#❛ ✧ ┊ love speaks in flowers; truth requires thorns. desires.

[vintersang]

*   TAG DROP: For the Muse

❛   ✧  ┊ she seemed fragile like a moonflower. aesthetic.

❛   ✧  ┊ cold secrets deep inside. headcanon.

❛   ✧  ┊ when all is lost; then all is found. musings.

❛   ✧  ┊ split the ice apart; beware the frozen heart. chara study.

❛   ✧  ┊ dressed in the finest white gauze. wardrobe.

❛   ✧  ┊ magic tumbled from her pretty lips. cosmetics.

❛   ✧  ┊ all the land was covered in eternal ice and snow. arendelle.

❛   ✧  ┊ the woods are lovely; dark and deep. enchanted forest.

❛   ✧  ┊ if it's not chocolate; it's not breakfast. recipes.

❛   ✧  ┊ freezing you to the bone; the ice does not forgive. magic.

❛   ✧  ┊ every breath you’re breathing is a beautiful song. skills.

❛   ✧  ┊ we will always share the moon and stars. her familiars.

❛   ✧  ┊ the veil disappears and you'll see it all. inspiration.

❛   ✧  ┊ like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars. likes.

❛   ✧  ┊ she's so beautiful and delicate; but she was of ice. belongings.

❛   ✧  ┊ love speaks in flowers; truth requires thorns. desires.

❛   ✧  ┊ she is magic and midnight lace. meta.

[thefairyhills]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ* A COLLECTION OF QUOTES THAT LIVE IN MY HEAD RENT-FREE.

as the title says, this is a list of quotes from books, movies, song lyrics, videogames, pinterest posts and anything else that has been stuck in my brain forever, for one reason or another. a part 2 may or may not follow. adapt any gendered terms as needed!

❝ to love is to destroy, and to be loved is to be the one destroyed. ❞

❝ there are no men like me. only me. ❞

❝ the heart is an arrow. it demands aim to land true. ❞

❝ give me back my girlhood, it was mine first. ❞

❝ stories connect us to our past. they shape a people in profound ways. without them, we are lost. ❞

❝ everyone loves strength, but do you love me for my weakness? ❞

❝ i wish that i could say i am a light that never goes out, but i flicker from time to time. ❞

❝ just between us, did the love affair maim you too? ❞

❝ when the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway. ❞

❝ death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. ❞

❝ when they shattered our spirit, we became sharpest at the break. ❞

❝ she didn't want to be loved for her petals, she wanted to be loved for her thorns. she knew if someone loved her flaws, they would love her whole. ❞

❝ to love someone is firstly to confess: i'm prepared to be devastated by you. ❞

❝ love speaks in flowers. truth requires thorns. ❞

❝ because saving the people you love isn't stupid. it isn't even a choice. ❞

❝ don't go where i can't follow. ❞

❝ whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. ❞

❝ it takes grace to remain kind in cruel situations. ❞

❝ there's some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for. ❞

❝ the water hears and understands. the ice does not forgive. ❞

❝ i am my scars. ❞

❝ that's the thing about pain. it demands to be felt. ❞

❝

it's not your fault i ruin everything. and it's not your fault i can't be what you need. ❞

❝ i'm not interested in being polite or heterosexual. ❞

❝ the flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all. ❞

❝ you were the one who wanted to win. and i just wanted a sister. ❞

❝ you know how scared i am of elevators. never trust it if it rises fast, it can't last. ❞

❝ i am not ruined. i am ruination. ❞

❝ all my flowers grew back as thorns. ❞

❝ if i can't have love i want power. ❞

❝ i came out to attack people, and i'm honestly having such a good time right now. ❞

❝ anger was better than tears, better than grief, better than guilt. ❞

❝ i'm meaner than my demons. ❞

❝ i love her, and that's the beginning and end of everything. ❞

❝ you are haunted, like every other holy thing. ❞

❝ my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel. ❞

❝ innocence died screaming, honey, ask me i should know. ❞

❝ what is infinite? the universe and the greed of men. ❞

❝ i could never hold a perfect thing and not demolish it. ❞

❝ how could somebody ever love me? ❞

❝ you don't get to destroy someone and decide how ruined they're allowed to feel. ❞

❝ i am afraid of you. in loving me, you hold a knife at my throat. in loving you, i tell you exactly where to cut. ❞

❝ because i take things away from stupid, evil old men. it's what i do. ❞

❝ they deserve to lose everything. and i deserve to have all their stuff. ❞

❝ tell me, if he handed you a bloodied hand, would you take it, just because it was his? ❞

❝ hell is empty and all the devils are here. ❞

❝ i desire the things that will destroy me in the end. ❞

❝ i have tried loving less but that hurts just the same. ❞

❝ wanting was enough. for me, it was enough to live for the hope of it all. ❞

❝ the only heaven i'll be sent to is when i'm alone with you. ❞

❝ i could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; i would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. i would know him in death, at the end of the world. ❞

❝ these violent delights have violent ends. ❞

❝ we love with claws and teeth and the blood is just proof of how much. it's feral. and it's relentless. ❞

❝ feelings that come back are feelings that never left. ❞

❝ good for you, you're doing great out there without me. god, i wish that I could do that. ❞

❝ if i could hold you for a minute, darling, i'd go through it again. ❞

❝ i don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch. ❞

❝ i don't like that falling feels like flying 'til the bone crush. ❞

❝ and logically, you're the last thing i should have on my mind, but i want you there sometimes. ❞

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Preparing the Ground For Revival

by J. Edwin Orr

"See, I have this day set thee over the nations and over the kingdoms, to root out, and to pull down, and to destroy, and to throw down, to build, and to plant" - Jeremiah 1:10

Of this six-fold commission, four injunctions are destructive and only the latter two are constructive. "To build and to plant" surely a great work. But it had to be preceded by a rooting-out and a pulling-down, destruction and demolishing. Surely this sounds drastic! Yet it was very necessary, as the historical background shows. The Jewish kingdom had become overgrown with weeds, overbuilt with traditional superstructures. They had to go first. Some iconoclasm was necessary. Some destruction was required.

Let us look in the garden for a parable. We walked round a beautiful garden which occupied a former piece of waste land. The gardener showed us round. "Those are beautiful roses," we said to him. "I planted them," replied the gardener, with justified pride. "What a beautifully-cut hedge," we remarked next. "I trimmed that," he said. "Who is responsible for that lovely Sweet William border?" Again the gardener smiled and claimed the credit. We passed on, thinking to ourselves that this gardener had created a grand testimony to his skill in gardening.

At the garden gate, we found an old fellow watching a smoking heap of refuse. "What have you been doing?" "Working at the garden," he said. "Well, then, what have you to show for your labor?" "Nothing, Sir," he replied. "Then you cannot have been working!" We told him. "Sir," he asserted. "When we came here, this garden was a piece of waste land, overgrown with weeds, full of stones and sand, swampy in one corner, and pretty hopeless all round." We got interested. "Well sir," he went on, "I broke up the land, and I destroyed the weeds, and dug out the stones, and carted away the sand, and it was my job to drain the swampy comer." We listened with growing appreciation. "I am saying nothing against the other fellow who planted the garden. He did his job well. But where would his planting come in if I hadn't first rooted out and destroyed the weeds?" Both men's labor was necessary, but the rooting out and destruction of weeds preceded the planting of flowers and shrubs.

Let us remember the first work of rooting out the weeds and utterly destroying them. One of the great weaknesses of many forms of ministry today is the attempt to sow good seed among thorns. The thorns generally continue springing up, and the seed is choked thereby, despite the good intention of the human sower. Seed sown in a prepared ground requires only the action of the elements to produce fruit in season. Seed sown by the wayside, or in stony places, or among thorns, will have its prospects of life severely threatened almost immediately. Likewise, changing the mode of illustration, a Christian who is in proper relationship with God is generally hungry for the great truths and affirmations of the Gospel. A constructive message is then not only desirable, but necessary. Good food, the finest of the cream of the wheat of the Gospel of Christ, is eagerly assimilated by the Christian who lives in harmony with God.

Yet all Christians are not in proper relationship with their Lord. The present obvious dearth of revival is largely due to the fact that the majority of Christians are out of touch with the source of Divine power. Even at conventions, the first work needed is to get things put right in the lives of those attending. To give a sick stomach an overdose of cream is to risk indigestion. Even a sick stomach prefers the taste of cream to the flavor of the bitter medicine. Still the bitter medicine is necessary, and it does not prevent the enjoying and digesting of good food afterwards-rather it creates the actual appetite of good health, which is quite distinct from the false cravings of indigestion.

For instance, the glorious message of the position of every believer in Christ is a comfort to many souls. Yet it cannot bring much blessing to a stubborn Christian living in disobedience and conscious sin. He needs to act on the teaching of repentance and confession and cleansing FIRST, and then he may comfort himself with other truths. I heard once of a church which had the cream of doctrine given within its walls, week in, week out. Judging from the quality of uplifting ministry given there, one would have expected to find the church members on the highest heavenly plane. But in this instance, they had a church quarrel which resulted in the bread and wine being spilled in a scuffle, and the police were called in to restore order. They obviously needed more than cream. Medicine was wanted badly. Positional truth cannot be profitably taught until conditional teaching has had its effect. Cast no pearls before swine. So great is this problem, that when the preacher strikes out against sin among believers and urges purity of life, critics cry "Introspection," and some insist that he is trying to divert the eyes of the people away from Christ towards self and shortcomings.

It was my happy experience once, to speak at a great convention well-known in England. It was arranged with the council members that if blessing came through in the degree hoped for, I would be at liberty to continue for double the time. Beginning with destructive ministry, the Lord used His word to create deep conviction of heart. The place was thronged. Christians were stirred to confession and repentance, and many souls were saved.

By contrast, I was speaking at another convention, not so far away. It was a convention of good standing. I felt led to speak first of the shortcoming of believers and the need of getting right before enjoying the good things of the feast. The next speakers seemed to doubt the worth of such a method, and their message seemed to be: "You are complete in Christ, so don't worry about these trifles. God accepts you in the Beloved, and you needn't mind." For days there was that cross-current of message. I believed with all my heart in the truth of their message, but I thought that the time was unripe for its application.

With a burdened heart, I prayed for clear guidance regarding continuing my message. The Lord put a text, a "new" text for me, into my heart, and I preached it. Before I preached it, a speaker dwelt on the glorious promises of God, promises meant for obedient children. Then followed my opportunity. "Having therefore these promises, dearly beloved, let us cleanse ourselves from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit, perfecting holiness in the fear of God" (2 Cor. 7:1). It gave the connection at last, but we had no great revival. It drove home many truths to me. Let us comfort one another with the grand truths of our position in Christ. But let us not make excuse by saying that our "completeness" in Him permits us to wink at known sin.

[pendulum-sonata]

Chapters: 4/7 Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Serena/Yuri (Yu-Gi-Oh) Characters: Serena (Yu-Gi-Oh), Yuri (Yu-Gi-Oh) Additional Tags: Drama & Romance, Forbidden Love, Tanabata, One Shot, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Predatorshipping Week 2019, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belligerent Sexual Tension, First Meetings, Predator/Prey, Fairy Tale Elements, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Marriage Proposal, Language of Flowers Summary:

“Father.” She said as she curtsied to him. “Why have you called me?”

Zarc looked at his daughter dressed in finery from head to toe – literally, since the heavy dress layers covered her feet – and almost wanted to shake his head in disapproval, but such behavior was not proper of an Emperor, at least not in the middle of his court.

It was also the only reason Serena allowed herself to be adorned to such excess, as if she was a doll.

She needed to play the part if the prim and perfect princess.

“It has come to my attention that you have yet to pick a suitor, despite the fact that you have since come of age.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, yet, the sharp shine of betrayal in her eyes felt a thousand times worse.

Snickers were heard all over the room; delighting on the princess’ forced to behave as such; if it was up to Zarc he would behead all of them, but such thoughts came to a halt when she used her fan to hide her smirk.

“I have given deep thought to all of them, a suitor, must be suitable for me the First and Only Princess of this Empire, and I have found every single one of them lacking.” No one dared to contradict his and Ray’s daughter, no matter how much they wanted to and Zarc allowed himself to laugh.

“You are most right!” He continued to laugh for a couple of seconds before calming down. “As Emperor I would never deliver the hand of my only daughter, the jewel of the palace, to just anyone! Does anyone here disagree?”

Of course they did, but they couldn’t say anything out loud; if he concentrated, he might be able to hear them grinding their teeth.

“If his majesty agrees, then it only makes sense that I, as princess under your heavenly guidance, must be allowed to set the requirements for the perfect suitor.”

“Ah, I see, after all the one who marries my daughter will become my heir…” If it was up to him, Serena would be proclaimed the Crown Princess, but there was only so much both of them could push the court before they started to scheme. “…I can’t possibly take such matters lightly, and I cannot trust a better judgement than yours.”

Serena was quiet for several minutes, making the trepidation in the room to raise to almost tangible levels; If Zarc knew her, she had already come up with an idea and was only enjoying the control over the court she had at the moment, however limited.

“I will only marry the one who will bring me a blue rose.”

A pin could have dropped in the courtroom and made and echo, due to the aghast her answer provoked; some of their faces had even turned the same shade of blue the flower would be.

Blue roses, were taught by many to be a legend, very few had ever heard of it, even fewer heard the rumors of its existence, and even less knew of the remote place where the sky and earth met and a lake where all rivers were born.

Only its waters could nurture the mythical rose.

“Perfect, if they wish for your hand in marriage and my throne so badly, then, such request should laughable, let this decree be known across the empire!”

ᵜ

“It has been a very quiet week.” Her father said in her tea parlor; even though he left his cup untouched, instead he chowed down all the candies and tiny cakes.

“You sound almost bored.” She said as she moved her pieces in the board.

“Are you kidding me?” He said, flashing the brightest smile. “Finally some peace and quiet! I didn’t even remember how nice the palace was without those leeches abusing my hospitality and pushing me to force you into marriage; then they dared to suggest that if I didn’t want a new empress, then I could at least choose a concubine…. I was this close to execute them.” His fingers dug into the board while saying this.

There were very little things that would make her father truly furious, and suggesting he replace her mother or herself was the top one.

“As annoying as they are, their influence and money is very much needed,” Serena chewed on her rice cake a little too hard.

“Were you serious then?” He asked, looking at her for any shred of mischief. “What if one of them really does bring a blue rose?”

“Then I will make good of my promise.” Serena was sure everyone at the court thought her to be a spoiled and foolish princess for asking a pretty flower as a token of marriage; the rest surely thought that she was once more dodging her duties by setting an impossible task.

But if a man managed to be smart enough, resourceful and determined to fulfil her task, then there shouldn’t be a more appropriate person for the throne.

“Aw, and here you have me thinking that you chased them all off because you missed your old dad and wanted to be my little girl a bit longer.” How did he manage to go from a fearless ruler to pout like a child was beyond her.

Why had her mother chosen such a man anyway?

“Please, if I do not desire to share my life with young men, what makes you think I want the company of an older man?” She drank her tea when she finished saying this, just in time to see his expression going from pouting to crestfallen.

“Meanie.” He mumbled.

Serena allowed herself to smile behind her sleeve; her father was really such a foolish man.

ᵜ

The first one was a very known and very rich son of a nobleman who always stared greedily at the jewels and gold in the throne whenever he set foot in it.

The rose was pretty, but nothing much could be said about it; granted, Serena had nothing beyond aesthetic appreciation for flowers, but she was sure a blue rose must be magnificent or at least wondrous to look at.

She took the flower in her fingers, the stem was smooth, no tiny hairs or thorns.

Too pretty… She walked to where her servants had already deposited a vase of water for her flower.

To everyone horror, Serena turned the rose upside down and submerged it in the water, slowly, the water started to tint a pale color blue whereas the petals turned white again.

“Do you really think I will marry a man who uses deceit and bribery to achieve their means?”

.

.

.

The second one was a warrior, he had not been present for Serena’s decree, but having heard of it, he had led campaigns to find the blue rose, ransacking town after town, and interrogating people left and right.

The rose presented was not a flower at all, its likeness to an actual rose was uncanny though, but it was hard and frozen to the touch she noticed that it was carved from a sapphire, its rightful owner was probably dead.

Serena didn’t even dare to touch it, and turned her eyes away from the man.

“… This is not a blue rose, a man who delivers such a lavish token must be as cold and unfeeling as the stone it was made from.”

.

.

.

Surely the Princess must accept this blue rose.

It’s what they are all probably thinking as this third suitor – the son of a scholar – presented a glass box in which the most magnificent blue rose resided, the man was accompanied by an old man, which robes she recognized as being a medicine man; in a quiet voice he explained that such a rare flower must be encased for it’s very fragile outside its native environment.

How convenient it was that the glass was sealed, making it impossible to confirm his claim.

That was when a sunray shone in the middle of the throne room and Serena noticed that neither the box or the rose casted a shadow.

Serena took the box as if it was the most delicate of treasures.

And smashed it against the floor, tiny pieces of crystal spilled to her feet, but no blue rose was anywhere to be seen.

“You dare using an illusion to achieve your goal? A man who twists the lies into truths will never marry me.”

ᵜ

At night, Serena had slipped unnoticed from her room, wearing one of her servant’s dresses as to not call attention. She could not sleep, and the only thing that calmed her down, was watching the quiet waters of the pond and feeding the fishes.

“Maybe it really is an impossible task…” She whispered to no one.

In the still water, the full moon was reflected like an enormous ray of light… sometimes she liked to think that her mother was watching her from the moon, along with the rabbits and the moon goddess.

A strange fish that she had never seen disrupted the reflection and her thoughts; she threw food into the air and the fish jumped to catch it… as it turned out it was not a fish at all, but a sort of water snake, its color was a rare combination of golden and purple scales.

Odd, she would have to talk to the servants in the morning and see if they could catch it.

ᵜ

The fourth man was causing lots of whispers in the court.

He arrived covered almost completely in a cape that hid his features from anyone; the only reason the guards allowed him in, was because he assured them he came to claim the hand of the princess in marriage, that he had the blue rose in his possession.

When requested to prove his words, he claimed that the rose was for the princess eyes only and no one else. They all laughed, the captain probably thought it would be funny to watch this commoner make a fool of himself in front of the imperial family.

He didn’t acknowledge any of them as he passed through the gates.

This suitor had no lavish clothes, no entourage behind him, speaking of great possessions and power.

Before even seeing him, Serena feels her chest tighten in trepidation, something that she had not felt for any other suitor.

Why? Was it the unexpectedness? The whispers of the palace? The supposed low station of his person?

When her father took his seat, then she stepped up and waited for him.

His steps echoed loudly into the room, he was still clad into that cape, it didn’t look tattered or dirty, but it was nothing special either, the fabric was a dark color and it looked comfortable enough to walk around and warm for the cold of the night.

No one dared to speak as he knelt, first to the Emperor and then to the Princess and then he removed his hood.

A head full of purple hair met her eye, his head was still lowered and hiding his face but by the silky and healthy looking hair, she could deduce he was a young man.

“Greetings, your majesty, I have come to fulfil your request.” His voice sounded young too.

“Raise your head and state your name and precedence.” She ordered, feeling her palms sweat, unlike her other suitors, he exuded an air of confidence on meeting her requirement, but not of arrogance as if he was planning to deceive her like all the others.

“In my home, I’m called Yuri, I reside on the place where all the rivers are born.”

Serena said nor asked anything else, not even as the disbelieving looks of the court pressured her to question him further, she waited, signaling that it was time to prove his claim.

He rose to his feet and she could finally see him, his face and she was instantly drawn to his eyes, an even more vibrant shade of purple than his hair. The most entrancing part of his expression was his smile, as if he was private to a secret no one else shared.

From somewhere under his garments his hand fumbled and slowly, almost too slow, produced a blue rose.

Serena used her fan to hide her agape mouth; not because the rose was beyond perfect or magnificent like stories said they would be, she did what she had not done with any of the previous suitor and went down the steps that separate her from him, when she took the rose in her hand, even though she was careful not to not brush her hand against his in the slightest, she still felt a shiver due to their proximity.

The stem was rough to the touch, and if she could see a tiny spot of blood where one of its thorns had pierced her skin, the shade of blue of the petals mirrored that of her own hair and it spread evenly from the tip to the base in the calix of the flower.

She could hear everyone’s gasps when she lowered her fan, allowing the stranger to see her face up close, and when she brought the rose against her nose, she was assaulted by the memories of red hair, flowing in the wind as they led her through the halls of the palace, of the scent of jasmine of her clothes, and the feeling of joy and safety the smile of her mother brought to her.

This close she realized… his eyes, they were looking at her, the same way her father always used to look at her mother.

“This is a blue rose.”

ᵜ

When Serena could finally breath again, it was not a pleasant experience; she coughed the water she had swallowed before and her mouth tasted awful.

Her dress was drenched in water and it was now too heavy for her to even try to stand up.

Her father was screaming frantically for the servants to bring her dry clothes and for the doctor to check up on her.

Apparently she had made quite a ruckus when she slipped and feel into the pond, which wouldn’t be too bad if it wasn’t for the heavy clothes, becoming heavier under the water and the recently grown roots of the lotus flowers twisting around her body.

It was nothing short of a miracle that she was alive.

Before losing consciousness, Serena watched a kid on the bank of the pond, his eyes look too shiny in the middle of the night, his teeth look slightly sharp, and on the sides of his face his skin stops looking soft and turns into purple scales.

The same shade as his hair.

He waves goodbye before jumping back into the water.

[foul-humors]

Motivation I

“Ah, there you are.”  

In the southern areas of the Twelveswood, Steia carefully separated branches on the bush before her.  There, nestled in those branches was another plant: a type of mistletoe needed for her potions.  She brought her sickle forward to delicately cut the parasitic plant from its host.  As she did, she lost hold of the branches she'd pushed aside, and quickly grabbed it.  

“Ow!”  The host had thorns, and her gloves weren’t very thick.  Still, she focused on her task, and removed the mistletoe, slipping it into her bag.  Then she withdrew, and pulled her glove off to inspect the damage.  The thorn had pierced her deeply at the base of her ring finger, and already some of her blood dripped to the forest floor.  

Eyes following the drop, she then saw the arrow.  It stuck out of the ground at an angle, just at her feet.  Reaching down to pluck it, a fast vision flashed in her mind.  Without hesitating, she ducked behind the nearest tree.  Not a moment too soon, either, for another arrow embedded itself in the tree trunk.  She could hear a few more light thunks announcing what she imagined to be more arrows hitting the other side of the tree.  Trying to guess the direction of her attackers, she sprinted for cover behind the next tree, trying not to give them a line of sight.

Then she spotted a small group of Keepers stalking through the trees, faces obscured by wooden masks, and lances in hand. She could tell by their armor - and the fact that the group was wholly comprised of Keepers - that they weren’t of Gridania.  Already running away from them, she reasoned she must have wandered into their territory by mistake.  Not that this served her, as the way she'd come was blocked by whoever fired the arrows.  If anything, they were driving her deeper into their territory.

By the time it dawned on her that they might be corralling her, it was too late.  In no time at all, she found herself out of breath and surrounded.  The hunters, surrounding her, held their weapons threateningly but didn’t bring them to bear.  “So this is the truth of you, then?  You look exactly as described,” came a youthful woman’s voice.  It was familiar to Steia, and it wasn’t until she looked out and fully took in their features that she realized this was the very bloodline Nighean - and thus, her - was bound to protect.

Steia forced a chuckle, still trying to catch her breath. “By the void did you and yours startle me.”  She paused, eyes focusing on the approaching speaker.  “Do mine eyes deceive?  Have you truly left your cave, Galda?” She knew that the matron of the Halanuu bloodline often left her sanctum in the clan home, contrary to what most of the clan thought.  Galda’s stolen youth, after all, gave her an appearance few expected from a woman that was at least a century old.

Indeed, the Keeper was clad in hooded robe, and the hood of that robe was pulled to almost cover her eyes. Still, Steia could make out that faint violet glow.  “My hunters told me they saw you picking flowers in this area often.  I decided to take advantage of such to meet with you.”  

Steia arched her brow, “Simply could you have sent a missive.  I am not want to ignore a summons.”  

Galda chuckled.  “And simply would I have,” she replied, mimicking Steia’s speech pattern.  “were it not for the fact your taller counterpart would have known of it.”  Galda waved her twisted staff about, motioning to the trees.  Only then did Steia notice the charms hanging from the branches.  “Really...this should be a somewhat private meeting.”  She looked over her shoulder.  “The rest of you resume your normal duties, save for Stel and Mena.”

Obeying their matron’s word without question, the other members of the clan departed, leaving a pair of rather serious-looking lancers to watch over the meeting.  Steia glanced at the lances, and noted the gemstones embedded at the base of the heads, betraying the dual-nature of the lance.  She shook the thought from her head. “Pray speak your mind, Galda.  I am not want to remain this far from the path for long.”

“Don’t worry, I will be quick.” Galda nodded. “Nighean came to me to inform me of what occurred between the two of you, and warn me away from you.”

“And yet you seek me out?”

Galda nodded.  “It seems she has determined that the protection of the clan as a whole is not worth the resources.  She desires to eliminate all those not of my bloodline.”  Steia’s heart sank, listening.  This was the sort of thing she'd been afraid of.  “I have requested she stay her hand while I deliberate on the matter.  So far she’s listened, but you know as well as I that she is not compelled to listen, and I fear if a natural tragedy strikes, she will not lift a hand to aid the others.”

Steia nodded, still frowning.  “Indeed is this the case.  The covenant does not require us to aid those not of your bloodline.”

“...And yet you find that distasteful.  You would if you could, wouldn’t you?  Because you know the importance of family that isn’t of your own flesh and blood.”

Steia nodded again, speaking quietly.  “I do.  No doubt she does as well, yet where such importance may move me, it does not move her.”

Galda nodded again.  “And so I had hoped you would be sympathetic, but would you be willing to risk yourself to help us?”

“In what manner do you hope I will risk myself?”

“I need your true name to control her.  I've come to understand that you know it, now.”

Steia huffed.  “Indeed I do, and indeed would I give it to you in hopes it may be used to stop her.  Yet crafty as she is, her magicks worked against me prevent my expressing aught beyond our first name.  Even does my attempt to write it fail.”

Galda wrinkled her nose.  “Damn the heavens,” she muttered before resuming her normal tone.  “But it’s a start.  What is it?”

“Adrasteia.”

Galda nodded, then looked up to the canopy. “I assume you're trying to find a method to stop her that doesn’t require use of her full name.”

“Indeed I am.”

Galda took a deep breath through her nose and held it for a moment before letting it out.  “And I assume there is no guarantee you will take over as guardian after that?”  Steia shook her head.  

“I would do what I could, but if her curse on me is not broken in that moment, you would be effectively guardianless.” 

Galda nodded in understanding, then smiled at Steia.  “I suspect I will miss knowing something watches over us, but given the present state of things, it’s for the best.”  She paused, then grinned.  “Good luck to you in that endeavor, then.  Try not to get too distracted with mortal trivialities.“

Steia nodded.  “Tis appreciated.”  When she realized Galda was about to leave, she frowned. “Is such all you had to say to me?”  

Galda was already turning to leave, and didn’t stop at the question.  Her guards were soon in tow.  “Forgive me, Steia.  Lovely creature that you are, this isn’t a social call.  That heart of yours might help you sympathize with us...but it also makes you dangerously unpredictable.  Please don’t take it personally.”

[austennerdita2533]

A/N: Here’s a Part 2 to my KC/Hades and Persephone drabble, “Fill Me with Your Kissing Death,” I wrote for AU week. It can be read as a standalone, but both parts/chapters are here under the title “Our Lips Are Raw with Petals and Pomegranate”:

(A03) (FFnet) 

I’d also like to send a special shout out to the lovely Helen, @klarolinessecondbreakfast, because her stunning KC edit (here) reduced me to a flailing fangirl within seconds *cries: it’s so beautiful* and provided me with the inspiration to f i n a l l y finish this damn thing. And thanks to my beloved Sadie Sadie, @kickassfu, for listening to me bitch, moan, and complain about this story (and all of my writing) without cease.You ladies are the best! 

Enjoy lovelies.

xx Ashlee Bree

Drain Me of This Blushing Neglect

Many eons ago, in a land rife with sharp, barbed edges which were thicker than mountain bone yet more slippery than a snake’s shedding skin, and throughout a kingdom forged out of tinted glass the color of dragon’s breath and oppressive temperature swings that clattered teeth or beaded flesh with sweat, a god-king paced the dim crooks and corridors of his home at all hours like a wraith. And like a wraith, he floated through his duties and demands. Lost to all dreams of delight.

It was during a time when loneliness still cracked hard along Klaus’s knuckles as well, charring blood between his bones until it drained into deeper pits of nothing because there was only empty air to hold, because there was only that whistling despondency around each muscle, around each tendon of his fists. It was in a moment, too, when midnight felt like a silk rope around his neck: exquisite in its strength and power to bind, but so tight he wanted to choke while his fingernails pried at the prickly coffin. Crying out for a rose-snowed droplet of life. Gasping for the swell of cerulean waves and dawn’s preening feathers.

As he skulked beneath the dense fog of another unbearable death-day one evening, however, a yellow daisy suddenly appeared like a vision to slip through the full but dark moon above his head. With naught but a single petal, it slithered open the center with a flawless vibrancy that made it impossible for him to blink. Eager, it seemed, to dig itself through the earth’s dirt and worms so it could wilt somewhere against the austere rock below, near his feet. Perhaps even die. For, there, in the Deadlands, the only water which existed came from tears which weren’t plucked—never plucked—but scratched from a cemetery of miserable, tormented, bloodshot eyes.

Klaus monitored the daisy’s progress with rapt attention. Curious, of course, but also flummoxed by the crumbling stones of the plum sky which fell to the ground like droplets of hail as the petal sliced its way inside. Humming vivid streaks of moisture atop blunt peaks and ashy ravines. And also illuminating the air with songbird waves that were slowly taking form. Down the center of the moon the flower cut with smooth purpose and precision, seeping into the Deadlands with a gush so it could unfurl all its spring curves before him like a million rays of honey slipping from a budded sheath.

It expanded toward him in silky green leaflets first, and in peachy feminine limbs second. Revealing to him, not a flower, but a garden of a woman not yet in full bloom. A sagacious, cheerful young woman, who, like him in a complementary way, was an outcast in a cosmos where multifaceted hopes or ambitions were stifled—blackened until they could no longer breathe. And yet…

The young maiden planted herself before him like a partially eclipsed tree: half shaded, half shining rays of gold.

“Sorry if the light stings a bit, but you’ll adjust to it in time. And to me,” she said, beaming. “My name’s Caroline, by the way.”

Like a perfectly off-kilter dichotomy, she then offered Klaus a sprite “hello” with no bow. Unafraid, it seemed, to match him eye-to-eye; nor to face him, toe-to-toe.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I thought it proper to introduce myself.” Caught off guard, all he could do was blink. “You know,” she added with a flippant hand gesture plus an anxious bounce of her toes, “since I’m to become queen and everything?”

“Truth be told, love,” he sighed and scratched the back of his neck, “I don’t recall placing an order to the Sky for a midnight bride, so I’m at a loss here. What are you saying? And how did you manage to squeak through the gates of my home without prior—ah, what’s the word?”

“Death?”

“I was going to say invitation,” he said with a twitch of his mouth, “but frankly…yes.”

“Oh, that.” Caroline rolled her eyes then snorted like the answer was obvious. “I came of my own volition, silly! I found and ate your lovely forbidden fruit.”

“You…you what!?”

“No need to pretend to be shocked or anything. That pomegranate was a devil to procure, sure, but not impossible by any means. (Personally, I think on some subconscious level, you hoped someone would find it and that’s why you didn’t obscure it from view completely.)”

“Besides,” she continued lightheartedly, “I was determined. I needed a new home where I could cultivate my extremes, and you…” she bit her lip, “well, you needed me.”

Klaus blanched for a second time, recovering only long enough to arch a brow at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. You do.” Caroline fixed him with a penetrating glance and crossed her arms. “You need me—I can feel it.”

Chuckling, Klaus mused over this last comment before billowing around her with an acute gaze so he could assess her, head-to-foot. He took in her green-thorned thumbs, her soil-hemmed gown, her hair woven through with dandelion weeds, and couldn’t help but think her an anomaly. A beautifully assertive and provoking anomaly, mind you, but an anomaly all the same.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said in reply, “but I assure you I require nothing and no one. I never have and I never will. Moreover, the absolute last thing I desire is a spring queen.” “In fact,” he added with an air of protracted arrogance and a voice which boomed with commanding certainty, “were I so inclined to choose a bride for myself at all—which I neither am nor plan to be (I prefer to rule alone, unchallenged, you see)—what makes you think I’d dare to select one as fresh or as perky as you are, hmm?”

“Wow. Are you so greedy and bitter that you refuse to share the falling granules of Time with me? Seriously!?”

“And what if I am?”

Caroline gaped.

“You know,” she narrowed her eyes; placed her hands on her hips, “I rather expected you to be glad of some eternal company down here after all your time alone…but nope!”

“Instead, you’re nothing but a stubborn and pretentious jerk who’d rather sift along in solitary sameness, absolutely miserable, than usher in an opportunity for change and cohesion! You’re…you’re a coward! Terrified of the mere possibility of intimacy, you are,” she scoffed. “You want it more than anything, but you’re too damn afraid to let yourself have it even though I’m basically gifting it to you for free! And let me tell you, pal,” Caroline added with an arm-crossed humph and a pout, “being alone by choice is infinitely more tragic than being alone by command.”

“Pretentious jerk, eh?” Something twinged hard against his ribcage. “Coward?” It was his heart. It was his heart twingeing; it was his heart heavying in his chest.

“That’s not so awful,” Klaus said with forced apathy as he let the stinging truth of her words sink in. “I’ve been called much worse than that.”

“What?” Caroline’s brow furrowed and she softened. “By who?” she asked.

“My father…earthlings…tormented souls…” He offered her a tight, painful smile. “Anyone and everyone, I suppose.”

“Really?”

Klaus shrugged, glancing away to kick at a rock.

“I’m sorry that’s…that’s not okay. I shouldn’t have—you’re not that bad, okay? You’re just a little…rough around the edges is all.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Don’t let it go to your head or anything, and definitely do not make a habit of infuriating me, because I will throttle you,” she said, daring him to try with a look, “but I kind of like that you’re enigmatic. You’re vexing in a good way, you know? You keep a girl on her toes.”

Caroline drifted closer then, and it thrummed something deep inside of him because he could smell her authenticity. He could feel how much she meant what she said.

Soft and delicate, this spring darling was spun from thread that burned gold with candor, consideration and care; so instead of flaming into annihilation when another’s anger or pain snipped at one of her split ends, she curled herself around the wound like a compress and shined hope against it until all felt possible. Until all was healed again. Not healed in the way it once was, mind you, but doctored in a way which stitched all the residual agony together, making one feel better about the jaggedness it left behind in the end. More calm and controlled about it, so to speak.

She was nourishing in presence as well. She cultivated growth in a way that required the shoveling up of his old roots to study tangles and bends because she believed it was the only way to see where the neglect first started, because it was the only way for her to calculate when the rot would win out if there were no intervention.

(Not that Caroline wouldn’t work like hell before disease encroached that far, of course. Because she would. She did.)

Hair trickled over her shoulders like blades of grass bending in the breeze, too. It framed her in shades of mercy so blonde, and so glossy, she reeked of pure sincerity and compassion, infecting everyone she met along the way. And while the trunk of her was deep and grooved with shadows—not to mention full of thick sap Klaus smelled but couldn’t see without sawing further beneath her rings, the leaves of her were airy and graceful and constantly swaying in a fashion which he considered to be most distracting. Yet…

Also (much to his chagrin), grossly enchanting.

This young woman, who had appeared in his kingdom without beckoning, was beguiling in an unsettling way. She unnerved him with tender words and mannerisms until the distrustful paranoia in his mind began to thaw…until the cold armor of his chest started to fall with a settled plonk near his ankles.

Something about Caroline primed his ears to listen and consider before he spoke. Where, with anyone else, his mouth wouldn’t hesitant to strike out or blast.

So, why the discrepancy? What was so halting about her, how was she so melting?

She was everything Klaus shunned, after all. She was everything Klaus pertained to loath here in this jarring domain…amid these burdensome, endlessly lamenting, clutching souls.

A woman who, with a chirping voice much too high and sweet when she spoke her three-syllable name: Caroline, Caroline; plus a smile which held the promise of sharp green, yellow, blue and pink demands, and a chin stained with the red-orange juice of a pomegranate, had asked upon her arrival, if he’d clip open the iron cage around his heart for her. Wondering, sanguinely, if he’d make room for a white-blossomed girl with nothing to offer him but seeds.

But would he?

Could he?

Klaus already knew no one wanted to amble through the dank and troubled air of his thoughts, of his kingdom. Just like he understood no creature in existence thirsted for his smoldering artistry, either.

It seemed people feared the scraping of his charcoal fingertips through their heads because he tended to linger over their memories, dreams, and friendships until they shivered or sweat. The cretins never once appreciating the skill it took to sketch out every folded swoop of longing he found wound around their bones like shoelaces. Which was laughable, frankly. Truly laughable. After all, what was so hard to fathom about a king, sentenced to the dark, who knew how to paint others’ misery?

All beings shrank away from his hunger, though. They always had. They found fault with his voracious creativity and called him the Sculptor of Shadows behind his back while they tittered.

(And they were always tittering.)

Something unsettled earthen kind about the way his glare ripped them apart to draw what once was in the realm above, to paint that which was no longer their’s to hold or hide. With his eyes brushing against all the weight their hearts had to bear in life, he colored all conflict out of them and stroked it into the air for review.

Each piece was unique in its daunting, but exquisite, truth, too. No two stories, no two people, were the same.

Klaus had an innate talent for depicting with whom another’s life was shared, for how long it was felt, why it was relished, resented, or missed; and when it all came to an end—but most people hated it. Hated him for his creations. Every single one of them were unable to understand precisely why their old lives must be preserved on ghost canvasses that could echo, but could never be touched again. They couldn’t reconcile how much agony it cost him to portray things he longed to experience himself, but most likely never would.

Klaus knew, too, that no soul, dead or alive, cared for knowledge or insight into his bruising history. People preferred ignorance. People preferred not to hear.

It mattered not that his step-father, Mikael the Mighty, kicked him from the cloud-castles of his birth and into the pits of hell because he thought him a plague on the Original family—a repulsive half-blooded beast, you are; and no son of mine, he’d said before punting Klaus into the Deadlands to rot; to be forgotten; to roast in the flames like garbage—only that people distrusted the moonstruck yellow of his seer eyes more. They were eyes which stalked through so much of others’ loveliness and adventures, but reflected no such contentedness of his own in their depths.

Unfortunately, suspicion and aversion were the emotions which won out first and foremost among the once-living. It was easier for earthlings to fear him. Loath him. Misunderstand him. It was easier for them to condemn his pledge to preserve everlasting memories in death than to understand that he’d never waltz in the arms of the changing seasons himself unless he did so vicariously:  through them.

Perhaps it was too difficult for anyone to believe Klaus might know something of dejection, too? Or grief. Or wonder. Or longing for something alive. Perhaps it was impossible for anyone to fathom that the Kindred of the Damned might know something of suffering, too?

“You can’t fool me, you know,” Caroline cut in like a chirping dove.

“No?”

“No.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I…” Eyelashes flicking to his face, gaze unwavering, she shuffled forward with tulips trailing in her wake to place a tentative but steady hand on his chest. “Because I hear the muffled howl of your heart full of holes—how all of that emptiness blows straight through you. It calls out like the notes of a flute every time the wind rustles in the hopes that someone out there will hear it and rush into your arms. That’s why I came. I heard it, I felt your aching melody in my veins,” she said, her voice as soft as a feather. “I still do.”

Reaching for his hand, she beamed up at him with the rose-gold softness of a million suns as she intertwined their fingers in a tender, comforting way he’d never been shown before. The gesture caused Klaus’s throat to scratch uncomfortably. His lungs tingled with the warmth of a coming sunrise, making it almost difficult to breathe.

“That doesn’t mean you can dethrone me, though, sweetheart,” he replied in a low drawl.

“It doesn’t, you’re right. But if you let me,” Caroline said with a tilt of her head and a spreading smile, “I could occupy one next to you so you always have someone by your side?”

Those words, as legend later would claim, changed everything.

For, although she left behind a small lesion on the moon’s sooty, weathered face where her perfectly-petalled tip punctured it with grace and light, she showed Klaus the finesse of bending instead of breaking. She replenished his rotted insides with laughter, with hopes of forever which tangled them together like two onyx-shamrock stems dancing in the wind. She taught him how, sometimes, a heart given freely beats louder and longer, feels fatter and fuller, and gushes softer and surer than a heart that’s taken forcibly.

Before long, Klaus realized her nectar burned too bright for him to resist the urge to close his eyes and revel in her liquid sunshine taste…so he breathed Caroline in until he was blinded. And here’s a little secret:

He never regretted it once, either.

[imreadingafuckingbook]

          A  List  Of  Halloween  Book  Recommendations

1.  Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero

1990. The teen detectives once known as the Blyton Summer Detective Club (of Blyton Hills, a small mining town in the Zoinx River Valley in Oregon) are all grown up and haven't seen each other since their fateful, final case in 1977. Andy, the tomboy, is twenty-five and on the run, wanted in at least two states. Kerri, one-time kid genius and budding biologist, is bartending in New York, working on a serious drinking problem. At least she's got Tim, an excitable Weimaraner descended from the original canine member of the team. Nate, the horror nerd, has spent the last thirteen years in and out of mental health institutions, and currently resides in an asylum in Arhkam, Massachusetts. The only friend he still sees is Peter, the handsome jock turned movie star. The problem is, Peter's been dead for years. The time has come to uncover the source of their nightmares and return to where it all began in 1977. This time, it better not be a man in a mask. The real monsters are waiting. With raucous humor and brilliantly orchestrated mayhem, Edgar Cantero's Meddling Kids taps into our shared nostalgia for the books and cartoons we grew up with, and delivers an exuberant, eclectic, and highly entertaining celebration of horror, life, friendship, and many-tentacled, interdimensional demon spawn.

2.  The Bone Key: The Necromantic Mysteries of Kyle Murchison Booth by Sarah Monette

The dead and the monstrous will not leave Kyle Murchison Booth alone, for an unwilling foray into necromancy has made him sensitive to--and attractive to--the creatures who roam the darkness of his once-safe world. Ghosts, ghouls, incubi: all have one thing in common. They know Booth for one of their own . . .

3. The Language of Thorns by Leigh Bardugo

Love speaks in flowers. Truth requires thorns. Travel to a world of dark bargains struck by moonlight, of haunted towns and hungry woods, of talking beasts and gingerbread golems, where a young mermaid's voice can summon deadly storms and where a river might do a lovestruck boy's bidding but only for a terrible price. Inspired by myth, fairy tale, and folklore, #1 New York Times–bestselling author Leigh Bardugo has crafted a deliciously atmospheric collection of short stories filled with betrayals, revenge, sacrifice, and love. Perfect for new readers and dedicated fans, these tales will transport you to lands both familiar and strange—to a fully realized world of dangerous magic that millions have visited through the novels of the Grishaverse. This collection of six stories includes three brand-new tales, all of them lavishly illustrated with art that changes with each turn of the page, culminating in six stunning full-spread illustrations as rich in detail as the stories themselves.

4. The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding by Alexandra Bracken

"I would say it's a pleasure to meet thee, Prosperity Oceanus Redding, but truly, I only anticipate the delights of destroying thy happiness." Prosper is the only unexceptional Redding in his old and storied family history — that is, until he discovers the demon living inside him. Turns out Prosper's great-great-great-great-great-something grandfather made — and then broke — a contract with a malefactor, a demon who exchanges fortune for eternal servitude. And, weirdly enough, four-thousand-year-old Alastor isn't exactly the forgiving type. The fiend has reawakened with one purpose — to destroy the family whose success he ensured and who then betrayed him. With only days to break the curse and banish Alastor back to the demon realm, Prosper is playing unwilling host to the fiend, who delights in tormenting him with nasty insults and constant attempts trick him into a contract. Yeah, Prosper will take his future without a side of eternal servitude, thanks. Little does Prosper know, the malefactor's control over his body grows stronger with each passing night, and there's a lot Alastor isn't telling his dim-witted (but admittedly strong-willed) human host. From #1 New York Times best-selling author Alexandra Bracken comes a tale of betrayal and revenge, of old hurts passed down from generation to generation. Can you ever fully right a wrong, ever truly escape your history? Or will Prosper and Alastor be doomed to repeat it?

5. The Dire King (Jackaby #4) by Wiliam Ritter

The fate of the world is in the hands of detective of the supernatural R. F. Jackaby and his intrepid assistant, Abigail Rook. An evil king is turning ancient tensions into modern strife, using a blend of magic and technology to push Earth and the Otherworld into a mortal competition. Jackaby and Abigail are caught in the middle as they continue to solve the daily mysteries of New Fiddleham, New England — like who’s created the rend between the worlds, how to close it, and why zombies are appearing around. At the same time, the romance between Abigail and the shape-shifting police detective Charlie Cane deepens, and Jackaby’s resistance to his feelings for 926 Augur Lane’s ghostly lady, Jenny, begins to give way. Before the four can think about their own futures, they will have to defeat an evil that wants to destroy the future altogether.

6. Spectred Isle by KJ Charles

Archaeologist Saul Lazenby has been all but unemployable since his disgrace during the War. Now he scrapes a living working for a rich eccentric who believes in magic. Saul knows it’s a lot of nonsense...except that he begins to find himself in increasingly strange and frightening situations. And at every turn he runs into the sardonic, mysterious Randolph Glyde. Randolph is the last of an ancient line of arcanists, commanding deep secrets and extraordinary powers as he struggles to fulfil his family duties in a war-torn world. He knows there's something odd going on with the haunted-looking man who keeps turning up in all the wrong places. The only question for Randolph is whether Saul is victim or villain. Saul hasn’t trusted anyone in a long time. But as the supernatural threat grows, along with the desire between them, he’ll need to believe in evasive, enraging, devastatingly attractive Randolph. Because he may be the only man who can save Saul’s life—or his soul.

7. The Restorer by Amanda Stevens

My name is Amelia Gray. I'm a cemetery restorer who sees ghosts. In order to protect myself from the parasitic nature of the dead, I've always held fast to the rules passed down from my father. But now a haunted police detective has entered my world and everything is changing, including the rules that have always kept me safe. It started with the discovery of a young woman's brutalized body in an old Charleston graveyard I've been hired to restore. The clues to the killer, and to his other victims, lie in the headstone symbolism that only I can interpret. Devlin needs my help, but his ghosts shadow his every move, feeding off his warmth, sustaining their presence with his energy. To warn him would be to invite them into my life. I've vowed to keep my distance, but the pull of his magnetism grows ever stronger even as the symbols lead me closer to the killer and to the gossamer veil that separates this world from the next.

8. Of the Abyss (Mancer #1) by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

After decades of strife, peace has finally been achieved in Kavet—but at a dark cost.  Sorcery is outlawed, and anyone convicted of consorting with the beings of the other realms—the Abyssi and the Numini—is put to death. The only people who can even discuss such topics legally are the scholars of the Order of the Napthol, who give counsel when questions regarding the supernatural planes arise.

Hansa Viridian, a captain in the elite guard unit tasked with protecting Kavet from sorcery, has always led a respectable life. But when he is implicated in a sorcerer’s crimes, the only way to avoid execution is to turn to the Abyss for help—specifically, to a half-Abyssi man he’s sworn he hates, but whose physical attraction he cannot deny.                            

Hansa is only the first victim in a plot that eventually drags him, a sorcerer named Xaz, and a Sister of the Napthol named Cadmia into the depths of the Abyss, where their only hope of escape is to complete an infernal task that might cost them their lives.

9. The Rook (The Checquy Files #1) by Daniel O’Malley

"The body you are wearing used to be mine." So begins the letter Myfanwy Thomas is holding when she awakes in a London park surrounded by bodies all wearing latex gloves. With no recollection of who she is, Myfanwy must follow the instructions her former self left behind to discover her identity and track down the agents who want to destroy her. She soon learns that she is a Rook, a high-ranking member of a secret organization called the Chequy that battles the many supernatural forces at work in Britain. She also discovers that she possesses a rare, potentially deadly supernatural ability of her own. In her quest to uncover which member of the Chequy betrayed her and why, Myfanwy encounters a person with four bodies, an aristocratic woman who can enter her dreams, a secret training facility where children are transformed into deadly fighters, and a conspiracy more vast than she ever could have imagined.  

10. The Ice Princess by Camilla Läckberg

Returning to her hometown of Fjallbacka after the funeral of her parents, writer Erica Falck finds a community on the brink of tragedy. The death of her childhood friend, Alex, is just the beginning. Her wrists slashed, her body frozen in an ice-cold bath, it seems that she has taken her own life. Erica conceives a book about the beautiful but remote Alex, one that will answer questions about their own shared past. While her interest grows into an obsession, local detective Patrik Hedstrom is following his own suspicions about the case. But it is only when they start working together that the truth begins to emerge about a small town with a deeply disturbing past.

[art-now-italy]

ROSE, Polina Ogiy

ROSE-Perfect, perfect flower.Very complex character. Ambivalent. One of the most common mytho-poetic images. Within a diverse and capacious "flower" code rose occupies a leading position. In ancient times, rose has been linked joy, and later — secrecy, silence, and love. The latest figure was the most stable element of the symbol of the rose. However, in Greece, Rome, China, and later in some German-speaking countries rose became the flower associated with funerals, death. Often it was turned into the flower of the afterlife Kingdom. A more complete set of symbolic meanings of roses include: beauty, perfection, grace, joy, love, pleasure, praise, fame, splendor, bliss, aroma, plamennoi, pride, wisdom, prayer, meditation, the secret, the mystery, the silence. Rose can act as a symbol of the sun, the stars, the goddess of love and beauty, women (mainly beautiful women; not by chance a large variety of "pink" names: rose, Rosina, Rosita, Rosetta, Rosalia, Rosalind, Rosamund, Rosablanca, etc.). Together with the Lily takes place East of the Lotus — mystic rose — its symbolic counterpart. Rose represents the West, as well as Lotus East and the chrysanthemum — the far East. "Wind rose" is drawn in the form of a circle enclosing a double cross, symbolizing the four cardinal directions together with the interim directions, thus it shares the symbolic meaning of a circle, centre, cross and solar wheel rays. "Rose Garden" is a symbol of Paradise and mystical marriage, the unity of opposites. Heraldic rose with five petals is a symbolic analog of the pentagram and friends characters. Silence is required at initiation, free thought, free from the prejudices and superstitions,— the General symbols for the images of roses on the locks of the Church vaults, transformer in the round medallions on the ceilings. This same value is used in the emblems of political parties. The language of flowers says about love. White — love sighs; pink — oath of love; tea — courtship; bright red — passionate love, admiration of beauty. rose since ancient times has been the subject of a tender offering. Reliably established that less than half of I Millennium BC. in China, the middle East, in Egypt and later in Greece and Rome, and then and on all continents, the rose has already received wide spread as an ornamental, and enjoy the fragrance of a flower. The name he gave the island of Rhodes, because they grew a great variety of these flowers. Queen of the flowers. Therefore, the rose is an attribute of a beautiful woman (on the East of Eden rose, Sharon). The scent of roses had a wholesome effect on the soul and on the heart. preserved tradition to throw flowers at the feet of the processions, to throw flowers on the heads of the bride and groom... Christian mysticism, and mystery of other cultures which preceded it — all of them strikingly coincide in honoring roses, whether it's a folk song, a pious legend or medieval paintings; Mary, mother of God, always sits in the rose garden or rose bushes. The cross in combination with five petals becomes a symbol of Resurrection and joy. If the top of the cross there are three roses, and in the bottom (not on the cross) four more, it means happy Union of the spiritual (heavenly, divine) the world denoted by the triad, with the lower, earthly, mortal world, which is signified by the number four. Basic values In our time, the rose is an attribute of sympathy, of love, of the desire of man to woman. Immaculate, model a flower in the Western tradition. maiden innocence, stubbornness. change, change, death, resurrection from the dead... poetic inspiration love, spring, beauty, youth; the attribute of goddesses of love, fertility, dawn, spring: heart, center of the universe, cosmic wheels, love — divine, romantic and sensual mystery, silence and secrecy, ordinances, heavenly perfection and earthly passion; time and eternity; life and death, fertility and virginity. The wholeness, the Pleroma, the completeness, the mystery of life, its focus, the unknown, beauty, grace, happiness, but also voluptuousness, passion; sensuality and seduction — in a combination to wine, love, life, creativity, fertility, beauty, and virginity is a flower of female deities death, mortality and grief — withering of a rose; the concern for the preservation of happiness in life; pain and death, pain, blood and martyrdom, thorns, spines in funeral rites — eternal life, eternal spring, the resurrection of divine beauty enclosed in every living being. the ancients saw in it a symbol of rebirth and therefore laid it on the grave. the life and dedication of a full-Blown rose — the death of the Sun of Eternity, death, and resurrection from the dead, life; The fragility, the weakness, unreliability; Sun, flames, stars, Perfection, beauty, spring, pride, joy; the Women's Foundation, hearts, virtue, girlhood, mystery, elegance, complementarity, aroma, luxury, fertility, carnal love, free love, prostitution; wine. eternal wisdom, spirituality, tenderness, lyrical inspiration; the mystical Union, the mystical circle, the ring, the Grail, the soul, prayer, mystery, silence; bombast, pomposity (mainly in the XVII century), the victory (in ancient Rome); the West; courage (the Arabs); the digit "5" (five petals of the wild roses). sacraments spiritual life. unfailing love and memory, and roses adorned the heads of lovers, petals peppered the conjugal bed, and the dead and their graves. The four petal — Quaternary division of space. Five-flower wild rose, in the opinion of the ancients was an expression of the Universe consisting of five elements-the elements: fire, water, earth, air and ether, as well as non-stop repetition of epochs in the circle of Eternity. In addition, the five leaves is the pentagram, the emblem of witchcraft and sorcery, a microcosm. Six-petal — the macrocosm. Semiletov — connected with family parties of space, days of week, planets, the degrees of perfection etc is Represented — the revival. Scarlet (red) — desire, passion, lust, impulse; shame, confusion, marriage, motherhood, joy, sensual beauty, the perfection of man's death. White — goodness, purity, virginity, piety. "flower of light", innocence, spiritual revelation, and charm. chastity Red and white — the Union of fire and water, the Union of opposites. Gold is perfection; a sign of the highest achievements, which the Pope rewards those who have done something very significant for Catholicism. Starting from the XI century is given in the fourth week of Lent. Yellow — jealousy, envy, infidelity. Blue (blue) — unattainable and impossible: such roses exist in nature (the same of the black roses). The symbolism of the various types of roses and its diverse elements. Rose red — Christian symbol of the earthly world; the emblem of Adonis, Aphrodite, Venus, Sappho; a sign to the house of Lancaster; the awe, shyness, shame, desire, embrace, passion, motherhood, death, martyrdom. White rose — purity, virginity, spirituality, abstract thought, silence; the sign of the house of York. In these cases, the bright (white) rose has always been an expression of the brevity of life and happiness, and also regret their loss; an attribute of the world blessed souls, residing in Elysian fields. Red and white rose — unity, Union. Garland of roses — attribute of Eros, Cupid, Saint Cecilia; blessed soul, heavenly joy and consolation in the Christian faith; the angelic crown. The rose on the cross — death of Christ. The thorn of a rose — the suffering, death; the Christian symbol of sin; * rose without a thorn — ingratitude. Wreath of roses - heavenly joy, the reward for virtue. Rose garden — the New Jerusalem; the Heavenly rose — rose of Dante's Paradise, the image of the universe and Supreme bliss. Golden rose — rose, blessed by the priest and made at the feast in the temple; the symbol of the Church, the heavenly blessings and joy. Silver rose — abode of Brahma. Rosette roses — the sign of seven names of Allah in Islam; in Buddhism, knowledge, law, path order, that is, the threefold truth, and symbolized by the Lotus flower, the star, the circle of the universe. Pink tree of refuge, a shelter. Astronomy/logy In ancient times and later of the great astrologers, in particular Agrippa Nettesheim, rose — flower of the goddess Venus and thus the symbol of the most beautiful period in one's life, love, beauty. Alchemy In Greco-Roman tradition rose — triumphant love, joy, beauty, desire, the emblem of Aphrodite (Venus). Roses were grown in gardens in the crypts as a symbol of resurrection and eternal spring. They were brought to the festival Rosalie and scattered on the graves. The Roman Emperor wore a wreath of roses. The red rose grew from the blood of Adonis. Rose, the emblem of Aurora, Helios, Dionysus and the Muses. In alchemy the rose is the wisdom, and govopit ??? is "Work"; in addition, it is a symbol of spiritual rebirth after the death of the mortal. Red and white roses are part of a dualistic system red/white, both of first principles sulphur and mercury, and rose Corolla with Semiletov indicate the seven metals and their equivalents in the form of planets. The Kabbalah of the Jewish tradition (Kabbalah): the center of the flower is the Sun, the petals are infinite but harmonious diversity of nature. Rose comes from the tree of Life. in the Jewish Cabbala the rose — the image of unity. Freemasonry Heraldic rose equivalent is inscribed in an invisible circle and the pentagram symbolizes the silence consecrate, a knight or a candidate for the Freemasons. The masons inform each other symbolic mysteries, using rose, and their internal Search is to comprehend the mystery. The Rosicrucians: the rose and the Cross is the Mystic rose as the wheel and the cross; the rose is divine light of the universe, and the cross — the transitory world of suffering and sacrifice.The rose grows on the Tree of Life, symbolizing rebirth and resurrection. The rose in the center of the cross is the four elements and the point of their unity. The crest of Johann Valentin Andrea (1586-1654), whose writings gave birth to the idea of the legendary Union, was St. Andrew's cross with four roses in the corners. Pays great attention to the rose in Masonic symbolism. At the burial of a member of the brotherhood he was put in the grave three roses. "John three roses" are interpreted as "light, love, life"; in Johns day (24 June), the bed is decorated with roses in three color tones, and the names of some lodges make a point of it ("The three roses" in Hamburg — Lodge, which was adopted by the G. E. Lessing). Rosicrucian and Masonic symbolism found in the poem Goethe's "Secrets" which tells of the cross entwined with roses: rose Who was connected with the cross And the stiffness of the wood clothed the Crown from all sides?.. Silvery clouds hovering in the center of the Cross and the rose in the ease akin. Pouring out the Holy life Triple beam from a point in the middle. Rose became the emblem and symbol of the occult and Kabbalistic order of the rosy cross, founded in the XVII century, whose emblem was a cross of roses, or a wooden cross with a rose in the cent re. A large number of petals symbolizing the stages of initiation and the centre of roses, in the opinion of the members of the order, was a point of unity, the heart of Jesus Christ, the divine light, the sun in the center of the wheel of life. In related symbolic system of three Freemasons of St. John roses are of light, love and life. ..У меня нет ничего, Ничего , кроме мечты, Мечты ,что ты -это Ты.... Ты сидишь на троне Сотканном из роз Звуком сотворенный Ангел дальних звезд. Светом окруженный, Муз небесных свод, Нежный и безумный, Призрачный как Бог. В облаках тумана, Ты не хочешь быть, Никому желанным , Никому светить. На алтарь твой льется, Кровь моей души, Птицей сердце бьется, Розы и шипы. Царство без Царицы, Море без земли. Времени мерцание, Вечность впереди. Ты не бойся Ангел, Я люблю тебя.... Жизнь тебе, лишь сниться, Пока я жива.... POLLIN. 7.05.2015

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-ROSE/826122/2759990/view

[marissarla924-blog]

INDICATING IN LIFE LIFESTYLE Related Articles

As that possesses therefore incredibly usually been lamented, the considerable amount of being human is actually truly nothing over a bedroom from thorns embellished through a handful of occasional roses. The Viewpoint, Install, and also Broadcast (VDT) document offers treatments information to determine if they meet the Meaningful Make use of Phase 2 step for patients taking action on their health relevant information. Language is regularly context-determined: phrases depend upon various other terms as well as on the planet to which they associate and refer. Flowers may make the ideal technique for you to communicate your views to your meaningful various other. If you cherished this post and you would like to obtain extra data relating to yellow pages personal directory uk (www.acueductour.com.mx) kindly stop by the site. 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[mialbowy-blog]

A Rose Without Thorns

If I had but a word to describe the gallery, decadent would be it. Marble floors and walls with golden trimmings, lit by such little light that the paintings appeared to be fluorescent. Perhaps they were, having been remade by the finest imitators, while the true masterpieces lurked in a distant warehouse.

That wish unlikely though, despite how much I prayed. At least then the sacrilege could be forgiven, but even then it would be difficult to discount the forgeries as the highest art in their own right. While familiar with many of them, my eyes alone could not discern the truth of the matter, additional tools and the permission to use them required. That gave them a certain level of class; a point of view that depended on whether quality or pedigree mattered more.

“Ah, so you have chosen to bless me with your presence,” said a voice, one better suited to soap operas than reality. I had to remind myself he meant the words sincerely too, as difficult as distinguishing was. “I hope you find my exhibit entertaining.”

“At the least it's provocative,” I replied, keeping my tone level. Over the years I'd found the best course of action for people like him to be neutrality. Become someone uninteresting and they wouldn't bother.

He came to stand beside me, looking at the same painting. I wouldn't want to presume what he thought, because he would, no doubt, share it with me after I said nothing for long enough. My guess turned out to be correct. “Is it not beautiful?”

“Yes,” I said, truly meaning both answers to the rhetorical question.

Reticent to glance over, I didn't know if my curt reply had put him off balance. Regardless, his next question came belatedly. “I had the idea for all this when gardening one evening. Do you garden?”

“Reluctantly. My wife insists I keep the lawn trim.”

He made a sound like a laugh. “Well, if you ever decide to expand your experiences, you may well find yourself in a similar situation to myself. Rather sure of my skills, I began removing the thorns from a rose. As one might expect, my confidence proved misplaced, and I pricked myself.”

“Fatally?” I asked, unable to stop the word before it left my lips.

Another crafted note of amusement his reply. “Fortunately not, only a few drops of blood the price. However, it stopped me in my tracks, and made me think of what I had been doing, and why.”

The silence stretched as he waited for me to hit the ball of conversation back to his side of the court. Patience had always been a virtue of mine.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I decided to stop there, and leave the other roses untouched. After all, what is a rose without its thorns?”

“A rose,” I replied.

He chose to ignore me, as, I thought, that had not been the answer he wanted. Instead, he continued in a world where his question was rhetorical. “The contrast between beauty and pain is what makes the rose so elegant. Without thorns it is but a flower; with them, a symbol. When one thinks of flowers, it is the rose that comes to mind. Why? Because flowers are beautiful, and none more so than roses. The thorns highlight the fragility, bring balance to the imagery.”

He paused, his animated monologue hanging in the echoing halls.

“The feminine flower and masculine thorns come together as though making love. Can there be anything more beautiful than satisfying that most carnal desire?”

“My wife might have a few ideas,” I said for my own benefit, growing tired of his tirade.

Again, my words met deaf ears. “That brought me to this,” he said, gesturing at the canvas before us. “Art could use thorns. Beauty complemented by pain. So I thought, what pain can a painting befall?”

Years locked away from curious eyes had been my own thought, kept to myself to save my breath.

“Obvious, no?” he said as though what he had done was, indeed, obvious.

“No,” I replied.

He laughed as though it had been a compliment. “Perhaps I misjudge my own aptitude for art.”

“Agreed.”

The talk had ended, with nothing said for a good few minutes as we wandered from one piece to the next—or so I had wrongly thought. “If I may inquire, what is your opinion? I have heard wonderful things so far, but I am something of a masochist, always looking for that critique that drives me to prove myself afresh.”

I felt a strange bite of restraint, and asked, “Are you sure you want my honest opinion?”

“Of course, why else would I have invited you? I am not interested in hiding from critics, no matter their standing, so long as they love art as much as I do.”

“Very well,” I said, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. “You are the worst kind of artist. You have taken something beautiful and claimed to have done something transformative to it. You have not. All you have succeeded in doing is ruining it. There is nothing gained from your additions. The pain you speak of is shallow, evocative in the same way slurs are. The sense of loss I feel from knowing that you have deprived so many people from seeing the original artworks is immense. All I can give you credit for is leaving them mostly intact, and letting in the public to see what remains of pieces that haven't been on show for decades.”

Pausing, I regained my breath.

“This is a tragedy. Not one by Shakespeare. There is no reason for this. No story to be told. Nothing more than a massacre by a madman with more money than sense.”

Didn't wait for a reply.

“I'll be going now. Thank you for inviting me.”

Written in response to the prompt: "...After all, what is a rose without its thorns?" Found here

[beanston-blog]

My secret wish

This is my secret, deep wish for people I love.

They should, at the foremost, have the deep desire to learn the Dharma. Without having any drive towards understanding, learning and perusing Dharma, it is like they are walking into a room full of thorns without slippers. 

The first reason is that it pains my heart seeing it. On top of that, with my finite heart, I can only take that much and catch a person that many times. I’m not enlightened, I certainly don’t have a boundless heart as of yet - Practice may have expanded my capacity to do so, but sometimes it can feel like it’s too much.

The second reason is that when one doesn’t understand Dharma, nor practice it to the utmost, they remain unchanged in personality, compulsions, neuroses, subconscious behaviour and wisdom. These leak out subconsciously as toxic thoughts, toxic speech, and toxic actions. It is as if one is poisoned without knowing it, and going around poisoning everyone else. 

The third reason is that it becomes difficult to progress in the Dharma. In the Sigalovada Sutta, the Buddha said, for example, the traits of a good friend: (1) one who is helpful, (2) one who is the same in happy and unhappy times, (3) one who points out what is good for you, (4) one who is sympathetic.

And in the Dutiya-Mitta Sutta, the Buddha says: "You should cultivate and follow a friend who is endowed with seven characteristics: (1) genial, (2) venerable or respetable, (3) praise-worthy, (4) clever in speech, (5) obedient or willing to do what others bid,  (6) profound in speech, and (7) not encouraging others to do evil." 

And lastly in the Upaddha Sutta: "Not so, Ananda!  Not so, Ananda! good friendship, good companionship, and good comradeship is the entire holy life.  When a Bhikkhu or a monk has a good friend, a good companion, or a good comrade, it is to be expected that he will develop and cultivate the Noble Eightfold Path."

Therefore, when there is a toxic companion, friend, or even loved one, this can be quite toxic for the Path, simply because one is continuously exposed to unwholesome actions, speech and thoughts that affect one’s own conduct.

The effects of Dharma are very profound. It can be impossible to persuade someone with no drive to understand the Dharma to learn the Dharma. 

As Nan Huai Jin always says, practicing Buddhism is both studying the Dharma until one knows all the principles clearly, and practicing it.

I feel so pressured, so on tip-toe... because every time I wish to express the Dharma to the people I love, it is as if they do not want it, they do not see the value of it, and they do not practice it. I then withhold it back, but this pain just continuously builds on in the inside, and I have to do meditation to release it.

I noticed the opposite when I managed to talk to a few people (freshers) and guide them on life’s path by using the principles of the Dharma. I taught them the value of meritorious thoughts, speech and actions, the value of a kind heart, impermanence and accepting death... 

They understood its value! 

A fresher was telling me how he fears that his parents are getting on late in years. I told him that when a seed is planted in the ground, it grows and sprouts a beautiful flower. When the plant is alive, we care for it, we water it, we understand that when its time is ripe, it will die. But we must let go of that flower, so that it can continue its process to provide seeds for other plants. Death comes to allow another beginning. Energy is never created nor destroyed. It is only converted from one form to another.

I feel as if these people who are not ‘hardened’ by the label of being a Buddhist are far more receptive to contemplating life’s questions. True Buddhism isn’t ‘Buddhist’ or sectarian, it is truth-seeking, universal and found everywhere.

The moment we speak a word, that is Dharma!

Why is it Dharma? Because where did this word come from? It came from the emptiness. But how did it appear from the emptiness? Ignorance of the self-nature, leading to karmic formations, leading to consciousness, name-and-form, sense-consciouness contact, feelings, cravings, birth, sickness and death (Dependent Origination). Birth is exactly where these thoughts/words/actions came from.

That is why we say everything is Dharma, because everything is a direct penetration that arises from emptiness and returns to emptiness without staying. And “we” are the dumb ones who continue to cling. 

Ok, this small rant is over, but I had to get it out of my chest.

I place my palms together in prayer, and deeply pray that for the sake of all my loved ones, distant or near, friends or friends-to-be, that all of them gain insight into the Dharma, and free themselves from suffering. 

Not even the Buddha can save a person, if he or she is unwilling to be saved (or want it bad enough).

Even if it’s Jesus, it requires the person to have absolute devotion, to the point of aligning every thought, speech and action with Him.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Preparing The Ground For Revival

by J. Edwin Orr

"See, I have this day set thee over the nations and over the kingdoms, to root out, and to pull down, and to destroy, and to throw down, to build, and to plant" - Jeremiah 1:10

Of this six-fold commission, four injunctions are destructive and only the latter two are constructive. "To build and to plant" surely a great work. But it had to be preceded by a rooting-out and a pulling-down, destruction and demolishing. Surely this sounds drastic! Yet it was very necessary, as the historical background shows. The Jewish kingdom had become overgrown with weeds, overbuilt with traditional superstructures. They had to go first. Some iconoclasm was necessary. Some destruction was required.

Let us look in the garden for a parable. We walked round a beautiful garden which occupied a former piece of waste land. The gardener showed us round. "Those are beautiful roses," we said to him. "I planted them," replied the gardener, with justified pride. "What a beautifully-cut hedge," we remarked next. "I trimmed that," he said. "Who is responsible for that lovely Sweet William border?" Again the gardener smiled and claimed the credit. We passed on, thinking to ourselves that this gardener had created a grand testimony to his skill in gardening.

At the garden gate, we found an old fellow watching a smoking heap of refuse. "What have you been doing?" "Working at the garden," he said. "Well, then, what have you to show for your labor?" "Nothing, Sir," he replied. "Then you cannot have been working!" We told him. "Sir," he asserted. "When we came here, this garden was a piece of waste land, overgrown with weeds, full of stones and sand, swampy in one corner, and pretty hopeless all round." We got interested. "Well sir," he went on, "I broke up the land, and I destroyed the weeds, and dug out the stones, and carted away the sand, and it was my job to drain the swampy comer." We listened with growing appreciation. "I am saying nothing against the other fellow who planted the garden. He did his job well. But where would his planting come in if I hadn't first rooted out and destroyed the weeds?" Both men's labor was necessary, but the rooting out and destruction of weeds preceded the planting of flowers and shrubs.

Let us remember the first work of rooting out the weeds and utterly destroying them. One of the great weaknesses of many forms of ministry today is the attempt to sow good seed among thorns. The thorns generally continue springing up, and the seed is choked thereby, despite the good intention of the human sower. Seed sown in a prepared ground requires only the action of the elements to produce fruit in season. Seed sown by the wayside, or in stony places, or among thorns, will have its prospects of life severely threatened almost immediately. Likewise, changing the mode of illustration, a Christian who is in proper relationship with God is generally hungry for the great truths and affirmations of the Gospel. A constructive message is then not only desirable, but necessary. Good food, the finest of the cream of the wheat of the Gospel of Christ, is eagerly assimilated by the Christian who lives in harmony with God.

Yet all Christians are not in proper relationship with their Lord. The present obvious dearth of revival is largely due to the fact that the majority of Christians are out of touch with the source of Divine power. Even at conventions, the first work needed is to get things put right in the lives of those attending. To give a sick stomach an overdose of cream is to risk indigestion. Even a sick stomach prefers the taste of cream to the flavor of the bitter medicine. Still the bitter medicine is necessary, and it does not prevent the enjoying and digesting of good food afterwards-rather it creates the actual appetite of good health, which is quite distinct from the false cravings of indigestion.

For instance, the glorious message of the position of every believer in Christ is a comfort to many souls. Yet it cannot bring much blessing to a stubborn Christian living in disobedience and conscious sin. He needs to act on the teaching of repentance and confession and cleansing FIRST, and then he may comfort himself with other truths. I heard once of a church which had the cream of doctrine given within its walls, week in, week out. Judging from the quality of uplifting ministry given there, one would have expected to find the church members on the highest heavenly plane. But in this instance, they had a church quarrel which resulted in the bread and wine being spilled in a scuffle, and the police were called in to restore order. They obviously needed more than cream. Medicine was wanted badly. Positional truth cannot be profitably taught until conditional teaching has had its effect. Cast no pearls before swine. So great is this problem, that when the preacher strikes out against sin among believers and urges purity of life, critics cry "Introspection," and some insist that he is trying to divert the eyes of the people away from Christ towards self and shortcomings.

It was my happy experience once, to speak at a great convention well-known in England. It was arranged with the council members that if blessing came through in the degree hoped for, I would be at liberty to continue for double the time. Beginning with destructive ministry, the Lord used His word to create deep conviction of heart. The place was thronged. Christians were stirred to confession and repentance, and many souls were saved.

By contrast, I was speaking at another convention, not so far away. It was a convention of good standing. I felt led to speak first of the shortcoming of believers and the need of getting right before enjoying the good things of the feast. The next speakers seemed to doubt the worth of such a method, and their message seemed to be: "You are complete in Christ, so don't worry about these trifles. God accepts you in the Beloved, and you needn't mind." For days there was that cross-current of message. I believed with all my heart in the truth of their message, but I thought that the time was unripe for its application.

With a burdened heart, I prayed for clear guidance regarding continuing my message. The Lord put a text, a "new" text for me, into my heart, and I preached it. Before I preached it, a speaker dwelt on the glorious promises of God, promises meant for obedient children. Then followed my opportunity. "Having therefore these promises, dearly beloved, let us cleanse ourselves from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit, perfecting holiness in the fear of God" (2 Cor. 7:1). It gave the connection at last, but we had no great revival. It drove home many truths to me. Let us comfort one another with the grand truths of our position in Christ. But let us not make excuse by saying that our "completeness" in Him permits us to wink at known sin.