#'burial shroud for those that discover the truth'

[death-rebirth-senshi]

"Greathood increases intelligence and faith" then why in god's name does the reduvia wielder who drops lord of blood's exultation wear it

[motivateandinspiretoday]

Historical Proof of Jesus Christ Writings Eyewitnesses and Artifacts #lo...

The historical evidence for Jesus Christ's existence comes from various sources, including writings, eyewitness accounts, and artifacts, though not all are directly linked to him. Here's a summary of the key categories:

### 1. **Writings:**   - **New Testament Documents**: The primary sources are the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John) and letters by apostles like Paul. These texts, written within a few decades after Jesus' death, describe his life, teachings, crucifixion, and resurrection. While the New Testament is a religious text, it is also considered by scholars as a historical source with early Christian accounts.   - **Non-Christian Sources**:     - **Josephus**: A 1st-century Jewish historian, Josephus briefly mentions Jesus in *Antiquities of the Jews* (c. AD 93). He refers to Jesus as a wise man and teacher, mentioning his crucifixion under Pontius Pilate and the belief of his followers that he rose from the dead.     - **Tacitus**: A Roman historian, Tacitus, in *Annals* (c. AD 116), refers to Jesus' execution by Pontius Pilate during Emperor Tiberius's reign, acknowledging the existence of Christians and their founder.     - **Pliny the Younger**: A Roman governor, in a letter to Emperor Trajan (c. AD 112), describes early Christian worship practices centered on Christ.

### 2. **Eyewitness Accounts:**   - **Apostles and Early Followers**: The New Testament claims to record the testimonies of those who knew or followed Jesus, such as Peter, John, and Paul. These accounts, particularly in the Gospels and letters of Paul, reflect the experiences of those who claimed to have witnessed Jesus' teachings, miracles, and post-resurrection appearances.   - **Martyrdom of Early Christians**: Many of Jesus' early followers, such as Peter and Paul, were martyred for their belief in him. Their willingness to die for their faith is often cited as evidence of their conviction in the truth of Jesus' life and resurrection.

### 3. **Artifacts and Archaeology:**   - **Shroud of Turin**: This controversial artifact is a linen cloth bearing the image of a man who appears to have suffered crucifixion wounds. Some believe it to be the burial shroud of Jesus, though its authenticity is debated.   - **James Ossuary**: Discovered in 2002, this ancient bone box bears the inscription, "James, son of Joseph, brother of Jesus." While also debated, it is seen by some as a possible link to Jesus' family.   - **Pilate Inscription**: An archaeological find in 1961, this stone inscription mentions Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor who ordered Jesus’ crucifixion, corroborating the New Testament account.

Though no physical artifacts directly tied to Jesus himself (such as personal belongings) have been discovered, these writings, historical accounts, and archaeological finds collectively contribute to the historical evidence of Jesus' life.

[abeautifuldayfortea]

Visions of Aman

Summary: The death of Aragorn, the final parting of friends, the reunion of Legolas and Gimli and the passing of the Sindar colony of Ithilien into the west. Written from Legolas’ perspective.

A/N: I chose this particular period in time because I wanted to explore more in depth the reasons why Legolas decided to leave Middle Earth as soon as he learns of Aragorn’s death as it is only fleetingly mentioned in the appendices.  This took way too long and I am still far from satisfied with it. I spent two nights trying to decide what the tombs and the burial arrangements would be like (whether the bodies would be set in enclosed tombs or not (and then gave up after going nowhere)). Still, I hope you will enjoy reading it :), I am also very thankful to those readers who were kind enough to leave likes or comments or reblogs on my last fic and to those who didn’t as well, you all make my day, I love reading your comments and reblog tags!

Words: 1379

‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Gulls! They are flying far inland. A wonder they are to me and a trouble to my heart. Never in all my life had I met them, until we came to Pelargir, and there I heard them crying in the air as we rode to the battle of the ships. Then I stood still, forgetting war in Middle-earth; for their wailing voices spoke to me of the Sea. The Sea! Alas! I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir. Alas! for the gulls. No peace shall I have again under beech or under elm.’

‘Say not so!’ said Gimli. ‘There are countless things still to see in Middle-earth, and great works to do. But if all the fair folk take to the Havens, it will be a duller world for those who are doomed to stay.’ 

‘Dull and dreary indeed!’ said Merry: ‘You must not go to the Havens, Legolas. There will always be some folk, big or little, and even a few wise dwarves like Gimli, who need you. At least I hope so. Though I feel somehow that the worst of this war is still to come. How I wish it was all over, and well over!’

~ Chapter 9 Book 5, Lord of the Rings

There were now no folk, big or little that needed him now. The vision had come to him unbidden as he lay dreaming, wide eyed, gazing up into the many stars of Varda and walked among the strange paths in a place between the gaps of the waking world known only to elves.

Painted within his mind, he saw unbeknownst to him the Hallows of Minas Tirith and within its watchful darkness, three figures arranged abreast upon a great slab of marble each in a peaceful slumber, hands folded atop their chests and garbed in pale raiment. Upon the left he discerned the form of Merry and upon the right lay Pippin, their hair white and their faces lined with the wrinkles of laughter lines and between them, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. At his feet lay folded the standard of Elendil, its seven stars set with gems catching the thin light that filtered in through the barred panels of the mausoleum and flickering with a pale faintness like the slow extinguishing of lamps in the pale dawn.

Legolas reached out with his mind, but he could not find the fëa of the three that lay before him and as his fingers reached out to wake them, he felt no warmth, no gentle stirring of the breath. There was no doubt now, the king had passed out of the world, shepherded to the Halls of Mandos and beyond into an afterlife where he would never follow.

He felt the consuming emptiness of sorrow stir within him like the stoking of an icy fire, leaving him cold and shaking again at the loss of not one but three of his dearest friends. As he turned over onto his side, emerging from his rest he dreamt no more of the fair mallorn trees of Lothlórien in golden autumn nor of the last strongholds of Fangorn in eternal spring or the brilliant halls of Thranduil in their glory before they were diminished. A shadow had fallen on his heart and from afar, the white city itself was shrouded in a suffocating grey mist.

And looking to the west towards the White City of Gondor from his bower in Ithilien he began to sing, weaving the tapestry of stories and the great deeds of his friends in a song that leapt, soaring like the great Eagles in its most glorious retellings and fell tinkling into the deep wells of lamentation. The last of his kin who heard his song quietly removed themselves from their dwellings and were themselves so moved and enamoured that they were said to be brought perforce to mourn for them, although they did not know them. To the ears of Men also the lament came, Aragorn’s people who understood not the winding language of the Sindar but upon listening grovelled and wept, for it awakened the truth within them and none were surprised when they received the black news of his passing the following day.

At the last note, Legolas faltered and verily, he knew the time had come for him to heed at last the haunting cry of the gulls and cross the great western sea.

For three years, he gathered his kindred and together they crafted a mighty ship by the shores of Ithilien, crested by a swan’s head set with silver at the bow. The men of Ithilien looked ever on in awe for they had never seen any ship fairer and the make of it, from its rope and canvas – light and iridescent - to the delicately carved oars in the shape of freshly fallen leaves, were of elvish design and its graceful curves and finish were beyond the work of any man.

As the time grew near to its completion, Legolas sought Gimli at the Glittering Caves, and bade him come with him over the sea and into the west for he could not bear for his closest friend and final living reminder of his time on Middle Earth to be left behind. Just as the Caves themselves had been slowly carved by the dwarrow to reveal its hidden beauty, time had tempered Gimli and although the furnace within his eyes still burned with the ferocity of determination, he looked to be in the winter of his days. His hair was more white than brown and was no longer as spry as he had been in his youthful days sprinting across the fields of Rohan. It was not so difficult to glean a smile from him now for though he had once been grim, the days of the War had been left behind and his people flourished in the new colony under his guidance. All was well and the world seemed all the brighter with Legolas by his side. That night a great feast was set and Legolas was given a place beside Gimli at the high table and much honoured by his hosts.

He laughed and joked that Legolas had found himself more drawn to the underground than any elf there had been before him, his merriment bounding off the stars of the Earth embedded in the vaulted ceiling glimmering and iridescent. Looking high above his head to admire the work of Gimli he was reminded of the seven stars of Elendil, flickering at the feet of Aragorn and he shivered, his quip evaporating on his tongue. The cavern seemed all at once too large and despite the blazing torches, he felt cold and small.

“Gimli, my course is set for the shores of Aman. I walked in my dreams with the music of the waters cradling me, I felt the gentle rocking of a ship beneath my feet and a chorus of voices in the sea winds calling me. Will you sail with me? For there is more that I wish for you and I to see together, fairer than all the gems and treasures of the earth and deeper than the wisdom and thriving loveliness of any wood, so it is told. In such waking sleep the Lady of the Galadhrim came to me and she obtained grace for you to be received in the Blessed Realm even before I knew my own thought.”

Gimli was silent. His dark eyes hardened and he thought long for it was a hard choice to make. He loved the plunging valleys and cutting peaks of Aulë and in his dreams he gazed into the calm waters of the Mirrormere and wandered far underground discovering new places and minerals beyond comprehension, each more delightful than the last as he delved deeper into the very bones of the earth. No greed hid within his heart for he wished only to see the beautiful and learn from the fair. Yet he knew he was ever waning and growing closer to death as the timeless years marched on and if he did not go now, then he would be withdrawn without a choice to Aman by Aulë himself. Either way, his time was drawing thin and he wanted more than ever his friend by his side to ease his passing.

And he agreed, if only to gaze upon the exquisiteness of Galadriel again, to see Valinor in all its glory and to find anew things that lay beyond his wildest imaginings in that far island. His mind was set. Legolas was himself content and relieved for the dwarrow were a stubborn people and he knew that Gimli beheld things in a much different light than he did.

Together, they crossed the rolling plains to Ithilien borne by swift feet of horses to see the grand ship finished and sea ready. And together again, they would sail down the River Anduin on the pale dawn on the third year of the passing of Aragorn, leaving behind them the land of their forefathers, Middle Earth that they were born and raised in. 

It is said by the men who watched on that day that not one of the travellers heading toward the distant shores of Aman ever looked back, only onwards to where their final journey would take them...

And some who looked closely would have seen that among the host of elves on the ship stood an elderly dwarf beside his friend at the bow.

[coffee-and-cookies-mochi]

how do they see the yiling patriarch—fifteen years later

 A sharp shrill of a flute rips through the darkened skies, along with repetitive caws from the murder of crows appearing from nowhere. Cold winds blow against their robes, chilling them to the bone. A hundred or so whispers blend with the air—like lost souls humming a deathly tune.

 Lan SiZhui can only watch in stupefied terror, not knowing what to do. Beside him, Jin Ling and Lan JingYi move closer to him, tightening their grips on their respective swords.

 Then—

 SiZhui feels before he sees.

 He feels a frost colder than Cloud Recesses’ winters wrapping around them, shrouded with terror and dread. He senses the resentful energies slowly creeping towards them, yet somehow keeping a distance.

 And then SiZhui sees the very man the whole cultivation world had feared a long, long time ago.

 Long hair sway loosely with every step, a small knot of it tied with a red ribbon. Dressed in black robes detailed with flames and red clouds; a gleaming ebony flute on his pale hand, a crimson tassel hanging on the instrument’s end.

 The man looks up, and SiZhui notes how pallid his skin is against the moonlight—almost like that of a ghost’s.  His eyes are closed, as if trying to calm himself.

 “I heard,” the man murmurs, and everyone trembles at the raw fear his wintry voice invokes. “You were looking for me?”

 The man’s eyes open, and his orbs—SiZhui holds back a shudder—are bright, twinkling rubies.

 For a brief moment, Lan SiZhui does not see his Senior Wei, or the man who once planted him in the soil like a radish. He does not see the playful, teasing man whose laugh is nearly unbridled; whose smile reminds him of an approaching summer; whose warmth is parental and soothing.

 SiZhui sees the very man the whole cultivation wanted to be gone for good—the YiLing Patriarch.

  -x-

 Jin Ling can only gape in mute terror, wishing this is all just a nightmare.

 It is not, unfortunately—everything is just too tangible, too real to be even considered a dream.

 As his eyes follow his uncle—YiLing Patriarch, one part of him hisses—he finds himself musing that believing everything would have been so easy if he’d seen his uncle like this first.

 It would be so easy to believe, really, that this man before them was the one who murdered his parents. It would be so easy to believe that this man was the very same man who brought destruction to Lotus Pier, and nearly all of Yunmeng.

 It would be so easy to believe that Wei WuXian was, indeed, a terrifying, crazed demon.

 But deep down, Jin Ling holds on to the thought that Wei WuXian is not the fiend spat upon in the past; that just like everyone, he, too, was an innocent soul. He only wanted to survive the horrors crushed down on him so he could avenge, so he could save—so he could live.

 That he became a demon because people thought of him as one, not because he is one; that he ended up destroying and eventually being destroyed, all because of a wicked scheme.

 Moreover, Jin Ling knows that Wei WuXian has a better grasp of the cultivation he’d founded, having learned from his past. He knows he recognizes his limits now as a demonic cultivator—and how much he can do anyway.

 That his uncle is, nevertheless, the very same Senior Wei who will do anything to bring HanGuang-Jun back.

 -x-

 How many years had it been the last time he’d seen this…person?

 Jiang Cheng tries to count back.

 The first time was nearly twenty years ago, when he took his revenge from the damned Wen dogs under Wen Chao. Back then, the flames around them morphed from bright, orange tongues to glowing green, the air turning cold despite the summer season. Accompanied with an eerie melody of trills and lows, fierce corpses rose clumsily from the ground and attacked the living Wens—a melody played by only a single flute.

 Back then it seemed to be hopeless; he and Lan WangJi almost gave up after hearing from the scum, Wen Chao, that he threw Wei WuXian down the Burial Mounds, never to be heard of again. But the misery was short-lived, for the one who played the black flute and dressed in resentful auras was Wei WuXian himself.

 However, Jiang Cheng couldn’t even deny how…ghastly his brother looked, with pale skin and burning red eyes. He couldn’t even see the traces of the boy he once knew, not even a hint of a teasing, genuine smile.

 And the days after that…although Jiang Cheng knew that Wei WuXian was still alive and well, sometimes he caught himself thinking that he shared the same space with a demon who crawled up from Hell—and brought Hell with him.

 After Wei WuXian’s soul was revived in Mo XuanYu’s body, Jiang Cheng noticed the playful fifteen-year-old boy coming back, as if he never carried his sins from the past. His brother’s shamelessness returned, as well as the teasing and grins. As if he never felt guilt from all the mistakes he’d committed, towards his parents and then his sister’s husband and eventually his own sister.

 Admittedly, rage and hatred from that blinded Jiang Cheng so much, his eyes only gaining sight when he learned the truth. Yes, his pride was bruised from what he’d discovered first-hand, but eventually, he learned to let go and move forward.

 Holding on to such grudge wouldn’t do him any good, anyway.

 After the events in GuanYin Temple, Jiang Cheng thought that maybe that feared demon would never resurface anymore, especially after realizing how…happy he was with Lan WangJi. How the HanGuang-Jun, of all people, brought back the warm sun his brother once was.

 (And, [although quite…disconcerting and embarrassing] how Wei WuXian was dreadfully in love with Lan WangJi, and vice-versa.)

 Yet here he is, in the middle of the battlefield, staring in disbelief as Wei WuXian strolls towards their opponent, looking the very same, horrifying man from twenty years ago.

 (Opponent who, according to his nephew, very nearly killed Lan WangJi right in front of Wei WuXian.)

 Jiang Cheng suddenly remembers the rumors from before, on those thirteen years that his brother was dead. That the YiLing Patriarch had truly perished, never to live again; his soul never to be summoned forth anymore.

 That it would be impossible to bring him back, to have him wreak havoc once more.

 Jiang Cheng—as he watches Wei WuXian glare darkly at the cultivator in front of him with those gleaming red eyes, the resentful energies wrapping around his body like a robe as more spirits gather round—disagrees.

 All it takes is chaos and blood, deception and pain. Blend them with death, preferably that of a person so close to Wei WuXian’s heart, then with injustice.

 There is no need for the Tiger Seal—HanGuang-Jun’s blood, in this case, will be more than enough.

 More than enough to re-summon the YiLing Patriarch from Hell.

 Instead, Jiang Cheng throws a question he isn’t sure anyone can answer—

 —how, exactly, will you stop a YiLing Patriarch from dragging a more haunting, harrowing kind of Hell back to the Earth on his second life?

[kolbehq]

FILE // BASIC INFORMATION

Name: Aurora “Rory” Lindon.

Age: 28 years old.

Gender: Female.

Pronouns: She/her.

Species: Human.

Home Planet: Lysander.

Job: Medical officer.

Criminal Record: Voluntary manslaughter, conspiracy to commit an act of terror, criminal negligence, obstruction of justice, perjury.

Sentence: Life.

Faceclaim: Eliza Taylor.

FILE // BACKGROUND

Aurora Lindon should’ve had a perfect, beautiful life.

Her parents, both scientists of different disciplines, were transferred to Lysander before her older sister had been born. Their mother, Alexis, was feisty and stubborn, attributes she claimed had been positively endearing to her husband Alton, who was always the more level headed of the two. Adorably in love and passionate about what they did, Alexis and Alton Lindon sought not just a better life, but the perfect life for their perfect family. It was the opportunity of a lifetime for two Antigone natives; their affluent backgrounds simply eased an otherwise grueling immigration process, and seven months later, the first of the Lindon clan was born exactly where her parents wanted her to be, in the heart of the most breathtaking nature preserve in the galaxy. Aurora would soon follow, less than a year after her sister was born, and their perfect nuclear family had been created, ready to plant roots and grow - but a family of scientists should have known that nothing in space can grow the way it should.

It began with their father. The truth of what happened to him would forever remain shrouded in mystery to the Lindon girls - one day he went to work at the Chemistry laboratory, and then he didn’t come back. Aurora was only eleven, and more than anything, she just remembered going through the motions of what grief was supposed to be based off what she saw around her - shock, sadness, anger, guilt, grief. Blonde girls cloaked in black gowns, no burial because there had been no body, no closure because there had been no story. Even as she got older, there were no whispers from her peers or her mentors about what had happened that fateful day, what caused her father and allegedly three others to pass away so suddenly. There had been no alert of disease, no explosions, no fires - just poof, and her father was gone, leaving only questions for his daughters to inherit. Her mother was the most quiet of them all, a stark change from the woman who had raised them, and although Aurora was more than content with letting the dead ends die, her sister was much less forgiving.

The oldest Lindon daughter had become a teenage conspiracy peddler, sneaking out at all times of the night to do god-knows-what, and breaking almost every law an underage native could, the punishments for her infractions always just short of youth detention. Breaking and entering, theft of petty goods, hacking government systems, the laundry list of criminal deeds her sister had racked up before the age of eighteen was nothing short of shocking. Aurora couldn’t put enough distance between the two of them; she once had been her sister’s shadow, wanting to be just like her and their mom, but Aurora had come to realize that their father’s death, especially the sheer lack of closure, had affected her sister in ways she could never understand.

Adulthood was supposed to be her new start - with an inherited love of biology from her mother paired with the sheer intelligence of the Lindon genes, Aurora got into medical school with hopes of helping those who couldn’t be helped by anyone else. She loved a good puzzle, and diagnostics became her strong suit, although she was required by the Lysander government to have more than one marketable skill in her field - so she chose infectious diseases and the study of all things micro, inspired to follow in her mother’s footsteps as she neared retirement, although Alexis’ focus had always been plant diseases and viruses. Aurora didn’t make much of an effort to keep in touch with her family after leaving home - her sister was a lost cause, as far as she was concerned, and her mother was merely the shell of a woman she knew. It was selfish of her, but Aurora couldn’t stand to see the people she once placed on the highest pedestals fall before her very eyes, and so she left, on her own path to make a better world for herself.

She should’ve known better.

She had been working on a top-secret contract for a new biowarfare agent, originally commissioned by leaders on Antigone for the ongoing war before the project was hijacked by her own government on Lysander, most likely as a deterrent against any new colonization developments. She didn’t agree with bioweapons, but orders were orders, and she knew better than to not comply at this point in her career. Aurora walked into the lab one day, only to find the usual top-security safety protocols in place had been breached without a single security personnel in sight. She remembered what happened next like it was a dream, even if it was the subject of her worst nightmares.

Aurora heard them first. The chorus of wet, soft wheezing noises - the sound of men dying as their lungs filled with fluid - punctuated by a half whispered, half hissed argument. Rounding the corner, her eyes fell on her mother and sister, alone in her lab, covered in the burgundy splatter of drying blood, bodies scattered around them. Her bioweapon out of its safety container, held in the air like the deadliest trophy as her sister whipped around and caught Aurora’s gaze over their mother’s shoulder for the split second before she pulled the trigger, and Aurora watched a hole burst out where Alexis Lindon’s heart had been. They were surrounded by military police only a moment later, but of course, it was too late.

The official story went as such - after the mysterious disappearance of their father, the Lindon sisters did everything they could to uncover the truth about what happened to him. While the eldest did this in any capacity she could, often illegal, the yougest opted for a more conventional route to infiltrate the enemy from within. At some point, the Lindon sisters had discovered that the Lysander government had found their father guilty of treason to sell secrets of the state to an independent militia group on Hermes, which had been accidentally reported by his wife, who thought she had discovered a mole leak. This was enough grounds to deport him back to Antigone, where he was executed for capital treason. The Lindon sisters recruited their mother to aid them in an act of penance to their father’s memory - to destroy Lysander’s most expensive medical laboratory, where the youngest Lindon was stationed, using the very same research her parents had worked on. She had inside knowledge of the lab, the security detail, the weapon, and all possible exits. With Aurora’s help, they broke in to steal the bioweapon to be unleashed on the lab itself, but something in the plan went amiss, leaving Alexis Lindon dead and her daughters without an escape route.

This wasn’t even close to the whole truth, but the truth didn’t matter once the government’s version of the story came out. Almost instantaneously, the Lindon family were the poster children for anti-immigration idealists of Lysander, already milking the tragedy in an effort to remove any further colonization of the planet to protect the nature reserve. Aurora had literally nothing in her favor, including an “accomplice” who was more than happy to implicate her - her sister had disabled all of the lab’s cameras, looked enough like her that passerbys had assumed she was her, and had even programmed an incriminating amount of evidence into Aurora’s personal devices. It had been her fail safe, lest something go wrong and she needed a scapegoat, it had to be enough information that Aurora would spend the rest of her life fighting it, allowing her sister all the time in the world to roam free. Without their mother to testify another side, it was literally Aurora’s word against hers, and Aurora’s word apparently didn’t count as much. It didn’t help that the story of their father broke right alongside theirs, terrorism apparently running in the family. Behind closed doors, the prosecution was happy to give Aurora the plea deal she sobbed for, given how much circumstantial evidence they were relying on and how little she fit the criminal profile of a long time conspirator, murderer, and terrorist, they knew she might be able to win empathy points with a jury if put on a public trial. She was given a choice, and she chose happily - to escape the life she had been subjected to by the hand of her kin on Lysander as well as put as much distance between herself and her sister as possible.

FILE // CURRENTLY

Aurora Lindon died that day on Lysander, and Rory rose from the ashes to board the ship. Unlike many of her co-inhabitants, Rory actually enjoys life on an exploration ship, despite the whole “space grave” inevitability. As part of her contract, she is allowed to serve as a medical officer to the greatest of her abilities except in the presence of a raw contagion - apparently, she’s considered a potential risk for bio-terrorism, who knew? She’s mostly utilized for diagnostics and petty tasks, her “violent” past making some of her superiors wary to give her more responsibility. Although Rory isn’t happy with how life panned out for her on Lysander despite her best efforts, she’s trying to accept the things she cannot change, and is enjoying the peace of mind that has come with escaping her home planet once and for all. She especially enjoys being able to help people who cannot help themselves, her original purpose for becoming a doctor before the expectations of adult life muddled her path, and certain other people simply destroyed her ability to have a path in general. Rory is haunted by the things she saw in the lab, and has recently come into a bout of insomnia after her dreams left her more haunted than rested. Most days, she keeps to herself aside from polite conversation with her co-workers and patients. Rory understands she has a pretty “impressive” rap sheet despite her innocence, and she allows it to precede her for now instead of establishing a new reputation. It’s taken her whole life, but she believes she has finally learned she can’t trust or rely on anyone but herself, and she needs to watch her own back at all times, making her a little paranoid aboard the ship.When she’s not required to work, she spends her free time reading and drawing, though she often doesn’t share what she’s working on. If it seems like she’s a little spaced out, it’s because she is - after what happened, Rory feels stuck, unable to stop replaying and analyzing every moment of her life since her father disappeared to see if she can find the tiniest detail that could help her appeal her conviction and maybe set her life back to normal.

[domesticateddarkling]

Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil

The truth isn’t pretty, and it’s often hard to face.  

Especially when it comes to one’s own mortality.  

Denial of the chuffing of one’s mortal coil comes in several forms; most of them coming from the pulpit every Sunday.

Other forms of denial come in the way of adopting specific routines that rob of us of enjoying our time here on earth, such as avoiding certain foods, people, or destinations - hoping to stave off the inevitable.

When staring down death, I too have done the same things.  Whether it was adopting a particular spiritual practice, or developing a routine - while extremely healthy - robbed me of my time, and kept me from doing what I loved.  And kept me from spending more time with the people I cared about.

If there’s one thing that I could say to Caitlin, it would be that I wish I had something like this in my hands sooner.  Like most people, I would rather someone be honest about the grim realities of death    An explanation that was fairy-tale free, and honest.  (It’s something you don’t get, especially from those who directly in the industry.) 

Real estate in what we consider traditional cemeteries are becoming sparse, and with the advent of the Internet people are discovering alternatives to body disposal.  The Green Burial movement is gaining steam, and in a way, we're going back to our roots when it comes to the care to a loved one's corpse post-mortem.  The idea is that the more we come face to face with death, the more comfortable we become with it - and learn to appreciate life more.  

It also allows us to personalize our own deaths, to choose our own method of disposal that makes more comfortable with our journey into oblivion.   And by allowing loved ones to take matters into their own hands, it allows time for healing and closure.  And again, in that final act of love, it will enable who are still alive to come face to face with their own demise.  

As a final argument, one can say that green burials are economically sound, and you won’t have to worry about riddling your family with debt to dispose of your remains.  

Plus, I’m rather appreciative of the honesty of Ms. Doughty, and her efforts to demystify - and removing the shroud off of - the funeral industry, and answer the questions that people have been afraid to ask - or simply didn’t know how to.  

It’s a fun, humorous read that may ease your mind about The End

[afropendragon]

Chapter 3: A Bonfire to Call Home

(Touch the darkness within, has actual touch. WAIFU alert.)

“So I put the sword I found into the mound of ash at the room’s center?” The firekeeper nods at you.

“Yes, this will alight a flame for you to go and return.” With that, you step toward what is truly the center of the shrine. You hold the strange coiled blade aloft and slowly stick it through the mound of ash. At a an unprompted depth, the flame alights with an overwhelming density. The feeling from before washes over you like a crashing wave. Before you feel overcome by the power, it turns to a soft foaming ebb upon a shore. It is warm, tinging the hairs on your neck and arms. The flame is as welcoming as ever and yet different somehow. Like an incense not just of smell but touch was burning within. Something besides the sword kindled the bonfire, familiar but foreign.

“When you are ready, use its flame to take you to where you must venture. And when you are weary, or you seek power from souls, return to me.”

“The souls?”

“Yes, souls without a vessel any longer grant the ethereal presence of another. Either granted or taken, they become one with the recipient. They are without purpose, but if you ask I will grant them your purpose. And they will make you stronger. This is the power I serve you for.” You realize that the wisps you feel within you, are the souls of those you defeated.

“Can I utilize this power now?” You ask. She nods in response. With gentle steps, she approaches you.

“Touch the darkness within me.”

“Pardon?”

“Kneel down, my lord.” You do as she says, kneeling on one leg before her. She offers her hands to you. You respond by giving her one of yours. Curiously, she caresses your hand within her own and slowly places it upon her stomach. The blood and heat in your body rushes and blazes. Underneath the cold grey helmet, your cheeks are so red and warm. The soft feeling of her through the light thin dress gives you an ember that no bonfire was responsible for.

“Take nourishment from these sovereignless souls.” A light from your hand flows over its touch upon the Fire Keeper. A few moments later, something rushes back inside you and shrouds around you. The light from your hand ceases. You look up at the Fire Keeper’s face, she smiles and nods.

“It is done my lord, you may now rise.” Reluctantly leaving the softness of the Fire Keeper’s symmetry, you draw back your hand and lift yourself to your feet. You roll your shoulders, clasp and release your hands to determine the difference in yourself. Something about you felt sturdier, your armor’s weight had less burden, and your arms seemed to give more than ever. You also had felt more focus then before, your mind was sharper. The differences didn’t make you overall vast in power, but the changes were not too subtle.

“Whenever you have gathered enough, return and I will strengthen your body and mind. Should you wish, there are others here that may help as well. The handmaiden and the blacksmith will give you more material help that I cannot provide.”

“Thank you Lady Fire Keeper.” You bow.

“Return when you are ready, Ashen One.” She bows back.

“You know you may call me (Y/N). m’lady” You respond.

“I apologize, it is difficult to be casual with others.”

“I understand, if it makes you comfortable you may call me what you wish.”

“Thank you, m’lord.” You nod and turn to explore the rest of the shrine. Two steps out, you stop your next. You turn back toward the Fire Keeper.

“May I have the privilege of your name, Lady Fire Keeper?” For the first time since interaction with her, the Fire Keeper had no warm smile to greet your words. She opened her lips to speak, up hesitated, finally giving up altogether.

“I apologize. I am only your Fire Keeper.” A feeling of confusion swept over you. Did you injure or attack her in that question? Or was it something simply not privy to you? Or maybe, she felt her name wasn’t necessary? Or perhaps…worthy of knowing.

“It’s quite alright. I’ll take my leave.”

“So wait, you can temper this steel but you require souls and titanite? Where do I find titanite?” You were talking to the blacksmith known as Andre. His age produced long white hair and beard, but his occupation produced the tempered muscle of his arms and chest.

“It can be found out in the world. In treasures, even dropped by the foul enemies you face. Keep an eye out for them. There is a creature back where you came. It drops a very rare form of titanite, being that it is its very scales.”

“Oh, I suppose I’ll invest time into finding it.”

ONE HOUR LATER….

           “Heh, back already?” The smith chuckled as he looked at the very veins of your forehead about to burst. Your grim frown was only pale of anger as your defeated trophies of dirt, mud, bruises, and a broken sword. The beast that held the titanite shards had crushed and impaled you to death many times.

           “I need a new sword. Now.”

           “HAHAHAHA! Alright lad, alright. Here’s one on me.” Andre turned around and took a blade from a pile. It was identical to your old broadsword but did not have ruin or age burden it as yours did. The weight balance was superior, and it’s edge honed to its peak effectiveness.

           “Remember, your Estus Flask is just as important as your weapon.”

           “Estus Flask?” As you echo his words, you realize your glass of golden liquid must have been what he spoke of?

           “Yes, that flask you carry is precious to Unkindled. It can heal your wounds, as you already know. The blue one is meant to restore a power that allows you do accomplish certain feats that would otherwise be difficult. Magic and the use of masterful techniques require that power.”

           “That’s difficult to grasp.”

           “Ok, how ‘bout this: You can use certain amount of things with some kind of “magic points” you have. You use those to do stuff. You run low, drink that or go to a bonfire. That better?”

           “Well enough, yes.”

           “Then keep a close eye out for shards for them. I can use them to make the flask hold more. There are also special ashes that can kindle the potency of their power if burned here.”

           “Special Ashes?”

“Yes. Ashes of great value contain power all their own. Many are meant for other purposes. Speak to the Hand Maid behind you about such things.”

           “Thank you, Sir Andre.” You place your right hand over your heart and bow your head slightly.

           “Brithee be careful. I wouldn’t want to see ma work squandered. Hahaha.” His words struck a nerve about earlier, but you nod and move on. You walk back to the wide short tunnel arch leading to the shrine center. On the left side was an old woman covered in tattered rags, sitting in an old wooden chair. You had passed her to not bother, thinking she was perhaps asleep. As you approached her she raised her head. She was awake this whole time.

           “Ahhh, Ashen One.” She spoke.

           “My name is (Y/n), honored elder.” She chuckled at your statement. Perhaps, you thought, people simply don’t like to use names.

           “Oh yes, I heard you tell the dear Fire keeper. However the name doesn’t sit with me. So in return just refer to me as the Old Hand Maid.” Annoyed, this seemed to confirm your previous thought.

           “Very well, I wish to speak to you of ‘ashes.’ Andre told me you had knowledge of these curiosities.”

           “Bring me ashes you find. And I will be able to bestow their belongings to you. I have many baubles and curiosities myself. Hmhmhm.” You wondered why this woman seemed to chuckle to herself all the time. However she seemed to be able to help you.

           “Are you aware of your task, Ashen One? The Fire Keeper may haps forgot to inform of the nature of the journey you take.”

           “I’m…going somewhere?” The Hand Maid chuckled at your answer. In all honesty, you weren’t sure what you were doing either.

           “Yes, Indeed. It is called Lothric, where the transitory lands of the Lords of Cinder, converge.” As soon as she said ‘Lothric,’ a feeling of despair washed over you that you couldn’t identify. But the Hand Maid had a story to tell, and you needed to hear it all.

           “In venturing north, the pilgrims discovered the truth of the old words.” You pondered what she meant by ‘pilgrims.’ Did she refer to you? Most likely not, another second party was implied. And the old words were?

           “’The Fire Fades. And the Lords go without thrones’” She gestured her hand to the center of the shrine where the large seats were placed. The thrones of the Lords, were in this shrine.

           “When the Link of Fire is threatened, the bell tolls. Unearthing the Old Lords of Cinder from their graves.” She points to one of the thrones on the left side.

           “Aldrich, Saint of the Deep.” She moves her finger to the lower right chair.

           “Farron’s Undead Legion, The Abyss Watchers. Moving her finger again, up one from the previous throne.

           “And the reclusive Lord of the Profaned Capital, Yhorm the Giant.” All these names sent a chill down your spine. And you felt you already knew why you are here now.

           “Only in truth, the Lords will abandon their thrones.” She moves her hand to point at you.

“And, the Unkinlded will rise. Nameless accursed undead, unfit even to be cinder. And so it is, that ash seeketh embers.” This confirmed it, you would need to confront these frightening names. You couldn’t even imagine accomplishing this quest. You tried to picture visions of a victory, yet your wildest dreams couldn’t conjure a world where you succeed. You were going to die. You would die many, many times.

           “I’m going to need a bigger sword.” Your words make the Handmaid cackle, more appropriate for an old creepy woman like her.

           “Remember to hold onto your souls, they are a precious commodity. And perhaps you can succeed, Ashen One.” The words weren’t encouraging, in fact it gave you more to worry about.

           “Oh gracious,” She stated. “You possess a ring that I have as well.” You look to your finger, to see the red jeweled ring that was with you in your burial.

           “This was with me when I awoke. A gift or lost item I suppose. It’s helpful.”

           “I would say it is, Ashen One. It is also strange you found it. Curious indeed…” She trailed off for a moment. The silence extended, and she seemed to not even be back in your conversation.

           “Well, does it belong to someone you know?”

           “Someone I know, you ask? Perhaps, although if it does they would not know me. Or perhaps they do.” She chuckled again. That was it, you thought, she’s insane.

           “Well thank you for the story, but I have to go now.”

           “Come back anytime.” And with a final cackle from her, you leave her presence for the sake of your sanity. Your determination unsure and shaken, you reluctantly approach the shrine’s center once more. You look to the right, and you notice a man sitting with head hung. He was in tattered clothes and armor, a wooden shield on his back. He was an adventure, although the vibes from him said otherwise. You decided it would be best not to approach him. Your willingness to go on this quest was already wavering. And the man seemed so crestfallen, you thought you wouldn’t want to leave hearing his story.

           “Ashen One.” In surprise, you turned quickly to the left to be face to face with the Fire Keeper. Close enough to feel the warmth of her smile, the warmth of your cheeks was rising.

           “Ah, Lady Fire Keeper, my apologies! I didn’t see you there my lady.”

           “Are you prepared, Ashen One? You must go and return the Lords to their thrones.”

           “More or less. Probably the latter, to be honest.”

           “Whenever you have need of rest, return here. It will be a harrowing task, please come back to me so that I may assist you in gaining strength.”

           “Thank you, Lady Fire Keeper.” You bow to her.

           “Farewell, Ashen One. May the flames guide thee.” She returns your bow with her own. With renewed vigor in the Fire Keeper’s words, you push yourself toward the shrine’s bonfire. One last breath in, and a strong one out. You reach out your hands, and see a vision of a place within the fumes of the flame. You push your hand further, and soon you are wrapped in a warm fog. And then, nothing.

Slowly your body feels, your muscles become yours to move, and you open your eyes. The air where you are is colder, finding yourself in a small cinder stone room. Behind you is a broken sword from the bonfires, and in front of you a door. You push yourself forward, opening the door. Outside, your surroundings have indeed changed. You stand upon an open area of a small stone tower that is part of a wall of many more. There’s a set of spiraling stairs to both sides. And to your surprise, another bonfire rest in the center.

You reach your hand to the blade of the bonfire and light it’s welcoming flame. A small smirk stretches your face. As you descend the short spiraled stairs, an optimistic feeling clouds you. As long as you have the bonfires, you thought, I can deal with small husks. On que, reality rears its dark unforgiving head in the form of armored undead. Two of them attack you with ferocious flurry of swings. You manage to dodge and block them, slicing one down from the shoulder. The other undead you sweep with your blade, finishing it with a downward stab.

You don’t have time to recover, because a new problem was rushing toward you. Closing in fast, were feral pale creatures resembling dogs. Behind him, was another armored undead, but twice as big carrying an axe about the size of your torso. The dogs are curving around to your left, you had to focus them and dispatch them quicker than the other enemies. You raise your sword to swipe, but a sharp pain sears through your shoulder. Gritting your teeth, you hold your pained shoulder and see an arrow stick in between the armor plates of shoulder and arm.

You turn back, on a platform you passed over, was another undead carrying a bow and arrow. You turn forward, and you are too weak to stop the next assault. The dogs jump you, one gnaws your leg, causing you to fall over. The other one digs into the exposed joint of your wounded shoulder. The pain is too much, as you shout while struggling. You didn’t know what to do other than to try and pull each dog off one by one with jarring force. It didn’t matter though, because exposed and laid out on the ground as you were, you couldn’t do a thing about the axe wielding undead. Charging in, the undead jumped up and brought the axe down upon you. You close your eyes, and the last thing you feel is iron digging through the armor and into your organs. It crushed your heart almost instantly.

You Died.

             You awaken at the bonfire not too far from your previous death. You can still feel the pain, the sharp stabs, the biting. Even the crushed heart remembers, and you grab your chest to stop the traumatic pain in vain. A few minutes later, and the phantom pain subsides. You’re breathing so heavily from the struggle of just waking, you were almost exhausted again. Sitting up from the bonfire, you regain your vigor. However something feels lost, a warmth of life that is snuffed out. You didn’t lose the souls, you had used them all with the Fire Keeper. Then it hits you: The ember. You lost your ember from defeating the Statue back near your burial. Now you were truly just Ash.

           This is how your adventure begins, by losing something already. Abandon all hope, you’re going to die.

[littlepookaharvey]

An essay I: Option 1: Ghosts, Hauntings, and Unearthed Histories

Hauntings are found throughout the United States and continue to be passed from one generation to the next.   They tell intriguing stories that can be presented in an easy to comprehend manner.   In many ways, ghost stories are a way of feeding us manageable bites of our countries history.   Ghost also help to explain the unexplainable.   They also offer a simplistic view of history or a way to monetize it.  

In "Ghostland" by Colin Dickey discusses the Myrtles Plantation and the young slave girl named Chloe.  Her story can change to fit the storytellers narrative as needed.   She was said to have had an affair with her master and killed his family in jealousy. Her story like many other plantations is similar in manner.  Dickey writes "Chloe's tale plays up several basic stereotypes common to American folklore and reads more like an amalgamation of stock characters than the story of a real person," Chloe is in none of the plantations records and the family had died in separate cases of natural causes.   It was also later claimed that the plantation was built next to a Native American burial ground.  This fact was also never confirmed.  

In another similar story of that of Chloe's is of a slave named Molly.  The Sorrell Weed house is another southern mansion known for its hauntings.  Francis Sorrell was a wealthy plantation owner who had an affair with his slave, Molly.  Francis Sorell's wife, Matilda, having discovered his affair committed suicide.   Molly would be found a week later deceased in the secret room her master constructed to keep her in.   Molly's story is also a story of fiction.   Evidence shows that Matilda died elsewhere and the affair also has little to no evidence of occurring.  

Both stories depict salary in a light that glosses over the darker and violent history of the south.  Author of "Tales from the Haunted South: Dark Tourism and Memories of Slavery from the Civil War Era" Tiya Miles states that "trivialize the trauma of slaves." Chole and Molly's stories do offer visitors to, but the history that given is a poor representation of the truth.        The hauntings both are gruesome in nature but continue to hide the even more gruesome and sad truths of history.   Both Chole and Molly are changed to fit narratives that ignore the try history of slavery.

It is undeniable that ghost tours are a popular option for tourists.  They offer a history that is shrouded in mystery.   Embellishments are added to make the haunting more exciting and alluring.  They can also reveal a history that is easier to comprehend.  Unfortunately, these stories may come at a substantial cost. 

 They can diminish historical truths and romanticize inappropriately.   Haunted spaces can also reveal histories that are also strange.   Houses, in particular, have a way of capturing memories that would otherwise be forgotten.   Colin Dickey writes f his feeling while in search of a new home with his wife.  As they toured through the houses, they felt a "sense of wrongness."  The potential homes had been changed and rearranged to fit the needs of their previous owner.  Additions seamed random products of necessity.   A home can carry the scars of the past.  They represent safety and comfort that cannot be duplicated.   Sigmund Freud explains the work uncanny.  Freud favors Friedrich Shelling's definition, "uncanny is what one calls everything that was meant to remain secret and hidden, and has come into the open."  The secrets that haunted spaces keep are ones of intrigue.   They can shed light on history that is too grim and otherwise difficult for the mind to comprehend.   In the cases of Richmond, VA the neighborhood of Shockoe Bottom is one of the most haunted areas.   The hauntings there are also one of the largest tourist attractions.  However, it is revealed to us by Dickey that the ghosts that reside there "are overwhelmingly white."  What secrets do these hauntings bring to light?  Just a short walk away there is a location known as the Devil's Half Acre.  This plot of land was once where slaves were tortured, killed, and sold. Unlike Shockoe Bottom, this place is not one that is reported as haunted.  

Again ghosts and hauntings are easily changed to fit a narrative that is easier to comprehend.  The ghosts and haunted spaces of Shockoe Bottom are all white; they draw attention to a more significant history that needs to surface.   Virginia has a history that is dark and is home to some of the most haunted spaces in the United States.  Those hauntings secrets are needed to be brought to light. Though hauntings can reveal histories that are otherwise hidden to the public they can be easily changed.  They are sold and packaged to fit the needs of others.  Hauntings may help to sort feelings and emotional trauma; they can also be detrimental.  They can distort history in a way that makes to more palatable but undermines reality.

Sources: “The Sorrel-Weed House: Haunted By Bad History?” Savannah Walking Tours, 14 Feb. 2017, www.ghostsavannah.com/2013/09/the-sorrel-weed-house-haunted/.

“Uncovering the Buried History of Savannah's ‘Ghost Tours.’” To The Best Of Our Knowledge, 29 Oct. 2018, www.ttbook.org/interview/uncovering-buried-history-savannahs-ghost-tours.

Wbur. “Exploiting African-American History For 'Ghost Tours'.” Exploiting African-American History For 'Ghost Tours' | Here & Now, WBUR, 31 Oct. 2016, www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2016/10/31/ghost-tours-exploitation.

[astridstorm]

A Good Time to Study: Nicodemus and Jesus at Night

Many of you probably saw the letter I sent out this past Thursday, written by a group of local clergy--rabbis, ministers (myself among them)--speaking out against the rise in hate crimes in our country in recent months. I’m glad that some of you, not knowing this, asked whether we would be responding to these events. There’s a part of me that, when asked to do this, thinks Why would a church need to denounce hate crimes? Shouldn’t that be obvious? It should, but it’s not. While we all agreed to send the letter to our congregants and each mention it from our pulpits, we made the conscious decision not to publish it because of specific threats received by one of the synagogues in our group.

In a famous statement, Martin Neimoeller, a pastor in Germany during the second World War, remarked--probably you’ve heard this before:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

We speak against hate crimes now Not only because we may need future allies, but also because it’s the right thing to do.

It’s the second Sunday in Lent. Today we read of Nicodemus, the Pharisee who had a famous dialogue with Jesus, recorded in John’s Gospel. One of the reasons we read this in Lent is that it teaches us about spiritual rebirth, that we can change. Even the old or slightly skeptical can change.

Martin Luther King used this passage in a sermon he gave to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference; of it, he said that Jesus, when he says we must be re-born by the Spirit, calls here for nothing less than “whole structure change.” Enough of our incremental efforts to be better people, or a better society. Sometimes we need something more dramatic. Here are his words from that sermon:

One day, one night, [a Jewish elder] came to Jesus and he wanted to know what he could do to be saved. Jesus didn't get bogged down on the kind of isolated approach of what you shouldn't do. Jesus didn't say, "Now Nicodemus, you must stop lying." He didn't say, "Nicodemus, now you must not commit adultery." He didn't say, "Now Nicodemus, you must stop cheating if you are doing that." He didn't say, "Nicodemus, you must stop drinking liquor if you are doing that excessively." He said something altogether different, because Jesus realized something basic: that if a man will lie, he will steal. And if a man will steal, he will kill. So instead of just getting bogged down on one thing, Jesus looked at him and said, "Nicodemus, you must be born again."  In other words, "Your whole structure must be changed.

Dr. King, by that point, was weary of the slow pace of the Civil Rights Movement. But this was also meant as advice for the individual: if all those tiny pushes aren’t getting you where you want to be, maybe what you need is a whole structure change. Many of us have felt the need of that at some point in our lives. Lent is a hopeful season that tells us, it isn’t impossible. Have faith. Change can happen, even big change.

There’s another lesson for Lent here in this encounter between these two men, Jesus and Nicodemus, and it brings us back to the topic of cooperation. 

I’ve never thought of this before, but we have in this story what could be interpreted as a rare moment in our Gospels of cooperation and collegiality between Jesus and a leader of the Jews. Around this time of year we priests get apprehensive about the way Jews are portrayed in our Scriptures and especially in the Passion narratives, which we’ll read in Holy Week, the most important week of the church year. We have a problem that we must address annually in some way, especially in the climate in which we presently find ourselves, both in our country and in our world.

When our Gospels were written, Jews and early Christians were becoming distinct groups, and in that process of defining themselves, disagreements and enmities developed that led to harsh words being recorded. Of all the different groups within Judaism of that time, it’s the Pharisees who receive the worst treatment in the Gospels. They’re usually the legalistic, literalist foil to Jesus and the disciples’ free spirited interpretation of the law. They condemn Jesus healing on the Sabbath. They are described by Jesus as standing on street corners, proudly and loudly praying for others to see. They are described as trying to trick and to trap him in arguments about the law. And in the accounts we’ve received of the Passion narratives that we’ll read in a few weeks, they, the Pharisees, help see to it that Jesus is condemned to death.

The truth is, the Pharisees and early Christians shared many of the same views. Both believed in finding the sacred in the every day. Both located God within the person and community rather than in a temple or a building. What set them at odds was not that they were so different, but that they were so alike, competing for the same followers. Many of the early Christians, including the apostle Paul, had been Pharisees before becoming Christians.

So in one reading of it, today’s story is just another example of this tension we’ll be seeing more of in the weeks ahead. Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night: he’s in the dark spiritually. He’s afraid of being seen by his fellow Pharisees and Jews who have begun to see Jesus as a threat. He understands Jesus’ remark “You must be born again,” in the most literal way, as returning to the mother’s womb. He seems dim, unable to follow the conversation and ultimately unwilling to stick around and follow where it goes.  

But that’s not the only way to understand this encounter, and our times demand a more generous reading of it. In artistic depictions of this scene, very often the two men are shown sitting on a rooftop or in the dark corner of a house, talking. Usually Nicodemus’ face is shrouded in shadow, and Jesus’ emanating light. Some artists, though, show Jesus and Nicodemus sitting at a table, reading and talking together like two rabbis, books piled high around them and seeming to have a good time. Night was a time to go unseen. But it was also a time, according to the rabbis, when one could study Scripture without distraction.

What if Nicodemus sought out Jesus at night because he wanted to study with this man he had come to respect? Suddenly the whole conversation changes. Nicodemus isn’t dim and literal. He’s playing with the text the way two rabbis would, starting with the literal and absurd to explore the underlying meaning. Every Jew would have been familiar with Jesus’ language of water, rebirth, the spirit. These were not new ideas, but there was always room to discover new meaning in them. In a time of suspicion and division, Nicodemus was curious and brave enough to sit down with--and even learn from--the Other.

And he probably got something out of it. This isn’t the last time we encounter Nicodemus. He appears two more times in John’s Gospel. In the appearance after this, he’s arguing on Jesus’ behalf in front of the Jewish leaders, his colleagues. In the third and last appearance, he gives an extravagant 100 pounds of oil to dress Jesus’ body for the tomb. Long after Peter and the other disciples have fled, nowhere to be found, Nicodemus stays by Jesus’ side and gives him the burial of a king.

As we move toward Holy Week, we do well to remember stories like these. Cooperation and respect are possible. Let us learn from Jesus, but also from Nicodemus, who chose to see in someone outside his community not a stranger, but a friend.

[dienhoathanglong]

Valentine’s Day occurs every February 14. Across the United States and in other places around the world, candy, flowers and gifts are exchanged between loved ones, all in the name of St. Valentine. But who is this mysterious saint and where did these traditions come from? Find out about the history of Valentine’s Day, from the ancient Roman ritual of Lupercalia that welcomed spring to the card-giving customs of Victorian England.

The Legend of St. Valentine

The history of Valentine’s Day–and the story of its patron saint–is shrouded in mystery. We do know that February has long been celebrated as a month of romance, and that St. Valentine’s Day, as we know it today, contains vestiges of both Christian and ancient Roman tradition. But who was Saint Valentine, and how did he become associated with this ancient rite?

The Catholic Church recognizes at least three different saints named Valentine or Valentinus, all of whom were martyred. One legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine’s actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death. Still others insist that it was Saint Valentine of Terni, a bishop, who was the true namesake of the holiday. He, too, was beheaded by Claudius II outside Rome.

Other stories suggest that Valentine may have been killed for attempting to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons, where they were often beaten and tortured. According to one legend, an imprisoned Valentine actually sent the first “valentine” greeting himself after he fell in love with a young girl–possibly his jailor’s daughter–who visited him during his confinement. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote her a letter signed “From your Valentine,” an expression that is still in use today. Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories all emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic and–most importantly–romantic figure. By the middle ages, perhaps thanks to this reputation, Valentine would become one of the most popular saints in England and France.Origins of Valentine’s Day: A Pagan Festival in February

While some believe that Valentine’s Day is celebrated in the middle of February to commemorate the anniversary of Valentine’s death or burial–which probably occurred around A.D. 270–others claim that the Christian church may have decided to place St. Valentine’s feast day in the middle of February in an effort to “Christianize” the pagan celebration of Lupercalia. Celebrated at the ides of February, or February 15, Lupercalia was a fertility festival dedicated to Faunus, the Roman god of agriculture, as well as to the Roman founders Romulus and Remus.

To begin the festival, members of the Luperci, an order of Roman priests, would gather at a sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf or lupa. The priests would sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification. They would then strip the goat’s hide into strips, dip them into the sacrificial blood and take to the streets, gently slapping both women and crop fields with the goat hide. Far from being fearful, Roman women welcomed the touch of the hides because it was believed to make them more fertile in the coming year. Later in the day, according to legend, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn. The city’s bachelors would each choose a name and become paired for the year with his chosen woman. These matches often ended in marriage.

Valentine’s Day: A Day of Romance

Lupercalia survived the initial rise of Christuianity but was outlawed—as it was deemed “un-Christian”–at the end of the 5th century, when Pope Gelasius declared February 14 St. Valentine’s Day. It was not until much later, however, that the day became definitively associated with love. During the Middle Ages, it was commonly believed in France and England that February 14 was the beginning of birds’ mating season, which added to the idea that the middle of Valentine’s Day should be a day for romance. The English poet Geofrey Chaucer  was the first to record St. Valentine’s Day as a day of romantic celebration in his 1375 poem “Parliament of Foules,” writing, ““For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne’s day / Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate.”

Valentine greetings were popular as far back as the Middle Ages, though written Valentine’s didn’t begin to appear until after 1400. The oldest known valentine still in existence today was a poem written in 1415 by Charles, Duke of Orleans, to his wife while he was imprisoned in the Tower of London following his capture at the Battle of. (The greeting is now part of the manuscript collection of the British Library in London, England.) Several years later, it is believed that King Henry V hired a writer named John Lydgate to compose a valentine note to Catherine of Valois.Typical Valentine’s Day Greetings

In addition to the United States, Valentine’s Day is celebrated in Canada, Mexico, the United Kingdom, France and Australia. In Great Britain, Valentine’s Day began to be popularly celebrated around the 17th century. By the middle of the 18th, it was common for friends and lovers of all social classes to exchange small tokens of affection or handwritten notes, and by 1900 printed cards began to replace written letters due to improvements in printing technology. Ready-made cards were an easy way for people to express their emotions in a time when direct expression of one’s feelings was discouraged. Cheaper postage rates also contributed to an increase in the popularity of sending Valentine’s Day greetings.

Americans probably began exchanging hand-made valentines in the early 1700s. In the 1840s, Esther A. Howland began selling the first mass-produced valentines in America. Howland, known as the “Mother of the Valentine,” made elaborate creations with real lace, ribbons and colorful pictures known as “scrap.” Today, according to the Greeting Card Association, an estimated 145 million Valentine’s Day cards are sent each year, making Valentine’s Day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year (more cards are sent at Christmas). Women purchase approximately 85 percent of all valentines.

[theonyxpath]

We’re back this week with more from Tales of the Dark Eras, the tie-in fiction to Chronicles of Darkness: Dark Eras. Our Kickstarter for Dark Eras 2 is still rolling, so if you want to get involved in the selection of new eras and expansion of existing ones, this is your chance!

One of our developer triumvirate is Monica Valentinelli, who wrote Suffering of the Unchosen for Tales of the Dark Eras, covering the 1690-1695 period for Hunter: The Vigil.

I was but a simple farmer whose tender son once planted seeds in barren, rocky soil, whose sweet wife once gathered berries, herbs, and mushrooms in the forest, whose family once led a trouble-free life surrounded by our cousins and neighbors in Salem Village.

Now, that life — the life of William Mansforth — is over. Though it is by some miracle I still draw breath, the rest of my family was tragically murdered a few nights ago.

I found their smoldering remains after I had returned home, battered and bruised, for I had been robbed by petty thieves earlier that day. Upon witnessing the horrible sight of my wife and child blackened beyond all recognition, I sank to my knees in despair, for everything I owned and loved had been ripped from me in a mere day’s time. My purse had been stolen, my cabin and tiny plot of land had been sanctifed by fre, and my wife and son had been tied to the stake and burnt alive.

In truth, I had not the eyes to see the pyre for what it was — a ruse — for I was preoccupied with guilt. What could I have done to save them? My beloved wife, Mary, and my adopted son of five years, William, were unjustly murdered and judged as witches for all to see. They were no devil-worshippers! Questions plagued me; each was a pox upon my mind. If I stayed the night, would their murderers return and end me, too? Would I know the faces of the townsfolk who took two innocent lives? Or, was this the Devil’s Hand at work?

With an aching heart, I slept at the foot of that grisly sight, whispering prayers for their wayward souls, so that the spirits of my wife and son would not lose themselves in sorrow. Our cabin’s logs heaped upon the pyre still burned slow and hot; their orange embers provided warmth and kept the cold dew from settling on my skin. There I slept on the hard ground, inhaling and holding the dwindling smoke of that wretched fire in my lungs, begging for death. Who could have done such a thing? Who dared to commit murder and walk free?

At my wit’s end, I could no longer feign sleep. Instead I sat up, pulled out my hunting knife, and sliced my open palm. I was careful not to wince as I did so; the pain was sharp, but lingering. It reminded me that whilst my wife and son were dead I was, by God’s miraculous Hand, still alive. So in this fevered state, I forged a pact with Him in my own blood, to shine His light into the darkest recesses of men’s most murderous hearts, to ensure my family’s killers were justly judged — even if their capture would come at the cost of my own life.

“William…”

“Mary?” I knew not if her voice was inside my head, or if it was calling to me from between the trees. I yearned for her and hoped her ghost was a divine messenger. I shouted into the open air: “I am frightened, Mary. Is that you?”

“Here, William. Look to the great oak!”

I did as the voice bade, and saw a vision of Mary made whole, standing in front of the tree where we first met. Her naked body was shrouded in fine translucent robes, her long golden-brown hair flowed wild and free, and her kind brown eyes were just as merry as I remembered. She stood apart from me at a distance, but near enough so I could tell she was not a figment of my imagination.

“I am sorry, Mary. I was robbed, wife. Beaten and robbed!” I tried to beg her forgiveness, but my tongue was stuck. “Had I gotten home sooner…”

“William, you must listen carefully to me now. I have naught but a few moments, and I must tell you a secret…”

I fell into a fever-dream, half-drunk at the sight of her, wondering if I had finally gone mad. Was her spirit Heaven-sent or Devil-born? For precious few moments, I wondered if my wife truly was a witch. Then her words stuck to me like thistles, and they held fast.

“…three innocent babes, stuffed with herbs and dressed in linen, buried beneath the church by my late husband. I was the only one alive who witnessed were they were buried…and who killed them…”

“Who did this to you, Mary?” My voice was raspy, and I struggled to speak. I had to know. “Who slaughtered you and our dear boy for the sake of this knowledge? Who?”

“They call themselves hunters.”

Fearful that her apparition would vanish before she bade me farewell, I shouted out question after question, hoping that would not be the last time I saw my wife — my beautiful, murdered wife. “Mary�� Is that all?”

“Seek those who know the Englishmen. Those frightened lambs will bring ye before the knights of the cross. Rest well, William, and rise a man of vengeance.”

I clenched my hand, sore from the shallow cut I made, until the blood dripped once more.

“Avenge me, husband! Seek justice for our family!”

“I will, Mary. I will!”

“Now kiss me, William, and take me in your arms. Couple with me, one last time…”

• • •

The next morning, I awoke with a dull headache. My conscience weighed upon my mind like a heavy stone. I had no choice but to follow the instructions of that heavenly vision, to confer with my Puritan neighbors, the Chosen, so that I might discover the nature of these hunters and their ilk and free myself of guilt. Verily, I thought to myself, my wife must have died for this reason and this alone: her eternal silence designed to ensure the children’s unlikely burials remained secret. And, her tormented spirit bequeathed this forbidden knowledge unto me, so that I might expose this treachery in the name of God.

For the remainder of the day, I took to the village, begging for charity. I broke bread with my neighbors, shared my grief, and borrowed their clothes and shelter. I partook of their wine, and engaged in many a strained conversation, until I learned what vexed the Chosen so: the Devil was alive and well in Salem Village and I did suffer for it greatly.

I thus did speak, carefully and intently, to inquire of the hunters with those such as Goody Smythe and Dame Williamson, John Masterson, and Pierre La Faux, and two Wampanoag traders, before seeking shelter with Mary’s cousin, the Widow Holt, who did welcome me with sad, open arms. They spoke of unlikely visitors who sailed from mighty England’s shores, the ever-righteous and ever-secretive Knights of St. George, and a group of night’s watchmen who bore scarlet ribbons. That was how I discovered the names of my family’s killers.

It was to my great misfortune, though, that no matter how politely I engaged the village folk, I was not only met with suspicion, I generated much scrutiny which grew, ever more intensely, until I was hushed and brought before a hunter-knight fresh off the boat from England. Her name was Lady Anne Crawford and wished to be addressed as such or, by her title, Knight Inquisitor. She was stern of face, smelled salty like the sea, and her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity.

How came I by this knowledge, she asked me. The voice that spake to me in my vision, what did it sound like? Did I believe in witchcraft, demons and devils, angry spirits and foul drinkers of blood? And, if I did not doubt such horrors, would I fight against them, holding but a candle unto the deepest, blackest of shadows until the day I died?

I held fast to my original purpose, and told the hunter-knight we had not time to discuss such serious matters, not whilst murderers lived amongst us as free men and women, unburdened by their guilt. Thus, the knight did bade me to name the accused, and describe them for her best I could. I held their names upon my tongue, and revealed each one slowly and purposefully, just as my neighbors had confessed them to me earlier that day:

Thaddeus Stone, a seasoned English hunter by trade of medium height and middle age. His hair snow-white, his shoulders broad, his voice deep in pitch. Reddish-brown skin weathered and cracked, with a deep scar above the knee. From Ipswich.

Sarah Alvey, a widow to a Frenchman, midwife, and herbalist. Mother of two, with hair as dark as night and brown skin and eyes. Believed to have poisoned her late husband, Marc, with nightshade, but was later proven innocent. Currently resides in Salem Town, but hails originally from Boston. Favors lavender and lemon balm.

Nathaniel Thorn, student of philosophy and a foreign language tutor by trade. Young in years, bright-eyed and naïve, well versed in the Algonquin languages, Latin, and Greek. A literate man, whose hands are smooth, uncalloused. Slight, but not sickly. Remains indoors, and his fair complexion proves his work. Trains familiars. A rabbit named Horatio, and a bird of prey, unknown.

When I was done with my short confession, Lady Crawford bade me farewell, and forbade me to speak further of our conversation.

“Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention,” she said, giving me hope that my wife’s spirit had set me upon the right path. “I will call upon you tomorrow at the Widow Holt’s. Be ready.”

Then, she paid me a princely sum for my service, and bade me good night.

Tales of the Dark Eras is available now from DriveThruFiction in PDF and print. The era described in this story is a chapter from Chronicles of Darkness: Dark Eras, and is available as a standalone chapter in PDF and print: Dark Eras: Doubting Souls.

[davisthanh]

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History Of Valentine's Day- Happy Valentine's Day

History Of Valentine’s Day- Happy Valentine’s Day

Every February 14, across the United States and in other places around the world, candy, flowers and gifts are exchanged between loved ones, all in the name of St. Valentine. But who is this mysterious saint, and where did these traditions come from? Find out about the history of this centuries-old holiday, from ancient Roman rituals to the customs of Victorian England.

The history of Valentine’s Day–and the story of its patron saint–is shrouded in mystery. We do know that February has long been celebrated as a month of romance, and that St. Valentine’s Day, as we know it today, contains vestiges of both Christian and ancient Roman tradition. But who was Saint Valentine, and how did he become associated with this ancient rite?

The Catholic Church recognizes at least three different saints named Valentine or Valentinus, all of whom were martyred. One legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine’s actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death.

Other stories suggest that Valentine may have been killed for attempting to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons, where they were often beaten and tortured. According to one legend, an imprisoned Valentine actually sent the first “valentine” greeting himself after he fell in love with a young girl–possibly his jailor’s daughter–who visited him during his confinement. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote her a letter signed “From your Valentine,” an expression that is still in use today. Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories all emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic and–most importantly–romantic figure. By the Mid

ORIGINS OF VALENTINE’S DAY: A PAGAN FESTIVAL IN FEBRUARY While some believe that Valentine’s Day is celebrated in the middle of February to commemorate the anniversary of Valentine’s death or burial–which probably occurred around A.D. 270–others claim that the Christian church may have decided to place St. Valentine’s feast day in the middle of February in an effort to “Christianize” the pagan celebration of Lupercalia. Celebrated at the ides of February, or February 15, Lupercalia was a fertility festival dedicated to Faunus, the Roman god of agriculture, as well as to the Roman founders Romulus and Remus.

To begin the festival, members of the Luperci, an order of Roman priests, would gather at a sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf or lupa. The priests would sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification. They would then strip the goat’s hide into strips, dip them into the sacrificial blood and take to the streets, gently slapping both women and crop fields with the goat hide. Far from being fearful, Roman women welcomed the touch of the hides because it was believed to make them more fertile in the coming year. Later in the day, according to legend, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn. The city’s bachelors would eac

VALENTINE’S DAY: A DAY OF ROMANCE Lupercalia survived the initial rise of Christianity and but was outlawed—as it was deemed “un-Christian”–at the end of the 5th century, when Pope Gelasius declared February 14 St. Valentine’s Day. It was not until much later, however, that the day became definitively associated with love. During the Middle Ages, it was commonly believed in France and England that February 14 was the beginning of birds’ mating season, which added to the idea that the middle of Valentine’s Day should be a day for romance.

Valentine greetings were popular as far back as the Middle Ages, though written Valentine’s didn’t begin to appear until after 1400. The oldest known valentine still in existence today was a poem written in 1415 by Charles, Duke of Orleans, to his wife while he was imprisoned in the Tower of London following his capture at the Battle of Agincourt. (The greeting is now part of the manuscript collection of the British Library in London, England.) Several years later, it is believed that King Henry V hired a writer named John Lydgate to compose a valentine note to Catherine of Valois.

TYPICAL VALENTINE’S DAY GREETINGS In addition to the United States, Valentine’s Day is celebrated in Canada, Mexico, the United Kingdom, France and Australia. In Great Britain, Valentine’s Day began to be popularly celebrated around the 17th century. By the middle of the 18th, it was common for friends and lovers of all social classes to exchange small tokens of affection or handwritten notes, and by 1900 printed cards began to replace written letters due to improvements in printing technology. Ready-made cards were an easy way for people to express their emotions in a time when direct expression of one’s feelings was discouraged. Cheaper postage rates also contributed to an increase in the popularity of sending Valentine’s Day greetings.

Americans probably began exchanging hand-made valentines in the early 1700s. In the 1840s, Esther A. Howland began selling the first mass-produced valentines in America. Howland, known as the “Mother of the Valentine,” made elaborate creations with real lace, ribbons and colorful pictures known as “scrap.” Today, according to the Greeting Card Association, an estimated 1 billion Valentine’s Day cards are sent each year, making Valentine’s Day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year. (An estimated 2.6 billion cards are sent for Christmas.) Women purchase approximately 85 percent of all valentines.