#I drew something for myself thus my humanity restored

[erika-xero]

BABIES... MY PRECIOUS BABIES...

[funkzpiel]

the infinite dance of stars and dust and all that falls between

[ The Witcher / Stardust AU ] - Read it on AO3 Pairing: Jaskier/Geralt Featuring: Star!Geralt, Cursed!Emhyr, Barren!Yennefer, Soft Boys!Regis & Dettlaff (eventually)

Decided to release this in chapters to help me feel productive and have obtainable goals, lmao. Should only be like 3 chapters though, I think. I don’t even know what else to say, hahaha, perhaps this is finally my mental breakdown.  🤔

“Would a coward or a cad vow to breach the Wall to retrieve that falling star for you?”

“Well, no—” She said, battering her lashes, thick and sooty against fair cheeks.

Jaskier gathered her slim hands in his, brushed them against his lips as he took a knee before her and thus vowed, “Then I take this oath to do just that, my lady. I will prove myself worthy of your affections. I will conquer the Wall and all that lies beyond it. I will fetch that falling star for you, bottle it in a bulb and make for you the most fantastic necklace anyone has ever seen. Then no one could question your beauty, your loveliness or my dedication to you – not with a star shining about your neck. You can consider it my betrothal gift. Surely that outshines any ring anyone else has offered.”

“If you bring me that star, I’m yours.”

Jaskier thought of those words often. Sometimes the memory thrilled him, knowing how brave his lady’s brilliance had made him. Sometimes the memory led to nothing but a string of invective curses that sent the birds sputtering from their branches. He was beyond the Wall , he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. The. Wall. Where witchcraft ruled and sorcerers sacrificed fair maidens and monsters lived off the flesh of mortals quite like himself – foolish young adventurers who lost their way, more often than not, and he didn’t even know where he was going to start with! Well… he didn’t know how to get back, specifically. Getting there wouldn’t be a problem – not with the candle his mother had left for him.

A candle that, once lit, could take him anywhere he wanted to go. Perhaps, if he were very lucky, there'd be enough left to get home after, too.

“Take me to the fallen star,” he whispered as he lit it, far enough away from the Wall and his village to be certain that no one had come to drag him back. He hadn’t been ready for the violence of that magic, lured into a sense of peace by an item as innocent as a candle. Jaskier hadn’t been prepared to be thrown through space as magic pinched the world, dragging him from just outside the wall across fields and rivers and miles of land, and forward into something hot and solid. The world stopped spinning, but he was most definitely no longer standing.

Jaskier scrambled up, hands catching on firm flesh and quite a lot of it. Not just flesh. Pectorals. A man’s chest. He lifted himself up, looked down at the body he had bulldozed in his mad, magic infused dash across the continent, and felt his breath stolen from his lungs. There was a man beneath him. A man, laid flat on his back, his head haloed in a circle of fine silver hair more akin to silk than the ill-kempt hair of most men. Fair skin, flawless and clear like a still pond. Eyes that shone like the sun, glimmering and unlike anything Jaskier had ever seen in a mortal man’s face before. A man spun from the sun and the stars and the sky itself. Beautiful and… vibrating? Ah wait, no ~ growling. That couldn’t be good.

Emhyr watched Queen Calanthe’s ruby - now a stone of white as beautiful and lovely as any star - jet off into the night. Three heads of noble bloodlines from across the globe all whipped to watch it disappear. And from her sickbed Calanthe merely grinned as though she had won some great game, looking so powerful and proud instead of small or dying. But she was, without doubt, dying. She eyed the male suitors of whom she had invited into her bedchambers and said from her sickbed, “Only one of you can wed my daughter, and while I will not yet survive the night to judge you fully as I should, instead I bequeath this quest. If you think yourself worthy of my daughter, you will find that ruby. If your touch returns its royal red color, the great many spells that Mousesack has bewitched upon the jewel will have deemed you worthy - and so it shall be done. But know this, only a man of royal blood can change that ruby’s color. A man of intellect, brave enough to lead this empire to glory. He must embody the spirit of a lion and more, and until such a man finds it, my daughter shall grow and lead in peace. Any attempt to force the ruby, to steal it from someone who rightfully changed it, or any other misleading act will see misfortune upon the liar so great, he will reach and wish for death, but never grasp it.”

Emhyr watched from behind the safety of his platemail and helm as Calanthe breathed her last, fully thinking her daughter’s path secured. Whether she live and lead alone or beside a man of proven worth, it did not matter. She would be spared the touch of the power hungry or malicious, and for Calanthe, that was enough.

And all the while, Emhyr knew a truth that even Calanthe did not understand. That Pavetta was his, promised to him by Calanthe’s late husband the king, and the key to restore his human flesh. In that moment he had no doubt that the ruby was meant for him and him alone, and while the royal suitors bickered amongst themselves, Emhyr discreetly saw himself out while none were looking. It was easy enough. He shouldn’t have been there anyways, as any of them saw it. He had requested an audience with the queen when news had spread of her imminent demise, no longer content to wait until Pavetta’s courting ball. Thankfully urgency had bid her ignore his helm. She assumed him another suitor - and did not worry. In her eyes, no man was fit for the stone anyway. So why worry? And the others saw only a knight, perhaps one favored by the queen. A man of no consequence.

Let them think that, it only served him in the end.

Emhyr took the fastest horse from the stable and set off in the direction the jewel had gone.

The witches of Aretuza - or what remained of them - stood atop their mountain dwelling, surrounded by crisp white moonflowers before the pale fall of the moon itself, and watched the stars just as their scrying had bid them to. Ahead of them all, Tessaia stood with ancient hands clasped behind her back - spine rigid and strict despite the way that age and abuse of magic had wilted her.

“There,” she breathed as finally it happened. A faint white gem shot into the night. With a burst, it collided with the ageless lights twinkling above and just as predicted, a star fell from the fabric of the night above. She watched it fall, watched it disappear far into the distance. But she had a direction, that was all that mattered.

Behind her, ancient and weathered faces were alight with hunger and hope. For the witches of Aretuza had squandered their power for eons in the name of researching and controlling chaos, and in doing so had also paid a great and terrible price - their health, their beauty.

Of the four witches that stood atop the mountain, only one had not been touched by time. Yennefer. Tall, slender, and beautiful, she stepped forward to peer off in the direction the star had fallen. She was too young to need it, too new to the ways in which the women of Aretuza abused magic to understand its use. But she knew why they would want it - what lord or king would listen to a withered old hag? They needed youth to continue controlling the free world, to continue shaping it.

But Yennefer had different plans. Revenge and salvation all in one.

“I will go after it,” she offered, enthusiasm masked beneath a weaving lie of loyalty. But in this moment, no lie could stand - for the witches of Aretuza trusted not even one another when it came to the power of stars.

“No,” Tessaia said, “I will go. As leader of this school, it is my right to fetch it.”

Yennefer watched them squabble and bicker. Watched as they drew from deep in the reaches of Aretuza’s stronghold a simple black box. Its lid was lifted and from within, a brilliant light - nearly painful to gaze upon were it not so small - bled out from the cracks and crevices. Tessaia took the brilliant little flame in hand and deftly ate it, beauty blooming from within and spreading without until her hair regrew again, and her skin pulled taut and rosy. Suddenly there were two young, beautiful women among the four leaders of Aretuza. Which was dangerous. Incredibly so.

Tessaia ordered that the school continue its teachings, packed a bag, selected a mount, and disappeared into the night. It was simple enough for Yennefer disappear after that - no one but Tessaia had ever considered her to be a threat, after all.

And Yennefer wanted something more keenly than any witch seeking pure beauty could ever understand, for she had already suffered the consequences of shallow dreams already. Aretuza had used the allure of beauty to steal the life from her womb, to control her. And never again would Yennefer fall for such a trick again. She’d take the star before any Aretuza witch could so much as look at it, and in doing so she’d steal from them something as precious as they had stolen from her: their opportunity to restore what they had squandered. And perhaps, with a little luck, something more as well. Something priceless.

“Get. Off,” the stranger beneath him snarled so viciously that Jaskier could feel the man’s chest rumbling beneath his fingers.

“Oh? Oh!” He stuttered, picking himself up quickly. “My apologies, I’m afraid that was my first time using a magic… candle…”

Which reminded him - the candle was still in his hand, half the size but still present. It could likely get him back, a boon that nearly stole the strength from his knees in relief. The thought of wandering however far back had been a daunting one. He tucked it delicately away, eyes darting to the stranger he had none too kindly cannonballed mere moments ago. He was a strange one, that was for certain. Taller than Jaskier, though not outrageously so. He had the build of a warrior, and yet he wore something that nearly looked like high waisted silver silk trousers and a thin, wispy white blouse of a shirt. The clothing was pale, nearly glowing in the light, and despite the mundane and simple tailoring of it all, it looked ethereal. Otherworldly, even.

And about his neck, contrasting greatly with his simple clothing, was a thick band of gold topped off with one of the largest diamonds that Jaskier had ever seen. All in all, between the dark grimace, the intimidating bulk, soft clothing and expensive amulet, the man was a painting of conundrums and contradictions. Jaskier almost didn’t even know where to begin.

“I, uh - what are you doing in a place like this?” He finally asked when the man began pacing, eyes up on the night sky with a fierce scowl. A place like this, specifically, meaning a crater. A black, smoldering hole in the forest that had torn trees straight up from their roots and obliterated the ground for miles. Almost as though… Jaskier jumped, suddenly spinning wildly around as he looked, “Oh! Have you seen a fallen star, by the way?”

The man suddenly stilled and glared at him, jaw set tight.

“Hilarious,” he grunted.

“No really, a star should have fallen over here somewhere,” Jaskier said seriously as he began to pace, looking for any sign of a rock - anything that might look like a star. Did they still glow when they fell, he wondered. Would it be large or small? Large, he assumed, based off the crater, and yet nothing stood out at all. Not so much as one pebble, even. He frowned and crossed his arms with a soft, wondering, “How odd…”

The stranger glared up at the sky as though daring the gods - or perhaps the stars - to laugh before he rubbed his palms on his trousers and said, “You already found it.”

“I did?” Jaskier asked with owlish eyes, suddenly patting his pockets in case he had in fact found it and merely forgot somehow. But nothing felt new or out of place. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain,” the man said, taking a step forward only to wince. Albeit not so much a wince as a delicate flinching of the muscles in his jaw. Jaskier turned to him, lips drawn in a worried line.

“Did I hurt you when I…?”

“You, no,” the man snarled, trying to take another step with a steadily growing growl of irritation. He managed to place more weight on it, but seemed frustrated despite the small success. “No, some stuck up royal bastard threw an enchanted rock into the sky and knocked me down.”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips, impressed, and asked, “Are you a writer?”

The man gave him a baffled, irked look and with a snort continued applying pressure to his ankle. Slowly, as the moment hung between them, Jaskier felt his jaw loosen and drop.

“You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”

“Not known for being much else.”

“ You’re the bloody star!” Jaskier exclaimed, eyes darting up as though he might see an obvious mark in the night where the stranger had once hung.

“I’m the bloody star,” the man agreed, one tooth exposed by the angry curl of his lip.

Jaskier leaned back, staring at the man seriously for a pregnant moment that left the stranger looking somewhat uncomfortable, before he finally threw his hands out at his sides and declared, “How could I have been so blind! Of course you are the star! How else might one explain you? Your hair made of starlight as it is, your skin as flawless as the purest marble - and the sense of you, where do I even begin? Of course you’re the star.”

The stranger looked at him as though Jaskier were the one injured, not he, and asked, “I think that candle scrambled your brains more than the fall scrambled mine.”

Jaskier walked forward suddenly, one hand thrust out as he said with a charming smile, “I am Jaskier, the infamous bard of the village of Wall and soon to be the husband of the most lovely countess ever to exist. A pleasure,” as though the star had not just questioned his sanity.

With a confused little frown between his brows, the star slowly took his outstretched hand and said, “Geralt,” only for his confusion to bleed away to fury when the bard deftly slipped a chain of silver around his wrist and jumped back, a delicate line of twinkling silver hanging between them. Geralt watched the loop around his wrist close seamlessly, then yanked only to scowl when the chain didn’t break. Jaskier stumbled a step closer as a result, however, before bolting back again with a sheepish, “I’m sorry, Geralt - lovely name by the way - but I’m afraid I must insist you come to Wall with me. I promised my dear Victoria a star, you see, and if I don’t bring you to her she’ll never marry me.”

Geralt stared at him for a very, very long time before yanking the chain again, sending Jaskier sputtering into the dirt.

“Hey!” He gasped, struggling onto his elbows, hands grasping on the chain for dear life - but Geralt was already walking away, dragging the bard with him through the dirt despite the way his ankle flagged his steps. “Hey!”

“What?” Geralt grunted, otherwise ignoring the way the bard flailed behind him, dragging him along with an ease that definitely proved without a shadow of a doubt that he was no mere man.

“Wall is the other way!”

“I’m not going to Wall.”

“What!” Jaskier squawked, “But Victoria-”

“-Not my problem.”

“And where are you - ah, rock! - going to go, huh? Last I checked, there’s no staircase to heaven!” Jaskier snarled ferally as he was dragged over rocks and broken bits of trees.

“I’ll figure it out,” Geralt mumbled distractedly, as though Jaskier’s arguments and struggling were of no real consequence to him as he kept walking, eyes scanning.

“But I need to present you to Victoria!”

“Again, not my problem.”

“Yes, well, I…” Jaskier grimaced as the candle dug into his hip in his pocket, then suddenly grinned, “Oh! Let’s make a deal!”

“Not interested,” Geralt grunted.

“No truly, star, I swear you’ll want to hear me out!”

With a sigh, Geralt stopped - eyes drifting to the heavens again out of sheer sour exasperation, before he finally turned to glare down at the bard being dragged behind him and ground out a short, “Twenty seconds.”

Sensing an opening, Jaskier quickly scrambled to right himself into a better sitting position.

“Don’t even need that. You come with me to Wall and I,” Jaskier said, pausing for theatrical effect as he reached into his pocket, “Will give you this .”

He presented his black Babylon Candle with a flourish and a knowing grin, and if anything Geralt’s jaw just tightened - annoyed that the bard was right. He did have something of use. It was small for a Babylon Candle. Used once already. But it would be enough to get him back into the night sky, and that was hardly an offer he could turn away from. His scowl darkened, amber eyes darting up from the candle to search Jaskier’s face.

The world wasn’t safe for stars, Geralt knew this. He had seen what witches and wizards and men did with their hearts first hand. But either the bard in front of his was a spectacular liar or he had no idea the sort of power Geralt had locked away inside his chest. And so long as Geralt was careful, there was no reason why that would ever change.

“Alright,” he finally groused. “I’ll go with you to Wall, meet your Victoria - but after that, the candle is mine.”

“Agreed,” Jaskier said with a grin, bouncing up from the ground and onto his heels. Then, with a gentle tug, he announced, “Then off to Wall!”

[stillness-in-green]

Changeling: The League (1/3)

Being some errant nerdery combining two things I love very much into one thing that is exponentially more nerdy than either thing on its own: My Hero Academia villains as Changeling: the Lost characters!

This will(/should) be a series of three posts containing some mid-length write-ups on the League of Villains, the Metahuman Liberation Army, and some odds-and-ends on other characters/alternate takes.  

Some prelude: The most prominent question that kept coming up as I was brainstorming the write-ups below was, “Is this retelling the story of My Hero Academia using Changeling: The Lost’s mechanics and world, or is this exploring Changeling: The Lost’s themes using the My Hero Academia cast?”  Would these versions of the characters be NPC villains in Izuku’s story, opponents (or possibly eventual allies) in some grand, epic clash between Heroes and Villains as begun with All Might and All for One?  Would it be the story of a corrupt system, pulled down by the PC group that was Shigaraki and his motley?  I had ideas for both, but in the end, I decided that, rather than oblige myself to the MHA canon, I was ultimately more interested in just letting the implied “story” focus on the League and their histories of loss, trauma and recovery, so that’s the spirit in which these are written.  (Though things do get a bit plottier when their story intersects with the MLA’s.)

Lastly, these are, of course, completely AU, but if you don’t know who the Liberation Army is, you’re probably still going to trip over manga spoilers, so be mindful.  

First, let me lay down some backstory!  Specifically, the story of All for One, One for All, and the lives they drew into their story...

THE PROLOGUE

There is a realm in Faerie inhabited by a pair of binary-matched Fae, All for One and One for All, styling themselves as warring brothers.  They’ve been fighting for many long generations, each in their own fashion.  All for One has tended to keep his power mostly within himself, employing many underlings, but sharing his power with very few of them.  One for All, conversely, has shared most of himself with a succession of users, and in each generation, the pair clashes, with OFA not very "present" for the battles (and thus at less risk), while AFO is able to bring more of himself to the fights.  Before each battle, each user of OFA would be "freed" for a period to find and designate a successor (who would inevitably go missing a few weeks later), before returning for the battle.  They often did this with deeply tormented feelings, but saw little escape from the pattern.  Each one hoped that they might be the one strong enough to break the cycle, as OFA told them each time was a possibility--patterns grow stronger for being repeated, after all--but none of them was able to do so until recently.  Toshinori Yagi refused to designate a successor, and finally, for his stubbornness, was recalled to do battle without one--without having passed even a fragment of OFA's power on, he was finally able to defeat AFO.              

In his defeat, AFO was cast out from Faerie.  He had little memory of who and what he was, but retained a sense for fae matters and a limited grasp on his powers.  He spent the next several years setting up shop in the local freehold, dabbling with Spring and Autumn Court matters as his fancy took him, and racking up a fair amount of renown with the latter in particular when the former found him too ruthless, and not only with humans.  One day, though, he stumbled across what would eventually become his way home--a little boy who felt startlingly familiar, black-haired with a mole on his chin.  AFO struck up a friendship, and when he eventually met the boy's father, things began to click into place--he knew this family because he once fought their matriarch, and that connection was the key to his return.  As he was once defeated by this bloodline bearing his brother's power, for his rise, he had to defeat someone of the bloodline--but he couldn’t just do it straight out.  With his brother, there were pacts in play, old bargains and arrangements.  He couldn’t just waltz in and kill Shimura Kotaro.              

One of them needed to ask. 

THE LEAGUE

Here are the League roughly as we might find them when they’ve been out long enough to build a motley, solidify their bonds somewhat, and start taking on bigger, toothier problems.  All have 7 dots of Contracts except Shigaraki, who has a modest leader bump.  Just assume he’s been out doing some level-grinding the others haven’t.

Shigaraki Tomura

Quote: “There’s always a win condition.”

Type: Gameplayer Wizened.  A trophy/souvenir of AFO’s time on Earth, Tomura survived a durance filled with little but tests in the guise of games.  Survival, combat, endurance, manual dexterity, reaction time, strategy, academics, even odd trivia--he learned them all under his Keeper’s tutelage, in preparation for the next battle with his brother's champion (AFO having seen that his brother's way of doing things has its merits).  Tomura grew up believing himself responsible for his family's deaths (though he's blocked most of the specifics, he knows in his gut that he's responsible somehow) and watching the realm celebrate the champion who'd defeated Tomura’s Keeper, but who hadn't done a thorough enough job to prevent the cycle from resetting after all.

Toshinori, for his part, initially had no idea that AFO had returned with a child, a new champion.  But he did know that AFO had returned (the realms are connected enough that you can't really miss it), and so waited for the next battle with some impatience.  He thought that he, perhaps, just hadn't done well enough, that he'd be more careful, more thorough next time.  After all, patterns become stronger when they repeat.  He doesn't truly understand that All for One can't be killed--not in Faerie, at least--and so there will be no end to the cycle as it stands.  Eventually, he got tired of waiting and sought out AFO on his own--and was shocked to find a kid, just a kid, where he expected to find AFO.  AFO did not think Shigaraki was ready for this yet, and was not prepared to watch several years' worth of effort and his cute keepsake get slaughtered (and he probably would have been; Shigaraki could have all the lives he wanted in training, but an official battle against the sanctioned bearer of OFA would have been different), so he ejected Shigaraki from Faerie and fought the battle himself.  As to what happened afterwards, Shigaraki has no way to know, but the gradual return of various other servants of AFO may eventually begin to shed some light on the subject…

Shigaraki is, when his story truly begins, still figuring out his current game--outside of Arcadia, second chances are harder to come by--but he’s a sore loser and a quick learner, so he never stays down for long, and he’s already made a friend in Toga, who he met in his escape from the Hedge.  He still has very ambivalent feelings about his Keeper, which makes him something of an outlier amongst changelings, who typically feel only terror and loathing for the Others that upended their lives and scarred them in ways that will never--can never--fully heal.  No one, including Shigaraki, has quite realized his connection to the Emperor of Darkness who caused so much havoc in the freehold when he escaped back to Faerie five years ago.  Likewise, Tomura’s fetch, only ten years old, is still in a mental care unit in juvie for the murders of the Shimura family, but dealing with that mess will have to wait until Shigaraki can stomach the idea of even looking at that version of himself.  

Tomura looks much as he does in canon, thin and covered with scratching and scarring.  Behind his tousled white hair, though, his red eyes gleam and flicker as if they’re forever reflecting the dancing lights of a screen.  His masked form has black hair rather than white, and eyes the color of dark, old rust.

Court/Mantle: Autumn, the season of fear.  Shigaraki’s entire durance threatened him always with the fear of failure (and the fear of the consequences of failure), and he himself would rather intimidate than charm, but he also shares the Leaden Mirror’s inquisitiveness and discerning eye.  As such, even when he first emerged from the Hedge, it was with a strong Autumn mantle, and it’s only grown stronger over time.  He’s often trailed by dead, desiccated brown leaves, and Hedge foliage that’s in his presence for any length of time visibly begins to wither--but his mantle flares up even more when he’s being actively combative.  Chilly, dry bursts of air can wring involuntary chills from those on the receiving end of his wide grins and dire promises. When he’s feeling more playful, one can sometimes see small flickers of light in the shape of unknown words or hear odd little strains of music from unrecognizable (albeit somewhat tinny) instruments.

Contracts: 

     Fleeting Autumn I.  He’s not so concerned with becoming some kind of symbol of fear that he’s pursued this Contract very much, but it never hurts to get an idea of what your opponent’s afraid of.

    Eternal Autumn I-III.  It takes time, glamour expenditure, and good dice rolls, but he can kill people this way, withering them down to nothing.  Conversely, he can also make plants bear fruit.  It’s occasionally useful.

    Hours I.  He’s figured out how to consciously botch the activation of this clause so as to decay the targeted object instead of restoring it.  It usually works, but sometimes randomly backlashes onto him instead, causing him injury--the bigger the object, the worse the damage.  The Wyrd doesn’t like being toyed with.

    Lucidity I-IV.  Clarity is a fluid, malleable thing for Shigaraki, which can make him extremely frightening--he can thank his Keeper’s lessons in control.  With this series of Contracts, Shigaraki can and does laugh off the kinds of deeds that would make other changelings quail back in fear of what their own minds would do to them in the aftermath.  He can also be shockingly perceptive for someone who by rights should have terrible trouble distinguishing the boundaries between Real and Unreal, Self and Other.  However, his use of these powers does make him somewhat mercurial and difficult to predict, even to his motley, as derangements come and go with the artificial inflation or drain of his Clarity.  It’s a downward slope, but one he’s taking more slowly than would otherwise be the case.

(Hypothetical Powered-Up Shigaraki: Adds two 5-dot Goblin Contracts, Blood-Binding and The Fatal Transformation.  Be it the power of glamour or the breath of life itself, if Shigaraki wants an enemy drained and is willing to pay his pound of flesh, Goblin magic will provide.  It’s a good thing he’s got friends to back him up, as both of these powers leave him in a pretty vulnerable state.) 

Toga Himiko

Quote: “I met someone cute today.  Don’t wait up!” 

Type: Mirrorskin/Leechfinger dual kith Darkling.  Toga served her durance in the chrome-tinted underbelly of a glass-and-brass dystopia full of mirrors, learning to steal life as easily as she stole food, and to slip from one form to another to keep ahead of everyone who’d chase her down for doing it.  More free than she’d been in her old life, to be sure, but still not free to truly do as she pleased, she dreamed of being able to hunt people down the way she’d been hunted down, with no one to answer to for it.  In time, she managed her escape and, on her path back through the Hedge, crossed paths with Tomura--distraught, lost, but still with plenty of fight left in him.  Each decided that the other was dangerous but sympathetic enough to be a better ally than an enemy, and they teamed up to find their way back to the real world.

Back in that real world, Toga is learning to put herself back together.  Getting back home only to find something waiting there wearing her face was a shock to her system, but after some agonizing (and a bloodbath in her parents’ kitchen), she’s decided it’s for the best.  If going back to being that girl means giving up the amazing psychic buffet the world now presents her, it’s not even a debate.  

Toga in her masked form is dark of hair and eye, a school girl with a wide smile and swift, excitable hands.  In her true form, everything bleeds paler--she’s china white, even her hair turning paler than flaxen fiber, most of her features seeming somehow insubstantial except for the long points of her teeth and the gas lamp yellow of her eyes.  

Court/Mantle: Spring, the season of desire.  Toga, more than anyone in the motley, has embraced the fact that she wants things now that she never would have before, that she has desires that no human would ever understand.  And why not?  She doesn’t kill people, after all; she just likes to taste.  The air around her is always infused with heady floral scents, and when she walks, phantom flowers trail up behind her.  Hemlock and cypress vine, spider lilies and nightshade--all lovely, to be sure, but the language of flowers does give her away.

Contracts: Everything about Toga’s Contracts heightens her skills as a predator, and she’s unquestionably the best in the group at it.

        Mirror I-II.  Allows her to shape her form with more specificity and finesse.

        Darkness I-II.  Makes her targets more suggestible.

        Fleeting Spring I-III.  Lets her pinpoint what her targets want so that she can shape those wants or her reflection of them as needed.

Bubaigawara Jin

Quote: “Nothing’s too much for my friends!”

Type: Truefriend Beast.  Jin’s human life didn’t differ much from his canonical backstory, minus the super power, but went drastically off course when he was hunted down--even on a motorcycle, hunted down!--by a monster on horseback and the various other monsters tumbling before it.  His changeling life consisted of one cage, one chase after another, and while most of the people around him were shaping themselves into being better vessels for coursing, baying, sharp-toothed menace, what Jin most wanted was the pack solidarity.  His Keeper thought this was funny but not a very useful trait in a hunting hound, so they started taking him to dog fights instead, hoping to scour the excess sweetness off of him.  Lacking a pack to stay for, he escaped, but the wanting for one never left him.  

Toga basically tripped over him his first night out, and her kindness then meant he was more than happy to follow her home.  He later made the acquaintance of Mr. Compress and Magne on a bar crawl and, wanting all of his friends to be friends together, introduced them to Shigaraki and Toga.  He’s also trying to make friends with his fetch, who is finding the whole experience of having a clone pop up at him at unexpected times to be unbelievably disorienting and nerve-wracking.  Which one of them is the real one, anyway…?

His mask looks much as Jin does in canon, though his scars are in different places.  In mien, he  always looks a bit rumpled, with short, sandy brown fur and bright, emotive eyes.  He’s dog-eared (literally), one alert, the other floppy, and his hands have stubby, darkened nails.  Unbelievably expressive and more overtly doggish body language--he didn’t keep a tail in his flight back through the Hedge, but people tend to remember him as having one anyway.

Court/Mantle: Courtless.  Jin’s too mixed up in his own emotions to pick just one to focus on.  He likes the idea of Spring, but he’s also skeptical that just wanting is enough to keep people safe, and that fear is rooted deep.  He’s also not without his old sorrows.  Of the High Court emotions, wrath is his rarest visitor.

Contracts:

        Fang & Talon (Dogs) I-III.  Jin’s got an undeniable rapport with dogs.  He loves them and they love him.  There’s practically no mutt he can’t get some words out of if he asks nice.  He’s also still got a hunting hound’s nose, when he needs it.  

        Hearth I-II.  Deeply dedicated to his friends, the Contracts of Hearth make advancing the goals of the motley (or hurting the chances of their enemies) even easier.

        Eternal Spring I.  Easier to be a people-pleaser when you know what pleases people!  Toga taught him this one.

        Moon I.  It’s good to know what people want, but it’s also good to know what kind of crazy people (fetches especially) might be sitting on.  This one also helps the group nail down where Shigaraki’s head is at on any given day.

Spinner

Quote: “What a mess.  Where are we even going with this?”

Type: Steepscrambler Beast.  Spinner spent, by his best reckoning, four years in a Faerie jungle.  It was always sweltering, sickbed heat with air so wet you could choke on it, and after a few close calls with the serpentine river dragons and over-large birds of prey that prowled the place, he’d all but given up trying to search for a way out--the sea of trees just went on forever anyway.  A long-tongued madman named Stain convinced him otherwise, with talk of hidden trods and clues found in the bellies of gutted fish.  When Stain went missing, Spinner resolved to try again, and though he can no longer remember the method of it, whatever he did seems to have worked.  He got back to his shitty hometown, but found it just as bad as ever, if not worse, with a fetch still cooped up in his old bedroom, spiralling ever further into depression.  And so, fed up with the state of his life and the apathy his fetch reflected back at him, he did something that very few changelings are capable of doing--he left home.  

Finding his way to the nearest big city with a proper freehold, Spinner gravitated to the Summer Court and got set up with an apartment in a small complex the freehold maintains for newbies to stay in while they get their feet under them.  Not too long after, Shigaraki and Toga wandered into a Summer recruitment drive, with Shigaraki immediately managing to get on Spinner’s nerves--which made it all the more exasperating when Spinner went home and found the both of them moving into the apartment next door to his!  Spinner’s still trying to figure out what he thinks of the mercurial and difficult Shigaraki, but they have been bonding over video games of late.

Spinner’s mask is a sun-darkened young man with a prominent nose and a thin, terse mouth.  He’s straight-backed but with a certain nerviness in his eyes, a stance that suggests he’s ready to throw the first punch.  He has a street punk look--pointy fingernails and pink hair--that people without the sight to know better assume is achieved with a nail file and hair dye.  His mask looks exactly like canon!Spinner with one exception--changeling!Spinner has ears.  They’re pointy, green and finely-scaled, but otherwise normal humanoid ears and they make his face look just a little wider and more humanoid than canon!Spinner’s lizard profile.  

Court/Mantle: Summer, the season of wrath.  Spinner’s angry about a lot of things--the state of the world, the injustices served to his motley and the wrongs of his life in particular--but he’s also wrestling with a lot of self-loathing.  It’s easy for him to slip into fatalistic thoughts and get mired down in apathy, and every time he thinks he’s gotten past it, someone or something comes along that throws him off, and then before he knows it he’s back on the ground wondering how he’s ever going to get past this.  Leaning into Summer’s hot anger helps keep him focused.  His mantle is relatively weak, tending to manifest as a warm, dry wind only when he’s particularly fired up or activating Court contracts.

Contracts: Spinner’s well-rounded, but that’s because he has a hard time settling on anything.  His ridiculous spread of Contracts illustrates this.

        Den I-II.  Not interested in leaning into his animal instincts and learning to talk to lizards, Spinner has instead leaned into possessive territorialism.  Unfortunately, he still feels like a small fish, so it’s hard to muster up the swagger that would allow him to progress this Contract further.  

        Fleeting Summer I.  Need to pick a fight and score some quick glamour?  This is the clause for you!  Just make sure Dabi’s not around; that guy’s angrier than the whole rest of the motley put together and it skews the readings.

        Eternal Summer I.  Makes Spinner a walking thermostat. Yes, sometimes Toga and Mr. Compress take advantage.

        Oath & Punishment I.  There’s a certain capital-R romance to this Contract that Spinner likes, but he’d need to find something (or someone) to whole-heartedly devote himself to first.  At least he can do sick parkour jumps in the meantime.  

        Artifice I.  Temporary repair magic.  Handy around the house and when you fight with cheap knives.  

        Dream I.  Useful facts about the local Hedge and he’s generally content to leave it at that--he doesn’t have a lot of use for dream-spinning, not when Magne’s so good at it.

Dabi

Quote: “You’re mad, huh?  So what are you gonna do about it?”

Type: Gravewight Darkling.  Once upon a time, there was a barren couple who wished desperately for children.  For many years, it was only a wish, until Todoroki Enji finally found someone who offered him a solution.  Nine months later, Todoroki Touya was born, to be followed by a string of children, each haler and heartier than the last.  Seven years later, the firstborn child was taken away in the night.  No fetch was left behind--after all, the Other was only claiming the price they’d been promised.  Fifteen years after that, a changeling calling himself Dabi dragged himself out of the Hedge, having spent most of his life lighting funeral pyres and digging graves in Faerie until he dug his way out.

Dabi fell in with the rest of the League motley after being found by Magne after a fight went sideways.  She patched him up and offered him a group to run around with for a while rather than doing the solo act.  He accepted, but his pledges with the rest of the group are a bit different--more paranoid, less supportive.  Dabi is distant from the motley, and only time will tell if he eventually lets them in or not.  

In mask, Dabi’s a beanpole, wild black hair and bright blue eyes with a caustic grin, skulking about in a succession of black coats and heavy, workmanlike boots.  In mien, he’s even taller, a too-thin gaunt with great swatches of skin burned away by restless soul-fires, which still cling and flicker blue around his hands.  His skin fits him a bit too loose, and he wears staples to keep it all in place.  

Court/Mantle: Summer, the season of wrath.  Could it ever be anything else?  Rather stronger than Spinner’s mantle, Dabi’s manifests as heat distortions in the air around him and, when he’s particularly riled up, blasts of hot air like you’d get opening up a hot oven.  He has some trouble advancing in the Court proper, though, as he prefers to only fight battles he knows he can win.  He feels, all the time, sick with rage, but until he proves willing to make stands even when the odds are against him, the Iron Spear’s time for him will be limited.  

Contracts: 

        Shade & Spirit I.  If he’s going to see ghosts around all the time anyway, he might as well be able to talk to them.  They’re only sporadically helpful, but as a skeleton in the closet himself, he has some fellow feeling for them.

        Elements (Fire) I-III.  He brought fire with him out of Faerie, but it’s a difficult thing for him to master, foreign to his seeming despite sometimes feeling as if it’s nestled in his very bones.  

        Fleeting Summer I-II.  Dabi’s much at home with wrath, and very willing to shape it to his own ends.  Whether or not he sticks around for them, he likes starting fights.  

        Punishing Summer I.  An odd branch of Summer magic, but one that he feels has some promise for him.  Compared to the more straightforwardly righteous Contract of Eternal Summer, this feels harsher, longer-burning, and that sings to him in ways he finds very appealing.

Mr. Compress

Quote: “If we’re going to break the law, why shouldn’t we do it in style?”

Type: Larcenist Fairest.  A simple stage magician of modest fame once upon a time, right up until he was offered a promising and lucrative gig by a stranger who thought he deserved a better stage for his talents.  The stage in this case turned out to be--well, you can guess.  His client (Keeper) wanted things stolen--they seemed to enjoy the taste of things ill-gotten--and there was always some new diamond or painting or antique.  Sako’s time in Faerie (which he came to share with Magne) was like a string of heist films: glamorous and bubbly and thrilling, but the underside was rife with lurid, impossible violence waiting on the slightest error, the stakes always seemed to be climbing, and of course you could never say no…  But one thing you can say for heist films is that they always allot a proper amount of time for planning, and so over time Sako and the others planned their last heist--the one to steal themselves into freedom.  If asked, Sako will tell a dozen different stories about how it went, but the truth is his memories are fuzzy, and the only thing he knows for sure is that he and Magne emerged from the Hedge alone.  

Sako’s a bit disjunctioned in time--many more years have passed in the real world than he spent in Faerie, and he spent a good many years in Faerie.  His fetch washed up in a nursing home in the meantime, riddled with palsy and Alzheimer’s, and though Sako is not by habit or preference a violent man, the sight of it filled him with a primal loathing.  And it’s so easy, in an overcrowded environment, to make a mistake with a dosage…  Sako still has a piece of the detritus left over, just to remind himself of how his story could have ended, and how determined he is to not let such a future come to pass.  

In his mask, Mr. Compress (well, he needed a new stage name) is a handsome, auburn-haired man in his forties who gestures constantly, frequently toying with a short white cane, and speaks in refined if somewhat dated language in a rich, theatrical voice.  He always dresses a bit more nicely than he needs to, preferring clothes with hidden pockets and long sleeves, and is rarely without a hat to flourish.  His mien mostly serves to heighten all of that--he becomes impossibly graceful and compelling, his voice catching the ear like a song, and his clothes are revealed to be Hedgespun, the feather in his hat belonging to no bird an ornithologist could name, the buttons on his coat and the stone accentuating his bolo tie shifting slowly in pattern and shade the longer you watch, and the cane almost certainly a low-level token of some kind.  The most eye-catching thing, though, is the mask--he wears a white mask that always seems to have a different pattern on it, though it never moves while you’re looking directly at it.  He doesn’t seem able to actually remove it all the way, though he can slide it around enough to eat or theatrically squint or blink his eyes (dark and bewitchingly expressive).  If it’s forcefully pulled off, it’s only to reveal another one beneath it--though he’ll complain that it stings and ask you to refrain.  

Court/Mantle: Autumn, the season of fear magic!  Mr. Compress didn’t come out of the Hedge with a particular Court affinity, but he was drawn towards Autumn like a compass needle finding true north.  He’s only a limited interest in fear (though his response to his fetch shows that he has his share of it), but he’s endlessly fascinated by the ins-and-outs of faerie magic.  Trinkets, tokens, pledge-craft--if it’s a clever trick, he’s interested.  His mantle shows as pops and starbursts of light, and frequently as a cool, trailing mist about his feet.  

Contracts: The only person in the group more focused than Toga.

        Separation I-IV.  Escape magic fit for Houdini himself.  If it looks like Compress is locked up or restrained, it’s almost only certainly because he’s allowing himself to be.  

        Forge I-III.  Sleight of hand is even more impressive when you’re using magic!  Extremely convenient for those times when he needs a passable ID or a house key he does not in fact own.

Magne

Quote: “Take it easy, honey.  I’ll handle it.”

Type: Metalflesh Elemental.  Magne was a criminal before she was a changeling, and it was in that capacity that she--like Mr. Compress--fell prey to an offer that should have been too good to be true.  The heist team needed a bit more muscle, is the thing; they were getting caught too often without a good combatant.  And so came Magne, given a sturdier body (that could, incidentally, meld through safe walls when necessary) through processes she only remembers in her nightmares.  An odd thing happened with her, though--what Magne felt the pull of in Faerie was less the element she became and more the stuff of Arcadia itself.  Where her Keeper expected her to become hard as steel, instead she embraced dream conjury; where she was instructed to protect the rest of her band, that protection took the form of healing as often as it did squaring up for a fight.  It’s hard to argue with the results, though--Magne is a fierce and stubborn defender of any group that wins her loyalty.  

Currently in a live-and-let live relationship with her fetch--she feels a bit sorry for the poor creature, and would rather see her find a way to break free of the image she was forged in and make her own path than kill her.  It’s painful to be around her, though, so while Magne’s willing to extend some help from a distance, she would rather the fetch keep her distance.  Time will tell if her fetch--who has her own desires and very much shares Magne’s willingness to bust some heads over them--is prepared to abide by this.  

Magne in mask looks much as she does in canon, though she can afford nicer clothes.  Her preference for butch presentation is unchanged, but the jeans are designer and the shirts elaborate silk prints.  She has a collection of fetching sunglasses for any occasion.  Her mien is a gleaming ochre bronze, flesh hard and smooth, her hair (a bit darker in color than the rest of her) always a bit stiff but, on the other hand, difficult to muss.  Her body is in all ways a more chiselled, more perfected version of the body she went into Arcadia with, which Magne has mixed but overall relieved feelings about.  The flesh-to-metal transition her Keeper forced on her was bad enough; whyever would she trust the Others with gender affirmation?

Court/Mantle: Spring, season of desire growth. Magne’s desire is to never be held down by any sort of repression or expectation forced on her by others (the Others in particular), and this pride drew her strongly to the Antler Crown.  While she doesn’t exhibit the flowing, graceful beauty so prized in women of the Emerald Court, her passion for self-expression and her unstinting support of those fumbling their way towards the same has certainly won her her share of admirers.  Magne’s mantle takes the form of fresh-scented air and pleasant breezes.  She doesn’t leave flowers where she walks, but you can sometimes find ivy where her hands have been.  

        Contracts: 

        Dream I-III.  By leaps and bounds the most talented dream-weaver in the motley, Magne’s oneiromancy is light-hearted and nonjudgmental while her oneiromachy is formidable.  Everyone in the motley can soothe one another’s nightmares, but Magne is the best at it.  She usually has at least one or two dream-task pledges active with mortals, too, so she rarely struggles to keep her glamour reserves--or her wallet--full.  

        Elements (Metal) I.  Magne’s retained only the minimum level of connection with the metal she was forged from; in truth, her body is less important to her than what she does with it.

        Eternal Spring I-III.  Easing fatigue, curing wounds, and even bringing in         a gentle rain--Magne’s deeply in touch with the rejuvenative aspects of her Court.

BONUS TIDBITS:

Shigaraki experienced more deaths in Faerie than any other member of his motley.  After all, you might know the cheat code for unlimited lives, but that doesn’t mean you never die.  And it did feel like death, every time.  Of course, sometimes failure just meant Sensei shaking his head and Being Disappointed.  That still felt a bit like dying too, though.

Over the course of her durance, Toga had more than one knife fight with a cyber hero adventurer hunting through the city’s underbelly looking for a power core.  Also, changeling!Toga is much less murderous than canon!Toga because if she were as murderous as canon!Toga, Clarity loss would rapidly render her unplayable.  

Spinner was pulled into the motley over a planned playdate heist to see how well Shigaraki and Toga could work as a unit with Mr. Compress and Magne.  Being very familiar with heist stories by that time, Sako and Magne decided the group needed one more guy to provide muscle, and as it happened, Shigaraki and Toga lived next door to just such a one.

I have not decided on whether the Todoroki family are a mundane equivalent of the way we see them in canon, all deeply damaged by Endeavor’s ceaseless drive to fulfill his goals by way of his children, or whether they’re actually pretty normal and well-adjusted with the exception of Enji’s one dark secret.  Either way, Natsuo is the only one who has any inkling that there was anything “off” about Touya’s death/disappearance.    He has no inkling of the truth, obviously, but he always felt that Enji didn't react quite the right way to Touya's death, or thought Enji was behaving suspiciously on the night Touya vanished.  

The League’s basic motley pact includes the dreaming pledge, so they frequently take mental voyages into one another’s dreamscapes to clear out the nightmares and indulge in silly, impossible-in-reality lucid dreaming adventures.  The exception is Dabi, who would rather have nightmares than people in his head.  

Mr. Compress doesn’t jokingly call himself an old man anymore because he’s too traumatized by finding out what he’d actually be like in old age.  

Shigaraki, while beginning the story in a fairly ambivalent, uncertain place, eventually finds his way towards a goal of helping to free loyalists--from their hopeless circumstances, from their learned helplessness, from their starstruck adoration.  He finds this goal over the course of his late-game encounters with Kurogiri, Gigantomachia, and Re-Destro, and it is through helping them that he’s finally able to begin to process his own feelings of attachment and affection towards his Keeper.  It may well be that the fetch of Shimura Tenko is Shigaraki’s final boss.

[jewlwpet]

Girl Alchemist Egg--Tale of the Rose track 1, translation

As far as I know, nobody else seems to be translating J. A. Seazer’s latest Utena album, which came out in August, to English (please correct me if I’m wrong)... so the job falls to me.

This is track 1,  知恵の竈(アルデル)実験祈祷室, or “Aludel of Wisdom Experimental Prayer Room”. An aludel is a kind of pot used in alchemy; it goes in a furnace (this is significant).

EDIT: I accidentally left out the romaji for one verse and missed a reference in the title; the version with all corrections (at least for now) is here.

EDIT 2: I changed my translation of the title to “Wisdom’s Aludel Oratory-Laboratory”. See here for my explanation as to why that’s a better translation.

金より不純物を除き それを純粋な形と成し それをうまくなし遂げる者は かくて、 賢者の石を作りえよう それは偉大な力の「石」であり 「石」と呼ばれていて石ではない 

To remove impurities from gold To shape that into a pure form The one who successfully accomplishes this, By this means, can create the philosopher’s stone  It is a Stone of great virtue  And is called a “Stone” and is not a stone.[i]

 錬金術師たち

Renkinjutsushitachi

The alchemists

ああ、永遠の知恵の錬金術   ああ、永遠の知恵の実験室   ああ、永遠の知恵の竃劇場

Aa, towa no chie no renkinjutsu Aa, towa no chie no jikkenshitsu Aa, towa no chie no kamado gekijou, gekijou

Ahh, eternal  wisdom’s [ii] alchemy Ahh, eternal  wisdom’s laboratory Ahh, eternal  wisdom’s furnace theater, theater

夢ではなく現れるドラゴン 世界創造の始めに 波の上を漂っていた神の如し

Yume de wa naku arawareru doragon Sekai souzou no hajime ni Nami no ue wo tadayotteita kami no gotoshi

It was not a mere dream; it materialized, the dragon![iii] Like unto God, who in the beginning created, Hovering over the surface of the waters.[iv] 

蒸留、昇華、煆焼、煮煎  反射、溶解、下降、凝結

Jouryuu, shouka, kashou, shasen Kansha, youkai, kakou, gyouketsu

Distillation, sublimation, calcination, decoction, Reflection, dissolution, descent, coagulation[v]. 

すべて水のなか 黒そのものより さらに黒 そして ルビーの燦然たるいろの耀き その間に発生する ああ、祝福される緑 万物芽吹かす緑

Subete mizu no naka Kuro sono mono yori Sarani kuro Soshite RUBII no sanzentaru iro no kagayaki Sono aida ni hasseisuru Aa, shukufukusareru midori Banbutsu mebukasu midori

Everything within water[vi], A blackness  still more black Than blackness  itself[vii], And, too, The ruby’s  brilliantly-colored radiance,[viii] All the  while: generation, Ahh, happy  green, Which dost  produce all things[ix]!

神の霊気の緑 カバラの緑 渦巻く宇宙 秘術師よ緑のライオンを 哲学者の火 賢者の火 鞴よ 錬金炉アタノールの火を熾せ

Kami no reiki no midori KABALA no midori Uzumaku uchuu Hijutsushi yo midori no RAION wo Tetsugakusha no hi Kenja no hi Fuigo yo Renkin ro ATANOORU no hi wo okose Behold!

The green of God's mysterious presence, The green of the Kabbala[x], The spiraling cosmos, The Magus, the Green Lion[xi]. The fire of the philosophers, The fire of the sages![xii] The bellows! Light the fire of the alchemical furnace, the athanor.

見よ 哲学の竈||実験室 宇宙の竈||実験室 散らかり放題の 貧乏吹き屋の実験室

Miyo Tetsugaku no kama no jikkenshitsu Uchuu no kama no jikkenshitsu Chirakari houdai no Binbou fukiya no jikkenshitsu

The philosophical furnace--the laboratory! The cosmic furnace--the laboratory![xiii] Scattered unrestrainedly, A poor smelter’s laboratory

われら 価値ある人間たらんがために 価値を目指す 錬金術師

Warera Kachiaru ningentaran ga tame ni Kachi o mezasu Renkinjutsushi, renkinjutsushi

For us To have value as humans To aim for value Alchemy, alchemy 

それは一月十七日月曜日正午頃、私の家で、立会人はぺるネル一人だった。人類救済一三八二年の年である。私は水銀に投入を行い、それを約半ポンドの純銀、鉱山のものよりも良質の純銀に変化させた。その後、やはりぺるネル一人の立会い��もとに私の家で、同僚の水銀に赤い石を用いて同じことを行い、四月二五日夕方五時、本当にほぼ同量の純金に変成した。普通の金より確実に良質でより軟らかく、よりしなやかであった。これは真実である。私と同じく理解していたぺるネルの助けをて、私はこれを三回実現したのである。 二コラ・ヴァロワ

Sore wa ichigatsu juunananichi getsuyoubi shougogoro, watashi no ie de, tachiainin wa PERUNERU hitoridatta. Jinrui kyuusai sen sanbyaku hachijuu ni nen no toshidearu. Watashi wa suigin ni tounyuu wo okonai, sore wo yaku han-pondo no jungin, kouzan no mono yori mo ryoushitsu no jungin ni henkasaseta. Sonogo, yahari PERUNERU hitori no tachiai no moto ni watashi no ie de, douryou no suigin ni akai ishi o mochiite onajikoto o okonai, shigatsu nigonichi yuugata goji, hontouni hobo douryou ni junkin ni henseishita. Futsuu no kin yori kakujitsu ni ryoushitsu de yori yawarakaku, yori shinayaka deatta. Kore wa shinjitsudeari. Watsahi to onaji rikaishite PERUNERU no tasukeote, watashi wa kore o sankai jitsugenshita nodearu.

The first time that I made projection was upon a Monday, the 17th of January, about noon, in my house, Pernelle only being present, in the year of the restoring of mankind, 1382. This was upon Mercury, whereof I turned half a pound, or thereabouts, into pure Silver, better than that of the Mine. And afterwards, following always my Book, from word to word, I made projection of the Red Stone upon the like quantity of Mercury, in the presence likewise of Pernelle only, in the same house, the five and  twentieth day of April following, the same year, about five o'clock in the evening; which I transmuted truly into almost as much pure Gold, better assuredly than common Gold, more soft and more pliable. I may speak it with truth, have made it three times, with the help of Pernelle, who understood it as well as I. --Nicolas le  Valois[xiv]

[i] The last two lines of this verse are from Les Cinq Livres or La Clef des Secrets, by Nicolas le Valois, a French alchemist rumored to be the deceased Nicolas Flamel, supposedly using an alias after attaining immortality through the Philosopher’s Stone. I don’t know of any English translation of this text, but the original French is online at https://alchimie.000webhostapp.com/cinq_livres_valois.html. It’s likely that the first lines are also from alchemical texts; I just haven’t been able to identify them

[ii] Eternal wisdom—a phrase from Heinrich Khunrath, used in the title of his book The Amphitheater of Eternal Wisdom. There is an English translation by Peter J. Forshaw, but I have not yet been able to find it; I have, however, contacted the translator inquiring how to obtain it.

[iii] Carl Jung, Psychology and Alchemy: “The dragon is probably the oldest pictoral symbol in alchemy of which we have documentary evidence. It appears as the Ouroboros, the tail-eater, in the Codex Marcianus, which dates from the tenth or eleventh century, together with the legend 'the One, the All'. Time and again the alchemists reiterate that the opus proceeds from the one and leads back to the one, that it is a sort of circle like a dragon biting its own tail. For this reason the opus was often called circulare (circular) or else rota (the wheel). Mercurius stands at the beginning and end of the work: he is the prima materia, the caput corvi, the nigredo; as dragon he devours himself and as dragon he dies, to rise again in the lapis. He is the play of colours in the cauda pavonis and the division into the four elements. He is the hermaphrodite that was in the beginning, that splits into the classical brother-sister duality and is reunited in the coniunctio, to appear once again at the end in the radiant form of the lumen novum, the stone. He is metallic yet liquid, matter yet spirit, cold yet fiery, poison and yet healing draught - a symbol uniting all the opposites.”

[iv] This is a clear reference to Genesis 1:1-2. “Like unto God” recalls the story of the Garden of Eden; Adam and Eve were forbidden to eat the fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil because it would make them like God. Alchemists were also seeking knowledge that would make them like God, although the authors quoted in this song emphasized that one could not attain it without God’s blessing.

[v] These are all names for different techniques in the chemical process. Most are still used in chemistry today (only the terms “reflection” and “descent” are no longer used, as far as I know).

[vi] Valois explains that “water” means something different in alchemy. Basically, this water is a truly universal solvent, capable of absorbing anything into itself. He uses an interesting metaphor for this: “It's this Maid Beïa, which has not yet been corrupted or lost its liberty, to marry infirm and ill-shaven bodies, as captives are, who can never leave their filthy prisons without the help of men. Thus preserving liberty with its integrity, we see in a philosophical manner this luminous star making infinite circulation turns, until it came in some reign.”

[vii] Putrefaction, the nigredo, the black stage in the alchemical process. The idea is that there must be sacrifice to facilitate new growth.

[viii] The philosopher’s stone is sometimes called the “celestial ruby.”

[ix] These two lines are from The Rosary of the Philosophers; however, I used the translation of the quote found in the translation of the Exposition, rather than the original text, although that can be found in English too: http://sociedadquimicamexico.org/rosarium.pdf. Here, it’s given as, “O blessed greenness, which engenders all things.”

[x] Many alchemists, both Jewish and non-Jewish, drew on the Kabballah (Jewish mystical texts), although how well they really understood it is questionable. I myself am not at all well-versed in this, but it seems that in the Kabballah, the color green represents healing and harmony.

[xi] The Green Lion typically represents the same thing as the dragon. E.g. The Glory of the World mentions “the Green Lion that imbibes so much of its own spirit.”

[xii] The author of The Glory of the World wrote of “indelible, living, or Divine fire, of that kind which God has placed in the Sun; and wherein God Himself burns as with Divine love for the consolation of all mankind... This is the fire of the Sages which they describe in such obscure terms, as to have been the indirect cause of beguiling many innocent persons to their ruin; so even that they have perished in poverty because they knew hot this fire of the Philosophers. It is the most precious fire that God has created in the earth, and has a thousand virtues -- nay, it is so precious that men have averred that the Divine Power itself works effectually in it. It has the purifying virtue of Purgatory, and everything is rendered better by it. It is not wonderful, therefore, that a fire should be able to fix and clarify Mercury, and to cleanse it from all grossness and impurity. The Sages call it the living fire, because God has endowed it with His own Divine, and vitalising power.”

[xiii] Different names for the athanor, a kind of furnace. The alchemists viewed their work as the creation of a microcosmos, a “petite universe” if you will. “Cosmic furnace” doesn’t seem to have been common in English, but one does find the French version, fourneau cosmique.

[xiv] This passage is adapted from Exposition of the Hieroglyphical Figures. By attributing it to Valois, Seazer continues in the tradition of claiming him as part of the legend of Flamel. We can infer from this passage and its attribution that the two voices we hear singing this song are meant to represent Nicholas and Per(e)nelle, Flamel’s wife, purported to have been an alchemist in her own right.

[m00nslippers]

Since you reminded us all of the JayRa's Roadtrip au: could we have some fluff of them with each other (or in an abo case their kid :D ) Also! Could I write something loosely based off of it for Ra'sbat week if I give credit? thanks!

You absolutely can write something based on the RoadTrip!AU. Saves me having to write stuff, lol. If you do, @ me so I can read and reblog it!

Here, I wrote something for the AU. It’s not really fluff? Maybe at the end a little. I don’t know, but here you all go.

---

I Didn’t Ask For This (a RoadTrip!AU fic)

Ra's' behavior had been atrocious throughout the whole ill-advised venture, starting from when Jason had busted the Demon’s Head out of Lady Shiva's oubliette where he'd been left to starve and die in solitude, to their globe-trotting jaunt hitting every League base they could find, cleaning out Shiva's loyalists, searching for information on Talia and Sensei and anything that could give them an edge against the Shadows. Jason had owed Ra's a save, for letting Talia take him in and getting him training, for taking care of him when he'd been catatonic and planning to continue doing so for his whole life if necessary, so he'd felt compelled to do the bare minimum to ensure the asshole's survival. He didn't know where the idea to put the man back in charge of the League came from. When it came down to it Ra's wasn't much better than Shiva, he might claim he was killing people for the planet, but from where Jason was sitting it didn't look that different.

Yet here they were, on a goddamn road trip across the country, raiding every League base they could find together and there were a lot, way more than Jason had any inkling of.

The man had started out condescending, waspish, constantly degrading Jason and his low birth, his inferior skill and lack of talent. The normal shit he'd been telling Talia since day-one when she had brought Jason home. He was no good, he was low born, had poor breeding, he was destined for the dirt—Jason had heard it all before.

At first he'd put up with it. When you get overthrown and tossed in a hole in the ground to die you're allowed to be a bit pissy, at least for a day or two, but after a week of constant berating Jason was fast reaching his limit. Pathetic to say, but Jason was used to the treatment, he used to believe he deserved it, and sometimes he still did. But the longer Jason stayed silent the worse it seemed to get. Ra's didn't have a global criminal empire at his beck and call anymore, so there was no reason to let the man get away with this kind of behavior.

“This place is filthy,” Ra's spat, running a finger through the dust layer that had accumulated in the six months it had been since Jason had visited this particular obscure safe house. “But what do I expect from my daughter's useless mutt? But I suppose you think this is acceptable, being as you are used to living in the scum and grime of the worse parts of that sewer of a city. I'm sure you're actually proud of your substandard accomplishments.”

Jason had been listening to this shit for over an hour as he cleaned and restocked their weapons and supplies. He was refilling the magazine cartridges to his pistols, suffering through a lecture about Jason's incompetence, his laziness, his heritage of poverty and how baffled Ra's still was that the Bat he so respected had stooped to taking in a mongrel such as Jason, when his patience just...ran out.

Jason pushed the now full magazine up into his gun, racked the slide to put a bullet in the chamber and aimed it at the immortal.

And Ra's Al Ghul, former Demon's Head, the man who used be unafraid of injury or death because he knew at any moment his body could be restored, flinched.

He flinched and clearly hated himself for flinching, and the six-foot-five alpha drew himself up to his full height, looming furiously, lip snarling beneath his sharp aquiline features and finely trimmed goatee, acid green-eyes glaring at Jason's gall. “You dare, boy--!” he began in outrage.

But Jason's expression didn't waver from regarding Ra's with disinterest as he leveled the gun with a steady hand. Jason was fed up with his shit. People had been saying he wasn't worth anything his entire life, because Jason was poor, because he was a street rat, because he was an omega, because he was an omega that looked like an alpha. He didn't deserve this kind of treatment from the man he'd rescued. He didn't expect a 'thank you', Ra's was too much of an arrogant shit for that, but at the very least he expected not to be insulted.

“Ra's I don't give one flying fuck if you were an emperor or a sultan or whatever back in the freaking dark ages,” Jason stated matter-of-factly and his low, serious tone seemed to startle Ra's into silence as he listened. “All these servants and so called loyal retainers that make you elite? They ain't here. Not a one lifted their finger to get you out when you were sentenced to death. The one who saved you? The one who got you out? That was me, the low born dog you're insulting. Yeah, I was born in shit and I ain't got much even now, my safe houses aren't decked out like the Ritz, but what little I've got I'm sharing with you. I'm putting a contract on my life for you. And what am I asking from you in return? Nothing but that you keep your damned nasty comments to yourself. Do you hear me?”

Ra's luminous green eyes narrowed, analyzing Jason as if seeing him for the first time, darting around Jason's face, across his body, to the gun aimed steadily at Ra's chest for a killing shot, back to Jason's sea-glass green eyes. Ra's was silent a moment more before he finally said, “Yes,” through gritted teeth and turned on his heels, stalking to the only room in the one bedroom apartment and pulling the door shut.

Jason sighed and lowered the gun, returning to his tasks in blessed quiet. Being around anyone all-day-everyday, much less a testy alpha that liked to tell him how pathetic he was, was enough to drive Jason crazy. The gun was maybe a bit much but...well, what was done was done. This incident probably wouldn’t change anything but at least it had given Jason’s nerves a rest so he could deal with the Demon’s shit again tomorrow. Jason slept on the couch like the dog he was, and didn't see Ra’s again until the next day when they tossed their gear into the nondescript green SUV that was their transportation this week.

Jason took the drivers' seat, as he always did, and expected Ra's to slip into the back seat like usual, as if Jason was his damned chauffeur, but he didn't. He opened the passenger door and slid in, messing around with the controls before he figured out how to adjust the seat to accommodate his extensive height. He had insisted Jason adjust it before, pushing the chair all the way forward to give him leg room in the back seat, and watching Ra's Al Ghul messing with the seat position himself now was surreal.

Finally satisfied, Ra's sat back and pushed up his sunglasses, crossing his arms over his emerald-green silk button-up shirt and black slacks, dressed like he'd stepped out of a GQ magazine, and stared firmly ahead as if the situation wasn't completely abnormal.

“The hell is this? Decided to sit with the servants, your highness?” Jason asked skeptically, almost certain he was going to regret it. Then again that never stopped Jason from speaking his mind before.

Ra's bit the inside of his mouth and looked physically pained as he bit out, “It has come to my attention that I have been...treating you poorly, Jason.”

“Ya think?” Jason deadpanned, not sure where this was going but taking the opportunity to get back a bit of his own dignity against the asshole alpha.

“You have risked much for me and I have done little to earn that loyalty,” the man stated, the nails of one hand digging into his arm, but he pressed on, Jason becoming more intrigued and confused as he continued. Ra's didn't admit to mistakes, Ra's didn't think of loyalty as something earned, at least not when it came to Jason.

“I, the Demon's Head, who has seen the worst of humanity, who began the League of Assassins to cull them for the sake of this planet's continued survival, fell pray to my own baser instincts, my own emotions and prejudices,” Ra's confessed. “When my daughter took you in, I never gave you your due, even when you proved yourself time and again. Even now you continue to make yourself an irreplaceable ally and I...have shown you nothing but disdain.”

Behind his sunglasses, Ra's eyes fell to his knee, proud brows wrinkled in distaste that for once was turned inward and not unfairly at Jason. “I was at the end of my means, my death certain after so many years of prolonging my life. I had no one, and nothing to offer anyone—and yet you appeared as my savior. But instead of gratitude and praise, I offered you only criticism, to raise myself above you who I had thus far held in low regard for reasons that I now see where based in pretty lies to justify my actions.”

Suddenly Ra's looked up and held Jason's gaze. He enunciated the words with difficulty, as if fighting to get them out, but he seemed genuinely sincere as he said, “Jason Todd, I...apologize. I will endeavor to correct my behavior. You are one who is worthy of my respect.”

Jason stared as Ra's fell silent. Through the man's confession, Jason's throat had begun to clench, his muscles tightening as if every word was winding him tighter and tighter. His eyes were burning and he had to fight not to blink because if he did he knew a tear would form. So long as he kept his eyes open, he could pretend to be unmoved.

He hadn't expected this. Not in a million years and not from Ra's Al Ghul of all people after holding the man at fucking gunpoint and telling him off. These were words Jason had wanted to hear for years, from Bruce, from Dick, from...from a lot of people that meant a lot more to him than Ra's. His whole life Jason had just wanted to do the right thing, to be worthy in a world that saw him as trash. He'd thought Bruce was different, but at the first opportunity Jason was replaced as if he'd meant nothing, and as soon as Jason wasn't exactly what the man wanted, when he disagreed with him about how to save their city—the city Jason had lived and been born in, had experience in every way more than Bruce ever had—he was called a villain.

Jason would have liked to get some acknowledgment from Bruce for all of that, but instead he got it from Ra's. He didn't want Ra's Al Ghul's fucking apology. Jason never cared what Ra's thought of him.

So why the fuck did hearing this all of a sudden make him want to cry? Why did it mean so damn much?

Jason felt the tear grow heavy and start to roll down his face so he raised a hand to hide it even if the gesture was pointless. Ra's already knew. He must. There was no hiding how broken up Jason was by his words, how much they had impacted him. Jason's emotions, his weakness, should have been enough to have the man revoking everything he'd just given to Jason, but Ra's didn't, he remained quiet in the front seat, looking out the windshield as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. It helped, that he was ignoring it. Jason was able to pull himself together and he wiped his eyes, put on his own sunshades to hide his red-rimmed eyes and leaned over the center console to open the dash compartment and pull out a map that he dropped into Ra's lap.

“If you're gonna sit up here, might as well make yourself useful,” Jason said, somehow managing to keep his voice from quivering as he turned the key and put it the car into gear.

Ra's huffed in amusement and unfolded the map. “If you had a map all along, then how were you able to become lost for four hours yesterday?”

Jason frowned, trying to hide his embarrassment at the event. “Hey, you try to drive and read a map at the same time and not crash, it ain't easy!”

Ra's eye lids lowered, unimpressed but also maybe...somewhat fond. “I suppose not. And we mustn’t use GPS navigation to avoid tracking. Your driving has been satisfactory, I suppose I can aid you in the navigation aspect of the task.”

Jason snorted. Ra's reading a road map was going to be interesting. Let him see how tough it actually was—you needed a damn microscope to see half the road names. “Great, now help me navigate to the nearest Denny's. I'm starving.”

[mariamallahan]

Chapter 3 - Secret Organizations Throughout History

When I explained the MM method to my editor, he went into a frenzy, a word that here means “a state of joy due to the possibility of getting rich by selling several publications that will describe the chronology of historical documents whose general public shows interest."

My editor has sponsored several chronological studies, and has been publishing numerous brochures about publications such as the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Vaticanic Codex, Plato's Dialogues, Flavius Josephus: The Unauthorized Autobiography (Also Known As The Life of Flavius Josephus) The Red Book, among many others, spanning many years of human history, from the earliest days until the third world war. With the help of the results found by these other chronological research groups, associated with the results of my own research, I could relate some events recorded by Lemony Snicket with some specific years.

The earliest event recorded by Lemony Snicket is found in the book entitled "The Slippery Slope." (TSS) Lemony cites an account involving Adam and Eve, who had to flee a garden facing snake problems. According to Lemony Snicket, the event is recorded in the Holy Bible. I contacted the group in Tel Aviv, and according to them, when applying the MM Method in the Holy Bible, the event recorded by Lemony Snicket occurred in about 4,000 BCE.

According to the group in Tel Aviv, there is no evidence that Adam or Eve was part of any secret organization. However, apparently the snake in question was part of an organization, and was apparently leading the first Schism to be recorded. More information on this subject can be found in the Tel Aviv Brochure.

The next event related to VFD formation is in the book The Wide Window (TWW), also written by Lemony Snicket. In chapter 12, Lemony describes the events involving a man named Alexander the Great.

According to Lemony Snicket, Alexander the Great was a Greek conqueror. Based on this information, I requested help from the Samothrace Archaeological Research Group. The group sent me photographs of the manuscript named Historiarum Alexandri Magni Macedonis Libri Qui Supersunt (aka the Biography of Alexander the Great, Written by Someone Else, Not Himself). I told this to my editor, and he said, "No one will be interested in that." Therefore, I myself had to apply the MM method on the document. I am glad to have done so, as I have found a lot of useful information about VFD formation.

Lemony Snicket wrote: "Alexander the Great lived more than two thousand years ago." Whereas the TWW book was Lemony Snicket's third written book about the Baudelaires, and the first of the books was written in 1999 AD, one can conclude that Lemony Snciket believed that Alexander the Great lived before the year 1 BCE.

Applying the MM method to the book Historiarum Alexandri Magni Macedonis Libri Qui Supersunt, I calculated that Alexander the Great was born on July 20, 356 BCE and died on June 10, 323 BCE (He lived only 33 years, which was a life short for humans at the time). So Lemony Snicket's statement that Alexander lived more than two thousand years before TWW's writing is chronologically correct, according to my research.

Lemony describes a specific event involving this conqueror. Lemony wrote:

"Besides invading other peoples countries and forcing them to whatever he said, Alexander the Great was famous for something called the Gordian knot. The Gordian Knot was a fancy knot tied in a piece of rope by a king named Gordius. Gordius said that if Alexander could untie it, he could rule the whole kingdom But Alexander, who was too busy conquering places to learn how to untie knots, simply drew his sword and cut the Gordian Knot in 2. This was cheating, of course, but Alexander had too many soldiers for Gordius to argue, and soon everybody in Gordium had to bow down to You-Know-Who the Great. "

According to the MM method applied in Historiarum Alexandri Magni Macedonis Libri Thu Supersunt the event took place in the year 334 BCE.

This report is very compelling to understand VFD-related events. By cutting off the Gordian knot, Alexander the Great gained the confidence that he could conquer all Asia Minor, and that is exactly what he did.

According to his biography, in the year 331 BCE Alexander defeated King Darius III, and came to dominate the entire region ruled by the defeated king, including Palestine. Palestine was the homeland of Lemony Snicket's ancestors, and probably the birthplace of an ancient secret organization formed by scribes known as the Sopherins.

According to the writings of Flavius ​​Josephus ​(​a Jewish historian whose writings are being analyzed by the Tel Aviv group) Alexander the Great had a dream about a Jewish high priest. When Alexander came to conquer the city of Jerusalem, which was the religious center of Lemony Snicket's ancestors, this same high priest met Alexander. After this, the priests showed Alexander an ancient manuscript that contained a prophecy about Alexander's conquests, written by a man named Daniel. Because of the dream and the prophecy, Alexander made a deal with the people of Lemony Snicket's ancestors. The people would peacefully submit to Alexander, and Alexander would allow an organized and secretive group of scribes from the people of Lemony Snicket's ancestors to spread throughout his empire, promoting peace, order, justice, literary education for all.

I couldn't find the name of this organization, so I even got a name for it myself: "Alexander Supporters." (AS)

According to the writings of Flavius ​​Josephus, after Alexander's untimely death, the enormous empire to which he had formed passed a huge Schism. Four of their generals divided the empire, which included parts of large parts of Africa and Eurasia, into the regions of ancient India.

The influence of the AS focused heavily on the African part of Alexander's empire, which came to be dominated by General Ptolemy's family. Alexander created a city called Alexandria, and with the influence of the AS, Ptolemy's family arranged for the creation of the largest library to date, the library of Alexandria.

The Alexandria Library was a huge undertaking. AS's headquarters were installed inside the library. AS's goal was to catalog all the world's knowledge in one place, but they soon realized that this would be impossible because people around the world know so many things. Thus, attached libraries were created, and later branches of the Alexandria library were created in other cities. More and more AS members were trained to catalog the manuscripts of these libraries. The work was so much just for maintenance in all libraries that AS set aside the obligation to promote peace, order and justice, and focused solely on promoting literary knowledge. Because of this, AS did nothing to stop the wars that took place at that time. But AS soon realized that failure to comply with the entire agreement they had made with Alexander would prevent the maintenance of all their libraries. Because of the revolutions and wars that were taking place around the world, several AS libraries were being destroyed one by one.

Finally, in the year 45 BCE, an accident caused a fire in AS headquarters, the library of Alexandria.

When the fire began, several volunteer librarians fought the fire using water and buckets. Flavius ​​Josephus called this event "The Moment When Librarians Realize That Both Water and Fire Destroy Books Made of Paper." Much of the Alexandria library collection has been lost.

The librarians who were members of AS who fought the fire gathered in one of the library's secret rooms. They decided that day, May 4, 45 BCE, that they would restore the basic principles of AS. They realized that to be able to fight the fires libraries that were happening around the world, it was necessary to combat the causes of these fires, which was precisely the lack of peace, order and justice. In addition, they realized that it would be a great idea to devise more practical methods of fighting fires after they started, something better than splashing water on precious books. That's why they formed a faction within AS. While AS members received government salaries to work in libraries (as part of the deal with Alexander), members of that faction would receive no money to combat the injustices of the world, and to promote peace and order. Therefore, this faction came to call itself Ethelontikí pyrosvestikí ypiresía (they spoke Greek at the time).

That faction had to act even more confidentially than AS. Many believe that Flavius Josephus himself was part of it. It was he who recorded the creation Ethelontikí pyrosvestikí ypiresía in his Authorized Autobiography. However, Flavius Josephus recorded no information other than the creation of the faction. But the translation of Ethelontikí pyrosvestikí ypiresía into English was very important in my research. Ethelontikí pyrosvestikí ypiresía means Volunteer Fire Department.

[jediknightgoofball]

One Last Thing // Steve Rogers

READ AUTHOR’S NOTE

Fandom: Marvel Pairing: Steve x reader Word count: 1,381 Warnings: None really

**A/N: This post does contain very minor plot spoilers for Endgame, so if you haven’t seen the movie yet or you don’t want to ruin the experience for yourself I would advise you to keep scrolling :)

Also, I normally don’t write imagines for Marvel, but watching Endgame just rejuvenated my love for Cap so here we go.

A small smirk covered your lips as you examined the new suit given to you by Tony. While your knowledge on quantum physics was as limited as the percent of body fat on Steve Rogers’s body, you knew that its kinetic fibers would protect you in your attempt at time travel. The concept had always frightened you, as you harbored a genuine fear for the unknown, but those stones have to be located if it means bringing back your friends. Your family.

Besides, you looked good. Who would have thought that red and white complimented each other so perfectly?

“Lang,” You greeted the older man with a tilt of your chin, crossing your arms as you watched him wring his hands and scratch at the back of his neck. He hardly spared you a second glance, mumbling incoherently to himself. You pressed further. “Scott.”

His startled green eyes met yours, jaw popping open for a fraction of a second before he composed himself. You rose a brow in disinterest as he straightened his posture, puffing up his chest to appear more stereotypically masculine. “Hi, yes. It is I, Scott Lang: an emotionally stable man who could defeat Thanos in his sleep. I just wanted the rest of you to feel like you had a shot before I went and finished the job myself, thus I came to you for help. I’m very strong.”

“Dude, cut the crap.” You demanded half-heartedly, gaze softening. “This will work, okay? You’ll get to see Hope again, and we can get rid of that purple bastard for good.”

“I know, I know.” He returned, almost sounding defeated before the battle had even begun. “I guess I’m overwhelmed by, just, everything. So much is happening all at once with so much at risk. One wrong step, and I could ruin this for not only myself but everyone.”

“Scott Lang, you are the toughest Ant-Man I know—”

“—there are other Ant-Mans?!—”

“—and you’re not gonna screw up anything, because we’re all gonna be covering each others’ asses out there. We’re a team. A family. We’re all in this thing together.”

“She’s right, Scott.”

Ignoring the tremor that ran through your body at the sound of his voice, the corner of your lip curled upwards as Steve Rogers, Captain America, joined the two of you. He met your eyes briefly before focusing on Scott, his cheeks now carrying a faint pink hue. “We are a family, and families stick together. It won’t be any different for us. We’re gonna go back in time, get to those gems before Thanos, and bring back our friends.”

“God, you guys are good together.” Scott uttered before giving much thought to his words. The compliment caught you off guard, as you choked on your breath while Steve’s face became a deep shade of red. Scott’s eyes widened as he attempted to save himself. “Oh, I didn’t mean it in that way, of course! I was just trying to say that you’re really good at those motivational speech things. You knew that, right? God, maybe I should permanently stitch my mouth shut.”

“Yeah, why would we—”

“How about we just get back to the others?” You suggested, sending a tight-lipped smile to convey your need to evade this conversation topic.

“Great idea!” Steve agreed a little too enthusiastically, the excitement in his tone making you jolt in surprise. Shaking off what may have been the worst interaction in your life, you led the two men back to the rest of your friends.

“We ready to do this?” Natasha wasted no time for pleasantries as she lifted an eyebrow in question. “I know I am.”

“Sure, why not?” Scott responded, nervously, but you could tell from the newfound determination on his face that he was ready.

“Let’s do this.” Bruce said.

“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.” Clint stated, a hard look in his eyes from all the pain he had endured due to Thanos.

“Hell yeah!” Rocket cheered. “Let’s get this dirtbag, once and for all.”

Thor tipped his head back to chug the soda in his hand before crushing the can and releasing a belch that caused even you to crack a smile. “I’m with the Rabbit.”

“Well, majority rules.” Tony pointed out, an edge to his tone that hid his true levels of excitement to be working with the team again. “Let’s go save our friends, and hopefully the world.”

Natasha guided the temporary remaining members of the Avengers to the Quantum Portal. Your friends followed her, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do the same. Something was holding you back. Or someone.

“Actually, Steve,” There was a waiver to your voice, and you silently cursed yourself for waiting so late to do what you were about to do. The man stopped in his tracks and looked back at you, brows furrowed in question. You sighed shakily, suddenly hating the way feelings made you feel. Your spoke quietly so as to not alert the other seven people who will definitely tease you about this once everything is back in order. “Can I talk to you about something for a second?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Everything alright back there, you two?” Tony shouted, but the dryness in your throat made you unable to speak above anything more than a whisper.

Steve took note of this, probably because he’s never seen you in such an emotional state before, and answered for you. “Yeah, we’ll be over there in a minute.”

“Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty—ow! What the hell, Iron Moron?!”

“Don’t make me get a muzzle, because I can make that happen.”

Steve shuffled into your line of sight, his calm and reassuring baby blues giving you the courage to catch your breath. “What is it?”

In a terrifyingly accurate Lang-like fashion, an avalanche of words tumbled from your mouth before you could organize your thoughts. “Okay, so, this one thing has really been bugging me that revolves around the two of us. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it ever since we met, but, obviously that never happened. I guess it’s because of these stupid walls I put up to block out anyone who I find myself even the sligh—”

Steve’s touch was gentle yet persistent. Kind yet urgent. Loving yet determined. His lips were soft and warm, like a field of flowers on an enchanting summer day. His hands held your face in such a way that anchored you to him. The two of you became one as he drew your body in closer, your hands finding a place to rest on his chest. Every emotion running through your bodies could be felt within the embrace.

The urgency of the mission.

The secret fear you held for its outcome.

The doubts you hid to be a strong leader for your teammates.

The ambition to bring back your friends.

The passion you held for one another.

As you parted for air, your eyes remained closed. After pushing back the desire for any chance of happiness for yourself, you had finally fought those inner demons to find love. You finally had him. You wanted to bask in this moment of self-glory in his arms for eternity, but even a couple more seconds would suffice.

Rowdy cheers and applause were what forced you to open your eyes to the genuine smiles on the faces of those you loved. Seeing them celebrating in a time such as this lightened the weight on your shoulders, as living a life like yours required you to seize every moment of laughter that you could.

Steve’s smile widened upon seeing your happy expression. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, before slightly shaking his head in bewilderment at the sight before him. “You ready to go restore humanity, doll?”

“Always,” You kissed his pink cheek, your smile falling the slightest bit as you said your next words. “Just don’t die on me, Rogers.”

“And you be careful.”

“When am I not?” You winked, poking his nose.

The two of you rejoined the team in the Quantum Portal where you would be sent back to the past. You locked eyes with Tony across the way, who flashed you a quick thumbs up and a wink.

From that point forward, you all began the mission to save your friends, and hopefully the world.

[risalei-nur]

TAFSIR: Risale-i Nur: The Rays Collection:The Fourteenth Ray.Part50

Yes, I make the following point for the attention of the Government of the Republic:

This situation has been brought about through the intrigues, machinations and propaganda of the covert organization which drove me to this misfortune. The evidence that widespread propaganda and terror and a conspiracy have been orchestrated against us in a way never before seen in any event is this, that although I have a hundred thousand friends, not one of them has been able to write me any letter for six months, or to send any greetings, and the fact that due to the informing of plotters who are trying to deceive the Government, interrogations and searches have been continually carried out from the eastern provinces to those in the west.

The plan these intriguers hatched was evidently to organize an ‘incident’ that would be the cause of thousands like me receiving the heaviest penalties. However, the result was a penalty that recalled an incident of petty pilfering perpetrated by the commonest person. Of one hundred and fifteen people, fifteen innocent men were given sentences of five or six months. Would any rational creature in the world prick the tail of a fierce lion or terrible dragon with his brilliantly sharp diamond sword, and make it turn on him? If his intention was self-defence or combat, he would use his sword somewhere else.

With your deluded view, you conceive of me as such a man, for that is the way you have charged me and sentenced me. If I act in a manner so contrary to consciousness and reason, this great country should not be terrorized and public opinion turned against me with propaganda, I should be sent to a lunatic asylum like a common madman. But if I am someone of the importance you afford me, my keen sword would not be pointed at the tails of the lion or the dragon to make them attack him, he would rather defend himself as far as he could. Just as I have voluntarily chosen seclusion these last ten years, and tolerating difficulties beyond human endurance, have interfered in no way whatsoever in matters of government, nor have I wanted to interfere. Because my sacred duty prohibits me.

O, you who bind and loose! Is it at all possible that in the one hundred and twenty treatises of a person who, as was written in the newspapers twenty-five years ago, with one newspaper article caused thirty thousand people to accept his ideas, and drew the attention of the huge ‘Operation Army’ on himself, and replied with six words to the questions of the chief cleric of the English, who wanted six hundred, and gave a speech after the Constitutional Revolution as though he was a leading diplomat, - would only fifteen words related to politics and the world be found in the one hundred and twenty treatises of such a man? Is it at all reasonable to accept that this man follows politics and his aim is this world and he is troubling the Government? If his mind was set on meddling in politics and the Government, such a person would have made it clear in a single of his treatises, and indicated it in a thousand places. If his purpose had been criticism with political intent, would he not have found anything to criticize other than one or two rules about the veiling of women and inheritance, which have long been in force? 

Yes, the politically-minded opponent of a ruling regime which had enacted far-reaching reforms would have found not those one or two to object to but thousands. As though the reforms of the Government of the Republic consisted only of one or two minor matters. Although I had no intention to criticize it whatsoever, because of one or two words in one or two of my books which I had written long previously, it was said:

“He is attacking the ruling regime and its reforms.”

So I ask:

Should the whole country be busied with a scholarly matter which demands not the smallest penalty, in a way to cause anxiety?

Thus,

myself and five to ten of my friends being given the most minor, trivial sentences;

and the whole country being intimidated by powerful propaganda against us and being made to hate us;

and Sükrü Kaya, the Interior Minister, being called to Isparta with a significant force of soldiers in order to perform a task a single private soldier could perform, that is, to arrest me;

and Ismet,the head of the Cabinet, going to the eastern provinces in that connection;

and for two months in prison my being prohibited from speaking with anyone; and no one asking after me or sending me greetings while alone in this exile;

- all these show that it is a meaningless, pointless, illegal situation like a tree as huge as a mountain producing a fruit the size of a pea. Seeing that ‘government’ means ‘to govern with wisdom’, it is not something any government would be involved in, especially a legal government like the Government of the Republic, which adheres more closely to the law than any other.

I want my rights within the bounds of the law. I accuse of being criminals those who act against the law in the name of the law. The laws of the Government of the Republic certainly reject the arbitrary acts of such criminals. I am hopeful that my rights will be restored to me.

S a i d N u r s I

[readbookywooks]

I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him, and by the light of their lantern they found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the waves, but on examination they found that the clothes were not wet and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled, for there was no sign of any violence except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned I remembered the murder of my brother and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father's account, but when Daniel Nugent was called he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore; and as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed that she lived near the beach and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat with only one man in it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed and rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of - - from the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor - " The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that's none of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same." I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt languid and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer but the hangman who would gain his fee? These were my first reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see that I was not neglected, but his visits were short and with long intervals. One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine and addressed me in French, "I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do anything to make you more comfortable?" "I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving." "I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge." "That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?" "Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality, seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path." As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say, "Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on your person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva; nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter. But you are ill; even now you tremble; you are unfit for agitation of any kind." "This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event; tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament?" "Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin with gentleness; "and someone, a friend, is come to visit you." I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony, "Oh! Take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do not let him enter!" Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and said in rather a severe tone, "I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father would have been welcome instead of inspiring such violent repugnance." "My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure. "Is my father indeed come? How kind, how very kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?" My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him and cried, "Are you, then, safe - and Elizabeth - and Ernest?" My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. "What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance of the room. "You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval - " The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears. "Alas! Yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry." We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health. As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was forever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months in prison, and although I was still weak and in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the country town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison. My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country. I did not participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned forever, and although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved cousin or longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early childhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence. Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the monstrous image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a journey, for I was a shattered wreck - the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day preyed upon my wasted frame. Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life - my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around, the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible.

[vasilinaorlova]

on the grave of the broken machine

upon reading this sentence, close your eyes and lick your lips quickly, in a thin brush of fire. do. good. degradation. miserable, pathetic, used and useless piece of numb meat, who do you imagine yourself to be, who do you think you are, why did you decide you matter, what planted this silly idea into your frail brain, too small for your Neanderthal skull? you are, alas, poorly brought up, barely educated, tongue-tied, clumsy, awkward, artless and graceless creature, unfit to cross the spectacular canvas of existence in front of my mind’s eyes.  I shall be entertained and entertained I am. I singularly enjoy turning dominant men into smooth submissives. I like it when there is so much in them about pleasing me that their only desire is to see me elated or at the very least amused. such admirable self-forgetfulness. the sad expression of her abysmal eyes when she sucked that dick haunted me for days. I never saw a fellacio performed in such a spirit of all-enveloping melancholy. spectate daffodils growing most erotic photographs are those of peaches and grapes. in the course of learning words I had to master silences as well; it turned out to be an indispensable part of knowing how and when to speak. I wish I could, as they do in films, lift a hand and lower it into the screen. jump into this tiny window. accursed   curfew allurer allurers allures alluring alluringly                   a spontaneous search allusion allusions allusive allusively ….                     in a midnight google aromatics aromatize arose around                           brings great results arousal arousals arouse aroused arouser …..             sometimes busywork busyworks but butch butcher                   I was googling something butchered butcheries …… myrmidons                     obscure and dense myrrh myrrhic myrrhs myrtle myrtles                        that you wrote wondering myself mysteries mysterious …                               if this is a reverberating academicals academician academicism                  quote (even better) academies academism academist ….                         or you wrote it alum schist alum shale snake                                    alum stone alumen                                                    and a splendid mingle of alumina aluminate aluminated alumine ……            words, a snake nest I found busybodies busybody busying but                             one could carve poems but-thorn butcher butcher’s broom ……                      out of it: myrrh myrrhic pythic myrrhine                                         the pythic myrmidon myrtaceous myrtiform myrtle                                           the goat-legged fawn   myself myselven mysis                                                    Pan with a flut; fur                                                                                          painting swirls                                                                                         on his chest (and so on: a broken agglomeration of words, a mad dictionary sputtering ashes of etymologies in the air, a great eruption of the Vesuvius of letters, the rocks made red and yellow and white and bleached-blue by the heat; the scorched archaeological valley,                                                                                                 aeolian jokes                                                                                        traces of sandals                                                                     Aurorian fingertips:                                                        lit by / pierced through                                            with    the sunrise’s merciless                                   first ray     I will collect my tears.                                         too little                                   too much                    too late                                    too soon I did like that meme poem (misquoted below; a meme, which means, stripped of authorship, although of course there is an author) not       now not       now not       now not       now yes       please too       late titled Avocado but speaking volumes about a number of other phenomena. peanuts with peanut butter. we seek distinctions between similar, and similarities in what is markedly different. that having said, jokeress should come to light up the phone screen as an excellent embodiment of precarity (and so on, by clicking on words spellchecker offers consecutively, one should be able to write a small avant-garde novel.) she was going to take all this prose and announce it to be poetry.I can’t imagine who’s breaking their pens over how poetry is different from prose now, except perhaps for a handful of delusional poets. writers of prose doubtlessly can’t be bothered with such nonsense. here is the first distinction.I wish there existed a grand conversation on the subject matter: prose vs poetry and what blurs the borders. with experts invited to talk shows in prime time.borders between uncertain states (especially) could be miles and miles wide. all the state could be a border state, with multiple patrols along what appears to be an endless way.  it can be a prose poem        and a poem it is unclear what it is I can announce these last four lines a poem and there will be no one in the universe to disprove it. I think that                                                                   (generally speaking) poetry is written like this, in columns, while prose is written like this, in a line–that is to say, the main difference is graphic. for example, Bukowski wrote his short (short) stories in columns– since they were written in columns, they became poetry. one could argue that the graphic (typographic) difference between prose and poetry is not merely graphic: the end of the line is a sign guiding the intonation: a pause, an inhale, a sudden stammer interrupting the flow of speech for a moment; thus an uncounted text, the text unmeasured is rhythmicized and metered. I want to write conveying this terrific boredom of human existence, this unbearable and annoying ennui–too many are already doing it.                                                                        I said to my baby, baby,                                                                        baby, take it slow.

                                                             Langston Hughes, A Dream Deferred* Andreas Friedrich drew a lobster as a vehicle in 1617.  time                                                                                    best                                                                               spent                                                                       wasted don’t laugh: don’t forget that you will have to recite it all in church. ever since I met a woman pastor in 2013, I had difficulties trying to restore that true reason why a woman could not be a priest, if she is so inclined. (to be sure, a priest she wasn’t). the main reason I think was blood; there could be no blood in church, and a woman is a vessel of blood, leaking–the only blood in church could be the transmogrified (wine) blood of Jesus Christ. real blood, particularly blood of woman, is impure, venomous, and polluted; blood is the decay itself, putrefaction personified. self-epitaph. mortuary monument.                                   I erected a monument to myself, not of human making                                    Alexander Pushkin in mimicking of Horace** posterity! she who lies here buried platonically liked two Instagram filters (barely used them): Earlybird (because it covered the image in a translucent, greenish, ghoulish patina), and Sutro (since it made the picture muddier and moody, melancholic and mysterious, gloomy and sullen). that is everything I’d like you to remember.*** mausoleum of the solidified self and numbers. numbers look so Cyrillic. They gaze at you with their Cyrillic eyes out of a mess of Latin-alphabet text. Cyrillic                                                   surreal                                          cerulean,                                 celestial                        Cyrillic an old cage with silver strings: some broken, some, bent encloses a plant

_____________________________ *excerpt / typescript **see famous Horace’s Ode: Exegi monumentum aere perennius regalique situ pyramidum altius, quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens possit diruere aut innumerabilis annorum series et fuga temporum. this poem has a grand history in Russian literature, particularly in the 18th and 19th centuries. Mikhailo Lomonosov, Vasily Kapnist, Gavriil Derzhavin, Alexander Vostokov tried it and approximated it for their needs (with little or no regard to the original and oftentimes without mentioning of the original). Lomonosov: Я знак бессмертия себе воздвигнул. Превыше пирамид и крепче меди, Что бурный аквилон сотреть не может, Ни множество веков, ни едка древность.   1747 here is a translation of Lomonosov’s text: I built the sign of immortality to myself, Higher than pyramids and stronger than copper; Tempestuous aquilon could not erase it, Nor many centuries, and neither acerbic decrepitude. 2017 only 270 years before you read it. ***you asked why there are no lens presenting everything as one would expect to see it having applied her favorite instagram filter.