#But relieved that of everyone this song prevailed

[yesterdayiwrote]

Sorry, but I'm SO fucking happy for Switzerland right now.

A non-binary artist has won Eurovision with an operatic pop rap song about discovering their non-binary identity.

Despite the absolute shit show the EBU have presided over this year and the disgusting way they've treated various contestants... THIS is what this contest should be about.

[hrefna-the-raven]

ᛁᛁᚾ-ᛘᛅᚾᛁ - Einmana (lonely)

Words: 888

Warnings: alcohol, drunkness

Summary: Two years ago, Gabriel thought he killed the trickster, but Loki tricked him. He faked his own death, laying low and moving from place to place, always on the run, pondering over all he had lost.

The never ending rhythm of gritty 70s rock songs resonated from the antique jukebox in the corner of the bar, filling the heavy smoky air and mingling with steady bustle of the people around. The sound of colliding balls from the pool table as well as hearty laughter occasionally interrupted the mesmerising chime. It was one of those rundown trucker bars at the side of an old country road, a nondescript sanctum in the middle of nowhere for the tired and the lost, needing to halt and rethink the next steps of their way. It has become the perfect place for him to blend in as he never felt this lost before. He lived through thousands of years, scattering joy, pain and, more often than not, anger anywhere he passed through. No matter the obstacles, he always managed to wiggle himself out of every problem, always coming out on top despite the odds. Some deeply buried thought in the back of his being would still claim that, despite loosing everyone that was dear to him before being forced to fake his own demise, he still prevailed, having the whip hand once again. However, those last two years laying low and on the run, all alone with not one soul to confide in, weighed heavier than the thousands before then. What once was a proud god sparkling with wit withered away and became the broken shadow that slumped on the bar stool at the counter, glumly emptying the whiskey filled glass. He pushed the glass towards the bartender, tapping on it. He lost count of the amount of drinks he guzzled, surrendering to the relieving buzz of the alcohol hushing his thoughts into a sweet numb nothingness.

"Whiskey, double"

The husky voice next to him made him look up. He blinked a few times in disbelief, the stool on his left was now occupied by the most captivating creature he ever laid eyes on. It wasn't so much her soft glowing porcelain skin, the piercing blue ocean-strong eyes or the crimson plush lips. She had this presence filling the room unperceivedly and yet impossible to ignore. Her glance wandered to him, her lips forming a smirk as she raised her glass. A cocky smile spread on his face, nodding at her while his mind was running wild, desperately trying to apprehend the situation unfolding. For two years, regardless of the town he lingered in, his evenings acted out the same and the upshot always was him passed out on the floor, drooling and snoring until the sleep remedied the copious amounts of alcohol. Groundhog day for a disgraced god on the run. Would he still believe in destiny or miracles that once worked in his favour, he'd describe the very essence of this moment as a marvel fated to be, though he lost his belief despite being a god himself.

"I've wandered for eons, crossed many roads and dwelled in many places such as this", the raspy tone of her voice anchored deep in his soul, "but I've never seen one like you on my travels."

"One like me?", he speired, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh you know", she chuckled, "the unsupicious one that silently screams mischief."

His heart skipped at a few beats at the way she stressed out the last word. Could she know who he was? Was he in danger? Would this be his end? He might have been drinking himself into a coma for the last two years but he meticulously erased his tracks and always kept his true nature hidden.

"Who are you?", he sounded almost harsh, trying to conceal the sudden fear rising in his chest.

"They call me Sigyn", she turned around facing him now, leaning in closer, "and what about you? May I get to know a handsome stranger's name?"

For a moment he thought he spotted an emerald unnatural glow in her eyes. He swallowed a lump he didn't realise that was clawing to his throat. Could she be a deity like him? Her name almost sounded Norse even though he couldn't recall ever hearing it, not even in the old days when humans still worshiped him. A sudden notion formed in his mind, unfolding the many prospects of all possible futures arising from this intriguing encounter. The glorious rush of his old self's discernment filled him, scheming, recounting all the potential escapes, readying himself for anything and everything.

"You can call me Loki", he brought his face closer to hers, the tip of his nose almost brushing hers as he wiggled his eyebrows mischievously at her.

Sigyn chuckled, leaning back, holding her glass up to him before emptying at one gulp and putting it back on the counter.

"Well, Loki", he almost groaned excitedly at the way she exaggeratedly rounded the L of his name, "we should go somewhere more private", she got up from the stool, laid her hand on his shoulder and leaned in closer whispering in his ear, "we seem to be the last of our pantheon and I would love to get to know you a bit better, now that I'm not the last one anymore."

Loki jumped up, grabbed her hand and pecked the backside of it.

"Follow me lady Sigyn", he escorted her through the entrance of bar into the bright starry night, "I get the feeling we have much to discuss."

They both disappeared within a faint green mist which quickly dissolved with a breeze meandering in the dark, leaving no trace of the two gods.

Spicy part 2: ᛘᚢᚾᚢᚦ - Munuð (lust) (Loki x Sigyn)

[cinnabun-faerie]

FFXIV: WoL perishes at the Vault instead of Haurchefant

A/N: Sad Song by We The Kings came on as I started writing this, so I'm kinda tearing up as I write this. This definately broke me a little bit.

Warning: Death of WoL Characters: Aymeric, Haurchefant

FFXIV taglist: @missnella-nova @shippyprincess @healersadjust @thai @lumeriadeborel @obscene-tevene @losingmymindinglitter

If you want to be added to the taglist for whenever I post, you can comment here on the original post !

Aymeric

he was already upset with his father and this whole situation

he was happy to know that everyone was alright

and his relieved smile when he saw you among the group

but everything seemed to happen so quick

and his happiness would be ripped from his hands

his heart, torn from his chest and crushed under the boot of the enemy as you pushed Haurchefant away, taking the hit to the chest

"Y/N!"

despite his injuries he would make his way over to you, holding you in his arms

he didn't want this

he had not intended for anyone to die, let alone you

he felt the self hatred burning within him

he had failed you

"Looks like we got to you just in time."

he closed his eyes as you choked out at a laugh

"Now you can do what you need to do. You'll prevail, I know it."

why were you saying such things?

"I'll be by your side always."

he would lean close to you and press his forehead against yours, a habit of comfort he had picked up from you

please don't leave him like this

"I love you."

"I love you too, Aymeric."

his heart would shatter when Estinien would place a hand on his shoulder

you were gone

he would make it his duty to break the news to those at Fortemps Manor

Haurchefant

"We were not too late, my friend!"

He had pledged deep within in his heart and soul to protect you

and yet he couldn't

why did you push him out of the way like that?

but he couldn't be angry with you

it would be his fate and not yours if you had not pushed him out of harm's way

all he could do was comfort you in your final moment

he pulled you into his arms and you rested your head on your chest, listening to his heartbeat as you had done numerous times before when you needed comfort

when you'd smile at him, it took every bit of his very being not to break

"Master Alphinaud, please!"

he watched as your head shaking slowly

it's as if he knew what you wanted to say

the magicks of Alphinaud's healing weren't working

"Ishgard is really cold, isn't it?"

his chest ached as he remembered when you had first come to Camp Dragonhead

you had been cold, not accustom to the cold

and he had brought you into his office and you both enjoyed a nice cup of hot chocolate by the fire

the situation was different

and when you reached up your hand to cup his cheek, he could feel just how cold you were

he knew what this meant

he would lean into your hand, before reaching up and taking it in his own, placing a kiss on your knuckles as a tear slipped down his cheek

"I know just the thing to warm you up."

his voice cracked and he started to shake

"I'd love to drink some with you...thank you, Haurchefant."

[robininthelabyrinth]

Polyphonic 

Chapter 3 ao3  (alt: tumblr pt 1, pt 2)

-

Lan Qiren wanted to speak to Wei Wuxian about everything they needed to do, but it would have to wait: the moment they arrived, they were immediately swept up into the political mess that Jin Zixun’s ill-fated ambush had caused.

Jin Guangshan was there in the blink of an eye, despite normally taking his time in seeing anyone, and Lan Qiren didn’t like the way he started making excuses for his nephew’s behavior from the very start. It was to a certain degree understandable, as everyone would first incline towards defending their family, but the haste with which Jin Guangshan sought to sweep it all under the rug was disconcerting, and Lan Qiren thought it was almost suggestive of some level of premeditation. Even more distasteful, however, was how he sought to twist the entire event into being yet another reason Wei Wuxian ought to surrender the Stygian Tiger Seal to the Jin sect: for his own good, of course, in order to avoid being made into a target on account of the disdain of the cultivation world –

“Sect Leader Jin, your words are in poor taste,” Lan Qiren said sharply.

He could hear Jiang Cheng, who ought to be defending Wei Wuxian and was trying his stuttering best to do so, starting to waver; the boy had a pleasant rippling melody by nature, forced into a fierce allegro by his parents’ endless disputes and his later tragedies, and the weak foundation meant that he was too easily buffeted by uncertainty and doubt, as Jin Guangshan undoubtedly knew.

“Let us not speak in abstraction,” he continued. “It was your sect, your nephew, who launched this particular ambush. You ought to be making a formal apology to Wei Wuxian and thinking of reparations to repair the injury to your sect’s reputation, not acting like a thief complaining to the magistrate that his victim failed to hand over his property quickly enough to prevent violence!”

Jin Guangshan’s eyes narrowed in irritation, though he fought to keep the expression off his face as if it could disguise the swell of bitter rotten music that accompanied him wherever he went. “Teacher Lan,” he said, striving for composed and charming but mostly coming off as stiff and wooden. “Come now, I must be misunderstanding you. Surely you are not accusing me of being a thief.”

Historically, as Jin Guangshan well knew, this was when Lan Qiren backed down, mindful of his position as interim sect leader – his sect granted him much of the responsibility but not the full measure of power that typically accorded with the title, and he was conscious, always, that his role was to ensure there was something preserved for his nephews to inherit.

Perhaps Jin Guangshan had forgotten that Lan Qiren was no longer interim sect leader.

“I am describing the facts as I see them,” he said icily, straightening his back and levelling his best teacher’s glare, refined by years of troublesome students. “And they are this: by the agreement of the cultivation world and through his own powers, Wei Wuxian was inviolate and unbothered as long as he remained in the Burial Mounds. Despite this, he willingly chose to emerge in response to an invitation issued by your sect, only to be attacked by your sect – and when he comes to you for justice, rather than grant it to him, you suggest that he hand over his most prized possession to prevent any similar attacks in the future. Unfamiliarity may require me to consult my sect’s texts to be sure, Sect Leader Jin, but only to determine if I should be calling it extortion, blackmail, or outright thievery!”

“Teacher Lan!” one of the smaller sect leaders gasped, even as Jin Guangshan went utterly florid with rage. “You’re not suggesting that Jin-gongzi was involved in the ambush!”

Lan Qiren had been Jin Zixuan’s teacher and knew him well – he had been a shy, introverted boy whose awkwardness came off as aloofness, and would never have done anything like this. Even less so would Lan Qiren suspect such a thing of the man who had been steadied by war and responsibility into an adult with a firm moral foundation.

“No,” he said, and met Jin Guangshan’s eyes directly. “I believe Jin-gongzi’s invitation to have been wholly sincere.”

For a moment, Lan Qiren thought Jin Guangshan was actually going to strike him, his aura lashing out violently like a clash of cymbals, discordant and biting, and he braced himself, but in the last moment etiquette prevailed and Jin Guangshan refrained, although his fists were clenched so tightly that his veins stood out from the backs of his hands.

That was when Wei Wuxian opened his mouth.

Lan Qiren silenced him with the muting spell before he could get out a single syllable.

Jiang Cheng sent him a thankful glance and cleared his throat. “This is a serious matter,” he said. “It requires a full investigation; we won’t be able to solve it all talking now. Both Wei Wuxian and Teacher Lan have traveled a long way – I have no doubt that they need some time to rest and refresh themselves.”

A convenient way to stop anyone from starting a fight, and implicitly excusing Lan Qiren’s rudeness as a mere symptom of exhaustion, resolving the whole thing without losing any more face for anyone. The Jiang sect’s boy was picking up this whole politics business quite well, the poor child.

“I concur,” Jin Guangshan said, recovering a little of his poise. “There are rooms ready for you both.”

Lan Qiren inclined his head as well. “An excellent idea,” he said, and then, because he could now, added, “We can discuss reparations for the ambush later.”

“And what about the curse?” Jin Zixun hissed, clearly done with holding his tongue the way everyone had been so obviously instructing him with their eyes. “Am I to simply suffer while that criminal walks free and unharmed?”

“When I said there would be an investigation, I meant it!” Jiang Cheng snapped. “I doubt your curse is so advanced that it can’t wait another day, and if it is, then you should have brought it up earlier!”

“Why you –“

“Sect Leader Jiang has spoken,” Jin Zixuan interrupted, his voice hard. “Zixun, don’t forget that you must also answer to me as to what you did to my guest in my name without my permission. I think it might benefit you to ‘rest and refresh’ as well. One of the servants can take you to see a doctor.”

Jin Guangshan seemed on the verge of objecting, but Jin Zixuan seemed not to get the hint, already turning his face away.

“In the meantime,” he said, saluting politely, “Sect Leader Jiang, Wei-gongzi, would you come with me? A-Li is waiting to see you both.”

Lan Qiren allowed himself to be whisked off in a different direction to settle down, which in all honesty he did need to do. He hadn’t flown such a distance in years, had been in better health when he’d done so, and he had been tired even before all this excitement; some rest would do wonders for him, even if it did make him feel a bit like he’d become a doddering old man or an invalid. Before he could settle down, though, he heard a sound approaching – a little uneven, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow – and despite the fact that Jin Guangyao had never been anything but polite to him, he felt his back tense up at the reminder of why he was here in the first place.

“Honored teacher,” Jin Guangyao said, smiling and saluting deeply – more than he should, really, given that Lan Qiren was neither a sect leader nor had ever been his teacher. “Welcome to Jinlin Tower. I regret that your arrival was marred by such unpleasantness, and hope that the remainder of your visit is calmer.”

It’s not Jin Guangyao’s fault that Lan Xichen likes him, Lan Qiren reminded himself. Your suspicions, and your family’s terrible luck at love, are your own burdens to bear. They should not be put onto others.

He nodded to Jin Guangyao.

“It would be good to see a peaceable resolution to today’s events,” he said neutrally. “I appreciate that you have come to check on me personally. It is truly going above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Your nephew is my sworn brother, Teacher Lan. How could I fail to honor you as my elder?” Jin Guangyao said smoothly. “Let me know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”

“A bath before dinner would be nice. Has my nephew arrived yet?” Lan Qiren privately hoped that he hadn’t, and was relieved when Jin Guangyao shook his head, confirming it. “Let me know when he does.”

“Of course,” Jin Guangyao said, and saluted again. “I’ll inform the servants; a bath will be made ready for you by afternoon.”

The moment Jin Guangyao left the room, Lan Qiren traced the pattern along the hem of his robes that shook off the dust of the road, returning them to being as clean and pristine as always – not a long-term solution to laundry, but very effective in the short-run, and one that he’d only refrained from doing earlier in order to drive home the point regarding how he had also been victimized by Jin Zixun’s ambush.

It was a profound relief to be clean again.

Once he could no longer hear Jin Guangyao’s familiar chords, he relaxed, which unfortunately these days meant coughing. He rubbed his chest when he was done, sighing, and settled down with his guqin to start playing a little, hoping to ease his nerves. Lan Xichen would be on his way already, he knew, and would probably move even faster once he got word regarding Lan Qiren’s presence. He’d made rather a lot of trouble for his nephew…

The door slammed open, and only years of experience with troublesome children, along with the warning echo of a song free and clear, full of shining righteousness, allowed Lan Qiren to remain unmoved by the cacophonous crash.

“So I have questions,” Wei Wuxian said. “Many, many questions, and I’m going to want answers to…uh, are you all right?”

Lan Qiren ignored Wei Wuxian’s rush, finishing the stanza he was playing and letting his hands still over the guqin. “Sit, and I will answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

Wei Wuxian closed the door behind him and put up a talisman for privacy, like the ones they used to use during the war, before coming to sit across the table from Lan Qiren. He was frowning. “Honored Teacher Lan, your lips are red,” he said cautiously. “Were you coughing up blood just now?”

“An old injury from the war,” Lan Qiren said, unable to resist recalling the memory of Wen Xu’s wild smirk as he’d deliberately smashed his ribs into pieces, grinding his palm against Lan Qiren’s chest to force the broken pieces to pierce his lungs. Nie Mingjue had executed Wen Xu only a few months later, a matter that had greatly eased his nightmares…truly Lan Qiren had to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible; once Lan Xichen’s name was cleared, he could focus on trying to devise a solution to cleanse Nie Mingjue of the spiritual poison. “It can be aggravated by excess choler. Do not concern yourself about it.”

Wei Wuxian looked like he was concerning himself about it. “But you nearly –” Lan Qiren glared until he dropped the volume of his voice significantly. “You nearly got into a fight with dozens of cultivators back at the Qiongqi Path on my behalf! Wouldn’t that have aggravated it even worse than just getting angry?”

“Much worse,” Lan Qiren agreed peaceably. “My talents in battle are not especially notable, although better with the guqin than the sword. Regardless, the effort expended would almost certainly result in a severe backlash later.”

Wei Wuxian gaped at him. “Then why did you do it?”

“Was there an alternative?”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth opened and closed a few more times.

“How are your shijie and shizi?” Lan Qiren asked when it appeared that Wei Wuxian was not going to force any words out of his mouth any time soon. He folded his hands together in an appropriate manner – he, at least, knew his etiquette, and would continue to model it in the hope that Wei Wuxian might one day catch a hint. “Well, I trust?”

“Uh, yeah, they’re great. Jin Ling is perfect, shijie is wonderful, the peacock doesn’t deserve either of them, though he’s gotten better, I guess,” Wei Wuxian said, then shook his head as if to clear it. “And I wouldn’t have been able to see either of them if not for you.”

Personally, Lan Qiren didn’t think one Jin Zixun and any number of his friends would actually be able to stop Wei Wuxian, preplanned ambush or no, so he just hummed noncommittally. “You said you had questions?”

“Yeah, and now I have even more,” Wei Wuxian grumbled, but he seemed to settle down a little. “Let’s start with the fact that you said you needed help on a musical issue, but that it is also somehow an attempted murder. What’s that about?”

Lan Qiren grimaced. “Serve tea,” he instructed Wei Wuxian, and waited until he was midway through the process – and thus not staring straight at Lan Qiren – to start talking. “I have reason to believe that Nie Mingjue has been poisoned with spiritual poison.”

Wei Wuxian nearly spilled the tea, but managed to stop himself in time. “Chifeng-zun? Impossible!” Then he frowned. “I’d heard his temper was getting far worse, of late. Just mentions of it in passing…you think it’s because of that?”

“It may be. The Nie sect is prone to encountering qi deviations; a spiritual poison, especially one that specifically targets choleric feelings such as irritation and rage, would be particularly insidious when aimed against them. Should he die, everyone might be inclined to assume that the cause was hereditary rather than external.”

“A perfect murder. What type of poison?” Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows went up. “Wait – you think – musical poison?”

“My sect is renowned for using musical cultivation as healing techniques,” Lan Qiren pointed out, not sure why it seemed to come as such a shock to Wei Wuxian. “Antidotes grow alongside poisons, and all that can heal can also hurt – anyway, isn’t what you do a type of musical cultivation as well?”

“Good point,” Wei Wuxian said ruefully. “All right, that makes sense. That definitely seems like a real problem…but why do you need my help?”

“My health is poor, and I do not know what such an investigation will require,” Lan Qiren said. “And I cannot ask anyone in my sect to assist me.”

“Why not?”

“Because the primary suspect,” Lan Qiren said heavily, “is Xichen.”

Wei Wuxian stared.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a few long moments of blank gawping. “Please forgive me, honored teacher, but I think I misheard you. Are you saying that you think Zewu-jun is poisoning Chifeng-zun?”

“I hope dearly that he is not, of course,” Lan Qiren said. “In fact, part of the reason for my desire to investigate privately is to assist in clearing him of suspicion –”

“No, no, hold on, don’t move on just yet,” Wei Wuxian said, holding up his hands. “You think Zewu-jun – Lan Xichen! – might be capable of poisoning his sworn brother and, as far as I know, best friend? Your nephew?”

“Yes.”

“You really think he’s capable of something like that?”

“I have done my best to raise him to be the sort of man who would not be,” Lan Qiren said, and thought suddenly of his own brother – their father had treasured him, cared for him, valued him above all else. Would he have ever imagined that he would do what he had done and end up living out his life in seclusion, only to die pointlessly at the hands of the Wen sect? “And yet, who’s to say?”

“Uh, me? All the cultivation world? It’s Zewu-jun! He’s one of the most upright people I’ve ever met! You might as well suspect Lan Zhan – you don’t, do you?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said. He appreciated the righteous crescendo in Wei Wuxian’s voice, particularly when Lan Wangji was mentioned – unfortunate as it might be to find that Lan Wangji’s seemingly hopeless affection might actually be requited, since it remained a terrible idea – but it was a little inconvenient at the moment. “But equally I cannot burden him with the duty to suspect his brother. It would only hurt him.”

Wei Wuxian quieted down at that. “I can see that,” he said, grimacing. “But…why would you suspect Zewu-jun?”

“The evidence is – suggestive.” Lan Qiren shook his head. “To be clear, while I will of course value the truth above all else, I am not looking for evidence of Lan Xichen’s guilt. I am hoping to exculpate him.”

Wei Wuxian leaned forward, now frowning in earnest. “All right,” he said. “I still don’t really believe it, but other people might, and that’s bad enough. Even unfounded rumors can make for real trouble. Tell me what you know about it.”

“My nephew has been helping Nie Mingjue to ease the symptoms of his familial tendency towards qi deviations by playing him one of the strongest and most secret Lan sect healing songs,” Lan Qiren explained. “The spiritual poison I have observed in Nie Mingjue’s body is precisely a variation on that healing song – only instead of the pure version, which is designed to calm and heal disrupted qi, it is intermixed with another song that deliberately encourages spiritual turmoil.”

“All right. I suppose playing for Chifeng-zun gives Zewu-jun opportunity, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only one who could’ve applied the poison song.”

“The Song of Turmoil is a rare import, hidden away in one of sect’s forbidden books. Only very few people have access to that part of our collection.”

Wei Wuxian arched his eyebrows. “And yet you can immediately recognize it?”

“I enjoy studying obscure musical texts as an aid in composition,” Lan Qiren said, mild censure in his voice. “Would you dare claim you do not do the same?”

“…fine, fine, good point.” Wei Wuxian waved his hand. “Okay, fine…still, I’m not convinced. Even if the only source of the song is the Lan sect’s library, there was a lot of chaos these past few years. Someone else could have picked it up, couldn’t they?”

“It’s possible,” Lan Qiren admitted. “Unfortunately, the tune had the same starts and stops that are characteristic of Xichen’s playing.”

As a musical cultivator, even Wei Wuxian had to concede that the unique quirks of playing style were difficult, although not impossible, to replicate, and moreover that one would have to wonder why anyone else would bother doing so, especially in a spiritual poison they presumably hoped would go entirely undetected. He rubbed his forehead, clearly thinking it over. “So, wait, are you saying you heard this musical poison getting played? Were you affected by it? Why didn’t you interrupt in order to stop it or to find out who was responsible?”

Lan Qiren shook his head. “I did not hear the playing, only the effects.”

Wei Wuxian frowned. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t hear it get played, how do you know that the playing had Zewu-jun’s idiosyncratic characteristics?”

“I’m very familiar with how Xichen plays. How would I not notice it? Even if I only heard it intermixed with Nie Mingjue’s own base tone, the sound is distinctive enough to recognize.”

Wei Wuxian was staring at him, looking blank again. A moment later his brow furrowed as if he’d just had a thought that seemed strange to him. He said, “Honored teacher, a question. When I said I wasn’t the one who cast the curse on Jin Zixun, you said that the person who cast it played the guqin, not the flute. I’d been wondering…how did you know that?”

“The curse has the sound of a breaking guqin string, which does not accord with Jin Zixun’s own music,” Lan Qiren explained. “The person who cast it was moderately powerful and very well-trained, although this represents an overreach on their part. I think it is likely that they incurred a backlash due to the casting –”

“You just heard it?” Wei Wuxian interrupted. It was rather rude, but Lan Qiren supposed he’d signed up for that. “You just looked at him and heard the curse that had been placed on him?”

Lan Qiren nodded.

“You can hear what people’s spiritual energy sounds like?” Wei Wuxian was growing pale.

“Not spiritual energy directly,” Lan Qiren said, a little puzzled by what seemed like an outsized reaction. Not only was Wei Wuxian’s face pale, his fists clenched, but his song, normally so free and clear, had become suppressed, tense, tightly strung. “More in the nature of the sound of a person’s spirit itself. Your Ghost General, for instance; he has a very gentle melody, very soft, but the underlying base is harsh, jagged, thick with resentment, less playing than dying – he needs to learn to marry those two parts of his spirit together, or else he’ll have trouble finding peace. That’s why I offered to take him as a student.”

“What about me?” Wei Wuxian asked. He was almost vibrating with the need to know. “What about my music? Has it – changed?”

“It’s gotten a little more sober, which is not uncommon with tragedy,” Lan Qiren said, and felt as though he were on the edge of some terrible revelation. “But no, fundamentally you remain the same person you always were.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled, hard. A trill of relief.

“Something happened that made you think it would change,” Lan Qiren deduced, reaching up to stroke his beard thoughtfully. He watched as Wei Wuxian’s eyes flickered one way, then another. “Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian looked at him.

“Are you unwilling to return to orthodox cultivation – or unable?”

There was a world of difference between the two: one was arrogance, relentless and unrestrained, looking down at the truths the cultivators of the world and their ancestors had worked so hard to unearth, the other merely a depressing practicality – who wouldn’t choose to cultivate something if the alternative was nothing at all?

And yet…how could it be?

And why would Wei Wuxian be so terrified of letting others discover it?

“That’s none of your business,” Wei Wuxian said, teeth set in a bitter smile that was more of a grimace than anything else. “I agreed to help you, Honored Teacher, but my business is my own.”

“But –”

“Another question,” Wei Wuxian said. “Different subject: I know you don’t lie, and earlier you said…what you said. So tell me, what Lan sect girl has her heart so set on me that you decided to come tell me in person that I wasn’t allowed marry her?”

Lan Qiren blinked. “I only meant to advise you that it was a poor match for you both; it was not meant as an insult to you,” he objected, a little offended. “If you and Wangji insist, I will not stand in your way.”

He shook his head and sighed a little, regretful; he would not pursue the matter Wei Wuxian was hiding any further. He wanted to help, curiosity itching at him, but Wei Wuxian was right – it was none of his business.

“As long as your reliance on demonic cultivation does not impede your assistance in my investigation, I will not bring it up again,” he concluded. “How do you propose we begin?”

“…Lan Zhan?”

Lan Qiren frowned. “I already explained to you why I do not wish to involve Wangji, and that I do not suspect him. Why would we start with him?”

“Not for the investigation,” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, his face bright red. “About the – marriage!”

[bisiji3]

Buddhism was founded in India around the 6th to 5th century B．C．

It is said that the founder of Buddhism was Sakyamuni．

About the 2th century，Mahayana Buddhism entered Central China，inhabited by the Han nationality．

The Three Precious Treasures include the Buddha，the Dharma(Law 0r Way)and the Sangha(the Monastic Order)．

Buddhism has always co-existed with Confucianism and Daoism．

Buddhism has and Bodhisattva statues have been placed for worship in monasteries．

Up to the present time．Hinayana Buddhism (Lesser Vehicle)is still prevalent as in the regions inhabited by Dai nationality．

Their mutual co-existence of the tradition has produced a religion with distinct Chinese characteristics．

In addition to Sakyamuni, many other Buddhism has and Boddhisattvas statues have been placed in the same monasteries

As Buddhism spread throughout China，Buddhist monks added Chinese characteristics to the Daochang and accordingly placed different Buddhas in the different Daochang in China．

The four major sects(Tiantai，Huayan，Jingtu and Chan)appeared between 581 and 755A.D., and they had considerable influence in both China and Japan．

This eight-fold path consists of right knowledge, right thought，right speech，right behavior，fight livelihood，fight effort，right mindfulness and right concentration．

By following the eight-fold path，Buddhist followers aim to attain Nirvana, a condition of eternal and tranquil bliss that is beyond the limits of death，rebirth，thoughts and feelings．

Sakyamuni was a prince．When he was young, he sadly saw that people suffered in poverty，pain，sickness and death．Around the age of 29，the prince made his break from the material world and plunged off in search of enlightenment．

As the story goes，Sakyamuni came to a fig tree．He sat beneath it and then he slipped into deep meditation．Afterwards he achieved enlightenment and became Buddha．

The four noble truths：life is suffering，the cause of suffering is desire, the answer is to quench desire, and the way to this end is to follow the eight-fold path．

Mahayana Buddhism(Greater Vehicle)holds that the fate of an individual is linked to the fate of all others．The Buddha doesn't float off into his own Nirvana，leaving other people behind. He continues to exude spiritual、help to those see—king Nirvana．

Hinayana(Lesser Vehicle)holds that the path to Nirvana is an individual pursuit．People who seek Nirvana must tread its path on their own．

Tiantai was the earliest sect of Chinese Buddhism．It was founded by Zhiyi during the Sui Dynasty．Zhiyi took the Lotus Sutra as his basis； he classified the other Buddhist sutras into five periods and eight types of teachings and he also emphasized both meditation practice and scriptural study．

Huayan Sect was established in the 7th century by a Chinese monk，Fa Zang，of the Tang Dynasty．This sect reached Korea in the late 7th century，and Japan between 725 and 740．

Chan Buddhism is a sect of Mahayana Buddhism．The“Channa” is a transliteration of the Sanskrit term“dhyana”．which means“meditation"．It is said that the founder of the Chan Buddhism was Bodhidharma who was known to the Chinese as Da Mo．This sect emphasizes meditation，it holds that the universal“Buddha, nature” is immanent within ourselves．

Jingtu Buddhism is based upon a number of Indian Buddhist texts describing a pure land to the west．Especially it is designed for those, who devoutly chant the name of Amitabha and for laypersons who find traditional Buddhist moral rules and meditation discipline too strict．

The Tibetan people believe in Buddhism．It is called Lamaism．It spread into Tibet during the reign of Tubo King Songtsan Gambo in the 7th century．By the end of the 14th century，the Tibetan Buddhism had a variety of sects, including the Red Sect，the White Sect and the Yellow Sect．

Buddhism was first introduced to China about 65 B．C．by two Indian monks who had been invited by Emperor Ming of the Han Dynasty to establish a monastery in China．In the beginning，Buddhism did not have much influence in China due to the prevailing traditional Chinese culture．

At the early stage，Buddhist word and ideas, as well as its artistic forms, had to be translated into Chinese terms．One early solution was to employ Daoist terminology，and this had the advantage of sounding familiar．

Another solution was not to translate at all but to transliterate，that is，to employ Chinese characters to approximate the sound rather than the meaning of the original word．Transliteration was most suitable for reproducing foreign proper names in Chinese, and this became the standard practice continued to this day．

Puxian(Samantabhadra)symboHzes infinite virtue and is represented riding a white elephant．“Puxian”is considered to be one of Sakvamuni’s close assistants．In some monasteries, the statues of Sakyamuni．Wenshu and Puxian statues are placed in the Grand Buddha Hall．

Amitabha is also called Jieyin Buddha．Along with Sakvamuni．he attained the state of Buddha-hood through his perfect enlightenment．Amitabha takes charge of the Buddhist Western Paradise．and his work is to usher sentient beings into the paradise when they pass away．

The statue of Maitreya is usually placed in the first main hall of a monastery．When Buddhism entered China．Maitreya quickly took on Chinese characteristics and became popular among the people．

Guanyin has 33 various images．including an image with 1000 hands，an image with 11 faces． and an image with 48 arms．Guanyin serves as the Bodhisattva of perfect compassion and kindness，helping the needy and relieving the distressed．His infinite Buddhist power is known in every household due to the popularity of the famous Chinese literary classic，The Pilgrimage to the West．

According to the Buddhist classics．Wenshu was the third son of the Holy King in charge of reincarnations． Legend has it that as Buddhists entered China， Wenshu appeared on Mt．Wutai． Wenshu holds a sword that symbolizes his infinite Buddhist power and perfect wisdom．

According to the Buddhist classics, during the period from the Nirvana of Sakyamuni to the advent of Maitreya， Dizang Bodhisattva vowed to save all beings from suffering in the Six Paths．He vows not to achieve Buddhahood until all the Hells are empty, and is thus therefore referred as the King of Hell．

The Four Heavenly Kings are depicted as the Four Warrior Attendants(Vajras)．Their origin stems from an Indian Buddhism legend，and these kings are able to drive out evil and monsters．protect Buddhas， and assure favorable conditions for the growth of crops each year．Therefore, their images are usually placed in the first main hall of a Buddhist monastery．

According to Buddhist classics，Sakyamuni's disciples are sixteen Arhats．They are instructed by the Buddha not to ascend into the Buddhist Western Paradise，and instead they are asked to reside in the world, the human beings take care of them, and in return the Arhats bring benefit to human beings．

The legend pf the Sixteen Arhats gave rise to the esteem for the Arhats fron Buddhist followers in the regions inhabited by the Han nationality． In addition, the followers increased the Arhat numbers and magnified their Buddhist power, thus bring forth the saying about the 500 Arhats．

zhongfeng Monastery has an old name．Qian-ming Tempk． A Daoist abbot whose name was Qian-ming, built the temple in 4th century. During the Northern Wei, according to the relevant historical documents, a Buddhist monk by the name of Mingguo stayed under the foot of the Baozhang Peak of Mt. Emei. Every March 3 of the Chinese Lunar Calendar, Monk Minggno saw Qianming practice witchcraft to deceive people by spreading the story in which Qu Wu of the Eastern Han Dynasty ascends to Heaven as an immortal. Monk Mingguo knew that it was the mischief done by the evildoer. So he gathered some local people to subdue the witchcraft with arrows and bows. Everyone agreed to obey Mingguo because of his persuasive power. Even the Daoist priests in the Qianming Temple were all converted to Buddhism, and the Daoist temple became a Buddhist Monastery. It was named the Zhongfeng Monastery, which means "the Central Peak", because the monastery is located right at the foot of the Baiyan Peak surrounded by 17 large and smaller peaks. The monastery gradually became one of the six largest ancient monasteries on the mountain. During the Tang and Song dynasties many eminent monks and celebrities gathered in the Zhongfeng Monastery, which was magnificent in scale and layout. White peonies grew around the monastery, and the whole peak was crowned with flowers, plants and gardens．

https://www.lama.com.tw/content/meet/act.aspx?id=4424

[mipadremadara]

if you don't mind me asking a lot about the fic thing, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8 and 9 (LMAO. all the list😂😂😂) for "Summer Nights"?? I REALLY NEED TO CAUGHT UP!!!! (You obviously can answer telling things about chapters I haven't read, btw, it's okay, haha). And if it's too much, you can answer just a few, hahaha. I'm just really curious because I reallyyyyy love the fic. ILY💖💖

Ahh thank you so much for this ask!!! Every time I get an ask from you my face immediately lights up ahaha. I'm so glad you like the fic??? Ahhhh! Ily too!! I hope you're having a nice day/night! I’ll only do Chapter 1 and 2 for now as to not spoil much! (I’m not sure which chapter you finished on haha.)

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

I really really really like stories that just flow. That literally drift. I have no idea how to describe it, but I also love poetry and I thought by kind of incorporating that and a sort of movie vibe to it it'd capture people's hearts the way it haunts mine at night hahaha. 

 2: What scene did you first put down?

It must be the scene where Naruto is sitting outside the porch and looking at the night sky. The title is Summer Nights, after all! It's supposed to hint at the fact that Naruto and Sasuke share the most tender moments at night.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

There's so many that I like tbh!! But here are some of my favorite ones without spoiling too much!!

Chapter 1:

The man knew Sasuke would get rid of every photographic memory of his past and there would be no remaining snapshots of his lifetime left. Behind the everyday smiles and poking around the playgrounds, fairgrounds, Sasuke never dwelled on the topics that resurfaced even the slightest of human, perhaps weak emotions. And so was the shameless irony, pouring out, like vomit. 

I wanted to capture the sense of lingering trauma that still haunts Sasuke everyday. No matter how life seemed to come to a halt, or how things seemed to finally settle down, the pain will always prevail. And in a way, Naruto is the same, even if he masks it well. I feel like this was never truly explained so I wanted to show that they are still hurting; the wounds that were meant to heal only left bitter scars in the end.  

Writing from Sasuke’s POV is always very emotion-centered. I’d imagine Sasuke, as shown in the fic, is a little more open, especially around Naruto. He let his walls down, although not by choice. He had to prove to Konoha he changed, but around Naruto, he can truly be himself.

The Uchiha was all tall, strong arms and long fingers. He fondled them for a passing minute, pressing the raven’s palms against his own. After the War, they grew quite intimate, and really, everyone talked about it. He always looked forward to touching Sasuke, even if it was small, feathery nudges - like holding hands or giving each other small hugs. It reminded him how truly privileged he was to be around him. He savoured those bosom jiffies, and that night was no different.

I really like the fact that their relationship isn’t driven by lust, but more so an understanding. There’s a mutual connection here; two boys going through absolute Hell and finally close to settling down after a rough battle against the odds. No one knows Sasuke the way Naruto does and vice versa, I think it’s quite beautiful actually! Sasuke allowing himself to become intimate again by taking these baby steps, such as touching hands and small hugs, it’s very healing for the both of them! 

They stood still in that bleached moment. The love, the joy; it was burning passionately, bringing nothing but bloom to the cheek; showing no reruns. The smile, he considered a gift.

I just really love this bit. Reading it always makes me so soft haha. I think it sums up their whole relationship perfectly. 

Chapter 2:

Sakura made him feel like an utter imbecile. Like a love-struck damsel in distress.

Here, what Sakura really sees isn’t Naruto, but herself. She knows what it’s like to chase after Sasuke, and as much as she loves the two of them, she doesn’t want Naruto to get hurt. I just think this line was really cool haha. 

People often told Sasuke how he blended into the background while Naruto stood out from the crowd when they were together. Maybe that was why everyone deemed him worthy of being the next in line. They were polar opposites; like warm and cold. Fire and water. They just didn't fit. Supposed everyone told them similar scenarios, but they did not care much about the public and its predetermined ideas of what was right and what wasn't. It was arguably, the most bizarre finger-pointing he had the displeasure of witnessing. But he guessed Naruto loved the attention.

I really like this line, and not just because of the imagery used here, but because it shows how others see Naruto and Sasuke’s relationship. And also, that short dismissive ending paragraph I found to be super effective. 

The other girl, Hinata, made an attempt to lean forward to catch Naruto’s gaze. It was what made everyone lean towards her, too, no less in a charming way that she perhaps knowingly radiated. It caused Ino to take a step back, and Sasuke must’ve stood there for a few moments, listening to the soft mumbling of her lips. They began to ask Naruto questions in low, hushed, thrilling voices as if not to let Sasuke know any of it. He knew the girl had lost her brother during the War (at which he had expressed his deepest sympathy), but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that maybe Naruto was being deceived by her shy persona.

I loved describing Hinata, but not for the reasons you might think. No one aside from Naruto has been described in such detail, but Hinata. It’s to show that Sasuke, since it’s from his POV, considers her to be a competition. He knows she knows that she can easily woo people to do her bidding, and considering her status, Naruto would certainly be charmed. 

Hinata’s own voice held a timid passion behind it; a pleasant, mellow tenor that was very subtle, especially in the way her every uttered word suggested something greater than her face might have unveiled. Her face - on the other hand - was lovely. Caring eyes and a caring mouth conveying nothing but a feeling of fresh honey and lavender. Her hands looked smooth to the touch when she grazed them against Naruto’s rather tacky ones; as if she had never worked a day in her life. He could tell Naruto enjoyed looking at her.

Again, Sasuke knows this persona that Hinata created was quite deceiving and had Naruto wrapped around her finger. That is what he thinks, and as usual, assumes things because Naruto and Hinata are close. I also really like her description here, it radiates such soft vibes haha. 

He marveled in the way his laugh carried throughout the day, forcing even the biggest assholes in the universe to crack a smile.

I really like this line because Sasuke is talking about himself here; that Naruto is always successful at making him smile. 

The attachment to the outside world and the growth of his dubious mind was what made Sasuke overthink certain situations. The way it tangled, twisted, and knotted. He wanted to fondle Naruto's hands, listen to his heartbeat as his eyes grew heavy.

Agape; the sign of unconditional love. For his one and only.

I mean? These lines absolutely slap I think haha. 

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

I didn’t want to add too many so I just included a couple!

Chapter 1:

“You know, if you continue to frown like that, you’ll have lots of wrinkles in the future.”

I just love Sasuke’s attempt at comforting Naruto haha. 

Chapter 2:

“Don’t piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining, Sasuke.”

I just,, love this line so much. It always cracks me up hahaha. And of course, it’s Kakashi’s line. 

5: What part was hardest to write? 

Honestly? Probably the scene where they spar in the third chapter, as well as Gaara and Naruto's reunion! I loved writing it, but having to balance so much dialogue and narration was challenging.

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

What makes it special, well, it's my first fanfic! I tried writing one for so long, about 4 years! And being able to finally write something and share it with others feels amazing and so relieving after so long. 

 7: Where did the title come from?

The title came from this song called Summer Nights by Siames! I think it suits Naruto and Sasuke perfectly! It's such a nice song, it always makes me cry when I listen to it haha.

8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

Many, if not all interactions are based on me and my girlfriend's conversations! There are so many and she always points it out to me after reading the newest chapter.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

There was, actually! At first I wanted to write an AU canonverse version of the Akatsuki, where Naruto is exiled from the village and reunites with Sasuke. Because in this house we love evil Naruto and Kurama. But then I wanted to write something soft, something tender yknow? 

Again, thank you so much for asking!!! <3 

[123moviessstuff]

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[elizabethfink-blog]

My Voice

It has now been five days since General Conference officially ended. When I got home afterwards, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I had worked and spent so much of my time in the last three years focused on #GC2019. I had sought to learn and listen as much as possible, to be a peace maker, and to stand for what I felt was the Truth being revealed in Scripture. Now it’s over, and I don’t know what to do with myself. The Conference was fraught with such emotion, that now my body doesn’t know how to handle being in a setting that is void of all that emotion. Can I just sit and binge Netflix? Should I talk about it with anyone who will listen? Do I stay silent? Must I lock myself in my room and avoid all social media?  This is one reason why it has taken my this long to write down what is going on in my heart and head. I wanted to make sure I was not simply speaking from a heart full of emotion but speaking out of a heart rested in Christ. So here it goes…

I am grateful and feel blessed to have been able to attend GC 2016 and 2019 as a delegate. Most people wouldn't call it a blessing, but I am trying to look at it that way. I feel blessed that I was able to witness how a global church can come together and share stories of the transforming work of Jesus Christ in their home countries. I feel honored that I was able to stand up for what I believe God was calling me to stand for. It taught me greater patience. It taught me to discern when to be silent and when to speak. It taught me, though not always easy, how to love those who are different than me. It taught me faith. It taught me trust. I was greatly encouraged by the Renewal and Reform Coalition breakfasts each morning because they revealed to me that I am not in this alone.

I feel like I got a glimpse of the inner turmoil that is within all of us. The struggle between embracing "self" and denying that "self". The struggle between the world and the heavenlies. I found that 2019 was much more difficult than 2016.  This time around we were not discussing many things, but one thing. There was a heightened emotion, and everyone was on edge.  There was a spiritual battle, and still is a spiritual battle happening in and amongst us. We all need to make sure we do not have any unconfessed sin in our lives and are right before the Lord if we are to be effective in these spiritual battles.

I want to address a few things that have been heavy on my heart. I ask that you listen as a fellow disciple of Jesus Christ and not as someone of this world who is so quick to judge and demonize. I am tired of individuals stating I need to apologize or repent for being joyful and relieved that the churches definition of marriage remains between one man and one woman. I will do nothing else but rejoice when I see what I believe to be the inerrant Truth of God prevailing in a world that constantly seeks to pervert it. I am tired of individuals asserting that I am homophobic, hateful, unloving, Pharisaical, bigot, a virus, and other obscene words. Most of those individuals do not know me, and for those that do, it breaks my heart.  I have never said a harsh word or verbally attacked anyone who believes differently than I do.  If “unity” and “inclusion” was the goal of OCP supporters, it was not the message I received during or after GC2019.  The shouting, slander, unfriending, bullying, deceitfulness etc. is unacceptable especially from disciples of Jesus Christ. This is exactly the kind of behavior I have seen from my 9-year-old students which would then lead to a conversation on respect/kindness, and even having some privileges taken away. We ARE called to a higher standard.

I also ask that you stop spreading the lie that LGBTQIA individuals are not welcome in the Methodist church anymore. This is a falsehood and Satan is having a heyday with it.  All are always welcome in the church no matter what you hear, and this lie is hurting the witness and mission of EVERY Methodist Church in America. And, no, not everyone is able to be in leadership roles or be ordained as clergy. I am not going to take the time to list what would keep someone from one of those positions here because it would be too long.

I was enormously upset to hear some even joke about the lack of financial support our Central Conferences may get based upon their vote for the Traditional Plan. Using financial support as a means to extort is the very definition of colonialism.  Did anyone even listen to how some of our African brothers and sisters would be treated in their home countries if the Traditional Plan did not pass? They could be physically harmed, and it would most likely destroy their churches. I was embarrassed by the way our international delegates were treated by my fellow Americans. Can we please stop talking about them like they are not in the room and capable of understanding? I am sorry America, but it is not all about you. We are a global church and we have to think/act like a global church.

The thing that disturbs me the most was the fact that we hardly ever heard the name Jesus spoken. Even in our worship and prayer, it was all about the “issue” and trying to get a last “speech for” in wherever we could. The prayer and worship times felt forced and not genuine. Where was the gospel message? Why were the lyrics changed in some songs we sang to be more concerned with our relationship to each other than to Christ? When Jesus ceases to be our center, we have a problem.

Two of the hardest years of my life were when I served as a US-2 missionary with Global Ministries.  I had a hard time during those training's because Jesus was not the focus, and I was told my voice mattered, but it was not respected. This General Conference was a huge reminder of that time spent with Global Ministries. I had been fighting since then for my voice to be heard and understood, as well as making sure we aren’t fighting more for the “cause” than for Christ. At both times it appeared that social justice had reigned above spiritual justice.  

It is clear to me that many of the OCP supporters still do not genuinely understand why this conference was so important to us who voted for the Traditional Plan. For me it was not about getting “my way” but standing up for the Truths I believe are stated in the Holy Word of God.  I believe that Scripture is God-breathed, meaning God is breathing his life into these words just as he breathed life into Adam. It is alive and active. It is not just a reference book.  I read Scripture as saying marriage is between one man and one woman.  If we give in on this sacred belief, then what will be next? I always get worried when the church begins to blend in with the world. I believe gender, race, and sexuality are all sacred.  They are determined by God not man. I cannot withhold speaking the Truths in scripture to an individual for the sake of appearing “unloving”.  I remember reading a quote from a blog recently that stated, “a love divorced from Gods truth…isn’t love at all, but merely deceitful kisses”.  

After hearing many OCP supporters speak, it is clear we are not reading Scripture or viewing the authority of Scripture in the same way.  If we view the Bible in the same way, and still come out with such different interpretations, then I do not see how we will ever be able to have “unity” as the OCP proclaims. This is not over and will likely continue with intensity till GC2020. I believe Adam Hamilton was right when he stated that this vote to pass the TP will cause individuals who had not been previously engaged to stand up and speak out more than ever, but it won’t be just progressives and centrists like he thinks. Those evangelicals who supported the TP witnessed the true colors of those behind the OCP and will not stay silent anymore. This very well may lead to the "two church" plan in 2020. If this is the case, may we trust in where the Spirit is leading and with a genuine love part ways. I could go on in discussing GC2019 related topics, but I am tired. Many of us are tired and need to step away for a bit. I believe all the rest and hope we need is found in the promises of God.  The Jesus I serve has never failed. He is never late. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.  It is true that we may not see the logic in His plan until after we have obeyed. I pray our eyes would be opened to see Him at work all around us even amid what appears to be chaos.  Now more than ever is a time to pray about it more than we talk about it.

In the season of Lent that is upon us, may we come face to face with Christ himself. May we come face to face with our need for Him. May we come face to face with the full weight of His sacrifice. May we come face to face with His Sovereignty. Lord hear our prayer.

[idreamofasriel-blog]

Metal Slug-Demon Song Ch 3

“If I eat anymore, I'm going to have to add extra notches on my belt.” said Eri, leaning back on her chair after a big meal they were served up for saving the town. The owner of the INN brought every last dish on the menu for them to eat after they arrived and they talked the owner out of a free room now that they got a ride coming in soon to pick them up. Tarma was picking at his teeth with a toothpick and Fio was sipping on her cup of tea. Marco finished the last of his meal and he got up and stretched his arms out. “I'm going to step out for a quick smoke.” He said and he stepped outside of the INN and leaned against a wall. He reached into his pocket and take out a pack of cigarette and gently tap the bottom to get one out of the package and then took his lighter and flicked it a few times to get the fire going. Before he could even light it up, he heard a scream coming from an alleyway and he closed up his lighter and discarded the cigarette and ran toward the direction of the scream. Gun in hand, Marco looked down the alleyway and took caution walking down in it. “Hello? Is anyone here?” Marco called out. Marco tensed up and turned to face against Ptolemaic Guerrillas coming at him with melee weapons. It was an ambush and Marco fought them off. Gun firing and knife slashing, Marco is swarmed by them and he's going to fight them off till either they are all defeated or his Squad heard the gunshots and come running to help. “Hold still, Major Rossi.” Dragunov muttered, laying on the rooftop with her sniper rifle ready and aimed at Marco. She was ready to pull the trigger in case the Ptolemaic Guerrillas failed to capture him themselves. Marco defeated the last one and he was breathing heavily from all the fighting he was doing. He barely took a step when he felt something small and sharp jab itself into his neck and he reached out and pulled it out. Grasping in his hand is a tranquilizer dart and judging by its size, the dosage was enough to knock out a grown man. The drug took effect quickly and Marco felt dizzy and his body weakening. The world around him was blurring together and he sees someone walking up calmly to him and ordered a few men to grab him and Marco blacked out. A Special Force soldier dumped a bucket of ice water over Marco's head and he snapped wide awake screaming and shivering from the freezing water. The water dripped down his face and his wet shirt clinging to his chest and the grogginess he was feeling lifted away and he can focus again. He's in a small room of a hidden base, surrounded by people in gas masks walking around the room in a hurry for something. He couldn't see well no thanks to a single bulb hanging from the ceiling dimly lighting up the room and when he moved, chains rattled behind him and his legs won't budge from the spot but he did felt handcuffs around his ankles. He heard footsteps across the wooden plank floor and a door creaking open. Marco looked up to see who it was that walked into the room and glared. Ptolemaios smirked and he was being followed by one of the Special Force grunts, carrying something in their hands that Marco couldn't see with Ptolemaios standing in the way. “Sorry for the rude awakening, Marchrius but we got business to do.” he said, studying Marco from top to bottom and paced around him in a full circle. “The only business you'll be doing is at the end of my fist once I get out of here.” Marco growled. This amused the Cult Leader and he gave Marco a twisted grin. “Hmm, yes I can see why The Evil Spirit Incarnate picked you.” Ptolemaios snapped his fingers and his grunts moved forward to tear open Marco's shirt to allow him to inspect how healthy and well cared his body is, all he could see on him is a scar across his stomach where Allen O'Neil slashed his knife at him a long time ago. He grabbed hold of his mouth and opened them to inspected his teeth for any lost or broken ones and moved his fingers away quickly when Marco tried to bite down on them. Marco thrashed about in his chair to try to free himself from his binds but at no prevail all thanks to the chains wrapped around his wrist and handcuffs around his ankles. Even the metal chair he was sitting in is bolted down to the floor. They thought of everything before they drugged Marco and brought him to this small secret base and he is not going to stick around to see what is Ptolemaios's plans he got for him. “So I take care of myself. Why does that thing care?” Marco snarled at him and fights with the chains. Ptolemaios smirked and ordered the Special Force Grunt to stepped forward with a small box in their hands and he turned to open it. Marco doesn't like where this is going or that box's appearance. He can't see what Ptolemaios is holding in his hand that he's taking care not to drop. The Cultist Leader smirked and turned his gaze onto Marco again. In his hand is a glass bottle with the topper carved out of solid glass with wings and claws holding it in place. Inside the bottle, Marco can see the pure black liquid inside it and if they're going to give it to him, he's going to give them one Hell of a fight. “You should feel honored, Marchrius. It's not every day that The Evil Spirit Incarnate picks a worthy body outside of the Ptolemaic Army.” Ptolemaios smiled and pulled the topper off. Marco cringed at the foul smell coming out of the bottle and fought against his chains again, “Sorry to break it you but I'm not interested becoming one of you sickos.” Marco snapped back at him and clenched his jaw shut to keep that foul drink from being poured down his mouth. Ptolemaios wasn't amused by this and he ordered his grunts to step in and help him. As Marco was lashing out at them while keeping his mouth shut, they tried to pry his mouth open but ended up getting one of them bit hard by Marco. Ptolemaios said something to one of the grunts standing by in his native tongue and they stepped up to Marco, holding a dental surgical tool to help hold mouths open. Marco can feel the metal in his mouth and his mouth forced open and they hold his head back by his hair. “Yes, you'll make a perfect servant for The Evil Spirit Incarnate, after all, Marchrius. Strong, smart, and stubborn to give up the fight.” He tilts the bottle over and the black liquid flowed into Marco's mouth. He coughed and gagged, feeling it oozing down his throat and into his stomach. He retched and wheezed when the last drop was gone and Ptolemaios points at his chains and cuffs and they obeyed. Marco heard chains rattling and cuffs hitting the floor and he fell to his hands and knees, coughing in hopes he can get it out of his body in any way he can and wiped away the trickling remains of it from the side of his mouth. The whole room spun before him and blurred itself together and footsteps and voices were all but a muffle as if someone stuffed his ears with cotton. His throat is burning, his chest hurt, and his stomach aches in sharp stabbing pain. His mind in a confusing panic, not knowing what to do and his head hurts. Marco's arms were shaking from weakness and he looked at his hands and clutched his head screaming after witnessing his hands turning into a pair of demonic hands. The motion is set, Ptolemaios' plan is going accordingly, and soon Marco will be forced to obey the call of The Evil Spirit Incarnate's Demon Song. “Marco?” “Are you okay?” “Major, wake up!” Marco slowly opened his eyes and groaned. He clutched the side of his head and needed help from Tarma to get up off the ground, “Wh-What happened?” he asked them and The Squad looked at each other with concern in their eyes and back at Marco, “We want to know that too. We heard gunshots going off and we ran out of the INN to investigate and the next thing we knew, we found you in the Alley Way unconscious.” said Fio, taking care to look over Marco for any injuries. Marco's mind is in a hazy and no matter how hard he tried to recall what happened, he ended up with a violent headache. “I-I don't remember what happened and if I tried to recall it, I ended up with a terrible headache.” he rubbed the temples with his fingers to see if he can relieve himself of the headache and Tarma put a hand on his shoulder, “Don't worry about it, Major. I'm sure it'll come back to you. Our ride is here and let's get going.” They walked side by side with Marco toward the jeep. There was a foul taste in his mouth he couldn't get rid of and Eri offered him a piece of her gum to get rid of it. Once everyone was in the jeep, they drove off to Head Quarters for the night and Dragunov watched them go till they are nothing but dust in the distance.

[teslatricity]

this is the grand experiment Shallura Week Day 7 - legacy rating: g

this title (and several others this week) brought to you by this song.

Now.

“Hail, Queen Kaiya!”

The hall in the palace was well past capacity, everyone who had been able to squeeze in having arrived hours ago just to secure a place.  As a small holodrone passed overhead she was aware too that half the universe was watching this, that it was being beamed – plus any time delays from bouncing between intergalactic relays – to screens in homes and town squares and who knew where else.  The coronation of the second queen of Altea Resurgent, leader of the Voltron Alliance, was quite a big deal.  When her oldest brother – an assignation based only on a technicality, one that his twin had had quite a lot to say about in the preceding days – announced her, the assembly erupted into cheers.

There were representatives from everyone one of the Alliance systems, too.  Altea and Terra had the biggest delegations, but the Galra were there too (watched closely by palace security, not that Kaiya had thought that necessary, one of her closest uncles had been part Galra himself and had helped repair a lot of fractured relationships) as well as representatives from the Arusians, the Merfolk, the Balmorai, all stretched back in tiers facing the dais she stood on now, clad in the blue and gold of her house and her head adorned with the crown she’d seen her mother wearing at the most formal court occasions.

Standing there, with her brothers a step down and the crowd cheering her name, Kaiya felt an ache in her chest.

If only you could see me.

*

Then.

“Shiro, have you seen—“

Allura stopped in the doorway, hoping she hadn’t disturbed them.  After her meeting with the Terrans had adjourned for the evening she’d gone off in search of her daughter.  Kaiya was growing up so fast, every time Allura turned around it seemed she was a little taller, that she’d learned a new word, that she’d pulled herself up using Shiro’s pants for a handhold and tried to walk.  Reestablishing an intergalactic powerhouse was a lot of work, and Allura worried that she was spending too much time away, that she’d miss something and regret it.

It wasn’t as though Kaiya was without minders; all the paladins had volunteered to watch her when needed, even Pidge.  Allura thought it was more fondness for herself and Shiro and less so about the baby, but it meant that even when both of her parents were called away, little Kaiya had four very eager minders vying for the chance to keep an eye on her for a few doboshes or a day or two.  And when none of them were available, half the ever-growing palace staff would step in.

But none of them could ascribe the same importance to coming upon the scene of Kaiya, standing unsteadily on her own two feet with her fingers in her mouth, watching dubiously as her father knelt a few feet away with his arms outstretched.  She could hear Shiro murmuring encouragement, his words lost to the grandeur of the hall but the tone of them drifting back to her as she, very quietly, began walking up the side of the room behind the soaring crystalline columns.

“You can do it,” she heard her husband say.  “Come on, Kaiya, come to me, you can do it!”

Allura held her breath as she watched Kaiya pull her fingers out of her mouth and determinedly take a step—and immediately sit down hard, a little oop escaping her.  Allura sighed, feeling a little guilty at being so relieved.  She hadn’t missed it after all.

“Mama!” Kaiya said excitedly, pointing, and Shiro turned, smiling at her as she approached at last.

“Mama’s here,” he announced, and stood so he could wrap an arm around Allura’s shoulders and kiss her cheek.  “We’ve been trying this walking thing all day.  No joy yet, though.”

“Yet.” Allura turned so she could kiss Shiro’s mouth—never miss an opportunity to kiss him she’d promised herself—then pulled away to scoop her daughter up into her arms.  “But she’s like us, our little star.  She won’t give up.”

*

Now.

“Good job, Sister,” Fionn said when they’d all retreated to an antechamber off the great hall.  He’d run his hands through his silver hair at some point and it stuck up in all directions, and one of the attendants was trying desperately to get to him so they could fix it.  “You didn’t flub one word in the litany.”

“Considering that’s the first time it’s actually been said since our grandfather was king, I’d say you did pretty well,” his twin brother Alair added.  “Though I can see why Mother didn’t want much to do with it.”

“She was also crowned right be fore the final battles of the Galra War, they didn’t really have time.”  Kaiya couldn’t help reaching up to feel the cool metal and glowing gems on her crown, wondering. “But thank you both.  And… I’m glad you were both here today.”

“Where else would we be?”  Fionn looped his arm through one of hers.  “It’s not every day your sister becomes queen of your home.  Besides, Paladin duties aren’t nearly as exhausting as they were when our parents led Voltron, we’re doing the equivalent of… what did Uncle Lance call it?  Rescuing cats from trees.”

“That’s a good thing,” Alair added.  He took Kaiya’s other arm.  “I wouldn’t want either of you in danger.”

As they walked from the great hall toward the complex of ballrooms and smaller reception halls where the official palace gala would be held, Kaiya let her brothers steer her.  Hanging on the wall of the hallway they were walking through was a painting – Kaiya, seated on a chair, and her mother and father each with a hand resting on her shoulder.

*

Then.

“How much longer?”

“Only a little longer, Kai, I promise.”  Shiro rubbed his daughter’s shoulder with his thumb.  She’d been squirming earlier, but he’d bargained with her to get her to sit still for this last series of holoimages and sketches.  Perhaps the deal they’d struck hadn’t been a good idea, because Allura huffed beside him, her hand tight enough to make the pressure receptors in his Galra hand register something.  The last time she’d held his hand like this she’d been in the middle of labor, so she had to be displeased now.

When the artist announced that she’d gotten all the references she needed, Kaiya was out of her chair and down the hall toward her room before anyone could get a word out.  Not wanting to but knowing he should try to smooth things over with Allura, Queen of Altea Resurgent, love of his life, he turned to look at her and found her with her arms crossed.

“Allura...”

“No.”

“Love, please—“

“I’m not the one who promised she could fly the Black lion if she sat still for the artist,” Allura told him.  “Besides, I don’t feel like I could keep up with a seven-year-old right now if I wanted to.”

Her hands went to her stomach, already beginning to curve (with twins), and even though she was scowling she still pulled his hands to her abdomen, fingers lightly brushing his knuckles.  He was forgiven, even if she didn’t want to act like he was.

“I promise you we’ll be careful.”

“No paladin drills.  Especially not the one where you fly right at the ground.”

“No paladin drills, got it.”

“And no spinning.  Neither of you are strapped in but she won’t be wearing as much armor as you.”

“No fun, dangerous stunt flying, got it—“

“Shiro.”

“Don’t worry.  If I try to do something, I’m pretty sure Black won’t let me.  She’s just as fond of Kaiya as we are.”

Later, when Kaiya completely ignored him in order to pull them into a loop and Black, the traitor, roared happily and allowed it, Shiro could only clutch his wonderful, headstrong daughter tightly in his arms and smile.  

*

Now.

She was glad that Alair had made her a datachip with the names, faces, and applicable rank information of the guests at the gala.  Much like her mother had, Kaiya had spent hours with it, until she could at least remember one thing about each guest; no mean feat, since at this one there were well over two hundred, and this was small.

They’d tried to keep it that way, though.  Society rules demanded some of the guests be invited, but Kaiya had prevailed on the Master of Ceremonies that all the adopted children of her Uncles Lance and Keith be invited, that a good portion of the Galra delegation be invited, and that at least some of the guests not be from the regrowing nobility class.  She didn’t want to be an untouchable queen, appearing only to be subject to the whims of those who had the money to get close.  She wanted to be like her mother, who had always found time for even the smallest complaint.

But it meant that the guest list had swelled, and so Kaiya had dutifully gone through with her memorization.  After she’d gotten through a good chunk of the noble guests and dignitaries from other systems without slipping up once, she sat back in her chair and sighed.

“Kaiya! Kai!”

This counted as a break.  She smiled and stood as a group of nine beings of various races and ages detached and swarmed around her, speaking three different languages and all trying to hug her at once.  They weren’t blood, but she’d always grown up with her uncles’ adopted children being referred to as cousins, so family they would be.

“I’m glad you all could come,” she said happily, and spent the next half an hour catching up as much as she could.  When she said she had to excuse herself, it was with more than a little sadness.  One of her cousins flew Black and it would technically have been proper to spend more time with her, but Kaiya’s sense of duty prevailed.  Her cousins would be staying for a while, spending time with their sibling and seeing how New Altea had grown since they’d last been here.

She mingled with the rest of the guests after that, but late into the night when people had started to drift away back to their lodgings, Kaiya also took her leave.  She had one more thing she wanted to do.

*

Then.

The passenger pod was quiet, save for the beeping of the consoles and their breathing.  Shiro’s movements lacked their usual fluidity; even now, nearly two decafebes after the end of the war, he kept in good practice with any craft he might be expected to fly, but this time Allura could excuse him. There were extenuating circumstances.

“We’ll find them,” Allura told him.  “The Castle of Lions isn’t exactly hard to track for us.”

“I know.”  Even his voice was clipped short, but with her, Shiro had long since felt comfortable showing her how he really felt, rather than hiding his insecurities and worries away to keep them from hurting anyone else.  “But they’re still our children.”

“Which is exactly why I know they’ll be all right.  Believe me, I fully intend to confine them to the palace until they’ve all reached the age of majority, but I don’t think they’re necessarily wrong to do this.”

He finished setting up the scanners on the pod and sighed, leaning back and taking her hand as the pod reached out across local space, trying to find the trail the Castle had left behind.  “I don’t either,” he replied softly.  “I know you weren’t happy with the decision to wait and see what happens on Ollaran, and I wasn’t either – if it goes south, then we look bad – but they’re our children, Allura, and...”

Shiro sighed, bringing her fingers to his lips, then his cheek, twisting so he could face her.  Allura ran a thumb across his lips, leaning forward to kiss him herself.

“We raised them to do the right thing always,” she said gently.  “That ultimately, it was their own heart that they had to follow.  They’re doing exactly as we taught them.”

“We did some pretty reckless things because they were the right thing.”

“I would say stealing the Castle of Lions, with the lions inside it, and flying off to face down an entire army on their own is pretty reckless.  But we’ve both felt the effects of what happens when someone doesn’t act when they have the opportunity.”

She kissed him again and felt him melt into her touch.  Even now, so far in, he still made her heart do flips and brought a smile to her face and made her happy, happier than she’d ever thought possible that first night she’d spent out of the cryopod.   They’d had children, for the love of the Ancient Ones.  Three beautiful, smart, headstrong, reckless children whose hearts, Allura was sure, always pointed true north.

Allura felt a tug in her chest just before the console beeped, and at Shiro’s questioning look, confirmed the coordinates and throttled up on the pod.

“Can we confine them to the palace after they’ve reached majority?” Shiro asked.

“It’s very, very tempting...”

*

Now.

The palace was quiet down here, sounds from above muffled.  As a girl she’d been afraid of the Memorial, of its echoing spaces and dim lights.  Now she carefully selected sticks of incense from the little tray near the door and started down the corridor.

Coran’s niche was first, and Kaiya bowed her head in respect before she lit incense for him.  One of her earliest memories was of sitting in his lap as they waited to be brought in to meet her newborn brothers, and there were so many more, stories and tales of the old Altea and her grandfather.  He’d passed surrounded by the paladins and the queen he’d known and loved.

Each of the paladins had their own niche, even if their remains were buried elsewhere.  Hunk was actually buried on a Balmera, the one that had saved her parents and their friends so many times with its crystals.  She remembered Hunk fondly as a warm and supportive man, always with a treat ready for hungry children, who had taught her perseverance and the strength that came from friendships.  He’d had a family of his own, but a small holoimage of him was in the niche, and she watched the smoke curl up before it before moving on to Pidge, who had always insisted on being called that even when Kaiya had known her real name was Katie.  I’ve saved the universe as Pidge, and I’m gonna die as Pidge, she’d said.  Her children had been her inventions, her publications, her students.  From her, Kaiya had learned to never stop questioning.

Keith and Lance had been her closest ‘uncles’, who had taught her surfing and swordfighting and storytelling, the right way to eat pizza, and that sometimes you had to stop fighting, step back, and realize that you had far more in common with your rival than you thought.  She ran her fingers over their names carved in stone, over the intricate glowing design that linked them together, delaying something she’d wanted to do all day but now felt nervous about.  They’d have pushed her though, her uncles, and so Kaiya turned toward the circular room at the end of the corridor, her last six sticks of incense clutched in her hand.  She paused outside to place three each in the two niches by the door, but didn’t light them just yet.  She’d go inside first.

The lights in the room dimmed, a shaft illuminating a silver platform in the center of the room.  When she approached, two figures appeared, and the room took on the appearance of a field of wildflowers that she remembered from a childhood trip to Terra.

“Kaiya,” her father said.  He was older than the image of him as a paladin in the niche outside; silver at his temples had joined the white hair growing from the scar on his forehead, and there were more lines, but his smile was always the same.  Kaiya wished she could get one of his hugs, bury her face in her father’s chest and feel him squeeze until she laughed, but…

Her mother, too, looked older, her eyes wiser, the corners crinkled, lines around her mouth.  Her white hair was loose around her shoulders rather than bound up, and her hologram wore the same crown that Kaiya did right now.

“I’m so proud of you, little star,” her mother said, stepping off the platform.  Both of them came to hover as close to her as they could.

“We both are.”  Her father smiled and Kaiya returned it, knowing they were mirror images.  “We never doubted for a second.”

“Not even when we stole the Castle and—“

“Not a second,” Queen Allura said firmly.  “Although we were both upset that you and your brothers strong-armed your cousins into that.”

“But it worked out.”  Her father and mother could hold hands but Kaiya kept her own folded in front of her.  “How are they doing, these new paladins?  And your brothers, too?”

She talked herself hoarse, telling them about her brothers – Fionn the Blue Paladin, Alair the accomplished diplomat, both of them with their own drama and their own goals.  She talked about her cousins, about how Klorva had stumbled into her role as Black Paladin but was proving herself up to the task.

“How does she feel about having a Galra pilot again?” her father asked, not specifying the she but not having to.

“She says Klorva reminds her of another one of her paladins.  The one who saved her, and was saved.”

It wasn’t until Kaiya’s earrings beeped with a soft reminder of the time that she realized how late it had gotten, and how early her day was going to start.  “I’ve got to go,” she whispered.  “But I don’t want to.  How am I supposed to do this without you?”

Her mother lay her hands over Kaiya’s cheeks, and the intention of the gesture was enough even though she couldn’t feel them. “You will be a wonderful queen,” she said.  “You will make mistakes, you will have doubts, but this is part of being alive. Learn, ask for advice, do not accept at face value things that seem too good to be true. But trust yourself most of all.”

“I know you,” her father said next.  She saw his holographic hand resting on her shoulder and felt it, even though he couldn’t really touch her.  “I know you have a good heart and a great mind.  And if you ever need advice, we’ll always be right here.”

“We love you,” her mother said.  “Our beautiful daughter, we taught you everything we know.  You have all the tools you need.”

“Go,” her father told her.  “Be great.”

Swiping at her eyes, Kaiya bowed as the holographic projection shut off, and she was left in the plain stone room again.  “I love you too,” she whispered.  She lit the sticks of incense, bowed again, and left.

The gala was probably still in full swing – she could see people moving in the gardens below, strung about with lights – but Kaiya was tired, and tomorrow her rule would truly begin, and she wanted to peel off her dress and get some sleep.

In the distance, the five towers of the Castle of Lions glowed against the dark mountains behind them.  The Castle hadn’t left its docking platform in three years, and the galaxy was at peace.

[deadliest-girl-alive-writes]

Meant to be

Hello, everyone! Crazy fangirl here, with a Lucy x Schroeder. This is the first time I write for this fandom, so I hope you’ll like it!

She had stopped coming in November of their junior year.

First, she missed a couple days of the week. Then she would only come on the weekends. Soon it was once every other week, and then, he screwed up. He screwed up big time.

Now, the only times he would see her were in school, usually reading a book, or writing something on one of her notebooks. A curl of her now long black hair would fall over her eyes and she would tuck it behind her ear, never looking away from whatever she was seeing. He always wondered how she never crashed with anyone or anything, but she moved swiftly through the halls. Once in a while, she would feel his stare and would look up to find him. He would smile and wave, but she would just look another way, making him feel even worse. God, why did he had to do that?

He would also see glimpses of her whenever he was hanging out at her house, with Linus and Charlie. They would be playing video games in the living room, but he could hear her footsteps as she paced around different rooms of the house. Sometimes he would turn around to say hi, but she would leave as fast as she arrived.

"Just give up man, she's too busy with Harvard to even say hi like a decent human being," Linus said when he saw his friend's hand up as he looked to the direction where his sister had disappeared. "She's been obsessed with the application, all the different essays she has to write. Sometimes she will go days without sleeping. It's insane"

The pianist understood. He had also been through a rough time with his college applications, and so he tried to excuse the girl's dismissal of his existence. But he would never admit to his friends that he knew other reasons of why Lucy ignored him.

This went on for a while. The girl applied a silence treatment, acting like Schroeder was never there. He would try, really hard, to talk to her, but every time she saw him, she would turn around and leave, lowering the boy's hope of a reconciliation. But then, December came around, and with that, so did the Christmas play.

Every year, their school organized a play based on a Christmas tale. That year, they had played it safe and selected 'A Christmas carol'. It wasn't a big production, but it had caught Lucy's attention for reasons he had yet to understand. She had volunteered to work in the production and had been assigned the role of assistant director. Schroeder, on the other hand, was in charge of coordinating the school's band for a Christmas' songs presentation before the play, along with some other seniors. Not that they didn't have a teacher supervising them, but they had been given a lot of freedom. He was also responsible of some of the music during the play, but that was a smaller task he didn't mind about too much.

At first, they hadn't interacted, but as the date came close, general rehearsals had to be held, forcing the girl to break her silent treatment. Though she only talked to him when necessary, and in a really dry tone, the blond felt that the simple fact she was speaking to him was a success. He would try to further the conversation, cracking a joke every now and then, but the girl would just roll her eyes and leave.

As time went on, he became desperate for more interaction. He missed Lucy going to his house every day to hear him play. He missed her leaning over his piano, asking him absurd questions and making crazy assumptions about their future. He missed her nagging, her jealousy whenever he talked to another girl. He missed her cheerful voice, her encouragement whenever he felt like giving up. He missed her. And now, a year later, the sole thought of the old times pained him to no end.

His friends didn't take long enough to notice what was wrong. When Lucy first stopped going to his house, he said he was relieved. It was what he had always wanted, right? And they believed him. But they saw his mood shift. He was more irritable, he would reject hanging out with them. Hell, he even forgot Beethoven's birthday again.

At first, they tried to distract him, going out, setting him up with a few girls, but it was no use. They couldn't even get him to admit that he had a problem, let alone that it was about Lucy. They even tried to talk to the girl, but she would leave as soon as the subject was brought up Soon enough, they all became busy with deciding their college applications, that they didn't have time to worry about helping him out. Nevertheless, they did, and they tried to formulate a plan to at least get them to talk.

It came to fruition the day of the play. After Schroeder's presentation, Charlie asked him to get something from a storage closet for the play. At the same time Violet, Lucy's best friend, told her their teacher had left her script in the same closet. Once they were both there, Linus 'accidentally' closed and broke the handle. He said he would try to get help, but due to the fact that half the school was doing something play-related, it would be hard.

"Great. Thanks for your help blockhead!" Lucy said, sarcastically. "Now I'll miss the play, and all that hard work would have been for nothing" she muttered, sitting down on the floor, as she crossed her arms.

The boy was in a weird position. Yes, he finally had time alone with her, but at the same time, he had no idea of what to say. He had been begging god for that moment for the past year, and now? He was completely blank. "Um, so we're stuck in here, huh?" He said, getting no response. "What've you been up to these days?"

The girl sighed. "Trying to get into Harvard. Not that you care, or am I wrong?" She responded, shooting at his weak spot.

He immediately remembered the day. It was a cold day, a few days after thanksgiving. Lucy hadn't gone to his house for two weeks, so it surprised him to see her in his living room after he finished his homework. He assumed his mom had let her in, as there was a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk on a table near his piano. "Hey" she had said. "I'm so sorry I've been missing, but applying into the schools I want to go is harder than I thought, and it takes a lot of my time. But, I'm here now!"

For some reason, Schroeder was mad at her, but he couldn't quite figure out, till later when he reflected on the situation. In the heat of the moment, he lashed out at her. "And I'm supposed to feel relieved by that? Lucy, I've told you I don't care if you come here. In fact, I don't want you to come here. Go ahead and fill your applications, I don't mind" When he looked into her eyes, he could see her heart shatter, and he regretted everything he had just said. "I-is that so?" She stuttered as her eyes filled with tears. "Well, then maybe I should go" she grabbed her stuff and stormed out, while Schroeder just stood in the middle of his living room, staring at the direction the girl had just left. He didn't go after her. He thought it was for the best, but time soon proved him wrong.

Back in the present, an awkward silence had formed between the two. Schroeder felt uncomfortable, while Lucy just looked annoyed. They remained in silence, the faint sound of the play being the only thing that could be heard when, surprisingly, the girl was the first one to talk.

"Why did you say that?"

Schroeder looked at her, baffled by the sole fact that she was talking to him. He took time to process the question, but not too much that she would think he was ignoring her. "I, I don't know" he responded. "I was mad, I guess"

The girl raised a brow. "Mad? Why would you be mad? You're not the one that got yelled at by your longtime crush" she looked even more annoyed than before. "I know and I'm sorry. But I guess I was frustrated with the fact that you weren't coming as often. I missed you"

That was the phrase that got her attention. "You missed me?" the blond nodded, and the girl smiled, before putting a hand on her mouth to cover it. Schroeder didn't seem to notice, and he continued talking. "Look, I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, considering the fact that I have been a major dick to you for the past 10 years, but I really miss you leaning on my piano while you criticize Beethoven" he chuckled. "So, what do you sa- "he didn't finish talking before he was tackled by the girl in a hug. "Of course! What kind of wife would I be if I didn't support my husband?" she said, mockingly. He laughed and returned the hug.

After a while, they pulled apart and smiled at each other. Looking at Lucy's face, Schroeder realized certain features he hadn't noticed before. Her big black eyes seemed to have a prevailing shimmer. Her lashes, as dark and curly as her hair. She had a wrinkle on her forehead for frowning too much, but it was kind of adorable. He thought she looked beautiful, and man did he want to kiss her.

So he did.

It wasn't a passionate kiss, he just sort of went for it, and he felt really stupid when he received no response. He started to pull apart, formulating an apology in his head, when he felt a pair of hands on his face, pulling him closer. He mimicked her movements, caressing her face, while she moved her hands to his neck.

They pulled apart, gasping for air. They put their foreheads together, as they smiled and stared lovingly at each other. They were too wrapped up in themselves that they didn't notice the door opened, only coming out of their thoughts when they saw a flash of light. They turned around to see their friends smiling. Violet held a camera close their face, while Linus reluctantly handed Charlie a five dollar bill.

"What did I told you? They were meant to be"

[smokydrake]

“Table for Almost Two” | Rafe x Reader | ANGST

WARNINGS: angst, death

WORD COUNT: 1,727

DESCRIPTION: 19 years after you left your ex-husband Rafe Adler, you two find yourselves in the same city of two separate worlds. But the only thing stopping the both of you from new beginnings is how deep past wounds run…

This AU was heavily inspired by Tom Ford’s recent film “Nocturnal Animals” starring Amy Adams and Jake Gyllenhaal. If you haven’t already seen it, I strongly recommend that you do! Tom’s neo-noir motifs are absolutely stunning. I wanted to recreate that atmosphere in this fic; angst is seriously a challenge for me to write. Regardless, it’s something I plan on doing again because bittersweet endings just hurt so good ;-)

Inspired by this song (Table For Two - Abel Korzeniowski)

You hated his father. He was everything like his son, and at the same time, everything but.

Adler Sr. was a man of words. Whether they were true or not, he was a professional– an artist– at the game of language. Wringing, winding, weaving; he turned word into action and everyone thought it came from inside themselves, a righteous figment of self-derived moral intellect.

You were one of those ones in everyone. And perhaps, Rafe was too. But you wouldn’t have known. What you did know was that once, somewhere in your past, you were in love with Rafe Adler, and he with you. You thought that it was enough, and despite the outside forces that tried their hardest to keep you two apart, love would prevail.

You were young then, and so was he.

But the outside forces were not.

They provoked, stalled, waited until your walls were weak and penetrable, and then they planted little seedlings of insecurities in your rose-colored eyes. And when those flowers of doubt began to bloom, that once fiery passion you and your lover shared wilted… and in turn, you two awoke to what was known to be reality.

You found your place in their web of words and you went to it complacently, knowing to an extent that although you didn’t build the destructive trap of thinking on your own, it was a good destructive trap of thinking, and you deserved the web as much as it deserved you.

On late Sunday afternoons, you used to tell Rafe he had his father’s eyes, which you hated saying but loved to notice– at times piercing, other times void and static– but they were always blue. Different shades of blue occasionally, but always a cold hue of unhappiness. And on these late Sunday afternoons, the sun would be at its golden peak, and he would bristle and shroud away from its idealistic stare. That, or he was bristling and shrouding away from yours.

The latter made more sense.

And so the web began to spin.

His father said, “You two fell in love too young. It’s alright, we all do. The only thing that matters is now that you know what’s truly right for him.”

It was a humid summer morning when you left him.

Before the sun was out, before Rafe was awake to see you slip into the silver 1973 Camaro parked out front of the summer beach house. You thought it was cruel; leaving him during your weekend get-away, but the trip was going nowhere to begin with. It was a pathetic attempt at mending what you had left with him, and the longer you let it drag on, the more it seemed to hurt him.

You told yourself you loved him enough to let him go. It was right, pragmatic,sensible. He was the king’s son, and you were the lover that got tangled in his sheets. He, a city prince of belligerent wealth, was lost in your small-town aspirations, your dreams of being a writer, a wielder of the weakest sword. He did not belong in your world, and neither did you in his.

Despite how much he tried to deny it, you knew how much of his father he was. The way he held his chin at a precise tilt, the calculative gleam in his eye, the passive-aggressive push for practicality.

Adler Sr. once whispered to you, “Watch while you still can, darling. He has no place in the world but at the top.”

And at the top he stayed. There were no phone calls, no messages, no letters. Secretly you wondered if he felt relieved; you breaking it off instead of him. It was like watching sand slip from the upper tier of the hourglass– both of you were running out of heart for each other, and it was only the matter of who would be the last grain.

It wasn’t until 19 years later there was an email, sent from Mr. Raphael Adler, CEO and #32 on TIME’s 100 Most Influential People of the Year.

He had heard about your book, #39 on New York Times’ Best Sellers of the Year.

You were in the big city for the month of April, finishing up a few signing events and meet-ups. He was also in the big city, for he owned a quarter of it. He invited you to dinner to congratulate you on your tremendous success.

You knew it was foolish. Every fiber in your body was against it. But you remembered what it was like to rest your forehead against his chin, to feel his breathing against your naked body, his rare, eye-crinkling smile that he hid beneath pale knuckles. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a good night’s sleep. How many times did you read his email?

“Do you fare well with French cuisine? Le Noctambule, Thursday at 7:30. I’d love to see you again.”

Rigid. Poise. Aloof.

“I’d like that very much.”

-

It rained that Thursday at 7:30. You were dressed appropriately for the weather when you climbed into your car and drove yourself to the restaurant.

In your head, you casually introduced yourself, or rather, reintroduced yourself to your former husband. Surely it wasn’t difficult, after all, your bestseller was nothing but a variety of fictional introductions. Wasn’t every chapter an introduction, a new step up the plot ladder, brought up and presented eloquently in its own right? You were an architect of literature now, a player in this game of language, a woman of her words.

But no matter how hard you tried, your greetings came out tacky, distant; “Hello Rafe, it’s been so long.” “Rafe Adler, wonderful seeing you again.” “Hi, Rafe. I’m sorry I left because your father scared me.” “Rafe Adler, how the hell have you been?”

The parking lot was vast, lined with glossy red vehicles accompanied by tall men dressed in black and white. Chauffeurs snapped open thick umbrellas and car doors, ladies dripping in velvet and satin floated up the wet steps to the soft orchestral music, oblong potted trees guarded the polished front doors under the dim warm light. They kept a protective eye out for outsiders, folks who didn’t belong, folks who were lost and needed guidance and direction to a place far away and out of sight.

Never before did the coat on your shoulders feel as transparent, the dress on your hips look as cheap, the hands at your sides turn as ice-cold.  You stood in the restaurant lobby, behind a modish couple of grandeur and opulence, who stood behind the glossy marble counter of judgment, which stood before a smart cardboard-cutout hostess with painted expressions of maturity.

What were you doing here?

The woman in front of you with the white fur skin craned her jeweled throat ever so slightly, as if she were inquiring the room, but you knew her moneyed eyes were on you.

What is she doing here?

They seemed to say. You dolefully tucked away the last bit of self-esteem you had left.

Rafe

He sat at the far end of the room. He was more handsome than you remembered, if that was even possible. Dressed in a white tux and hair smoothed back, he lounged in the crimson upscale section of the dining revenue where the chairs were inlaid with gold engravings and the tables sprouted tall flutes of Dom Pérignon.

But you didn’t know that it was Dom Pérignon in those glasses, because that just wasn’t of your bourgeois knowledge. Nor was the fact that Mr. Raphael Adler, CEO and #32 on TIME’s 100 Most Influential People of the Year, owned Le Noctambule of New York City, New York, as well as Le Noctambule of Marseille, France. Neither was the fact that you now stood before the marble counter of judgment, and the restaurant hostess with the owl eyes wondered if you were in the right place.

In your mind, you were not.

How stupid

Did he see you, standing at the front lobby?

They’re all looking at you

He didn’t see you. You wondered if there was a time when he ever did.

You left him for a reason

You didn’t see him at the table. You saw a man who looked too much like his father.

“A name please, Mademoiselle?”

No.

You wouldn’t make the same mistake. You were not going to get caught up in a continuous loop of this game. You ran out of heart for it a long time ago.

So you went outside, where it was raining. It was dark outside and the ground was wet; the neon red of the traffic lights cast an ominous sanguine in the distance away from this place. Tuxedo-clad men stared you down behind silver-rimmed frames and thick cigars as you got in your ride where it was not raining, and watched with disinterest as you drove home. Outside the glass windows of your car, it started to rain harder, but that was fine by you, because it drowned out your thoughts almost cathartically. Your foot pressed hard against the pedal, until the step under your heel hit the floor.

The rain was a blur against your windshield and vision– or were those your tears? You couldn’t tell. Rain was everywhere, beating your roof like falling rocks in time with the accelerating rev of the spinning engine. Wet rain splashed on the wetter pavement. The ground became oil. You hit the brakes. Nothing. Nothing stopped: not the rain, not your tears, not the car–

Dear God, the car

The pavement was underneath you

Above you

Underneath you again

Your seat was too tight; it was getting harder and harder to breathe

Just a wet, searing heat and the smell of burning metal–

Then there was no pavement, there was no sound, and there was no rain.

Nothing but web: soft, destructive, and ultimately where you belonged.

His eyes– or his father’s? For God’s sake did it even matter– flashed somewhere behind your fleshy purple eyelids, and for once they gleamed with borderline happiness.

You should’ve known better.

And somewhere in the present and your past, Rafe waited at the small table, sheltered from the rain by dim candlelight and the mute clinking of silverware, wondering if his heart was wrong to want to see you again.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Wednesday, may 6 of 2020 with Proverbs 6 and Psalm 6 accompanied by Psalm 49 for the 49th day of Spring and Psalm 127 for day 127 of the year

[Proverbs 6]

My son, if you cosign a loan for an acquaintance

and guarantee his debt,

you’ll be sorry that you ever did it!

You’ll be trapped by your promise

and legally bound by the agreement.

So listen carefully to my advice:

Quickly get out of it if you possibly can!

Swallow your pride, get over your embarrassment,

and go tell your “friend” you want your name off that contract.

Don’t put it off, and don’t rest until you get it done.

Rescue yourself from future pain

and be free from it once and for all.

You’ll be so relieved that you did!

[Life Lessons]

When you’re feeling lazy,

come and learn a lesson from this tale of the tiny ant.

Yes, all you lazybones, come learn

from the example of the ant and enter into wisdom.

The ants have no chief, no boss, no manager—

no one has to tell them what to do.

You’ll see them working and toiling all summer long,

stockpiling their food in preparation for winter.

So wake up, sleepyhead. How long will you lie there?

When will you wake up and get out of bed?

If you keep nodding off and thinking, “I’ll do it later,”

or say to yourself, “I’ll just sit back awhile and take it easy,”

just watch how the future unfolds!

By making excuses you’ll learn what it means to go without.

Poverty will pounce on you like a bandit

and move in as your roommate for life.

Here’s another life lesson to learn

from observing the wayward and wicked man.

You can tell they are lawless.

They’re constant liars, proud deceivers,

full of clever ploys and convincing plots.

Their twisted thoughts are perverse,

always with a scheme to stir up trouble,

and sowing strife with every step they take.

But when calamity comes knocking on their door,

suddenly and without warning they’re undone—

broken to bits, shattered, with no hope of healing.

[Seven Things God Hates]

There are six evils God truly hates

and a seventh that is an abomination to him:

Putting others down while considering yourself superior,

spreading lies and rumors,

spilling the blood of the innocent,

plotting evil in your heart toward another,

gloating over doing what’s plainly wrong,

spouting lies in false testimony,

and stirring up strife between friends.

These are entirely despicable to God!

My son, obey your father’s godly instruction

and follow your mother’s life-giving teaching.

Fill your heart with their advice

and let your life be shaped by what they’ve taught you.

Their wisdom will guide you wherever you go

and keep you from bringing harm to yourself.

Their instruction will whisper to you at every sunrise

and direct you through a brand-new day.

For truth is a bright beam of light

shining into every area of your life,

instructing and correcting you to discover the ways to godly living.

[Truth or Consequences]

Truth will protect you from immorality

and from the promiscuity of another man’s wife.

Your heart won’t be enticed by her flatteries

or lust over her beauty—

nor will her suggestive ways conquer you.

Prostitutes reduce a man to poverty,

and the adulteress steals your soul—

she may even cost you your life!

For how can a man light his pants on fire and not be burned?

Can he walk over hot coals of fire and not blister his feet?

What makes you think that you can sleep with another man’s wife

and not get caught?

Do you really think you’ll get away with it?

Don’t you know it will ruin your life?

You can almost excuse a thief if he steals to feed his own family.

But if he’s caught, he still has to pay back what he stole sevenfold;

his punishment and fine will cost him greatly.

Don’t be so stupid as to think

you can get away with your adultery.

It will destroy your life, and you’ll pay the price

for the rest of your days.

You’ll discover what humiliation, shame,

and disgrace are all about,

for no one will ever let you forget what you’ve done.

A husband’s jealousy makes a man furious;

he won’t spare you when he comes to take revenge.

Try all you want to talk your way out of it—

offer him a bribe and see if you can manipulate him

with your money.

Nothing will turn him aside

when he comes to you with vengeance in his eyes!

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 6 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 6]

For the worship leader. A song of David accompanied by the lyre.

O Eternal One, don’t punish me in Your anger

or harshly correct me.

Show me grace, Eternal God. I am completely undone.

Bring me back together, Eternal One. Mend my shattered bones.

My soul is drowning in darkness.

How long can You, the Eternal, let things go on like this?

Come back, Eternal One, and lead me to Your saving light.

Rescue me because I know You are truly compassionate.

I’m alive for a reason—I can’t worship You if I’m dead.

If I’m six feet under, how can I thank You?

I’m exhausted. I cannot even speak, my voice fading as sighs.

Every day ends in the same place—lying in bed, covered in tears,

my pillow wet with sorrow.

My eyes burn, devoured with grief;

they grow weak as I constantly watch for my enemies.

All who are evil, stay away from me

because the Eternal hears my voice, listens as I cry.

The Eternal God hears my simple prayers;

He receives my request.

All who seek to destroy me will be humiliated;

they will turn away and suddenly crumble in shame.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 6 (The Voice)

[Psalm 49]

For the worship leader. A song of the sons of Korah.

Listen up, everyone!

All you who reside in this world, give an ear!

Everyone—rich and poor,

young and old, wise and foolish, humble and mighty—

My mouth will overflow with wisdom;

the reflections of my heart will guide you to understand the nature of life.

I will tune my ear to the words of a proverb;

to the sounds of a harp, I will reveal my riddle.

Why should I be afraid when dark evils swirl about me,

when I am walking among the sin of evildoers—

Those who depend on their own fortunes,

who boast about their earthly riches?

One person can’t grant salvation to another

or make a payment to the True God for another.

Redeeming a life is costly;

no premium is enough, ever enough,

That one’s body might live on forever

and never fear the grave’s decay.

Everyone knows that even the wisest ones die,

perishing together with the foolish and the stupid.

For all die—beggars and kings, fools and wise men.

Their wealth remains behind for others.

Although they wish to dwell in fine houses forever,

their graves are their real resting places.

Their homes are for all future generations,

yet for a while they have named lands after themselves.

[No one, regardless of how rich or important, can live forever;

he is] just like the animals that perish and decay.

This is the destiny of those foolish souls who have faith only in themselves;

this will be the end of those happy to follow in their ways.

[pause]

The fate of fools is the grave, and just like sheep,

death will feast on them.

The righteous will rule over them at dawn,

their bodies, their outward forms, rotting in the grave

far away from their great mansions.

But God will reach into the grave and save my life from its power.

He will fetch me and take me into His eternal house.

[pause]

Do not be afraid of the rich and powerful

as their prestige and honor grow,

For they cannot take anything with them when they die.

Their fame and glory will not follow them into the grave.

During their lives, they seek every blessing and advantage

because others praise you when you’ve done well.

But they will soon join their ancestors, for all of time,

among the tombs of the faithless—a place of no light.

Anyone who is rich or important without understanding

is just like the animals that perish and decay.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 49 (The Voice)

[Psalm 127]

God and His Gifts

A song of the stairway, by King Solomon

If God’s grace doesn’t help the builders,

they will labor in vain to build a house.

If God’s mercy doesn’t protect the city,

all the sentries will circle it in vain.

It really is senseless to work so hard

from early morning till late at night,

toiling to make a living for fear of not having enough.

God can provide for his lovers even while they sleep!

Children are God’s love-gift; they are heaven’s generous reward.

Children born to a young couple will one day rise to protect

and provide for their parents.

Happy will be the couple who has many of them!

A household full of children will not bring shame on your name

but victory when you face your enemies,

for your offspring will have influence and honor

to prevail on your behalf!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 127 (The Passion Translation)

[versatilepoetry]

Ignite The Lamp Of Humanity

For every wish of goodness that diffused from your soul- praying to God to bless everyone with happiness, bliss, peace and immortal love- even as your friends and foes virulently abused you, For every bountifully fresh sapling that you planted into barren soil; and all those others that you dreamt of sowing in fathomess fecund landscapes of mud, For every handshake of yours with complete strangers; whom you embraced in your times of happiness and crippling duress alike- for being a part of the same Universe that you lived in, For every song of oneness that emanated from the innermost realms of your heart- disseminating the message of a benign existence- even as living beings all around deliberately turned into sadistic parasites, For every droplet of your blood that you donated for your fellow beings in distress- without worrying about your own bones which had started to bizarrely display more than your skin, For every helping hand that you lent to those without sight to cross the cacophonic buzzing street- leaving them to their destination in spirit of undefeated humane brotherhood, For every morsel of your food that you shared with all those starving- and then miraculously felt your very own stomach to be replenished without a grain- but solely with the wand of selflessness, For every wounded animal on the street that you tried to resuscitate with your love; when everyone walking beside presumed it to have attained its veritable grave, For every negatively nagged comment upon you that you transformed into an optimistic opportunity- accommodating one and in your diminutive dwelling- which was palatial with your love, For every trail of yours that unflinchingly fought the most wretchedly asphyxiating of odds- just to ensure that the truthful voice of every God-gifted existence prevailed, For every morbidly stagnating piece of canvas that you splashed with myriad colors and hues of a burgeoning existence- as the planet around you unraveled in its most inscrutably magical shapes and forms, For every unnecessary complexity of a frazzled existence- that you solved with such child-like ease- with the universal quintessential elements of symbiotic existence, For every inconsolably wailing infant that you hugged close to your heart- lending it your name; surname and astronomical care- after its biological parents hadn't the courage to accept it for being a girl, For every bit of happiness that you spontaneously triggered amidst a pall of robotically commercial gloom- by being just as how the Creator had sent you upon the planet divine and unpretentiously natural, For every ounce of manipulative currency that you burnt- not letting anything besmirch your path of friendship and eternal love- as Love was the most priceless gift from the Lord Divine, For every bit of infallible determination that you so blissfully transmitted- inspiring every bit of human impairment to become a blessing to survive, For every poetic verse that you evolved out of sheer and vapid nothingness- to perpetuate drearily beleaguered bits of survival with the scepter of magical newness, For every bit of informality that you perpetuated wherever you went- that relieved people of their unduly worries as in you they found a friend for life - who would never ever betray them the slightest, May the entire mortal world join you in your every philanthropic conquest; then and together become a unified voice of love; a unified spirit of existence which knew no religion; caste; color; creed or tribe- but which only arose in uninhibited camaraderie to ignite the lamp of humanity

[lavila27]

Downton Abbey: the movie

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne!” 

Full of emotion and fan satisfaction, the television show of Downton Abbey came to a beautiful conclusion. With tears of joy and sadness, I watched the final episode one week before seeing the new film. It ended very well (which rarely happens with tv anymore), so naturally I became apprehensive if the movie would live up to the expectacion it had set for itself. Of course, as any fan would know, Downton Abbey is different. It’s a cut above the rest. Rarely does a series go on to make a feature film but this one did. For this reason, I was feeling confidently optimistic.

***SPOILERS AHEAD***

I suppose this is a little off topic but I remember when each new Harry Potter film came out. There was a special feeling each time the iconic “Hedwig’s Theme” would slowly start and we would pick up where we left off as if meeting an old friend again. I cannot explain how happy I was that Downton Abbey began in a similar fashion. The first few notes of the theme song played and I was instantly brought home to Downton. It was really quite a perfect beginning with a mix of subdued familiarity and new excitement. What is this message? Who is from? Who is it for? Of course we all knew where it was going. And just like that, we see Mr. Barrow and the staff of Downton. I’ll be honest, the goosebumps and happy tears weren’t far away.

I appreciate that the film got off to a running start with everyone and everything right where we left them. The characters were living their normal lives joyfully uprooted by the news that the King and Queen would be visiting Downton Abbey! I applaud the talented Mr. Julian Fellowes for coming up with a brilliant premise for this movie. What better way to rejoin our upstairs and downstairs family but to follow them on this journey? Certainly with a royal visit there would be much to do and each character would most definitely be highlighted. There would be the formalities of the Crawley Family: planning, hosting, and attending all the royal events. And all of the staff would have great responsibility that would be of utmost importance during such a time: seeing to every corner of the house for cleanliness, perfecting food and serving, seeing to every task with great detail and efficiency. Everyone would need to be at the top of their game. 

One of the thoughts that passed through my head as each storyline developed was: well, this has to wrap up within two hours!  I enjoy a bit of drama as much as the next person but waiting an entire season or even two or three for an arc to sort itself out can be torturous for emotionally-invested fans. The freedom and justice for Mr. & Mrs. Bates… a happy ending for Edith… Daisy to stop whining… fans waited a long time for all of these things over 6 seasons. So when Tom got mixed with a troublemaker or Daisy made her beau jealous or Anna noticed items were stolen or Edith’s dress turned into a disaster or the Downton staff and royal staff butted heads or Mr. Barrow was arrested or a mysterious maid was in the middle of an heir scandal…..I was relieved to know that all loose ends would be tied sooner rather than later. 

I must say that there was a comfort in the transition from television to movie. It felt as if I was watching another episode, like normal, on my couch at home (partly because of the luxury recliners at my local theater) but on a larger scale. I liked knowing these characters and even the storyteller well enough to know where everything was going. I think it’s refreshing to mostly see the next part coming before it happens. The storytelling is seamless and naturally progressing, it’s so easy to enjoy a movie like this! Often times, shock value comes at a cost of mediocrity in other parts of a project. How many times have you watched a movie that had an awesome ending but you’ll probably never see it again? That’s because the end doesn’t justify the means. Downton Abbey is a guilty pleasure for a reason. Yes, it’s basically a british soap opera but rich in content. It’s self-indulgent to see the love story develop, the underdog prevail, good beat evil, and know an end is never really over. 

I was so glad to see the entire cast come back together for this. Personally I think any one of them would have been noticeably missing. Albeit tiny, I had hope that maybe Matthew or Edith would make an appearance in a dream or flashback. Or a visit from Rose. After seeing the movie though, I’m fine without having that. It was splendid just the way it was. Plus, it was focused mostly on being cheerful during the duration of the film. I was also thrilled to see where their lives picked up at. I suspect around three years had passed. The Bates’ son was a toddler, Mary’s new child had been born, and Daisy and Andrew were talking about getting married. Now with where we’re leaving it, it would be a joy to see what happens if/when we ever meet these characters again. 

Now as for some favorites: The opening segment was among my favorite scenes. I suppose mostly because I was in disbelief that this was actually happening but as I said before I really did love the way it was set up. The music, the escalation of wonder watching the transportation of this letter, the cinematography of “Downton Abbey” aka Highclere Castle, and the introduction reintroduction of old characters! I practically wanted to do intro applause for all of them. I couldn’t stop smiling for a solid five minutes into the movie. 

Did anyone else get a kick out of seeing Maggie Smith and Imelda Staunton at odds again? I’m not sure if it was intentional or maybe I’m just reaching a bit, but was that a Harry Potter reference thrown in there? When Lady Bagshaw and Violet greet each other in front of the house one of them say something like, “I hope this visit will be better than the last time we saw one another.” As we know, the last time the two actresses were on screen together, it was in the middle of a war. 

Speaking of scenes that remind me of Harry Potter, I rather enjoyed the secret meeting of the Downton staff to take back the house. There was something epic about it but in great spirits! Similarly, the scene where Molesley says that it was the Downton staff that were serving. I didn’t know whether to beam in pride for Molesley’s pride, to look away from the poor fellow’s misery, or just as I did… laugh to tears at the awkwardness! Might I add, I also loved seeing the staff’s etiquette at it’s very best. When the women saw the men off to serve the King and Queen for dinner, I nearly wept at the honor shining through. 

Although I was tremendously disappointed to see so little of Matthew Goode, I am grateful that he was featured at all. His scenes were worth the wait though! It seems like such a small detail but I rather liked seeing him run up the stairs to his wife. Seeing them reunite and kiss just shows how much this couple truly love and care for each other. And how could I not mention the ball as one of my favorites? The pomp and circumstance of it all! I got chills watching the dancing and hearing the music. I didn’t think I’d ship Tom with anyone else but I actually really like Lucy. I like her story and the chemistry the two have together. The footage of them dancing was gorgeous! 

Possibly my favorite scene of the whole film was the heart-to-heart conversation between Mary and her beloved granny. The tears were so heartfelt, who could not cry? That whole scene felt so true and real. I thought it was a beautiful way to end along with the final bit between Mr. & Mrs. Carson. Downton will go forward, the Crawley family will remain, and all will be well. 

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?” Surely not! It goes without saying but I highly recommend racing over to your local movie theater to see Downton Abbey while it’s still in cinemas. You have to see this movie on the big screen. It really added to the already exquisite pageantry. Buy tickets here and check out the trailer below!

[thebathgolfclub]

The Golfer Who Died And Came Back To Life

Source: Golf Digest By Max Adler

Lightning won’t strike the same place twice, but what about a higher force? If one exists, it’d be hard to say it hasn’t taken some swings at the third hole at Kennett Square Golf & Country Club near Philadelphia.

There, during three months in 2012, a straightforward, slightly elevated tee box to a downhill par-3 green, framed by two bunkers and a backdrop of oak, transformed into a stage for the unfurling of all life’s tragedy and comedy. Vic Dupuis, now 57 and still playing to an 8, can’t get to the third tee without taking a moment. He just stares at the ground.

“When you tell people the story, they just look at you and say no way. But it’s true. I was there to witness all of it,” says Jeff Hollander, a member for 25 years and the father of the current women’s club champion.

It was a July Friday, and Dupuis—normally an outgoing and positive person—was harried from battling traffic returning from a business meeting in Harrisburg. He wolfed a turkey wrap in his car and ran to the first tee with shoes untied. His oldest daughter was moving to a new apartment, and he felt conflicted about not being there to help. But he’d committed to a partner, his neighbor Tom Henry, to play in The Devil’s, a much-ritualized club event featuring six holes of alternate shot, six holes of scramble and six of better ball (6-6-6). Dupuis apologized to his partner for his uncharacteristic state, for there was a not-insignificant pot up for grabs. But the agitated financial advisor appeared to settle, sinking a slippery 15-footer for bird on No. 2. In almost all other possible worlds, it would’ve been the last golf shot of his life.

Kennett’s halfway house is really a quarter-house, as the routing passes it four times. The first look comes after the second hole. You then cross a road to get to the third tee.

“The last thing I remember is walking out of the restroom, sweating,” Dupuis says. “My thought was, I’ve never been this hot on my golf course.” He sat in the cart’s passenger side, crossed the road, and at the third tee rested there while the rest of his group got out and gabbed, the logjam on the first par 3 predictable in events like this.

At first, no one noticed Dupuis die. When you stop breathing and have no pulse, the complete cessation of brain activity isn’t far behind. Henry glanced at the cart and saw Dupuis’ head back, his eyes oddly fixed.

“My first thought was, he was sleeping,” Henry says. After a good-natured taunt got no response, his partner’s earlier complaint of mild indigestion now clicked as a major harbinger. Henry, a burly man, immediately pulled Dupuis from the cart and began pounding his chest. Henry didn’t have CPR training, but his twin teenage boys had been recertified just weeks earlier. On the pick-up from the YMCA pool, they’d given Dad a decently thorough explanation. “I’m hitting hard, screaming at him to Come back! and all I can think about are his four kids,” Henry says. “Vic’s too young. They’re too young.”

Paul Dittmer—the remaining member of the foursome—called 911 as Hollander sped away in the cart. Back at the halfway house was a wall-mounted AED (automated external defibrillator) and the last sighting of William Ashton, M.D., whom they’d watched tee off on 17. Hollander delivered the AED, then went for Ashton. For more than a decade, in his car, at home and in his golf bag, Doc Ashton has stored a syringe of epinephrine. Not an EpiPen, but a more powerful dose for cardiac emergencies. He’d never used any of these. Never removed the box. It was just something an anesthesiologist like him did.

In the second fairway, Lee Russell wondered why play had stalled. He couldn’t see the crowd of 30 around the third tee, but did he hear shouting? A fistfight? That bizarre notion dissipated the moment he arrived and saw the row of stricken golfers relieving one another of the physical agony of compressing Vic Dupuis’ chest (effective CPR is performed at 100 beats per minute, or about the same tempo of the Bee Gees’ song “Stayin’ Alive”). Most onlookers were frozen, not knowing what to do other than maybe cry and say, “Vic’s gone.”

“His face was navy blue,” Ashton says. Speaking about the realities of medicine and statistics and death, you get the sense this doctor has never used hyperbole in his life. “By a traditional definition, he was dead. We were attempting to reverse it.”

Unable to find a vein, Ashton stuck the syringe under the tongue, the next-fastest way to infuse the drug. He repositioned the electrode pads of the AED on the chest. Each charge nearly lifted Dupuis’ 210-pound body off the third tee.

Kennett Square’s head pro at the time, Tom Carpus, had played a tournament that morning at another course and was driving back when he saw the ambulances and commotion. “When you consider the configuration of our course, it was very lucky it happened where it did. There are so many holes where he would’ve been a lot farther from the defibrillator, far from a spot where the ambulances could drive right up and, of course, Doc Ashton.”

That Dupuis took his first breath in 10 minutes, that his color changed from purple to red to dark pink, that he then opened his eyes and said, “What’s going on?” even though he has no memory of it, isn’t a miracle. That comes later. But for the story to make sense, we need to pick it up at Chester County Hospital, where Dupuis’ wife, Faith, was driving after listening to a series of increasingly frantic voicemails from Henry. What happened there is almost crushingly mundane. Dupuis didn’t report walking toward any white light or tunnels. Awaking a bit groggy to the familiar sight of his wife of 29 years, he asked her to call his assistant to cancel the appointment he’d intended on making after golf.

“I love you, too, honey,” she said.

A former nurse, Faith wasn’t surprised when the cardiac-catheterization test for her husband, who maintained a balanced diet and drank moderately, returned as only 10-percent blocked. As in, nowhere near clogged enough to cause a heart attack. Over the weekend, as the blisters on his chest caused by the waves of electric current began to subside, the prevailing diagnosis was that severe dehydration on a hot day had caused this golfer to faint. Faith wasn’t buying it, and on Monday morning she expressed her skepticism to fresh personnel. Dr. Clay Warnick agreed the case warranted more investigation and even suspected, correctly, a far rarer thing.

Sarcoidosis is a collection of inflamed white-blood cells that collect in little lumps called granulomas. More often they’re found in the lungs or skin, and just as often there are no, or only mild, symptoms. But when one migrates to the heart, it’s a deadly matter. At the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania—where Dupuis was transferred by ambulance despite the mischievous and nearly successful attempt of a male nurse with whom he’d bonded over Penn State football to secure him a helicopter—he’d spend a week awaking each morning with a team of doctors and students alert at the foot of his bed. “We only ever get to study cardiac sarcoidosis in cadavers” was a line Dupuis heard too many times. He and Faith discussed laminating a synopsis of his account to show new medical staff who always asked, “Please explain to me how you’re alive.”

What most concerned Dupuis was the prohibition against swinging a golf club for 90 days, lest his newly installed pacemaker not settle right. Every country club has its “mayor,” and the gregarious Dupuis had earned the nickname at Kennett for making things happen wherever he stepped on the property, be it at the golf course, tennis courts, pool, and the men’s and mixed grills. Staying away in the glory of late summer was hard. As soon as he was able, he started coming to the club to chip and putt. He also went back to work, and five weeks after his cardiac arrest, he sipped one glass of cabernet.

Carpus, the head pro, felt for the guy. So he said, “Come on, Vic, let’s get you fit for a new set of irons.” Swinging isn’t the only requirement for a custom-fitting, so the two killed a playable afternoon paying extra-persnickety attention to lies, lengths and grips.

“It was important to capitalize on his excitement about playing again. Give him something meaningful to look forward to,” says Carpus, who recently became a rules official on the PGA Tour Champions. In all, he worked 20 seasons at Kennett Square, all of them close with Dupuis.

“Vic was the chairman of our junior golf committee for 19 years. He’s the kind of guy who’s always giving back and volunteering,” Carpus says. “When I tell Vic’s story, people think it ends there.” With a new set of clubs. Or with the dinner party Dupuis threw at a local orchard to thank everyone who had played a part in saving his life.

Dupuis returned to golf the first day he was permitted, which happened to be an unseasonably warm one in November. Unwrapping the plastic from his new set of Ping i20s couldn’t be performed without a sense of ceremony, but everything else about the day was loose.

Several of his closest golf buddies were playing in—ironically, if you choose to see it that way—a memorial paddle tournament for a former member. Despite that draw, the first tee was packed. So Dupuis and two others snuck off No. 10. Walking off this first hole, whom did they see teeing off No. 9? None other than Ashton.

“I had seen everybody since the event except Doc Ashton, so that was an emotional intersection,” Dupuis says. After a long hug, the doctor removed a syringe from his golf bag, raised it for them all to behold, and said, “Don’t worry, Vic, I’ve reloaded!”

Maybe because Dupuis was free from three months of negative swing thoughts, or maybe just because, he played a decent nine holes. At the turn, they picked up Hollander, who’d finished his paddle match early. Given the routing, Dupuis shouldn’t have been surprised for the reencounter. Still, it was eerie passing Ashton on the 17th tee as they drove across the road to the third. The doc back in place like it was all happening again.

Dupuis asks Hollander to show him. “Right here,” Hollander says, and points to a spot of rough on the bank of the box, a few paces up from dead middle. “That’s where you were lying.” Dupuis presses. He needs to know more. Needs to know everything. Who was standing where? What was the exact sequence of events? But more happened in that eternity than can be reliably relayed.

All Hollander can say is, “Your first breath was the greatest relief I have ever felt in my life. In my mind, I had just seen you die.” Hollander doesn’t dwell on what happened next, at least not in this first retelling.

Tom Henry will say it later. “The ambulance has taken Vic away, the crowd has dispersed, and the three of us are standing there. Vic is with the people he needs to be. For us, it’s either go drink all afternoon in the bar or keep playing. I told Jeff [Hollander] and Paul [Dittmer] I’d be their marker for the tournament. So we teed off.”

Everyone bogeyed the par-3 third, understandably, but then the duo of Hollander/Dittmer had a red-hot card the rest of the way and won The Devil’s. “I feel a little guilty about that,” Hollander can now joke, “but to keep playing was the right thing.”

Months later, all’s well that ends perfect: 162 yards with a slightly helping breeze, Dupuis knows it’s a 6-iron. Always better to be short than long on this green. Plus, he hasn’t hit the 6 yet. Not this 6. Ever.

When it’s in the air, Hollander says one word: “Perfect.”

Two hops and in.

“I should’ve retired that 6-iron then and there, because I haven’t hit it anywhere near as pure since,” Dupuis says.

There’s yelling. And expletives. Dupuis falls flat to his back, and from the obscured vantage of the 17th tee, Ashton has a dreadful thought: Not again. But it flips when he sees the high-fives. These shouts of “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” are for something wonderful. They call the golf shop, and the word spreads. The remaining six holes are a blur. When the group reaches the 19th hole, there’s a crowd waiting unlike any other.

“It happened to be a busy day at the club, and so everyone is in there, yet we walk into a room of total silence,” Hollander remembers. “Everyone was in awe. People kept asking me, ‘Did Vic really get a hole-in-one on 3?’ “

As the hole-in-one insurance is claimed and reclaimed, again and again, the men’s grill turns boisterous. Doc Ashton, scotch in hand, gets a glint in his eye followed by a loss for words. “To come back for the first time to the hole he died on and make a hole-in-one, and with a brand-new club, well . . .”

Dupuis has attended church all his life. Sometimes it can be impossible to believe in God more than one already does. “He’s not a changed person. He’s just more himself,” Faith says. “He’s always been a glass-half-full kind of a person. Since the event, we both like to say his cup runneth over.”

“My belief is that the great fisher of men threw me back, and that he has an incredible sense of humor to add a hole-in-one,” Dupuis says. “But if I’ve come to realize anything, it’s that the people around me were most affected. They had to watch me die.” One witness quit smoking that day. Another had AEDs installed at each of his four business locations. More than 50 members have since taken CPR training. What can’t be counted is how many appreciate life with greater preciousness.

Every year on the last Friday of July, the anniversary of his “death,” Dupuis plays with the same foursome of Henry, Hollander and Dittmer. On the third tee, he has the club leave champagne on ice. The tradition started with one bottle and four glasses, but more and more members have requested to join the celebration, so now there’s a case.

If there is anyone who can raise a glass and not believe there is a higher force, then theirs is half empty.

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