#A Bloodless Rite | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

literaryvein-reblogs · 3 months ago

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hi! for starters, i adore your blog! all of the tips are actually helpful, and your research is really well done! would you mind making a post about ritual sacrifice? thanks in advance!

Writing Notes: Ritual Sacrifice

Sacrifice - a religious rite in which an object is offered to a divinity in order to establish, maintain, or restore a right relationship of a human being to the sacred order. It is a complex phenomenon that has been found in the earliest known forms of worship and in all parts of the world.

A wide variety of animals have served as sacrificial offerings.

Example: In ancient Greece and India, oblations included a number of important domestic animals, such as the goat, ram, bull, ox, and horse.

In Greek religion, all edible birds, wild animals of the hunt, and fish were used.

In ancient Judaism, the kind and number of animals for the various sacrifices was carefully stipulated so that the offering might be acceptable and thus fully effective.

This sort of regulation is generally found in sacrificial cults; the offering must be appropriate either to the deity to whom or to the intention for which it is to be presented.

Very often the sacrificial species (animal or vegetable) was closely associated with the deity to whom it was offered as the deity’s symbolic representation or even its incarnation.

Thus, in the Vedic ritual the goddesses of night and morning received the milk of a black cow having a white calf;

the “bull of heaven,” Indra, was offered a bull, and

Surya, the sun god, was offered a white male goat.

Similarly, the ancient Greeks sacrificed black animals to the deities of the dark underworld;

swift horses to the sun god Helios;

pregnant sows to the earth mother Demeter; and

the dog, guardian of the dead, to Hecate, goddess of darkness.

The Syrians sacrificed fish, regarded as the lord of the sea and guardian of the realm of the dead, to the goddess Atargatis and ate the consecrated offering in a communion meal with the deity, sharing in the divine power.

An especially prominent sacrificial animal was the bull (or its counterparts, the boar and the ram), which, as the representation and embodiment of the cosmic powers of fertility, was sacrificed to numerous fertility gods (e.g., the Norse god Freyr; the Greek “bull of the earth,” Zeus Chthonios; and the Indian “bull of heaven,” Indra).

The occurrence of human sacrifice appears to have been widespread and its intentions various, ranging from communion with a god and participation in his divine life to expiation and the promotion of the earth’s fertility.

It seems to have been adopted by agricultural rather than by hunting or pastoral peoples.

Of all the worldly manifestations of the life-force, the human undoubtedly impressed men as the most valuable and thus the most potent and efficacious as an oblation.

Example: In Mexico, the belief that the sun needed human nourishment led to sacrifices in which as many as 20,000 victims perished annually in the Aztec and Nahua calendrical maize ritual in the 14th century CE.

Bloodless human sacrifices also developed and assumed greatly different forms:

a Celtic ritual involved the sacrifice of a woman by immersion, and

among the Maya in Mexico young maidens were drowned in sacred wells;

in Peru women were strangled;

in ancient China the king’s retinue was commonly buried with him, and such internments continued intermittently until the 17th century.

Bloodless Offerings. Among the many life-giving substances that have been used as libations are:

milk,

honey,

vegetable and animal oils,

beer,

wine, and

water.

Of these, the last two have been especially prominent.

Wine is the “blood of the grape” and thus the “blood of the earth,” a spiritual beverage that invigorates gods and men.

Water is always the sacred “water of life,” the primordial source of existence and the bearer of the life of plants, animals, human beings, and even the gods.

Because of its great potency, water, like blood, has been widely used in purificatory and expiatory rites to wash away defilements and restore spiritual life. It has also, along with wine, been an important offering to the dead as a revivifying force.

Divine Offerings. One further conception must be briefly mentioned:

a god himself may be sacrificed.

This notion was elaborated in many mythologies; it is fundamental in some sacrificial rituals.

In early sacrifice, the victim has something of the god in itself, but in the sacrifice of a god, the victim is identified with the god.

Examples:

At the festival of the ancient Mexican sun god Huitzilopochtli, the statue of the god, which was made from beetroot paste and kneaded in human blood and which was identified with the god, was divided into pieces, shared out among the devotees, and eaten.

In the Hindu soma ritual (related to the haoma ritual of ancient Persia), the soma plant, which is identified with the god Soma, is pressed for its intoxicating juice, which is then ritually consumed.

The Eucharist, as understood in many of the Christian churches, contains similar elements. In short, Jesus is really present in the bread and wine that are ritually offered and then consumed. According to the traditional eucharistic doctrine of Roman Catholicism, the elements of bread and wine are “transubstantiated” into the body and blood of Christ; i.e., their whole substance is converted into the whole substance of the body and blood, although the outward appearances of the elements, their “accidents,” remain.

Sir James George Frazer, a British anthropologist and folklorist, author of The Golden Bough, saw sacrifice as originating from magical practices in which the ritual slaying of a god was performed as a means of rejuvenating the god.

The king or chief of a tribe was held to be sacred because he possessed mana, or sacred power, which assured the tribe’s well-being. When he became old and weak, his mana weakened, and the tribe was in danger of decline.

The king was thus slain and replaced with a vigorous successor.

In this way the god was slain to save him from decay and to facilitate his rejuvenation.

The old god appeared to carry away with him various weaknesses and fulfilled the role of an expiatory victim and scapegoat.

Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss, French sociologists, concentrated their investigations on Hindu and Hebrew sacrifice, arriving at the conclusion that:

“sacrifice is a religious act which, through the consecration of a victim, modifies the condition of the moral person who accomplishes it or that of certain objects with which he is concerned.”

Like Smith, they believed that a sacrifice establishes a relationship between the realms of the sacred and the profane.

This occurs through the mediation of the ritually slain victim, which acts as a buffer between the two realms, and through participation in a sacred meal.

The rituals chosen by Hubert and Mauss for analysis, however, are not those of preliterate societies.

Another study by Mauss helped to broaden the notion of sacrifice as gift.

It was an old idea that man makes a gift to the god but expects a gift in return.

The Latin formula do ut des (“I give that you may give”) was formulated in Classical times.

In the Vedic religion, the oldest stratum of religion known to have existed in India, one of the Brahmanas (commentaries on the Vedas, or sacred hymns, that were used in ritual sacrifices) expressed the same principle: “Here is the butter; where are your gifts?”

But, according to Mauss, in giving it is not merely an object that is passed on but a part of the giver, so that a firm bond is forged.

The owner’s mana is conveyed to the object, and, when the object is given away, the new owner shares in this mana and is in the power of the giver.

The gift thus creates a bond.

Even more, however, it makes power flow both ways to connect the giver and the receiver; it invites a gift in return.

German anthropologists have emphasized the idea of culture history, in which the entire history of mankind is seen as a system of coherent and articulated phases and strata, with certain cultural phenomena appearing at specific levels of culture.

Leo Frobenius, the originator of the theory that later became known as the Kulturkreislehre, distinguished the creative or expressive phase of a culture, in which a new insight assumes its specific form, and the phase of application, in which the original significance of the new insight degenerates.

Working within this context, Adolf E. Jensen attempted to explain why men have resorted to the incomprehensible act of killing other men or animals and eating them for the glorification of a god or many gods.

Blood Sacrifice is linked not with the cultures of the hunter–gatherers but with those of the cultivators; its origin is in the ritual killing of the archaic cultivator cultures, which, in turn, is grounded in myth.

For Jensen, the early cultivators all knew the idea of a mythic primal past in which not men but Dema lived on the earth and prominent among them were the Dema-deities. The central element of the myth is the slaying of a Dema-deity, an event that inaugurated human history and gave shape to the human lot.

The Dema became men, subject to birth and death, whose self-preservation depends upon the destruction of life.

The deity became in some way associated with the realm of the dead, and, from the body of the slain deity, crop plants originated, so that the eating of the plants is an eating of the deity.

Ritual Killing, whether of animals or men, is a cultic reenactment of the mythological event.

Strictly speaking, the action is not a sacrifice because there is no offering to a god; rather, it is a way to keep alive the memory of primeval events.

Blood sacrifice as found in the later higher cultures is a persistence of the ritual killing in a degenerated form.

Because the victim is identified with the deity, later expiatory sacrifices also become intelligible: sin is an offense against the moral order established at the beginning of human history; the killing of the victim is an intensified act restoring that order.

Another interpretation of some historical interest is that of Sigmund Freud in his work Totem und Tabu (1913; Eng. trans. Totem and Taboo).

Freud’s theory was based on the assumption that the Oedipus complex is innate and universal: It is normal for a child to wish to have a sexual relationship with its mother and to will the death of its father; this is often achieved symbolically.

In the primal horde, although the sons did slay their father, they never consummated a sexual union with their mother; in fact, they set up specific taboos against such sexual relations.

According to Freud, the ritual slaughter of an animal was instituted to reenact the primeval act of parricide.

The rite, however, reflected an ambivalent attitude.

After the primal father had been slain, the sons felt some remorse for their act, and, thus, the sacrificial ritual expressed the desire not only for the death of the father but also for reconciliation and communion with him through the substitute victim.

Freud claimed that his reconstruction of the rise of sacrifice was historical, but this hardly seems probable.

Sacrificer. In general, it may be said that the one who makes sacrifices is man, either an individual or a collective group—a family, a clan, a tribe, a nation, a secret society.

Frequently, special acts must be performed by the sacrificer before and sometimes also after the sacrifice.

In the Vedic cult, the sacrificer and his wife were required to undergo an initiation (diksha) involving:

ritual bathing,

seclusion,

fasting, and

prayer,

the purpose of which was to remove them from the profane world and to purify them for contact with the sacred world.

At the termination of the sacrifice came a rite of “desacralization” (avabhrita) in which they bathed in order to remove any sacred potencies that might have attached themselves during the sacrifice.

There are sacrifices in which there are no participants other than the individual or collective sacrificer.

Usually, however, one does not venture to approach sacred things directly and alone; they are too lofty and serious a matter.

An intermediary—certain persons or groups who fulfill particular requirements or qualifications—is necessary.

In many cases, sacrificing by unauthorized persons is expressly forbidden and may be severely punished:

Example: In the book of Leviticus, Korah and his followers, who revolted against Moses and his brother Aaron and arrogated the priestly office of offering incense, were consumed by fire.

The qualified person—whether the head of a household, the old man of a tribe, the king, or the priest—acts as the appointed representative on behalf of a community.

Serious illness, drought, pestilence, epidemic, famine, and other misfortune and calamity have universally been regarded as the workings of supernatural forces.

Often they have been understood as the effects of offenses against the sacred order committed by individuals or communities, deliberately or unintentionally.

Such offenses break the relationship with the sacred order or impede the flow of divine life.

Thus, it has been considered necessary in times of crisis, individual or communal, to offer sacrifices to propitiate sacred powers and to wipe out offenses (or at least neutralize their effects) and restore the relationship.

Example: Among the Yoruba of West Africa, blood sacrifice must be made to the gods, especially the earth deities, who, as elsewhere in Africa, are regarded as the divine punishers of sin.

For the individual, the oblation may be a fowl or a goat;

for an entire community, it may be hundreds of animals (in former days, the principal oblation was human).

Once consecrated and ritually slain, the oblations are buried, burnt, or left exposed but never shared by the sacrificer.

There are sacrifices in which the victim does serve as a substitute for the guilty.

In some West African cults a person believed to be under death penalty by the gods offers an animal substitute to which he transfers his sins.

The animal, which is then ritually killed, is buried with complete funeral rites as though it were the human person.

Thus the guilty person is dead, and it is an innocent man who is free to begin a new life.

Fertility. Another distinctive feature of the first-fruits offering is that it serves to replenish the sacred potencies of the earth depleted by the harvest and to ensure thereby the continued regeneration of the crop.

Thus, it is one of many sacrificial rites that have as their intention the seasonal renewal and reactivation of the fertility of the earth.

Fertility rites usually involve some form of blood sacrifice—in former days especially human sacrifice.

In some human sacrifices, the victim represented a deity who “in the beginning” allowed himself to be killed so that from his body edible vegetation might grow.

The ritual slaying of the human victim amounted to a repetition of the primordial act of creation and thus a renewal of vegetational life.

In other human sacrifices the victim was regarded as representing a vegetation spirit that annually died at harvest time so that it might be reborn in a new crop.

In still other sacrifices at planting time or in time of famine, the blood of the victim—animal or human—was let upon the ground and its flesh buried in the soil to fertilize the earth and recharge its potencies.

Building Sacrifices. Numerous instances are known of animal and human sacrifices made in the course of:

the construction of houses, shrines, and other buildings, and

in the laying out of villages and towns.

Their purpose has been to consecrate the ground by establishing the beneficent presence of the sacred order and by repelling or rendering harmless the demonical powers of the place. Example:

In some West African cults, before the central pole of a shrine or a house is installed, an animal is ritually slain, its blood being poured around the foundations and its body being put into the posthole.

On the one hand, this sacrifice is made to the earth deities and the supernatural powers of the place—the real owners—so that the human owner may take possession and be ensured against malevolent interferences with the construction of the building and its later occupation and use.

On the other hand, the sacrifice is offered to the cult deity to establish its benevolent presence in the building.

The organization of sacrificial rites in the different cultures and religions has undoubtedly been influenced by a number of factors.

Example. Economic considerations certainly have had some impact upon primitive peoples in the:

selection of the victim and

the time of sacrifice and

in the determination of whether the victim is consumed or totally destroyed and

whether the sacrificer is an individual or a collective group.

The importance of such factors is an aspect of sacrifice that deserves increased investigation.

Nevertheless, sacrifice is not a phenomenon that can be reduced to rational terms; it is fundamentally a religious act that has been of profound significance to individuals and social groups throughout history, a symbolic act that establishes a relationship between man and the sacred order.

For many peoples of the world, throughout time, sacrifice has been the very heart of their religious life.

Accusations of human sacrifice in ancient and modern times have been far more widespread than the ritual practice ever was.

The ancient Greeks told many myths that involved human sacrifice, which has led some researchers to posit that rites among the Greeks and Romans which involved the killing of animals may have originally involved human victims.

At the end of the 20th century, however, archaeological evidence did not support this claim.

Some early Christians were falsely accused of cannibalism, consuming sacrificial victims at nocturnal feasts, a misunderstanding probably due to the secrecy surrounding the Eucharistic rite and the use of the words body and blood.

From the Middle Ages until quite recently, Jews were often maliciously accused of having sacrificed Christian children at Passover, an accusation which has been termed the blood libel.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

You're too lovely, thanks so much! Hope this helps with your writing. Found all of this really interesting as well.

#anonymous #writing notes #writing reference #writeblr #dark academia #literature #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #creative writing #writing prompt #writing ideas #writing inspiration #light academia #writing resources

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see-arcane · 2 months ago

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Oooh I never thought of that, of the anti-vampire charms seller being a charlatan, and that informing Carmila's contempt for his wares by buying them.

Also interesting point to compare him to the Transylvanian locals that Jonathan Harker met (they never tried to sell him anything, they were making their own selves vulnerable by giving him their own protective tools)

It's interesting to gnaw on! And a great subtle signal to the different backdrops our protagonists are working with.

Laura is in a place where people are aware of vampires (ala her caretakers and the peddler) but aren't able to clock the presence of one in their midst, or provide genuine protections, even for a price. It's territory where vampires are a quaint old memory or a bogeyman to chuckle over and buy trinkets against just because, eh, it can't hurt! But it's given the same gravity as a four-leaf clover or throwing salt over your shoulder. Nothing that does any tangible good; just a funny little token to settle one's nerves.

Meanwhile, Jonathan enters a place where the locals are not only aware of vampires, but know their boyar and his roommates are those very real, very lethal monsters. Experience has taught these people what charms actually work to give them better odds. Case in point the crucifix and the various talismans and tokens Jonathan receives from multiple strangers' own personal wards. Even if it weren't done out of care for the young foreigner in their midst, what would it gain to gatekeep those protections for a little cash? Either they do what they can to prevent a new vampire from happening, period, or a new vampire will definitely happen. The Transylvanians knew better than to fuck around and used their proven knowledge of the threat to act accordingly.

All of which also speaks to the phenomenon of watering down history and folklore over time, even in the places where those stories originated. Legends and mythologies shift over time as details are forgotten or grafted in, with the march of progress being the thing to erode old ways most thoroughly. After all, who wants to be considered so backwards as to still actually believe in such nonsense? How uncivilized! How absurd! These funny old grandmothers' tales and ancient rites are good for cultural color, certainly, but no more than that! Vampires. Ridiculous. Ha ha--

Huh. Wonder why all these people are suddenly turning up bloodless and dead all of a sudden.

#chews on this chews on this chews on this #carmilla #dracula

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 1 year ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 10: Soulbound

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Your fingers twitch and knead against satiny textiles as wakefulness begins to return you to existence. A lightheaded daze shrouds your vision as your eyes crack open. The canopy of your four-poster bed suspends above you. The drapery is embroidered beautifully with stars, constellations, moons in all phases, and soaring dragons, all revolving around the central sun. In this dream-like state, the depictions seem to move, playing out their destinies against the indigo astral sea as shadows gambol over the extravagant fabric. It would be enchanting if it were not making your head spin uncomfortably.

As you squeeze your eyes shut, your fingers clench and twist the fabric beneath you, and a feeble whine sighs from your lips. Your tongue feels numb and lazy, sagging in your mouth uselessly, and your body feels as fuzzy and impotent as your blurred vision.

“You are awake.”

Astarion’s voice grates at the inception of your consciousness, and you recoil as much as your bloodless body will allow. You still feel his hand around your neck, squeezing tight, halting the pleas in your throat as his fangs sawed at your neck, ripping and tearing the soft flesh. You tumble off the edge of the bed in your panic, and his hands break your fall.

He’s touching you. Hells, he’s touching you, and you want, nay need, him to fucking stop lest you suffocate.

“Don’t touch me,” you sob with a croak, flinging your hands up to protect yourself from further harm, palms heating as your magic surges. “Please. Gods. Don’t touch me.”

Astarion’s hands jerk away, and you shudder while trying to breathe. The stabbing pain in your throat is intolerable, fresh tears springing to your eyes, and your fingers tentatively prod the tender flesh. You don’t need a mirror to know that your skin is revoltingly bruised, a hemorrhaging mural composed by his wrath, and you whimper at the contact of your fingertips. The muscles in your arms and legs still feel like gelatin. They wobble weakly as you push yourself into a corner, hugging your knees to your chest.

“Darling-” Astarion’s hands are poised near you as if he might be able to stop the inevitable crumbling if only he could find the right place to brace it.

“Leave me alone.” You choke out grimly, swallowing the pain caused by your gruff inflection.

“It’s me,” he says, small and shaky.

You need time to think, to regain your composure, and you cannot do it with his eyes on you, his voice repeating your name like a prayer and his hands trying to find where your pieces are weakest so he can give them strength.

“Get out!” You wail despite the barbaric sting that causes more tears to rain out of your eyes. “Get the fuck out!”

“I… Yes, of course. As you wish.” Astarion stutters hesitantly as if he’s not sure if he will heed your commands. The door hinges creak as he closes it behind him, “I’m sorry,” he breathes with a sigh. “Truly.”

Like an ancient ruin that can no longer persevere against the ravages of time, you let yourself collapse and crumble.

The overbearing walls of the Crimson Palace wash over him in waves as he roams through them in a stupor. His fingertips drag across the chilled panels as he tries to orient himself. It feels like he’s waking from a nethermost trance, and his alertness has not fully recovered.

He dives for the desk when he enters the study. It’s full of papers and ledgers in neat piles, and he grabs at parchment chaotically, sending it scattering, sheets fluttering to the ground around him. His eyes scan the documents as he shuffles through them quickly. All in his hand, signature, name, but he does not recall any of this. He tosses sheet after sheet to the side until he finds one with a date.

Eight months.

Eight months of nonexistence. Of something walking around wearing his skin, using his name, speaking in his voice, imitating him.

Where the fuck has he been all this time?

He slams his hands on the desk. It cracks and caves in, regurgitating its contents to the floor. He frowns, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Her voice still reverberates, an echo in his mind, as she said goodbye in a hauntingly melodic timbre.

Why did she leave him?

Dashing through the halls, the floor mocks him in creeks and groans for his heavy steps. He pushes all the doors open as he progresses further into the palace until he finds what must be his room. Opening the wardrobes and dressers, he tosses his clothing haphazardly to the floor, detached from his typical compulsion for fastidiousness.

Nothing. Not a single article of clothing and none of her possessions are here. Why?

His heart pounds as he jogs through the palace until he catches her scent at the top of the dark staircase leading down into a murky darkness – the old spawn quarters.

No. This cannot be, surely. He wouldn’t. Right?

He bounds down the stairs, 2 or 3 steps at a time, until he comes to a slightly ajar door in the hallway with a lock that he does not recall being there. The pads of his shaky fingers stroke the cool metal, and he swallows the lump balling in his throat.

This has to be a nightmare. This cannot be real.

The door whines when he pushes it and peers into the room. It smells strongly of Jasmine, Honeysuckle and Vanilla - it smells like her. Astarion staggers in and throws open the simple wardrobes and chests, breaking the doors off some of them in his haste.

She left everything, which can only mean one thing - she fled.

What has he done?

“Lord Ancunin?”

Good Gods, he’s come to loathe that singsong voice like nails on a chalkboard, and the back of his throat tickles as it hauls him away from his reflections.

“Elowyn,” he sneers spitefully, crinkling his nose in disgust. “How many times must we have this discussion? If this disobedience persists, I may have to reconsider our little agreement. I have no need for a spawn that cannot follow simple orders.”

The lie rolls off his tongue, smooth and modulated with the hint of a threat. Elowyn wishes to be given the gift of eternal life, and she’s idiotic and vain enough to believe he would ever grant her such a thing, but it is a simple enough falsity to keep her happy and submissive.

“I beg your forgiveness, Master.” Elowyn whimpers, dropping to her knees with her hands clasped in her lap, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good girl. Be sure it doesn’t, or you will force me to teach you another lesson.” He drawls unenthusiastically while staring at his nails. Threatening her brings him no pleasure. He finds it all a rather tedious business. “Now, I did not come here to chitchat. Araj, tell me what you have discovered.”

Araj glares at him with her arms crossed. The Drow has much more spirit and is more arduous to keep in line than her counterpart.

“Hungry, Lord?” Araj quips and leans her head to the side with an egregious grin. “You are considerably ill-tempered today. There’s always a neck here available for the biting if you were so inclined.”

“You can offer all you wish,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “The answer will be no until the end of time. You disgust me.”

“Such harsh words for an old friend.” Araj pouts sarcastically before launching into the excuses he’s already heard. “Your blood is not easy to work with. It’s volatile and eats through everything like caustic acid.”

“You brought me here to tell me of more failure?” He snarls, baring his teeth. He considers killing them both. Their tests have gotten him nothing and no closer to understanding what’s wrong with him, but there is at least one more answer he seeks before he can do away with them. “And the sun immunity?”

“It’s hard to say,” Araj shrugs. “Why the sudden interest in the sun resistance? I thought we were here to see what your blood may be capable of, not to waste our time trying to bottle useless effects. Why would you need a potion to make you invulnerable? You are already immune.”

“What yourself, Araj,” he growls threateningly, his brows knitting together in a fierce scowl that casts shadows over his eyes. “You are under my employ. I get to decide what’s useful to me and what isn’t. You will do as instructed.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Araj smirks. “If this is about that lovely spawn of yours, it may be prudent to allow us access to her blood.”

He’s out of his chair before Araj can blink, slamming her against the wall with one dagger to her throat and the other pressed harshly to her abdomen.

“If you touch her, I will liberate your vile innards from your body. Then, I will hunt down your family, lovers, and friends, turn them into my obedient meat puppets and let them rot away in my dungeon for eternity. She is off-limits. You are to go nowhere near her. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Araj swallows hard, her eyes wide with fear. “Perhaps you might consider an alternative? Turn Elowyn, and we can use her blood for testing instead.”

Throwing his head back, he laughs loudly, making both women jump, “You do not give the hound a bone until it has won the race. Find another way.”

He releases Araj, sheathing his daggers, and stalks away.

Araj’s voice stops him, “Elowyn tells me you’re refusing to give her more samples. We cannot run further tests without it.”

“No.” She would not want him to do this, and he has failed her enough for one day, “You will get no more samples from me until you have done as I ask. The next time you request an audience with me, you better have results, Araj, or there will be consequences.”

“Is that a threat?” Araj spits harshly.

“My dear,” he drawls nonchalantly. With a subtle movement, a dagger hurtles through the air and embeds into the wall so close to Araj’s neck that the shiny steel pets her skin. He looms over Araj, forcing her to arch her back while he hauls the dagger from the wall, “It’s a fucking promise.”

There’s an odd beauty to darkness, an inky void that obscures your surroundings and allows you to delude yourself into believing the elixir of lies you pour into your soul. In it, you can pretend, if only for a moment, that you are not a prisoner of your past and your sins are rendered null as they circle like vultures smothered by the shadows.

So, you lay in the jet-black abyss. Even as your bones begin to rue the rigid floor, and your eyes can shed no more tears, you lay unmoving.

Astarion sits beside you on the floor with his back pressed flat against the wall. He hasn’t uttered so much as a syllable since he settled there hours ago. When you look into his eyes, you see mayhem, starlight and darkness, treading the edge between diabolical and divine. He is a devil cloaked in the skin of an angel with blood dripping from his eyes, but Gods, you’ll ignite the world and walk across the hot coals of its remains if it means preserving the light in him.

You’re a warrior. When life threatens you with a battle, you will awaken every monster, every dragon, every demon that slumbers within you and answer with bloodshed.

You’ve wallowed in your self-pity long enough. A war awaits, and you intend to win it or die trying.

Crawling into his lap, Astarion wraps his arms around you. One of his hands comes to the back of your head, and his cheek presses tightly to yours as you slip your arms around his neck.

And Gods, it feels like heaven to be held in the arms of hell.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes next to your ear while he sweeps your hair away from your neck. His fingers shake as they brood over the bruised skin and gnarled, coin-sized holes that his fangs left. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

You press your hand against his, flat palm to palm. His hand dwarfs yours, “It’s okay.”

Astarion scoffs while his fingers interlock with yours, “It is most certainly not okay. I very nearly drained you dry, and who in the Hells knows what I would have done with you afterward!” His voice is unsteady, labouring beneath misery, “I will take you back to Shadowheart and Gale come morning. We can continue your lessons until you can feed yourself. Once that is accomplished, our business will be concluded, and you will never have to see me again. Freedom, as much as I am willing to grant you, is yours.”

Your eyes distend, and your brows pull down. Astarion is granting you the freedom you want. You should be happy, ecstatic even. So, why does it fill you with dread?

“Is that what you want?” You choke out, faint and tuneless, and pray to any God that hasn’t turned their back on you that his answer is not yes. “You want me to leave?”

“No, little love,” he finally answers in an eerily, delicate baritone after too many agonizing minutes of silent contemplation. “I am selfish as I always have been, perhaps even more since the Rite. Of course, I do not wish you to go, but you are not safe with me. I cannot control it. I have lost days before - days of not knowing where I had gone or what I had done.” He chuckles sarcastically, dismal and sullen, “We get what we deserve in the end, I suppose.”

Perhaps we do.

“I’m not going,” you state matter-of-factly. “Do you trust me, Astarion?”

Astarion gently draws you back to look into your eyes, sorrow dulling his expression with his lips firm in a tight line, “You may be the only person in the entirety of the cosmos that I trust implicitly.”

“Then trust that when the spark in your eyes is snuffed out, I can be your glow,” you vow, chillingly formidable. “My soul is forged in fire, and I will burn brighter than your demons and choke the darkness. I will do whatever it takes. I will always bring you home.”

“Don’t be a martyr. Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” he admonishes you with a shake of his head. “Why are you doing this?”

“Good Gods, you can be obtuse sometimes,” you roll your eyes at him. “You can stop posturing this charade of ignorance any time. I know you heard what I said to Gale.”

Astarion’s eyes drift to your hand, embraced with his, and his thumb skims up and down yours, “What if I am incapable of loving you back?”

Can’t or won’t?

“I don’t expect you to,” you strive to keep your voice steady and casual even as your heart fractures and implodes in your chest. “Love given with the requisite of reciprocation is not love. I give it to you freely, as it always was, as it always will be. May I speak plainly?”

Astarion arches a brow, “Go on.”

“I don’t think you’re incapable of love, Astarion. I believe you’re scared of it.”

“Love is a sickness of the heart.” Astarion takes a deep breath, his voice grave. “It will hail itself your saviour but be your downfall.”

“Then...” you shrug, “down I go.”

Astarion loving you is a fantasy you’ve long relinquished. A pathetic hope that would asphyxiate you in pools of failed attempts. But wrapped in his arms, staring into scarlet eyes dusted with an ethereal radiance, a murmur begins to bite at your thoughts, quickly becoming a roar, filling your ears.

There’s that feeling again. That connection of invisible threads bridging the gap between you and the presence lingering in the back of your head that you cannot touch. It tugs at the borders of your mind with a request. No, an invitation. For the first time since it made its home in your consciousness when you reach out, it does not shy away, and you embrace it.

There’s an ear-splitting rush and a feeling of sinking. Your body jerks, trying to right itself, but Astarion holds you firmly, pulling you tighter.

“Let yourself sink,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Trust me just a little further.”

You stop fighting the feeling and plummet. Suddenly, you’re not just you any longer. You are you, and you are him simultaneously. One being in two bodies. You can feel the comfortable pressure of your body against him, and his heart beats behind your ribs.

Another abrupt drop. It makes your stomach flutter, and you’re in the bowels of a stygian doom. You feel the corruption you heard in his mind as if it were in yours, infecting your thoughts with sadistic rants and relentless chittering. You can almost taste the rancid colloquy on your tongue, and you fight the urge to retch.

A hunger longing to escape, thundering against the bars of its prison. It hums enticing promises in an absorbing, almost angelic inflection that compels you to release it, and you’re horrified to find yourself tempted.

You’re dragged away, a feeling of hurtling through time and space, not entirely unlike portal travel. His voice echoes in your mind, bellowing in your head, begging you to peer into his darkness, dance with his demons, and love him anyway.

I do, you answer, you are safe with me.

Your eyelashes flutter as you come back. You no longer hear the voices mumbling or feel that malevolent spectre with its seraphic affirmations, but you can still feel him in a way you’ve never felt before.

“I- I don’t understand,” you breathe, trying to reestablish yourself with your body, thoughts and feelings, “What was that?”

“I have always been with you.” Astarion gently taps your temple, “In here. You cannot tell me you have not felt me. I know you have because I always feel you.”

You can’t help the awe transforming your face as you continue feeling his desires, wants, and fears flowing through you as you flow through him, two stars colliding and recollecting unified.

“I thought that was just how you could compel me.”

“Well... it is,” he nods, “but there is much more to it than that.”

“Did you have this with...” You cut yourself off when you realize what you’re about to blurt out, biting your tongue so hard you draw blood.

Astarion smirks, “You know it works both ways, right?” You hear his voice in your head and only realize that it’s not him speaking when you comprehend his mouth isn’t moving, “Just because you don’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t hear it.”

Fuck. Are none of my thoughts private any longer? Did I throw open the door for the devil?

“The devil, hm? A little harsh, don’t you think?” Astarion giggles. He must see the terror in your eyes, or Hells, does he feel it? Either way, he squeezes your hand. “Say what you were going to say,” Astarion instructs. “You might as well just say it.”

“I didn’t mean that you’re the devil!” You yelp and swallow hard, “Did you have this with Cazador?”

You wince as the name strolls off your tongue. You were never to utter that name in Astarion’s presence, and whenever you did, you paid for your carelessness. You impulsively cower, thrusting your eyes shut, magic rising in a sharp upswing.

“Easy, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. I would make a very dashing devil.” Astarion coos while rubbing your arm, “Yes and no. I felt something similar; that ubiquity rooted in my mind gave him the power to control me, but the link concluded there. This… bond, if you will, is unique to you and me.”

“Why did it not feel like this before? I can feel you, Astarion. I can feel your heart beating as if it were in my chest.” You push your palm against his shirt and let it heat slightly, and your skin starts to heat in concert, “I can feel this as if I were doing it to myself. I feel your desires, wants, and fears. Good Gods, I feel everything.”

It’s gloriously overwhelming, akin to a pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. Your nerves and synapses are overloaded as they attempt to make sense of all this information circuiting.

“I had to open the door, so to speak.” Astarion kisses your heated palm with a wolfish grin. “Tell me. What do I want, little love?”

I want you, it arises in your mind, drifting on the current between you.

“Me.” You stutter, feeling like all the breath has been sucked out of your lungs. You stare at him wide-eyed, “You want... me?”

“Until the world falls down,” he purrs tenderly with a genuine smile. “Do not worry. You are able to close and open the connection, same as I. I need not be in your head all the time. Your dirty thoughts are private if you wish, but I do hope you share.”

“Can you force the connection open?”

“Yes,” he retorts blatantly, “but I have not crossed that line, and I do not plan to, and before you ask, no, you cannot force it open. You can, however, request it simply by reaching out. Wherever I am, I will feel it.”

You rest your hand where your heart used to beat. Hells, it feels like it is beating again, but you’re feeling his. You thought you missed this sensation, but right now, you’re finding it a harsh cramp in your chest.

“Astarion, this… this is incredible.” Tears well in your eyes. He’s letting you in, and the significance of this gesture is staggering, “Thank you.”

“It is quite something, isn’t it?” Astarion takes his lips in yours, and you can feel his eagerness, his rampant desire and his enjoyment. When your tongues meet, tasting each other, you’re blown away by pleasure, yours and his mixed.

“Oh my, this will make for some very depraved carnal fun. I could read your body before, but now I can feel it. Hmm, the possibilities are titillating.” Astarion grins devilishly, “But that will have to wait. You are weak and must rest. I could find you some food if you wish. It will help you recover quicker, but it will not be of the four-legged variety.”

“Unless it’s your purple-haired hussy, I’m not interested.” You smirk. “I will make an exception on my dietary restrictions for her.”

“Oh, still positively green with envy, I see. I can feel your hatred. It’s delectable,” Astarion giggles. “My pretty consort, I do not like to see doubt cast upon your face. I told you I’ve never taken her to my bed. You need not be invidious.”

“Will you take me to your bed? I- I,” you stumble embarrassingly over your tongue. It feels cumbersome in your mouth, “I would like to rest with you tonight.”

You feel a rush of delight mixed with astoundment. Perhaps what’s more flabbergasting is that he simply lets you feel it, not attempting to camouflage or muzzle it.

“You do?” Astarion’s brows rise and curve upward, “I mean,” he clears his throat. “Of course. I can deny you nothing. You need not ask permission. You’re more than welcome to rest with me any night.”

“Well, in that case,” you smirk foxlike, “which wardrobe is mine then?”

The question only further increases the exhilaration you’re feeling ebbing from him. It’s so potent, a high so gratifying that you could get addicted to pleasing him - a dangerous notion.

“I suppose I will have to acquire you one.” Astarion chuckles and kisses your forehead, “Can you walk, or shall I carry you to bed?”

You scoff and do your best, but your muscles are still depleted of the sustenance required to function, and you wobble even with Astarion stabilizing you.

“Carry you, it is, clumsy thing.” He laughs lightheartedly while taking you into his arms. “Come, my love. Let’s go to our bed, hm?”

“Our bed,” you muse, kissing his cheek. “I do like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” he says, suddenly frighteningly serious, “Very much.”

The mattress dips as Astarion gets into bed. You’ve never really realized how enormous this damn bed is. Even with both of you lying in it, there’s so much space that it makes him feel far away, and you mourn the physicality.

A grin splits across his face, and he raises his arm, inviting you in, “I can feel that - you know, your desire to be close. No, it’s more than that. Isn’t it?” You can feel him scan the emotion, deciphering it, “It feels like a need. I suppose I should not be surprised. You never could get enough of me.”

“Astarion.” Pushing yourself close to him, you rest your head on his arm. The pads of your fingers rub the silken skin of his chest. Rest is starting to beckon you toward your trance. “What does this mean for us?”

“It can mean as little or as much as you wish it to,” his fingers meander the valley up your spine. “Nothing has to change between us, or we can… try for something more.”

As the dreamscape unfolds behind the closed lids of your eyes, your sensibility fading, you whisper, “Do you love me, Astarion?”

Emotional pandemonium tosses like waves on a rough sea. Alarm. Resentment. Dread. That proverbial portal slams closed frantically with so much force that it peppers your vision behind your eyelids white, and you lurch upward with your hand to your forehead with a howl.

It feels like a guillotine to your soul, slicing it in two. You are hollow. Your chest is still, the borrowed beat from Astarion’s heart dying. The slipstream of emotions no longer flows and combines as one enchanted ballad.

You are alone, completely incomplete, and you have never felt more dead than this moment.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion rubs your back and kisses your shoulder softly. “I did not expect it to pain you. I’m still learning. I will take heed of my haste from now on. That’s enough rooting around in my head for one day. Rest now.”

The pain ebbs, and your thoughts reform, piecing themselves back together. You lay down without a word because you’re unsure of what you can say in your state of confusion. The feelings, none of them love or even affection, but you’ve been feeling his veneration all night.

What the Hells does it all mean?

The sun-warmed stones of the courtyard thaw the icy chill of your skin as you lay under the radiant rays. The sky is full of fluffy, white clouds like unsheared sheep grazing across a cerulean plain. You thought this might make you feel as alive as when the bond between you and Astarion was open, but instead, it’s another reminder you’re a walking, talking corpse.

A feather-light breeze flutters your hair around your face and carries the smell of food, well, people but food to you, reminding you of your hunger. Those cramps in your stomach have returned, and the unquenchable thirst is parching your throat, making your tongue feel like an arid desert.

Firey orbs rotate above, and you twist them into constellations, which you often do when your mind is unsettled. Astarion said you could try for more; it sounds like fantasies made reality until you remember that he’d said he wasn’t sure he could love you. In that case, what does more even mean to him? Do you take the risk and put your heart on the table?

Everything is getting so fucking messy.

How can you tell what is genuine with him? Gale wasn’t wrong when he said Astarion knows how to manipulate you. He hardly needs to compel you because he knows what buttons to push and pull, the words to say, to get what he wants. He always has. All roads always lead back to him. Is it your heart that gravitates to Astarion, or is it something far more sinister? Are you just ingrained to be drawn to your creator? How can you know your feelings versus just an innate reflex that was planted and has taken root in your consciousness?

“What’s troubling you?” Astarion lays down beside you with an arch brow and his crimson eyes vivid in the sunlight.

“Everything,” you sigh, “Just everything.”

Astarion rolls to his side and puts his hand on your arm. He looks bothered by your answer with one brow pulled slightly down with his head cocked, “Is it something I did? You can tell me.”

“No.” The orbs start to absorb each other until there are only two remaining. You make them violently clash and burst like a firework, “You didn’t do anything. Where did you go this morning? You weren’t here when I woke up.”

“I would like to take you somewhere today.” Astarion sits and takes your hand, kissing the palm and all your fingertips, “Will you come?”

Sitting, you pull your knees to your chest, “You want to go out during the day?”

“Yes, during the day.” He purrs in a soothing baritone. “You’re safe from the sun with me. You need not hide in the manor all the time.”

“It’s not the sun, Astarion.” A lie. It’s always a little bit about the sun. That phobia is alive and well. You’re starting to wonder if it’s less of a phobia and more of some weird vampiric instinct. “It’s all the people. I’m hungry, and my control is dreadful. I can’t be trusted around them. I’m not sure how you did it.”

“Centuries of practice, love. You do quite well for a young spawn. Cazador kept us in the kennels until we could control the hunger. I was in there for many years, I think.” Astarion cocks his head, drawing his brows down as if he didn’t mean to divulge that information but continues. “You have my word; I will not put you into a situation you cannot handle.”

“Okay,” you say hesitantly, “I’ll go.”

“Splendid,” Astarion stands and hauls you up with him, “You can ride a horse, yes?”

Your brows pop up, rounding your eyes, “Me? Of course. Do you? Last I checked, you hated those beasts.”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Astarion rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, “I am more than capable of riding the beasts. I don’t have to like them."

“This is going to be so much fun,” you giggle. “I truly cannot wait to see this. The Vampire Ascendant on a horse. Miracles never cease!”

“Cheeky pup,” he smirks and bumps your shoulder.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in the saddle, but you settle quickly. With your feet in the stirrups and hands on the reins, the dapple-grey mare canters with a rhythmic stride. Astarion’s steed, a large jet-black gelding, keeps pace effortlessly. It’s hard to keep your eyes off Astarion. In the saddle, he attracts attention with a cut debonair form, his shoulders back, hips rolling smoothly to match his gelding’s long strides, and his hair flowing handsomely in the wind.

He catches you admiring him with your mouth dropped open and smirks with a chuckle, nodding in the direction to follow and eases his gelding into a gallop. The two horses soar over the plains outside Baldur's Gate with booming hoofbeats, manes streaming in the wind, and tails held high.

There is something so unbelievably picturesque about this moment, so familiar yet unsettling. You spent so much time travelling with Astarion across areas like this. You, him and dirt roads from dawn to dusk, but this isn’t the same man from your memories - is it? It’s getting increasingly more challenging to be mindful that Astarion may look and act, well sometimes act, like the same person you knew, but he isn’t.

He no longer becomes shy when you ask him for a kiss; gone are the awkward hugs, the way he used to mutter to himself to test what he was about to say, and the way his eyes would dart away when he said something sweet.

Now, he’s prone to blacked-out fits of violent, deadly rage and can let you burn in the sun at any moment should he choose, force himself into your mind, and take away your agency with a thought. He can turn himself into a bat, mist, and who knows what else. He said he felt his powers growing, and you have a feeling you haven’t seen the full extent of what he can do.

How many people has he killed in his blackouts? How many people has he compelled? Has he compelled you? You have yet to see other spawn, but who knows what he’s hiding.

Yet, you love him all the same - even with his demons, darkness and madness.

In these moments, when things start to feel too much like old times, you can’t help but mourn the man he was – a man you still miss.

I wonder what he would have thought of himself turning me into his spawn?

Astarion reins his horse to a trot and guides the gelding into a dense thicket with a barely perceptible path. He twists in the saddle, “This way. It’s not far.”

The trees, smelling pleasantly of pine, are towering with thick trunks. A chorus of birdsongs flows like a river softly floating through the air. It’s easy to forget how beautiful nature can be. When was the last time you were out like this during the day?

After several minutes, the thick trees start to thin and give way to a pristine clearing with thick green grass carpeting the ground and a lake. The crystalline water looks as blue as the sky reflecting on its mirror-smooth surface.

“Here we are,” Astarion dismounts his horse. His feet land on the ground in silence; not even the snap of a twig can be heard or the crunch of his boots on the earth.

Your eyes scan the area with reverence. The colours are bright and vivid, as though painted and composed from an artist's rendering of a fairy tale. It’s been some time since you’ve seen anything of such beauty during the day. If you had breath to take away, this would surely confiscate it from your lungs. You pat the mare’s muscled neck, haul yourself up and hop off the saddle much less gracefully than Astarion.

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, “This way. Come.”

He takes your hand and leads you toward thick blankets, pillows, chilled wine, flowers, and candles in a stunning presentation.

“Astarion,” you gasp, below a whisper as you take in the scene, “Did you do this?”

“Yes.” Astarion slips behind you and puts his arms around your waist, hugging you close to his chest, “I thought you might want to get out of the manor for a day.”

You lean into him, “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“I told you I can be romantic,” he quips with a boyish smile. His cardinal red eyes are set ablaze by the sun glinting off them, “You did not believe I was capable. Before you say it because I can see it on your pretty face, yes, little love, true feelings - they were a requirement, if I recall correctly.”

Do I ruin this moment by asking about what feelings?

I must know.

“What feelings, Astarion?”

Astarion kisses your temple and coos, “My feelings for you, of course. You said you were hungry earlier. I will go find you some food.”

He’s trying to retreat from the conversation.

“No, I’m fine,” you clutch his arm, afraid that if you let him go, you might awaken from this dream. “Stay, please?”

“Are you sure? It would not take me long, and I will be sure to stay close.”

“I’m sure, please.”

“As you wish,” Astarion removes his shirt and lays on the blanket, closing his eyes and basking in the sun. “If you change your mind, you have only but to ask. I do not like letting you go hungry.”

You sit beside him and grab the wine, uncork it and drink it straight from the bottle, disregarding the glass flutes.

He opens one eye momentarily and chuckles, “Hells, I see you’re still as boorish as ever.”

“Oh, shut up,” you giggle while giving him a playful shake, “You used to love my lack of decorum.”

When you used to love me, or at least, I thought you did.

Astarion takes the bottle from you and drinks straight from it with a wink, “Who says I don’t still love it, you delinquent.”

He hands the bottle back and lies back with his eyes closed. There’s something so tranquil about him like this. You can barely believe that just a day ago, he had his hands wrapped around your neck while he tore at your throat. It feels like a distant nightmare and makes you question if it really happened.

Your fingers trace the scabbed, coin-sized holes he marred your skin with as if to prove to yourself it was real. There’s always a dull, icy throbbing in your breast as if you’re heart believes it should be beating and is trying to rival its death. Some days, the pain is easily overlooked, but right now, it feels like someone is driving barbed shards of ice through your heart with a heavy hand and thundering strikes. Bringing your hand to your chest, you put pressure on it as if that might impede the malignancy.

You need a distraction, a physical sensation on your skin that you can focus on before you try to claw your heart out, “Are there any people around here?”

Astarion listens intently for a few seconds before shaking his head, “No, there’s no one around for miles. Why?”

You swallow your anguish and give him a devious grin, “Can I swim in that water?”

He probs himself up and grins, “It’s not running. You should be fine.”

“Excellent,” you giggle, taking another big drink and handing him the bottle.

You remove your clothes and wade in, disturbing and rippling the glassy surface. Diving into it, you let yourself sink to the murky bottom. The water is cold, even to you, and nips your skin like needlepoints being dragged across your flesh. The sunless silence is serene, and you consider letting it swallow you whole, but when you open your eyes toward the surface, you can see the silhouette of Astarion standing on the bank. Bending your knees, with a push, you propel yourself to the surface, to him, because that’s what you do – is it not? You always return to him, even at your detriment.

Astarion’s eyes you regardfully with nervous scrutiny, as if he had been afraid you may never come back.

“It’s cold,” you warn him.

“That’s really not a problem,” he chuckles, relaxing his expression once he’s assessed you’re safe. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You arch a calculating brow at him, and he rolls his eyes, “Sweetheart, get your head out of the gutter. Gods, you’re a freak sometimes.”

“Another thing you used to love about me,” you snicker while walking up to him. “What would you like to show me?”

“Used to” hm? That’s another wildly inaccurate statement,” Astarion tsks while he takes your hand and places it on his warm skin with a soft exhale and a wince that makes you smirk your “I-told-you-so” look. Slowly, his body cools until he’s as cold as you.

Your brows furrow as you place your hand on random spots of him. Icy cold everywhere. “You can control your body temperature?”

“I can do a great many things,” he chuckles with a cunning lop-sided half smile twerking one corner of his lips up, “Interesting ability, although I have found little use for it until now.”

Before you can register what he’s doing, Astarion giggles mischievously, picks you up and throws you back into the lake as if he were throwing a pebble, removes his trousers and wades in with you.

“That was rude!” You glower at him playfully and tap your chin with your finger, “Retribution may be required. I might have to get your hair wet.”

“Don’t you dare!”

With a wicked grin, you start splashing him, and he lunges toward you. By the time he’s subdued you with his arms wrapped around yours, he’s drenched, including his hair, and you’re both laughing loudly.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he giggles. “Naughty thing.”

Laughing, you comb your fingers through his hair and muss it further, “Don’t worry, you still look earth-shatteringly dashing.”

Astarion brushes wet strands of your hair out of your eyes, “You’re a vision.” He purrs while pulling you close to him, guiding your legs around his waist.

His thumb traces your lower lip. When he takes your lips in his, the kiss is raw with emotion, demanding and primal. His finger puts gentle pressure on your chin, opening your mouth for him, and his tongue explores you with a longing groan.

Astarion abruptly breaks the kiss and stares off to the side, a million miles away. An almost startled confusion distorts his expression, which perplexes you. Have you made him uncomfortable somehow?

“Astarion,” you cradle his face with your palm, “What’s wrong?”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, and he swallows hard, making his Adam's apple bob. His eyes snap back to yours, a scarlet tempest of determination raging athwart his irises, “I think we need to talk.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Please note - we may end up giving Tav a name. I've been agonizing over the idea for a while because it was something I never meant to do, but my resolve is weakening haha. If you're incredibly against the idea, please let me know.

I know my portrayal of A. Astarion is a softer version - I guess I have a weak spot for an Astarion that's all-powerful but still not completely cold and horribly abusive - although, he does have his moments.

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion smut #astarion x you #bg3 #astarion #fangs and fractured hearts #astarion ancunin #astarion bg #astarion fic #astarion fluff #soft ascended astarion

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jeannereames · 14 days ago

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Hi Dr. Reames. I was just wondering, as someone who has been looking into Hellenism, how exactly were Alexander and Hephaestion (though I'm more interested in Hephaestion) worshipped? Little details that we know of, like, what kind of particular offerings were left at their altars? What kind of rituals were performed? Festivals? Was their worship intertwined? As a rebellious Gay maybe I'm looking to join lol. Anyway, much love, a history buff that appreciates your work. 👍

Worshiping Hephaistion and Alexander

Hephaistion was named a “hero,” which means he’d have received typical heroic worship in a heroön, or hero shrine. Usually, these were modest, but the one planned for him in Alexandria was quite stupendous. The one in Pella where the dedicatory plaque from a certain Diogenes (SEG 40:547: Διογένης Ἡφαιστίωνι ἥρωι—Diogenes to Hero Hephaistion), was possibly also more sizable. Vouturas (who published the dedication)* thinks it was to the north or west of the acropolis and palace complex, maybe in a cave, although I don’t know of any caves there. If there were others elsewhere, they were probably more typical.

Anyway, hero worship was highly individualized by region and even city and family. Making any certain claims is virtually impossible, but as a heroön, the (flat) altar would likely be inside although the architecture of shrines could vary, as noted. The altar might also have a hole in the middle for blood (or other fluid such as wine or oil) offerings to be sent down into the earth for the dead person. (In contrast, ouranic [sky deity] altars were always outside and raised.)

Blood offering for heroes were small, dark/black animals, such as cockerels (especially popular as a psychopomp), rabbits, piglets, small game birds, puppies, etc. These would be killed and the blood drained on the altar (into the hole if one was there), then the whole sacrifice would be burnt (or buried). That’s why such offerings were typically small. The average person couldn’t afford to waste a large animal. (The oath in book 2 Rise, of Dancing with the Lion, features a blood sacrifice at the hero shrine of Iolaos outside Thebes. So that describes a rite for you, albeit a rather specific one.)

But blood sacrifices were more expensive. Much more common were bloodless sacrifices. In fact, bloodless sacrifices were THE most common sort and might be combined with a blooded sacrifice. Bloodless sacrifices were usually a libation of wine/oil/honey/milk/spring water, or incense offered on the altar, or special little cakes baked and left in the offering patella, or small cup/platter that might be in the hand of the hero’s image….

…just like you see below on the dedicatory plaque. The woman is pouring a libation (likely wine) into the patella being held by “Hephaistion.” She also has a little round pottery jar that likely contained incense, also to be offered. These are both super standard. It’s like going into an Orthodox or Catholic church and purchasing a candle to light before an icon or other image and placing it in the sandbox. Dedications could also be more personal, depending on circumstance. A lock of hair, a memento, a toy…etc.

Hero worship was a weird thing. And, as noted, highly individualized to a region. Heroes were usually connected to something specific. For instance, Hephaistion’s name was to be used in Egypt in mercantile contracts. I find this intriguing. But just as saints are typically the “saint of…” so also with heroes, who oversaw ___. Most of the time, these were mythical figures, although the founder of a colony (oikistes) received hero cult after his death. By the early 4th century, we also see some historical people included. Heroization of Macedonian kings after their deaths may also have been a thing, but that’s more speculation than certainty.

Later evidence suggests that cult for real, historical people as opposed to mythical people in the distant past never really gained a huge foothold. Even “worship” of Hellenistic kings and Roman emperors was more pro-forma and patriotic than actual. Now, keep in mind that the heroes I’m calling “mythical” were absolutely believed to be real people by the ancients. But they lived “way back then” in a “different time” (the Age of Heroes) and so had a special patina that Joe Average Greek (even a Very Important Person) never quite acquired.

One of the rare exceptions to that was Alexander. Hephaistion…not so much. His cult probably didn’t much outlive Alexander himself.

Diogenes dedicatory plaque was made in the last quarter of the 300s…e.g., just shortly after Hephaistion’s death. It’s the only one of its kind, and may have been purchased shortly after Hephaistion died but before word of Alexander’s own death reached Pella. E.g., Diogenes might have been trying to earn brownie points from whatever officials there in Pella would notice his piety, and pass on news of it to Alexander. It’s nice but middling in cost, with nothing distinctive about it. E.g., the figure (Hephaistion) is a generic hero horseman of a type we often see in the north (See image below, a grave stele from Thessaloniki area, Roman era), plus a generic female worshiper. The fact the dedicator was a man, but it’s a woman on the plaque leads me to conclude it was pre-carved. These dedicatory figured plaques and tombstones took so much time, many were pre-carved. So that probably is not what Hephaistion looked like. The plaque has been damaged on the left and may once have included a tree, perhaps with a snake in it, which would be standard imagery. That may be the edge of the trunk we can see behind the horse’s rear leg and tail. (For a whole lot more, go HERE; I've seen tons of these Hero Horsemen in museums in both north Greece and Bulgaria.)

After his death, Alexander did receive cult much more in line with godhood (if not on the same level as Zeus), akin to what Herakles might have received. As he was human (and died), the sacrificial animals would have been dark, not light (as for an ouranic, or sky deity). The Ptolemies instituted an entire cult centered on Alexander worship, in fact, which no doubt helped solidify his elevation into true cult status. It also helped the Ptolemies’ claim on power. 😉

As for whether sacrifices were made to Hephaistion along with Alexander—hard to say. It wasn’t at all unusual for Greeks to combine the worship of related deities. For instance, when sacrificing to Apollo, one might also sacrifice to Leto, and/or Artemis. But it wasn’t assumed, and the Ptolemies, who promoted the cult later, had no real reason to promote Hephaistion’s too. We lack record of a temple to Alexander that also included a heroön to Hephaistion, but there could well have been one, certainly in Alexandria. Or in Pella. (Greeks allocated a shrine to each deity, even if they might be constructed inside the same temenos, or sanctuary.) Yet worship of Alexander wasn’t encouraged by Kassandros, nor by the Antigonids later. In fact, the royal cemetery at Aigai fell out of use for centuries after the burial of the last Argeads. So cult to Alexander (and Hephaistion) appears to have been more limited in Macedonia itself.

I’ve discussed worshiping Alexander in a YouTube video, linked below.

youtube

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*Emmanuel Vouturas, “Ηφαιστίων ήρως.” Εγνατία 2 (1990): 123-173.

#asks #Hephaistion #Hephaestion #ancient Greek religion #ancient Macedonian religion #Alexander the Great #Ptolemaic Empire #cult for Alexander the Great #cult for Hephaistion #hero cult in ancient Greece #Classics #Hero the Horseman #ancient Greece #tagamemnon

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sonics-atelier · 19 days ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

For @tamlinweek Day 2: Dark Spring/Spring Mythology & Celebrations. Poem + Moodboard, but since the pitcures are a bit triggering I've put them under the cut after the poem ends. Read On AO3 here.

In vernal hush where bloodroots sprawl,

The trees don masks of blossom-white,

And Spring in velvet-footed thrall

Prepares its feast for bloom and blight.

The crocus choir sings low, off-key,

While willows whisper prayers to bone—

Their pollen-thick obscurity

A veil for rites best left unknown.

The people come in garlands crowned,

With ivy cinched and ashwood bows,

To hunt the Beast of sacred ground.

Through foxglove fields and shadowed rows.

A hunger wakes in hawthorn’s breath,

Where every thorn remembers sin;

They chase the scent of moss and death—

It waits beneath the alder's grin.

Tamlin leads, with sword unsheathed,

His mantle stitched from fern and flame.

The bloom god, cursed and laurel-wreathed,

Who speaks the old rite’s bloodless name.

But as they tread the myrtle glen,

And silver sap drips from the bark,

A twist begins inside the men—

Yet Tamlin feels the deepest mark.

His hands, once fair, now marred with bark,

The veins beneath a sickly green.

His breath is mulch, his gaze grows stark,

His thoughts grow gnarled and evergreen.

The others chant, a ritual hymn,

To bind the Beast in roots and fire.

Yet none dare speak the change in him—

Their lord now kindles dark desire.

He smells the fear, the petaled blood,

A bloom upon the hunting knife.

And when he roars within the wood,

It echoes more than beast or life.

For Spring demands its tithe in pain,

In sap and sinew, heart and limb.

The offering was not the slain—

The offering, it seems, was him.

- @sonics-atelier 2025 ( do not repost or reuse in any way, shape or form )

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loveandpeaceanddoughnuts · 11 months ago

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Last Rites

a Vashwood fanfic, cross-posted on ao3

"What is wrong with you, blondie?" Wolfwood hit the brick wall with a closed fist, hissing as his knuckles split. "They don't give a damn about you! Whether you live or die!"

Vash stumbled, shifting his weight against the same wall as he cradled his right side. "That doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't matter!"

Vash flinched at the other man's intensity. The weak smile he offered Wolfwood slid sideways off his face with a new wave of pain. "You know how I feel, Wolfwood."

The undertaker shook his head in frustration. "Wish I did."

Vash's knees buckled, and he slid further down the wall. Wolfwood threw a strong arm around his shoulders before he hit the ground.

"Hey, easy, needle-noggin. Easy." Wolfwood's voice was soft gravel and warm gunmetal. "You don't get to die before I convince you you're a damn fool."

Vash blinked up at him, glassy-eyed. "Die?" He huffed a shaky breath. "You know I can't do that."

"So you say." Wolfwood didn't meet Vash's gaze as he rifled through his bag for first aid supplies. "Where's that damn gauze?"

"The bullet just grazed me. I've had worse, Wolfwood."

"Really? Because you're usually a drama queen and now you're actin' all tough. Got me scared as shit."

"Look at me, Wolfwood."

"No, damn it! We gotta get you patched up."

"Look at me!" Vash's jaw clenched with effort as he reached up to drag Wolfwood down by the collar. Wolfwood dragged his eyes down to Vash, his heart clenching as he took in the gunslinger's bloodless face. Vash didn't let go of his collar but kept pulling the man lower until they were nose to nose.

"You don't have to believe in me. But I'm not gonna let yourself get killed for me either. Nobody else gets hurt." Vash tried another smile, this one lasting a little longer before it trembled away.

"Believin' in you was never the problem, blondie." Wolfwood's mouth went dry this close to Vash. His eyes flicked from the Stampede's bright blue eyes to his tight-pressed lips. "Let me help you."

Vash's hand weakened and Wolfwood took the chance to pull gently out of his grip. "We gotta get this bullet outta you. You can argue with me later." He cautiously reached a hand down to the hem of Vash's tight black top. "Can I?" Vash's eyes had fluttered shut, but he gave enough of a nod that Wolfwood kept going.

"This isn't how I wanted this to happen," he mumbled, carefully lifting the shirt over Vash's head as he searched for the bullet wound. "Fucking hell," Wolfwood swore. Vash's muscled torso was a patchwork of thick scars and metal grates, as if he had been taken apart and put back together over and over again. The undertaker's breath left him like a punch to the stomach. "What happened to you?"

Vash groaned and tried to curl around himself protectively. “N-nothing. ‘M fine, don’t look…”

“Oh, Vash…” Wolfwood couldn’t stop himself from gently running his calloused fingertips over the longest scar, a raised and jagged line that traced his ribs. Vash flinched and Wolfwood instantly removed his hand, cursing himself for the slip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“No, you didn’t do anything. I just…I don’t like people to see me. Like this.” Vash’s words were sharp-edged with pain. “Especially people I- especially you.”

Wolfwood’s dark eyebrows knit together as he shushed the other man. He couldn’t know how wrong he was. Vash’s body was an alien landscape, and Wolfwood longed to map every inch of unexplored territory. “Don’t be ridiculous, blondie.” His voice dropped, ragged with the raw edges of the truth. “You’re beautiful.”

Vash laughed, but the normally musical sound was out of tune. “Don’t feel bad for me, Wolfwood. Doesn’t suit you.” He shook with the effort of speaking, and it didn’t escape Wolfwood’s notice.

“I feel bad for you ‘cause you’ve got such a spiky head, needle-noggin. But you’re fucking beautiful.”

The blonde opened his mouth to reply but was wracked by a cough. Bright blood dribbled over his lips, and his jaw went slack.

“Vash?” Wolfwood grabbed his shoulder and shook hard. “Vash!” He swore and frantically tore apart his bag until he came up with bandages. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” He couldn’t tell whether the reassurances were for himself or the other man. Wolfwood tore a strip of bandages with his teeth, his eyes locking on a seep of sticky blood from underneath Vash’s body.

“Alright Typhoon, you’re gonna hold on for me.” Wolfwood turned him over quickly, steeling himself to the task at hand. “This is gonna fuckin’ hurt.” He ripped his flask from his pack and dumped stinging liquor over his hands, sterilizing them as best as he could. “I’ll make this up to you, okay? I swear to God, if He gives a shit.”

The undertaker took a deep breath and plunged his finger into the wound on Vash’s back, carefully feeling for the bullet lodged inside. He whispered apologies as Vash moaned in pain, his body still limp on the ground. The moans trickled to whimpers, and slowed entirely. In the silence, Wolfwood grew more desperate, no strength left to spend on his self-censoring.

“C’mon, baby. C’mon Vash, you stupid pretty thing, hang on f’me.” He gritted his teeth when he brushed against the warm metal, crooking his finger to pull the bullet out without causing too much extra damage. Wolfwood was numb everywhere except the places where his skin touched Vash’s. Those places burned like stars. “You’re doin’ so good, love. Stay here with me. I have so much to tell you if you stay here,” he murmured.

Wolfwood reached for the liquor and took a hard swig from the bottle, swallowing with a wince. The rest he poured onto Vash’s wound, shakily brushing his hand over the blonde’s hair as the pain made him thrash. “I’m sorry, so sorry…your hair is so soft…softer than I even imagined,” Wolfwood whispered, a little hysterical. “I’ll tell ya so if you wake up after this, okay needle-noggin? Maybe I won’t even call ya that anymore.”

“Forgive me for this, okay?” Wolfwood pressed clean bandages against the gunshot wound, a half-remembered prayer falling from his lips as Vash let out a strangled cry. “Almost done, almost done, love.” His eyes burned. “Why do you care about these people so goddamn much?” He leaned harder on the wound, willing the blood loss to slow. “What about the people who care about you? ” Vash’s blood soaked through the first fistful of bandages, and Wolfwood added a second.

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep losing you.” Vash’s blood covered his hands, and Wolfwood swallowed down bile. “Fuck you, blondie. Fuck you for leavin' me alone again.” He was leaning his whole weight on the wound now, praying the bandages would be enough to hold Vash’s life in.

“You goddamn bleeding heart, you aren’t on your own anymore! This isn’t fair!” Wolfwood was crying, sick at himself. He didn’t even know he could still produce tears, and now he was on his knees next to the only person that would ever matter enough to wring them out of him. Vash’s eyes stayed shut, his body still and soft except for the tension in his jaw and the throb of his pulse in his neck.

Wolfwood bent over him like a guardian angel. He turned Vash back over as the bleeding slowed and tenderly wiped the blood from his mouth. He pressed a heavy palm to the metal grate over Vash’s heart. “I love you, Vash. It scares me to death and I still love you. I can’t help it.” A bitter smile flickered over his face. “I’ve tried. Just get through this for me and I’ll tell you myself, okay?"

Suddenly out of things to do, Wolfwood collapsed back against the wall. His hands shook so badly that it took him three tries to get his lighter going, and he dropped the first cigarette he held to the flame. When it finally took, he sucked the smoke into his lungs like a penance and held it till he choked. That way, he had a reason for his voice to crack and his eyes to burn as he whispered, “Vash, please.”

#vashwood #ao3 #fanfic #love confessions #hurt/no comfort #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #nicholas d. wolfwood #they both need a hug #i need them both

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thislittlekumquat · 1 year ago

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My favorite thing about what Pope Francis has done with the American right wing culture wars type is how he has set himself up to slowly and methodically snipe the worst bishops at his own leisure. The Latin Rite ruling was the perfect bait. Does not actually impact the lives of the well-meaning faithful, but is SURE to draw the ticking bigoted time bombs out of the woodwork because they can easily see it as a bloodless fight to pick with the pope. It's the perfect symbol of everything that's wrong with American Catholicism, and it WILL continue to draw out the worst, most untractable bishops, and Francis WILL continue to publicly state everything wrong with their ministry before getting rid of them. Utterly obsessed with the politics of it. The machination. Exquisite.

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jayahult · 2 years ago

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You Forgot

The problem is that you think she came back wrong. You're forgetting so, so many things. The first thing you forgot, of course, was that this was a bad idea - that desecrating a body, tapping into these dark rites, opening the way to the unknown and hidden things of the earth is not a work for a person so weak-willed as to not accept the one thing all people are born to do. That didn't stop you of course. Far harder to part with was your dignity. Nobody can have dignity when in the dead of night they six feet down to unearth the corpse, stinking, infested with maggots and certainly no one can have any dignity when they've yelped at the sight of a centipede emerging from someone's mouth. You forgot all sensible religion and turned to the blackest, foulest alchemy one could imagine, the black stitches, the pale and bloodless skin graft, the yellowed teeth of dogs and babes, the fresh blood which rolled down your arm. Oh, yes, you forgot it for her.

And you forgot the law, too, to provide for her eyes, her hair, her joints. Animals could do for some but not for all - you wanted only the best for her. You forgot the common morality to provide for her toes and her tendons and joints, those sayings of common sense about killing five men to save just one. That didn't matter. What her family wanted didn't matter. The work mattered.

And then she woke after all your months of work. Oh, yes, then she woke, and you were so, so afraid. She breathed in through long-empty lungs, and her chest flexed around the scars of autopsy and replacement, and her breast heaved with that first gasp - and oh, you nearly screamed if it weren't for the fact that you had forgotten to breathe out of shock. As the damnable, contemptible man you are you became disgusted as she sighed out, spindly catsgut strings of her arms springing to life as she grasped the table and let out a great howl, a demoniac wolf-noise that must have been from the depths of Hell itself. You damn well forgot that the dead must keep their lips sealed for a reason; that the tombs out stay well shut, the corpses kept deeper, locked far away from the places of the living. Having forgotten your common sense you swallowed your bile and your fear, but not the disgust that sat in your head. You could never rid of that even when she was alive, not wholly. You thought that was the way love went sometimes, and so it seemed natural to you.

Foolish man you are, you clumsily tried to commune with her. She took well to talking, and still you seemed so disgusted with her. She said the same words. She took to the same mannerisms with only some new flesh, with freshly sharp canines and thirty-four more to spare - you'd forgotten how many she ought to have, but that was a small mistake considering everything else. But something was wrong, something was off - she was always needling you, irking you, trying to frustrate you or asking you too many questions. More and more that same disgust grew in you from the moment you first met. It occurred to you that perhaps something entirely different than the woman you knew was now inhabiting her body, and you quickly became certain in that determination, that sweet Vanya was gone and some daemon had truly come back that night and not her.

Of course, you were wrong. How could you ever be more wrong? A foolish little boy you were, skinning cats and sticking his nose where it ought not to be, you forgot so many things - the little things, like how she stirred coffee with her left hand, how she loved her meat rare, how she would delight in singing, how she would make cruel jokes and liked to poke herself with silverware, and how her arrangement with you left her bored and sad most days. No daemon-figure could imitate her mannerisms and her memories so exactly. But when you could not have her anymore, when Death snatched her up from you, when you lost the one person in your life you could control most, you forgot all of that. You say she came back wrong, that she isn't who she was. Deep down, you must know that you are lying, you sad fool. You forgot who you were bringing back.

#my writing #you forgot #horror #kind of started as a joke and then got very serious.

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lovegodsmashtyrants · 1 year ago

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Before the Sabbath: Holy Saturday

3RD SQUIRE:

(a young man)

Hey, you there!

Why do you lie there like a wild beast?

KUNDRY:

Are not beasts holy here?

From Parsifal by Wagner

A shy, wild animal,

Merton says

waits within

Seduced by nothing

Lured by nothing

Satisfied with nothing

Only appearing in the silence

In the clearing

Where the alien gods have fled

Where the shouts of the contending armies fall silent

Where the mists of spectacle and illusion have melted into air, into thin air

And the soul is left alone with herself

And the Most High God.

A clear gaze looking into the clear gaze

Of the hunter that does not slay

Except to give blessing in return.

Bearing both weapons and wounds, with mute blessing

He gives us back names that we feral fugitives have forgotten

In the wake of Fall, Flood, and Babel.

Do we find ourselves harmless lambs

Or beasts of prey

When we come to that site in the innocent quiet of the woods?

Perhaps even for the foxes and wolves

There is a purity before the world began.

If only the memory can be stirred.

Perhaps their violence was itself an image of bloodless rites erased by the dissolution of Eden.

Today is the day of that clearing in the forest.

The day of the void.

We are not yet arrived at the peace of Sabbath, or its joy.

We have been scattered, and our looking furtively for our place

With careful step

Out of the darkness of trees

To where we will see as we have been seen.

#poem #poetry #christianity #catholicism #philosophy #lent #holy saturday

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feytouchedtwilight · 2 years ago

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“There was a time, Becket knew, when holy people were not safe. When they were not tame. When they were not the gentle shepherds, but the keepers of mysteries and the guardians of fire. As a priest, he turned wine into blood and bread into flesh—why had that ever become a tame thing, a safe thing? God was not safe. The numinous was not safe. So why then had he hemmed in his faith with safety? His hunger with rules? His zeal with bloodless, methodical praxis? He loved rituals, rites, and liturgies, that was unchanged. He loved the motions of them, the ancient words, the less-than-ancient words made to sound older than they were. But he’d been reduced by them, he saw now. Or perhaps not him personally, but his understanding, his relationship with God and belief. He’d hoped to wrestle it into submission, that relationship, and make it something that matched the way other people believed. He’d hoped to hide his zeal, stuff it into the corners of himself, bind it and lash it to his heart so it could never make it to his mouth to his hands and deeds. So that it could never make itself known. All he’d wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was to believe like other people did. Communally and pleasantly, and with glad hearts that could easily bear the distance between themselves and God. Not wild and alone. Chasing after God like an abandoned bridegroom. … Yes, the zeal was dangerous. Yes, it could consume him if he wasn’t strong enough. But he was tired of fighting it. Tired of pushing away love and sex and feral fun, tired of keeping his hunger for God locked in a box because he felt like he had to.”

~ Door of Bruises by Sierra Simone

#read this lately and it really spoke to me #I wish we learned more of Becket and what his zeal is #christianity always felt like this to me- distant #I don’t know what I actually want though #I don’t know what religion actually is to me #I don’t experience zeal I don’t experience much of anything #I just feel kinda numb all the time- is probably a schizoid thing #I want to get into magic and witchcraft and god worshiping but I just can’t #I want something in my life though #this book had another interesting theme : what is ritual to humans as a species?#and I’ve been thinking a lot about that one too #I want more ritual in my life but I don’t know how to add it #especially when I’m struggling with me/cfs and the chronic fatigue etc of it #thinking about how in a lot of ways religion has become domesticated it’s no longer wild and free #something about science taking away the mysticism but also we need science #so how do we add ritual and magic back to our lives then #i wish I had an answer #fey talks

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serahadmoni · 4 days ago

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Spoilers below the cut through EOB Heat of the Everflame. This is not my essay about Luther, but an observation of a specific plot point that will likely make landfall around the midpoint of Burn.

So, Luther and Diem are already mated.

Eleanor helpfully addresses the ritual when she’s explaining mates to Diem at Taran’s behest in Chapter 17 of Glow.

“How do you know if your love for someone is true enough to be mated?” I asked.

Oh, the rite is very simple,” Eleanor chirped. “You shed a little blood, commit to them forever... if the love is worthy, the magic does the rest.”

Given the simplicity of the ritual, I hypothesize that Luther’s side of the bond manifests here, near the end of Heat Chapter 73 right before they’re interrupted by Dorial’s attendants to leave for the docks.

His mouth opened, but no words came out. I smiled. I knew that feeling well.

“It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Maybe something small, or maybe...” My cheeks warmed. “Something we could grow into someday. As a family.”

For a long time, Luther was still.

Then his knuckles went white. His hand slipped off the apple, sending his knife slicing across his chest. A line of red formed on his sweater.

Then

He stared at me, lips parted, face bloodless. His eyes were aglow, but not with his usual Lumnos light. Something warmer.

And

Luther looked dazed, hand gripping his chest. I frowned. “Are you alright?” He nodded stiffly. Slowly, he rose to join me.

This would be the flare of his mating mark taking root.

For Diem, the bond snaps into place in the final moments of the book, here:

And Luther was alive. The future we’d planned was not yet lost—its flame still glowed, lost in the shadows but burning strong. I had committed myself to him, to us, and now that I knew he was out there fighting to get to me, I would fight just as hard to find my way back to him.

And when I did, I’d tell him everything. I’d tell him that I was his and he was mine, now and always. I would tell him I wanted to be bound with him forever, in whatever life we could make in this world, and in eternity thereafter.

The very first chance I got, I would offer up my blood and tell him I was ready to be his ma—

Then

My chin dipped as my gaze fell to my body, where the bloody point of a long, glittering black blade had erupted from my flesh. Straight through the center of my heart.

And

Death was supposed to be cold, wasn’t it? Lonely. One’s life flashing before their eyes, perhaps last-minute regrets of loves lost or choices made.

But this felt... warm.

Painful, yes. Searing agony splintered through every nerve. My heart felt like it was being shredded in half—which, by the slowing throb in my chest, it probably was.

But there was an unexpected pleasure in it, too. A peculiar rightness. A feeling like I’d just gained something I desperately wanted.

Then, the throbbing stopped, replaced by a strange kind of calm. A comforting, eternal peace.

And then this tragic bit of information given Luther and Diem’s situation at the end of Heat. Perhaps the Crowns will honor their mating bond, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.

“Being mated isn’t just a relationship,” Taran said, his expression equally aglow. “It changes you physically. Your bodies become two halves of a whole. If you’re away from your mate for too long, you get ill and your magic weakens. They say you can even die from it.”

#kindred's curse #heat of the everflame #diem bellator #luther corbois #kcs meta

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kvrosawaaa · 11 days ago

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He doesn’t dress her this time. And she understands, now, that this is the cruelest transgression of all.

No veil cinched at her throat. No ribbons. No rites. Only the nightdress she slept in—diaphanous, damp with sweat at the creases, clinging where her hips taper to bone. It shifts as she stands. He watches the fabric draw taut across her spine. Not with hunger. Not with mercy. Just conviction. Like she’s already acquiesced to something neither of them have spoken aloud.

She doesn’t ask why. There’s nothing left in her voice worth offering.

He inclines his head. Two fingers. A summons. She obeys.

The hallway devours her footsteps. No reverent hush. Just that suffocating, anticipatory silence—the kind that thickens the air before catastrophe. The walls feel close, like they’re waiting to witness something they’ve seen before.

At the end: a door. Beyond it: cold.

The chamber breathes frost. Candlelight gutters in shallow pools along the stone, flickering shadows like dying memories. The wax has wept into a wide-mouthed basin—iron, stained black, rimmed with ash. The floor beneath it drinks in the darkness. Older offerings. Older sins.

And cradled in the basin— The bird.

Still skewered. Still pristine in its paralysis. Not rotting. Not rising. Just... persisting. As though it, too, remembers.

She hesitates.

Not a step. A breath. One fragile moment of stillness, throat fluttering with an instinct she no longer entertains.

But Scaramouche continues.

His presence envelops her from behind—quiet as dust, certain as gravity. His hands rest at the curvature of her shoulders. Not gripping. Just claiming. His mouth hovers near her nape, exhaling warmth against chilled skin. His breath doesn’t fog. Hers does.

“You remember what happens when you touch it, don’t you?” He speaks with the softness of a recollected indulgence. Not a threat. Not yet. Just history.

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t have to. He already knows.

His hands tighten. Almost imperceptibly. “Then be good,” he murmurs, “and grant us another miracle.”

The push is gentle. It always is. She falls anyway.

Knees to stone—unyielding, frigid, reverberating through the bone. Her hands lift, tremulous, uncertain. The basin’s lip grazes her wrist. She leans—not forward, but down. The posture of something once-winged, now remembering how to kneel.

And she touches it.

Feathers are the epilogue. First comes light.

It detonates through her sternum, blazing along every vertebrae, tunneling through the soft matter behind her eyes. Her spine convulses, throat arched in a silent cry. It’s not agony. It’s revelation. Every nerve a hymn. Wings rupture from her scapula in torrents of white and coruscant gold, blossoming like her body is merely a conduit for the divine.

Behind her, Scaramouche exhales.

Not reverent. Not enraptured. Just… affirmed.

“There it is,” he says, almost gently.

And then he desecrates her.

Not in rage. Not in haste. But with ceremony.

Feather by feather. He doesn’t rip—he extracts. Rooted things. Sacred things. Peeled from the architecture of her back with the care of someone pruning a holy relic. His hands are meticulous. He won’t let her fall.

She holds herself upright. She always does.

Her lips are bloodless. Her eyes refuse tears. Only her limbs tremble, straining under the weight of dignity.

When it’s over, she’s still kneeling. Only barely.

Her back is flayed. Her lungs are laboring. But her fingers remain braced on the rim of that basin like the world hasn’t ended.

He folds himself around her, an embrace performed more than felt. Like absolution. And some quiet place in him fractures again—because no matter how many miracles he mutilates, no matter how devoutly he desecrates, he can never quite extinguish the part of her that offers.

The part that remembers.

#lumine aesthetic: a bride a sacrifice #angel au: devotion is a sharpened thing #fiction: i can feel my bones splinter #scara aesthetic: graceless divinity

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likedoves · 6 months ago

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a little something about my new d&d pc to bring this blog back to life

When Tethys came to, it was with a stinging cheek.

“Up!” hissed Matron Mila, roughly hauling them upright. “What in the hells were you thinking, performing a blood rite alone?”

As Tethys had sawed off their own arm, as they hit bone and gritted their teeth, they had imagined she’d be proud of them when they finished. Impressed—pleased, even—by their mettle, their devotion, their skill in performing such a painfully advanced ritual.

Instead, she glared at them, seething. Worse still, Selune had not answered them. They’d learned nothing at all to make Mila’s wrath worthwhile. Their head was fuzzy, their mouth felt like it’d been stuffed with cotton. Funny, it still felt like they had both arms. Looking down, though, they saw they’d successfully removed it. All that was left was a stump haphazardly wrapped in pieces of Mila’s tabard and an itch in an elbow that wasn’t there anymore. The appendage lay in a large puddle of blood—suddenly embarrassingly queasy, they turned to face their mentor.

“Tethys Vela, you are lucky to be breathing,” she said, lip curling. “Answer me.”

“Wanted to ask Her,” they rasped, tongue uncomfortably thick, “about the tides.”

Mila scoffed. “As if Our Lady of Silver would answer a hatchling’s call. As if I haven’t asked her myself.”

“I had to try—”

“Not another word.” Mila hooked Tethys’s arm around her shoulders, and stood them up. She had to hunch to meet their height. “You are to see Oona at once. I will clean your mess and figure out what to tell your poor father.”

Tethys knew better than to test Mila’s patience, so they instead focused on keeping their feet beneath them as she walked them out of the altar room and through the dark corridors of the undercroft. Luckily, there was a separate infirmary down here amidst the winding hallways and secret passes. The walk felt much longer in the bloodless quiet. It very well could have been longer, for Tethys stumbled over themself every few paces, but at long last, they arrived at the unadorned oak door of the infirmary.

Mila fiddled with the knob, then shouldered her way past the door shouting, “Oona! A bed, quickly!”

The elderly triton shuffled out of her sleeping quarters, swept her silvery hair into a low bun, and sighed at the sight of Tethys. Her small, wide-eyed apprentice, Carzas, scurried at her heels. Fortunately, neither of them said anything as Oona led them down the corridor to an empty bed, but Tethys knew they would scarcely hear the end of this particular blunder. Nearly half a century in this temple, and they’d hardly anything to show for it. They’d drawn vials of their own blood. Removed a finger. Knelt at their altar, sliced their palms, and bled freely onto it, begging. Sythia Velorian had already proven herself a thousand times over and was the darling of the matrons. What was Tethys, aside from a boatful of trouble? And when would that trouble outweigh their use?

Mila eased them onto the stiff cot. As Oona began her work, Mila said, “The next time you think of doing something so laughably beyond your capabilities, perhaps keep Oona nearby.”

It was customary to keep a healer near for such advanced blood rites, but there had been a method to Tethys’s madness. “She would’ve stopped me.”

“Rightly so, I think,” Oona chimed in.

Tethys frowned. “I had to.”

“This isn’t about the tides, not really.” Mila stated.

“They’re getting much worse—” Tethys started.

“You knew damn well this wouldn’t give you an answer.”

Tethys fell silent.

Mila looked hard at them, uncomfortably so. They averted their eyes; they hated when she looked at them like that, as if she could see the very contents of their soul. She was, after all, the only person in this world Tethys could never trick. She studied their face until it told her the whole story without them saying a single word.

“This cannot honestly be about Sythia Velorian,” said Mila at last, her lip curling in distaste.

“It’s not.”

“Oh, but it is. You have put yourself in competition with her, and you got it in your head that if you performed a powerful enough rite you’d surpass her.” She sighed deeply, sinking into the bedside chair and massaging her temples. “I thought you were finished with this, ni nikyam.”

Tethys said nothing else, only wincing as Oona gently pulled a stitch tight.

“Carzas, be a dear and fetch a blood bag, they’ve lost quite a bit,” said the healer lightly.

Carzas couldn’t seem to get out of the room quickly enough.

Blessedly, Mila stayed quiet as Oona finished her stitching and began the transfusion when Carzas returned. Tethys, for their part, did their best to not look at a single soul as an all too familiar shame rose in their chest. They wished they’d just pass out from blood loss again, but the fuzzy feeling in their head had been ebbing since Oona had hooked them up to the blood bag. She had Carzas fetch a second soon after. When that was finished, Oona bade them both goodnight.

“You snuck back to the Underdark,” said Mila after some time, “and were attacked by a gnoll. And luckily for you, I was nearby conducting research in the caves. We’ll move you from the undercroft into the other infirmary in the morning.”

For a moment, Tethys expected her to stand and leave, but she merely crossed her arms and sunk back into the chair.

“Now rest,” she ordered, and closed her own eyes.

#d&d character #writeblr #excerpt from a book i might write #writing #original character

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whimsykeii · 2 years ago

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A(ntelope) Tribe Customs

Ever wondered about A’lathei’s tribe and their customs? Well, look no further! I will put this under the cut but here is a picture of A’lathei and all her siblings.

Territory

The A tribe resides within the Wellwick Wood, in Eastern Thanalan, a few miles away from the southern most parts of the Black Shroud, where their totem animal resides. They can be seen hunting from various locations such as Thal’s Respite or even the recent swamp that has formed in the South Shroud.

Nunhs

The A tribe has one nunh at a time. A nunh is required to not only be the physically strongest man in the tribe, but the most clever or intelligent. It is the Nunh’s responsibility to ensure that the hunting grounds are conducive to the proper care and maintenance of the tribe. If the grounds are lacking, it is up to the nunh to decide a course of action.

The nunh is not the sole decision-maker for the tribe’s safety. The tribe’s two best huntresses, three healers and three oldest women also make up the council to decide the best course of action to take.

If a nunh is found to be lacking in his duties, he has a moon to clean up his act or face getting thrown out and exiled from the tribe. Violently. If a nunh falls ill, the council will assume his duties while he recovers. In the event of a terminal or chronic illness, the nunh will choose the tia who will assume his role in a bloodless rite of passage. The previous nunh will join the council as the new nunh’s personal advisor until he passes.

When succeeded by a new nunh, most former nunhs exile themselves after a short period of time, but the ones who do not are allowed to stay with the understanding that they are wholly ineligible to return to nunh status unless in extreme circumstances.

Hunters

Both sexes begin hunts unsupervised by the age of 12 and are expected to know their role in the tribe by 15. For the ones who take up conjury or crafting instead, are apprenticed by the most skilled of their craft in the tribe. In the rare event that there is no superior in their skillset, they will be sent to Ul’dah.

The most skilled huntress is usually a new nunh’s first pick in a mate, and she is also expected to assume a role in the council. She must display excellent senses, perception and skill in her chosen style of combat whether it be archery or melee. She must also show deep concern for the well being of her sisters and any kits that may be present.

A hunter’s quota is determined by population size and season. If there are pregnant women and extremely young kits, hunters will increase their hunting quotas to compensate for the lack of numbers and growing bodies.

Hunters also include the foragers, and the same rules apply. Kits are taught to forage as early as age six, with their birth mothers or the healers accompanying them.

Tias

A tia born into the tribe is not raised too different from his sisters and cousins, and the nunh takes a more personal role in his upbringing even if he is the son of a previous nunh.

A tia adopted into the tribe is also raised similarly, but with higher expectations due to his ability to diversify the gene pool.

A tia can leave the tribe as early as fifteen, the age of relative independence within the tribe, with the true mark of adulthood being twenty years of age.

Rites and Family Dynamics

The new nunh is celebrated with a feast and a dance performance from the five most eligible women in the tribe- the best huntresses, healers and crafters. See here (x) The nunh then declares his first choice and they spend the next week mating. After that, women are encouraged to approach him to mate. Both parties are allowed to accept or deny any advances from the other.

Most of the youth find the dance part of the ceremony to be the most embarrassing. Unfortunately, no nunh has been able to abolish this practice yet. A way for old people to ceremonially prank the new generation. Update: In previous ceremonies, the chosen five must dance for their new nunh or risk exile, but the Thalin line has decided to abolish that rule in favor of disqualifying unconsenting members for the first pick.

The women of the tribe raise the kits communally with the nunh, with useful skills usually being taught to kits by their birth mothers. A'khuzim trained A'sanri himself when he saw she had no talent for long-range weaponry.

The best way to introduce a Tia or any man to the tribe, regardless of context, is to have him evaluated by members of the council. If one of the more difficult members likes you, you will be welcome. Women unsurprisingly do not have such stringent vetting processes.

Any tias born to the nunh are encouraged to become nunh elsewhere or bring other tias in to the tribe.

Birth order does not guarantee any major position in the tribe, nor does position of the mother to the nunh. However, the children of the first bride are generally expected to be the most competent of all the nunh's children.

The nunh is treated differently depending on who you are in the tribe. There are no special greetings for the nunh's favorite wives or his children. Other wives, adopted tribe members and elders: wives will purr and bunt the nunh when formally greeting him. Adopted tribe members and attendants will lower their tails and ears in submission before addressing the nunh. Elders are given the inversion of the greeting wives are expected to give.

#long post #a'lathei khuzim #a'lathei lore #a'khuzim nunh

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edward-sonbati · 2 years ago

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Themes in Bishop Mettaous’ “Spirituality of the Rites of the Holy Liturgy of the Coptic Orthodox Church” - A Thematic Outline

Liturgy as performative exegesis

“The beauty of the Coptic Church is in its scriptural foundation; she lives the spirit, and practices according to the Words of the Holy Scriptures. Her prayers are biblically founded and are organized according to the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Every word in the book of the Holy Liturgy (the Kholagy) has its origins in the Scriptures.” page 15

“The holy liturgy is a living display of the holy scriptures” page 17

Useful article: https://academic.oup.com/edited-volume/38584/chapter-abstract/334614333?redirectedFrom=fulltext

The world as sacrament and the Adamic priesthood in the thought of Bishop Mettaous

“All Church rituals and symbols are an earthly representation of the heavenly world.” page 19

“The Church constantly prays for the whole world; the sick, the reposed, the orphans, the needy, the widows, the travelers, the rulers, as well as the animals, plants and vegetation, and the waters. Just as the Church advocates intercession, we intercede for the whole world to her Beloved Bridegroom, the Lord Jesus Christ. The prayer of the Midnight Absolution is a living example of a Church which is concerned about every facet of the world, no matter how small.” page 19

Because it is our role as “a priestly nation” (1 Peter 2:9) to sanctify all of creation

Elements of the material realm remind us of the immaterial: “The Morning Prayers are then prayed at sunrise, while the sun is spreading its golden rays over the world, reminding us of the ‘Sun of Righteousness’, our Lord Jesus (Mal.4:2).” page 18

Mettaous has an understanding of Adam as the original cosmic priest: “Biblical scholars say that when Adam and Eve fell God told them to offer a blood sacrifice of an animal without blemish. This sacrifice was to be an archetype of the blood of Christ, Who crushed the devil, for as it is written in the book of Hebrews (9:22), “There is no forgiveness without the shedding of blood.” After Adam offered his sacrifice, “The Lord God made tunics of skin, and clothed them” (Gen.3:21)” pages 31& 32

The book of Jubilees (3:27) confirms this

Anba Mettaous’ emphasizes the Biblical maxim that “without blood there is no forgiveness of sins” (Hebrews 9:22)

It is for this reason that God rejected Cain’s sacrifice “because his sacrifice was not according to the law. By not offering a blood sacrifice, he showed that he did not feel the need for atonement. God also rejected his offerings because of his evil deeds.” page 32

Christ’s shedding His blood and earthly life “clothes us in purity and righteousness” and His being laid in the tomb “purified it [i.e. the earth]”

Thus, the savior takes away the curse of the land and the sacrifice we offer to God is the bloodless sacrifice of bread and wine, the fruit of man’s own labor page 32

The medieval Byzantine writer Nicholas Cabasilas says more or less the same thing

Christ’s priests as intercessors for all creation, and not man only: Now the priest comes to the crucial moment of intercession. This very moment manifests his office as a priest and an intercessor on behalf of the whole of creation, as he offers the oblations and the bloodless sacrifice on behalf of everything and everyone in the world. Page 197

Anamnesis of Christ’s propitiatory sacrifice at Calvary and scriptural mimesis

Seemingly everything in the liturgy symbolizes the narratives in scripture:

5 spoonfuls of incense represent 5 righteous priests of the OT: Abel, Noah, Melchizedek, Aaron, and Zacharias

The priest then places on top of the paten a dome symbolising the star that appeared over the manger at the birth of our Saviour. Page 85

During the selection of the lamb the priest places his right hand on top of his left, placing his hands over the tray in the shape of a cross, as Jacob did when he blessed the sons of Joseph (Genesis 48:8). While doing this the priest says, “May the Lord choose a lamb without blemish.” page 98

Leaven as representing the sin which Christ carries on the cross page 101

The droplets of wax that fall from the burning candle remind us of the sweat that dripped from the Saviour’s Body like drops of blood as He prayed in Gethsemane, “And being in agony, He prayed more earnestly. Page 215 - kind of a reach, but OK

Practical and symbolic explanations: “They transfer the incense smoke on the Sacrament as a symbol of the spices which Joseph of Arithmea and Nicodemos put on the Saviour’s body at His burial, but the old liturgy books limited its explanation by saying, “Incensing the hands is done in preparation for touching what is before him and holding it within his hands.” page 190

Moving the chalice from West to East symbolises that we, who were once alienated from God and living in darkness, (the west symbolising alienation from God), have been transformed to the light and to the grace of God through the Bloodshed and death of Christ on the cross page 193

Liturgy as Anamnesis and participation in Christ’s own Sacrifice

Use of the present tense when describing the inaudible priestly prayer of the vespers incense (page 27): “This special prayer is a deep spiritual prayer which the priest is directing to our Lord Jesus Christ, the True Sacrifice and the Lamb, Who is bearing the sins of the whole world.” (emphasis mine)

The “Mystery of the Confession” prayer: “O God, as You accepted the repentance of the thief on Your right while on the cross, accept the confession of Your people. Forgive all their sins for the sake of Your Holy Name which is called upon us, and according to Your mercy and not on account of our sins.” In this prayer the priest asks God to accept the confessions and repentance of his people, just as He accepted the confession and repentance of the thief at Golgotha. He also asks the Lord that He may prepare the congregation to partake of His Mysterious Dinner.

HG’s own definition of anamnesis: “every time we perform the Mystery of Thanksgiving and partake of the Holy Sacrifice we preach the Lord’s Death in our own inner Jerusalem, inviting our souls to die with Christ so that we may also rise with Him” page 194

Here remembrance means the living memory rather than just remembering. The word ‘Anamnesis’ is a Greek word, meaning ‘recalling’ and ‘re-enacting’ page 195

We ‘remember’ Christ, Who died for us and Rose from the dead, not merely as an historical event, but as an existing, true sacrifice. In other words, it is an effective memory because what we offer on the altar is the same sacrifice that was offered up for us on the cross. Page 195

Therefore each eucharist is a “mini-Calvary” of sorts for each believer: Today, in partaking of the Holy Communion, the Slain One descends from the Altar into our hearts, into our bodies and into our souls, to set us free, and to save us from the captivity of the world and Satan. Page 196

Liturgy as testifying to the unity between the Church militant and triumphant page 59

Eucharist as participatory sacrifice: He places upon the Lamb that is about to be slain for us, all the hardships, tribulations and diseases of His people. Page 102

The Coptic liturgy is fully conscious of the unity and eternality of Christ’s sacrifice: The procession of the Lamb goes around the Altar only once, to symbolise the Saviour being taken to the temple by his parents to fulfil the requirements of the law. It also represents that Christ would offer Himself only once as a sacrifice for the whole world. Page 105

Liturgy as a participation in the angelic worship

While facing West the priest views the worshippers standing in their rows, appearing to be in awe and reverence, reminding him of heaven where hosts of angels, apostles and saints are standing before the Lord’s throne, praising Him endlessly. The priest then offers incense to the congregation. Page 42

In explaining the practicing of offering incense in the presence of a bishop or patriarch: The prostration and offering of incense before a high priest is not done because we worship the priest himself (as some people might think) but to offer him incense, being our spiritual leader, so that he can plead for us (intercede) and raise the incense to God on our behalf [...] incense is offered to the Patriarch or the Bishop. Because he has the seniority in priesthood, the incense is offered to him which he then offers with his prayers to the Lord, page 42

Ibn Saba and Pseudo-Dionysius say almost the same thing (refer to Guides to the Eucharist in Medieval Egypt)

This reflects certain neo-Platonist undertones in Orthodox Liturgical Theology and Orthodox theology more generally: “As the saints are a mirror image of the Light of Christ, this Light is then transmitted to us.”, pg 49

The priest upon completing the incense circuit “then hangs the censer in its place. It is preferable to follow the authentic Coptic tradition of hanging the censer by its chain in the centre of the Sanctuary’s entrance, as was done in the ancient Coptic churches. This ascending incense gives comfort to the spirit and soul of the congregation through its sweet fragrance, as it represents the prayers that are rising to the Throne of Grace which the Angel offers to the Divine Glory” page 62

The priests and deacons who are celebrating the Holy Mass in their white vestments resemble the angels who praise and chant before the throne of God, the church thus becoming the Heavenly Jerusalem on earth. They praise God, sanctify the church through their prayers, and partake of the Holy Communion. Page 82

Vision of Isaiah and the ark of the covenant in the command to the priest on the ordination day: “The Command which the bishop reads on the ordination day says, “It is your duty, above all other church commands, and before all other Apostolic instructions, to apply the utmost care for the distribution of the Lord’s life-giving sacraments. You shall administer this diligently and fervently. Rest assured that the Seraphim and Cherubim are standing around the Altar, with fear and awe.” Page 162

Quoting Saint Barsanuphius of Gaza: the deacon is compared to the Cherubim who “with fear and awe praises God, because he holds the blood of the Eternal King” page 198

Ultimate goal of the liturgy: union with Christ

The Church’s main objective by praying collectively in the Liturgy and concluding with the believers partaking of the one Body of Christ is to unite all people in Jesus Christ. Page 224

Anba Mettaous says that union with Christ develops in three stages:

The first stage is establishing a covenant with God

The second stage of this growing relationship is to abide in the glorified Christ

The third stage is where “full unity with the beloved can be achieved. At this stage, the believer totally abandons his will and desires as he feels overwhelmed with God’s will and desire and is burning with the love of God. He believes in Him totally, relies on Him totally, and submits to Him totally in order to live a life of joy and happiness in the Lord.” page 225

However, Anba Mettaous frames this union with Christ in strictly moralistic terms, he explains: “Unity with Christ is not a unity of nature or substance but a unity of will and desire.” page 225 the very lofty, mystical view of Theosis is seemingly absent from Mettaous’ work

In his book “Sacramental Rites”, Mettaous says that the Eucharist is a means by which we become “partakers of the divine nature”

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