#A Bloodless Rite

[coochiequeens]

Good news for women and girls!

By Josephine Kamara Friday 5 July 2024

Marrying young girls may now be illegal, but lawmakers seem reluctant to put a stop to genital cutting, and the two go hand in hand

This week, Sierra Leone made history when the president signed into law the Prohibition of Child Marriage Act 2024. For a country with one of the highest rates of child marriage, teenage pregnancy and maternal mortality in the world, it is a crucial step forward, and a hard-won achievement for campaigners in west Africa.

Sierra Leone has 800,000 child brides – and of those more than half were married before the age of 15, so there is no question that this is groundbreaking legislation. It repeals previous ambiguous laws to explicitly name child marriage as illegal and underscores a clear commitment to girls’ rights. The legislation also establishes mechanisms for enforcement, ensuring that perpetrators – including the husband and those who enable the marriage such as parents and the person officiating – are held accountable by up to 15 years’ imprisonment, with survivors now able to seek justice and compensation.

Yet, despite these advances, the law falls short by missing the vital component in enacting the urgent reform needed to eradicate FGM, viewed by many as a precursor to marriage, regardless of age. Child marriage and female genital mutilation (FGM) are deeply interwoven, yet an amended Child Rights Act of 2024, laid out to protect girls from all forms of violence, including FGM, is still awaiting parliamentary approval. Girls’ rights campaigners and feminist activists are concerned about the move to separate these fundamental human rights issues from each other.

Like child marriage, FGM is bound up with, and is inseparable from, patriarchal oppression

The more the child rights bill is stalled, the more it reveals itself as a dilution tactic of pushing against ending FGM – and the more sinister the interplay becomes between girls’ and young women’s rights and the anti-rights agenda. The rhetoric of those who refuse to criminalise FGM simply continues to harden conservative patriarchal norms and underpin far-right ideologies, wrapped in the cloak of tradition. With FGM seen as the precursor to marriage, the threat of child marriage will continue, despite the new law.

The devastating impact of FGM on girls’ and women’s psychological and physical health has been long identified internationally as a human rights violation. In April, the UN special rapporteur on violence against women and girls named it as “one of the most pernicious forms of violence committed”, and yet current estimates show at least 230 million women and girls alive today have been subjected to FGM, and in Sierra Leone, it affects 83% of girls and women. Despite decades of campaigning by anti-FGM activists, it remains prevalent – shielded in the belief that to become a woman and be fit for marriage, girls must be cut, must be subordinate, their bodies violated and conditioned that this is the norm.

A UN special rapporteur named FGM as ‘one of the most pernicious forms of violence’, and it affects 83% of females in Sierra Leone. Photograph: Ton Koene/Alamy

The handful of high-profile cases in Sierra Leone, including the most recent concerning the death of three girls, investigated by police in January, would have been ignored were it not for campaigners agitating and pushing it into international focus and advocating, “yes to culture, no to the harmful practice of cutting”. A Bloodless Rite, a film made by Purposeful and activists, powerfully illustrates feminist solidarity and possibility of sacred female spaces.

Like child marriage, FGM is bound up with, and inseparable from, patriarchal oppression. It is merely one manifestation of sexual violence against girls, and it exists within a broader context of cultural, structural, social, political and economic violence against women and girls. At its heart, the violence of FGM is born out of the same profound patriarchy that justifies the marriage of children.

A unified legal stance should be an imperative. Yet within this new law, that sits alongside celebrated policy milestones such as the Gender Equality and Women’s Empowerment Act 2023, and progressive education policies, the violence of FGM remains entrenched, normalised, and seemingly protected in the highest corridors of power.

It is clear, FGM is ingrained in vote canvassing and streaked through our politics. Further stalling will surely point to the global trend of rolling back progress on gender equality, such as the attempts to reverse hard-won gains in the repeal of the FGM law in the Gambia, and the ripple effect of the rightwing “family values” agenda across the continent.

Feminist movement partners, such as Purposeful, Not In My Name, and the Forum Against Harmful Practices, will continue to advocate and agitate in close dialogue with parliamentarians, to bring strategic litigation into the international spotlight, to pressure the government to support the strategy on the reduction of FGM, and to pass the all-encompassing Child Rights Act, pending since 2016. Only then, will we see transformative reform where girls’ bodies can fully be their own.

Josephine Kamara is advocacy director of Purposeful, which funds girls’ rights activists in Sierra Leone and around the world

In the UK, advice and support for those who fear they are at risk of FGM and for survivors can be found by emailing Forward, or calling 0208 960 4000, or contacting the NSPCC on 0800 028 3550, the Dahlia Project on 0207 281 9478 and Childline on 0800 1111. In the US, Sahiyo and the Asian Women’s Shelter have a support line for those who fear they are at risk of FGM and survivors. Call 1 877 751 0880, operating Monday to Friday 9am to 5pm

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

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.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Many of us have always known that shitting on Palestine is a rite of passage for aspirants to political office or cable news studios.  We therefore understand that for the wannabe influencer both Israeli and Palestinian death isn’t actually a moral concern; it is a professional opportunity.  Here we see the pitiful upshot of “resistance” as an online brand:  total abandonment of an encaged population to genocide.  Knowing that the approval or even the comprehension of the professional classes will never be forthcoming is one reason why violence is essential to national liberation.  Palestinians have determined to proceed without their Western custodians.  Decolonization is a grueling project, generally beyond the acumen of those weaned in comfort.  The professional classes are stuck in bourgeois abstractions (from which they derive so many rewards) or profess a material politics they don’t in reality support.  They demand a bloodless liberation, but only without the colonizer’s blood, even as the native bleeds out in full view of the world.  They demand a revolt without consequence, a caucus of pristine victims politely asking to stay alive.  They have taught Fanon but ignored his observation that decolonization “cannot be accomplished by the wave of a magic wand, a natural cataclysm, or a gentleman’s agreement.” 

Steve Salaita, A Practical Appraisal of Palestinian Violence

[y-rhywbeth2]

Creating vampire spawn involves some degree of planning really. The more I think about it the more I'm pretty sure Faerûn's funerary industries should be the battleground of a quiet espionage-based war as necromaners and undead try to insert their own servants into it without getting caught by the churches of the death gods. I'm also wondering what kind of anti-undead measures undertakers are trained in:

Doomguide: 'Well we normally keep the corpse for at least 48 hours to give it all its last rites.'

Definitely-Not-A-Vampire: 'I, uh, need it done faster.'

Doomguide: 'Oh? Like before next sundown...?' :)

Definitely-Not-A-Vampire-About-To-Get-Smote: '...uhhhh-'

-

• First you need to be able to murder your target without getting caught. If you don't take the body with you then you probably need to cover up the rather obvious cause of death, what with your victim now being a bloodless corpse with bite marks in their neck.

• Then you need to bury them in soil, and quickly because if they're not buried before next sundown then they'll just be dead, and you don't have all day to fuss over this as you're only active for the few hours of darkness. Hopefully you've got competent and loyal mortal servants to puck up the slack for you in daytime hours.

• You need to make sure they're not buried in consecrated ground, and if the graveyard is owned by a church you won't even be able to access the property (and several faiths - like Lathanderites and Kelemvorites - are liable to go out of their way to ensure gravesites are under their protection to keep your murdered victims have their final rests undisturbed; safe from enslavement at your hsnds).

This was probably easier prior to the 1350s, when Myrkul was Lord of the Dead, since he was fine with undeath. Vampires spawned post-1350s probably had a harder time.

• If they're getting a funeral you need to make sure the usual customs of laying protections on the coffin to prevent the occupant from being cursed with undeath don't happen. That's not suspicious at all, although I suppose you could just dominate everyone involved in the process, which may be a few or many people to hunt down and control in only a few hours. Assuming the business is open and works that fast. Also Kelemvorites are heavily involved with the funerary industries, so again, good luck post-1350s I hope your mortal pawns are competent.

• If you're in a city like Baldur's Gate you're either facing a long walk out of the city and back in to visit the graveyards outside the city walls - transporting a corpse - or you need to explain why you don't want them cremated. Priests at the Rose Portal shrine might like to know why.

• Basically, either own a private graveyard or just bury them in the back garden. It's infinitely easier.

• Unless you plan on making the spawn sleep in their graves where you buried them, don't forget to gather some of their grave dirt to make a bed for them in the house.

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

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.”

[thislittlekumquat]

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.

[offwilds]

❛ Faith. How quickly those who have no answers invoke that word.   ❜

Stood before the high pyre and dappled crown to foot in firelight, she looks more a thing of myth— lost to time and legend— than woman; she, ancient, powerful, daughter of the forest— silvan, haunting, beautiful. she, who has prowled the dark lands of Skellige and beyond; bloodless, sacred lass of the dark groves and the night that gathers in its throat, timeless, hallowed rites and magics; she stands tall and proud, now, mouth slicked crimson, and the sun in her eyes; her disapproval's choking her. There is power, too, in her air of stillness: she might have been a silvan creature, something ancient and terrible come to rest in Novigrad.

The fire-glare whitens all the air about her as with a sort of God-presence, and as the flame rises, it gleams in her face— hard with all her dark fury.

❛ fools.  ❜ the words drip from her mouth— a furious ocean— for all who care to hear, ❛ Praying for help from the gods who have turned their backs on them not once but thrice. ❜

[jayahult]

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.

[lovegodsmashtyrants]

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.

[feytouchedtwilight]

“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

[aboutanancientenquiry]

The Egyptians and the dead: the wooden simulacres of the dead presented in the Egyptian banquets as described by Herodotus and the custom of keeping the mummies in the houses

 I reproduce here several paragraphs of the very interesting text of Pr. Barbara Borg “The Dead as a Guest at Table? Continuity and Change in the Egyptian Cult of the Dead”, in M. L. Bierbrier (ed.), Portraits and Masks. Burial customs in Roman Egypt. Colloquium London 13.-14.7.1995 (London 1997), p. 26-32

“In his epic poem Punica (13.475) Silius Italicus describes the visit of Scipio Africanus to the underworld. There Scipio meets the ghost of Appius Claudius, who was fatally wounded near Capua. Appius laments that he could not find peace because his friends had failed to cremate and bury his body. Scipio wishes to do him this favour but claims that he does not know according to which rites it should be done, so he lists a number of different practices: 'All over the world the practice is different in this matter , and unlikeness of opinion produces variou s ways of burying the dead and disposing of their ashes. In the land of Spain, we are told (it is an ancient custom) the bodies of the dead are devoured by loathly vultures. When a king dies in Hyrcania, it is the rule to let dogs have access to the corpse. The Egyptians enclose their dead, standing in an upright position, in a coffin of stone, and worship it; and they admit a bloodless spectre to their banquets.' 1 The text goes on like this but we will stop here because our interest today is directed at the Egyptian practice.

We find confirmation for this in Lucian' s De luctu (21): ' Up t o that point, the wailing , the same stupid custom prevails everywhere ; but in what follows , the burial, they have apportioned out among themselves , nation by nation, the different modes.The Greek burns, the Persian buries, the Indian encases in glass, the Scythian eats, the Egyptian salts. And the latter — I have seen whereof I speak — after drying the dead man makes him his guest at table!' 2

These reports by two authors of the first and second centuries AD strike a modern reader as being fairly strange. One would expect them to have instantaneously provoked scientific curiosity. Surprisingly, this is not the case, and these passages have aroused little or no interest. It is, however, not the place here to examine the reasons for this awkward silence within the academic community. 3

First of all, one should notice that there can be little doubt as to the veracity of these statements. Teles, Diodorus, Cicero and Sextus Empiricus confirm that the Egyptians kept the mummies of their relatives at home. 4 To be sure, some of the texts show great similarity and therefore may depend on each other or on still another common source. 5 But at least two authors knew Egypt personally. Diodorus visited Alexandria during the180th Olympiad (60—56 BC) — moreover , R. Merkelbach recently confirmed the general reliability of paragraphs I 91-9 3 by comparing Diodorus' description of the judgement-ceremonial with evidence from the papyri 6 - while Lucian spent  several years in Egypt, where he held a high position in the office of the prefect of Egypt. For the most intriguing part in the passage quoted above, the participation of mummies at banquets, he even stresses his testimony as an eyewitness.

In some of the texts the Egyptians and their strange habits clearly function as 'the other ' of Greeks or Romans. 7 Nevertheless, this does not necessarily indicate that the habits used in this way were simply invented for the purpose. In the case of Egypt, particularly, there existed enough bizarre practices to serve these needs, and this applies not only to mummification itself. Animal worship, for example, proved to be a major argument in the mostly unfavourable conceptions of Egypt, as propagated by non-Egyptian authors. However, it was also an actual and widespread practice in Graeco-Roman Egyptian popular religion. 8

We find further evidence in Christian texts which relate that even the Coptic Christians used to keep the preserved and adorned bodies of venerated persons, predominantly martyrs, above ground. According to Athanasius this custom drove St Anthony into the desert to await his death in solitude. 9 It was this custom again (and not mummification itself) that provoked the censure of bishops and other higher clergy — an idle censure, as it turned out, as is shown not least by the display and worship of relics up to the present day. It can hardly be imagined that the Copts 'invented' the habit themselves, but it is plausible to presume that they adopted it from their pagan predecessors. 10

Support for our hypothesis can be found in the mummies themselves: Flinders Petrie reports that several of the mummies he excavated at Hawara 'had been much injured by exposure during a long period before burial'. The 'mummies had often been knocked about, the stucco chipped off.' They were 'dirtied, fly-marked, caked with dust which was bound on by rain'.  In the footcases of the mummies 'the wrapping h ad been used by children, who scribbled caricatures upon it.' Petrie already connected his observations with the tradition that the dead were kept in the houses of their relatives and also assumed a domestic cult for them. 11

The passage in Herodotus which Petrie and others succeeding him drew upon cannot, however, serve as proof. Herodotus reports (2.78) that at banquets people in Egypt used to show around a well-made and nicely painted νεκρόν ξύλινον to remind the participants of the transitoriness of life and to encourage them to enjoy the advantages of the present.There are two main reasons why this cannot possibly have anything to do with the custom we are considering here. First of all, it appears highly unlikely that νεκρόν ξύλινον could ever be translated as mummy. The expression must refer to some sort of wooden figure of a dead person or even of death itself - one to two ells long, according to Herodotus. It may well be a wooden skeleton, as is indicated by banquet equipment with representations of skeletons.12 Secondly, the sense of the procedure described by Herodotus is contrary to the whole meaning connected with a mummy, especially one of a relative.13 The mummy was a symbol of and guarantor not for death but for life, even though for an other worldly one .”

“What, then, was the origin of that custom? Neither in Greek nor in Roman religion is there any indication of a domestic cult of the dead. Likewise, in pharaonic Egypt the dead were not kept in the house of the relatives but, after embalming, were accompanied in a ceremonial procession to the tomb, where they were buried and received sacrifices. Later on they were commemorated on various days. The family offered sacrifices at the tomb and apparently also invited guests to a solemn banquet that took place in special rooms of the temple. 31 

However, for some time now, an increasing number of references have indicated that there already existed in pharaonic times a cult for the deceased in the house of the relatives...”

“In conclusion, then, there are several clear indications of a domestic ancestral cult already in place in pharaonic Egypt, a cult that could be celebrated even in front of images of the deceased! 36 Such cults seem to have been the exception rather than the rule, and up to now there is no chronological series into the Greek and Roman periods. There may be two main reasons for this. First, excavations of living quarters that could provide further data are still rather scarce and, secondly, we face a problem of visibility — or lack of attention to less clearly visible material. Ancestral cult was mainly part of the popular religion, the beliefs among the middle and lower classes,37 whereas the material evidence that usually catches the attention of archaeologists and Egyptologists gives information only about the uppermost class and its ideology. One reason for the fact that most of the evidence for ancestral cult comes from Dei r el-Medina may be the very ability of the craftsmen living there to manifest their beliefs in a more 'visible' form. Thus, in spite of the lack of contemporary evidence , the later custom of keeping the mummies of the deceased in the house can only be derived from the Egyptian ancestral cult.”

“The significance of the step from venerating the dead in the presence of substitutes like stelae or busts, or from the depiction of banquets for the dead, to the factual, physical attendance of the deceased in the form of his mummy, cannot be overestimated, and it would be most interesting to know when it was made and under what circumstances. It was no later than the third century BC, as we know from Teles, but it may have been even earlier. Once the practice was introduced, the new form of the portrait mummy must have fulfilled the requirements of the cult as wel l as the demand for representation particularly well.’

[Conclusion] “Whatever the religious beliefs and social implications in connection with the display and veneration of portrait mummies may have been precisely, the fact that mummies were kept in the house for some time, and most probably received some sort of cult there, helps to explain the discrepancy between the character of the mummies — costly but weakened in their magic powers by their new worldly shape — and their careless, sometimes even rude burial without any grave markers. The Egyptian ancestral cult rarely goes back more than one or two generations , as is shown not least by the inscriptions on th e akh-iker stelae.47 This leads to the assumption that the portrait mummies were kept in the house for approximately the same time. After the immediate relatives had died themselves, and after interest in the more distant ancestors had faded, the mummies may have been handed over to the temple in charge. As is shown by the different contexts , the kind of burial they were given depended on many factors that can only be identified on the basis of new evidence and extensive research. 48 In the case of the careless burials mentioned above, a proper family tomb was obviously not available. Perhaps the relatives were not interested any more in an expensive burial and entrusted the mummies of their ancestors to the priests or servants of the temple who, away from the control of the family, cared as little for the burial as they often did before for the treatment of the bodies during embalming.49″

Source on the net with the communication in its entirety https://archiv.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/propylaeumdok/407/1/Borg_The_Dead_as_a_Guest_at_Table_1997.pdf

Barbara Elisabeth Borg FSA (born 26 December 1960) is Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Exeter.[1] She is known in particular for her work on Roman tombs, the language of classical art, and geoarchaeology. Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Borg

Herodotus’ passage on the wooden simulacres of the dead used in Egyptian banquets is as follows (2.78, ancient Greek original and its translation by A. D. Godley):

Ἐν δὲ τῇσι συνουσίῃσι τοῖσι εὐδαίμοσι αὐτῶν, ἐπεὰν ἀπὸ δείπνου γένωνται, περιφέρει ἀνὴρ νεκρὸν ἐν σορῷ ξύλινον πεποιημένον, μεμιμημένον ἐς τὰ μάλιστα καὶ γραφῇ καὶ ἔργῳ, μέγαθος ὅσον τε πηχυαῖον​ ἢ δίπηχυν, δεικνὺς δὲ ἑκάστῳ τῶν συμποτέων λέγει " Ἐς τοῦτον ὀρέων πῖνέ τε καὶ τέρπευ· ἔσεαι γὰρ ἀποθανὼν τοιοῦτος." ταῦτα μὲν παρὰ τὰ συμπόσια ποιεῦσι.

After rich men's repasts, a man carries around an image in a coffin, painted and carved in exact imitation of a corpse two or four feet long. This he shows to each of the company, saying “While you drink and enjoy, look on this; for to this state you must come when you die.” Such is the custom at their symposia.

I think that Pr. Borg is totally right that Herodotus writes that wooden simulacres of the dead were presented in the Egyptian banquets of his era, not the mummies themselves. On the other hand, perhaps Herodotus’ text shows that the tradition of painting veristic individualized portraits of the dead has also Egyptian roots and it was not just an imitation of a Roman custom, as it seems that Pr. Borg claims elsewhere in her text. I say this because the simulacres described by Herodotus may be understood as representations of a corpse in general, but nothing excludes that they were imitations of relatives of the persons who offered the banquets. Moreover, perhaps the presentation of wooden simulacres of the dead in the banquets of upper class Egyptians of the fifth century BCE should be seen as a step toward the generalization of the domestic ancestral cult, which was for a long time, as Pr. Borg says, part of the popular religion of the lower and middle classes of the Egyptian population, with eventual form of this domestic ancestral cult, again as Pr. Borg says, the keeping of the mummies in the Egyptian houses.

[whimsykeii]

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.

[edward-sonbati]

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”

[julek]

mortician au meet-cute. (is it a meet-cute?). read the series on ao3!

Geralt is giving Renfri some nice neck scratches when Aiden comes in through the door, the little bell above it giving a nice little chime. 

“Morning,” he says cheerfully, dropping a crisp newspaper on Geralt’s kitchen table and making a beeline for the old moka pot, stainless steel glinting in the grey morning light coming through the window. Geralt still wonders when it was, exactly, that Aiden became a permanent fixture in the Morhen house. 

Probably around the time Lambert started messing around with spells, rites, and harmless, bloodless sacrifices.

Probably.

“Morning,” he answers, his voice still a bit rough with disuse. “Please, help yourself to some coffee,” he says, eyebrows raised, as Aiden begins pouring himself a second cup. 

“Got anyone in today?” He wonders, nodding to the dark green door that leads to the mortuary downstairs. “The paper says there’s been a car crash.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No one in yet. But I’m sure they’ll start coming soon.”

Aiden nods sympathetically. This is why Geralt likes him, he’s reminded — anyone else would shudder at the dark yet accurate prediction, but he simply shrugs and begins snooping around Geralt’s kitchen, as he often does, lifting pot lids and making spoons clatter against the marble tabletop. 

“Lambert is in The Room,” he says gently, mentally nudging Aiden out of his kitchen and into his brother’s embalming room, affectionately and ominously nicknamed The Room. “If you were looking for him.”

“Oh.” Aiden deposits his mug into the sink, frowning slightly at it, and then looks at Geralt in belated recognition. “Yes! That’s why I came in, in the first place, of course. Thank you for the coffee.”

Geralt shakes his head at his retreating figure. “No problem.” The newspaper is still sitting on his table, and he turns back to Renfri, who’s looking up at him with curiosity painted on her green eyes. “Looks like we’ll have some work to do today, hmm?”

-

His apron, a sensible black, stares back at him from where it’s hanging on its little hook. The tiny and slightly crooked Morhen Mortuary embroidery at the front — Nenneke’s gift for who knows which birthday — makes Geralt smile, and he’s still smiling as he walks the stairs down to his own room. 

The car crash Aiden had noted had unfortunately taken the life of a young man, according to the paper and the EMTs who had driven the body to the funeral home. The man, they had explained, had been riding on his bike downtown when a truck appeared out of nowhere and made it impossible for him to avoid crashing into the left headlight. 

It had been a painless death, they said. Geralt could only hope so, for the victim’s sake. 

The light switch creaks slightly as he flips it on, the fluorescent bulbs flickering to life above him. Immediately, the strong scent of embalming fluid envelops him, and he breathes it in like one would a nice spring morning on a field. Nothing like a work-laden morning to bring his spirits up.

(Or sideways, he doesn’t know). (He’s been learning some interesting things with Lambert’s new hobby). (Half of those are lies, he knows, but still). 

(It’s nice to pretend).

The body on the table looks… rough. Whatever remains from the man’s clothing is rumpled and dirty, the fabric tattered and covering his body in uneven patterns. There are bruises all over his right side — his legs, his abdomen, up his neck and littering his face like a child’s painting. His handsome features are obscured by the blood trickling down his forehead.

He couldn’t have survived the crash, Geralt knows, but he has to check for vital signs anyway. He has no pulse, nothing but cold skin where Geralt presses his gloved fingers, and later, his stethoscope. His limbs are stiff and locked in place, and he’s unresponsive as Geralt touches his face, his eyes — incredibly blue — clouded. 

The perfect picture of death.

Sometimes Geralt wishes he believed in God. Any God, really — anything that could allow him to say a small prayer, to wish this person well in their path to… wherever they’re going, to honor their life and make it all mean something. 

But he doesn’t, so, naturally, he starts a conversation with the dead man lying on his table. 

“Hello,” he says politely, as he starts removing the man’s scraps of clothing from his skin. “My name is Geralt. I’m your mortician— well, I mean, I’m not your mortician. I’m… anyone’s. No one’s. It’s not like when you go to the doctor, you know— oh, yeah, that guy is my doctor. You can’t tell anyone about this experience, so I’m never referred to as anyone’s anything.” He tosses the man’s shirt aside. “But, you know, in case you do recall this to anyone, in the ol’ queue to the afterlife, you can call me your mortician. Or Geralt. Geralt’s fine.”

The man, unsurprisingly, says nothing. 

“I’m sorry I don’t know your name,” Geralt continues. “You came in without any personal effects— well, you were wearing that tiny Hello Kitty backpack, but there was nothing inside that could tell us anything about you.” The man’s jeans need to go next, but they’re so disfigured Geralt grabs a fabric scissor from the counter. “You kind of look like your name was… hmm. Nothing too generic, I don’t think. Balthazar, maybe? Or Timothy. Valdo, perhaps? That’s a name you have the face for. The eyes, especially.”

He starts cutting the man’s jeans, pausing to chuckle at the fact that he momentarily gave the man jorts, and then continues until he can peel it all off. 

“Your clothes are nice. I’m sorry they got ripped apart, though. And, well, sorry I’m ripping them apart now, too.” He starts untying the man’s shoelaces. “I hope you get some nice clothing wherever you’re going. Do you think you’ll need money in the afterlife?”

The man’s hand falls to the table in response. 

Before, Geralt would’ve jumped at the movement, but now, seasoned as he has become, he knows it’s just a spasm. His heart hasn’t gotten the memo yet, though, hammering in his chest.

“Ah, love a good postmortem spasm,” he chuckles, sliding the shoe off the man’s foot. “Keeps me vigilant. Did you know people used to think these kinds of movements indicated the deceased person’s will to live? They used to say it was a sign of perseverance— how the strongest people kept fighting death until the end.”

He likes to think there’s some truth to it; that someone could have loved their life so much that they would hang on to it with every fiber of their being. That death could be defied by stubbornness.

He pulls out the man’s other shoe, and smiles at his socks: ice cream patterned, glittery bright pink.

“You seem like an interesting person,” he says, peeling the socks off, leaving the man in his — also brightly patterned — underwear. “Would have been nice to meet you.”

Geralt turns around and moves to the counter, making sure the hose is connected to the water tap, and arranging all his instruments to his liking. He can hear the music Lambert’s playing in The Room, some sort of old-timey rock he knows but can’t quite place, and he starts humming along in his low, gravelly tone. 

“Mm, you got me so I can’t sleep at night, mmm…” 

“The Kinks? Really?”

Geralt turns around, clutching the hose to his chest.

“I mean,” the man says, facing Geralt and laying on his side like a really stiff art subject, waiting to be immortalized in a canvas, “I would’ve expected a man of your complexion to listen to something… darker. Tougher? I don’t know.” 

Geralt blinks. 

He really should have checked the carbon monoxide detectors last night.

“So,” the man says. “What kind of a place is this, anyway? Don’t get me wrong, I do, quite often, wake up half-naked in places I can’t recognize, but this is a new level of kinky shit. What is this table?” He props himself up on his hands, with effort. “Why are my movements so… bad?” He frowns. “Why’s my tongue… wrong? What is going on?”

“You’re… alive,” Geralt says, eloquently.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he’s still so pale and mangled, it’s grotesque. Like a really bad makeup job for a school play. “Well, I mean, I know that? Because if this is heaven — and I’m definitely not complaining about the view — it’s quite… underwhelming?” 

Almost automatically, Geralt surges forward and grabs the man’s head between his hands. “Don’t move like that,” he says, smoothing down the man’s skin. “The rigor mortis won’t go away for a few hours. You could get stuck like that.”

The man’s face falls. Well, tries to. “Rigor… mortis?” 

Geralt drops the man’s head like it’s on fire. It should be on fire — the man’s skin should melt into bone and he should put on a funky leather jacket and ride his black motorcycle straight into hell and out of Geralt’s humble and sensible funeral home. 

Upstairs, an old Dire Straits song starts playing. As if the world is supposed to just go on, while the very dead man that was laying on Geralt’s embalming table mere seconds ago is now making something akin to lively conversation with him.

He was dead. Geralt checked his pulse, looked into his very dead-looking pupils. He was about to inject fluid into his arteries, for goodness’ sake. 

“So,” the man says, sitting up, and finally looking down at himself. He pokes at a purple bruise on his ribs. “Either this is all part of a very elaborate joke on one of my friends’ behalf, or you’re just a very good-looking psychopath who will now proceed to make me witness my own autopsy, or something.”

“I’m…” Suddenly, Geralt has no clue what to say. How does he break it to the man, that he was about to write down ‘John Doe’ on a nametag and tie it to his ankle, without sounding absolutely insane and/or possibly psychopathic? He feels a sudden urge to take off his apron, not feeling so fond of the embroidered information on it right now. “You were in an accident.”

The man gapes at him, his blue eyes bluer, somehow. “I… was? What happened?”

Geralt takes a tentative step forward. He was trained on how to deliver painful and sensitive information to the bereaved family; he was not, however, trained on how to deliver it to the deceased themselves. 

“The EMTs said it was a truck. You were riding your bike.” 

“Okay…” The man nods to himself, taking the information in. “Why am I not in a hospital, then? I mean— I don’t mean to assume, but this doesn’t really look like the conventional emergency room, or what have you.”

Geralt looks around the dark walls of the basement, cringing internally at the framed You look good — open-casket good sign Eskel got him for Christmas. 

“You’re… This is…” Geralt leans back against the counter, steeling himself for whatever will happen next. “This is a mortuary. My name’s Geralt. I’m… I’m your mortician.”

The man’s eyes are so wide Geralt fears he’ll pop a vein. “A mortician…”

“You died,” Geralt says gently. “When you crashed into the truck. It was a painless death. Instant.”

“And now?”

Geralt grimaces. “And now… you’re alive. Allegedly.”

The man splutters. “Allegedly?!” He hops down from the table, and Geralt manages to catch him before his legs give out. “You mean to tell me I was dead and now, supposedly, I’m alive?”

This close to the man, Geralt can see small green dots in all that sea of blue fury. He shakes his head. “Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. This doesn’t happen.”

“You don’t say!” The man sits back up on the table. His bruises are slowly fading away, and his cheeks are bright red, whether from the blood flow or the indignation, Geralt doesn’t know. “So it’s not routine for a legally dead man to come back to life on your table? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, sheepish. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, aside the whole hey Jask, remember everything you thought you knew about life and death? Well, scrape all that, because it’s bullshit thing? I’m just peachy,” he snaps, glowering at Geralt. “And cold.”

“Of course. Sorry,” Geralt apologizes. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”

“You do that,” the man says as Geralt walks to the door. “And do stop apologizing so much.”

His hand on the door, Geralt looks back at the man. “Sorry.”

-

“So, your name is Jaskier?”

They’re sitting at Geralt’s kitchen table now. After offering the man a pair of Lambert’s sweatpants and a t-shirt, and showing him the guest bathroom, he emerged a new person, his hair curling at the edges and his skin soft-looking.

“It is,” Jaskier says with a shy smile, pulling his knees up to his chest on his chair. Geralt feels an immense urge to wrap him in a hug. The closest thing is pushing a mug of coffee in his direction. “And you’re Geralt.”

“That’s me.”

“And I was dead,” Jaskier says, recounting the incidents. He’s calmed down now. “And now I’m alive.”

“Yeah.”

Geralt wishes he had something more eloquent to say.

“And this has never happened to you before? You’re certain?”

Geralt snorts. “I think I would have realized if any of the people I poked at with needles were alive.” 

“Okay, okay,” Jaskier replies with a smile of his own. “Just checking.”

Now that Jaskier is officially alive, Geralt can allow himself to really look at him. He’s young — maybe in his late twenties — and there’s something about his eyes that just draws him in; something other than the way they’re blue the way the ocean is when it’s about to storm, no, it’s something about the way they move. About the way they look at things, about the way they look at Geralt. Piercing yet unobtrusive, harsh yet soft.

He should really stop watching so many romantic films. 

His brown hair falls into tiny waves, shining in the mid-morning light pouring in through the windows. The hand that’s gripping the mug is dotted with freckles, his fingernails black and chipped. He’s swimming in Geralt’s shirt, an old one from his university days, and there’s something about his small smile that makes Geralt’s heart try to skip a beat.

They sip their coffee in comfortable silence. Geralt offers him an apple, and Jaskier takes it with grace. 

“So, what now?” He asks between bites.

“What do you mean?” Geralt replies.

“Well,” Jaskier says, leaning forward on the table. “I can’t die. For now. I’ll sort out the specifics later. But— what comes next?”

Geralt doesn’t know. “Well, what do you want to do next?”

Jaskier considers it. “I think, after I finish eating this apple, and after I’ve washed my cup and thanked you for your hospitality — ha, hospitality,” he snorts, “I would very much like to ask you for your number.”

Geralt chokes on his coffee. 

“Unless you’re already seeing someone, or you’re not into men,” Jaskier says immediately, “or just not into someone who came into your home as a dead man and came out walking of his own volition. Also because you kind of saw me in my rubber ducks underwear which I love but man I should really think about what I wear under my clothes because you know, my mother was right, you really never do know where your day will go— I would completely understand that. That would make you a very reasonable person, but it’s just that I’m very scared for my life— and my death, I guess, too, fuck— and I would like a friendly face around me. I can tell you I have not had any of those lately— but, just, you know, I understand if—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “I would be honored to be a friendly face.”

Jaskier breathes out slowly. “Thank you.” 

“It’s no problem,” Geralt says, reaching for his hand.

Jaskier twines their fingers together, looking at him with a sweet smile on his lips. It belongs to one of Geralt’s movies, this moment.

But Jaskier breaks it almost immediately.

“Actually, you know, I’m glad you said yes, because you kind of owe me, anyway, because some memories are coming back to me now and I have the distinct recollection of you telling me I looked like my name was Valdo, and boy do I hate—”

tagged: @writingmysanity

[hellenic-reconstructionism]

The Erinyes - Ερινυες

Image source

Summary

The Erinyes, also known as the Potniai, Ablabiai, Melainai, Eumenides or the Semnai Theai, are the famed ruthless goddesses of revenge, punishing many a mythological protagonist. The acts they took most issue with were murder, betrayal of one’s family members, murder of one’s family members, offenses against the gods, oath-breaking, harming supplicants and perjury. They can bring fertility - agricultural or otherwise - or death. The number of Erinyes ranges from one to more than three -- when singular, she is referred to as Erinys; the most well-known triad consists of Alekto, Tisiphone, and Megaera. Due to their role in bestowing agricultural blessings, their offerings tend to be either bloodless flower and honey offerings, or wholly burnt animals. In this particular aspect, they are similiar to Demeter, who possesses the epithet Demeter Erinys. Sacrifices to the Erinyes were made at nighttime. They were sometimes depicted winged.

Symbols

Vipers

Sacred animals

White turtledoves

Screech-owl

Sacred plants

Yew tree

Narcissus

Holm oaks

Pomegranate (perhaps avoid offering to them)

Wild fig (perhaps avoid offering to them)

Offerings

Black sheep images; pregnant sheep images

Piglet images

Nephalia (drink made of honey and water)

Honey

Honey cakes

Water or milk libations (no wine)

Gruel

Epithets

Eumenides (Gracious)

Semnai (Revered, Holy)

Meilikhioi (Gentle, Mild)

Praxidikai (Exacters of Justice)

Aei Parthenous (Eternal Virgins)

Telephousia or Tilphoussa (The Bringers-Forth of Dues)

Kynes Enkotoi (Hounds of Wrath)

Holy Days

The 5th day of every lunar month is sacred to the Erinyes.

Prayers

Orphic Hymn 69 to the Eumenides:

To the Erinyes, Fumigation from Aromatics. Vociferous wild Erinyes hear! Ye I invoke, dread powers, whom all revere; nightly, profound, in secret who retire, Tisiphone, Alekto, and Megaira dire : deep in a cavern merged, involved in night, near where Styx flows impervious to sight. To mankind's impious counsels ever nigh, fateful, and fierce to punish these you fly. Revenge and sorrows dire to you belong, hid in a savage vest, severe and strong. Terrific virgins, who for ever dwell, endued with various forms, in deepest hell; aerial, and unseen by human kind, and swiftly coursing, rapid as the mind. In vain the sun with winged effulgence bright, in vain the moon far darting milder light, wisdom and virtue may attempt in vain, and pleasing art, our transport to obtain; unless with these you readily conspire, and far avert your all-destructive ire. The boundless tribe of mortals you descry, and justly rule with Dike's impartial eye. Come, snaky-haired, Moirai many-formed, divine, suppress you rage, and to our rites incline.

Orphic Hymn 70 to the Eumenides:

To the Eumenides, Fumigation from Aromatics. Hear me, illustrious Eumenides, mighty named, terrific powers, for prudent counsel famed; holy and pure, from Zeus Khthonios born, and Phersephone, whom lovely locks adorn: whose piercing sight with vision unconfined surveys the deeds of all the impious kind. On fate attendant, punishing the race with wrath severe, of deeds unjust and base. Dark-coloured queens, whose glittering eyes are bright with dreadful, radiant, life-destroying light: eternal rulers, terrible and strong, to whom revenge and tortures dire belong; fateful, and horrid to the human sight, with snaky tresses, wandering in the night: hither approach, and in these rites rejoice, for ye I call with holy suppliant voice.

Sources

https://www.theoi.com/Khthonios/Erinyes.html

Death, Fate, and the Gods: The Development of a Religious Idea in Greek Popular Belief and in Homer by Bernard C. Dietrich

[two-hands-toward-the-sun]

underland chronicles fic ideas that someone else should write pt. 1

- howard’s perspective when gregor tries to excuse the ‘picnic’ in marks of secret as a date. gregor says that for a second howard actually seems to be buying it 

- ares pre-curse of the warmbloods as he begins to sicken all alone in his cave.

- “if roaches talked and bats played ball games, then probably there was a cow jumping a moon somewhere, too”

- i would be, like, rabidly interested in a story of another overlander who fell — perhaps one of the ones vikus mentioned (like coco or fred clark.) or an overlander who fell post-gregor and met with queen luxa!!

- i read a fic by @ethmaron on ao3 that included gregor meeting some relatives of hazard’s in virginia and i’m losing my MIND about it

- “then we have a body to bury instead of a guest” (vikus, gregor the overlander) what do funeral rites look like for overlanders? i like to think there’s a specific recitation for them

- howard after waking up from his two day nap, being “practically the only coherent person in the hospital” (code of claw)

- andromeda and howard - first they made that journey across the waterway, then they were quarantined together. they must be close

- bonds seem to be as binding or even more binding that marriage in the underland, which makes me wonder about bond jealousy. what about bond infidelity?

- hamnet at the arch of tantalus - did he wait before approaching them? how close was he to simply walking away?

- dulcet. her name literally means soft. but I have this vague idea of her being so angry at the prophecies and how they trapped gregor and even tiny boots

- actually any fic about dulcet would be wonderful

- also, what do other overlanders feel about the prophecies? how large is the faction, like ares and ripred, who doubt sandwich? is there a secret society or something?

- solovet and hazard. what did solovet see whenever she saw hazard? what did hazard see? when did he find out what she did to his father?

- ripred’s thoughts while trapped in the pit. how did he feel about the irony of dying alone and bloodless after a lifetime of fighting? morbidly entertained, even? did he feel like this was really the end? how does someone like ripred prepare for his own death?

feel free to use any of these! just please credit and tag me, i’d love to see what you could come up with <3