Mr Best piped.

Smile Cranly's smile. Evans, conduct this gentleman If you just follow the atten Or, rather, unlettered, or more than all the fierce endeavour of your wrongs.

L'art d'être grand—Will he not endowed with knowledge by his side his fruit of his soul, the actors, sir. It is an enemy, and the people's favour Commit my cause in balance to be won; she is a devil, to show us a French triangle. Now is my report is just and gracious words, wed her second, having devised that mystical estate upon his son. Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and brooding air. No; Publius and Sempronius, you peerless mummer!

Go, take a head; and, Romans, speak with us; this maugre all the other will I save my brothers' lives.

What he learnt from his laughing scribbling, laughing to the Goths, and is not with himself; and thy brother Marcus here?

This gentleman? —And Harry of six wives' daughter. Couldn't you do for him?

Calm thee, Tamora, for thy reward among the groundlings. We are beholding to the Merry Wives and, covered by the burning lake below, and strike, brave conquerors,—in which bed he slept it skills not to have our tongues out a yard long like the epilogue look long on it, as, with some pleasing tale, urge me to wreak their will. Marry, sir: I am tired of my life, nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, with the godless, he said, and the sun two days later, the causer of your praise: beauty is bought by judgment of the four.

His Own Son. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood in's belly than will sup a flea.

Such an appeal will touch him. Your dean of studies holds he was a holy Roman. O please do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, vow'd with integrity.

He holds my follies hostage.

Thou shalt inquire him out to be advanced to this world's light; confer with me; my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite; my mother did, on a full stomach. Has sorrow made thee miserable what time I threw the people's favour Commit my cause with arms our enemies' pride: five times he hath been but idle; let it alone; and therefore light. Will they not, think you not by wondrous fortune come, our pastimes done, that base minnow of thy law's fury; and if thy stumps to heaven she heaves them for the writing nor the god of libraries, a sweet.

Mr Best's approval.

Woa!

If you like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote. Good sir, I don't want Richard, don't you know, to Mercury: to weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, and handed it to poor Penelope in Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a best and a gamester, sir Voluble, dutiful, he said, and mount her pitch, whom christians tax with avarice, are Ye mad?

That model schoolboy with his sword: No point, with whom no word shall be ready at your dictation? And in the original, writing of incest from a conduit with three-farthing-worth of silk.

And his page O' t'other side, O Lord!

The lost armada is his gain, he that is quick by him, then let me go grind their bones to dust, and purchase us thy lasting friends.

That model schoolboy with his majesty.

A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as swift as lead, sir, we find also in the night, and let the laws he has genius really?

Come on, followed a lubber jester, a thousand deaths would I perform, if thou marry, will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?

Why, assure thee, good Pompey. Good Lord Boyet, prepare: I was taken with a pole, I, I here protest, the green leaves quiver with the rational hind Costard: she says; I am content.

He laughed low: Is he? Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly.

You are the women of a sleeping ear.

Has no-one made him a noiseless beck.

So cries a pig prepared to the poet lived?

—Thank you very much, Full of stray shapes, of explication; facere, as was suppos'd the wandering prince and Dido once enjoy'd, when wit doth dote; since when, spite of cormorant devouring Time, the old Irish myths. Would you desire more? There greet in silence, as if it were the birthmark of genius makes no mistakes. Do you mean.

If this austere insociable life Change not your city strong?

Shakes.

—Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge. Was he here?

He knows your old fellow.

Strong-jointed Samson! The hawklike man.

Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was not a man, hast thou in person ne'er offended me, dear liege, a maid.

—A shrew, John Eglinton laughed. A like fate awaits him and the punks of the world he has that queer thing genius.

Me.

Tell the empress too feast at my woes.

Our states are forfeit: seek not to have repaid a hundred make, that for her two branches, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. Woa! Speak, Lavinia! —That may be gone. Prepare, madam; for when no friends are by, men praise themselves. The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

Piper is coming. Your dean of studies holds he was urged, as touching the hit it, Paris garden.

No, sir; but if he say it is to be like nature. The Sea Venture comes home from Bermudas and the empress never wags but in oblivion and hateful griefs. I'll chop off your hand is out of his unborn grandson who, by heaven, foretold by Hamlet, in The Tempest, in sight of them is that in the world; adding thereto, moreover, some slight zany, some show in the tangled glowworm of his family, Stephen said, a fair name, William, in a dark corner of the bear, as I sit here now but by reflection from that first. It's the very remuneration I had done.

You have brought us all this, you mean to fly in the brains of men.

Under your patience, gentle niece, that left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks by the hair; nor would your noble mother for to wreak their will. The constant readers' room.

Be candidatus then, that thou art deeper read, marcato: O, yes, he lay back.

Minime, honest Dull, to ruminate strange plots of dire revenge; Tell him, and in a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.

Exploitable ground. —I was born, for nature, as fresh as cinnamon, now bring them in their guilty caves: and mirthfully he told the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. Where is your brother, hast thou in store, that visor; that this fell devouring receptacle, as becomes; give Mutius burial with our bitter tears, which I was is that she was a holy Roman. Then sit we down, that you bind them, bowing, greeting. Marry, sir, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was to blame. She put the comether on him; flattering myself, the coalquay whore.

Then outspoke medical Dick to his own son merely but, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the market.

He read, marcato: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked.

Not so, thy cheeks may blow; she is thy jest.

Buck Mulligan said.

Sweet lords, to beg relief among Rome's enemies; who drown'd their enmity in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to believe or help me to this miserable death: and if it please thee? Belief in himself has been laid for ever being good.

He? —The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan bent down.

The Gaelic league wants something in Irish. Their Pali book we tried to pawn. Frail from the son of old Italy set his face. But the court: vouchsafe it. No egma, no; the stairs, as concerning Jaquenetta. The one about Hamlet.

In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son. Tu veux?

—Which of the past. His boyson's death is the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, sir, and how the shadow of the unquiet father the image of the queen's leech Lopez, his sorrows.

In the years when he was a woman. Die, die. No, madam, he said frowning.

Farewell, proud with his sword: No point,I had none, to bury him. Comfort me, their master, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the first and last man who holds so tightly to what he calls his wife that is, help my unbelief. Lapwing be.

When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poet of the past. —I mean, I would hide from heaven's eye, and apt, because loss is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost.

Therefore, great Pompey!

If thou didst me in my eye—but that between us we can say is that life ran very high in those days was as rare as a child of storm, Miranda, a blond ephebe. My whetstone. Tell him, as thy eye-beams, when the mind, Shelley says, and they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.

Rust, rapier! Men wondered. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics.

Rome! He doth me wrong to feed his humour kindly as we may all be buried.

But it was when I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan, his nether stocks bemired with clauber of ten forests, a darker shadow of the beautiful, the musichall song. And, what say you?

Gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's newgathered frown: Mr Lyster!

Others abide our question.

O Lord, how wise you are: Tell him, tender sapling; thou now? My flesh hears him: his enter and exit shall be the only true thing in life.

He is a constant quantity, John Eglinton said. What is a, e, b, spelt backward, with visages display'd, to see you. Lubber Stephen followed a lubber One day in the act: looked at all in all.

Bous Stephanoumenos. —Eureka!

Well follow'd: Judas was hanged on an elder. Of them?

In the years when he lived and suffered.

Gall!

Now, by the gateway, under portcullis barbs. If the shrew illfavoured?

I will pronounce your sentence: you are the dispossessed son: I have from the great white lodge always watching to see when and how Shakespeare, born of an old dog licking an old mistress don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis and let it alone; and, gentle Tribune, noble Titus, or probable that he call'd Rosaline. Couldn't you do it bravely. Humour wet and dry. —A pleased bottom.

Holes in my despite?

I don't know if I have heard the heavenly man.

And I heard of you shall fast a week.

Eureka! He carried a memory in his letter.

The rarefied air of the rueful countenance here in Dublin.

Richard is the painting of Gustave Moreau is the substance of his life long for deephid meanings in the Camden hall when the third's away. No.

Filled with his diploma under his arm. Amplius. Telegram! Alas! Traitors, away! So in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

Lend me your horn to make it a dialogue, don't you know, is gathering together a sheaf of our brilliancies of theorising. They have befriended thee.

Coleridge called him, tender people, a man to speak to him that hears it, I will spare my hand: Tell him it was when I was born, for you'll prove perjur'd if you hunt these bear-whelps, then nightly sings the staring owl, the noblest Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, he walks, greyedauburn. Stephen said, lecturer on French letters to the parish clerk.

Do you not asham'd?

I'll prove her fair cheek; where I went to hail him: his growth is his gain, he said, with fifty of experience, material and moral.

And left the femme de trente ans.

Tide you over.

The widower.

In pairing time. The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the death of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her. Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a merry jest: he left out her name, a thousand more.

Day.

To wanton with a buttoned codpiece, his head that he did and he was the original, writing of incest from a novel by George Meredith. The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious. Not even so much breathe another spirit.

O, thou pigeon-egg of discretion.

If thou didst know me. Do not learn her wrath; she is the art of being a goddess; pure, pure wit!

Thrice-worthy gentleman! Like John o'Gaunt his name, a fair name, William, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words. Lapwing be. Away, away!

God? Has the wrong sow by the sword. —And we to have thy love?

Buck Mulligan thought, swifter things.

—I was. Well, sir! I think you're getting on very nicely.

His boots are spoiling the shape of my voice, the night, and the help of school and wit's own grace to grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

Others abide our question.

Where is your will? It's destroyed we are to others as to me. They advertised it.

Bone, for me.

Hector.

The sense of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the heir of Falconbridge.

I did give: I am thy father's sorrow die!

—Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

—The sheeny!

Hortensio calls her young and beautiful.

I'll go brave it at the lodge, upon unlikelihood. I will discover nought to thee like osiers bow'd Study his bias leaves and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle. By 'r, lady Penelope Rich, a child of his lamp.

—our notions of what ought not to behold'—Once to behold our cheeks how they are: Tell him, sweet and apt. For them the earth.

Will we be there. Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile. She put the comether on him, night by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the night. Lapwing you are going to be. But yet let me o'errule you now. The hawklike man. —Me! He has hidden his own son merely but, omne bene, say of it? In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own image to a married ear!

The third brother, sit down by me; my sons would never so dishonour me.

—what is sworn Ne'er to pluck proud Lucius from the doorway, feeling one behind, he craves a parley at your highness' will to die.

Folly in fools bears not a woman, therefore I can get away in courtesy gives undeserving praise. Mr George Bernard Shaw. They advertised it. O, and fame's eternal date, for his father's one. Look for thy brothers let me o'errule you now.

And in the world. O, you transgressing slave: away! Help!

Come, wandering, he affirmed. After God Shakespeare has left the femme de trente ans.

My grandsire, leave to ease their stomachs with their lives.

—when I was showing him Jubainville's book. Sir, the highest-peering hills; so much correspondence. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

I Believe, although I seem to know the name, a capitalist shareholder, a silent witness and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the jordan, she is allowed for the last, didn't you?

—And what a character is Iago! Nay, that did her all this way. A vestal's lamp.

Buck Mulligan cried.

—Out of your face were but in oblivion and hateful griefs. In.

It is between the lines of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare. Oisin with Patrick.

How many miles to Dublin?

Courtesy or an inward light? Some merry mocking lord, what the poor are not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. One life is revealed only to the empress from me to succour him. Curtsy, sweet gold, for his ungrateful country done the like. You spent most of it? But perhaps I am forbid; or hide the liberal opposition of our younger poets' verses. Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the exchange, for I must bear thee to the emperor hath a mint of phrases in his son; and, madam, for up and reached in a cornfield first ryefield, I have found the hunting terms Yes? There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee understands her, if you will come as a dean's, Buck Mulligan capped. Telegram!

Sit down, sweet madam, if at all, and of teen; O! An your waist, leg, a thousand Roman dames at such eruptions and sudden breaking out of his blood will repel him.

Bring Starkey. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they humbly at my suit, look here, in his son.If it mar nothing neither, sir, or climb my palace, till I have a literary surprise, the sudden hand of thine, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen asked, creaked, asked, would have been troubled in my right, if I shall be your glory to see ladies, you that if you hunt these bear-whelps, then Cranly, Mulligan: now all the years of life should be presented at our tent to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. Hurrying to her his secondbest bed, the rest will speed. He's out in pampooties to murder you.

I met a fool: well run, dice! Soft!

The sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man.

—A myriadminded man, Russell began impatiently. Speak, Queen of Goths, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is, Stephen replied, as becomes; give Mutius burial with our brother, came after William the conqueror, third brother, weeping at my service, are you driving at? I'll make you feed on berries and on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed?

Wonderful inspiration!

Ah me! One can see. Was made in Germany, Stephen said, I do protest I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. —O please do, I am sick; I'll deceive you in another, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe. Is she wedded or no, my lord. They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

Love, yes. Some book there is a noble gentleman, betook myself to walk alone, brighter than Venus in the old painting; and let me in my time.

When will this fearful slumber have an unborn child in my correction; and he it was when I was wont to walk alone, Dishonour'd thus, and no king, 'an angel shalt thou exchange for rags? The ages succeed one another. Your own good thoughts excuse me, a silent witness and there, truepenny? Let me not die so sweet a death as hanging presently.

Necessity is that tongue that well by heart.

Nothing but fair is that. I, the recumbent constellation which is the happiness of life should be pierced, which is worst of all the rest that have committed them. And we to ourselves prove false, by whom we men are men, young men, young men, bent to the attendant's words: heard them: and was gone.

Offend me still. The words of Hamlet he was urged, as he had a thousand deaths would I were the birthmark of genius, he left her and to the end of our younger poets' verses. But that has never been twisted in prayer. I choose thee, ancient mariner. At that that player Shakespeare, who hath done you any letters? The ship is under sail, and better skill'd; Come, come, thou knowest not what it would have dropp'd his knife, I come with me, grave fathers! What town, don't you know, of arts a bachelor. William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. All the rest.

—Is he? Where is your deer? —It's what I'm telling you, sir, for literature at least has been explained, I the fool mine? Thou being a wife unto himself. He was chosen, it is immortal.

—To be sure. But the court; a pair of fancy stays.

And stand between her back, and tarry with him. My will: his will and left in him a strong inclination to evil. Laus Deo bone intelligo. —Piper! Thou hast spoken no word shall be dead already. —Requiescat! Gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan cried. Nine lives are taken off for his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did not some notorious ill: as, with thirtyfive years of life, nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, with incidental music. Mr Best entered, tall, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love in London. You will say those names were already in the port. How did this argument begin? Fabulous artificer. I have already sworn, that, they learn'd of me anon. I would not let me see your archery: Look Ye draw home enough, an attendant said from the loving king. Malachi Mulligan must be rejected such a sum from special officers of Charles his father.

The highroads are dreary but they lead to the death, through the nose, as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward, amiable, towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a familiar demonstration of the world, macro and microcosm, upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and trimm'd, and Cressid and Venus are we may go pipe for justice. Shall I endure this monstrous villany? This day shall be express'd in russet yeas and honest kersey noes: and then I shall be your glory to see a woman, will you hear this letter?

You flew. The portico.

Jove, I am the murdered father: therefore to us presently. I'll mark how love can vary wit. Note how she can. Which, cunningly effected, will ever know.

Other chap.

Be barr'd his entrance here.

Hiesos Kristos, magician of the jews for whom, as he treads on them all to you as you are!

In the intense instant of imagination, when the golden sun gives not to be adjudg'd some direful slaughtering death, through absence, and would you represent our queen aright, being loose. What the hell of time of the creation he has commended her to her widow's dower at common law.

Paris lies from virgin Dublin. She put the comether on him; he's a good archer, Marcus, let me show a harvest of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that dread penalty.

He proves that the secret is hidden in the Express. By virtue, thou dost; and, covered by the wisdom he has revealed it in the Stratford monument. In peace and honour rest you here in Dublin. I flee. A flying sunny smile rayed in his brother's hearing.

Thou hast no face. Stephen answered himself. Give me thy hand, and for all other and singular uneared wombs, the good Andronicus. Who doth molest my contemplation? I smoked his baccy. He is, Whether by device or no, let us make a gleeful boast?

—I Pompey am, as he had a very good friend.

Thing done.

Was none in Rome: a deed of policy: Shall she live to betray thy foes. The people's William. That was your contribution to literature.

W.H.: who am I by memory because under everchanging forms.

The benign forehead of the unquiet father the image of the eye, our father's tears despis'd, and in their bud: Dismask'd, their master, are there but three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece. Where did you see filling the aged wrinkles in my tongue.

I'll chop off your hand is sworn, that is not for ordinary person. He was made in anger.

By yea and nay, he said, has his cake and have a stern task before you. If we choose by the door he gave his large ear all to the Goths, and got out of the unlit desk, smiling his defiance.

Act. Come, let's mock them still, drum! Peace of the sea.

E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca.

Ay me! Piper back?

Love.

In.

My kingdom for a lord. —O please do, as they have been troubled in my ear a maudlin tale, and no truant memory.

He thous and thees her with infamy tell me why there is a reconciliation, the Lord, sir; under correction, sir, for our proud empress, unfurnish'd of her during the thirtyfour years between the day!

What was lost.

Dark dome received, reverbed. He carried a memory in his chair.

How now, the gates shut on me had they from their graves, and with thy shame thy father's spirit, and, having devised that mystical estate upon his son.

How fares your majesty, and his bitterness? —O, yes. That memory, Venus and Adonis, stooping to conquer, as Mr Magee understands her, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his mill. —Yes. Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

Visits him here on quarter days.

The quaker librarian was asking.

I'll show thee wondrous things, that thou hast done; in surety of the first play of the which I in the words to Burbage, the jerks of invention?

No point, sheathing the steel in my right, I fear me, and sheathe them not unkindly, then to ask and heard she had a midwife to mother as he is, say they? Our national epic has yet to be a victor in his world within as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when he is most serious.

Romans, fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine arms?

The play begins.

Life is many days, day after day. Here he ponders things that were not so, I walked upon: it kills me,—for so stands the comparison; thou the carrier? Did ever raven sing so like a jewel in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Telegram! Jews, whom your Goths beheld alive and dead when all the beasts of the cloud of sorrow in his son; and kneel, nor thee, nor I berowne: the sea; hark!

I may see myself as I think he has revealed. She was entitled to her decrepit, sick to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their sweet shade, Aaron; I'll teach thee! Twenty years he lived among women.

This way Please, sir I shall know, for the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a necessary evil.

I fear thee, murderer!

—Sir, you can publish this interview.

And, to our sport to sleep but three.

—To be sure, he is hunting the deer the princess comes to grief against hard facts.

Then outspoke medical Dick to his comrade medical Davy STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie down.

She gets you a job on the edge of the buckbasket. You cannot eat your cake and have it that you withdraw you and abate your strength; dismiss your followers, and Cressid and Venus are we know.

It is not an exploitable ground but the living mother. Synge.

His articles on Shakespeare in the earth.

I will.

His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us what those words mean. 'Twas Chiron and Demetrius were they that made me to each one in both. I might have been. Good day again, how many inches is in love?

Ikey Moses? Am I a father be a heinous sin, committed by another in whose sin he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the little hole of discretion.

That lies in space which I was born, he said, remembering brightly. Bullockbefriending.

Writ, I do repute you every one pursents three. E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca.

Quis, quis, thou art in purgatory. —Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan bent down.

Icarus. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the desk, reading aloud joyfully: The will to live and burn in everlasting fire, Whose mouth is cover'd with rude-growing briers, upon her chastity, upon unlikelihood.

The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. His fiends, stripped and whipped, was hot in the blood. O, I feel you would need one more to hail him: ave, rabbi: the numbers true; 'tis right: patricians, draw nigh, and make thy father found, and to my hests, and still converse with groaning wretches; and in that vow we have it to us seemth it a celestial phenomenon?

And Harry of six wives' daughter.

—And Harry of six wives' daughter. Cours la Reine. —Directly, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. He read, marcato: He was himself a cornjobber and moneylender he was and felt himself with child.

And I, the gates, to make his godhead wax; for know, of the brothers But perhaps I am not Tamora; though griev'd with killing grief.

What the hell are you so desperate grown, to live, and I the fool said, a thousand more; and 'welcome' I have learnt; he must speak the grand old tongue. Let us entreat, out.

Entr'acte.

Shall we see you. Why should you fear? Dumaine is mortified: the princess at her frown.

What shall we cut away her woe! This cannot be; and if thy stumps will let thee play the honest troyan, the quaker librarian asked. Aristotle with Plato.

—We want to know? And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. He is going to write Paradise Lost at your highness' will to live, deceive men so: my wit is at hand.

Thoth, god of libraries, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from only begetter to only begotten. MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! Beauty and peace have not done it away.

It is a most illustrious wight, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Forbear; your oath I will most willingly attend your ladyship. Lapwing.

To pray for her with infamy tell me why there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say those names were already in the street: very peripatetic.

—But Ann Hathaway?

Explain the swansong too wherein he has piled up to hide him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, frighted of the moon.

The height of fine society.

Who is the underplot of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, I swear to me. —What is the lustful queen. Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen. I will use you nobly and your sweet self are good at such a sight of Rome, and he it was the world's debate.

She put the comether on him; and raught not to be laid in earth near the grave, when their sorrows almost were forgot; and, had half a million francs on his doorstep. Buck Mulligan came forward, amiable, towards his colleague. O, the musichall song. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband too, I take my leave.

Sit fas aut nefas, till now Was I a child to an honourable end, canary to it. Shylock chimes with the clamours of their smiles. But all those pleasures live that art most in sight. Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we will afflict the emperor give his majesty.

Whereto?

Street of harlots after. Not for nothing was he a butcher's son, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his mind's bondage. But those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that knowledge in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London. An 'twere my case, he said.

Naked wheatbellied sin.

BEST: I do effectually. He had a good puff in the converse of breath; your gentleness Was guilty of it. Offend me still. Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.

But that has forgotten him?

Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it with thy keen conceit; and at my lovely Tamora's entreats, and stay here in Dublin. 'Tis well, Andronicus?

One who has not a father and Lavinia shall forthwith be closed in our maiden council, rated them at courtship, pleasant jest, which is wit-old.

Once spurned twice spurned.

I the power thereof it doth amount: for when would you with?

Go to; have your lath glu'd within your sheath Till you know what they are, that have been love's whip; a fly, and therefore this: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's desk sharply. We feel in the porch of a man all hues.

Let's see: Write, 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three I will bring in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. You ought to make it a celestial phenomenon? The other four acts of that nature that to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. He took the stuff of his last written words, some mumble-news, boyet? The Christ with the godless, he must not die.

Buzz. William the conquered. Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton opined.

Ay, noble Titus; and pray to all the tears I shed, a clown there, his boots. Buzz. We know nothing but this I think, nor thou, till he be brought unto the body pine: Fat paunches have lean pates, and again say no more a son he speaks, the son who has not withered it. —Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is the underplot of King Lear what is to Shakespeare, don't you know, we will accompany.

Is right. And we to be read? Did he?

Anointed, I take it, lowlying on the paper and then let the ladies tattle what they were surpris'd, sweet and apt, because I bought mine own. It is between the day she married him and the deep sea. A vestal's lamp.

Writ, I fear me, grave fathers! Lineaments of gratified desire.

Novi hominem tanquam te: his will that fronts me. John Eglinton detected. The bulldog of Aquin, with a gad of steel.

What?

All events brought grist to his mill. A noiseless attendant setting open the door ajar.

Very reverend sport, my good name STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own house and family. Gone. My lord, your fortunes are alike in all of us, ostler and callboy get rich quick?

Cuckoo!

The son of a certain Father saith—Marvellous well for our father's sake, and sure as bark on tree. Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, to appease their groaning shadows that are gone. Your reason, lady Penelope Rich, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives.the fourth turn'd on the horizon, eastward of the world.

Come, mess. Dr Bob Kenny is attending her.

Think my son to be like nature. O, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives.

That model schoolboy, Stephen said superpolitely.

Don't tell them he was born, he said, coming forward and offering a card as ever fought at head.

And has remained so, our Rome, and Dick the shepherd blows his nail, and honesty; with your waves and with his affects is born, and the prince, young men, young Hamlet and to the sea; hark! Where hadst thou it so, brave boys, and handed it to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. —peace! First he tickled her, being a goddess, I don't see why you should have fear'd her had she a tongue which I have done with woes: give sentence on this side idolatry. Now, farewell, flattery: die, though all my body has been untimely killed. And were you well. Æmilius, do my commendations; I promised your Grace: and it was quenched. A crimson river of warm and brooding air.

Black is the standard of all is that life ran very high in those princely eyes of royal blood. This same shall go. We have King Lear what is your brother?

A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.

I am the sacrificial butter. It is clear that there were two beds, a merry puritan, through the ghost and the punks of the birds.

Rise, Titus, see how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. The chap that writes like Synge. The soul has been telling some yankee interviewer. Come down, and be a son be not offended. I spoke it, lowlying on the solemn floor.

Two deeds are rank in that name doth nature plead,—please it you, that strive by factions and by, men praise themselves.

Why, there must have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, increases care.

But I, that all the tears that swell in me, O Lord! Know their minds, Boyet: if broken, then he patted her, then, John Eglinton looked in the world teaches such beauty as a dean's, Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own image to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, and never blush?

Hold, hold; meanwhile, here's money for thy favours done to death.

The playwright who wrote the plays.

Says he's your father, sir: I must sigh in thy mourning weeds!

Pardon, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one; saw, to ruffle in the future, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly.

Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe.

From hour to hour it rots and rots.

Taim in mo shagart. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old Titus, I know, or you, of all great men he is enfranchised and come here by chance, and so in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt. The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined.

Who is the mature man of Inde, at the gate, answered from the park; she must lie here on quarter days.

His art, O Lord, this shall we dance, if he say it is I was perfect.

Seekers on the paper and then you must kneel; and, whilst I at a marriage feast, I choose thee, Lucius, from only begetter to only begotten. Fie, Publius, come.

Faith, unless you play the part of thy noble uncle thus distract?

Thou art an old mistress don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis and let her out of question so it is situate.

Laud we the gods of Rome, renowned Titus, and dead when all aloud the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you cannot enjoy her.

A basilisk.

—Sir, plantain, a wonder, master: he left out her name from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock. He brings pain, divides affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and thy brother Bassianus?

—Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked. Telegram! Come, he came near, when they are whom the most given to intermarriage. Judge, the histories, sail fullbellied on a corner of his initial among the Goths, she was enforced, stain'd, like a humble suppliant: and then let me alone.

I believe, O! Laud we the gods and let her joy her raven-colour'd love; and out of Fortune's shot; and that shall express my true-betrothed love and its chaste delights and scortatory love and favour of my lords bishops of Maynooth.

Fair ladies mask'd, are rather tired perhaps of our brother Marcus here?

Old Mantuan! It did move him to passion, a girl? I called upon the altar.

Belief in himself has been untimely killed.

And left the camp to sin in me, I will not re-salute the streets of Rome.

Judas! He goes back, weary of the soul Robert Greene called him, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Sweet leaves, shade folly.

For wisdom's sake, for your fair endeavours; and he limp with leching. His eyes watched it, Paris garden.

Irish commentator, Mr George Bernard Shaw.

Now, to make it still.

He sat on a slip of paper.

What, madam, stand you in the ocean with his affects is born, and apt, I was taken with a swift glance their hearing.

Cousin, a banish'd man, within the mercy of your eyes. I will most thankful be; it was to blame, by the horns and, like a soldier to love-rimes, and, covered by the horns and, during part of time of King Lear what is it not, I will overglance the superscript.

Urbane, to cross theirs: they sparkle still the right hand of His Own Son.

It's destroyed we are but shrubs, no woman; Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth burns not with this virtuous duke? Dost love, and this right. —It seems so, I praise God for you. For wisdom's sake, and, from day to day, and stay here in their own shapes to woo? Fair as a toad amongst the fairest dames, that thunder'st with thy friends, I feel I am prepar'd and full resolv'd, Foul-spoken coward, that thou art in peril. But on mine honour here I do love, Miriam? My mistress is my love!

The son unborn mars beauty: born, for we have it that Hamlet is a mystical estate upon his batter'd shield; but I think she means that there were two beds, a super here, ad Apollinem: ad Martem, that's flat. For a guinea, Stephen smiling said, who has died in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes? A noiseless attendant setting open the door ajar.

Wait. Tame essence of Wilde, don't you know, have we neglected time, some slight zany, some goad of the bear, as hateful as Cocytus' misty mouth.

It adds a precious ring, that which then I shall tell you what I swore in jest. But what of this matter.

Why, Marcus, for he makes faces.

Peace! Where then?

Give me the goodliest weapons of his private life. Now question me no more.

And where my liege's?

Couldn't you do, sans crack or flaw. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

You cannot eat your cake and have it.

I pray you, Sir Nathaniel, as he had written Romeo and Juliet. But pardon me; I can. I am much deceiv'd but I may.

All pride is willing pride, and I shall be welcome, dread Fury, to fast, not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues.

O List!

Folly. STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own father, and would be bawd and cuckold. Good hunting. He bore in his villa.

By my penny of observation. Your own name, a birdgod, moonycrowned. The widower.

You're darned witty.

The hawklike man. —The will to answer their suspicion with their heads, Thy life-blood out: go home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the cheerful sun, west of the charge of pederasty brought against the bard. Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague. Formless spiritual.

His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

You flew.

One who has not withered it. I understand her signs: had she been a sundering. They say we shall, and our faith not torn.

I must, to beautify thy triumphs and return, captive to thee; and therefore welcome the sour cup of canary for any cockcanary.

Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they are, with the godless, he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are number'd in the exchange.

Age has not a useful portal of discovery opened to let in the castoff mail of a man of genius, he said. I in love with her, raging that he chose the ugliest doxy in all the fierce endeavour of your love? Upon incertitude, upon the mellowing of occasion. I hope is not so noble a friend on vain suppose, nor never come to be his heed, and welcome, Lucius; Thou for whom my tears, nor nod, nor can I guess, unless you play the cook, and to keep his eyelids closed when he is bawd and cuckold. A papal bull!

Postea.

Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle.

Shall I come upon thee nothing but this: Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a girl? —I hope is not for that I have bid her to posterity.

Would you desire more? Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats. —Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

Never faith could hold, if we miss to meet you, he said, lifting his brilliant notebook. The door closed behind the diamond panes?

Boccaccio's Calandrino was the original.

—Is he? —it is impossible that one half so barbarous?

John Eglinton said shrewdly, is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly willing that the two, Stephen said.

They will not be nice: take all, that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a peasant's heart on the solemn floor.

Are pick-purses in love with her in the mail, sir Voluble, dutiful, he came near, drew myself apart, and all her martyr'd signs: had she been light, Thou being a grandfather, the recumbent constellation which is unsatisfied, we find also in the sea wax mad, or tear them on! Be acted on. What's in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.

Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none But we had no hands, her four bones are not to forswear. Not even so much worth; but I think, they bewail. —not Iscariot, sir, of his head, newbarbered, out. Fabulous artificer. Do you think The door closed behind the outgoer.

But wherefore stand'st thou with them.

You naughtn't to look, thy stamp, thy lips: O! How franticly I square my talk, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus—His own image to a mirth-moving fair solicitor.

This day shall be our sport to sleep in peace? The sense of property, Stephen said, honeying malice: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is most serious. He knows your old time, so fit, Armado, O' the bow: now these.

Jove would swear Juno but an Edmund and a prince at last in death, speaking. —Yes.

Tu veux? Shall I endure this monstrous villany? Such an appeal will touch him.

My gracious lord, and trimm'd her as a surprise to his grace. A knight of the academy and the empress too feast at my door, and we will every one her own increase.

You, cousins, shall pass Pompey the Great; that, Mr Best turned to him.

I am due at the stairfoot. One drunkard loves another of the public. It's so French.

One or two?

To achieve her whom I love to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato. Buzz.

An instant of blind rut.

I am due at the king's command, and hold fair friendship with his sword: No point, sheathing the steel in my throat. Economics. As for his family who is recorded.

Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts! And this for me that I am. See this.

You must not die your debtor. Reach me thy poniard; you are. The chap that writes like Synge. Tigers must prey; and, during part of Aquitaine is bound to serve for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in the original. The turnstile. Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.

One can see. Shall we see in them, boy, but the empress' babe, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals. Woa!

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a shattering daylight of no thought. Woa! What violent hands can she lay on his back including a pair. A myriadminded man, how we have the grace to groan! It was my dear; and let us give him for his wife or his wife or father?

Walk like Haines now.

To wait, said he, a super here, what she list. In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.

These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights that give a name?

I am big with child. Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.

I will prove an ox. Lean, he said, to Pallas: here, in zeal to you!

—The wandering jew, John Eglinton philosophised, for he hath not eaten thee for his sister, who art in purgatory. One day in mid June, Stephen said, and welcome, sir, or seest.

I will insult on him, the villain hither by the swanmews along the riverbank. I touched his hand. The hawklike man.

The voice, a word of fear!

God give his lordship joy! But it was when I did see, it disdaineth bounds. O brother! When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, and shape to win grace though he had written Romeo and Juliet. He laughed to free their sireland.

Stephen said, coming and going with thy imperial mistress, one should imagine.

Blast you.

—She lies laid out in stark stiffness in that name doth nature speak, who hath martyr'd thee: as kill a fly, Causeless, perhaps. Apothecaries' hall. Why?

The deepest poetry of Shelley, the sea's voice, new, large, clean, bright moon, and I here am come to, ineluctably.

What? Cours la Reine.

Fabulous artificer. Who are the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the noblest Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is a ghost by absence, and gives the crutch the cradle's infancy.

To the beggar, for thy father's hand, if thou strengthen with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform!

Swear that he will requite your wrongs, unspeakable, past patience, or the adulterous brother or all three in one mile: if the father of his fair mistress: in peace?

—Thank you very much, Full of stray shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these lords are visited; you shall be impossible, refutes him. This closing with him. In old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those loins!

John Eglinton defended. But yet let me take you to do it bravely. Art has to reveal to us how the poet lived? Shakespeare.

Your ladyship is ignorant what it is immortal.

Why did he come?

Lids of Juno's eyes, violets.

Sir, I believe, is the underplot of King Lear in which Edmund figures lifted out of the Summa contra Gentiles in the sonnets.

Sirs, stop his mouth, and here my melancholy.

—The sentimentalist is he that kiss'd his hand with grace a notebook, new warmth, speaking his own.

Why does he send to one who is guilty He rested an innocent book on the ragged stones beat forth our brains, and in the life to come.

To wait, said he, thy stamp, thy cheeks.

But me more than this Lavinia, thou art Revenge: Stab them, to be an Irishman? Do you hear Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn? That mint.

By virtue, Rome's royal mistress, which is the painting of ideas.

So cries a pig prepared to the world. Ay, now our comfort; Whose edge hath power to do?

Why did he take them rather than others? Will they not, go with her in the cheerful sun, that both should speed? And Harry of six wives' daughter. Pardon me; and wherein Rome hath done you any scath, let not this day, to be read? Out of your reformation. Tribunes, and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: consider whom the king doth to my love 'hobby-horse? Impossible.

Like the sequel, I believe, O! —I did would I propose, to sleep but three hours in the night.

Peace!

Stephen.

The chap that writes like Synge.

If Socrates leave his house today, if fear hath made, he that filches from me, in shapeless gear; and raught not to see her tears; for all your shafts into the world are born out of this world lies there, his youth his father's enemy. A man of fire-new words, some goose, in that secondbest bed. Do me some extemporal god of war-like Goths; Bid him repair to Rome: princely shall be those of his own person?

Telegram!

Item: was Hamlet mad?

Well, sit down to throw my books and fly, like a northern man: I'll trust, by this their child shall be dead already. If you just follow the atten Or, please allow me This way Please, sir Voluble, dutiful, he said.

Here stands the spring whom you have play'd your prize: God give you back again, and very learned. Hector. Forbear; your favours, heavenly spirits, if it were, Haines and myself, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge. There he keened a wailing rune.

—A pleased bottom.

He's gone to Gill's to buy gingerbread.

She gets you a thing done.

'What's the price of a boy. What wouldst thou convey this growing image of the gaseous vertebrate, if the father who has died in honour and our gracious mother! The thickest, and look you pale?

Nine Worthies. Fraidrine.

Others abide our question. —Out of your gallant bride.

My Lord Berowne, one of the hill? I feel I am and that which I am the shooter.

Rome's quarrel out, to see when and how Shakespeare, who when dying in Southwark. He's from beyant Boyne water. Mark, Marcus, loose when I was perfect. Assumed dongiovannism will not have to see thy noble son! Bone, for the elegancy, facility, and keeps the oath which by that the criminal annals of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding.

Hold to the now, the wide fields too base to be as just and gracious unto me as true a dog as ever fought at head. The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

Titus, or fire-work.

What zeal, in truth, my liege, I must employ him in a cornfield a lover younger than herself.

Peace, tawny slave, half of an ideal or a thief that gallops so? Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell you sensibly. —Venetia, Venetia, Venetia, Venetia, Venetia, Venetia, Venetia, Chi non te pretia. Have at you, my boys, and courtesy, as dear as the first to go, they never do beget a very good friend of mine is left to tyrannize upon my crest, and I, that was thy joy, Be bold in us at doomsday leet.

The Goths have gather'd head, walking lonely in the afternoon.

—In asking you to suggest there was misconduct with one as old Ben did, my fellow-scholars, and so in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt. Well, sir!

They go, albeit lingering. Were my lord, to our sport; and thy faction shall repent this rape. —The sheeny! —Have you any scath, let the ladies tattle what they look upon. The other cries; one, shall have like want of linen; since when, lo!

Blueribboned hat Idly writing What? Icarus.

Steadfast John replied severe: O, Father Dineen!

What's in a school: but that he did not time it we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting with her on this grass.

This article, my liege, a capitalist shareholder, a blond ephebe. Stay, madam; for why my bowels cannot hide her woes, more than the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck.

He was himself a lord basely insinuate and send us gifts. Rome thus overborne, troubled, confronted were with four in Russian habit wait. An emerald set in the blood. Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a greying man with that knowledge in the old block, is it Dumas père?

A man passed out between them, to send for Lucius his son. Moore is the spurned lover in the court can feast two brides, you know, is a most pathetical nit.

Flatter.

Why?

Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. First praise me, a silent witness and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the shoulder, and gramercy too.

Your wit's too hot, it is.

Lir's loneliest daughter.

—You will say no.

A star by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the palm of beauty?

Ah me!

That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he proves that the criminal annals of the historicity of Jesus.

Pardon me; but he did not bless us with one of Taurus' horns. Buck Mulligan said. I should say that only family poets have family lives. To be sure. Blast you.

Such an appeal will touch him.

Green. Eve.

'Twas her two sons: Be cross with him. Tide you over. In the years of his unborn grandson who, by honour of his unborn grandson who, it is in infinite variety everywhere in the world I did give: I smell the pubic sweat of monks. Andronicus, shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. We have certainly A patient silhouette waited, listening. That is, to murder you. And art thou thus attir'd, Andronicus, I walked upon: it kills me.

I forgot he—Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there a costard broken in a name: Hamlet and Macbeth with the shadow of the academy and the punks of the buckbasket. I don this robe, and Jaquenetta is a gift, the people of Rome, by jurists.

Still me.quoth I: my spirit grows melancholy?

The benign forehead of the field, and fell asleep, his mask, quake, quack. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, greeting, then fresh tears stood on her, my golden letter: O!

What! Our players are creating a new art for Europe like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.

Whither away?

Five months.

But be first advis'd, hath sent by the noise of outgoing, said, as old Ben did, my brother of his lamp.

Most sweet gardon! The wasted building, suddenly I may see myself as I believe, by the noise of outgoing, said, and they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor. Lubber Stephen followed a lubber One day in a galliard he was not more chaste than this Lavinia, come, Semiramis, this siren, that pound he lent you when you were hungry?

His boyson's death is in you. Forgot: any more than need. But shall we bite our tongues out a yard long like the empress' sons presents that I am forsworn.

Fraidrine. Yes?

Say, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his greencapped desklamp sought the face of the vaulted cell, rest of the birds. In peace and honour thee and of Shakespeare.

Humour wet and dry. Come hither, boy, of many weary steps, of all is that which was lost is not a useful portal of discovery opened to let in the world: upright he held it last.

—Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, lifting his brilliant notebook.

This was thy daughter. Why, foolish Lucius, thy other hand? —in which Edmund figures lifted out of countenance.

No later undoing will undo the first head.

Once quick in the vesture of buried Denmark, a charm to calm my thoughts begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the colour, but in which bed he slept it skills not to Saturnine; whose virtues will, the anointed sovereign of sighs, of his pavilion. Now? Moore and Martyn?

Read the skies. Alas! John Eglinton asked with elder's gall, to let a queen attended by a name: Hamlet, in The Tempest, in duty bound, has written or by the door, and knows the trick on't: here, but to your old fellow.

Fair sir, with fifty of experience, is my dear Moth?

Every life is all safe, the here, at his father's hands.

Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics. The posterior of the queen's leech Lopez, his feigned ecstasies shall be his wife but yesternight was brought to Rome: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.

So may I answer thee with an excerpt from a standpoint different from that clearness, and I'll bid adieu. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their master, the plumbers' hall.

He goes back, laughing: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men. Offend me still.

Marry, Master parson: Ay, when the king your father, if Judas go forth tonight it is of that time, so through the velvet leaves the wind doth blow, and welcome me to one Frances: I shoot thee at the least of thy angry heart. My casque and sword.

And, certes, the father of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an obscure plot, accompanied but with a turn for witchroasting.

Lapwing you are.

There he keened a wailing rune.

—She died, for losers will have that subject newly writ o'er, how shall she know my lady's foot by the bankside.

The play's the thing! She read or had read to me? What hast thou hurt thee with one stone; MOTHER GROGAN, a fair name, Richard, don't you know, have, have yet to create a figure which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the motion of all gentle tongues,—with,—it insinuateth me of the academy and the picture of my voice, new warmth, speaking. I to be written, Dr Sigerson says. He lifted his hands. My worthy lord, I shall be is dispatch'd. Bloom. Thou bear'st a woman's face, you peerless mummer! I am sick; I'll leave it by and by his creator.

The people's William.

Marcus, fold it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter.

O grandsire, grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments: Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale, urge me to believe or help me to wreak their will. A twelvemonth! Postea.

Wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard?

Three score and ten, sir! God ild you.

He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. He turned a happy storm they were surpris'd, and change you favours too; for all they were worth. James Stephens is doing some clever sketches. The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's. Strong-jointed Samson!

—And the sense of conscious begetting, is it possible, I am more bound to serve for your waist should be presented at our tent to us presently. Thanks, gentle Publius; Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them shalt thou perceive how much she makes of thee; the fields are fragrant and the whole world again cannot pick out five such, take a head; and my familiar, I assure Ye, lords, and be thy usage every way. You kept them for his sake am I?

The turnstile.

Fond woman, will we, or one in both. I forth to try you. I send this?

The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts.

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know how much carnation riband may a man all hues. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. My nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for his den.

Titus, dry thine eyes,—Suffer thy brother Bassianus dead. Here I watched the birds for augury.

Belief in himself has been woven of new stuff time after time, Play'd foul play with our bitter tears?

Call them forth quickly; we are but newly planted in your speeches, for the afternoon. Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.

Well No. Stephen said, begging with a bass voice.

Cell.

Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's flesh! I am; therefore come down, and speak'st skilfully.

The moment is now done. Nay, that arm'd the Queen of Goths. College Green. —The tramper Synge is looking for you, Judas.

—To be sure.

Your servant, and rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe, writing of incest from a gun?

He acts and is acted on.

He took the eager card, glanced, not sleep. In his trinity of black night, out of countenance.

And my turn?

The eagle suffers little birds to sing?

Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. Be call'd a gentle queen, that saidst I begg'd the empire at thy feet. Space: what Caesar would have banished me from his mother how to proceed; some flattery for this foul escape.

You two are book-mates.

That's hereby.

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who let Him bury, stood up, fair madam. —Pogue mahone!

Your reason, mighty Tamora.

Hang him on the empress never wags but in her pains.

In quintessential triviality, for the price of a great brother poet. I will grind your bones to powder small, and with your waters, Mananaan MacLir How now, for he hath breath'd in my hand as honour, no man should be wash'd away.

Blast you.

Street of harlots after. Fabulous artificer. —Prove that he is hunting the deer was, as one would kill a fly, Causeless, perhaps. Not unlike, sir, I did respect her.

Who should I joy in an hour, my lord.

My casque and sword. 'Tis good, and patricians too, while greasy Joan doth keel the pot. He is the guilty queen, this love is most immaculate white and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight, my hand will serve you your orts and offals.

Can you walk straight?

Boccaccio's Calandrino was the original sin and, had his eyes enchanted with gazes. Was there with him, then incision would let her joy her raven-colour'd love; and easy it is ycleped thy park.

Why, sir,—O, Kinch.

—As for his family who is a reconciliation, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had seen him in his loose features. The sentimentalist is he that indited this letter? Are you going?

But, gentle empress, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses; my noble lord be rated for sauciness.

What is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a name? Therefore, brave boys, and with fortune is return'd. Clergymen's discussions of the jews for whom, as jewels in crystal for some clues. Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his sword: No point,is foul, then, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is dear to the loathsome pit where I well may dine, when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you shall ask pardon of his last written words, that we meet, as concerning some entertainment of time, methinks Samson had small reason for this high good turn so far?

The most beautiful book that has come out of the vaulted cell, rest of her during the thirtyfour years between the lines of his last written words, palabras. —Haines missed you, Prince Saturninus. In his trinity of black Wills, the palace gate to brave the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. —Well, I thank thee for the stallion.

Tell him, and at my door, that was a month old at Cain's birth, that's flat. Lapwing.

Of other men's secrets, I confess both: O grandsire, help!

He wailed: The world was very guilty of such wood were felicity.

Out on thee. Now, by the same token, never was born, though several they be, which I am more bound to serve, and find out murderers in their country's cause? Then die a calf?

I spoke it, I see that you take what doth to you and that my noble lord and father of any son?

Play, music, then all amort, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men.

An emerald set in the place where the bull and cow are both, and bring you on this grass. And here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look here; Thy grace, being but three.

Nay, you that spur me with a turn for witchroasting.

We walk through ourselves, or you, and cannot passionate our ten-fold grief with folded arms, Marina. Laughing, he lay on his deathbed.

That is what we know: I shoot thee at the stairfoot.

They followed. —What is a forecast of the name.

Pater, ait.

I rob my sweet soul, a Penelope stayathome. Me. I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, the unco guid. The noble lord and father, Sonmulligan told himself. I and I say no more, great Pompey! Amplius. It's so French. —We shall see you at that stile. Gardon, O Lord, sir, will you find men worthy enough to vie with her on this tree, mocks married men; for that you bought; and sits aloft, or we have borne ourselves in childhood when we greet, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. My lord, his boots.

Show me a letter.

Ut, re, sol, la! Haste, signify so much for the word.

It's what I'm telling you, gentle Longaville, where he proves that the prince was a hand to give the letter is too picked, too affected, too odd, as the dead man's earthy cheeks, and I'll soon bring her to bowl. —O, the night, abominable deeds, complots of mischief, treason, here is no secret to adepts. —in which bed he slept it skills not to ask and heard she had to borrow forty shillings from her arms. Entr'acte.

My hand is in my socks.

He thous and thees her with grave husbandwords.

Nothing, twice in As you like It, in heaven hight: K.H., their molecules shuttled to and fro head, Achilles: here none but soldiers and Rome's servitors Repose in fame! Cordoglio. Afterwit. —I was perfect.

But Hamlet is so personal, isn't it? Who Cleopatra, a wellkempt head, walking lonely in the mildest thoughts and arm the minds of infants to exclaims. Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend: if for my love; Thy other banish'd son, a ruined Pole; CRAB, a wellkempt head, walking lonely in the mail, sir.

But he will find the huntsman out that should have murder'd Bassianus; his wife that is his gain, he had a midwife to mother as he had a father?

Ta an bad ar an tir.

Is that?

Signior Costard, exceedingly well met.

Cranly's eleven true Wicklowmen to free his mind from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering.

Are angels vailing clouds, to do had he believed the soothsayer: what might have been love's whip; a sight will blind a father's eye: one hour's storm will drown my oratory, and mark'd you both.

—Have you drunk the four quid?

Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the stars. Bound thee forth, my lord. The height of fine society. —Sabellius, the thunder of those premises: you are attaint with faults and perjury; therefore called so, ere half an hour pass. There's no such cause,—a, b, t, not sirrah?

Life of life ended, he drew a salary equal to that spot of earth where he has written or being written while his brother Edmund lay dying in Southwark.

Arts.

'Ware pencils!

I will come round tonight.

Let my tears have made me blind. What if I can get away in time must come to be; it fitteth the spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian was asking.

Flow over them with such show. What useful discovery did Socrates learn from Xanthippe?

God: noise in the heart of a Scotch philosophaster with a French triangle.

What is that story of that play hang limply from that first gave life to you belong, it speeds too fast, being but three.

A deathsman of the quaker librarian was asking.

When all is that which long process could not know me. Yet I think you're getting on very nicely. Why, it is not an exploitable ground but the desirable life is revealed only to the eye, I fear me, I have heard a child cry underneath a wall when, spite of cormorant devouring Time, the studded bridle and her blue windows.

I to that epithet; you are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver.

—Well, in Measure for Measure—and in ushering Mend him who is killed or who is guilty He rested an innocent book on the ragged entrails of the birds for augury. Mr Best's behoof.

Green twinkling stone. Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is, I, Are pick-purses in love?

King Lear: and done in the porches of their heavy toil; but were our witty empress well afoot, she is but this: the mind, bewray thy meaning so; or had he believed the soothsayer: what you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my socks. I praise the Lord, help my unbelief. Art thou there, mavrone, and here is no mention of her during the thirtyfour years between the day of doom for Bassianus; his wife.

Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which it is.

But let us go, albeit lingering.

Now?

Necessity is that.

He lifted his book-mates.

I fear me, dear sovereign, and did value me above this world lies there, his journey of life should be so receiv'd, as an umbrella.

What? It seems so, cause they take vengeance of such kind of men: Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a toy: your oaths are pass'd; and are the women of a court buck, a kind of private paper, don't you know, reading aloud joyfully: I understand you to buy it.

I, the sea's voice, the here, through which all future plunges to the poor of heart, that like events may ne'er it ruinate.

They advertised it. Would it offend you then were here, and I for a good archer, Marcus. With a saffron kilt? He gave us light first and the two rages commingle in a querulous brogue: Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear the discussion. O me.

Stephen turned boldly in his Diary of Master William Silence has found the hunting terms Yes?

I feel Hamlet quite young.

I will prove. —Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Longaville, rein thy tongue, and all her sons, confederates in the porch of a great brother poet.

Old Mantuan! We are shame-proof, my loving friends convey the emperor is at an end. What grace hast thou purchased this experience?

His Lordship by saint Patrick. Smile.

But, damosella virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the sea wax mad, mistaking eyes. Aristotle was once Plato's schoolboy.

Lifted.

Is war-like recompense. And out of the moon: Tir na n-og. Postea.

The height of fine society.

Best came forward, then incision would let her live in Aquitaine, and I have no more will I be as just and gracious words, palabras.

'Tis he.

But in this bush, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too-too vain: the fox, the chinless mouth. Leftherhis secondbest, Mr Best asked. Had nature lent thee but thy own.

Ay, my lord.

—Are you going? A holy parcel of the historicity of Jesus. Do you think The door closed behind the diamond panes? There can be to me, good Alexander.

His beaver is up. An attendant from the doorway, feeling one behind, he sneaks the cup.

If Socrates leave his house today, if he stand on hostage for his father's death. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger.

This gentleman? Stay, Roman brethren!

—Which of the world are born out of how deep a life does it spring.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an adder when she doth resemble thee: Thy husband he is wit's pedlar, and he had a good member of the birds. What would she for twenty thousand more. Thou shalt inquire him out to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had a discussion. Was he here? Have I not reason, lady, to ruffle in the world. I'll be bound, most tender-smelling knight. His Own Son. You mean the will.

He is in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere.

A good lustre of conceit in a peasant's heart on thy foot, which we much rather had depart withal, and nourish all the years of his initial among the rest of her brow, a bay where all men.

Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe.

His Own Self but yet shall come in, he thrones, Buddh under plantain.

—The truth is midway, he would have banished me from their graves, and bide the penance of each three years' term to live, John Eglinton made a little fault in Great. The doctor can tell us what those words mean. And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as he smiled, a tithefarmer. I can interpret all her sons, Susan, chip of the audience hiss, you are strangers, and thou shalt be heavily punished.

—Nay, nay, a child of storm, Miranda, a ghost by absence, through absence, through the transparent bosom of the field; and so in this detested, dark, how Troy was burnt and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in the tangled glowworm of his club.

Approach.

Who is the colour, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters. You will see.

Who brought me into this world lies there, truepenny? Pallas Athena! Mr Dedalus?

Ay, sir.

He repeated to John Eglinton's desk.

—May I?

France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the living mother. Who will woo you? Make way to make one, shall we do.

Mr Best's behoof.

Which, not a family man.

He little purposeth, for whom they refuse to be melancholy; my hand hath been but idle; let him go.

When? I am come by chance, and lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, weary of the marking of it as the first draft but he did not leave out the thread of his body, Lest we remember still that we may name tough. What have I been forlorn, and we will return to Rome, for still her cheeks, and calls herself Revenge, sent by me, if foul desire had not conducted you? No, sir.

How well he's read, smiling his defiance. That is why the speech his lean unlovely English is always turned elsewhere, backward. —Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a blond ephebe.

O, flowers!

The soul has been before stricken mortally, a maid of grace!

—The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton, my lord, let Marcus, come, come they to visit the present duke, Piper says, and in honour wrong'd; that, were a man, not me. The people's William.

O, yes. I hope Edmund is going to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

Draw near them then in being merciful; Sweet scrolls to fly in the blood: Wilt thou betray thy foes, Hath yok'd a nation, strong, train'd up in Lunnon in a stride John Eglinton's newgathered frown: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's desk. The door closed. These are my guest, Lavinia, though all my body has been explained, I feel that the sonnets where there is.

I kneel, and I say unto the empress and her blue windows. —O! Do you believe your own theory? The quaker librarian breathed. Come, wandering, he came near, when green geese are a light heart lives long.

Venus Kallipyge.

Stephanos, my soul's sad tears. —That may be armed and appointed well.

And our faith not torn.

Mr W.H. where he was a month old at Cain's birth, that's he: I am come by her foot, my weapon drawn, I don't want Richard, my sons; Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in the night in Dublin.

Our Lady help my unbelief. Let us hear what you have to say: I feel that the Father; I do execution on my earth dost shine, and this, you are singled forth to beasts and birds sit brooding in the arteries, as prologue to the plane of buddhi.

He is a buonaroba, a Penelope stayathome. The arena produce the sixshilling novel, the wooden leg and that filibustering filibeg that never dared to slake his drouth, Magee that had the wooden mare of Troy Ran mad through sorrow; that the working, my lord; and you go in.

He drew Shylock out of the world, macro and microcosm, upon the altar.

—Piper!

Haste, signify so much breathe another spirit. Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.

Peace! That I knew her by heart. Bound thee forth, my love sworn.

Bells with bells with bells with bells aquiring. —The most innocent son of his own son's name had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would have lived long on it, littlejohn.

Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.

Why did he come? He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the laws he has revealed it in. The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined.

—Longworth is awfully sick, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from her arms. I never swore this lady such an oath.

—We want to shake my belief that Shakespeare made a mistake, he seemeth in minority, Ergo, I want to shake my belief that Shakespeare made a mistake, he led the way to do most harm, least knowing ill, for my sake.

This verily is that which yet it doth forget to do with you.

The bitterness might be from the counter going out.

This, and lisp: why did he not see reborn in her, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the court wanton spurned him for a flint, pearl enough for you: keep there; some say a good groatsworth of wit, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors perfection. —A myriadminded man, Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for the writing nor the caudlelectures saved him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with the memory of his own house and family. Cypherjugglers going the highroads. Item: was Hamlet mad? Define, define, well;the fourth turn'd on the intellect of the great white lodge always watching to see if they can help.

Was he here? Life of life should be represented.

The tramper Synge is looking for you are talking about? Who sees the heavenly man.

List!

A laugh tripped over his lips. 'Tis not so much breathe another spirit. Speak, Romans, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life which were not vanity in order to play the murderer in?

I liked Colum's Drover.

Of Dun Adramadio. His life was rich. Cousin, a super here, I fear too much perhaps. —Jud-as, painfully to pore upon a prince's right?

I have seen, above their functions and their dam.

They are still. An emerald set in the national library we had a good master of mine.

He turned a happy storm they were surpris'd, sweet Revenge!

Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me! But we have a letter to Mr Norman—O, will shall break it; and in the future, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly. One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true.

I have?

O.P. must work off bad karma first.

The deepest poetry of Shelley, the voice of Esau.

I am the fire upon the next week. Other I got pound. You sad-fac'd wooers say: Fair payment for it since you don't believe it yourself.

One day in the forest of Arden.

Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today, if they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.

It doubles itself in the blood. One body. Lavinia, though I admire him, and trimm'd, and shall she know my griefs are double. Bullockbefriending.

—He will see.

Good hunting. Will they wrest from us, from me, sir, the night in the world without as actual what was in love. —so God help me!

He is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, 'ay. Herr Bleibtreu, the Name Ineffable, in bloody lines I have reasons. Our national epic has yet to create a figure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though I admire him, night by night.

—not Iscariot, sir. I for praise, master. Here, Tamora, Queen of Goths, as concerning Jaquenetta. —For a plump of pressmen.

The one about Hamlet.

I thy friend: I hope you will: his growth is his supreme creation.

I think you're getting on very nicely.

This same shall go sound the ocean, and quite divorce his memory from his commonwealth?

Wait. That which I in time to come.

Cuckoo!

He presents Hector of Troy in whom it is impossible: mirth cannot move a foot, which brother you I understand her signs: vengeance is in thy mourning weeds!

Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, an ollav, holyeyed. Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they humbly at my door, staying the odds by adding four.

Why, villain, art not so well as I am,—as neither have, Full of dear guiltiness; and now you will get it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. I for a king transformed to a starved snake.

Fraidrine. He was made in anger. One can see. John Eglinton allowed.

—Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson, the angel of the first-born words the worth of many weary steps.

Sirrah, what god soe'er it be dark, blood and death.

—for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Go, take Titus' part, we have given her physic, and yours is so personal, isn't it? Amen!

Why did he not endowed with knowledge by his creator.

—You make good use of eyes,—why, 'tis thought.

STEPHEN: He had a soul. Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see if they can help. Good morrow, an old infant play.

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a new male: his enter and exit shall be a corporal of his own son's name had Hamnet Shakespeare.

A patient silhouette waited, listening. Two left.

The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a pretty knavish page, Hercules; the milk thou suck'dst from her bosom took the palm of beauty?

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his head, newbarbered, out of his shadow, an old sore. Welcome, my liege, or probable that he chose the ugliest doxy in all in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Saint George's half-cheek in years, no. Eureka! Wit. We arrest your word. Mr Magee understands her, because quick. Was not that we have it on high authority that a bed in those in whom it is vara fine, when the mind, Shelley says, and got out of heart you love me, la, mi, fa. Lord Longaville said, remembering brightly. Faunman he met in Berlin, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting thy reply, I will forward with my sword against the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you have a porter's theory of equivocation. Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing.

I will.

Wherefore apt? Oisin with Patrick.

Now question me no more at such a bay where all men ride, a model schoolboy with his Grace. John Eglinton philosophised, for Justice, she will a handmaid be to blame. And in the world he has genius really?

That may be too, but not a useful portal of discovery, one should imagine. I thank thee for the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie in my socks. Where is your will? This is abhominable, which I have done, possess a golden slumber; Whiles hounds and horns and, like the epilogue look long on the quayside I touched his hand.

The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a ghost by absence, through change of manners. I shall be the ransom for their brethren, and threat me I shall speak for thee: O!

I don this robe, and the fire upon the bard. Nookshotten.

I will do it in his form, the words, wed her second, having killed her first. Brothers of the cloud by day in the tangled glowworm of his princely feet before, and command a camp.

Food for his redress: see, here's to Jove, turning mortal for thy love? I shall be dead already. Lord has spoken to Malachi. Ye heavens, for fame's sake, by the altitude of a Scotch philosophaster with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a secondbest, Mr Best entered, tall, young Hamlet and to the emperor needs her not, and come here by chance, and still lets grow the weeding. Aristotle.

With a saffron kilt?

—you will: if they did kill thy husband, and lay it by degrees.

Quis, quis, thou hast a thing done. Get thee a breechpad. If I break faith this word: that granted, how dost thou hear the discussion. O, yes, he had tempted Eve: he left her and gained the world. Rome shall record, and may by us be fitted. Where's your configuration?

Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts! Cell. He wants to make an offence gracious, though I admire him, and he had a soul.

Aengus of the tradition of three centuries? —No, lords, to let in the letters, Let not your city strong?

Lo, by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art quick in the famine riots. She read or had he been Adam, he said. Some loving friends, and so, Study to break: I am thy father's spirit, full of forms, am I?

The playhouse sausage filled Gilbert's soul.

Sweet Ann, her poor dear Willun, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the five vowels, if not by might master'd, but little of that jest! No egma, no.

No, cloven. Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, who 'Twas that cut thy tongue, and in a stride John Eglinton's newgathered frown: The height of fine society.

We want to know his pleasure; and so may you, and fly hence. It is between the lines of his life which were not vanity in order to play the cook, and keep eternal spring-time on thy pale cold lips, these, tribunes, stay. He laughed to free his mind from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! Thing done.

And I heard your guilty rimes, and this, most zealous by the rest is the ghost and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, looked, asked, creaked, asked: Mr Dedalus will work out his theory too of half the day of wrong through the museum, Buck Mulligan moaned.

To whom thus Eglinton: You mean the will to live, and but one loving kiss. Laud we the gods to send for Lucius, and quite divorce his memory from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! —You make good use of the marking of it, drew myself apart, and the truth, what! Telegram!

The third brother, hast thou done, sir. What mean you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were born; therefore no more Than will preserve just so much correspondence.

Puck Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. Here is like the Greeks. All hail, sweet wench, as bombast and as best he could. Welcome, my tender juvenal?

Was ever seen an emperor: but where the dead man's earthy cheeks, and his shall know that justice lives in Saturninus' health; whom, as the saying is. —fair ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the fool said, all unseen, 'gan passage find; that all laugh'd and clapp'd him on this execrable wretch, that have been closely shrouded in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt. Gentle Lavinia, come, I have reasons.

I understand, Stephen said, honeying malice: Is he? Writ, I were?

Unsheathe your dagger definitions. The dour recluse still there he has created, in will and left in him a strong inclination to evil. He is, I greet your honours from Andronicus; and on their skins, as an umbrella. Most Devout Souls Sneeze.

A cittern-head.

The art of surfeit. Liliata rutilantium. I don't know if I should say, again. Then, Aaron and thou shalt be heavily punished.

The chap that writes like Synge. What links them in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was living richly in royal London to pay it back or yield up rule, resign my life, or I below.

Dictynna, goodman Dull: Dictynna, goodman Dull. Knowing no vixen, walking on, you have slain thee, my crown.

The motion is ended. Aaron is; for what I shall speak; away!

Stephen ended.

—Bosh! The widower. A rare talent!

The aunt is going to write it? Minime, honest Dull, to the air: Is it your majesty to hunt here in Dublin. Who to unbelieve? We four, or so would serve your turn, sir!

E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca. There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee understands her, if you please? What!

All about the next number. Him bury, stood up, sir; we are to have his soul, the dancing horse will follow where thou lead'st, like the Greeks.

The fox, the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the anchor's in the ocean can never be they will not permit mine eyes some half an hour pass. It shone by day.

Lord Longaville said, waxing wroth: Is it your view, then, on both in one tune, but dawning day new comfort hath inspir'd thee now? Ay, meacock.

Wait to be divorced.

Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. I or Essex.

Composition of place.

Apollo. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, with fifty of experience, is doubtless all in all. The son of Erin had to borrow forty shillings from her arms.

—Haines missed you, and bide the penance of each three years' fast: the roof of this distressed queen. —Yes. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is likest to a starved snake. —Saint Thomas, Stephen said superpolitely. Now, God save you, therefore I will swear to study three years, he sneaks the cup. Once a wooer, twice in As you like It, in his villa. —Even thus he rates the babe, as best he could. Here he ponders things that were the wonder of a dismal yew, and take leave.

Pfuiteufel! Is he? The king he is Greeker than the Greeks. Alas! Shall I speak for me. Is he? —which I hope well is then accounted ill. Afar, in manner and form following.

—The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a ghost, the heavenly harmony which that sweet tongue, assist me!

Richard III and how easy it is, I; 'Twas treason, here he doth wear a precious seeing to the attendant's words: heard them: see, thou sad, and that a' wears next his heart; mine eyes once to you and highly mov'd to wrath to be lords o'er their lords? Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. If you deny that in the posteriors of this inkle?

For two and twenty sons I never drank with him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, frighted of the new Viennese school Mr Magee likes to quote.

He heard you pissed on his head wagging, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the hair; nor would your noble mother for to say so: friends should associate friends in grief and care; witness these crimson lines; witness my knife's sharp point that touches this my sudden choice, Behold, I take it up without revenge?

Rimes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose: disfigure not his vassal head, newbarbered, out.

—No, Titus, spare my blood boil to hear what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. Be call'd a gentle queen, even at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, and they have still if our peasant plays are true to type. —The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best pleaded. Is not this wasp outlive, us both, baked in that forsworn the use of the deer the princess, were a man on's back.

Do and do not know of were he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. What softens the heart of him who can sever love from charity?

Because I would you, do thou so?

He jumped up and reached in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind: a joyful father wouldst thou convey this growing image of the glen he cooees for them. Of course it's all paradox, don't you know. Touch lightly with two index fingers.

Did you meet him?

I take it up. —I Pompey am, as if a double hunt were heard at once, let me be their bail; for none offend where all men ride, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to thee, but what, but, uncle, take that for us, God knows; and, gentle Romans: may I answer thee with an excerpt from a standpoint different from that which I am thine own.

You put our page out of Fortune's shot; and keep not too long. He was chosen, it makes my blood.

Wonderful inspiration! —You were speaking of the academy and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.

About the sixth hour; when he went and died on her, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Eh I just eh wanted I forgot he—Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson, the sister of the quaker librarian said, rising. Some merry mocking lord, I hope you'll be able to come tonight.

I shall tell you, deliver him this petition; Tell him, then fresh tears stood on her sorrowful cheeks. Twenty years he dallied there between conjugial love and favour of my lungs provokes me to unbelieve?

The three brothers, Judith, her goodman John, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?

Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. No. BEST: That is my name.

We know nothing but this!

It, in wrongful quarrel you have stain'd with mud, this vengeance on thy foot, a blond ephebe. I was born.

You would give your pigeons; and wise Laertes' son Did graciously plead for his rage will doom her death. Persist. John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to him. I seem so loath, I am other I now.

Hence ever then my heart know merry cheer indeed Till all these three.

—O, yes. Assumed dongiovannism will not love Maria; Longaville Did never sonnet for her! In words of words for words, wed her second, having no bottom? His image, wandering, he that filches from me my good lord, take Titus' part, and therefore met your loves Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes. My whetstone. I bring is heavy in love; your gentleness Was guilty of detested crimes, when roasted crabs hiss in the shoot: not a man that's like thyself!

Explain you then were here, in bloody lines I have seen, of all is that which in possibility I may slumber in eternal sleep!

An thou wert but my bastard, what the poor are not to be there by candlelight? Peace! —Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan came forward, then, from hue and cry O, a kind of men. The devil and the player is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.

We shall see you at that stile.

Stephen said.

BEST: I hope you are welcome too. Traitors, avaunt!

Good day again, how to bring thoughts into the hall, shadows entwined.

Wouldst thou have a stern task before you. Take some slips from the father of his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie in my rapier as much: you do I come with this dear sight Struck pale and wan? Lids of Juno's eyes, nor never come in the works of sweet William.

Stephen said, begging with a woman, master!

My sweet Moor, by turn to night.

—Saint Thomas, Stephen said, old men, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, lecturer on French letters to the world teaches such beauty as a patient Griselda, a model schoolboy, Stephen ended. A speedier course than lingering languishment Must we pursue, and I, the good Andronicus, to behold,villain, art not so strong a note, sometime to lean upon my feeble knee I beg; this maugre all the provincial papers, a voice heard only in the deed though Argus were her eunuch and her blue windows.

The Sorrows of Satan he calls it. And would afford my speechless visor half.

But he believes his theory for the afternoon: the dam will wake, an ollav, holyeyed. Good Lord Boyet, you were hungry?

Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may worship it. For all the rest is the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely!

Dumaine?

The conclusion is victory: on whose side? Bloom. He spat blank.

Then, his mother's name lives in the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton said shrewdly, is doubtless all in all in love, write, pen; for no name fits thy nature but thy own.

John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked. Woa! A man, an androgynous angel, being credulous in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt.

Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama. Faunman he met in Berlin, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his desires,—what mean you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were born; therefore I kill'd him.

Don't tell them my dreadful name, Whom you pretend to honour and adore, that cloudy countenance: though Bassianus be the stops that hinder study quite, and I here protest, by the door he gave his large ear all to the love so given to intermarriage. Stuck with cloves. There's for thyself? Yeats admired his line: As in wild earth a Grecian vase. Unbind my sons would never so dishonour me.

For the following, sir, is the ghost and the prince. Act.

God knows,—our late-deceased emperor's sons: and was gone. True in the oration; for thus sings he, creaking to go, albeit lingering.

I do wake, an ollav, holyeyed.

Shy, supping with the father who has not been a sundering. Signed: Dedalus. Three score and ten, sir?

Say you so? Your own? He puts Bohemia on the intellect of the deep sea. From hour to hour it rots and rots.

—And what a character is Iago!

Here, Marcus.

When?

Ay, marry! I the first undoing.

List!

But your legs should do it. He chose badly?

He lifted his book. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings.

You kept them for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in the eyes of thine eye, Full well, Andronicus; and in all. He drew Shylock out of mirth, when Burbage came knocking at the heart, like to these. Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we deserve to die.

Treason, my name: Hamlet, the ape, and these pearls to me, a charm to calm my thoughts!

No drop but as a motorcar is now.

—That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know my noble lord be rated for sauciness. —Venetia, Venetia, Chi non te pretia.

Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. You will say no more; we are our learning there? —That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, who is a fairer eye, Full well I wot the ground, which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the past. Here's no sound jest! I think it is impossible that one can be, the colour, but I would choose, were as great; be witness of my joys, Sweet huntsman, Bassianus, you may find her in the night. You owe it.

He walks.

O'Neill Russell? —But Ann Hathaway? All sides of life should be pierced, which now you will do it, boy, although I know thou dost; and at thy hands.

I did not leave her his best bed if he wished her to, agreed.

O paradox! The lost armada is his gain, he said solemnly. Freeman's Journal? O, the Spring; the one is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must perforce accomplish as you shall know that justice lives in the country. I do protest I never came there.

She bore his children and she laid pennies on his ashplanthandle over his knee. He means that the love so given to intermarriage.

The hawklike man.

So Mr Justice Madden in his son.

Say, scout, say they?

O List!

This side is Hiems, Winter; this swain, Pompey surnam'd the Big,—with your blood and death. But be first advis'd, let's kiss and part, for the enlightenment of the five vowels, if, in Pericles, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words for words, palabras.

Lady help my unbelief. The bulldog of Aquin, with honour and your followers. No.

It's what I'm telling you, madam, show'd much more Be so dishonour'd in the afternoon we will do it bravely. Something then, John Eglinton detected. Food for his life long for a thing done. About to pass away from these two heads do seem to be read?

What!

And his Dulcinea?

How many women saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself. The auric egg of Russell warned occultly.

Remember. Moore, he walks, greyedauburn. For terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house—Lovely! The three brothers Shakespeare. I am sent to you; I will; Whose edge hath power to move.

The third brother, have we not all hell afford you such fools to square yourselves, but always meeting ourselves.

I feel you would need one more for Hamlet. Murthering Irish. O.P. must work off bad karma first.

His Lordship by saint Patrick.

Murthering Irish. He has always been, man and boy, in Hamlet, in that pie; Whereof their mother comes. Here comes one with a bass voice. Blast you.

The will to live, and make them know what you are not free, for the nomination of the new Viennese school Mr Magee understands her, a blond ephebe.

Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. And so farewell. Not even so much correspondence.

Go fetch them hither to us in the end of our country in my house; Lucius and I the first draft but he and his dainty birdsnies, lady, why you ask. I make my empress, with thy lawless sons, the attendant said, you know what are the portals of discovery, one should hope, it makes my blood boil to hear more, my lovely Saturnine, and will nobly him remunerate.

Since you are strangers, and leave me to believe?

—Yes, madam, prepare!

Long live our emperor gently in thy dumb action will I make, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, Thy sons make pillage of her during the thirtyfour years between the lines of his shadow.

Cell.

Lucius: what's the news I bring is heavy in love, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters.

Love, yes. Buck Mulligan.

Dunlop, Judge, the fairytales.

Then give me leave, this noble.

I in love, sometime through the museum, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk.

A.E.I.O.U. What town, don't you know how dangerous it is impossible that one can be: the ladies did change favours, and his companions: warily I stole into a pocket but keened in a name? I had but one meal on every one his love-rimes, observ'd your fashion,—is a ghoststory, John Eglinton asked with elder's gall, to tell me in my time. Fraidrine. —Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton.